The Borderkind (20 page)

“I remember,” Hunyadi said. He uncrossed his arms and stepped nearer, staring down at the sword. “How do you come by it?”

Oliver looked up at him. “Professor Koenig gave me this sword so that you might see it and remember, and look kindly upon me as I ask you for the same boon you granted him. One year, to prove myself worthy of your trust. He gave me this gift moments before he was murdered by the Hunters who are abroad in the Two Kingdoms, exterminating the Borderkind.”

Hunyadi nodded slowly. “You may pick up the sword. Sheathe it.”

The Atlantean stormed toward them. “Your Highness, you cannot trust the man! He is an Intruder, and he travels with a Borderkind witch.” He gestured around the courtyard. “Some of your men are badly injured. Bascombe came disguised as a courier, who is in all probability dead, murdered by his hand, or her claws. They are your enemies.”

The king considered this.

“With all due respect, sir, we are not your enemies. We are simply trying to stay alive,” Oliver told him.

Hunyadi walked over to Kitsune. All throughout this exchange she had held her bow up, arrow pointed at his heart. Now he approached until the tip of the arrow touched the rough cotton of his shirt. Kitsune’s jade eyes gleamed in the shadows beneath her hood. The king reached out with both hands and slipped the hood down to reveal her face.

“You are Kitsune,” the king said, and it was not a question. “Your legend is a favorite of mine. The tale sings of your beauty, but you are beyond all expectation.”

“Thank you, Highness,” Kitsune said, revealing rows of tiny, jagged teeth.

“Your companion asks for my trust. Will you not give me yours?”

In the fading light, with evening beginning to fall upon the castle, Kitsune released the bowstring slowly and then let bow and arrow fall to the ground. She inclined her head in the tiniest of bows.

“Make her swear fealty to you!” Hy’Bor cried desperately.

Hunyadi waved this away. “There is beauty in wild things, my friend. A beauty that is crushed by placing such demands upon it. I will not try to tame the wild.”

Oliver stood slowly and slid his sword into its scabbard.

King Hunyadi looked pointedly at his Atlantean advisor. “See to it that they have food and a place to wash off the grit of the road. Then bring them to my chambers.”

The shrieks of the Perytons filled the air above the Akrai, the ancient Greek theater that sat on the mountaintop above Siracusa. Like harpies, they descended upon the Borderkind gathered there on the ancient stone stage. The sound of their green-feathered wings beating the air was like thunder and they moved so swiftly that even Frost barely had time to react as the Hunters fell upon them.

One of the Perytons soared down from the sky and grabbed hold of him with fingers like knives. Frost smiled, full of hatred, and sent ice spreading up the Peryton’s arms, freezing its leathern flesh. White crystals of rime formed on its face.

Then the second one hit him from behind, driving its antlers into his back. The enormous prongs thrust into Frost’s body, cracking ice, plunging deep into his frigid form.

The winter man screamed.

With those hideously long razor fingers they began to tear at him. Frigid water spilled from his wounds and splashed on the Sicilian soil. The air was hot and humid, and the summer day waning fast.

He looked up, the white-blue mist of his eyes obscuring his vision, and saw the Peryton above him hiss and bare its fangs. He wondered if the venom they carried could kill him.

Frost did not want to know the answer.

His fist became a single long, tapered spike of ice and he punched it right through the Peryton’s chest, piercing skin and muscle and breaking bones. The icicle burst through the creature’s back. The other, the one behind him, continued to attack, carving chunks out of his body.

Frost weakened as his life spilled away.

Then someone called his name. He glanced up to see a blue blur in the waning light, spinning toward him. Blue Jay danced across the ancient stone stage where tragedy had once unfolded, the magical wings of the trickster whirring around him, half visible even to the eyes of his own kind.

With the slash of his wings, he decapitated the second Peryton. Its blood was sickly yellow-green. The Hunter’s head struck the ground, antlers impaled in the earth.

