The Faithless Hawk

by Margaret Owen

The skin-ghast shriveled with a rancid crackle as golden fire ate it whole. Fie pushed the tooth harder, the fire farther, and it swelled beyond Wretch and Bawd, driving back some ghasts and devouring others.

  “Flashburn,” Fie ordered, and Madcap set the half-empty jug by her feet. “Get them clear—”

  Varlet and Madcap darted to Wretch and Bawd and half dragged them to the relative safety of the well. Fie tore a strip of her cloak off and stuffed it down the jug’s neck. Golden fire snagged on the rag’s end, crawling up the crowsilk.

  Fie ran a few awkward paces toward the ghasts swelling to the east, then hurled the jug as hard as she could. She didn’t see it land, but she certainly heard the shatter and the crack like thunder that followed. A billow of fire tore a hole through the skin-ghasts before her, burning white as it raced along the spill lines and chewed through empty skin.

  Even better, droplets had splashed onto the walls of the nearest home, sending fingers of flame prying at the eaves. Fie doubted it would be enough to set the whole town ablaze, but at least some of those sparks would find tinder there.

  She pushed the ghasts back with another flare of Phoenix-gold fire and retreated to the well, where she found Jade kneeling over Ruffian’s body. Most of the other two bands seemed to have made it back as well, and from the grim looks on their faces, they didn’t expect the missing to return anytime soon.

  Jade’s eyes glistened as she looked up from Ruffian, but she pushed herself to her feet, drawing her own broken blade. “How long will the fire tooth last?”

  “Maybe a minute like this.” Fie whipped about to take stock of the ghasts closing in. “It’ll burn out faster the more fire I call.”

  “Then here.” Jade passed her an open jug of flashburn and pointed at the ghasts piling up between them and the gate. “Last we have. Use that trick again and clear the way out.”

  Fie tore another strip from her cloak and shoved it into the spout. From its weight, the jug was nigh full, more than enough to blow a hole through the skin-ghasts. “Fall back!” she called to the Crows, then hauled the jug back and took one swift step, a second, swung her arm—

  —and crashed to the dust as something caught her by the feet. The flashburn jug landed, unlit and unbroken, in a soft cushion of shifting, gray-mottled skin. It rolled to a rest at the base of the gate.

  Whatever had caught Fie dragged her backward. She wrenched about and found the strips of skin-ghast she’d dumped into the well had plaited themselves into something crawling and dreadful that lashed like a serpent round her ankles. Now it towed her through the dust, toward the well, and Fie kenned exactly what awaited her there.

  Jade kenned it, too, for the other chief hacked through the plait of skin in one swift blow. It recoiled, then lashed around Jade’s wrist instead, her broken sword clattering to the dirt.

  Fie called on the Phoenix tooth again, trying not to panic as its spark burned lower. Fire seared through the twists of skin-ghast at her ankles and Jade’s arm. The older woman yelped as the rags around her hand caught ablaze, but she shook them off with the charred bits of skin-ghast.

  Fie rolled to her feet, fighting to catch her breath in air filthy with smoke and dust and plague-stink. Sparks had traveled in the east, a scattering of little fires licking the sky from thatch roofs, but the west and north remained unlit. Worse, the ghasts were crowding in on all sides. Her last tooth couldn’t hold them back much longer.

  The gate itself lurched but caught on skin-ghasts weaving themselves through the bars to hold it fast. No doubt Lakima had heard the screams, but so long as the ghasts blocked the way, no help would come from that quarter.

  Fie took a deep breath and scraped together the last bit of Phoenix spark left, fire-song echoing in her own bones, too familiar now. Bits and bobs of the dead Phoenix’s life slipped by: a grand duke, the spare to the heir. He had always believed the throne belonged to him; he had seethed when his aunt’s daughter was sent to the throne, and then he had found himself sent, repeatedly and pointedly, on diplomatic missions to their neighbors across the pirate-infested Sea of Beasts … until he promised to stop trying to poison the new queen.

  His was the fire of self-righteous ambition, and as Fie summoned every last ounce of its ghost, she could swear she heard the grand duke whisper, Hello, cousin.

  The song hitched in her bones a beat, but she forced it back into tune. They were running out of time, and she had none to spare for the follies of some useless ghost.

