The Fire Thief

by Erin St Pierre

  Lukas took off through the boulders until he reached the narrow road. He opened a can and poured pig’s blood over the sand. He tossed the can over the boulders and dropped onto the blood, lying there as if he’d been clubbed.

  Stasha hunched in the limited shade cast by the boulders. Sweat trickled uncomfortably down her temples, her spine, and between her breasts. She wiped her brow with the foul-smelling cloak and tried to slow her rapid breathing before she hyperventilated. The heat was going to kill her before she even reached the portcullis. Where was that damn prison wagon?

  Finally, the rattle and squeal of wheels in desperate need of oiling reached her.

  Her head shot up.

  “This is it,” Boa whispered. “You all know what to do.”

  Stasha held her breath as the prison wagon rounded the track and entered the passage between the dunes and rocks.

  It was huge. The box behind the horses was far bigger than even the Kňazer’s fancy carriage. As expected, the door was bolted shut. A crisscross of schorl bars revealed little of the dark interior, but from the pressure in her head and the nausea rising in her stomach, she guessed it wasn’t the only schorl in the box.

  The driver jerked on the reins and pulled the wagon to a stop; he must have seen Lukas lying in the middle of the track. The four black horses pulling the wagon bucked their heads and nickered impatiently. One nipped its companion’s neck. The horse kicked out, snorting angrily.

  “Aye!” The driver brought a thin whip down on their rumps. The pair danced in their shafts but didn’t bolt. He spoke to the fae sitting next to him on the bench. “There’s a body in the way. Go move it.”

  The soldier stood and peered at Lukas. “He’s wearing a Pyreack cloak. Bloody rebels. Do you think they got the last wagon?” He unsheathed his sword.

  “Must have done.” The driver’s eyes darted around nervously. “Hurry up and shift him. This could be another ambush.”

  Childlike weeping spilled from the box at the back of the wagon.

  Stasha flicked the trigger on her hidden blade, and it shot free, as if it also wanted to punish these monsters for imprisoning children.

  Face taut, the soldier stood and pulled out his sword. He jumped to the sand and looked around before loping to Lukas. His boot shot out and caught Lukas in the side. Lukas lay as still as any corpse.

  “Go. Now.” Averin shoved her forward.

  With feline stealth, she and her companions crept through the stone, keeping low until they were mere yards from the wagon.

  Averin’s hand flicked. A throwing knife whistled through the air and embedded into the heart of the soldier standing over Lukas. Soundlessly, the fae crumpled to the sand.

  The driver yelled and raised his hands to flick the reins, but before the horses reacted to the command, an arrow wedged in his chest. Frea.

  The driver grunted and tumbled off his bench. Startled, the four horses bucked. Boa and Trystaen grabbed their reins and steadied them.

  Just as Averin and Boa had said, no more guards appeared to take up the defense. Robbed of all opportunity to use her blade by the warrior fae, she ran to the door at the back of the wagon. The box thrummed with what she assumed were prisoners’ beating fists. Children wailed. She rattled the lock and was about to yell to Averin to find the key when he skidded around with it in his hand.

  Boa trailed him. She shouted, “Frea, Lukas. Wash the blood off the bench.”

  Averin shoved the key into the lock. Worn with use, it turned easily. He flung the door wide.

  Bright light flooded the crowded darkness. At least fifty brown-eyed fae, both male and female of all ages, were manacled together in the box—a box made repellent not just by the schorl panels cladding one wall. Urine, feces, and blood sloshed on the floor. She gagged, eyes watering stench.

  In the doorway, three children—two girls and a boy—hunched next to each other. They were joined by manacles at the wrist. The source of the weeping, they looked like siblings. Stasha’s practiced eyes recognized what they were—orphans. Little fae ears peeked through hair matted with dried blood. Their little bodies bore bloody streak marks—whippings already healed. How many more could they endure before they succumbed to the abuse? How long would they have suffered in Angharad?

  Boa stumbled back, all color draining from her face. She clasped her throat. “Doesn’t matter how many times I see this, I never get used to it.”

  Stasha tried to clear the horror from her face with a smile and bent down until she was eye level with the children. “Hey there,” she cooed. “You’re all right now. We’ve come to get you out.”

