Skyfire (23 page)

I am to be executed at sundown.

The air isn't just cold now, but piercing. Every whip of wind feels like ice upon my cheeks. By the time they tie me to the pole, I can see the first hints of evening grey.
Night
, I think. Night is coming.

But it won't do me any good. Not here in the Valley. No proclivity, no alchemy, no illusions. My power remains locked inside me, as pointless as an appendix. And by the time the night comes, my magic will be as silent as my heartbeat.

I take a deep breath. I refuse to buckle. I refuse to beg.

Teddy and the twins stand near the entrance to King Morrigan's tent. Their mouths are stuffed with gags and soldiers hold them tightly in place,
but they keep straining. They'll be next, I'm sure. The idea makes my chest tighten and I want to rush over and hug them, to grab their warm bodies and never let go.

But I can't. My limbs are bound to the pole, and the crowd is growing. First a dozen soldiers, then fifty, then a hundred. They keep arriving, as news spreads around the camp like melting butter.
Danika Glynn. The fugitive. They've got her!

If I close my eyes, I can hear the whispers.

I lean back against the pole. It's cold and hard behind my scalp. The whole damn world is cold. Is this the last thing I'll feel? I wish Lukas were beside me. I wish I could touch his face one last time. That I could feel his lips upon mine.

Lukas stands just ten metres away. No one is touching him, but half a dozen guards stand in tight formation around his body. I know they're concealing blades beneath their cloaks: holding them out in a threatening circle. If Lukas moves, they'll gut him like a fish.

His eyes are straining; every so often he closes them, as though focusing on something far away. He's trying to summon the sólfoxes. But here in the Valley, his proclivity is useless. No creature will hear his call.

King Morrigan is speaking to the crowd about Lukas's great return. The prodigal son. He speaks
of the honour and dignity of the Morrigan name, and the joy of welcoming his beloved prince back into the fold.

The other soldiers can't see the blades. They can't see that Lukas's anxiety is anything other than excitement at his return.

And when Lukas looks at me, his face wild with terror, I know what they're thinking.
Our prince is looking at his kidnapper. He longs to see her die.

And there's no shortage of soldiers ready to please their prince.

I keep my eyes fixed upwards, towards the sky. I don't want to look at Lukas. I don't want to look at my friends, or the crowd. Each of those sights hurts in its own way. But the sky is neutral. I think of flying. As I fight to control the quiver in my limbs, I think of our flight upon the sólfox. Just me and Lukas, shooting up into a whirl of clouds and stars …

‘Ready!'

The word snaps me back to reality. I glance down before I can stop myself, and see the soldiers notch their arrows. They raise their bows with trembling fingers, and I swallow back a mouthful of bile. They aren't expert archers. It won't be a single arrow through the heart. I imagine a wound in my arm, my thigh, my belly. I picture myself buckling, blood in my mouth, hot pain shooting through my limbs as they try again …

I close my eyes.
No. Don't think it. Don't –

‘Aim!'

I force my eyes open. A dozen arrows stare back at me. I can't even focus on the soldiers behind them any more. All I can see are the arrows themselves, taut against the strings.

King Morrigan takes a deep breath. He's watching Lukas, not me. He doesn't need to watch me die. I mean nothing to him. What he wants to see is his son's reaction. He wants to watch his son's collapse: the moment when Lukas, the rebellious brat of the family, realises he has been defeated.

He's about to say it. He's about to say ‘Fire!' I hold my breath and wait for the pain to hit. I turn my gaze to the sky and try to focus on the darkening clouds. The coming of night. The arch of the higher slope, cupping the Valley, with dark shadows charging down towards us. Are they our sólfoxes, finally coming to Lukas's call? If they are, they've come too late. Too distant. Too far away to save me.

It won't be so bad
, I tell myself.
A little bit of pain and it'll be over. It'll all be over.

And then, the blow.

But not the blow of an arrow. It's the blow of a body crashing into my own: a collapsing figure, a smash of limbs and desperate breath.

‘Stop!' King Morrigan cries.

My eyes fly open and I'm staggering sideways, the
ropes burning against my wrists, the pole yanking me back up into an upright position. My side throbs from the impact, but another figure stands in front of me, hands out, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Lukas.

And then I see the blood.

