‘The rose charm!’ I whisper. ‘Will it work on a foxhawk?’
Lukas shakes his head. ‘No point hiding our scent if it can see us. That thing might have a fox’s head, but it’s got the eyes of a hawk.’
And so all we can do is slide deeper into the dark. The thicket spikes around us, tight and sharp and unwelcoming, but its branches are dense enough to hide us from the sky.
There’s a soft whumph to our left. We freeze. I meet the others’ eyes for a moment: four pairs of terrified orbs.
Slowly, I turn my head. I try not to touch the bushes, to send the thistles quivering at the brush of my shoulders. I catch a glimpse through the prickles. It’s an incomplete picture: a broken jigsaw, half-erased by leaves and thorns.
But it’s enough to see the earth and trees. Enough to see the fur, the wings, the shining golden eye.
Foxhawk.
The rider dismounts, his boots hitting the stony mud with a crack. About forty years old, I’d guess, with brown skin and piercing eyes. With a twist in my gut, I realise this isn’t the man who shot Tindra. The killer wore a cloak of grey, while this man’s cloak is blue. It’s draped over drab trousers and a threadbare shirt. He looks thin and knobbly enough to be a tree himself, here in the scraggle of the woods.
He tilts his head to the side, listening. Beside me, I can sense the others’ tensed bodies: the twist of their limbs, the tightness in their throats.
The foxhawk turns its own head, ever so slowly, towards our patch of undergrowth. Its eyes focus on us, unblinking beads of gold. And with a resolute expression, the man turns to follow its gaze.
I stare at him. He stares back. He hasn’t seen us yet; we’re hidden well in this nest of lines and shadows. But he knows we’re here. He knows it, and any second now –
He draws his pistol.
If possible, my spine stiffens even more. Every cell in my body burns, strained tight enough to explode. My lungs throb from a lack of breath, but there’s no helping it. Not when I’m staring down the barrel of a pistol. The gun winks at me, a sly little gleam in the dappled light.
‘Who’s there?’
The man’s accent is strange, like Tindra’s. But his voice is deep and husky; strained by a childhood illness, perhaps, or by screams and shouts long forgotten. His finger curls upon the trigger. One little squeeze, and the alchemy will blast that bullet through my skull …
Lukas draws a sharp breath.
The foxhawk jerks backwards. Its wings flap open as a shriek escapes its mouth, and claws slice at the air in a sudden moment of panic. The gunman stumbles sideways, knocked aside by the blast of the creature’s wings.
We run.
The prickles snare my clothes, tear at the fabric. They scratch stinging welts into my flesh, but all I can think about is the man with the gun, stumbling in the shock of his foxhawk’s panic, and this precious chance to save ourselves …
Lukas looks dizzy, tripping a little as he runs. I yank his sleeve to jerk him back into reality. I want to thank him – to tell him that it worked, that his magic saved my life – but part of his mind is still locked into the foxhawk’s, and his legs move like they’re made of porridge.
‘Come on!’
I yank Lukas forward again, and this time he snaps to attention. He blinks, glances around, and pales. And then we’re all running, throwing ourselves down the edge of the ditch and up the other side – back up into rambling forest and sparse trees and chinks of broken light.
We lurch and dart, huff and gasp. Our bodies stream with sweat, even in the chill of the air. Our feet crunch, shattering twigs and husks of leaves. The whole world jerks, like a broken recording of a picture spell, as my strides grow longer and my gaze jolts up and down. A flash of sky, a flash of brown. Leaves, branches, the whiplash of air. A whirl of staccato leaps and breaths and panic until –
A flurry of wings. A crash of rumpled feathers and the furious shout of a man up ahead. We barrel into the next clearing, carried by our own momentum.
Bang!
Lukas throws out his arm to hold me back, and Clementine lets out a sharp cry at the sight of the foxhawk. The rider is puffing slightly, his eyes wide and the pistol smoking in his hands.
‘All right, folks – that was a warning shot! If you run again, I’ll put the next one through one of your throats. Got it?’
It takes me a long moment to collect myself, but I manage to give a shaky nod.
‘Good.’ The man steps forward, the pistol roaming between us. His muscles are strung as tightly as the anxious knot in my stomach. He finally settles on Teddy as a target. ‘Where are you from?’