Frost lay on the ground, bleeding ice water, barely propped up on his arms. Blue Jay crouched by him.

“Help the others,” he rasped, cold mist rising from him as he tried to heal his wounds, freezing them over with a pass of his hands.

Blue Jay shook his head. “We don’t stand a chance. Look around.”

The winter man did. The Perytons filled the sky. Several of them pursued Cheval Bayard, who had reverted to her true form, and was attempting to flee. As Frost watched, Li rode his huge tiger after her and leaped into the air, spheres of fire leaping from his hands and enveloping one of the Perytons. Its wings burned a moment but the fire quickly died. They could not be killed that way. Still it veered off, feathers singed. The tiger reached Cheval and spun, roaring, protecting her, keeping the Perytons at bay for a moment.

But not for long.

The two Mazikeen, silent as always, were in grim combat with Jezi-Baba, but the witch was far more ancient and powerful than they. Golden light like a summer dawn glowed around them as the Mazikeen commanded the earth to rise up around her. Deep roots of ancient trees burst through the stone stage and wrapped around Jezi-Baba, but an instant later they began to blacken and die, and fell away from her robes like cobwebs brushed aside.

She grabbed one of the Mazikeen around the throat and the same thing happened to him. His flesh withered and blackened and fell away to ash, the robe crumbling in her hands. The witch cackled and moved after the other Mazikeen. He cast a spell that lanced her eyes with that golden light and she shrieked and staggered back, hands over her hideous face.

But Frost feared it would not last.

The Manticore was wounded, half its face ripped away into a grotesque grin, flaps of flesh hanging down. Some of its teeth were broken, thanks to Chorti’s metal claws. But now Chorti was down and the Manticore raked talons across his chest. The monster leaped on top of him, opened his massive jaws with their hundreds of teeth, and was about to snap his head off.

The Grindylow reached them just in time. Grin wrapped his long arms around the Manticore’s head and pulled the creature off of Chorti, lifted it up, and hurled it with incredible strength at the rows of stone seats around the stage. The Manticore hit with an audible crack, but in a moment it moved, bones still cracking, resetting themselves, and it was up, beginning to stalk toward them again.

“Go back, all of you!” Frost commanded, struggling to rise. “Back through the Veil, back to Perinthia! Now!”

Blue Jay helped haul him to his feet. The trickster’s eyes were dark and cold. “Are you out of your mind? We don’t stand a chance in the city!”

Frost grimaced in pain. “The Hunters are
here
. All that waits for us there are the damned birds.”

“How can you—”

“We don’t have time to argue,” Frost said, as another Peryton rode the winds, diving toward them out of the sky. “Cross the border! Go back!”

Even as Blue Jay turned, the air blurring around him, mystic wings shearing the wind and the spirit, keeping the Peryton at bay, Frost shouted to all of the others, repeating the command over and over. One by one he saw them step through shimmering early evening light, moving out of this world and through the Veil, into the one beside it.

Only when they all were gone did he slip through the border himself. His last glimpse of the Akrai was of the Manticore and several Perytons rushing toward him, blood on claws and teeth, death in their eyes. Blue Jay spun into a blur that disappeared, winking out completely.

Then the winter man crossed over, leaving the Hunters behind.

But the hunt would only be more savage, more determined now. The Myth Hunters had spilled their blood. The had the taste and the scent.

That was all right with Frost.

He was sick of running.

CHAPTER
11

O
liver ought to have been fascinated by the castle of Otranto. Every archway and window drew the eye. On many walls there hung elaborate tapestries that would have made him catch his breath in admiration on another day. When guards came to fetch them from the rooms where they had been brought to wash and rest, they were marched past massive double doors that opened into a vast library at least two stories high. He could not see far enough into the room to determine if it rose even higher. In an alcove in the corridor that led to King Hunyadi’s presentation room, there were two glass cases in which illuminated manuscripts were on display.

