Shadows Past: A Borderlands Novel

by Lorna Freeman

  “You,” Wyln said, floating closer. “You’re the cause of all the mishaps and mayhem of the past few days, bringing that cursed thing here.”

  “Cursed?” Idwal asked.

  “Dragon body parts carry a hefty curse with them,” Jusson said. “Division, dissension, and distrust. Makes you wonder why anyone would bother with them.”

  “Because there are those who are greedy, Iver’son,” Wyln said, “and stupid with it.”

  “Your guest,” Idwal accused Jusson.

  “Not greedy,” Munir said over Idwal. “Rather, intelligent enough to correctly use the tools available to me.” He held up the wand and even through the thick fog, I could see the runes carved into it. More slender and lighter in color than the one in the stillroom cabinet, it reminded me forcibly of the wand I’d seen through the mirror back in Freston when I’d been fighting Slevoic. “This is warded and its curse contained and properly channeled,” Munir continued. “You’ll have to find another cause for the contentiousness of your people—”

  Munir broke off as Suiden slowly moved a taloned foot, placing it delicately on the step in front of him.

  “Well, well,” Jusson said. Somehow he managed to work his way past the Freston Patrollers and castle armsmen to stand next to Suiden, his sword held at his side, Thadro at his back, both of them unheeding of the still kneeling Turalian soldiers. “Perhaps not so intelligent. It seems that you’re losing control here, Lord Wizard.”

  So it did. Seeing Munir distracted, I pushed my staff into the crook of my arm and curled the fingers of both hands around two of the flames surrounding me, allowing the burning to fill my body, the pulse of it beating in the fire symbol on my palm. As I did, the fire aspect hovering above me drifted down, unasked, settling over my hands. At first the burning greatly increased, but I didn’t fight it and after a moment it began to mellow into warmth, the flames surrounding me starting to flicker, then fade. I kept my gaze on Munir, but the wizard remained occupied with Suiden. His own eyes narrowed, he aimed his dragon bone wand once more at the captain. I could feel the pressure of his working in my ears, like descending from a mountaintop into lowlying land. Suiden froze again, and the tension left Munir’s shoulders—only to return when Suiden gently placed his other foot on the next step. Munir took a step backwards.

  “Abbin,” Princess Rajya said, her voice a hoarse whisper.

  Startled, Munir turned to look at the no longer silenced princess and saw that Wyln had quietly floated almost behind him. Snarling, the wizard grabbed Her Highness and thrust her at the enchanter. Princess Rajya screamed again as she came into contact with the ring of flames about her, this time her hoarse voice filling the hall. Suiden exploded with a rattle of scales and talons against the polished wood of the staircase as he rushed up the second flight, Jusson and Thadro racing alongside. With a shout, the Turalian soldiers leapt up and ran after them—though whether to protect Munir or to help Suiden I couldn’t tell. After a moment’s hesitation, Idwal also ran, only to bounce off the royal guards, who had no intention of allowing him behind the king’s back.

  “My daughter!” Idwal shouted at them.

  “Papa!” Berenice cried at the same time. Then she too screamed as Munir snatched her, dragging her back to hold her as a shield against Suiden, Jusson, and Thadro. Bellowing, Idwal fell on the King’s Own who were blocking him, his captain and castle armsmen and servants rallying behind him. Lieutenant Groskin, the Freston troopers, and the aristos’ armsmen joined the Own and their clangor once more filling the hall as the renewed fighting spread. Up above on the gallery, Jusson and Thadro were damn near dancing as they tried to get around Berenice to Munir, while the Turalian soldiers were blocked behind Suiden. Munir fell back until he stood against the wall, just under the flame rosette, and faced them all, his dragon bone wand waving graceful arcs in the air as he continued to try to contain the dragon, while he kept his grip on the sobbing Berenice, her face wild with pain.

