Before I know why he left me.
I give myself a mental slap. This isn’t about me and Lukas, and it isn’t about our relationship – or lack thereof. Our kiss in the tower was just a kiss: a moment of panic between two people who thought they were about to be executed. Clearly it didn’t mean anything to Lukas, so why should it mean anything to me? I’ve spent my life looking after myself, and I’ll be damned if I’ll start moping after a liar.
I burst into the clearing where our crew made camp. I expect to see them lying there, still asleep, coiled beneath our sleeping sacks. And I’m right about the sacks – or one of them, at least. It lies where I left it, crumpled in a bed of rocks and flowers. But a crimson stain is drying across its surface, and it looks half-knotted, as if someone threw it aside in terror.
My crew is gone.
I suck down a breath. It tastes hot and sharp inside my throat, more like a knife-blade than oxygen. This can’t be happening. They were supposed to be safe here, hidden by my illusion. The hunters shouldn’t have been able to see them. Not unless someone woke and stepped outside the magnets . . .
The magnets! It takes a moment to spot them, buried in a sea of wildflowers, but they’re still here – those priceless discs I use to trap illusions. One lies a little out of place, kicked aside in the commotion. Too late, I realise how my illusion was broken. All it would take is a single hunter to knock the magnet with his boot, thinking it a stone in the dark. He would turn, startled by the clatter. His gaze would fall upon my sleeping friends: visible and vulnerable. And then . . .
I gather the magnets, cold and heavy in my hands. The packs are gone, so I’ve got nowhere to store them. I settle for filling my coat’s inner pockets. The magnets feel like rocks, dragging me down, but they’re too precious to lose. More than once they’ve meant the difference between life and death.
I start to gather the sleeping sack, but my hands come away sticky. Feeling the blood on my skin makes me tremble. Not because I’m afraid of blood – scruffers don’t last long if they’re squeamish. But it might belong to Teddy or Clementine or Maisy. They might be bleeding even now, somewhere out there in the wilderness. They might be . . .
Don’t think it. I drop the sack and try to wipe the blood from my hand. It won’t shift and I find myself rubbing my hand into a bed of wildflowers, staining their petals as red as my skin. I scrunch my eyes to hold back tears. This is my fault. I left my crew without a guard. I snuck off after Lukas, instead of alerting anyone. What was I thinking – that I alone could convince him to return? That I was the only one who’d be affected by his leaving, by his lies, by his theft? My arrogance makes my stomach turn, and I scrub my hand so hard against the foliage that my palm begins to burn.
There are two possibilities. One: my friends escaped, wounded, with the hunters in pursuit. Or two . . . they’re already prisoners. I suck a nervous breath and try to clamp down on my panic. There’s a chance they’re still free. They could be on the run, terrified and lost.
Either way, they need me.
And so I run. I leave the sleeping sack behind, a bloody token of our passage left to rot among the flowers. I tear through the trees, following the splatters of blood that litter the forest floor. I don’t need any special tracking skills to follow this trail. Not when bloody fingerprints smear the trees, and red drips stain the undergrowth.
Unbidden, my brain conjures up images of last night. The dark, the terror, the chase. My friends stumbling through these same trees, doubled over, bleeding from guts or chests or shoulders . . .
The trail heads sideways, across the width of this island. It’s a skinny line of land, and soon enough I reach the shore. It’s steep and high: a jump into the slosh below. The island on the opposite bank is much heftier than this one. It bristles with forest, thick enough to lose yourself in. If my friends are on the run, that’s where they would have headed. Somewhere with nooks and crannies, with shadows and caves. Somewhere to hide.
I take a deep breath, cursing the pre-dawn chill. Then I jump. Liquid hits me, sharp as a blade, and I can’t hold back a gasp. The magnets are heavy in my pockets, dragging me down like anchors. Then my head is underwater and I flail, kicking upwards to regain my breath.
By the time I reach the other side, my limbs ache. I’ve done a lot of walking over the last few weeks, but for all my fitness my body’s not accustomed to swimming. I feel like a jellyfish wobbling against the current. I stumble forward several metres and collapse into the undergrowth.
