The Fire Thief

by Erin St Pierre

  This could have been Teagarta. Only a Teagarta inhabited by fae, not humans. Was nowhere safe? Was there no sanctuary on Zathryth that hadn’t been polluted by Pyreack?

  Her cheeks burned. Humans were not the only ones to suffer at the hands of Pyreack. How many fae—how many innocents—had dwelled in this town? How many bones hid among the weeds?

  She glanced at Averin as if he had the answers. His lips were tight, and his star-filled eyes hard. The hand he rested on his dagger was clenched. Bone-white. His other hand twitched with magic. A sharp, icy breeze billowed around them, flooding her with the reek of ashes and decaying leaves. She guessed he did it to keep their scent from any hungry faeries squatting in the ruins. Like the manticore.

  The fae who’d once lived here, who had kept her world free of monsters like the Tiyanak and manticore, had done nothing to harm her, Tarik, or Klaus. These creatures—these people—were innocent. Even Suren, a Pyreack fae, had been as kind as his circumstances had allowed. And now here was Averin, son of Zephyr, whatever that meant, allowing her to burn him while she cried in his arms.

  Perhaps her hatred for fae wasn’t as black and white as she’d believed.

  Her fight was with King Darien. He commanded fae like Radomir and Suren. It was King Darien who’d hurt everyone, regardless of who and what they were. A reign of death and fire. No one and nothing escaped unharmed from King Darien’s evil touch. And he wanted to use her as a weapon.

  She would die before she let that happen.

  A new scent hit her. Piss and blood.

  Averin drew his sword and pulled a throwing knife from his baldric. More steel rasped as Trystaen and Eliezar pulled their swords free. The three fae males slowed their pace, closing in around her.

  Averin’s wind whistled to a stop, and the world fell unnervingly silent.

  Her breath shallowed. Tired and shaking with hunger, she wished she had a weapon.

  She had fire.

  She flexed her fingers, feeling the familiar burn, and then frowned. Why had Averin stilled his breeze? Surely now was the time for him and Eliezar to be throwing gales around, not knives. With Trystaen’s green eyes, she suspected he wasn’t a Zephyr fae, but he had to have magic that would help in a battle.

  Steel on stone shrieked behind them.

  Her fae companions spun almost too fast for her to see. Averin shoved her behind him. A hiss seeped from his clenched teeth.

  A thing, easily eight feet tall, perched on a boulder ahead of them. Beneath a hooked, bird-like beak, its humanoid mouth spread in a wolfish smile of jagged teeth. They looked powerful enough to crush bone. Feathers plumed down its hunched back. Monstrous wings, each easily the size of a horse, curled around its leathery chest. Even more horrific-looking than the Tiyanak, it rasped its steely claws against the stone. Like it was sharpening them. They left thick, deep gouges in the rock.

  She gulped.

  The creature purred and swished its long tail. At the tip, pincers, the length of Stasha’s leg, snapped.

  “Brothers,” it rasped, scraping its claws on the stone for a third time. “We eat well tonight.”

  “Yes-s-s,” something behind her hissed. “What luck we have.”

  She spun.

  Another two monsters bounded across the undergrowth toward her, boxing her and the fae males in, herding them like sheep.

  Averin moved. Silver flashed, and a throwing knife imbedded in one of the approaching creature’s chest.

  Before it had finished shrieking, he had another throwing knife in his hand. A flick of his wrist, and the knife sank into the creature’s eye. The monster tumbled face-first into the shrubbery.

  Eliezar swiped its head off with his sword.

  Pincers snapping, the other one took flight, sending a rush of air beating at her. His brother on the rock flapped his wings and screamed a shrill, deafening cry.

  She remembered her magic. Hands up, she pointed one at the creature on the rock and the other at the one bearing down on her. She willed shafts of fire to burn the foul things to a crisp.

  Averin grabbed her arm and shoved her to the ground, into the dust. “They’re shielded against magic. Only blades work,” he snapped as yet another beast swooped down from a nearby tree. Its steel claws sailed just an inch above Averin’s head before it landed. Trystaen’s sword crashed onto its pincers.