Teddy hesitates. ‘Well …’
‘Don’t lie to me, son. You’re not from Víndurn.’
Víndurn? Is that what this land is called? I roll the word in my mind, trying to fit its shape to the gnarled landscape.
Teddy looks at me, the question clear in his eyes. I meet his gaze for a moment, then nod. He can’t bluff our way out of this one – not even the great Teddy Nort, pickpocket and conman extraordinaire. We have no knowledge of Víndurn. We have the wrong accents, the wrong dialect, the wrong clothes.
We have to tell the truth.
‘We’re from Taladia,’ Teddy says. ‘Other side of the Magnetic Valley.’
The man raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t pull the trigger. I decide to count that as a hopeful sign.
‘We nicked off, you see,’ Teddy says. ‘Wanted a better life, away from the king and that, so –’
‘Our king wanted to invade your land,’ Clementine says. The words tumble out of her in a panic, fast and breathless. ‘We saved you. We blew up his airbase, and we flooded the catacombs, and we stopped him from –’
The man swings the pistol around to face her. Clementine shuts up with a nervous squeak.
‘You saved us?’ The man’s voice is as deep as gravel. ‘You saved us?’
Clementine doesn’t respond. Her eyes are trans-fixed upon the pistol, as if a deadly viper is about to lunge for her face.
I step forward hastily, trying to draw the man’s attention. ‘Sir, we didn’t mean any disrespect.’
‘Oh?’ the man says. His gaze doesn’t waver from Clementine.
I adopt the humblest voice I can manage: the voice I always used when begging barkeepers for work in Rourton. ‘We just wanted to let you know Víndurn is in danger, sir. Our king is determined to invade and conquer your –’
The man’s laugh echoes sharply. He turns to face me, his eyes as cold as frost. ‘Hate to break it to you, lass, but King Morrigan would have better luck munching a hornet’s nest for supper. That way, he mightn’t get stung so hard.’
I glance at the others again, startled. None of us has mentioned King Morrigan’s name – yet this man seems utterly familiar with it, as though details of Taladia’s governance are common knowledge.
Back in Taladia, we knew nothing of the outside world. There were lands that the king was invading, and there was the land beyond the Valley. That was it.
Yet here we are, in a land of fables – and this stranger knows not only the name of our country, but our king. It feels oddly like being caught naked, while the rest of the world swans around in ball gowns and tuxedos.
The man readjusts his grip on the pistol. ‘You’re not the first Taladians to come running here,’ he says. ‘And you won’t be the last.’
‘What are you going to do to us?’ I say.
He raises an eyebrow. ‘I might be planning to shoot you, lass. Are you so keen to get it over with?’
I tense a little, but try to keep my expression neutral. ‘No, sir. It’s just … we were told that your land was a welcoming place. Somewhere to be safe. We were hoping to find a new home.’
The man snorts. ‘Weren’t we all?’
I frown, confused.
‘Here’s the thing,’ the man says, his finger still tight on the trigger. ‘I’m a migrant too. My parents brought me here as a boy, from the Borrolan Islands in the south
.’
None of us responds. I shift my gaze subtly towards Maisy, trying to see if she looks familiar with the name ‘Borrolan Islands’. But her eyes are wide and her lips are parted in surprise, so I guess her beloved encyclopaedias failed to mention any distant nations.
‘See, a lot of folks come to Víndurn,’ the man says. ‘They hear the stories, and come here looking for a better life. People from the south, people from the east. People from the west,’ he adds, with a nod towards us.
‘You all hear the same stories?’ Lukas says. ‘In all these countries, you hear the rumours of Víndurn as a sanctuary?’
The man nods. There’s something unreadable in his eyes now. ‘Most folks’ve got something to run from,’ he says. ‘And Víndurn’s willing to take them, see? Lord Farran’s the one who seeds the stories. Sends the rumours out on the lips of travellers, to cross the seas and mountains and valleys.’
