All he had to do was wait for the border.
***
"
This
is the border?" It was full night, and Freetrick couldn't see worth a damn anyway, but he was sure he ought to be able to recognize
something
from out of the stories. There was no wall, white stone, not even a ditch or a line of barbed wire. All there was, was a utilitarian concrete shack, a flag, and a flat place in the road. "Where's the wall? Where are the Paladins? Where is the striking
Keep
?"
Freetrick flinched backward as a shape like a half-melted candle dripped off one of the carriage's eves and unfurled into the wings and head of Mr. Skree. "Allow this insignificant pustule to express his sympathy with the disappointment of the Lord of Chaos. It is an insult that the Rationalist scum guard their borders so negligently."
"…Yes," said Freetrick.
"And when," rasped Mr. Skree, "can we expect to obliterate them utterly?"
"…soon?" said Freetrick.
"Very good, Malevolence."
There was a pause.
"Can I…get out?" asked Freetrick.
"No." Bloodbyrn slapped the quivering monster that covered his knees. "There will be no need for you to leave the carriage, my lord. Mr. Skree will take care of all the details."
Freetrick winced, wondering exactly how those details were to be taken care of. "Mr. Skree," he said, "don't kill them."
"As the Sovereign of Pestilence commands." Mr. Skree's voice contained no hint of emotion.
"I shall announce our presence, my lord, by your leave." Bloodbyrn did not wait for Freetrick's leave, but rapped against the floorboards with what sounded like an extremely hard shoe. The monster under them bellowed out a cry of pain and bewilderment that echoed off the mountain peaks.
The echoes died, and there was a crash from inside the hut, then a voice.
"God of words strike it out, shut up out there! You can striking well wait until I find the striking record plate!" There was another crash, much louder than the first, with an added percussion of small objects hitting walls. "And the struck-out thrice-erased striking writing stylus! Swen! Swen, you gibbering useless ogre, where's the striking stylus? Oh—"
A door slammed in the gloom on the other side of the station. "Just get out here!" A figure rounded the corner of the small building and strode down the dirt path to the road. It flicked an angry left hand out and light flared, revealing a narrow, bent figure in the brown jerkin of a Proctor of The Rationalist Union. "Striking idiot boy. And if you think I don't know you use the styluses to clean your ears with…eh?"
The guard stopped, the light over his head suddenly bright on the squeaking carriage.
Oh please, thought Freetrick, oh please, god of words, let this man not be the deranged old grandpa he sounds like.
The old man toddled forward into Freetrick's focus, squinting, his mouth working behind a wicker cage of facial hair. Then his eyes widened and he opened his mouth to shout.
Oh please, thought Freetrick, may this person only
appear
to be a deranged old grandpa. Let him be some kind of help to me. Please!
"Skree!" the guard bellowed, "Skree you dried up old fruit bat! Get down here and say hello!"
Freetrick's heart sank.
Black leather rustled as Mr. Skree slithered from his perch under the roof of the carriage. "Erni, may your eyes boil from their sockets, you detestable worm."
The aged border guard laughed and shook his head, "Good to see you too, Skree, you toad-spawned struck-out vampire. Now how in the name of the Beast from over the Mountains did you get yourself going this way instead of that way? How did you sneak across the border without me knowing?"
"I was on official business, furthering the destruction of all you hold dear, Erni."
There was an audible rustle as the old man lifted one tussocky eyebrow, "What do you mean 'official business? You don't mean you've got your new king in there?" Erni sidled up to the carriage, opened the door, and thrust his head through.
Freetrick recoiled. The man had gray hair growing out of all the places on his head where hair shouldn't grow, and the face underneath looked like someone had chewed it out of concrete. Cynical eyes rolled over Freetrick. "So this is him, huh? Look at the nose on him. B-ha!" The head withdrew. "Swen! Get down here! Guests!"
"Wait!" Freetrick cried, pulling against the cushion, "Mr. Erni, help me! I'm being kidnapped!"
The Proctor ignored him. "An escort and everything? True words, this ain't like the old days. I remember when your bunch useta come down off the mountains with thunder and lightning shooting out your rears. And the Naobelites would rise up flaming to strike you out. Best striking show a man could watch." He was silent for a moment, "I don't suppose I can look forward to any fireworks any time soon, hmmm?"
"I could not possibly say," Mr. Skree's voice was a strip of mummy hide whistling in a natrum wind.
"Ah well." The old man shrugged, "'s not like I'll be up here long myself, anyway. Not no more. Or I figure so, anyway. Swen! Ah boy," Erni turned around as another figure jogged down the path, "Say hello to Mr. ssSkreekirkaakh. You remember him."
"Nice to…uh…see you again, sir," a voice mumbled in the accents of Between.
"Well," Erni clapped his hands with a sound like cracking walnuts, "I know you can't stay, no rest for the wicked." He cleared his nose with a sound like ruined plumbing, "if you'll see me inside, Mr. Skree, we can talk business. Swen, stay out here and guard the Ultimate Fiend. And," he squinted into the carriage, "is there anything you would like, young lady?"