But none of this provided more than a passing moment’s distraction. Exhaustion had wormed its way into Oliver’s bones. Until now, desperation and adrenaline had conspired to keep him going, but as he and Kitsune were brought before the king, he felt only tired and resigned.

His fate was at hand. He had done all that he could to influence it, but what happened next was no longer in his control. If it ever had been.

They were not bound, nor were they prodded with weapons as they were escorted to the Presentation Room, but there was no doubt they were prisoners. The guards seared them with hate-filled eyes and Oliver fought the temptation to challenge their bitterness. After all, any of the king’s men who had been slain on the road or within the castle walls today had been victims of their own belligerence. Oliver and Kitsune had been protecting their own lives. But he was not fool enough to speak such thoughts aloud.

He had been allowed to keep the Sword of Hunyadi—an exceedingly generous gesture on the part of the king, he thought—but he had no illusions that it would save his life.

Whatever his expectations had been, the Presentation Room defied them. It was an enormous chamber in some far-flung corner of the castle that must, from the outside, have seemed a strange peninsula thrust out from the main structure. Within, it resembled nothing so much as a narrow church, with airy, vaulted ceilings, and towering, stained glass windows on three sides. Their full glory could not be appreciated after dark, with the moonlight casting a dull glow upon them from without and row upon row of candles spreading light within. There were wall sconces and oil lamps as well, but the candles were the primary light source and they cast a warm, golden brilliance throughout the chamber.

The ocean-myth motif of the mosaic around the main doors of the castle was carried through to the Presentation Room. Other mosaics had been created between each window, and the stained glass imagery also illustrated the legends of the sea. There were mermaids and selkies, monstrous kraken, and other creatures he did not immediately recognize.

At the far end of the room, a single enormous chair sat upon a platform. Fish and serpents and tentacles had been carved into the mahogany arms and legs and back of the chair, and above it three vast stained glass windows had been placed to create a triptych of the sea god, Poseidon. Upon Poseidon’s head sat a golden crown whose arched points rose in the shape of waves.

King Hunyadi sat upon his chair—what passed for a throne in this room—and wore the very same crown. The Crown of Poseidon. Dozens of other people filled the room, gathered on either side of a long blue carpet that bisected the stone floor, but in the king’s presence they seemed invisible. There were armored guards and robed attendants, and nearest the king there were several servants in blue and green, obviously awaiting his instructions.

To the left of the king sat Hy’Bor, the Atlantean, his primary advisor. Despite the arrow that he had plucked from his chest at dusk, the sorcerer seemed in perfect health. He was pale, but that was apparently typical of his kind. He watched Oliver and Kitsune with his lips pressed tightly together and his eyes full of malevolence.

As they strode toward the platform with its high chair, Oliver heard Kitsune growl low in her throat. Nervous, he shot her a sidelong glance, wondering if she had finally snapped. Any threat to the king now and he was sure they would be executed on the spot. Perhaps right there on the three steps that led up to the platform. For that very reason, he had kept his hands clasped behind him as he walked, making certain that no one could claim he made a grab for the sword that hung in its scabbard at his side.

But Kitsune’s attention was not on the king at all. She sniffed the air and peered off to the right, toward a cluster of people Oliver presumed had gathered to plead for the king’s aid or intercession on some matter or another.

“Stop,” Oliver whispered.

The fox-woman glared at him, her eyes slits and one corner of her mouth lifted to reveal tiny, animal teeth. Oliver flinched at the ferocity of that glance.

“We have enemies here,” she rasped, voice so low that even he could barely hear.

The sergeant whose hand Oliver had broken stood just ahead to one side of the carpet. The man’s wrist was splinted and bandaged but he still seemed formidable. He frowned as he watched them whispering to one another, then raised his other hand.

“Silence,” said one of the guards behind them, and Oliver tensed, believing he was about to be struck. No blow came, however, and by then it was too late for him to respond to Kitsune, for they had crossed the length of the Presentation Room.

“Your Highness, as requested, the Intruder, Oliver Bascombe, and Kitsune of the Borderkind,” the sergeant announced in a loud, formal voice. He bowed his head and backed away from the carpet.