I fight to regain my breath. My chest rises and falls, heaving like mad. I count off the seconds in my head. Two minutes. That’s all I can allow myself. If I lie here without a time limit, I might never find the strength to rise.
‘Four,’ I murmur. ‘Three. Two. One . . .’
I force myself up with a grunt, before the rest of my brain has a chance to protest. I stagger backwards dizzily, crunch several unfortunate flowers into smears, and grab a tree trunk to steady myself. The world swims sideways, but I grit my teeth and force it to steady itself. I don’t have time for this. My friends don’t have time for this.
Where’s the blood trail? It must be nearby. Somewhere, anywhere . . .
Panicking, I stagger into the trees. Apart from my breath, the only sounds are the breeze and a distant chatter of birds. The birds remind me of Lukas, and something curls into a tight little knot in my stomach. He’s out here too. Alone. But I can’t look for him yet – not when he left voluntarily, and my crew could be in danger. Not with that blood on the sleeping sack . . .
I force myself to stop. There’s no point stumbling around if I can’t find any clues. I need to refocus. What would a tracker do? I take a deep breath and taste a tang of moisture on the air. The scent of wood and rotting leaves. The sound of rustling in the canopy, the sight of tiny white flowers in the undergrowth. My friends haven’t come this way. The wilderness is too clean, too perfect. No sign of blood, no sign of trampling.
A nervous breath escapes my lips. Am I heading in the wrong direction? No matter which way I turn, everything is mottled brown and green.
‘Come on, Danika,’ I whisper. ‘You can do this.’
I pick a direction at random. I keep a close eye on the undergrowth, searching for signs of another human’s passing. A tiny part of my brain keeps mocking me, reminding me that I could be moving away from my friends – but what am I supposed to do? I don’t have a handy smuggler song to guide me . . . not any more.
And with that thought, the old song rises up in my head. I’m faintly annoyed by it, but the tune is too catchy to dislodge, so I let the lyrics guide the timing of my footfalls.
Oh mighty yo,
How the star-shine must go
Chasing those distant deserts of green.
We shall meet with the tree-lands
Then bet with the stream’s hands
As star-shine’s fair pistol shall gleam . . .
If only we had more verses, instructions on where to head next. How to navigate the bewildering bog of the borderlands, for a start. The line about ‘stream’s hands’ told us to follow the river, back when we first fled Rourton. ‘Star-shine’s fair pistol’ referred to a constellation called the Pistol, which pointed us towards the town of Gunning. It all slotted together so neatly.
I feel almost resentful now, which is ridiculous. It’s like the song has abandoned us – it brought us this far, then dumped us to fend for ourselves. We’ve run out of lyrics, and now we’re on our own.
Or, more literally, I’m on my own.
I tramp onwards, ignoring the throb in my legs. I hit a patch of arching tree roots, forcing me to take higher strides. Soon enough my thighs are burning. I press down on them with my hands, trying to build up momentum. One, two, one, two . . . Chasing those distant deserts of green . . .
Now that I think about it, that’s a very strange lyric. It refers to the
Valley, of course – the folk song’s ultimate destination. But why would smugglers refer to the Valley as a ‘desert of green’? Were they trying to sound poetic? That doesn’t seem likely. The song is a map. It’s built to be practical, with clues hidden in every line, and smugglers aren’t known for their appreciation of fine art. Not unless there’s a buck to be had by sneaking it over the border, anyway. Perhaps there’s another meaning in that line, something we’ve missed . . .
And then I see the blood.
I stop walking. It’s like someone’s shoved a wire into my heart. My whole body seizes up, and I stare at that smear upon the leaves. My friends came this way. I’ve found their trail. But if one of them is still bleeding . . .
Stop it, I tell myself. Don’t think it. But it’s too late. The thought has already entered my head and wrapped its cold fingers around the back of my skull. My friends could be dying.