  A few hisses from the adults. They fidgeted, disbelieving hope stirring slumped postures. Some of them stepped forward, even though it would pull all of them out of the wagon.

  Stasha held up an imperious hand. “Children first,” she snapped. “Especially if they’ve just lost their family, as I’m sure is the case with these three.”

  Perhaps it was the presence of the armed fae behind her, but they drew back to let her coax the children out.

  The little boy wrapped his free arm tighter around the girls.

  She addressed him. “My name is Stasha,” she said softly, extending her hand. “Can you and your sisters climb down, or should I help you?”

  Bottom lip wobbling, the little boy looked at her hand warily.

  Stasha pointed to Boa. “That’s Princess Boa. She leads the rebels.” Another hiss and more shuffling from the adults. She ignored it and continued crooning to the children. “We need this wagon for something very important. Something that will punish the fae who have harmed you.”

  The child’s cracked lips parted. “Where are you taking us?”

  Boa pointed to the three healers who waited just beyond their circle. “They’re here to clean your injuries and give you food. And I have rebel soldiers who will protect you. They’ll take you to one of my camps in Ocea.” Boa smiled at the boy. “No one will hurt you again.”

  The little boy fixed huge brown eyes on Stasha. “You promise?”

  Her heart stuttered. “I promise.” She extended her hand again, and the boy took it. She helped him and his sisters down and led them to the healers.

  One of them—a female from Atria—had already found the key to the manacles. She tried to unlock the bands around the little boy’s wrist, but he pulled away and nudged Stasha.

  Time was racing, and Klaus was into his second day in Angharad, but she quelled her impatience and unlocked both his and his sisters’ restraints. She turned earnestly to the healers. “This little family is very important to me. I’m entrusting them to you because I know you’ll take care of them until I get back.”

  The green-eyed fae nodded just as earnestly. “I take that responsibility very seriously.”

  Stasha gave the boy a quick hug. “Until later, my friend.”

  He hugged her back and then took each of his sisters by the hand, and they clustered around the healer.

  Averin leaned in to whisper to her. “Now that you’ve sorted out your charges, we need to go.”

  She walked with him to the wagon, empty now except for the stench and filth. And the hated schorl. She eyed it sourly. “I seem to recall you telling me never to allow myself to be tossed into a schorl box.”

  Averin canted his head. “Ironic, isn’t it?” A wide grin. “But let’s not forget who came up with the plan for raiding Angharad.”

  “True. Hope I don’t live to regret it.” She waited by his side while the six rebels climbed in, clambered deeper into the wagon, and slumped down against the wall.

  “You know I’d have you on the bench next to me if the Pyreack weren’t so chauvinistic about women soldiers,” Averin whispered, all mirth gone.

  “I know. The plan is good, and we must work it.” She held out her hands for him to manacle.

  The iron was cold around her bare wrist and tight about the wrist sheathed with her hidden blade. He slipped the key into her pocket, within reach of her
fingers. The pressure of his hand so close to her skin sent a shiver through her. “Take care, my pit princess,” he said, eyes dark as a moonless night. “Remember, I don’t want to go home without you.”

  Her chest tightened. She gripped the door with her manacled hands. “You, too, Blue Eyes. Life without your pretty face just wouldn’t be the same.” She brushed his perfect eyebrows. “And don’t let anyone mess those up. That’s my job.” She yanked the door closed. Averin had to jump out of the way before it slammed on him, but that was better than letting him see the sorrow brought on by the thought of losing him.

  The door closed with a deafening click. Averin turned the key.

  She and the six other fae were plunged into near darkness. And then they were moving. To Angharad.

  Stasha and the six fae males were tossed about the wagon as its wheels lurched and dove into every pothole and rut in the seemingly endless track. Although it could not have been more than two hours since they’d stolen the wagon, she felt as if they’d been traveling all day. She guessed Averin and Lukas were doing their best to pick the smoothest path, but she’d still be black and blue with bruises by the time they arrived at the prison camp.

  It added authenticity to her claim of being a prisoner.

