The man dropped to the ground, blood gouting. The creature leaped from his head, still brandishing the dagger at the end of its tail.

Cheval and Blue Jay could only stare.

The other two men cried out in fury and rushed at the Borderkind and their bizarre ally. Even as they did, crackling tendrils of mystic energy wrapped around them, lifted them off of their feet, and slammed them against opposite walls of the alley. The sickening sounds of bones breaking echoed around them.

At the mouth of the alley there stood a pair of familiar, cloaked figures whose gray skin and long knotted beards were almost identical to each other. Golden light still crackled around their fingers. When they moved deeper into the alley, the shadows seemed to slide away from them. They did not walk so much as glide.

“Mazikeen,” Cheval said.

The brotherhood of Hebrew sorcerers had joined with them in the fight. Several of their number had lost their lives to the Myth Hunters, but each of them seemed to know everything the others had experienced. Blue Jay presumed they shared an extraordinary rapport, almost a kind of hive mind—a group telepathy that made them each part of a greater whole.

“These are the friends I mentioned,” Blue Jay replied. “Like I said, the insurgence is already beginning.”

The creature capered across the alley to the two Mazikeen. It leaped from the ground into a sorcerer’s arms and then ran up to perch on its shoulder, uttering two soft happy barks. With its tail, it handed over the dagger. The Mazikeen slipped the blade up inside one of its sleeves.

“What the hell is that thing, anyway?” Blue Jay asked.

“Ahuizotl,” the Mazikeen answered, two voices in unison. “He is Borderkind, like you.”

Cheval shook her head in amazement. “That creature is Borderkind?”

Ahuizotl growled at her. Cheval hissed in return and the creature ducked its head behind the Mazikeen.

“We should get moving,” Blue Jay said. “We have a lot of work to do.”

“The work has already begun,” one of the Mazikeen said. “We have allies amongst the people and the legends. They are prepared to spread the word.”

“Glad to hear it,” the trickster replied. “But let’s talk about this elsewhere, don’t you think? We have brought allies with us as well, and they’re going to need your help before they can participate.”

“Masks?” the other Mazikeen asked.

Blue Jay smiled. “Something like that.”

“Lead on,” said the Mazikeen.

Ovid Tsing did not give his recruits false hope. Some of them had never struck another in anger, much less fought with swords or daggers. What he promised them was camaraderie, faith, and loyalty. Twillig’s Gorge had been founded by those who did not want outsiders interfering with their lives. Those who settled there believed in liberty, both for themselves and for others. He did not have to make fiery speeches to rouse their ire. Whether it was the current rulers of Yucatazca or the High Council of Atlantis, as some rumors said, did not matter to them. Whether or not Oliver Bascombe had assassinated King Mahacuhta was quite beside the point.

All that mattered was that an army had invaded Euphrasia. King Hunyadi had never tried to exert his will over the residents of Twillig’s Gorge. Not a man or woman believed that the southerners would offer the same freedom.

They would never have gotten involved with the workings of the Two Kingdoms—the people of Twillig’s Gorge did not even communicate much with nearby communities, except for necessary trade—but Ovid had convinced them that the threat was simply too great. So many of the legends and Borderkind in the Gorge had already gone to fight under Hunyadi’s command. They could do no less.

Ovid stood at the rim of the gorge. Behind and below him, life went on as it always had. His mother would be down there making pastries and baking bread, serving coffee at the café. He had been frustrated with her of late, but he still hated the idea of parting from her.

Yet if he stayed, it would only be a matter of time before the routine in Twillig’s Gorge would be shattered forever. Someone had to fight.

The wind whispered across the plateau. Sentries stood guard at the top of the stairs down into the gorge nearby. They were Lost Ones, however. The Nagas, who had always acted as sentries for the Gorge, had already gone off to war. Ovid wondered who would guard the rim when he and his militia marched away.

