Borderlands
Page 1
About the Book
Danika and her crew of escaped refugees are seeking the safety of the Magnetic Valley – and trying to evade Sharr Morrigan, the king’s lethal hunter. But the borderlands they must cross to reach the Valley are smugglers’ territory: lawless, wild and steeped in ancient magic. When one of the crew is badly wounded, Danika turns to the smugglers for help – and accepts a bargain that might prove deadly.
It is Lukas, though, who hides the most dangerous secret. What has he seen through the eagle’s eyes? The answer can be found in an alchemy charm and a smuggler’s tale, and will lead Danika and her friends to an electrifying, unputdownable showdown
Praise for Chasing the Valley
‘A non-stop, action-packed adventure from the first page to the last . . . An insanely glorious blend of steampunk adventure and dystopian fantasy.’ BOOKTOPIA.COM.AU
‘Unpredictable and exciting, keeping the reader enchanted and wanting to hear more of this struggle for freedom and justice.’ READPLUS.COM.AU
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title
Dedication
Chapter one: The Knife
Chapter two: Downhill
Chapter three: Scattered in the Dark
Chapter four: Deadlock
Chapter five: The Eagle’s Eyes
Chapter six: The Borderlands
Chapter seven: Moonlight
Chapter eight: Alone
Chapter nine: Spice and Silver
Chapter ten: Enemy of My Enemy
Chapter eleven: Without
Chapter twelve: The Clan
Chapter thirteen: Storm
Chapter fourteen: Nightsong
Chapter fifteen: Green Lagoon
Chapter sixteen: Alchemist
Chapter seventeen: Firebird
Chapter eighteen: A Shadow in the Stream
Chapter nineteen: Reunited
Chapter twenty: Identity
Chapter twenty-one: Crossing Water
Chapter twenty-two: The King’s Army
Chapter twenty-three: Blood and Kin
Chapter twenty-four: The Catacombs
Chapter twenty-five: The Prisoner’s Pit
Chapter twenty-six: Hand on the Left
Chapter twenty-seven: I Shall Not Spill My Breath
Chapter twenty-eight: Rise
Chapter twenty-nine: To the Sky
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Book Three: Skyfire
Copyright Notice
Loved the Book?
For Jack Melki –
grandfather, golfer, gardening maestro
Thanks for encouraging my earliest jaunts into fiction
It’s the sixth night when the hunters find us.
I’ve volunteered for guard duty, which means a cold stint on the edge of our camp. My crewmates huddle in sleeping sacks, curled up for warmth at the back of a cave. ‘Cave’ might be a bit generous. It’s more of a dimple in the cliff face, high up in a narrow canyon called the Knife.
We’ve been sneaking along a puckered stone ledge, just ten metres beneath the Knife’s upper lip. The canyon floor lies far below, veiled by a sickening drop into darkness. The Knife is our route to the fabled Magnetic Valley – and, ultimately, our only hope of escape from Taladia.
In Taladia, the king drops alchemy bombs on our cities, subduing rebellion with magic and flame. In Taladia, youths are conscripted to die in foreign wars, expanding the king’s empire. And in Taladia, I have starved on the streets, dodged the guards and watched my family burn.
The Knife is more than just a canyon. It’s our route to freedom.
But the king’s hunters are on our trail. And by blowing their airbase to smithereens, we’ve also blown ourselves to the top of their kill list.
I hug my knees, huff out a cloud of breath, and keep my eyes fixed on the dark. The wind is restless tonight, with a whiff of impending rain. When you grow up on the streets, you learn to tell when it’s time to seek shelter. This isn’t quite the smell I knew back in Rourton – that familiar stink of rubbish in the damp – but I still recognise the threat.
A storm is coming.
If we’re lucky, it might slow any hunters in pursuit – or make them think twice before they charge after us. But if a hunter like Sharr Morrigan is nearby, we’re in serious trouble. The Knife is a treacherous route at the best of times; I’ve already survived a few near-slips on its ledges. If we have to run for our lives tonight, in the dark, in the rain . . .
