Skyfire (2 page)

We hide in a thicket to wait for dawn.

There are no more signs of alchemical beasts, or fire in the sky. No sign of the hunter behind us, either. Just steady darkness and a quiet breeze. Even so, my muscles clench as tight as foxary reins. I keep glancing back into the Valley.
Where is he?
He must have found our trail by now …

Perhaps it's too risky to attack us. We're in another nation now, beyond the jurisdiction of King Morrigan. Would a royal hunter dare cross into an unknown land, or act beyond the boundary of his monarch's realm? I don't know. To kill us here might be an act of war.

When dawn finally arrives, it rolls out like a blanket of grey, fading to pale gold. We try to stay
hidden, crawling through a mess of thorny shrubs to the edge of the cliff. My entire body itches in anticipation. As the light creeps forward, swathes of the lower landscape are slowly revealed.

‘Wow,' Clementine breathes. ‘It's so …'

I nod, my eyes focused on the slowly lightening plains. Sheets of water, frozen solid in the dawn. Strange protrusions rise from the earth – hills and broken mountains. They spew lines of shining white, like waterfalls of snow.

In the distance, I see two enormous mountains, corkscrewing up into the glow. Not an entire range – just two lonely peaks, high and craggy over sleeping earth. The closest is a long day's march away. Its twin lies even further eastward.

As the light unfurls, more of the landscape is revealed. Black patches, with crimson veins. Molten rock. Steam, rising in spirals beneath a dawn-struck sky. The entire country is a burst of contradictions. Fire and ice. Scorched black rock, and a white–blue sheen.

And just before us … a corrugated field of rock, stretching out beneath our cliff. Dark. Porous. As dry and dead as bone.

‘I think it's volcanic,' Maisy whispers.

‘Huh?'

‘That rock below us looks volcanic. It must have come from …' Her gaze rises to the distant peaks, which gouge the sky like a pair of claws. ‘From there.'

‘But where are the people?' I say. ‘I mean, do you see any cities, or –?'

Lukas points at the sky. My chest tightens when I spot his target. A pair of winged silhouettes, high above the plains. They're too distant to make out any details, but I can see the flare of wings and bodies. ‘Are those …?'

He nods.

‘Foxbirds? Foxhawks?' Teddy says, testing the name on his tongue. ‘Hasn't got the same ring to it as foxaries, I reckon.'

‘You don't suppose you might be slightly biased?' Clementine says.

Teddy looks scandalised. ‘Who, me? Nah.'

But he doesn't elicit the smiles he was hoping for. We're all too busy staring at the foxhawks, their wing-beats like scars on the sky. If people are riding them, those people must have a home. A city. A town, at the very least. And until we know whether these people are trustworthy …

‘Look,' Maisy says.

She points at the closest mountain. Its slopes are thick with forest: dark and bristling beneath the rising sun. I squint for a moment, then spot the tiny dark specks upon the sky. They spiral down like motes of dust, disappearing into the craggy nest of the mountaintop.

‘Maybe that's their city,' Maisy says. ‘Up on the mountain.'

‘That's where we'll go, then.' I try to sound confident. ‘We'll go to their city, and we'll warn them about King Morrigan. They'll have to take us in, won't they? I mean, we saved them from being invaded.'

No one responds.

My gaze descends from the forested peaks to the rocky plains. Not the most appealing landscape, I have to admit.

I knew an old man, back in Rourton, who used to drink himself stupid at the Alehouse. His skin was dry and crinkled, as parched as paper, and his eyes were dark holes in his skull. Like life had been sucked right out of him, leaving nothing but this shrivelled mess of a shell behind. That's what this landscape looks like. The carcass of a life no longer there.

‘This is supposed to be a paradise,' Clementine says. ‘That's what all the stories said! It's supposed to have rolling hills, and green meadows, and –'

‘Happy little bunny rabbits, frolicking in the sunshine?' Teddy says.

‘Don't you dare make fun of me, Teddy Nort. Not now. Not when …' Clementine lets out a broken breath. ‘Not now.'

My insides clench. I know how she feels. Clementine's misery isn't just the whining of a spoiled girl
whose plans have been ruined. This isn't a birthday party gone awry, or the wrong type of frills on her latest frock. This is the end of the road.

All our lives, we've dreamed of the land beyond the Valley. A land where the king's bombs couldn't strike us. Where we couldn't be conscripted into his army, or forced to fight wars to expand his empire. A land where food would be plentiful and the days would be warm. Where we could live in safety, and happiness, and –

I take a shaky breath. ‘All right, we just –'

‘There's nothing
all right
about this, Danika!' Clementine scrunches her eyes, fighting back tears. ‘We've got hunters behind us, and hell in front. We gave up everything to come here. Everything, do you understand that? It's easy for you: what did you have to lose? But we were rich back in Rourton! We had food, and clothes, and luxuries, and –'

‘And you saved me,' Maisy says. ‘You know why we had to leave, Clem. I know what you sacrificed for me.'

Maisy's voice is fierce now, tinged by salt and the sting of truth. She stares at her twin so hard that for a moment she looks just like Clementine: the determined sister, the one with fire and pride in her expression.

‘And I don't care what this place looks like,' she says. ‘I don't care if it's green or black or volcanic.
I know what it cost you to bring me here, and I'll never forget it.'

There's a long pause.

‘No matter what our life here might be,' Maisy adds quietly, ‘it's better than what we left behind. Isn't it?'

I think of Rourton. I think of freezing in the city streets, huddling in rubbish bins to shield my limbs from frostbite. My empty stomach, aching for a scrap of stolen food. Of scruffers dying in the streets, and of alchemy bombs: magical shrapnel exploding across the city, painting the rubble with snowflakes and fire and unnatural foliage. I think of people dying in the ruins, enchanted trees bursting forth from the flames …

And my family burning, while a bomb paints our street with stars.