  Down on the hall floor, a wave of fighters washed up against the King’s Own, Jeff, and Arlis still standing outside my circle of flames. They all tried to push back, but were swallowed by the mob. Somehow, though, I stayed in my clear space. Well, clear of bodies. Even though the fires were out, the smoke and steam had become thicker, now seeming to rise from the stone floor and cloaking everyone downstairs so that all I could make out were silhouettes; even those close to me were moving shadows against the swirling fog, the sounds of their fighting increasingly muffled as if coming from afar. The gallery was still mostly clear, but tendrils were swiftly climbing the stairs and the walls, creating cloud banks around Jusson, Thadro, and Munir’s feet, while Suiden looked as though he were on the peak of a mist-shrouded mountain. Feeling the last of the flames weaken and fade away, I started for the stairs, not caring about Jusson’s orders, not caring about much of anything except to get my hands on the Turalian wizard. I hadn’t gotten far, however, when something hooked my ankle and I tripped, falling to my hands and knees. I quickly pushed to my feet and turned, ready to snarl at either the King’s Own Jusson had set on me or one of Idwal’s armsmen. It was neither.

  Standing in front of me was the pale mage.

  Twenty-four

  Even though the light from the fully risen sun pooled in the clear space about me, the mage’s face and form were blurred. However, I had no problem seeing in exquisite detail the blackened assassin blade he gripped in one hand or my feather that he held in the other and I immediately brought my staff around in front of me. The mage gave a soft laugh and tossed the knife up in the air. It stopped at eye level, its point aimed at me. The mage opened his other hand and the feather floated up so that he was bracketed by both. He then opened his arms wide, showing that he wasn’t carrying anything larger than a pocketknife. Conscious of the aspects floating above me—and remembering what happened the last time we’d gone toe-to-toe—I did the only thing I could think of. Keeping my grip on my staff, I drew my sword and charged.

  Only to be hit with what felt like an avalanche of boulders. I went down on my back, my body slamming onto the bare floor, the wind knocked out of me. While I retained my sword, my staff was wrenched from my hands, skittering beyond my reach. I tried to get up, but there was a weight holding me down. A weight that was steadily increasing, crushing me. The sounds of fighting became more distant and difficult to hear over the roaring in my ears, my sight dimming. Gasping, I swung out with my sword and felt a solid thunk as it connected. There was a faint yelp and the weight eased. Dragging in a deep breath, I shoved up with the palm of my other hand, catching the mage in the nose with a satisfying crunch. He gave another muffled yelp and I pushed him off.

  Suiden had said last night that I thought more like a soldier than a mage—which was not quite true. While I had been plain Trooper Rabbit much longer than I’d been a journeyman mage, I had been aware of the talent in one way or another most of my life—if only hoping no one would ever find out I was mageborn. However, now the talent wasn’t in my thoughts at all as I rolled to my feet. There wasn’t any room. I turned towards the mage, locating him more by a sense of air displacement than by my still darkened sight, and lunged once more—only to be slapped back by a fist of wind that tore the sword out of my hand. I dived after it, but it clattered along the floor, disappearing into the fog. Fetching up against a brazier, I reached in and grabbed a handful of charcoal, not caring that it was still burning—not even feeling it burn—and threw it in the mage’s face. He howled and stumbled back and, scrambling to my feet, this time I leapt, both of us going down in a welter of arms and legs underneath the tapestry of the watching white stag.

  “Rabbit!”

  I barely heard Jeff’s distant voice. The rage that had been dancing red on the edges of my vision now filled it. And not just at the unknown mage doing his level best to kill me. The slights, the name calling, the sneers, the attacks, the years I spent dodging Slevoic, my forced attachment to the King’s Own, Lord Commander Thadro, my removal from th
e King’s Own, the constant having to prove myself, Arlis’ betrayal among all the other betrayals, even having no say in coming here and being displayed like bloodstock had me snarling as we rolled across the floor underneath the feet of the other fighters, as the cries, the shouts, and the discordant ringing of weapon against weapon distorted in the fog bank filling the great hall.

  Catching the mage by his hair, I slammed his head against the floor. In turn, he managed to get an arm between us. The next moment I went flying, the air rushing past my ears. Before I could land, I was flipped so that I fell on my stomach. The mage jumped and landed with both knees in the small of my back, once more knocking the breath out of me. Grabbing my braid, he lifted my head and I felt the kiss of a blade against the side of my neck.