I swallow, trying to quash the idea. No reason to panic. The hunters might not even be in the Knife; perhaps we’ve given them the slip. Perhaps we can ride out this storm in our cave, shielded by stone and sleeping sacks. And I’ve cast an illusion to hide us, of course, shrouding our camp in a mirage of untouched stone.
It will be enough. It has to be.
I glance back at my crewmates. From this angle, the only one I can see is Lukas, who lies bundled at the mouth of the cave. He should sleep further back, near the shelter and warmth of the others’ bodies. But his face juts outside, a thin oval in the moonlight.
For our first few nights in the Knife, I figured Lukas slept near the edge of the group to detect any birds nearby. His magical proclivity is Bird, so he can link into their minds. He’ll even borrow a passing hawk’s eyes sometimes, to survey the world from its perspective. But I’ve realised that Lukas only sleeps near the open when I’m on guard duty.
I don’t know what to think about that. It’s a week since we kissed in the prison tower. A week since we waited together for our executions. I still have no idea what Lukas means to me, and even less idea of what I might mean to him. It’s hard to sort out romantic feelings when you’re on the run with three other teenagers. Communal camping might be our safest option, but it doesn’t leave room for private conversations.
A breeze skips across the top of our ledge, tickling Lukas’s form. He grunts a little, adjusting his weight, but doesn’t open his eyes. I feel a slow smile curl my lips. Lukas looks so peaceful when he’s sleeping. No creases at the edges of his eyes, or frowns to tug at his mouth. He’s not the son of the king, a fugitive prince on the run from his father’s hunters. He’s just Lukas Morrigan. No more, no less.
Another breeze ruffles his hair. I’m itching to crawl over and smooth it, but I should concentrate on keeping watch. I take a deep breath, shake my head, and swing back to focus on the dark.
Then I hear it.
Perhaps it’s just a trick of the wind, or the screech of a distant bird.
It comes again, louder and clearer: ‘This way!’
My body tenses. I glance back and forth, searching for a clue. Nothing. The moon is lurking in a coil of clouds, so it’s hard to see more than a few metres ahead. Beyond that, the world curls with darkness.
‘Hurry up! Over here!’
I squint harder, but see nothing. My throat tightens. Have they found our trail? We chose this stony ledge to avoid leaving footprints, but the hunters’ tracking skills are legendary. These aren’t city guards, or the young conscripts of King Morrigan’s army: hunters are trained professionals, with years of experience in the wild. All it would take is a broken twig and they’d be upon us.
And all I’ve got to go on is a disembodied echo somewhere in the dark. No way to tell whether the speaker is a kilometre away, or just twenty metres.
Unless . . .
I recently discovered my magical proclivity is Night. Theoretically, I should be able to float through the dark, like when Lukas
borrows the eyes of a bird, or Maisy controls our camp fire. I could melt into the night, invisible, and search the area for hunters. But my powers are still raw, and I don’t have control yet. The magic slips like wet clay between my fingers – and if I’m not careful, my whole conscious mind could do the same. Last time I tried to mesh my body into Night, I almost lost myself forever. I’m not desperate enough to risk it again. Not yet.
As quietly as possible, I scramble back into our cave. When I duck below the overhang, I catch the glint of eyes staring back at me.
‘Hunters?’ Teddy whispers.
‘Yeah, I think so.’
He nods. ‘Foxaries are a bit jumpy. I reckon they can smell someone.’
Well, that explains why Teddy’s awake. Our foxaries doze nearby: oversized lumps of fur and body odour. Their species is famously vicious: a pack of twisted hybrids, bred via illegal experiments and alchemical manipulation. But Teddy’s proclivity is Beast, and he connects with animals in a way the rest of us will never understand. He’s the only reason these brutes stay under our control, or let us ride them across the wilds. Whenever our foxaries are restless, Teddy’s the first to sense their fear.
‘We should move,’ he says.