I break into a run. There’s no time to be subtle or to second-guess myself. There’s just the thump of my footsteps, the gleam of blood and the shudder of my lungs within my chest. I duck beneath branches and twist to squeeze between trunks. Bark and leaves snare my clothes, scattering as I run.
I’m leaving a more obvious trail than a herd of foxaries, but at this point I don’t care. I’d welcome the sight of a hunter; at least I could demand to know what they’ve done to my friends. It’s an illogical thought, of course, and puffed up with enough unwarranted bravado to rival Teddy. In reality, a battle of ‘Danika vs Hunter’ would end about as well as a mouse taking on a hawk. But the idea keeps me running. I will find them. I will find them.
The forest starts to thicken. Trees twist so close together you’d think they were lovers. Branches curl over and around each other, meshing one tree into the next. The undergrowth is a tangle of shrubs and twisting vines.
I clamber about a metre up the side of a tree, then make my way along a road of branches. It seems the forest has turned to felt, as if some invisible hand has woven its foliage into matted fabric. Every breath stinks of damp wood and fungus. I’ve got no hope of spotting blood splatters among the shadows, but from up here it’s easy to follow the trail of broken undergrowth.
I half-stagger, half-crawl, with a close eye on where I place my body weight. All I can think about is my friends. Right at this moment they could be fighting off Sharr, bleeding out in the undergrowth.
Dying.
This time, the thought comes without a fight. I let it sit there, dull and heavy. I blink hard, take a sharp breath and ignore the sting in my throat.
A sudden longing for my crew fills me, wrenching my chest so tight I can barely breathe. I picture their faces as I struggle onward. Teddy: curly hair, freckles, mouth twisting into a grin. Clementine: blonde hair and painted nails, scowling as we plan another dangerous ploy. Maisy, so much like her sister, but with that glimmer of shyness in her downturned eyes. In my mind they stare at me, cold and accusing, while blood pours from their mouths like wine.
You killed us, they tell me. You left us without a guard.
I clamber forward, limbs shaking, and try to block the images from my mind.
By noon, I’m back on the ground and barely staying on my feet. The trees are thinner here, but the whole forest is beginning to feel hazy. My chest heaves and burns with every breath. My legs throb. Must keep moving. Must keep . . .
I scoop a fistful of water from the crook of a nearby branch, and splash my face. It’s cold and sharp; I rub it into my eyes, my mouth, my cheeks. Then I tip a handful down the back of my shirt. It jolts me awake, a whiplash on my spine.
I take a deep breath, shake my head to clear it, and steel myself to walk on.
A pistol clicks behind my skull.
‘If you even think about running,’ says its owner, ‘I’ll blow your brains across this island like alchemy fire.’
It’s a female voice, but not one I know. Not Sharr Morrigan, and not one of my friends. A stranger.
A stranger with a gun.
I know she is close behind me – close enough to press the barrel against my head. I consider whipping around; maybe I could grab the pistol, wrestle her away, make her shot burst into the trees . . .
‘Don’t even think about it, my friend,’ she says. ‘My finger’s on the trigger. One false move, and –’
‘All right,’ I say. ‘I get it.’
I hear her step away, but I don’t doubt the pistol is still aimed in my direction. I suck in a deep breath, tense my muscles and prepare to leap sideways. If I heard the crack of a bullet, could I jerk away in time? No, that’s impossible.
‘On the count of three,’ she says, ‘I want you to turn round, all slowly like. No sudden movements.’
If it were night, I could melt into the blackness. But the harsh light of noon shines above the trees, and my proclivity is dead to me. Perhaps I could risk an illusion; I could trick her for a moment, and then –
‘One,’ says the voice. ‘Two. Three.’
I turn.
She’s older than I expected. Old enough to be my grandmother. Hair coils across her shoulder in a thick white braid, almost like a snake. Her clothes are plain and practical – and not the uniform of a hunter or soldier. Yet she holds the pistol like an expert: two steady hands, legs spread slightly to keep her balance. Her eyes are cold and her lips are thin. I can tell she isn’t bluffing. If this woman decides it’s necessary to shoot me, she will do it without hesitation.
