‘Who are you?’ I whisper.
Radnor steps forward. ‘This is Hackel. Number Five in our crew.’
As the smoke clears, I get a better look at the newcomer. He’s huge and strong, muscles bulging beneath his cloak. If I hadn’t known about Radnor’s teenager-only rules for the crew, I would have guessed Hackel was in his twenties. He glares so hard at the fallen hunter that I expect another fireball to shoot out of his eyes. But he just drops the stick and kneels beside the body.
Now that the shock has worn off a little, my senses shoot into overdrive. The stink of burning flesh, the hot sting of smoke in my eyes . . . It’s enough to make my stomach heave, and I want nothing more than to run into the trees and never look back, never think of this horrific scene again. But I can’t show weakness now, not in front of the refugee crew that could mean my survival. So I clench my fists, tell myself to ignore the stench and try to breathe through my mouth.
Hackel grabs the hunter’s burnt wrist. Flakes of something fall away – I don’t know whether it’s fabric or flesh. Hackel examines the forearm, but obviously doesn’t find what he’s looking for, because he drops it back into the dirt. Then he reaches around the man’s neck. I want to stop him, to tell him that this is barbaric – he’s already killed the man once, he doesn’t need to throttle him too.
But Hackel isn’t trying to throttle him. He just pulls a silver chain from the hunter’s neck, black and dingy with soot. There’s a quiet clink as he examines the metal charms that hang from the chain. Alchemy charms, I realise with a start. I’ve never seen them up close before, since only the wealthiest of richies can afford such trinkets. The charms have spellwork imbued into the silver, ready to be deployed against the bearer’s enemies.
Hackel pockets his trophy, rises to his feet and exits the clearing in silence.
It takes a moment for me to find my voice. ‘What . . .?’
‘He’s going to check for more hunters,’ says Radnor. ‘If you were followed by one, there might be more just behind us.’ He glances around the ruins of the campsite. ‘We’ve got to move. That scream, and the smoke . . .’
Radnor doesn’t need to finish his sentence. We all know other hunters will be here soon. Even if they didn’t know our location before, they do now. By killing the hunter with his Flame proclivity, Hackel has set off the equivalent of a flare to guide them through the trees.
‘What are we doing with this scruffer?’ Clementine points at me in apparent distaste. ‘We already have five people on our crew. We should leave her here to draw the hunters. She could be a useful distraction, buy us some time.’
I stare at her. ‘I saved your lives last night.’
Clementine sniffs. ‘And we’re all grateful, but that doesn’t entitle you to jeopardise them now.’
‘Hey, hang on a second!’ says Teddy. ‘This girl could be useful – she’s got skills. You saw how she climbed that wall. And she’s an illusionist! Just think, if she trains a bit and gets better at illusions, she could hide us from the hunters.’
Clementine looks ready to argue, but visibly swallows back her annoyance. She turns to Radnor with a raised eyebrow, as though seeking support from the crew’s leader.
Radnor frowns at me. ‘What’s your name again?’
‘Danika,’ I say. ‘Danika Glynn.’
‘What other skills have you got?’
I straighten up, trying to hide any pain from the wound in my leg. This is not the time to show weakness. ‘I can climb, I can run. I can fight a bit.’
‘What else?’
There’s silence for a moment as I struggle to think of an answer. ‘My family died in a bombing raid.’ I pause. ‘My parents always told me stories of the Valley, like it was some kind of paradise. I’ll do anything to get there.’ I take a deep breath. ‘I’m going to reach that Valley and I’m not going to surrender. I don’t play to lose.’
Radnor eyes me quietly, as though weighing up a sack of flour at the market. Deciding whether I’m worth the price.
‘All right, Danika Glynn,’ he says eventually. ‘Welcome to the crew.’
We gather up the remains of the campsite. This involves stuffing blankets and supplies into heavy packs, which Teddy buckles onto the foxaries. He murmurs as he strokes their necks and I wonder what he’s telling them. Is he confirming their bond, offering them rewards . . . or threatening to skin them if they don’t behave? With someone like Teddy Nort, it’s hard to tell.