  There was a brief moment of crystalline clarity. I could hear Berenice’s hoarse cries of pain, Suiden’s roars, Jusson’s, Thadro’s, and Idwal’s shouts, my heart thumping, the mage’s harsh panting, the distant waves crashing. I could see the drab of my Freston dress uniform, the tiny darn I’d made when I’d snagged my sleeve on a nail in the garrison stables last winter, the way the bones and veins popped out of the backs of my hands, the length of my fingers as they pressed against the stone floor. And there were the smells, of leather and metal, the heat of Wyln’s and Munir’s fires, the stench of burning, of sweat, of fear, of my soap, of Princess Rajya’s perfume, the faint scent of the autumnal forest, the even fainter scent of the sea.

  Strange how I couldn’t smell the mage kneeling on my back ready to slit my throat.

  I instinctively tried to tuck my chin down in my chest. The mage took a firmer grip on my braid and dragged my head back. I kept going, my hands pushing against the floor as I shoved up, the back of my head hitting him again in the nose. There was a loud yelp and the knife slipped, scoring a line of ice down the side of my neck. I started to scramble out from under, but was caught, this time thrown on my back so I stared up into the blurry features. The air once more became thick and heavy, the weight again crushing me. The roaring in my ears came back as my sight dimmed again, though I thought I could see the mage smile.

  “Why?” I gasped out.

  The mage didn’t answer. Straddling my body, he swiftly raised the knife and I followed it up to its apex, thinking that if this was vaudeville, it would’ve glinted in the sunlight. But the blackening was dramatic in its own right. There certainly would be drama when they discovered my body, killed while they fought, with a blade last seen in Jusson’s chambers. However, I didn’t want the lead role. I didn’t even want a bit part. Despite the weight, I got my arm up and blocked the mage’s downward stab, turning it aside. A look of startled annoyance crossed his face, but before he could raise the knife again, there was a sound that was a cross between an eagle’s cry and a lion’s roar, and something large and golden flew out of the surrounding fog and hit the mage sideways, sending him flying.

  I scrambled to my feet and stood wheezing, my legs feeling like jelly, my hand on my neck where I could feel the stickiness of blood. Lowering my hand, I glared down it and then over the snarling, screeching, roaring tangle that consisted of the mage and whatever had knocked him off me. Dodging the other fighters, I ran to my attacker and rescuer and jumped in. And was thrown back again by the sweep of a feathered wing. Shouting my frustration, I looked around for my staff. Finding it against the wall under the tapestry of the stag, I snatched it up, paying no attention to his staring down his nose at me. Lifting it high, I started to slam it against the floor, not caring what I summoned.

  Let it burn.

  Cast down every stone.

  The sea rise up and swallow them.

  Their dust scattered to the four winds.

  Yes.

  Wait. No—

  The mage and my rescuer barreled into me, knocking me off my feet. But I was only vaguely aware of falling on my backside. Still gripping my staff, I stared up at the aspects surrounding me. And they stared in return. My heart racing, I slowly got to my feet, the sweat ice cold as it trickled down my face and my spine. I opened my mouth, but before I could say anything—if there was anything to say—there was a triumphant screech and I looked over to see my rescuer clamp a taloned foot on the unknown mage’s neck. And stared in shock, my mouth remaining open.

  It was a griffin.

  It was a magnificent beast, its feathers pale gold, with deeper gold at their tips against the tawny hide of its hind part. It was also huge, and it had no problem as it came towards me, hopping on three legs with its wings outspread for balance as it dragged the mage with the fourth. It carried something glittery in its beak and when it reached me, it dipped its head. I automatically held out my hand and felt something smack into the middle of my palm. I at first ignored it, staring instead into the griffin’s glowing gray eyes, but suddenly it felt as if I were in the middle of a lightning storm, with my skin prickling and my hair standing on end. I looked down and found I was holding a necklet. It was a complicated affair made of runed silver, small round mirrors, bits of crystal, and what looked like carved bone, lying sinuously across my suddenly blazing truth rune and aspect symbols.

  “What the hell—?”

  I broke off as a wave of fighting spilled into the cleared space. My reappearing guards quickly surrounded me with their weapons drawn, their faces twisting as they shouted invectives at the fighters.

  “Damn it, Rabbit, move!” Jeff grabbed my tabard and flung me aside. Stumbling into Arlis, I closed my hand over the necklet and the lightning shot through my body.

  “Watch where you’re throwing things,” Arlis said, shoving me back at Jeff.

  “Things?” Jeff pivoted and, holding on to me, crowded into Arlis. “He never was a person to you, was he?”