  Golden fire bloomed from the tooth in her fist, and Fie sent it roaring toward the gate. All she had to do was catch that fallen flashburn jug, catch that rag.

  But ghast after ghast piled themselves over the jug, forming a wall of skin between the flame and the shuddering gate.

  Fie pushed harder, her own bones humming, singing, screaming as she poured herself into the song of fire, the dying spark, the last scrap of Phoenix gold carving through slick, hollow hide. More, she demanded, farther, she had to break through, had to get them out—

  Goodbye, cousin, the dead Phoenix whispered.

  And the fire of her final royal tooth sputtered out.

  It was a curious thing: she stood in a black cloak under a blazing sun, sweat rolling down her spine, and yet all Fie felt was the sudden, deadly cold.

  A hush fell over the commons as the three bands looked to her and found her empty-handed. The gate rattled fruitlessly against the knot of ghasts.

  Every soul left in Karostei knew that even if the Hawks made it through the gate, it would be too late.

  Fie turned to Jade. The older chief swallowed, then hefted her half sword, jaw set.

  Then her brow furrowed, staring at something beyond Fie.

  Fie looked back to the gate and saw a miracle: smoke.

  For a moment, she thought she’d managed it, that the rag had caught after all, and she backed toward the well. But the smoke was rising from the other side of the gate.

  Lines of gold lit up along the cracks between the gate’s boards. Then something flickered near the base—the flashburn rag snared a spark—

  “Get down!” Fie shouted, and threw herself to the ground.

  They came so fast, she could scarce tell one from the other: a whistle. A booming crash. An eruption of white and gold.

  When she stumbled to her feet, chips of burning ceramic were bouncing off the commons, raining down through wisps of charred skin floating on the breeze. The rest of the Crows seemed to be stunned but unhurt, dust cascading off their black robes as they picked themselves up. Naught was left of the gate and its ghast blockade but burning wood and grease stains in the dirt.

  “FIE!”

  Through the smoking wreckage strode the last person Fie expected to see, his face full of fury and fear as he took in the commons. Golden fire still rolled off his fingertips.

  Fie had thought quite a bit about what she would say the next time she saw Taverin sza Markahn. She liked to think it would be something pithy and full of swagger, to hint that she’d missed him but not too much. A teensy, wretched part of her thought she might like something poetic and fanciful, with grand declarations involving souls and hearts and destinies intertwined. Fie usually told herself she wouldn’t like that at all. At least … not unless he said it first.

  But instead of something sly or honey-tongued, Fie found herself just looking to Tavin’s still-burning hands and croaking, “I forgot you could do that.”

  His harrowed gaze landed on her, and that secretly starry-eyed part of her was content, because the look on his face was better than any love song.

  Wretch cleared her throat. “You’ve an audience, chief. And I don’t mean us.”

  Little was left of the ghasts at the gate, but scores stood yet. They’d stopped their uneven swaying and gone stock-still, every empty eyehole locked on Tavin.

  He raised a burning hand, and his voice carried across the commons. “Enough, Rhusana. You can drag it out as long as you want, but we all know it’s over.”

 
The skin-ghasts gaped at him a long moment, and Fie was sore sure she wasn’t the only one holding her breath. Then, in one swift ripple, every last ghast collapsed, leaving heaps of empty, rotting skin all about the commons.

  It still took a heartbeat or two for any of the Crows to budge, eyeing those heaps with a skepticism Fie shared. “We should clear out before they change their minds,” Jade called across the square, and tilted her brow at Tavin. “Can your friend there light the town for us?”

  “It all has to burn, else plague’ll spread to the fields and farther,” Fie added at Tavin’s quizzical blink. “But the firewood’s all scattered, and we used our flashburn on the ghasts, so we need more than flint now.”

  Wretch muttered something to Jade. The older chief coughed. “You could walk him about town so he stays clear of the plague-dead. I’ll see to the wounded.”

  Tavin nodded, eyes never leaving Fie, and said, “Yes, chief.”

  The rest of the Crows hurried through the gates, Madcap spitefully kicking a skin-pile on their way out. Ruffian’s body had been claimed by his own Crows, along with the handful of Crows who had fallen; they wouldn’t leave any of their own to burn with the sinners.