"No, thank you," Bloodbyrn's voice floated from the darkness, "I believe I shall take this opportunity to indulge in another brief constitutional. I trust I shall be undisturbed?"
"Oh yes," Erni chuckled, "Nothing in these woods more dangerous than you, honey. 'Cept Skree of course, but he'll be with me."
"Indeed," she said. "Now be a good boy," the last comment was softer, and probably directed at Freetrick. Bloodbyrn patted him on the head, then opened the door on the far side of the carriage and slid out. There was a creak as she pulled something out of the compartment at the front of the vehicle, and then she was gone, and Freetrick was alone with the Naobelite border guard, Swen.
"Hey!" he said, "Um, Swen? Was that your name? Swen. Help me!"
"Sir?" Swen turned toward him. His hand strayed to the wheel-stone talisman on a strap around his neck.
"Hey, don't worry," said Freetrick. "I'm not a…" a what? A monster? A king of evil? He shook his head. "Listen to me. I'm being kidnapped!"
"I can see that you are." Swen pointed with the hand holding the wheel-stone. "You're being swallowed by your chair."
"These people are holding me against my will!"
"Well, they'd have to," Swen explained, "they
are
taking you into Skrea, sir."
Freetrick felt like weeping.
"Oh, sorry sir," said Swen, looking ashamed. He let go of his amulet and leaned forward to whisper. "It's just that we have to be careful up here on the border. Sometimes we have to let things slide by, to keep things on an even keel, you know?"
"But—"
"And anyway in this case we don't have any legal jurisdiction. Can't stop foreign emissaries from escorting their own king back to their own country, even if the king's tied up." He thought for a moment, "And the bosses in Byblos told us not to let you back into the RU, even if they let you go."
"But I'm not—wait a minute. How do you know they think I'm their king?"
Swen shrugged, "Well, you match the description pretty well, sir—uh, that is, your Malevolence."
"What description?"
"The Covenant between Good and Evil, of course. You should probably get a copy," the Proctor pulled a little black-bound book out of a pocket. " Let's see…what was the part"
He moved closer to the red light coming through the carriage window, and flipped through the papers. " Uhhh…aha. 'And black will be the night when the Lord of Shadows, he who will shatter the foundations of the world, shall come forth to the mountains. Chains shall gird him, and he shall cling unto them and wail piteously…even in a manner unbecoming of a man…"
Freetrick closed his eyes and tried to summon control.
"Uh, it goes on," Swen dragged his finger down the page "…Good and Evil be forgotten...the Center of the Storm is the Sword..." He looked up, "You might want to get your own copy." He turned back to his notes. "…okay: 'And he shall speak, "But I am not the king," and they shall answer, "But thou art. In thy moon hair, and in thy night sky eyes, in thy cruel claws, yea, in all thy sinews we can see the mark of the Great Dark One who hangs over us."
"I'm not their king, okay?" Freetrick hissed. "I don't have the sinews of a great hanging anything. I'm just me!"
"Hmm…" Swen considered him, "that…does sound like piteous wailing."
"Somebody help me!"
"And the screeching—"
"Does that book tell you," said Freetrick, "where I am going to shove it when I get free and come back to this border station looking for you?"
Swen flipped a page.
"Yes," he said.
Freetrick stared at his supposed-savior with disgust. Was
that
going to be his last conversation in civilization?
"Swen." He said.
"Yeah? What?" Swen turned to look back at him, wheel-stone around his neck swinging.
"Just one thing." Freetrick lowered his voice.
The Naobelite leaned close to hear him.
"Naobel!" Freetrick shouted, and the wheel-stone exploded in holy fire.
It felt like someone had thrown a bucket of boiling water at his head.
Freetrick gasped in pain, but around him, the Futon howled. The terrible light from the Protector God lanced through the screen of the carriage, destroying every Skrean thing it touched. Even as Swen fumbled to get the amulet under control, Freetrick was shoving at the shivering folds of the Futon. He kicked his way free and then drove his shoulder into the door. Swen shouted as Freetrick tumbled out of the carriage.
"Hey! You can't do that! Stop!"
But Freetrick was on top of the Betweener, flailing with arms and legs. He managed to kick Swen's reaching right arm, but then the left curled around his neck. Freetrick kicked out, but couldn't get enough leverage to break the guard's hold.
"Give up!" Swen shouted.
"Never!" Freetrick hissed, black mist boiling off his skin. Was that a sizzle from the other man's clothing? Now, there was an idea. "Let go of me!" Freetrick dragged his head around in Swen's headlock and spit on the border guard's exposed forearm. The spit was black, and it clung to the skin like tar.
Swen let go, stumbling backward, scrabbling at his arm, the front of his uniform steaming where it had touched Freetrick's corrosive body.
"Yes!" Freetrick wobbled, then got his feet firmly planted in the ground. "I'm leaving. Stay down, Swen, or I'll---"
Swen's fingers closed around his wheel-stone. "Naobel."
A beam of roiling light slapped Freetrick across the face.
Swen was advancing, talisman held out. "Naobel!"