by K. C. Julius
Just before the two sides collided, Borne shouted, “Now!”
Kenndrik and Damien dropped from the window grilles onto their opponents’ backs while Borne’s tacklers lunged directly into the heart of the approaching line.
Flean suddenly found himself wrapped in Jurrien’s embrace. He twisted among the flailing bodies to hand off the mobie to Roth, but it was neatly plucked from his grip. By the time the Glornadoorian realized what had happened, Borne had the ball tucked under his arm and was extending a ten-pace lead.
“They have the mobie!” Flean bellowed.
The red tacklers released their black-clad foes, and elbows and fists flew as each side fought to extract themselves from the chaos and follow the ball. The struggle gave Borne a few more strategic seconds to reach Cole, who was poised against the wall ahead.
“With me!” Borne commanded, and the two of them darted up Cooper’s Walk, winding back in the direction of their own goal, now more than half a mile away. At the next intersection, they met up with Tucker of Morlendell, DuBleres, the future lord of Tyrrencaster, young Fairendell and Stewerd, a knight of Valeland.
“You’ve got it!” cried Stewerd, falling in beside Borne. “Good man!”
A slight smile curled Borne’s lips. “The challenge is to keep it.”
Shouts ahead warned them of their opponents’ presence. A narrow lane offered itself to the right, and Borne dove down it, his crimson entourage hammering after him. As they raced toward the next junction, Borne managed to acquire a line of ladies’ delicates that had been hung out to dry. He whirled them over his head and sang out, “Headlong they sprang, on stalwart steeds, their noble banners high!”
They rounded a corner and came face to face with two of the Soth’ers’ vanguard, whose triumphant expressions were abruptly obscured by the billowing laundry Borne flung in their faces. It checked them for a breath, and the Nor’ers used it to their advantage as Lord Fairendell and Sir Tucker neatly brought the two men down.
Borne leapt over the prostrate bodies, with Willern and Stewerd a stride behind. They managed to narrowly sidestep two more Soth’ers who burst out from Holley Street just as they passed. “They’ll want attention,” said DuBleres, casting a wild look over his shoulder. He gamely turned and threw himself at them. The thud of impact was followed by a cry of pain, and Borne turned to see Tyrrencaster extract himself from the fallen bodies, clutching his knee and hobbling over to a stoop.
The Nor’ers were down a man, and Flean and three others were still in hot pursuit. Borne wondered fleetingly what had become of Roth.
Through the winter months, Borne had spent long hours becoming acquainted with the city, roaming its warren of streets with Magnus. With aid of this knowledge, he had laid out a strategic route. But now that the Soth’ers had forced an unplanned turn, he and his teammates were no longer heading in the direction of their goal, but rather west toward the river. They’d have to make a right if they were to correct their deviation—and this had certainly occurred to the Soth’ers as well.
Borne quickly came up with an improvised plan.
He slowed his pace, waiting for Cole and Stewerd to catch up. “There’s a sharp bend ahead onto Turbot Lane,” he said when they fell in beside him. “When we round it, Cole, you duck into the alley to the left and hide in the doorway of the fishmonger there. Count to twenty—you should hear our pursuers pass—then take Goeden Row.” He grinned at Cole’s alarmed expression. “Keep going. We’ll find you.”
“But—”
Cole hadn’t time to utter another word before they swerved around the corner, where Borne thrust the mobie into his hands and propelled him into the alley. Borne ran on, cradling an invisible ball in his arms, Stewerd at his side.
When they reached the next juncture, Jurrien, Kenndrik, Damien, and Canchett came pounding up Branch Hill to rejoin them. Kenndrik’s left eye was swollen shut, and Damien had blood on his knuckles.
“Where’s the mobie?” gasped Canchett, as Flean and his Soth’ers rounded the turn and scrambled toward them.
“On its way to our goal,” said Borne, “but I suspect our carrier will soon need support. This way!”