But on the other hand, if she knows something . . .
‘My friends are missing. They’ve got hunters chasing after them, and I have to find them. Have you seen any –?’
‘Seen plenty of things, my friend.’ The woman’s tone is cool, unconcerned. ‘What I don’t see is why I should share ’em with a trespasser.’
‘A trespasser? What, you mean here?’ I glance around me, bewildered. ‘But this land doesn’t belong to anyone.’
‘Yep. Here.’ She tightens her grip on the pistol, fingers twitching. For a second I think she’s about to pull the trigger. Then she gives a mocking smile, amused by my moment of panic.
‘Look,’ I tell her, ‘I’m on a refugee crew. We’re travelling to the Valley, and –’
She raises an eyebrow. I hesitate. I’m going to have to take a risk. If I want this woman’s respect, if I want any hope of convincing her to help me save my crew . . .
‘We destroyed the king’s air force,’ I say. ‘My friend stole a biplane and dropped a load of alchemy bombs on the base. We blew the whole thing to smithereens.’
For the first time, the old woman looks taken aback. There is a moment’s pause as she stares at me. Then she gets a grip on herself, and reels her expression back into cool disinterest. ‘My people ain’t afraid of kings. And the king weren’t trespassin’ on my land, last I checked.’
‘If I’m trespassing,’ I say, ‘then so are the hunters chasing my friends. Don’t you want to stop them?’
‘I ain’t concerned with hunters,’ the woman says, ‘or soldiers, neither. If they want to go wanderin’ round the borderlands, that’s their business. What concerns me is what I can’t explain – and right now, my friend, that’s you.’
‘Soldiers?’ A chill runs down my spine. Lukas made it sound as though the army was concentrated near the Valley – not spread all over the borderlands. ‘What soldiers?’
She shrugs. ‘Been gathering by the Valley for a week now, I’d judge. They send out patrols into the borderlands, but my people don’t fear ’em.’
‘But if they’re patrolling this whole area –’
‘Like I said, ain’t my problem. They’ll leave us alone, if they know what’s good for ’em.’
‘But they serve the king!’
The woman gives me a disdainful look. ‘My people don’t bother with kings,’ she says. ‘Kings come and go, my friend, but my people survive. We move
between lands, and we care nothin’ for politics. Why should I care who rules a lump of land? My people do what we please.’
‘Your people?’
Her lips curl into a smile. ‘We’ve been called many things. The wild folk. The pirates. The nomads. But nowadays, most folk call us smugglers.’
Instantly, my head brims with the folk song that led us here. Smugglers are the only people who dare defy King Morrigan – who travel with contraband goods in their packs. I’ve never thought of ‘smuggler’ as the name of a people, though – more like a job description. They’re just a type of criminal, aren’t they? They transport spices, weapons, salt. They transport illegal or magical things, such as magnets and alchemy charms.
And sometimes they transport people. The twins hired a smuggler called Hackel to lead us safely across Taladia. It might have worked, too, if Hackel hadn’t tried to sell us out for the reward money. That’s the trouble with smugglers. Their skills are legendary, but their loyalty lies with their purse strings.
This woman travels Taladia under the king’s radar. She thwarts his law. She could be every bit as treacherous as Hackel, but right now, if anyone can help me save my friends, it’s her. ‘My name’s Danika. What’s yours?’
The old woman doesn’t hesitate. ‘Silver.’
‘Really?’
‘Course not.’ She gives me a withering look. ‘But my last job was a stash of spice and silver, so it’ll serve as well as any.’
‘We blew up the king’s stash of Curiefer,’ I say. ‘He was going to destroy the Valley’s magnetic seams and invade the land beyond. That would’ve put a crimp in your smuggling routes, wouldn’t it?’
Silver shifts her weight. ‘Perhaps.’
‘So your people owe us,’ I say. I know I’m pushing my luck, but what else can I do? Every second I waste, my friends’ lives could be ending. ‘If you help me save my friends, though, we’ll consider your debt repaid.’
Borderlands Page 7