King Hunyadi studied them a moment. With his crown and silver-blue robe, he looked every inch the monarch. His blue eyes were clear and intelligent and regarded those before him as a scientist does his experiments. Yet there was still much of the fisherman in his bearing, in his broad shoulders, and in his genial, warm features.

Beside him, the Atlantean glanced out at the gathered petitioners.

Kitsune shifted from one foot to another beside Oliver, but it was not the scrutiny of the king that made her skittish. She also glanced back at the cluster of petitioners. Her hood was back, but she drew the fur cloak around her tightly as though the temptation to transform was almost more than she could bear.

“These are strange and difficult times,” King Hunyadi said. He spoke loudly enough for all to hear, but all of his attention was focused on the Intruder and the Borderkind who had gained entrance into his summer residence.

“Tell me your story, Oliver,” said the king. “Beginning to end.”

All was silent in the room. The king had spoken.

“Of course, Your Highness,” Oliver replied. A ripple of unease went through him, but he chalked it up to the weight of Hunyadi’s attention. “It begins with a conspiracy, I think, but that will become obvious. And anyway, that’s not how it started for me. There was a blizzard, you see, on the night before I was supposed to be married—”

In the end, it took far less time to tell the tale than Oliver would have imagined. Living it had given the events texture and substance that could not be easily expressed. Yet though the story was told in twenty or thirty minutes, its significance was not lost on the king. Hunyadi attended with great interest, nodding several times as though suspicions had been confirmed. His expression grew grimmer with each new twist of the tale.

When Oliver had finished, King Hunyadi took a deep breath and stroked his beard. He looked pointedly at Hy’Bor. Oliver had debated whether or not to reveal that Ty’Lis, another Atlantean sorcerer, had been named as the man behind the Myth Hunters, worried that he might be endangering Frost, Blue Jay, and the others by doing so. Yet, in the end, he felt he had to disclose all he knew.

Hy’Bor did not raise any challenge to his claims, but he maintained an expression of aloof disbelief that Oliver supposed was comment enough.

Even so, the way Hunyadi looked at his advisor told Oliver the king would be having a very interesting conversation with Hy’Bor later.

Oliver had also felt reluctant to reveal Collette’s abduction and his belief that she was a captive of the Sandman. Their visit to Twillig’s Gorge had proven that there could be spies anywhere—and with Hy’Bor standing on the platform beside the throne, he had no doubt that was the case at Otranto, too. But he had no choice. If the king allowed him to live, Collette would still be condemned as an Intruder. He had to make the appeal for both of them.

Hunyadi sniffed in apparent disapproval and turned his focus upon Kitsune. “You are Borderkind. You did not have to remain here. Hy’Bor would have used magic to restrain you, but I instructed that you be left alone. At any moment you might have slipped through the Veil and escaped whatever fate awaits you here. Why did you stay?”

The fox-woman raised her chin defiantly, her black, silken hair radiant in the glow of a thousand candles. “I vowed to help Oliver to reach the monarchs of the Two Kingdoms, to ask your indulgence and mercy. If he survives, he has pledged to aid the Borderkind in uncovering the truth of the murderous conspiracy against us. He is my friend and companion. I would not leave him.”

The king nodded slowly, then turned to Oliver again.

“The sword,” he said.

Oliver instinctively reached for the blade and its scabbard, intending to remove it and return it to its rightful owner.

“Guards!” Hy’Bor barked.

“No!” Hunyadi snapped, holding up a hand. He shot an angry glance at his advisor, then turned a gentler expression upon Oliver. “If David Koenig believed you worthy to bear that weapon, I will not dispute it. You may keep the sword, Mr. Bascombe. However, there are laws in the Two Kingdoms, and by now you are well familiar with those concerning Intruders. They are dangerous to our way of life. You and your sister, sir, are dangerous to us.