On Smallgate Way, Glinter and Quesen were waiting. Their smug expressions faded as they searched the Nor’ers to see who was carrying the mobie. Borne flung his arms wide. “It’s halfway home by now!” he called cheerfully, then swerved past them up Mulberry Lane. Behind him, Kenndrik, Canchett, and Damien bore down on the pursuing Soth’ers. “You’ll want to take another way,” Borne heard Sir Jurrien growl.
Borne raced on, listening at each corner for the sound of Cole’s footfalls. He was rewarded at the third lane when his young friend, flushed with triumph, came pelting toward him.
“We outwitted them!” Cole cried jubilantly, thrusting the mobie toward Borne.
Borne pushed it back against Cole’s chest. “You keep it.”
He’d intended from the start that Cole should be the one to carry the ball to goal. Fleet of foot, the lad was a legitimate choice, and to score for the Nor’ers would raise not only his spirits but his standing at court. It would be Borne’s gesture of thanks to Lord Heptorious for all his kindness over the years.
“Five from our side are just behind us,” he said. “Let’s take a breath and wait for them.”
When the reds were reunited, they loped together along Gayton’s Rise. The pace of play was beginning to take its toll; sweat streamed freely down all their reddened faces.
Borne eased his stride. “We’ve got under a quarter of a mile to cover, men. I suggest—”
He was cut short as seven black-garbed figures darted suddenly from behind a recessed gate and surrounded the Nor’ers.
“I suggest,” said Brindel, a knight from southern Lorendale, “you hand over the mobie.” He stretched out his arm and waggled his fingers impatiently.
Cole clutched the ball fiercely to his chest. “You’ll have to take it from me.”
Brindel’s eyes narrowed, and he lunged, but Cole swiveled just out of reach. At a murmur from Borne, Sir Jurrien swiftly knelt and offered his broad back to Borne, who stepped up onto it and leapt over Brindel and out of the Soth’ers’ enclosing circle.
“To me!” he cried, and the mobie arced toward him. Borne caught it neatly and set off at a run. A burst of ragged cheering trailed after him from the spectators on the balconies.
“Come hither,” he cried merrily, “to couple on the windblown moor!”
“After him!” roared Herst of Nelvorboth, and the cluster of black and red competitors tussled to either give chase or hinder it.
Hearing an outraged shout, Borne looked back to see Cole springing free of the scrum. An aggrieved voice from within it cried, “He bit me! The bastard bit me!”
“Fie, oh, fie, fierce Perian!” scolded Borne as his friend caught up to him. “Brindel is sure to demand redress for your unnatural appetite.”
Cole snorted. “He deserved it. The oaf was practically strangling me!”
Together, they ran onward. The sweet scent of cherry blossoms hung on the air, and banks of white cloud coasted lazily across the azuline sky as a faint breeze lifted, cooling their sweaty brows. Borne laughed aloud for sheer pleasure in the day. As they pushed themselves up the rising lane, they were afforded a glimpse of the north tower of the city wall. Beyond it was the river, and their goal. At last, they were heading in the right direction.
Cole’s hand shot out, only just preventing Borne from colliding with a cluster of young girls who were drifting around the corner directly into their path. Their sky-blue cloaks identified them as wards of the Temple of Ursaline. Strands of the girls’ unbound hair lifted in the gentle breeze as they came to an abrupt halt before the two panting runners. One of the acolytes spotted the mobie in Cole’s arms and gave a soft exclamation of surprise.
Then the maidens turned at the p
ounding of boots behind them. A roiling sea of black hurtled down the hill, led by a tall, fair-haired man. For an instant, the captains’ eyes met. The Soth’ers’ pace did not slow.
Borne saw before any of them what was about to happen. To protect the girls, he did the only thing he could: he lobbed the mobie high into the air.
For a breath, it seemed to hang suspended against the dazzling sky. The Soth’ers checked themselves, some of them stumbling in their headlong flight, and the girls, at last cognizant of the risk, darted out of their path.
All eyes followed the slight arc to the ball’s trajectory, and the men gave a collective groan as the mobie descended to the rooftops and dropped from sight.
Lord Roth’s fair brows drew together. “What a shame!” he called to Borne. “It seems you’ve put the ball out of play, my friend. I believe you’ve forfeited for your side.”