There are only three foxaries now: the one that Teddy and I rode to the campsite and two others. I don’t know what happened to the other two – perhaps they fled into the wild in the panic last night, or maybe the Rourton guards shot them. Either way, there’s no time to ask for details. No time to tend to wounds, to patch up the bloody mess across my knee. All we can do is bundle onto the creatures’ backs, wrap our arms around each other and flee.
‘What about Hackel?’ I say, squashed between Teddy Nort and a stack of supplies. ‘How will he catch up without a foxary?’
‘Don’t worry,’ says Radnor. ‘Hackel can take care of himself.’
This much, at least, I don’t doubt. The boy carries a weight of power within his muscles and a tightness to his face that I’ve seen before in Rourton’s darkest alleyways. Hackel’s a basher, I’m sure. A thug for hire, a killer. He’s got that look in his eyes. Back home, crime bosses and paranoid richies would have paid him good cash to carry out their dirty work. I wonder whether he’s a real refugee or just a paid bodyguard – hired by the richie girls, perhaps, to keep them safe in the wild. Either way, he didn’t show any qualms about revealing his proclivity to the rest of us. Only someone with a link to Flame could have killed the hunter like that.
I suck on the back of my teeth, feeling nauseated again as the image of the burning hunter blasts across my mind. I tell myself that Hackel had no choice; that the man was going to kill us all. But it doesn’t purge my mental image of the man screaming as he burns.
‘What are you thinking?’ I say to Teddy.
He doesn’t answer for a second and I wonder whether he’s replaying the same scene in his own head. Then he forces a laugh. ‘I was thinking about the Magnetic Valley. If you got someone with a Metal proclivity, would they get attracted by the magnets? Because I reckon that’s what Clementine’s proclivity is – and it’d be pretty funny to stick her to a hillside.’
I get an image of Clementine zooming through the air and sticking to a magnetic slope, as she spits out insults in her snobby accent. The idea is so ridiculous that it makes me smile. ‘What makes you think her proclivity’s Metal?’
‘Well, she’s brought enough jewellery to open a metalwork shop.’
I peer around his shoulders at the foxary in front of us. The two richie girls are hunched on its back, necks drooped as their animal traipses between the trees. Yet again, I find myself wondering why they’ve come on this trip. Maybe they thought there was something glamorous about fleeing the city, although I can’t imagine what. I bet they weren’t expecting so much cold or blood or pain.
I indulge in a silent moment of ‘serves you right’ at the twins’ expense. Clementine was so confident last night, so certain that her parents’ money would buy her out of any trouble. All these twins have known is luxury and part of me hates them for it. This is what the real world’s like, I want to scream. This is what it’s like to fight, every day, to stay alive.
The second twin glances back at me, just for a moment, and I see the puffy wetness of her eyes. She turns back and hides her face in her sister’s shoulders, but it’s too late; I’ve already seen. And what I’ve seen makes me feel sick with myself. She’s just a terrified girl, as lost and alone as the rest of us.
And no matter what I tell myself, there’s no point feeling superior. I’m no better equipped to deal with this forest than the twins are. There are no bins out here to scavenge food from
, no richies to beg for a cleaning job or barmen to offer me under-the-table shifts in their alehouses. There are only trees and hunters and death.
‘What’s the plan?’ I say, as the foxaries pick up speed. They’ve shifted into a tighter formation now, allowing for easier discussion.
‘What d’you mean?’ says Teddy.
‘I mean, every refugee crew needs a plan to reach the Valley. Once we’re out of these woods, we’ve still got a massive country to cross. What’s our angle?’
‘I thought we should take the merchant trader approach,’ says Clementine, ‘so we could at least travel in comfort. But unfortunately I’ve been outvoted by these –’ She huffs out the first syllable of ‘filthy’, but catches herself. ‘By my crewmates.’
‘We’re not following the road,’ says Radnor.