  She strained to sit up, but Averin shoved her down again. “Don’t move!” He thrust a dagger into her hands. “Use it if you have to.” He let fly another throwing knife at the creature closest to them.

  The monster swatted the blade out of the way, snarling.

  Averin lunged at it with his sword leading.

  A shriek to her right pulled her attention away from Averin. The leader perched on the boulder had her in its sights.

  Before it could land on her, she jumped up to lunge at it with her dagger. Its claws lashed out and nicked her arm. The force spun her to the ground. Pain shot through her spine, making her gasp. It morphed into a wail as the creature crashed on top of her. Its beak drilled down toward her neck.

  She dodged and rammed her dagger straight into its stomach.

  Leathery, hard, and unyielding, its skin fought the dagger tip.

  She drew on her last reserves and shoved with all her strength. The dagger slid through its hide and sank hilt deep into the creature’s belly. Sticky blood splattered her already filthy dress.

  Head tossing, the bellowing creature dragged its claws through the dirt before swiping at her again.

  A blade flashed.

  She blinked. When she opened her eyes, the creature’s head lay on the ground next to her. More blood pumped on her from its severed neck. She scrambled out from between the monster’s legs just as its headless body hit the ground. She lay on her back, gasping.

  Silhouetted against the moonlight, their bloody weapons glinting, Averin, Eliezar, and Trystaen encircled her. Severed heads and mangled bodies littered the ground at their feet. Tails twitched, pincers opened and closed erratically.

  “Sorry to cut short your fun, pit princess.” Averin held out his hand to help her up. “But the only way to kill a manticore is to chop its head off. Leave the bastards, and they heal and come back angrier.”

  She coughed, trying to force a steady breath as she took his hand. He hauled her to her feet. Concerned eyes trailed the length of her blood-stained dress. “Any of that yours?”

  She shook her head. “No. Just a scratch on my arm.” She looked at her bicep. The gouge was more than a scratch.

  Averin touched her arm with gentle fingers. “Not even the best healer can fix a manticore cut. I’m afraid your body will have to do this without magical help. But it does need cleaning.”

  Wordlessly, Eliezar dug into his knapsack and pulled out a tincture bottle. Averin took it and unscrewed the cap. He steadied the bottle over her wound. “This may sting a little.”

  She ground her teeth together. “Just do it.” She still wore the manacle that had rubbed her wrist raw. That ached along with the cut.

  Averin’s fingers brushed the manacle. “That we’ll sort out at the inn.” He studied her as he drizzled tincture, drop by drop, into the cut. She hissed in pain. Another couple of drops, and the pain lessened until it was no more than a tickle, and the wound ran clean. He inspected her arm and grunted his satisfaction. “It looks good. It’ll heal cleanly.” Next, Averin offered her his waterskin. She grabbed it and gulped down mouthful after mouthful. Water spilled down her chin, but she ignored it. Finally, she pulled the skin away and burped.

  Averin’s head bobbed, and his eyebrows rose around a half smile.

  “We need to move.” Eliezar, the one who never smiled, tossed her the dagger she’d thrust into the manticore’s belly. Given how taciturn he was, she was grateful he’d cleaned it first. “The blood will attract other predators,” he added. “And if Pyreack are nearby, they’ll scent it too. We need to get to the inn and clean up.”

  Clean up? Really? She was t
he only one covered in blood. The other three seemed to have made their kills without even breaking a sweat, let alone ending up ragged and bloody. Only their boots were stained from the red-purple puddles spreading out around them. It was humbling, and she shivered at yet another confirmation that Averin had let her whip his butt in the fighting pit.

  Averin shrugged his thick cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it around her. It was much too big, and the hem trailed in the blood, but his warmth still clung to it. She murmured a thank-you.

  A distant howl made her shoulders sag. Not another fight tonight, please.

  Averin’s head snapped up. “Let’s go.” He took the lead this time. Trystaen and Eliezar fell behind with her in the middle. None of them had sheathed their weapons.