  Sweat streamed down her body. Strands of hair had slipped free of her braid and stuck to her neck. She missed the comfort and usefulness of Tarik’s red ribbon.

  Still, by the time they arrived at the camp, Boa, Eliezar, Trystaen, and Frea would have rendezvoused with Boa’s rebel soldiers. Once she, Averin, and Lukas opened the prison gates, Boa and her army would march into Angharad to help with the fighting. That was the plan, at least.

  The wagon slowed and then stopped. She clambered to her feet and peered through the schorl bars. The back of the wagon faced the way they’d come, the unending sand dunes telling her nothing.

  Her nose twitched, and she gagged.

  Carrion. Nothing else smelled as bad.

  Metal shrieked and groaned endlessly. A portcullis opening?

  Footsteps crunched outside. “You’re late.”

  When would the door fly open and reveal her? She wished she could extend her blade, but that would alert the guard that she wasn’t the helpless human she needed him to think she was.

  “Rebels,” Lukas answered. “Blocked the road. Had to move rocks.”

  “Did they attack you?”

  “Took most of our prisoners. We just managed to get away.”

  The soldier slapped the side of the wagon. “Any females?”

  Stasha’s blood ran cold.

  “One,” Lukas replied. “Human.”

  The rasp of a throat, followed by a snort and a spit. “Won’t touch them. Okay, move in.”

  He wasn’t even going to check the cargo? Averin and Boa were right—getting in was easy, but whatever awaited them in the camp had to be dire if the guards didn’t bother with basic security. She flicked out her hidden blade and braced herself for the worst.

  The horses moved forward. Darkness sucked into the wagon as they rolled into the tunnel beneath the mountain.

  The wagon slowed, then stopped. The second portcullis?

  Someone called. “Get your ass off that bench and open the back.”

  “Got it.” Averin’s light steps fluttered around to the back of the wagon. The lock turned, and the door opened. He grimaced. “We’re about to find out what happens to invaders. Be safe.” He was gone before she could reply.

  Chains rattled. The wagon lurched forward through the open portcullis. Stasha grabbed the doorjamb to stop from sliding out.

  Harsh light flooded the tunnel. She blinked back the glare as choking heat poured in around her, bringing the stench of death—and magic. The sheer force of it rocked her back and tumbled her onto her backside. She flicked her finger to retract her blade before it struck the floor—but the blade had gone. Breath coming in gasps, she patted her arm.

  The sheath had vanished, like it had never existed.

  She clawed for her dagger. It had gone, too. From the panicked searches going on among the six fae, she presumed their weapons had also disappeared.

  What magic was this that could override schorl to destroy weapons?

  Had the spell affected Averin and Lukas too? Or, as her guards, would they have been exempt?

  No way to find out.

  A whip cracked. Someone cried out.

  The second portcullis clanked and slid shut behind them. Cogs clicked and snapped into place, locking it.

  They were trapped inside Angharad Death Camp.

  She probed her ears to check her glamour. Perfect points. Heart racing, she pulled her hood up to cover the evidence. All she could rely on now to seem human were her gray eyes.

  In the flickering torchlight that pooled around the wagon, Averin and Lukas appeared at the door.

  She hissed in a breath. Their glamour had gone, too. Would it be noticed, or would the capes be enough to pass inspection in the gloomy tunnel?

  Behind them stood three Pyreack guards. Stripes on one of the guard’s shoulders denoted rank, but she wasn’t sure what it was. He scanned her and the other “prisoners.”

  “Weapons!” he snapped. “You let them keep weapons? And where are the rest of the slaves? This wagon should be full.”

  Clearly, their magic had detected their weapons, but he didn’t seem aware of Averin and Lukas’s arsenal. Perhaps it all blended into one.

  “Sergeant, we were attacked coming in.” Lukas spoke slowly, as if he were none too bright. “Lucky we even got them. Rebels must have left weapons in the wagon.”

  The sergeant lashed out a fist. It caught Lukas on the cheek, and his head snapped to the side.

  Averin stood stoic, as if it didn’t matter.

  The sergeant strode to the wagon doorway and glared at her. “You one of those rebels?”