It spreads across his shirt: a crimson stain, like his father's wine on the tablecloth. There are shouts from the soldiers – accusations, shrieks – and I know someone has stabbed him. He must have burst through that ring of blades, ignoring the slash of steel into his flesh …

‘Lukas!'

He teeters a little, like a tree about to topple. But he stays upright, fighting, one hand clapped against his wound. I let out a cry and fight against my restraints. I have to stop the blood. I have to press my hands against that wound, to hold back the flow of life as it slowly leaks from –

‘You fool!' King Morrigan is shouting. ‘You bloody little fool! After all I gave you, after all I –'

And the Víndurnic army charges into the fray.

Chaos.

The camp erupts in a torrent of sound. Shouts, screams, cries. A blur of motion around me: soldiers scattering, cursing, running to unchain their foxaries.

And the arrows begin to fall.

They rain like hailstones from higher up the slope, fired from the backs of charging sólfoxes. The Víndurnics must have galloped along the Valley's sloping shoreline, just as we did. The foxes can't bear the entire army, of course – they're just an advance attack. But with two sólfoxes from every village in Víndurn, and at least three armed riders crammed onto each beast, it's enough to stain these slopes with blood and screams. An arrow skewers the dirt beside me, bare inches from my feet.

But all I can see is Lukas.

He collapses slowly. A broken concertina, wheezing down to close upon itself. His limbs buckle and his lips fall open. And then he's lying in the dirt, blood pouring from the gashes in his belly. I spot the source of the blood: a knife wound on either side, as though he shoved through two soldiers' blades to reach me.

Someone scrabbles at my bonds. I blink, trying to clear my head, and realise it's Maisy. Teddy and Clementine bend down to Lukas's body, pressing desperate hands against his wounds. Soldiers hurtle past us on foxaries, a blur of snarls and claws.

Maisy unties the ropes around my wrists. I stumble away from the pole and collapse, rope slithering around my forearms. Then I'm at Lukas's side, my lungs frantic, my throat tight.

‘Lukas!'

He's alive. Barely. I can see it now, in the rise and fall of his chest. He looks at me with wild eyes, and then a weak smile twists his lips. ‘They didn't shoot you.'

I don't know what to say. A thousand emotions are tumbling inside my belly and I can't cope with this. I'm just a scruffer from Rourton. Homeless. Alone. Orphaned. I never expected anyone to do something like this for me, to make this kind of sacrifice.

And now, I'd give anything to take it back.

I press a hand to his lips. ‘Save your strength.'

Arrows fly around us. We don't seem to be targets – perhaps our Víndurnic cloaks have marked us as allies – but Taladian soldiers scream and topple as arrows strike their faces. Their comrades fire back wildly, shots going astray.

The sólfoxes flare out their wings. A few wear metallic plates buckled across their wings, forming enormous walls of feather and metal. Víndurnic troops take cover behind them, firing arrows over the top of their flapping shields. I catch glimpses of firestones glinting at their belts, but there's no sign of magic being transmitted through the stones. Perhaps Lord Farran is saving them, conserving their power for something else.

Something deadly.

A volley of arrows punctures a sólfox's head, and the great beast tumbles down the slope in a writhing mess of blood. Its rider crawls away from the carnage, bones broken, face pale – and before I can move, a mob of Taladian soldiers cuts him down where he lies.

‘They've all gone bonkers!' Teddy says, horrified. ‘Off their rockers, the lot of them.'

‘It's war.' Lukas's voice is weak. ‘This is what war does to you.'

‘They should be working together – it's their leaders who want to fight, not them!'

Lukas opens his mouth to respond again, and a trickle of blood spills over his bottom lip. He lets out a quiet gasp and falls silent. My own breath catches in my throat.

‘Lukas.' I wipe the blood away, fighting to keep my voice steady. ‘You're going to be okay. We'll find a way to heal you.'

I stare around the camp site, desperate. No sign of King Morrigan – he fled into his tent as soon as the arrows began to fall. There must be healers somewhere, perhaps a medical tent …

A few Víndurnics are dismounting now: leaping from their sólfoxes and hurling their bodies into the throng. The sólfoxes are large targets, hard to manoeuvre, and the Taladians have finally figured out where to aim. Enormous furry bodies topple down the slope, their throats pierced by arrows, wings snapping and breaking beneath the weight of metal plates.

Fighting on all sides. A clash of metal, shrieks and sobs. The stink of urine as a nearby soldier wets his pants. Mud and blood and terror. The scrabble of claws, the tearing of teeth upon flesh.