“No, I haven’t,” Borne said. “The ball is still in play as long as it lies in the open waiting to be retrieved.” He levered himself effortlessly onto the windowsill at his back, drew a small bottle from his pocket, and smiled pleasantly. “My apologies, Cole, but Magnus will be relieved.” He let the vial slip through his fingers to the cobblestones, where it shattered, expelling an overpowering cloud of musk.
The Soth’ers backed away, choking, as the intense fragrance engulfed them.
Borne tapped Cole lightly on the shoulder with his boot. “Coming?”
For a scowling moment, Cole hesitated, then he hauled himself up and after Borne through the embrasure into the building.
They quickly bolted the shutters from the inside and lurched into the dark interior, trailed by muffled shouts and pounding fists. As their eyes adjusted to the gloom, they discovered they’d entered a textile guild’s storehouse. Lining the walls were bolts of linen, silks, and cotton cloth, bales of lapin and coilhorn wool, and material for the sewing of veils, gorgets, wimples, chaplets, and cauls. Borne snatched up a jaunty cap, impaled with several pheasant tail feathers, and rammed it on his head, then made for a broad, circular stair that spiraled upward.
At its foot, Cole caught up with him and grabbed his arm. “What were you thinking, throwing the mobie like that? We’ll never find it now!”
“If I hadn’t, those girls would have been crushed in a scrum.” Borne shook him off and started up the stairs.
“Roth would have stopped,” Cole protested, climbing after him. “They were never in real danger! And what in the gods’ name were you doing with my scent tucked away in your tunic? It wasn’t very sporting of you to douse him with it!”
“Do you tell me?”
They reached the upper landing, which opened onto a series of doors. Borne rattled them in turn, but they were all locked.
Cole glowered at him across the narrow platform. “Now what?”
Borne tilted his newly acquired cap over one eye and struck a pose. “What do you think? Does it suit me? I hear feathers are all the rage this season.”
Ignoring Cole’s exasperated groan, Borne planted the hat on his friend’s head and slipped past him, for he’d seen what Cole had not: a set of iron rungs embedded into the wall, leading up to the roof.
The hatch at the top was rusty and bore no latch. Borne flung it back, then scrambled through onto the sun-warmed tiles. Cole emerged behind him, the cap crumpled in his fist. “How did you know there would be a ladder to the roof?” he demanded.
“I didn’t.”
For a moment, Cole’s expression was murderous, but then he flashed a grudging grin and muttered, “He’s a lucky bastard, is our Borne.”
From this vantage point, they could both see just how lucky Borne was. Before them spread Drinnkastel, its slate roofs and serried chimneys sprawling to the north under a cobalt sky. Bisecting the capital, the River Argens, glinting like molten silver, meandered along walled banks toward the wide plateau of Brenhinoedd. A crowd of spectators on the far side of the river milled around the Nor’ers’ goal.
And on the neighboring roof, in plain view, lay the mobie.
Cole edged down the rough tiles to inspect the chasm between their rooftop and the next. “Blearc’s blood! I suppose it was too much to hope it would land where we could reach it.”
“Who says it hasn’t? And when we get to it, we’ll have an unobstructed route to victory.”
“If we can get to it. And what do you mean about the route?”
Borne swept his hand to encompass the rooftops between them and their goal. “There’s no need for us to go back down to street level. Just give me a moment.”
He dropped back through the hatch and climbed down to the room on the ground floor. There was no sound of the Soth’ers’ in the street below, which he took as a warning, so he swiftly found what he was looking for and hurried back to the roof.
Cole’s eyes widened when Borne appeared with a thin coil of braiding over his shoulder. “You can’t be serious. It’ll never hold us.”
“Oh, yes, it will. It’s silk—plenty strong enough.” Borne looped the cording and tied a sturdy knot. “Now come here and anchor me while I secure this to that chimney.” He raised his chin to the narrow brickwork on the lower roof.
“You’re mad!” grumbled Cole, but he did as he was bid.
Borne swung the looped rope over his head. His first throw missed the mark, but on the second he managed to drop the coil around the chimney and pull it taut.