I frown at the back of Teddy’s shoulders. Since the Valley lies to the southeast, the traditional route for refugee crews begins with Taladia’s main trading road: a vast belt that stretches right down the country’s belly. It provides the safest route from north to south, leading travellers away from the most dangerous wilderness.
Following the road is risky, of course, because it’s full of traders and it’s the first place hunters will look for a refugee crew. But not following the road is even worse. Crews who are arrogant enough to travel away from the road always get lost. Taladia is a vast, wild place. Apart from the forests, there are snow-covered mountain ranges, endless deserts of baking sand . . . and of course, there are the wastelands.
‘If we’re not following the road,’ I say, ‘how are we going to find the Valley?’
Radnor smiles tightly. ‘The river. It runs parallel to the road, just further east. Goes through rougher terrain, but there won’t be as many hunters around – and it’ll take us in the right direction.’
I’m about to respond when the foxary’s muscles clench beneath me like a spring. I tighten my grip and struggle to keep my balance. Three, two, one . . .
The foxary shoots forward: a streak of red fur and musky stench on the breeze. We zig and zag between the trees, ducking beneath low branches and lurching sideways. The other foxaries are running too, yanking their riders forward with the same explosion of speed.
Clementine throws herself across her own animal’s neck. ‘What’s going on?’
‘They smelled something weird! Hang on, I’m trying to . . .’ Teddy leans down into our foxary’s neck, as though trying to inhale the creature’s thoughts through its fur. ‘They smelled something strange and they want to go and check it out.’
I’m not sure whether to feel relieved or terrified. ‘Strange’ is better than having hunters on our tails. But what if ‘strange’ is just some deadly trap the hunters have set for us? They know we’re riding foxaries now – they could have laid a false scent trail, a way to lure the beasts into their nets . . .
‘Right!’ warns Teddy.
The foxaries hurl themselves to the right, changing direction as nimbly as leaves on the wind. Unfortunately, I’m not as agile as the creature I’m riding. I’m already sliding sideways and I barely manage to grab a fistful of fur before I’m flung left by the force of its turn.
‘Argh!’ I hang off the creature’s side, one leg still hitched over its back. I dangle from one clump of reddish fur and the rest of my body threatens to smash against every passing log and tree-trunk as we hurtle through the forest.
Teddy twists around, alerted by my cry. ‘What’re you doing down there?’
‘Admiring the view,’ I snap, as I struggle to find a better grip.
I can tell Teddy’s swallowing a laugh – I guess I must look stupid – but he manages to hold himself together for a second. He hauls me back up into a sitting position, just in time to avoid a faceful of prickly thornbush.
‘Thanks,’ I manage.
The foxaries slow, then bring us to a halt. Fur bristles beneath me, spiky with anticipation, and some strange instinct makes my own hair prickle down the back of my neck. For a moment I wonder whether it’s my proclivity mark appearing but soon I recognise the feeling as nerves.
Clementine brushes a stray curl back behind her ears. ‘Where are we?’
I sniff, hoping to pick up a hint of what drew the foxaries to this place. There’s an odd tang to the air. It sends a lurch into my stomach – something about the smell triggers a terrible impulse to run. It’s like a forgotten memory, just out of reach . . .
The realisation slaps me.
‘Bombs,’ I say quietly. ‘I can smell burning metal.’
What I really smell – and taste – is a sudden memory of that night. The scent makes me hear those screams again, tells me that my family is burning before me and I have no way to save them. Again and again, I must watch them die. I must smell them die.
I slide down from our foxary’s back. My feet aren’t too steady and I almost slip when I land in the leaf litter, but I manage to catch myself just in time. I can’t afford to look weak in front of the others. I’m already furious at myself for needing Teddy’s help during the ride; Radnor probably regrets inviting me to join the crew.
‘Yes,’ says a voice. ‘It smells like bombs.’
I turn around, surprised to hear an unfamiliar female voice. It’s the quieter twin, the one whose name I’ve never managed to learn. She slips down from her own foxary, eyes downcast, hands clasped in front of her stomach.
