Borderlands

by Skye Melki-Wegner

  Silver gives a sharp laugh. ‘Our debt? You’re joking.’ When I don’t respond, her expression hardens. ‘Smugglers don’t do debts, my friend. We sure like good luck when it falls our way, but we ain’t about to repay it unless we have to.’ Silver lifts her chin. ‘Want to know our secret? How my people survived for centuries? Sense, not sentimentality.’

  I think of Hackel’s eagerness to sell us out. It was nothing personal, he’d assured us. Just common sense for a smuggler. In his eyes, we were just chattel to escort along the road. Another load of spice and silver.

  ‘If you want my help,’ Silver says, ‘you’d best offer something in return.’

  ‘All right,’ I say. ‘If you help me, I’ll be the one who owes you. I’ll repay my debt, I swear. I’m not a smuggler.’

  Silver snorts. ‘Well, that’s obvious.’ Her lip curls as she looks me up and down. ‘Still, if you’ve made it this far, you can’t be completely useless. I suppose Quirin might find a use for you.’

  I hesitate. What might a smuggler ask me to do? Throw my life away to carry his goods? Sneak through the enemy’s camp, or steal from King Morrigan himself? But whatever the consequences may be, I can’t let my friends die. I can’t.

  I hold out my hand. ‘Whatever job needs doing, I’ll do it. I’ll repay my debt. Just help me find them before . . .’ I take a deep breath, then force myself to finish the sentence. ‘Before it’s too late.’

  Silver raises an eyebrow. ‘Well, my friend, looks like we’ve got a deal.’

  The old woman’s handshake is firm and confident. The grip of a lifelong dealmaker. As we break apart, I wonder how many other poor suckers’ hands she’s shaken – and how many lived to tell the tale.

  We find the soldiers before we find my friends. Silver darts ahead, as nimble in the trees as Teddy would be on a rooftop. At first I expect her to move slowly, creaking and hobbling through the forest. But she leaps between branches, scoots up and down trunks, and thrusts her head above the canopy to check for clues. I don’t know if it’s fitness, good health or perhaps an alchemy charm, but she moves more like a squirrel than an old lady.

  ‘This way, my friend.’ Silver skims down the side of a tree. ‘There’s a cluster of people over there, I’d judge.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Saw the canopy wobblin’. It weren’t from the breeze, neither – from bodies in the bushes ­underneath.’

  It seems a bit farfetched to me. Surely a wild animal could cause such wobbling, or even just the breeze? But Silver seems so sure of herself that I believe her.

  ‘Quiet,’ she whispers.

  I frown, then glance at my feet. I thought I was moving quietly, myself, but I suppose I’m still not used to the noisy remonstrations of forest floors. I don’t see how you can avoid the occasional twig crunch or leaf crackle – not without the ability to levitate. But I nod, refocus, and make an extra effort to step in the least offensive patches of ­undergrowth.

  We hear them before we see them: voices muttering in low tones. I don’t recognise them. They don’t sound like any of Sharr’s hunters, and certainly not like my friends.

  ‘Soldiers.’ Silver points between the trees. ‘Headin’ for the shore.’

  I follow her gaze. If I squint, I can just make out the silhouettes of adults between the trees – men and women cloaked in the khaki uniforms of the king’s army. They seem as unfamiliar with forests as I am: clunky and loud, cracking every twig they pass.

  Silver gives a disapproving sniff. ‘Buffoons,’ she says. ‘Least your king’s hunters know how to move in the wild. These ones . . . well, it don’t speak well of your king that he’s got no one better to send on patrols.’

  ‘The hunters are an elite force,’ I point out, oddly annoyed by this comment. ‘These soldiers aren’t like that. Those could be eighteen-year-old scruffers – newly conscripted, for all you know. They might’ve never seen a forest before this week.’

  ‘Well, you see why my people ain’t afraid of soldiers.’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘Those soldiers still have guns and proclivities. A lack of wilderness skills won’t stop them slaughtering your people if they want to.’

  ‘Nope,’ Silver says. ‘What stops ’em is their fear.’

  ‘You really think smugglers are so frightening?’

