Chasing the Valley (27 page)

Finally, I allow myself to collapse. I feel ridiculously exposed up here: no trees, no boulders, no cover at all. We lie upon a bare expanse of rock, in full view of both the mountains behind us and the fortress ahead. If my illusion fails, we are dead. All our lives rest upon my shoulders. It's a frightening thought.

After several hours' rest, we treat ourselves to a meal. The tastiest supplies are running low now; we polish off the last of the oranges and nuts. There are enough oats to last weeks, but no one fancies eating them raw and we can't afford to waste water to soak them.

When the sun goes down, the wastelands look almost beautiful. The plains turn a murky orange, and the mountains behind us glint gold with snow. Ordinarily I might enjoy this foreign sight – so unlike the smog-choked haze of Rourton – but now I'm just impatient. The sooner it gets dark, the sooner I will feel safe.

‘Look,' says Maisy. A flock of birds wheels over­head, swooping across the darkening sky. ‘Aren't they beautiful?'

I frown at the birds. As far as I can tell, they're trying to catch insects. From an insect's point of view, this wouldn't be a beautiful sight but a deadly horror. Just another bloodbath upon the wastelands. Then I tell myself off for being so morbid.

‘Time to get going?' I say.

Teddy shrugs. ‘A few more minutes, I reckon.'

Soon, shadows are chasing the last hints of gold from the sky. We gather up our orange peel (‘Better not to leave a trail,' says Maisy), and slip the magnets back into a pack. After one last glance to ensure we've left nothing behind, I lead the others out across the plateau. Not long after this, however, Teddy points out that it might be safer to leave the packs behind.

‘In case we gotta run for it,' he says, dumping his pack in the shadows of the overhang. ‘Safer not to be weighed down, I reckon. Always easier to flee a crime scene when you're travelling light.'

I pick out the flare and a couple of waterskins, and pocket a cooking knife for good measure. Then we add our packs to the pile and disguise the site with fistfuls of sand. I take a mental note of nearby landmarks: a double-layered plateau, and a pile of crumpled boulders. If we get away cleanly, we might have a chance to reclaim our packs on the way back to the Knife. And if we don't get away . . . 

Well, best not to think about that.

We walk for half an hour, using the moon to guide us. It's dark enough to move with confidence now. No one will see us from up in the fortress, not in these shadows. The only real danger is that I might trip over a bump in the rocks. The fortress itself is mostly dark, except for a couple of windows with lights on.

‘There mustn't be many people staying there,' says Maisy.

‘I guess the Curiefer mission is pretty secretive,' I say. I don't mention my first reaction, which is sheer relief. If there was an army of people inside the fortress, I don't think I could bring myself to blow it up. Not even if it meant stopping a war.

About a hundred metres from the building, we start to look for higher vantage points. Teddy spots a taller plateau to our left, so we take a detour to set ourselves up on its rocky peak. It's far from an ideal launching point for the flare, but at least it provides a decent view for Maisy to influence the flames.

‘Can you see the biplanes?' whispers Maisy.

I scan the shapes up ahead. A stone wall encircles a generous patch of wasteland. A tower rises up on one side of the area, but the wall blocks the other portion of the compound from view.

‘No,' I say. ‘I think there's a yard or something down low, next to the tower. Should we aim for that, do you think?'

‘I reckon they'd store the Curiefer in the tower,' says Teddy. ‘That's what I'd do.'

‘Maybe,' I say. ‘But a flare won't do much damage to a tower.'

We stare at the fortress in silence, trying to weigh up the various options. I get a little antsy as the minutes tick by. I don't want to be stuck out here, exposed on the plateau, for another day of sunlight. The hunters might have figured out our route by now – they could even be combing the wastelands for signs. We have to finish this tonight.

‘Come on,' I say. ‘Let's just make a decision. The tower or the yard?'

‘The yard,' Maisy and Clementine say in unison.

Teddy hesitates a moment, then nods. ‘Yeah, all right. I guess one little flare wouldn't do much good against the tower.' He pauses. ‘You should fire it, Danika. It's your flare, and you're the one who brought down the plane.'

‘That was an accident,' I say. ‘It was just luck.'

‘Well, maybe you'll get lucky again.'

I step to the edge of the plateau, as close to the fortress as I can get. Clementine hands me the box of matches. I tip out our single remaining match, and hold it up against the moonlight. It doesn't look too healthy, but it just might be enough.

‘Ready?' I say.

The others nod. Maisy steps up beside me, ready to strengthen the flame. Teddy balances our flare upon the edge of the plateau, pointing straight at the fortress yard.

‘All right,' I say. ‘Get ready to run.'

I strike the match. It doesn't catch, but I strike it again and this time there is a sulphuric sizzle. Maisy cups her hands across the flame and it grows – in fact, it grows so quickly that I almost drop the match to save my fingers. But I force myself to hold on and press its nib against the fuse.

Psheeeeooh!

The fuse catches immediately: a whiz of sparking light and metal. I drop the match and grab Maisy's arm – together, we run back across the plateau. The others are already metres ahead, sprinting to get as much distance as possible between their bodies and the fortress. We only have a few seconds, I know, until the spark will reach the gunpowder . . .

Nothing.

After half a minute of running, we stop to look back. The fuse has finished burning; there is no sign of light upon the rocks. But the flare has not exploded, or shot into the sky. My gut sinks, filling with a horrible cold. The flare must have been too damaged by its repeated exposure to water and frost and snow.