‘Yes,' I whisper. ‘It's better than that.'

One by one, the others nod. The last to agree is Clementine, whose fists are clenched so tightly that I wouldn't be surprised if her fingernails draw blood. But finally she gives a sharp little nod, and releases her breath like a bird from a cage.

‘All right,' I say. ‘We've got to reach the city on the mountain. We just have to find people, and I'm sure they'll help us. They can shield us from the hunters – give us shelter, and weapons. I mean, we saved them, didn't we?'

No one says it, but I know what they're thinking. All this time, we thought we were protecting this country. Saving it from a Taladian invasion. King Morrigan is desperately obsessed with destroying this land. He refuses to speak its name, even to his son. I remember Lukas's words, explaining his father's obsession:
‘It's more than just dislike, Danika. He doesn't just want to conquer it. It's something more. Something deeper.'

That ‘something' led to multiple invasion plans, by biplane and by catacomb. We thwarted both of the king's schemes, and saved this nameless nation from his wrath.

But the people of this country have devised alchemy beyond anything we've seen. If they can crossbreed hawks and foxaries, and set fire to the sky, what else have they created in the centuries since they broke contact with Taladia? What other weapons?

What if King Morrigan's obsession was born not of greed, but of fear?

Perhaps this land wasn't the one in need of saving.

The cliff is steep: a tangled wall of stone and weeds. I grab a handful of thistles and lower myself, shifting my weight from one foothold to
the next. Every so often, I peer upwards. I half-expect to see a hunter appear overhead, but the sky remains empty.

Teddy darts down below me, quick as a goat on the rocks. He grins up at the rest of us. ‘Come on, get a wriggle on! It's not so bad.'

Well, that's easy for him to say. As the most skilled climber in our group, it's his job to scout ahead, picking the safest trail. I'm a decent climber myself, having scaled a few alley walls in my time, but the other members of our crew are hopeless. And like it or not, it's my job to look after them.

Just as I'm wrapping my fingers around a coarse tuft of grass, a scuffle of dirt and tiny stones cascades down across my head. I bend forward to protect my face and cough, startled by the flurry of dirt in my mouth.

‘Sorry!' Clementine strains above me, scrabbling to keep her footing on a narrow ledge of stone. ‘It's just –'

‘It's fine,' I manage. ‘Don't try to talk. Focus on your feet.'

There's another splutter of debris as she kicks again, before she finally manages to wedge her toes into position. I'd trade my boots for the climbing picks I stole in Rourton, but they're long gone now. Swept away in churning water, like everything else in our old packs.

I try to work up a rhythm in my head, swinging my weight from foot to hand.
Down, down down
… It's not so different from climbing the city wall – easier, really, since there are tussocks of grass and stone to grasp. But I keep glancing up at the rest of my crew, and I know they're struggling. There's a cry every now and then when someone slips, and my throat seizes up in panic until I'm sure they're not falling. A huff from Clementine, a gasp from Lukas – and then a sharp little breath as they regain their grip.

‘Everyone all right?' Teddy calls, somewhere below my feet.

‘Oh yes,' Clementine says. ‘Just peachy.'

Her tone is tight, huffy with fear and exasperation. It reminds me of the old Clementine, back when we were still following the smugglers' song towards the Valley.

 

Oh mighty yo,

How the star-shine must go,

Chasing those distant deserts of green …

 

That old folk song led us halfway across Taladia. Its lyrics hid clues to crucial landmarks: a constellation, a canyon, a ruined fortress called Midnight Crest. And finally it led us here: through the Magnetic Valley and into the land beyond.

But now, the words sit uneasily in my mind.
Deserts of green
? Whatever else this land might be, it certainly isn't ‘green'. The rocks below are black – dry and dead beneath the pale grey sky.

Perhaps it's nicer on the mountain. If people live there, there must be farmland. Townships. Markets and traders, dancing and song. King Morrigan has no power here, so we won't be fugitives. We'll just be normal people, carving out a living on the land. I could work on a farm to fill my belly; I'm not afraid of labour, and these weeks on the road have shaped me strong and lean. Maisy could become a scholar of some kind, perhaps, and Teddy could work with livestock in the fields …

‘Look up,' Lukas says. ‘Danika, look up!'

I whip my head up, my stomach tight. I expect to see a hunter overhead, leaning over the cliff, his pistol cocked and ready to fire.

But Lukas isn't looking at the top of the cliff. He stares behind us, at the empty sky above the plains. For a moment, all I see is grey cloud. A bluster of wind churns grit towards my eyes and I blink, wrenching my head aside for a moment.

The wind fades and I glance back up, eyes stinging. Everyone else is staring skyward, their eyes focused on the shape that swims like grit across my irritated pupils.

I blink again, and I see it.

A foxhawk.

My breath catches in my throat. Maisy was right. It's no wonder Teddy and Lukas both connected with this unnatural blend of beast and bird. A foxary furred in red and white, with an enormous wingspan, mottled by the tufts of its feathers. It sails upon the rising light, right in our direction.

Has it seen us? I don't know. Perhaps the rider will rescue us. He'll carry us away from this cliff, to the safety of his city. To food and baths, beds and shelter, and –

That's when I see the second foxhawk.

It dives from the clouds, descending like a hungry beast upon its comrade. It's larger than the first foxhawk, and it angles so deeply I can see its rider: a man in a streaming grey cloak. He clutches the reins and lets out a cry, raising one hand with a flash of silver.

A pistol.

We're not exactly inconspicuous, clinging helplessly to the face of the cliff. He'll see us, and he'll point his pistol and –

We have only one chance.
An illusion.