And here in the middle, Lukas is dying.

No
. I won't think it. I won't let it happen.

‘Come on,' I say, looking up at the others. ‘We've got to get him to safety.'

Their eyes are hopeless, but they don't argue. I know they think it's too late. Clementine opens
her mouth, and I know what she's going to say before the words leave her lips.
‘Maybe we shouldn't move him
.
It might hurt … Danika, it's too late.'

‘Don't,' I say, just as her lips twitch. ‘Don't you … don't …'

I don't know what I'm saying. I don't know how to form words. A terrible choke rises up inside of me, threatening to burst into a sob, and this is
not
the time for hysterics. Not now.

‘I'm going to save you,' I say to Lukas. ‘You hear me? I'm going to save you. But I have to move you first, get you away from all this.'

Teddy helps me lift Lukas. He doesn't weigh much. None of us do, after weeks of hunger on the road. Lukas cries out as we lift his torso, pulling against the wounds. I curse under my breath, hating myself for causing more pain. But it has to be done. If we stay here, we're going to die.

We carry Lukas into a nearby tent, struggling not to jostle his wound. I'm relieved to find camp beds inside: this must be a tent for officers, not just lowly soldiers. Clementine rushes to grab a jug of water from the table and we peel up Lukas's shirt to inspect his wounds.

‘No,' I whisper.

It's bad. His abdomen shines with blood: wet and thin, dribbling across his skin. There's an almighty slash on each side of his belly, where
the soldiers tried to constrain him inside their circle.

‘Bandages! We need bandages …'

Teddy locates a chest full of clothes and yanks out a clean shirt. I just have time to spot the ‘Captain' rank emblazoned on its sleeve before we start wrapping it around Lukas's torso. He groans and arches his back, allowing us to slip the fabric underneath.

‘It's all right,' Clementine says. Her voice is more frantic than comforting, but I doubt mine would be any better. ‘It's all right. We're fixing you.'

Teddy yanks the shirt tight and begins to tie it, pulling Lukas's wounds shut. The fabric pools with red, but I think the bleeding is slowing.

Slowing, but not stopping.

‘What do we do?' Clementine says, voice low. ‘We need a healing charm or something.'

I think of Lukas's grandmother dying in the borderlands. Of the necklace of charms around her throat, and a healing charm in the shape of a bone. It was too late to save her – her wound was too severe – but I'm sure that charm could save Lukas now. But I left her body lying there, charms still hanging from her neck …

And now they hang from the neck of her killer.

I clench my fists and close my eyes. Stupid. I was so stupid. My breath feels like acid in my lungs.
I should have taken the charms myself – but in the shock of Silver's death, I was too flustered and overwhelmed by grief. And now Quirin has them. I think bitterly of the necklace around his throat – just a glittering ornament among hundreds of others at the Ball.

‘Wouldn't work, anyway,' Teddy says. ‘Not in the Valley.'

I open my eyes. He's right. Even if I'd thought to retrieve the healing charm, it wouldn't work here.

‘What do we do?' Clementine says again. ‘I don't think …' She glances down at Lukas, then up at me. ‘Danika, I don't think he's going to –'

‘We'll find help,' I snap, cutting her off. ‘The Víndurnics know how to heal people. Deníel used those herbs to fix my shoulder, didn't he? I'll find someone to help.'

I take a deep breath. I can't ask anyone to come with me – to step back out into that hell of blood and screaming. ‘Look after him,' I say, and my voice cracks a little. ‘Don't let him …' I trail off, unable to say the last word. ‘Just look after him, all right?'

Teddy steps forward. ‘I'll come with you. I reckon we'll find someone.'

Gratitude fills my stomach like warm soup. But I'm out of words, and all I can do is nod. Then we're stumbling out of the tent, the fabric flapping behind us, and that final image of Lukas is burned into my
brain. And no matter how much I deny it, how much I try to stomp down on my thoughts, a small part of me can't help thinking:
That might be the last time you see him alive
.

The cold hits me hard – a sting of bitter night. People slash at each other, moaning. I trip over a body in the mud; when I look down in horror at the dead eyes, I recognise one of the soldiers from the firing squad. Just a few minutes ago, he was ready to shoot me. And despite everything, all I feel for him is pity. Just a kid. Conscripted. No older than twenty. He still clutches his bow in one hand, his arrow half-buried in the muck beside his face.