  She meets my eyes with a hard look. ‘No, my friend – we ain’t frightening. Bears are frightening. Snakes are frightening. That’s a word for beasts: monsters and creatures in the wild.’ She pauses. ‘My people are efficient. There’s a difference.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘A smuggler don’t kill for beastly pleasure. A smuggler kills in the interest of his purse. And if a smuggler wants to kill you, you ain’t likely to know it till your throat’s slit.’ She smirks. ‘Sense, my friend, not sentiment. That’s how we outlast kingdoms.’

  We pull back and fade into the dark of the trees. I feel the tension building within me. There’s still no sign of my friends, and no sign of the hunters. Silver darts up trees to survey the canopy, but always returns with a shrug.

  ‘Nothin’,’ she says. ‘Yet.’

  And so we walk on. I keep a close eye on my companion, trying to suss her out. She is old, but she moves like a leopard in the trees. And about fifteen minutes after spotting the soldiers, she stops walking.

  She throws out a hand to halt me, and raises a wrinkled finger to her lips. ‘Shhh.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I mouth.

  ‘Listen.’

  I hear it a moment later: the slide of movement upon leaves. This isn’t the clumsy march of the soldiers. These people know their way around a forest. They know how to track, how to move silently. How to slip through the undergrowth like it’s carpet underfoot.

  Hunters.

  We clamber into a nearby tree to spot our quarry. Thankfully I’m better at silent climbing than silent walking. Bark prickles against my skin, but at least I’m hidden by the sway of leaves, and secure enough to focus on the hunters below.

  Five of them, including Sharr. The same figures who followed us across the wastelands, who chased us through the Knife. They have stopped walking – paused for a quick rest, perhaps – while the Reptile man paces quiet circles around the group. Keeping watch, I realise.

  For the first time, I realise the other male hunter’s proclivity is Air. He holds his hands out and leaves swirl before him, as if caught in a lasso of breeze.

  And in that lasso, three bodies are floating.

  My breath catches in my throat. For a terrible moment I imagine they are dead – that Sharr is hauling their bodies back to King Morrigan as proof of our crew’s destruction. Our packs are strapped to the hunters’ shoulders: an extra load of supplies for their journey south. But then I see Teddy’s chest rise, and Clementine’s fingers strain against the air. She reminds me of a fish wriggling against the current. All she achieves is a grunt of exhaustion, then a quiet little sob.

  The only one who is still is Maisy. I stare at her, my throat suddenly tight, and will her chest to move. Breathe, I urge her silently. For heaven’s sake, breathe.

  And she does. But it’s shallow, almost invisible. Her coat is stained a terrible crimson, as dark and sticky as the splatters I’d been following.

  Maisy is dying. The thought strikes me so hard, so suddenly, that I almost fall out of my tree. I grab the trunk to steady myself and take a shaky breath. I won’t let her die. I won’t let Sharr take my friends away. I’ll save them, and quickly, and maybe Silver’s smuggler friends will have some medicine to save Maisy . . .

  ‘Well,’ Silver says, unconcerned, ‘now what’s your plan?’

  ‘I thought we might –’

  ‘We?’ Her whisper is amused. ‘There ain’t no “we”, my friend. I made a deal to help you find your friends. Not to rescue ’em.’

  ‘But –’<
br />
  ‘Those’re your friends down there, trussed up like chickens?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s them.’

  ‘Well then, I’ve done my half of the bargain. Rescue ’em if you feel like it, but I want no part in it.’

  I stare at her, throat dry. Normally I’d pride myself on my ability to fight my way out of trouble, but I can’t take on five adult hunters alone. I swallow my pride and wet my lips. ‘I’ll give you whatever you want. I’ve got a bracelet, a cloak . . .’

  ‘Don’t want it,’ Silver says. ‘I’ve already got you. Don’t insult my people by offering up trinkets. Either try to save your friends, or don’t. Up to you. But if you’re still breathin’ by the time this day’s done, then you, my friend, are comin’ with me.’

  The old woman slips further up the trunk into the canopy. I realise with a cold twist that she’s searching for a better hiding place – or an escape route in case things go wrong. If I die before I can save my friends, she’ll be halfway across the island before my blood begins to cool.