  Fear, visceral and real, coursed through her. “No. I—I’m human.” Angry with herself for that fear, she forced herself to drop to her knees for show. Her voice came out timid. “Sir, don’t hurt me.”

  The sergeant shoved her forehead, stared at her eyes, and then spat at her. It hit her chin and dribbled down her neck. “Human trash.”

  Writhing with revulsion at his spit, and a sudden longing to set him alight, she ramped up her act. “Please, sir, I beg you. I’ll do what you say. Just don’t hurt me.” She buried her hands in her cape in case they betrayed her.

  A harsh laugh. “Should have thought about that before you got yourself captured.” A bell sounded. The sergeant scowled. “Another load coming in.” He shoved Lukas. “Get your wagon out of the tunnel.” To his soldiers, he snapped, “Take the fae to Sector G.” He lashed out at Averin but didn’t hit him. “Take the human bitch to Sector H.”

  Lukas, Averin, and the two Pyreack guards saluted.

  Averin shouted at Stasha. “You heard. Get down from there.” He grabbed the chain between her manacles and yanked. She slid across the doorjamb and tumbled feetfirst onto a stone floor.

  The rest of their team followed her and were quickly rounded up by the guards. Although Lukas couldn’t have known where to go, the wagon clacked through the tunnel toward the light. Averin shoved her in front of him. They followed the wagon and the two guards herding their six fae into a cloud of crows. The birds were almost too dark to see against the blindingly white sunlight. She squinted to focus.

  The crows cawed and flapped around a wooden archway at the end of the tunnel. Bodies. Human bodies. At least a dozen of them dangled from the top beam. They swayed in the burning wind on taut ropes, bumping into each other like macabre puppets. The wind pivoted one around to face her and Averin.

  A hauntingly familiar face set in a mask of hopeless pain. One eye was gone—pecked out by crows. The same crows that tore at blistered ribbons of scorched flesh—

  Stasha blanched and collapsed to her knees.

  “Stasha,” Averin whispered urgently. “Talk to me?” Out loud, he shouted, “Move, tra
sh.” He yanked her back onto her feet and whispered again, “None of them are Klaus. So who—”

  “Hathrine,” she gurgled. A firebird crest had been branded on Hathrine’s left breast. Over her heart.

  Hathrine, the gentle girl who had silently grieved for Lenka but had still cared for Stasha when she’d selfishly climbed into bed without fixing the dormitory for the other girls. Fire borne of rage and sorrow surged through her. Hidden by her cloak, her manacles pulsed.

  Averin jumped back. “No!” he hissed. “Control yourself.”

  Control herself? How could he even suggest that?

  His hand shot out and connected with the back of her head. He shoved hard, sending her sprawling onto the stony ground. The air oomphed out of her.

  Boots strutted past her and stopped.

  Her fire quelled as she lay in the dirt cringing. She could have blown everything.

  The jagged end of a whip hovered above the ground an inch from her face. Would the fae notice Averin’s blue eyes? She had, the moment she’d seen them.

  The whip bearer spoke. “Trash giving you a hard time? Maybe she’d like to hang up there with them.”

  Averin stepped between her and the Pyreack guard. “Nothing I can’t handle. Taking her to Section H as the sergeant commanded.”

  “Well, get a move on, then. Scorch her if you have to. They’re opening a new stope in there today.” The guard moved on with the band of six. Perhaps he hadn’t expected Averin to be different than everyone else, so he hadn’t really looked at him. That worked for her.

  Averin pulled her to her feet. “You heard. Any more trouble, and I’ll burn your ass.”

  Face hidden in the folds of her hood, she let him drag her down a narrow walkway wide enough for one wagon to pass through at a time. Where Lukas was, she didn’t know. But he knew what to do—free enough fae to help with the diversion. She wasn’t going to worry about him. Much.

  She glanced back the way they’d come. A fortified stone building squatted above the tunnel. An archway and a single set of stone steps seemed to provide the only way into the building. Through the grimy window, she counted at least a dozen Pyreack soldiers. From the building’s position, she guessed it was the control room from where they opened the portcullises. The control room she and Averin would have to capture if they were to let Boa and her soldiers into the camp.