“You are also correct that Intruders may, in certain circumstances, be given clemency. This may only happen with a joint order by the monarchs of both kingdoms. To that end, I grant you the same boon that I granted to the wise Professor Koenig. One year, Mr. Bascombe, in which you and your sister must prove yourselves worthy of the trust of the Two Kingdoms. If my friend the king of Yucatazca allows you the same boon, at the end of that year we will determine together if the two of you will be allowed to live. Otherwise, a new death warrant will be sworn out for both of you.

“I must also caution you that should the king of Yucatazca not grant you this boon, the warrant for your death in Euphrasia will be reinstated. Of course, at that point it will hardly matter, as you will likely already have been executed.”

Hunyadi grinned broadly, morbidly amused.

Oliver stared at him, a smile blossoming slowly on his own face. It took a moment for the words to truly sink in. There were still enormous obstacles to overcome, of course. Another king to persuade. Not to mention the search for some deed that would prove his trustworthiness and make this mercy permanent. But it was a beginning. For the moment, he was still alive.

Beside the king, Hy’Bor scowled.

The Atlantean raised a hand, pointed a finger at the gathered petitioners. “This will not do. Kill them.”

Kitsune spun, snarling. She whipped up her hood, the copper-red fur obscuring her face. Then she dropped into a crouch and diminished instantly into the fox.

Hunyadi shouted to his guards as he stood, and he reached out for his advisor. The king produced a short sword from within the folds of his robe. Hy’Bor was a sorcerer; sickly yellow light began to glimmer all over him, to gleam in his eyes and crackle around his hands.

The Atlantean lunged at his king.

Oliver saw no more. He twisted around at the sound of a mighty roar that erupted from amongst the petitioners. Two massive figures stood and threw off brown, hooded, monastic robes to reveal themselves. They were lumbering, slavering things, wild boars that walked on two legs, tusks jutting up from their lower jaws, jaundice-yellow eyes glaring with homicidal frenzy.

“What the hell are they?” Oliver shouted as the other petitioners screamed and began to scatter.

Kitsune had become the fox by instinct. But now she changed again, regaining her human aspect, standing beside him.

“Battle Swine,” she said flatly. “Stupid, but fierce.”

“Wonderful.”

Guards with swords drawn shoved people out of the way, working their way toward the Battle Swine, but the Hunters were already moving. One of them gored the first guard to reach him, tusks puncturing leather armor easily. He tossed the soldier aside, blood staining ivory.

Oliver drew his sword.

Kitsune grabbed his wrist. “No. You achieved what you came for. There’s no point in staying.”

Her grip on him firm, she waved her free hand in the air and it began to shimmer, just beside her, a slit in the Veil appearing. Kitsune stepped through, pulling Oliver after her. The Battle Swine were shrieking, snorting, and hacking at innocents and guards alike as they rushed to fulfill their orders. They were close enough that Oliver wrinkled his nose at the stench, perhaps ten feet away. One of the Swine plunged his own sword into a guard that put himself between it and Oliver, and blood sprayed from the wound, spattering Oliver’s boots.

Kitsune hauled him through.

In the last moment, Oliver glanced up at the throne. King Hunyadi had driven his short blade into Hy’Bor. The magic that animated the Atlantean had been snuffed like a candle flame. Behind Hy’Bor was an eight-foot, hideously ugly troll. Where he’d come from, Oliver had no idea, but it made him realize that Hunyadi had suspected Hy’Bor’s treachery and had been prepared.

The troll had crushed Hy’Bor’s skull between his hands. Oliver suspected it was not the king’s blade that had ended the traitor’s life.

Hunyadi glanced at Oliver and gave a small nod as if to spur him on. Then Kitsune and Oliver were gone from the Presentation Room, from Otranto, and from the world of the legendary.

For just a moment, he felt the membrane of the Veil, or at least the pressure of it around him. The substance of reality warped and his eyes could not process what they were seeing. He squeezed them closed, staggered, and as he fell forward he felt a gust of frigid wind.