‘But why?’ I survey the scraggly trees. ‘I mean, no offence, but this isn’t exactly the paradise they talk about in the stories …’
‘Lord Farran needs workers,’ the man says. ‘When he first came to Víndurn, this country had so few people – barely enough to build a proper nation. The land didn’t even have a central ruler.’ He gives a wry smile. ‘They say a giant could spit across Víndurn, and there’d be barely a soul to complain of the rain on his cheeks.’
‘But –’
‘Lord Farran wanted to build a strong country. A great country.’ The man pauses. ‘And it’s easier to lure folks here with promises, I’d say, than to strike out and abduct them from their homes.’
A cold little clench runs down my spine. I think suddenly of King Morrigan and his conscription for the army – of being forced into service at the age of eighteen. Have we fled from one life of slavery into another?
The man lowers his pistol. He looks around, then drops his voice, as though he’s about to say something illicit. ‘If you’ve any chance of heading back, folks, I’d do it now.’
I blink. Heading back? Back into Taladia? After all we’ve endured: the deaths, the trauma, the snow and storms and wastelands and the horror of the catacombs …
No. It’s impossible. King Morrigan’s hunter is still behind us, and we have no hope of slipping back around him. Not on the bare expanse of the plains, where it’s impossible to hide. Besides, even if we miraculously made it back to Taladia, there’s still a price on our heads – and it’s probably quadrupled since our assault on the king’s airbase. Half the army will be on our trail. We’d be shot before we made it five kilometres.
‘We can’t,’ I say. ‘It’s too dangerous. There’s a hunter behind us – and if he finds us, he’ll kill us. We need your help.’
The man raises an eyebrow. ‘Upset your king, have you?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Well, then,’ he says, holstering the pistol at his hip, ‘my name’s Bastian, and I’m a firestone scout for my clan. And I’d say your best hope is to come with me.’
Firestone. The word jerks a memory forward: Tindra’s dying words, as she lay crumpled on the rocks.
I look at the others. We all share a moment of uncertainty, before the answer slips between us like a silent handshake. It’s almost unnerving how well we understand each other now. My crew. My friends.
‘Depends where you’re taking us,’ I say.
‘Back to Silent Peak,’ Bastian says. ‘Back to my home. But we’ve got a damn long way to walk before midnight, so I’d say it’s best to hurry.’
‘Why?’
A breeze ruffles the clearing.
‘Because my village rests above the earth,’ says Bastian. ‘And at midnight, the earth cannot be trusted.’
Bastian leads us from the sky, gliding overhead to mark our path. From down here, his foxhawk seems no more than a pair of enormous wings, silhouetted by the afternoon light.
‘Are we sure about this?’ Clementine says quietly. The scratches on her face and hands are drying now, but the lines of dark crimson look stark upon her pallid skin.
‘We could make a run for it,’ Teddy says. ‘I mean, he’s basically riding an overgrown chicken-fox, right? I reckon we could –’
‘We can’t outrun it,’ Lukas says. ‘Trust me.’
‘Oh, aren’t you just an optimistic little ray of sunshine?’ Clementine says.
Lukas raises an eyebrow. ‘I’ve been inside its head, Clementine. I know how its muscles move, how its wings can beat.’
We squint back up at the sky again, and I know he’s right. Those massive wings would sweep around in an elegant loop, and there’d be claws and bullets at our backs before we knew what was coming.
‘His people might help us,’ I say. ‘And that hunter would have a hard job sneaking up on us now – the foxhawk’d see him coming miles off.’
‘But he gave us the option to leave,’ Clementine says. ‘To return to Taladia. If we asked him nicely, perhaps he’d give us another chance to –’
Maisy places a gentle hand on her arm. ‘Clem, we can’t go back. Not now.’
Clementine sucks down a harsh breath. Then she nods, a cold devastation behind her eyes. ‘I know. I know we can’t. It’s just …’
‘This isn’t what you were expecting?’ I say.
She nods again.
‘Join the club,’ Teddy says. ‘I figured we’d be living it up in fancy spa baths, watching alehouse dancers and sculling champagne out of honey-melons. Dunno about you lot, but I’m not seeing a lot of melons around here.’
‘Just leaves,’ Lukas says.
Teddy brightens. ‘Hey Danika, maybe you could whip up some of that leaf tea. Good way to fend off hunger.’