  I watch the hunters. This time I look more closely, trying to spot a point of weakness. Despite days on the run, Sharr looks as vicious as ever. Beside her, the other woman is heavily muscled, with a dozen copper bangles up her arm. Perhaps her proclivity is Metal. I hope not. A shard of copper, blasted through the air, could do as much damage as a gunshot.

  The Reptile man hobbles, as though slightly injured, and the Water man has both arms in slings. That will make it hard for him to handle his proclivity, since gestures help to control a natural force. But on the whole, they’re healthy – and they’ve got pistols. One false move from me and they’ll be merrily blasting bullets through my skull.

  Except, perhaps, for the Air man. He concentrates hard on the breeze, conjuring a mobile prison cell with my friends floating inside. If I shatter his concentration, perhaps my friends can escape.

  But what then? I have to deal with the other hunters first. I could draw them away from here, to leave my friends with a chance. The idea makes my guts twist. These are the king’s hunters. And in their eyes, I’m prey.

  Soon enough, the hunters’ break is over. Sharr takes a final sip of water and gestures for the others to proceed. Once they’re out of sight, I slip down from my tree and follow through the undergrowth. I sneak as quietly as possible, conscious of Silver’s earlier criticism. The air tastes moist, thick with the smell of rot, and I realise we’re approaching another shoreline. At least the water’s gurgle hides my footsteps.

  Near the edge of the foliage, I nestle into a clump of roseberry bushes. The fruit smells sweet beside my face, and I pop a couple into my mouth. I don’t feel like eating, but my body needs the sugar rush. I force myself to swallow, ignore the lump in my throat, then smear a few more berries across my face and hands. Not much of a disguise, really, but it might help me camouflage with the dappled leaves.

  I peer between the branches, heart pattering. The hunters are loitering at the water’s edge, twenty metres down the shore. This river is vast, curving away for at least a hundred metres before it reaches the next forested island. But it looks shallow – unnaturally shallow – and I can see the rocky bottom even from here. The water froths and churns as if it’s boiling, spitting up bubbles against the rocks.

  I have to distract the hunters, split them up. If I can dart between boulders, draw them out into the river, they might leave my friends behind on the shore. Then I can hide myself in an illusion, double back and –

  With a jolt, I remember Maisy’s words about the borderlands: ‘The result of magic gone wrong.’ If this place has been scarred by magic, the normal rules don’t apply. That water might really be scalding hot – or it might just fizz with some alchemical oddity. And I won’t know until I stick my foot into its depths. Is that why the hunters haven’t crossed yet?

  There’s no time to devise a better plan. With every second that passes, Maisy could be growing weaker. I pause for only a moment, to dump my magnets in the foliage. I don’t need the weight in my pockets – or the risk that loose magnets, jumbled so close to my flesh, might interfere with my magic. I take a deep breath.

  And I dash towards the water.

  The bullets come a moment later. I hurl myself forward and it feels like I’m falling in slow motion. Gunshots blast behind my head. The river churns, boiling and writhing as my body falls to meet it.

  I hit the water with a splash. For a moment I imagine my skin is burning, falling away in clumps. But it’s just the fear and the impact and the swoosh of water into my lungs. The water isn’t boiling, despite its appearance. It’s freezing cold, like just-melted snow in the mountains.

  I clamp my mouth shut and throw up an illusion. Water, I think, mind reeling. Water, water . . .

  The familiar jolt of an illusion curls around me, and I know I’m hidden. Still, I have only seconds before the magic falters. I leap behind the nearest boulder, just as my illusion fades.

  ‘Where is she?’ Sharr is screaming, somewhere back on the shore. ‘That was Glynn! Get her, you idiots – she’s the one who –’

  I plunge below the surface. Sharr’s screams turn to churns: a distorted sort of yowl, as meaningless as the froth and bubbles that blast around my face.

  I summon another illusion and sprint for the next boulder. The fizzing water disguises the sploshing as I run. ‘Hey, over here!’

  Sharr doesn’t scream this time. She seems to have regained self-control after the initial shock, which isn’t good. I’ll take ‘crazed with fury’ Sharr over ‘cold and calculating’ Sharr any day. She whips around and points her gun at me. I throw myself behind the rock moments before a bullet whizzes over my head. The sound is so raw, so startling, that I almost forget to create the next illusion. My own vulnerability suddenly hits me. One bullet in my head, one flame in my chest, and I’m gone.