‘Come on!' Teddy says.

We race towards the nearest foxary, which is chained outside an abandoned tent. Teddy works on the chains and then we clamber aboard. The foxary snarls and tosses its head, straining to reach around and gut us.

‘Don't like this thing,' Teddy mutters, grabbing the knife-bridle in his hands. ‘It's bloody cruel.'

He yanks the knives free from their clips, but leaves the bridle clamped across the creature's jaw. He has no choice. Teddy's proclivity is useless here, and the foxary views him as just another lump of flesh. Without a bridle, we won't be riders; we'll be meat.

Lights spring into life around us. Fire stones, strapped to the belts of Víndurnic soldiers.
Thousands of stones light up in unison, as though an enormous hand has reached down from the sky and flicked a fistful of glitter through the battlefield.

The Taladian soldiers cry out, terrified. Their shouts hit my ears like a rush of overlapping waves.
‘Magic!'
they cry.
‘Magic in the Valley!'
But I know the firestones are imbued with Curiefer, and so their stilted light isn't a shock to me. Just another whirl of the battle. Just another rush in the dark.

Where's Lord Farran? Is this it? Is he about to send some kind of magic through the stones – some terrible burst of alchemy, a pall of death for the enemy troops?

But nothing happens. The firestones are nothing more than lights, shining like the cliff top near Bastian's village. They flicker. They glisten. And after a minute or so, they fade back into shadow.

Whatever Farran is planning, it isn't time to start. Not yet.

Teddy grasps the foxary's reins. I feel a familiar lurch beneath me: a clench of muscle, the loading of a furry spring. Then the creature explodes into the crowd, all its strength pumping forward as its legs churn the muck. It snorts and snarls and claws its way through a pack of bodies, soldiers scattering as we charge towards them.

‘Which way?' Teddy shouts.

I turn my head, desperate for a sign of help. But
I don't see healers. I don't see Deníel, or Bastian, or anyone who looks ready to tend the wounded. All I see is killing, and dying, and bodies in the mud. Screams. Blood. Chaos.

And then I see him.
Quirin.
He has already spotted us, and he rides towards us with fire in his eyes. He swings a blade above his head, his sólfox gnashing and clawing at the bit between its teeth. His beard melds into the colour of the beast's fur, so when he leans down low I'm not even sure where the animal ends and the man begins.

Quirin, the smuggler of secrets. Back for one final twist of the knife.

We meet in a whirlwind of snarls and claws. I lurch forward and grab our foxary's neck, clinging on for dear life as it twists and bites and writhes beneath me: a furious serpent of fur. Quirin slashes out with his blade and I duck just as the metal swoops above my head. Our foxary twists aside and we face each other, beast to beast, with only silent air for a shield.

‘You should have joined us when you had the chance!' Quirin says, his eyes fixed on Teddy. ‘You had potential, boy. You'd have made a great smuggler.'

Teddy stares back at him. I suddenly remember our chat on the lagoon, when Teddy professed his desire to join the smugglers. To leave our mission behind. But now he faces Quirin with a tightness
in his body. Even from behind, I feel it: the way his spine straightens, and his shoulders pull back. As though his entire body is recoiling from the smuggler, repulsed.

‘Nah,' he says. ‘All that betrayal … don't reckon I'd have the stomach for it.'

Quirin lets out a snarl, as wild as his sólfox, and kicks the animal towards us. A gleaming blade, a flash against the shadows, and Teddy leaps.

He hits Quirin smack in the side. The man bellows as Teddy ploughs into his torso. I'm left alone on our foxary, fumbling for the reins. The creature wrenches its head around to snap at me. I pull the reins, wild and brutal, forcing its head back to the front.

As soon as the beast is under control, I glance to the side. Teddy and Quirin grapple upon the sólfox. They claw at each other, shoving and shouting and gouging terrible marks into each other's skin. Neither has a weapon – Quirin dropped his sword in the impact. All they've got are fingernails and fury.

And then Quirin pulls the knife. It slides out from his sleeve, as swift as a snake. He raises it to Teddy's eyes.

‘Teddy!' I kick my foxary and it charges forward, smashing into the other beast's side. Quirin jerks back and Teddy grabs the man's fist. They grapple, the knife locked between two sets
of knuckles, two faces straining and panting into the grey.

Suddenly, another blade flashes.

Quirin topples.