“Where in the bloody Known World did you learn to do that?” Cole asked.
“In the pastures, my friend. Hours upon hours spent casting my line around coilhorns’ necks.” Borne bent to fix the other end of the braiding to the brickwork on the near side. “That should do it,” he said, brushing his damp hair from his brow. “You first.”
Cole paled. “What? Do you expect me to walk across that bit of string?”
“Of course not. You can choose to either lie on your belly and pull yourself across, or hang like a wee possum and sidle over that way.”
From below came the sound of splintering wood. Cole slid down the roof tiles, uttering a stream of obscenities, then crouched down and grabbed hold of the extended cord.
Borne made his way to his side. “Lower yourself until the rope bears your full weight, then kick your heels up and over it.” He clapped Cole on the shoulder. “You can do this.”
Cole drew a deep breath, then swung himself off the roof and dangled over the drop. He breathed an audible sigh of relief when the cord held. He kicked up and hooked his heels over it, then began to pull and push himself toward the adjoining roof, cursing Borne all the way.
As soon as Cole was on the opposite roof, Borne crossed after him.
When he dropped to the tiles, he saw that his friend, although in possession of the mobie, looked grim.
“They’re directly below, in this warehouse,” Cole said, keeping his voice low.
Hearing the same running footsteps, Borne nodded. “Then we shall have to move on.” Fortunately the next roof over was only a short leap away. “I’ll hold the mobie while you jump,” he said, then relieved him of it and gave him a nudge forward.
Cole swore again, but made a run for the edge and sailed easily across. Borne tossed him the mobie, and just before he followed it, the roof hatch burst open beside him and Flean’s scowling face appeared. Borne blew the Soth’er a kiss before kicking the hatch closed again, and a yowl of anger—and the thuds of falling bodies—pursued Borne as he ran lightly across the tiles and leapt to join Cole.
And then they were off over the rooftops that unfolded before them like a giant’s great cobbled street, the grey slate warm under their boots. The Soth’ers wouldn’t be far behind, but Borne didn’t look back. He just grinned over at Cole, who held the mobie fast, and said, “It’s up to you now.”
Cole sobered. “You’re our captain. You should be the one to score.” He sprang across to the
next roof.
“But you kept the ball when Brindel threatened to take it from you,” Borne said, landing lightly beside him. “You’ve earned the right. On, on, Deraidin, down to the River Argens, where dwell the sprites of Felindin.”
“You and your poets,” laughed Cole as they scrambled across the tiles. “You’ll have to teach me a few tender lines I can use on Yoletta.”
Borne shook his head. “Not necessary. After you score the goal, you’ll need no poetry.”
Cole came to an abrupt halt, and Borne’s own heart swelled at the light in his friend’s eyes. “By all that’s holy, do you think she might…?”
“You’ll be the most famous man in Drinnkastel, Cole of Windend!” Borne cried, skirting around a row of chimney pots. “Every eligible maiden will vie for your attention. Now, stay your lascivious thoughts for the present, ‘cousin.’ We still need to make it to the goal! Run!”
Later, Borne would recall every detail of that pelting chase. The breeze carrying up the dank scent of water from the Argens as they careened headlong toward the river; the striations of red lining the sky, revealing how far the day had waned. The providence of their handholds as they scaled down to the ground for the last leg of their trial. The exhilaration of racing shoulder to shoulder with Cole, the brother of his heart, and Cole’s jubilant grin as the raucous spectators spied them, two red-clad runners hounded by a sea of black.
He would remember his fierce satisfaction when the rest of the Nor’er scrum, like a well-oiled machine, wheeled forward to repel the Soth’ers’ last-ditch effort to keep them from their prize, and the blaze of triumph in Cole’s eyes as his teammates, amidst deafening cheers, hoisted the lordling aloft to strike the mobie against each post and the crossbar of the goal, claiming their victory. How the Nor’ers opened a path for their captain to congratulate his best friend, then lifted the fair Yoletta up to present Cole with a single crimson rose, whose fragrance the lad had bent to inhale.
For the rest of his days, Borne would hear the sinister waff and thud as the arrow found its mark.