His recruits were arrayed across the plateau twenty yards away. Ovid had chosen three lieutenants—two men and a woman who had soldiered in the past—to oversee their training. Vernon led a platoon in hand-to-hand combat trials. The recruits had learned how to pull their punches and kicks easily enough, but the real test would be when they had to execute such moves in battle. LeBeau taught them swordplay. Or, rather, he tried. Some of them simply had no skill with the blade. The woman, Trina, taught small weapons combat, gauging the recruits’ skill with daggers, axes, and cudgels.

Ovid himself had plucked seven of the recruits for his own special unit of archers. Some had learned from the Nagas when they were younger and others, like Ovid, had a natural skill.

He watched them all now, going through their paces. Perhaps he ought to have lied to them. Some would die on the first day of fighting. Many would never return to Twillig’s Gorge. He had never been in war himself, but he had met enough warriors to know the truth of it. Some would survive because of their skill, and others through sheer luck. Many would die the same way.

His archers were working with Trina at the moment. When enemies came too close, it was vital that they be able to defend themselves with whatever they had at hand.

Ovid had his bow slung across his back with his quiver. He started away from the gorge toward the recruits. Trina would be through with the archers soon, and then he would continue their training. The sun felt warm on his shaven pate and he ran a hand over the top of his head.

When a voice called his name, Ovid turned and saw two large figures standing on the ridge. From their jagged silhouettes, it was clear they were not human.

“Archers at the ready!” Trina snapped.

Ovid spun and glared at her. “No,” he commanded. “They are Jokao. Our neighbors. Their village is only half a day’s walk from here.”

“Stonecoats?” Trina asked. “I’ve heard of them. But I’ve never seen one before. They’ve never come to the Gorge.”

That much was true. Ovid started across the plateau toward the far ridge. As he passed between the other two platoons, LeBeau touched his arm. Ovid turned to look at him, barely aware of anything but the sight of those rough creatures on the slope.

“They are legends, not Borderkind,” LeBeau said. “How do you know they are not in league with the southerners? They might have come to destroy us.”

“Two of them?” Ovid said. “I don’t think so. But if they kill me, destroy them before they can get down into the Gorge.”

LeBeau’s reply was a grim nod.

Ovid did not spare another glance at the rest of his recruits as he strode up the slope toward that ridge. As he drew near to the Jokao, he realized that their outer husks were the same texture and color as the stones that thrust up from the ground. They were called Stonecoats because their bodies were entirely covered in a rocky armor. Their eyes were like pure quartz crystal. Whether there was flesh beneath their Stonecoats was the subject of great conjecture. Ovid himself had only ever seen Jokao once before, and then from a distance, while he’d been on a trade excursion for his mother.

“What do you want?” he asked. Perhaps he ought to have been more courteous, but that was not his way.

One of the Stonecoats—whose chest was scored with three deep furrows that had been painted a deep red ochre—raised his chin imperiously.

“Stories travel far,” the Jokao said, with a clacking of rock jaws. “We have heard that you prepare an army to fight Atlantis.”

Ovid frowned. How could these creatures have heard of his militia, and how had they gotten the truth so skewed?

“Not an army,” he replied. “Only a small force of soldiers. Soon, we’ll march south to join the king’s forces. But we aren’t going to fight Atlantis. We only wish to stop the invaders.”

The Jokao cocked his head. Stone scraped upon stone. “To stop the invaders, you must fight Atlantis. The Truce-Breakers.”

“I’d thought that only a rumor.”

The stone warrior shook his head. He reached out and touched one of the rocky projections that jutted like teeth from the ground.

“No. The stones know. Stories travel fast. The Jokao pass them through the ground. The invaders have Atlanteans commanding their armies. Once we were slaves, and Atlantis our master. When you march south, we will be with you. We will not be slaves again.”

Before Ovid could begin to reply or even to make arrangements, the Stonecoats turned and started across the plateau. He considered calling after them, explaining that it would be days before his militia was ready to march. They were storekeepers and fishermen and carpenters, and they were not ready yet.

But then he realized that the Jokao knew precisely what Ovid had been doing, there in the Gorge. Somehow the stones had told them. And when the militia marched south, the Stonecoats would know.

Unnerved and confused, he turned and went down the slope to where his recruits and lieutenants all waited. The questions began immediately. They wanted to know what the Jokao had said.