  The animal howled again, closer this time. How many more monsters would come here tonight to feast?

  She glanced at the ruined town one last time, trying to imagine what it had been like before darkness had swallowed the world.

  There’d have been pointy-eared children playing games of magic and laughter in the streets. Adults selling sweet-smelling flowers or prettily made pastries. They’d be dressed in bright colors, not the drab, shapeless gray she’d grown up wearing.

  Carriages—without the crest of the two-faced god, almost as bad as the Pyreack firebird—would have clattered down cobbled roads. Traveling musicians might have played jolly tunes on fiddles or flutes. There would have been color everywhere, coats of it decking the rows of townhouses and shops. Polished windows would have displayed beautiful boots for girls like her to admire and buy. Red ribbons would represent life—hope—and not objects to be burned. Just as no one would want to burn fae or humans. This could have been such a happy place.

  But now … now, it was only lost dreams, and weeds, and blood seeping into the stones from dead monsters. Was that all that was left of the world?

  There had to be something more. Some hope for a better world for everyone, just as Tarik had believed. Somewhere out there, it had to exist. And she was going to find it.

  Stasha and the three fae males only rented one room at the inn. Dark and dank, it couldn’t have been worth more than a handful of irons, but Averin paid for it with another of his stupid silver coins. She guessed the difference was meant to buy the surly fae innkeeper’s discretion.

  A single oil lamp lit the blotched wooden walls, damp from years of wear and rain. A quick investigation revealed no bathing alcove, and the landlord didn’t offer to supply a bucket of water for washing. She itched from clothes stiff with dried manticore blood.

  Two small cots, dressed in worn, raisin-colored quilts and each with a single pillow with no casing, sagged in the center of the room. She sank onto one of them. The thin mattress groaned beneath her weight. How she missed her own pallet at the orphanage. It was likely still buried under rubble, if it hadn’t been burned to nothing.

  None of her companions moved to the second bed. Averin and Trystaen searched the room, while Eliezar crouched beside her. He held out a handful of the dried fruit and nuts all fae seemed to thrive on. As she took his offering, she remembered that he’d cut Klaus’s bonds and saved him from the execution pyre.

  “Thank you,” she wheezed, before devouring a handful of food. A thousand flavors, all delicious, exploded in her mouth as she chewed. Almost instantly, energy surged through her. No wonder they all munched this stuff like it was the finest, lightest pastry.

  Eliezar put the pouch of nuts and fruit on her lap. His gaze dropped to her wrist. He dug in his knapsack and pulled out a thin, needle-like tweezer. Delicately, he slipped it into the lock and twisted. The lock clicked, and the manacle snapped open. He chucked it into his knapsack and picked up her wrist. His pale-blue eyes inspected the wound. “Not worth calling on a healer.” He glanced up at Trystaen. “But you may have a little scarring from the wear.”

  Trystaen nodded. “You’ll be fine.”

  She expected Eliezar to move away, but he remained crouched at her side.

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” he murmured. Her eyes met his. The brutally beautiful planes of his face softened, offsetting his quiet, wolfish gaze.

  “We’ve all lost someone we love to Angharad. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.” He stood, crossed the room, and leaned against the door.

  Averin turned to her. “We can stay here for a few hours, but we need to be up before dawn if we’re going to make it out undetected by Pyreack.”

  “And go where?” Even charged with fae-snack energy, her voice was hoarse and sore, and her eyes smarted from exhaustion.

  Averin tucked one hand under his bicep and clasped his shoulder with the other. The movement seemed cautious. Careful. Like he’d been on the night of the earthquake. Was he scared he’d spook her?

  “I’m not going to panic and run again,” she snapped. “And honestly, what did you expect me to do after being cornered by a fae in the middle of the forest?” The word fae came out with more venom than she’d intended.

  If it affected him, he didn’t let it show.

  He sat on the edge of the second bed. Trystaen stood sentry at the window, and Eliezar hadn’t moved from the door. Did they really perceive a threat, or did they simply want to avoid intruding on this conversation? Or maybe they only sought to give her a little privacy in her grief.