‘I thought you hated my tea,’ I say.
‘Yeah, exactly,’ he says. ‘Nausea’s great for keeping your appetite down.’
I toss a fistful of leaves at his face. Teddy swats them away with a grin. Then his expression grows serious, and he turns to Maisy. ‘Hey, have you ever heard of these firestone things?’
‘Yes, I think so. But …’
‘What?’
Maisy waves a dismissive hand. ‘My books said they’re just a superstition, like most of the rumours and legends from the Dark Ages.’
‘Well, Bastian doesn’t seem to reckon they’re a superstition,’ Teddy says. ‘I mean, if it’s his job to harvest ’em and all.’
‘What are they?’ I say.
Maisy hesitates. ‘They grow in the earth, like crystals. And even once they’re harvested, they must be stored in the dirt – buried again like seeds – to retain their power. They draw their magic from the earth itself.’
‘Magic?’
‘Well, they’re supposedly a sort of … conduit,’ Maisy says. ‘Like a radio frequency. A conduit for magic.’
I stare at her. A conduit for magic? I try to imagine a scattering of stones, with signals bouncing between them like radio waves. An alchemical blast, leaping from stone to stone, beaming its power into the dark.
‘Are you sure?’ I say.
‘No,’ Maisy says. ‘I’m just telling you what the stories say.’
Lukas frowns and glances skywards, ensuring that Bastian is out of earshot. ‘My father was obsessed with this land,’ he says. ‘Even mentioning it was enough to make his blood boil – he wouldn’t even tell me its name!’
‘That’s why Quirin wouldn’t let his smugglers cross the Valley, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘Because King Morrigan had such a strange fixation on this place, and Quirin didn’t want to get the king offside.’
Lukas nods. ‘I just wish I knew why.’ He gestures at the trees, visibly frustrated. ‘I mean, it doesn’t look special, does it? I don’t see what could cause such an obsession. Maybe the firestones are real.’
‘I reckon this Farran bloke’s got something to do with it,’ Teddy says. ‘Maybe King Morrigan’s got a grudge going on.’ He turns to Lukas. ‘Hey, do kings and lords ever get together for parties? Maybe this Farran bloke cheated at marbles, or spa
t in your dad’s soup or something.’
Lukas snorts. ‘Not when their nations are enemies, no.’
‘Damn,’ Teddy says.
Following Bastian’s lead, we emerge from the woodland into a field of massive boulders. They remind me a little of the Marbles back home – a landscape as lumpy as boiled potatoes. But here, flares of steam blast up in the distance and the rocks sting hotter than cooking pots.
A heavy smell hangs in the air, like rotten eggs, or restaurant bins in summer. Each whiff brings a wave of memories. Huddling in alleyways. The flies and the stench. The clattering of doors as kitchen hands dumped rotting lettuce and old chunks of meat …
Clementine pinches her nostrils shut. ‘What in the name of Taladia is that?’
Teddy takes a deep sniff. ‘Smells like home, I reckon.’
‘Maybe in the part of town where you grew up,’ Clementine says, ‘but I’ve never smelt anything so awful in all my life.’
‘I think it’s sulphur,’ Maisy says. ‘My books said it smelled like rotting eggs. And those must be geysers.’ She points towards the blasts of steam. ‘We’d better stay away from them. If a blast comes up under out feet, then …’
She trails off, looking nervous.
‘Good idea,’ Teddy says. ‘I mean, I know I look dashing in red, but I don’t fancy life as a pot-boiled lobster.’
The stench thickens as we trek deeper into the boulder field. But with time my nostrils adjust, and even Clementine stops pinching her nose.
‘Ah,’ Teddy says, with a deep sniff. ‘Home sweet home. Told you you’d recognise it.’
Clementine scowls. ‘I need my hands to balance, Nort.’
‘Sure you do. And you need your nose to savour this subtle bouquet of –’
‘Nostril abuse?’
‘I was gonna say “good old-fashioned Rourton charm” – but hey, whatever floats your boat.’
The nearest geyser rumbles. It’s a deep sound, a guttural roar that rises through the stones and gurgles up through the soles of my feet. It almost tickles: not just a sound, but a physical spasm.
Skyfire Page 4