  “It’s … good to see you,” Tavin said, with a strain Fie would have found uncharacteristic were they not standing in a sea of corpses. Bawd made a lewd gesture as she limped past, leaning on Varlet.

  “Good to see you, too,” Fie returned, as stiff as a rusted hinge, a door closed a little too long and sticking on the jamb.

  He reached for her. She flinched back. “No—wait—”

  Tavin stepped away hastily, tensing. “Sorry—I just—I thought—”

  “Plague,” Fie blurted out. “It’s the plague, it’s not—you. I need to wash up before we … do … anything.”

  He tilted his head, then unfurled a slow grin. “Anything?” he echoed.

  Fie briefly contemplated revising her stance on spreading the plague. “Anything,” she repeated, stern, and waved at the remains atop the unlit pyre nearby. “I have standards. It’ll take more than a moon apart for me to roll a lad in a pile of guts. Besides, you’d be dead in a week.”

  Tavin gave an exaggerated sigh. “Worth it. It’s been a long moon.”

  And just like that, the rust was flaking away. Fie let her own smile creep out, let the door creak open the slightest bit. “It’ll only get longer if we don’t finish this town off. Come on.” She started down a lane to the east, where fire had already begun spreading. “How’d you even find me?”

  Tavin jogged to catch up. “When we heard the king supposedly died of the plague, we knew Rhusana was targeting you. Mother agreed to let me bring you and your band to the procession for safety.”

  “And you and Draga knew I’d be in Karostei how?”

  Tavin pursed his lips and swiped a hand at the sky. An arc of flame leapt from one roof to the next, then swept down the rest of the lane. “I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize in advance.”

  “I don’t fancy where this is going.”

  “You know how skinwitches use belongings to track down the owners? Turns out they can also use people to find belongings.” Tavin passed Fie something leathery and scorched. “Like my baby tooth.”

  “My tooth bag!” Fie tore it open. Her belly sank when she found only charred leather inside. “A damned rat of a chief stole it just this morning. Did you take it off him?”

  A shade darted through Tavin’s face, and he strode to the next street. “We found it at the roadside. Then Viimo used the trail from the bag itself to lead to you—”

  “Viimo?” Fie hissed. The last she’d seen the skinwitch was in the dungeons of Trikovoi, and Fie had been more than happy to let her rot there. “You brought her?”

  “You can’t be mad, I apologized in advance,” Tavin said.

  Fie scowled and crossed her arms. “That’s not how it works and you know it.”

  “In my defense, I was in a hurry.” He made a face as a puddle of empty skin caught fire with a crackle. “And with good reason. Though I didn’t think Rhusana would throw this much effort into killing you just to spite Jas.”

  Fie reckoned the queen would put square that much effort, if not more, into it, if she knew all Little Witness had told her. But the thought of telling Tavin that, even after all they’d given up for it, the oath still wasn’t kept, made Fie want to find a whole new town to burn to the ground.

  Oh aye, and what’s your plan? a stern part of her chided. Don’t you think he’d want to know what you’re bound to now?

  That was sore true, but the funny thing was, Fie reckoned she wanted him not to know, and that took priority.

  Instead, she asked, “How is Jas holding up?”

  Tavin’s shoulders fell. “He’s been better. It was worse when Aunt Jasindra died, but I think … he wanted to give his father a way out.”

  “Aye.” Fie remembered it too keen, crouching by the fire, saying to the prince, You wanted to save him.

  I still do, Jasimir had said, if he’s someone I can save.

  She was not sorry the king was dead, and she supposed they’d all known there was no saving him any more than she could have saved Karostei. Still, as she watched Tavin send fire rushing along the walls of one more house, she was sorry for Jasimir, and for the death of the hope that there was aught left of the king to save.

  * * *

  They left the walls of Karostei once every house was ablaze, and not a moment too soon, as she’d grown a bit too appreciative of the way the heat made Tavin’s shirt cling to his back.

  Lakima and Khoda had posted themselves as close to the gates as was wise, and Fie caught the corporal letting out a relieved breath once she and Tavin emerged.