  I grit my teeth. Focus, Danika.

  I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and summon the illusion. It’s harder this time – like yanking a wobbly tooth with part of my gum still attached. Perhaps it’s the fear, or maybe I’ve summoned too many illusions. Whatever the reason, it takes five long seconds to feel that ‘pop’ of magic across my skin.

  As soon as the magic settles, though, I’m up and running. I lunge behind a rock and peer around its side. Sharr and the others are in the water now, searching for my hiding place. They prowl with pistols outstretched, ready to fire.

  I can’t keep this up forever. I need a new plan. And then it hits me.

  The soldiers.

  These hunters are fugitives now – just like I am. They allowed King Morrigan’s airbase to be destroyed, and fled to escape punishment for their failure. I bet the soldiers have been given pictures of Sharr and her cronies, and been told to look out for fugitives in the area. Maybe that’s why they’ve started going on patrols, like Silver said.

  Last time I saw them, the soldiers were heading towards the edge of the island – to the shoreline. They might be just upstream, on the banks of this very river. If I lead Sharr in their direction . . .

  Well, perhaps my two enemies will take care of each other.

  I dive. I don’t bother with an illusion this time – I just keep my head down and hold my breath. With all the frothing of this water, they’d be pretty damn lucky to spot my body through the churn.

  The soldiers must be only minutes away. If they kept marching around in this direction . . .

  I surface behind a boulder and open my mouth. Air rushes into my lungs, cold and tangy and sweet, and I take several desperate gasps before I dive back under.

  There’s a distant shout, distorted through the water. A bang. A shriek above my head and a blast of metal shards from a copper bangle. It misses my head by centimetres and I know with sudden, cold certainty that I’ve made a mistake. I’ve risen too close to the surface – into the sight of the Metal hunter. She cries out, alerting h
er companions, and I know that their pistols are trained on me.

  A bullet. A shout. I plunge deeper. My lungs burn. The water around me seethes with metal; bullets churn and spin, writhing to rival the dance of the river itself. I twist aside in an awkward pirouette, barely out of the bullets’ path. Then I burst up behind another cluster of boulders, sucking air like it’s made of syrup.

  The river is shallow, but if I wriggle along the bottom they might not see me. I dig my fingers deep into the clay and feel the gap beneath my fingernails burn. The pain isn’t natural. It stings my skin, like lemon juice in a wound, and I wonder with a nervous lurch what other magical mutations have infected the borderlands.

  It’s dark down here, thick with muck and stinging grit that makes me close my eyes. The current urges me backwards, like a constant slap in the face. I ignore it and crawl onwards. The words of the song run like fluid in my brain: Oh mighty yo, how the star-shine must go, chasing those distant deserts of green . . .

  When I surface, the air no longer tastes sweet. I’m too numb to taste it – or perhaps my brain is too oxygen-deprived to make sense of the taste. Water spews from my lips, from my ears, from my nostrils. I gasp, flailing like a child in her first snowfall.

  No bullets.

  Why are there no bullets? I’m a sitting duck right now and yet the hunters don’t shoot. I can hear gunfire, but it feels distant – like something from a memory.

  I turn. The hunters aren’t even looking at me. Instead, they face the shore. Sharr’s fingers are alive with fire and the Water man runs wildly, unable to control his proclivity with both arms in slings. The Metal woman blasts twists of copper from her bangles and the Reptile man holds his pistol ready, firing wildly at his foes upon the shore.

  And those foes fire back.

  The soldiers shout, hauling rifles from their backs. Some flicker down into the earth; others sink below the water and reappear at the hunters’ sides. Obviously none of them has Flame proclivities, since no one moves to counteract Sharr’s fireballs. They simply dissolve into earth or water, like candles melting in fast motion. Then they reappear, ready to blast a new volley of gunshots back at their attackers. I’m surprised they don’t conjure a tidal wave to drown the hunters, but perhaps they’re afraid of losing the bodies. If Sharr and her lackeys are fugitives, the king will have a decent price on their heads.