I hesitate. That storm is definitely on its way, and a slippery scramble through the Knife isn’t likely to end well. But what’s the alternative – wait here and cross our fingers?
I glance at the ring of magnets that encircles our camp. My illusion ricochets between them, cloaking us in stone and shadow. It can shield us from eyes, but not from touch. If the hunters search this narrow ledge, they’ll stumble right into our midst.
‘Yeah, all right,’ I say. ‘Get the foxaries ready.’
As Teddy turns aside, I cover Clementine’s lips to wake her. She’s probably enjoying some pleasant dream about ball gowns or cupcakes, and the last thing I need is a shout of alarm when I jolt her back into our considerably less pleasant reality.
Clementine blinks at me. Her blonde curls shine as she yanks herself up into the reach of the moonlight. ‘Hunters?’ she mouths, when I withdraw my hand.
I nod. ‘We’re leaving.’
‘I’ll get Maisy,’ she says, and turns to her twin.
I’m impressed by her composure. Even after weeks on the run, I still half-expect the sisters to go to bits in a crisis. Clementine and Maisy were richies back in Rourton: wealthy heiresses whose days were adorned with high teas and sequins. They’ve proven their courage a thousand times since, but part of me still feels they’re too fragile for life in the wild.
I take a deep breath and gather our magnets. My movement breaks the circle, shattering the illusion. We are visible now. Visible and vulnerable. But we can’t stay here.
I clamber atop a foxary, thighs clenched around the furry barrel of its torso. According to Teddy, this one’s name is Garrum. I get the strong feeling Garrum doesn’t like me – either that, or he wriggles his bum around to dislodge his riders as a matter of course – but this isn’t the time to argue. Teddy straddles Borrash, our only surviving beast from Rourton, and the twins already sit astride their favourite mount. It’s a relatively placid beast called Perrim – although in foxary terms, ‘relatively placid’ translates to ‘will probably bite off your hand instead of your head’ if you approach without Teddy to pacify him.
A warm body slips into the space behind me.
‘Mind if I join you?’ Lukas says.
‘Yeah, of course.’ I’m slightly flustered by how his breath tickles the back of my neck. ‘I mean, of course you can join me – not of course I mind. I mean . . .’
I grind my teeth to make myself shut up.
‘All right,’ I say more forcefully. ‘Everyone ready to go?’
The others answer with silent nods. The moonlight is still muffled by clouds, but I can read their tension in the stiffness of their spines.
I’m tempted to say something like ‘We’ve beaten them once, we’ll do it again!’ or ‘Let’s show those hunters who they’re messing with!’ But we’re not in some corny puppet show. The truth is that we may die tonight. Our good luck has lasted too long – and if life has taught me anything, it’s that good luck is always the entrée to bad.
So in the end, I settle for, ‘Let’s go.’
We’re rounding a corner when the rain hits. A sheer cliff face rises to our left. To the right, an abyss. The foxaries crush our legs against the rock, their claws scrambling for purchase on the ledge.
When the first droplet hits my hand, I tighten my grip on Garrum’s fur. Things are about to get slippery.
In minutes, the sky is alive with water. I’m not sure whether this is natural rain, or whether a hunter with a Water proclivity has summoned it to wash us away. I doubt anyone could be powerful enough to control the clouds; they’re too high above, too distant for proclivities to reach. But a talented hunter might funnel rainfall into the Knife, sucking in water from the surrounding storm.
‘Wish I had a Water proclivity.’ Lukas raises his voice to combat the rain. ‘I’d send this storm back to give the hunters a headache so we could run for it.’
‘Wish I had a Water proclivity,’ Teddy says. ‘Would’ve been bloody useful back in Rourton, I can tell you. D’you know how much easier it is to burgle swanky shops when the gutters overflow and everyone runs out to sandbag?’
‘You have no shame, Teddy Nort,’ Clementine says.
Teddy swivels to flash her a grin. ‘Course I don’t. What would be the fun in that?’