  “We’ll go back to Zephyr,” Averin finally said. “My family can protect you.”

  She sat up and scoffed. Did he really see that as a solution? And how would her cowering in Zephyr free Klaus? Still, she wanted to know who Averin was. “Who’s your family?”

  Averin’s lips tightened briefly. Then he said, “My family rules the Kingdom of Zephyr. My older brother, Rican, is crown prince.”

  That made his parents king and queen of Zephyr. Enemies of Pyreack, where her supposed heritage lay. And the fae sitting before her … a prince.

  She grabbed the pillow and stuck it on her lap, chuckling edgily. “And you think the king and queen of Zephyr are going to help someone with fire magic?” Not to mention the extensive power she was supposed to have. If it were enough for the king of Pyreack to demand her as a weapon, what was to stop Averin’s royal house from doing the same?

  She laughed louder. There was no humor in the sound. “I’d likely be skinned alive. Or used as a weapon or bargaining chip and given over to Pyreack anyway. That’s probably what you’re already planning.”

  Averin shook his head. “Zephyr isn’t like Pyreack.”

  All the stories the Kňazer and Martka had ever told about fae came flooding back. How they plundered and murdered. How they cared nothing for human lives, or any lives other than their own. How they enslaved, brutalized, and murdered for sport.

  She’d seen firsthand what they’d done to her village and to Teagarta. To the ruined fae town in the woods. To Tarik and Klaus. Lenka and Martka Alyona, and countless other lives.

  What Radomir had done to the Tiyanak told her most about how fae treated the faeries they deemed lesser than themselves. Whether those fairies were a threat or harmless innocents, she didn’t believe it would make a difference.

  Not a single shred of her believed that Zephyr would be any different than Pyreack. Therefore, Averin’s only possible motive for helping her was to use her as a bargaining chip against Pyreack or a weapon for Zephyr to bring their war to a new level of destruction, thus ending more innocent lives—both human and fae, who had no way of defending themselves.

  A weapon and a bargaining chip.

  Two could play this game.

  She tossed the pillow aside. “I’m not going to Zephyr with you.” Her voice broke, but not with grief. With conviction. “I’m going to get Klaus.”

  Trystaen and Eliezar shifted. Both turned pitying eyes on her.

  Averin’s lips parted slightly, something like exasperation flashing across his perfect face. It was gone so quickly that she almost doubted she’d seen it. “Getting into Angharad prison is easy. Getting out, impossible.” He spok
e with equal conviction. His eyes dulled, perhaps at some memory she didn’t care to enquire about. That was also gone in a blink.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin. Defiant. Angry. Just another fighting pit. Even if he’d let her win last time. “I don’t care what you say. I’m going to get him.”

  Averin leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I understand. Honestly, I do.” His hands danced for emphasis. “But no one has ever successfully broken out of Angharad. Ever. Everyone who has ever come close has been killed.”

  She ground her teeth together, glaring at him. “Seems like a pretty good way to die then.”

  Averin’s hard face yielded nothing as he studied her. “Stasha—”

  She slammed her hand down onto her knee. “I will not abandon Klaus to die in that camp. And I will not be going to Zephyr with you either.”

  Averin’s lips thinned. “If Pyreack doesn’t capture you first, the rebels will. And they weren’t exactly keen to sit and chat with you earlier tonight, were they?”

  The archer and the hunters. Rebels.

  “Who are the rebels?” Her fingers tightened on the dirty, warn sheets. Would he answer? Or would he fob her off the way Suren had?

  “Fighters,” Averin said. “From Zephyr, Atria, and Ocea. They even have a few defectors from Pyreack. They patrol the borders of Atria and Ocea. They’re good at picking off Pyreack soldiers one by one. But where one is killed, three more take his place. It’s not a fight they can win. And going to Angharad is not a fight you can win either.”

  She stuck her nose in the air and ran her gaze from his head to his well-crafted fae boots, making sure to look singularly unimpressed. “It’s as you said: I like an underdog.”