  “Oh, God, here we go again.” Arlis took hold of my arm and tried to move me aside. Jeff, however, didn’t let go. “Why should I wipe his arse for him? He has you to do that, wifey.”

  “Yeah, well, it was either him or your mother,” Jeff said.

  I slammed a hand against Arlis’ chest as he tried to lunge at Jeff, my irritation swiftly rising. “Why don’t you both give it a rest?”

  Dodging my hand, Arlis pulled his sword. “I have your mother right here, boy.”

  “I’m surprised you’re holding it the right end up,” Jeff said, pulling his own sword. “Did your mam teach you that too—?”

  Arlis’ teeth flashed white in his beard as he snarled and once more lunged at Jeff, who lunged back. Quickly moving out of their way, I raised my staff, whether to fling an aspect at them or hit them upside the head with it, I didn’t know. But before any of us could do anything to each other, the griffin knocked me back with a feathered wing while at the same time reaching out another taloned foot and snagging Jeff and Arlis, bearing them down to the floor. I then got a face-full of beak as it got close up and personal with me, dipping its head once more at the necklet I held clasped in my fist. My anger draining as swiftly as it rose, I opened my hand and looked again—and realized that what I’d taken for ivory was actually bone.

  Dragon bone.

  “God in heaven preserve me,” I gasped, dropping the necklet and scrubbing my hand hard on my tabard. But before it could hit the floor, the earth sphere swooped down and caught it. For a moment the necklet twinkled on the sphere’s surface; then it sank inside, disappearing from view. As it did, the fog filling the great hall began to quickly dissipate. But though the air was clearing, the fighting was not. It continued unabated and I stared down at Jeff and Arlis struggling not to get away from the griffin’s grip, but to get at each other, uncaring of where they were, uncaring of who was watching, caring only about the enmity between them, driven by the dragon’s curse.

  Except it wasn’t quite that, not exactly.

  Let it burn.

  Almost sobbing, I jerked my gaze back to the earth sphere, but the necklet was still hidden within it. Still, I took several steps back until I was directly under the white stag. There was a soft laugh an
d I looked down once more to see the mage looking up at me. His face was battered with one eye rapidly swelling shut, his nose bruised and bloody, his bottom lip split. I reached down and, clamping my hands on his shirt, dragged him up—and discovered that he was actually a she.

  “Who are you?”

  The mage remained silent and I found myself staring into her one good eye—an eye that was, contrary to the rest of the pale mage’s coloring, clear brown—and my mind winged to twinkling links of silver and bone half hidden in thick fur.

  “Kveta?” I whispered.

  The griffin screeched, bobbing its head in agreement. The mage ignored it, though. She kept her gaze on me as she gave a tiny smile, causing her split lip to bleed again.

  “Why?”

  Kveta’s smile broadened and the blood dripped down her chin, her one eye glittering with malice. “Because.”

  I let go, allowing the translated wolf to sprawl on the floor. The griffin immediately clamped its talons on her again, but she continued laughing at me. “Poor little Rabblet, has your world been destroyed?”

  Cast down every stone.

  The night before last I’d used air to stop the townsfolk midbrawl, but I didn’t dare with how powerful Kveta was; even with the griffin apparently ready to counter any working the wolf mage might cast, she could wrench control from me. Recalling the small mirrors and crystals on the necklet, I dared not use water either.

  That left earth and fire. Glancing at Munir and Wyln’s fireplay up on the gallery, I started to reach for the earth sphere, my skin crawling at the thought of coming in contact with what was inside. Before I could touch it, though, the sphere spun out in front of me and began to quickly expand with uneven bulges just under its surface—as if something were fighting to get out. Terrified that the cursed necklet was escaping, I grabbed for the sphere, but it darted away from my grasp, still expanding. The next moment, the sphere dissolved, and in its place stood Laurel, holding the necklet in one paw, the truth rune on his middle pad just as bright as the one on my palm. He took in the fighting and swiftly raised his staff and brought it down, and vines sprouted up from the great hall’s stone floor and from the gallery’s wooden one, snaring the combatants and holding them in place. A shriek of rage from all the fighters filled the hall, but Laurel ignored them as he stalked over to Kveta. He waved a paw over the necklet and the next moment Cais and Finn appeared, blinking in the morning sun.