His grin fades when we hear the shout. It’s a distant call – almost lost in the wind and rain – but unmistakably human. It echoes in the dark behind us. If the hunters hadn’t already found our trail, I’d bet fifty silver coins they have now.
‘They’re coming,’ I say. ‘Better hurry.’
And so we do. We slip, we slide, we struggle on. The rain doesn’t just fall, it slaps me across the face in sheets. My instincts growl at me – ‘Find shelter, you idiot!’ – and it’s hard to stomp on years of experience.
When it rains like this in Rourton, you find a doorway. If you can’t nab one that’s not already occupied by rats, sewage or another scruffer, then you settle for a restaurant bin. The smell’s not great, but it’s better than death by pneumonia – or worse. I once heard of a boy who slept outside in a storm when the drains clogged. His legs got pinned under a floating piece of scrap metal in the gutter. When the water rose around him, he drowned in a sea of rubbish and foam. I’ll admit that’s not likely out here, since the closest thing we’ve got to rubbish is pine cones, but it doesn’t stop my instincts screaming at me to find shelter for the night.
‘. . . down,’ someone says.
It takes me a moment to realise that it’s Teddy speaking, and I swivel to get a better angle. ‘What?’
Teddy shouts, ‘We should go down there!’
The clouds have shifted a little, allowing us just enough moonlight to assess our surroundings. I peer over the edge, where a thin path trails into the dark. Then I glance up at my crewmates. Teddy the ex-burglar could shimmy down that path with his eyes closed and a porcelain vase in his hand. I could manage too, I think; I’ve climbed plenty of walls in my time to escape from grouchy richies.
But Lukas grew up as a prince and a pilot. That’s hardly the experience he needs for this kind of stunt. Maisy stares at Teddy like he’s suggested a dip in a pool of vipers, and Clementine looks ready to wallop him across the back of the head. Mind you, she looks like that half the time, so I can’t guarantee it’s a reaction to Teddy’s latest plan.
Now, she peers into the abyss. ‘Down there? Have you finally lost it, Nort, or is this just the head trauma speaking?’
‘What head trauma?’
‘The one I’ll give you if you even think about dragging my sister down there. That’s not a path – it’s practically a cliff!’
‘And break our necks?’
They glare at each other. Teddy cracks a sudden grin. ‘Come on, it’ll be fun. Like those waterslides you richies have in fancy swimming pools.’ He strokes his chin in wistful remembrance. ‘Ah, good times, good times.’
‘When did you get the chance to –?’ Clementine begins.
Then we see the flame. It shouldn’t burn in this weather, but it does. It dances high above us, a flickering sphere of red and gold. I blink, struggling to focus my eyes through the rain . . . and then I spot the figure who controls the fireball. She stands high up on the lip of the Knife, her face lit eerily by the flames.
‘No way,’ Teddy says, stunned. ‘No flipping way. How did she get out of the airbase?’
It’s Sharr Morrigan.
Lukas tenses behind me: a coil of shock and muscle. I don’t know what to say. Sharr is his cousin, yes, but also a royal huntress who tried to kill us all. She must have chased us out into the wastelands, far enough from the airbase to survive the explosion and . . .
And here she is. A silhouette against the stars, with enough power – or perhaps just raw fury – to build fireballs in the rain.
Then the other figures appear behind her, and I know we’re in trouble.
Three, four, five . . . I knew we would be pursued, of course – that our explosion couldn’t have killed every hunter and bomber in the airbase. In fact, I hoped it hadn’t killed anyone at all. The thought that people burned alongside that Curiefer makes my stomach churn. But even so . . .
‘I’m happy to see old friends, of course,’ Teddy says, ‘but I figured Sharr wanted to nick your spot in the inheritance queue, Lukas. Shouldn’t she be gallivanting off to the palace in full-blown grovel mode?’
He’s right. Sharr should be bowing and scraping and begging King Morrigan for forgiveness. We sabotaged an invasion that took years to plan. The king mined the north, built a new train line and funded an elaborate charade to stash his precious Curiefer at the airbase. And then Sharr and her cronies let us blow it sky-high.