“We have allies,” he told them. “Continue your training. If we want to make a difference in this war, we must leave soon.”

And with that, he departed, descending the stairs and ladders into Twillig’s Gorge. So many of the homes were empty, now. Some of the shops had been closed up. He missed the smell of fresh fruit that had always risen from the market, and the delicious aroma of spices and roasting poultry from Taki’s restaurant.

He crossed the Sorrowful River on a footbridge twenty feet above the water and then scrambled down a ladder to the promenade on the east bank. This time of day, the café normally would be alive with patrons sitting on the patio and sipping coffee, sharing gossip from throughout the Gorge. Now only a single, older couple—Giovanni Russo and his wife, Lucia—sat at a table, eating pie and drinking black coffee. Ovid nodded to them as he stepped inside the café.

His mother stood behind the counter, moving sweet rolls from a hot baking tin onto a tray in the display case. When she looked up, Virginia must have seen something in her son’s face, for her brow creased with worry.

“Ovid? What is it?”

How could he explain without offending her again? He still did not believe in the Legend-Born. The idea that some predestined figure could deliver the Lost Ones seemed so much like a dream. Besides, wouldn’t such beings have appeared long before now? Other legends were solid and verifiable.

No, the Legend-Born were nothing more than a story. But his mother believed in them with all her heart. He could not challenge her faith again, and had no desire to spend the few days they had left together arguing.

Yet he had been wrong once already. He had not believed the rumors that Atlantis was behind the invasion of Euphrasia, the murder of King Mahacuhta, and the shattering of the truce between the Two Kingdoms. The Stonecoats were legends themselves. Ovid knew he should not simply take their word for it, but still he found himself believing the Jokao.

And if the Atlantis conspiracy turned out to be true, then it seemed Oliver Bascombe had not assassinated Mahacuhta after all. That did not mean he and his sister were Legend-Born, but it was curious, indeed.

“What is it?” his mother asked again. She looked almost frightened.

Ovid smiled and reached over the counter to take her hands. He raised them to his lips and kissed her fingers.

“Nothing, Mother. Only that I love you. No matter how we disagree, that will never change.”

Virginia nodded. “You have always been a good son, Ovid. Too serious, sometimes, but good. The Lost need to rise. The future depends upon it. I’m proud that you will help to lead them.”

“Only a few.”

“A brave few. And more will follow. They must.”

Ovid nodded. “On that, at least, we can agree.”

CHAPTER 7

The cell door swung open.

Oliver stood leaning against the opposite wall beneath one of the grated windows. A light rain had started to fall, and even those few droplets that the breeze blew in were refreshing. The coolness of the dungeon could not compete with the heat of the day.

“You’re late this morning, guys. Breakfast is to be served promptly at eight A.M. on the Lido Deck.”

Two guards stepped inside—both Atlantean. One carried a tray of something that resembled gruel and a piece of crusty bread. Two other guards waited in the hall. They wouldn’t open the door to Julianna and Collette’s cell until Oliver’s was locked up again. Since the escape attempt, he hadn’t seen a single Yucatazcan guard in the dungeon. Only the pale, grim bastards from Atlantis.

The one carrying the tray sneered.

The other stormed across the cell and reached for Oliver, who did not bother trying to elude him. Where could he hide in this cell? The guard grabbed him by the front of his shirt and backhanded him across the face. His lip split, stinging in the warm air, and fresh blood dripped down his chin. It happened regularly. The guards didn’t leave him alone long enough for the lip to heal properly.

“And good morning to you,” he mumbled over his swollen, bleeding lip.

The Atlantean sneered at him. Either he was bald or his hair had been shorn almost to the scalp, for not a single strand poked out from beneath his helmet. Like many of the soldiers of Atlantis, he seemed an entirely different breed from the sorcerers—taller and broad-shouldered, but his features still had that narrow sharpness and his skin the greenish-white cadaverous hue. His eyes were dim and cruel.

Oliver did not react. He simply returned to his position against the wall, and waited while the other guard set down his tray and the two of them withdrew from the cell. During the last skirmish, he had given a good accounting of himself.