  Fie threw Lakima an exhausted grin. “Don’t fool with me. We both know if I’d met my end in there, you lot would be sent to sunnier posts.”

  Usually, Corporal Lakima either ignored Fie’s jests or answered them with a bland “Yes, chief.” This time her jaw tightened, as did her grip on her spear.

  “I promised your father I would keep you safe” was all she said.

  Jade waited for them only a few dozen paces down the road, working through injured Crows with a Hawk’s tooth. Their ranks had thinned, but considering the trap the queen had somehow laid, it could have been much worse. Still, she counted five shrouded bodies laid out in the dust. Five too many.

  Jade finished straightening out a sprain and stood with a wince as Fie walked over. “So that—those—those skins, the queen’s behind them, aye?”

  “Aye,” Fie rasped.

  “You ever see one come off anything still breathing?”

  Tavin and Fie traded looks. “No, chief,” Tavin said.

  Jade stared at the fields, grim. “Then we just found out why she’s telling towns to handle their own plague-dead, didn’t we? Make her a whole proper army of puppets.”

  Fie hadn’t had the time to do that grotesque math, but the weight of its sum hit home. The ghasts could be sliced to ribbons, crushed under stone, even sunk to the bottom of a well, and they’d still never stop. Only fire could hold them off—and without Fie’s Phoenix teeth, there was only one witch in the whole of Sabor who could command fire outside the royal palace.

  The boy standing at her side.

  “Normally, when a chief passes, we let their band choose who they’ll join up with.” Jade planted her hands on her hips. “But it seems the queen’s got a shine for you. And it’s no fault of your own, but it doesn’t seem like she’ll spare us while she’s shaking the country down for you. So I’ll take Ruffian’s band to Gen-Mara’s shrine, and we’ll see who starves first: us or this storm.”

  Fie nodded, guilt drowning even the glow of crossing paths with her Hawk again. “My band’s not two days off from safe harbor. You can take our spare cart, and we’ll split our rations. If this keeps up, that shrine could get crowded.”

  “Excuse me,” someone said from the roadside.

  The Crows pa
rted and found a woman there in a stained Sparrow patchwork apron, holding an old iron kettle. It was filled to the brim with teeth.

  “I’m the headwoman now,” she said. “Long as the lord lets me keep the name. So I’m here to pay viatik. This is all the teeth we have.”

  Fie swallowed. She’d never seen so many teeth at once outside a shrine’s stores. Even when teeth were all a family could pay, they rarely gave up the entire store, keeping some back for another stroke of ill fortune.

  It didn’t feel like payment. It felt like tribute.

  “Khoda, help the lady,” she said slowly.

  Khoda took the kettle from her, brows rising at the weight. The new headwoman clenched her empty fists in her apron. “What do we do now?”

  “Let it burn to ash,” Jade said. “All of it. With this many survivors, you’ve decent odds someone smuggled out something plague-touched, so keep a sharp eye for the Sinner’s Brand. If you see it, carry the sinner into the ashes and light your beacon. We come when we’re called.”

  “Isn’t there anything we can save?” The headwoman’s voice shook. Fie noticed the red rims of her eyes and couldn’t help but wonder who of her family had burned.

  Fie’s voice came out kinder than it had when dealing with the Crane arbiter. “It’s not like spotty apples, cousin. The plague rots it whole. Can’t just cut parts away when the whole thing’s gone bad.” The headwoman nodded, eyes glistening. “I’d start rebuilding on the other side of your fields, if not farther. It won’t be safe here until it grows green, and that won’t come for years.”

  The headwoman bowed her head. Then she did the unexpected: she raised the first two fingers of her right hand and touched them to her brow.

  The fields went still as, citizen by citizen, the people of Karostei followed suit: heads bent, two fingertips pressed to the middle of their foreheads.

  The hair on Fie’s arms stood straight up, prickling against her stiffening rags.

  She’d seen this in old tooth ghosts, in fleeting memories of war heroes riding by, of healers who wrought the impossible to heal scores of wounded in a breath, of Pigeon witches tilting fortune to avert floods or save harvests. It was an old gesture, living now mostly in corners of Sabor that kept those old ways, and it was meant as a blessing. An acknowledgment of great deeds. A sign of gratitude.