‘Dunno about you guys,’ says Teddy, ‘but I always thought bombs came out of biplanes. Don’t hear any planes up there, do you?’
I glance up. The canopy is too thick to make out the sky; if one of the king’s biplanes were overhead, we wouldn’t spot it until it was too late. But Teddy is right about the noise. Those planes rattle and spit: hunks of metal that choke their way across the skies. The forest is too quiet for a biplane to be overhead.
I sniff again and then spin around to follow the source of the smell. After traipsing through a few metres of tangled undergrowth, I see it: a tiny wisp of smoke twisting up among the mess and roots of a nearby thicket.
‘Hey, over here!’ I whisper.
The others join me, hot and nervous in the thick of the trees. We push through the foliage, pulling aside leaves and twigs to squeeze our bodies further into the thicket. Even from here, I can tell that something’s wrong – there’s too much light ahead, as though something has smashed a hole through the canopy itself.
Finally, we thrust our bodies into the clearing.
‘What the hell?’ says Teddy, as sunlight hits his face.
I stare down, right at the source of the smoke. The burning metal, the crumpled glass, the shattered wings . . . and a scorched golden tattoo that marks the impact of a signal flare. The debris flickers oddly, as though an invisibility enchantment is still wearing off. It must be tainted with magical residue, to still be smoking so long after last night’s carnage. This broken hunk of metal is no ordinary wreckage.
‘Is that a . . .?’ breathes Clementine, sounding horrified.
I swallow. ‘Yeah. It is.’
This is one of the king’s biplanes, scorched with the mark of a signal flare. And last night, by launching that guard-tower’s flare, I shot this plane right out of the sky.
The only sound is wind in the trees. We stare at each other. Then we stare back at the plane, stunned by the sight of a palace machine, broken and smouldering, in the middle of the forest.
‘Those markings,’ says Clementine. ‘Our mother told us about the signal flares. Each turret has a unique tattoo, so guards in the other towers know which part of the wall has been threatened.’
I nod. ‘My flare.’
Silence.
When it becomes clear that no one else is keen to look, I take a step closer. If there’s a body in there, if I’ve killed someone . . .
‘Don’t look, Danika,’ says Radnor. His voice is calm, imi
tating the tone of a leader, but a twinge of uncertainty lingers in each word.
‘What if the pilot’s still alive?’ I say. ‘What if he’s just unconscious?’
No one answers. I don’t want to think what sort of injury could knock someone unconscious for the better part of a day. With a couple of shaky steps, I find myself at the edge of the wreckage.
I bend down, trying to ignore the stink of bombs – no, not bombs, just hot metal – and peer through the shattered window.
The cabin is empty. ‘There’s no pilot!’
‘What?’
‘There’s no body or anything!’
I straighten up and find Radnor raising an eyebrow. ‘A plane can’t fly itself,’ he says. ‘And no one could just walk away from a crash like that.’
‘Not unless . . .’ I say. ‘Maybe the pilot got out of the plane before it crashed. Maybe he had an emergency parachute, or maybe his proclivity was Wind or Air or Darkness or something, and he just floated down into the trees.’
‘Oh, that’s just fantastic,’ says Clementine, glancing around with a nervous twitch. ‘Another enemy to worry about.’
‘Why was there a plane around, anyway?’ says Teddy, frowning. ‘I mean, if I had a plane I’d go for joy-flights too, but I reckon it was a bit dark to see much.’
‘There were heaps of planes over Rourton last night,’ says Clementine impatiently. ‘Or have you already forgotten we got bombed?’
Teddy scowls at her. ‘I’m not stupid, richie! But the bombing finished back when we were still in the sewers. Why the hell would a single plane hang around and check out the view?’
‘To report on the damage?’
‘There are hundreds of guards in Rourton – any one of them could report that stuff. I still don’t see why this plane needed to hang around after the bombings.’
There is silence as we all mull this over. If this lone plane had its own, secret mission, and I shot it down before it could complete it . . .
Chasing the Valley Page 6