‘Well,' says Clementine. ‘At least we tried.'

There is a horrible laugh from the shadows behind us. Then a figure steps into the moonlight.

‘Oh yes,' says Sharr Morrigan. ‘You certainly did.'

 

 

 

Sharr smiles at me. She doesn't even look at the
others. ‘Hello, Danika. It's not every day I meet the girl who blasted my cousin out of the sky.'

‘He deserved it.'

‘Oh, I don't doubt that. Lukas has always been a disappointment to the family.' Sharr takes a step forward. ‘I think his father was secretly relieved when his plane went down. A martyred prince – a hero, even, fighting for his country – murdered by a filthy scruffer. Can you imagine the publicity coup?'

I stare at her. No one speaks.

Sharr takes another step towards us. Her hair gleams like a dark mirror beneath the moon. Are there other hunters nearby? Have they spread out to search for us, or are they lurking just out of sight?

‘Better for Lukas to be a martyred hero,' Sharr says, ‘than a snivelling brat who won't even fulfil his duties.' She laughs at my reaction. ‘Didn't you know, Glynn? My cousin was a secret embarrassment to the monarchy. The king would have named
me
as his heir, if it weren't for that brat getting in the way!

‘I thought I had it in the bag, you know. Lukas was dead, and I would be the one to capture his killer. I would be known as the Great Huntress, the Royal Avenger . . . the papers would have lapped it up. The king would name me heir to the throne. I could set Taladia on track to her rightful future, as the greatest empire ever known.'

She steps forward again. Her eyes glint.

‘But you slipped through my fingers again and again, and turned me into the laughing stock of the hunting corps. And then my cousin had the temerity to track me down in Gunning. Do you have any idea how distraught I was to discover the brat was still alive?'

Sharr clenches her fists. She looks barely in control of her emotions – a flare just waiting to explode. But she takes a deep breath, blinks hard and forces that smile back onto her face.

I think suddenly of the cooking knife that I took from our packs. My fingers flex towards my pocket, as subtly as I can manage. If I can just grab the knife without Sharr noticing, perhaps –

Then Sharr pulls out a pistol and aims it at my head.

My fingers retract. I know instantly my knife is no use against a gun. To attack Sharr now would be to sign all our death warrants.

Teddy gives an angry snort. ‘What, you're using a gun? You've forgotten how to use your proclivity?'

‘I don't use Flame against people who share my talent.' Sharr flicks her gaze towards Maisy for the first time. ‘I'm not as stupid as your smuggler friend. Why do you think I shot those useless hunters with bullets instead of fire? One of them was a Flame user, just like me.'

I remember the bodies in the forest outside Rourton. Two hunters with bullet holes in their skulls. ‘Why did you kill them?'

‘They questioned my authority,' says Sharr. ‘No one challenges me and survives.' She smiles and cocks the pistol. ‘Least of all a filthy scruffer like you.'

A gust of wind trips across the rocks. I want to step backwards, to flee the range of her pistol, but I force myself to stand my ground. Getting shot in the back is not how I want to die. ‘Are you going to shoot me?'

Sharr laughs. ‘Not unless you force me to. I'd rather get my glory through a live capture and public execution . . . it's much more impressive than a dead body. But if you don't cooperate, I might shoot your friends.' She shifts the gun towards Maisy.

‘Stop! I'll come with you, all right? Just don't –'

‘Good,' says Sharr.

She whistles: a long, low sound that echoes across the plateau. There's a moment's pause, then a pile of rock rears up from the earth, twisting into the shape of a human in the night. It solidifies with a flicker of unnatural energy and there is suddenly another hunter before us. Obviously his proclivity is Stone.

Another hunter melts down out of the air itself. He paints himself out of the night like a walking shadow. Darkness. The nearness of his power makes the back of my neck itch again.

He slaps a pair of handcuffs around my wrists, then grabs my shoulder to keep me from running. But I have no plan to run. Not while these hunters surround my friends, or while Sharr Morrigan keeps her gun trained on Maisy's face.

‘All right,' says Sharr. ‘Let's go.'

 

The hunters escort us to the outer walls of
the fortress. Before the gate is opened, they stuff our mouths with gags and tie blindfolds across our eyes. I wriggle my nose, shifting the fabric to get a glimpse underneath, but Sharr spots my action and slaps me across the cheek.

‘Don't even think about it, you little brat!'

There is a noisy creak as the gate opens. The hunter's grip tightens on my shoulder and he yanks me forward across the threshold. The earth changes beneath my feet, from a boggy sand into solid cobblestones. I know now that I was right about the yard. We are clearly still outdoors, because I can feel the night breeze, but we are within the outer walls of the fortress. This yard must be where the biplanes are kept, ready to launch their assaults upon unwitting cities. Cities like Rourton. Ready to blow families like mine into pieces.

A new burst of hatred surges through my veins. I wish I had another chance to light that flare, to blast this place apart. But I'm useless now: just a blindfolded girl staggering through the dark. How did I ever think I could take on the palace and win? I have been so stupid, so arrogant. We should have listened to Clementine and run for the Valley when we had the chance.

We walk on cobblestones for about twenty metres. I feel so vulnerable without my sight; my only clues about the world are the stones beneath my feet and the hunter's pressure on my arm. Back in Rourton, I knew an old scruffer who'd been blinded by an alchemy bomb. He learned to see with his hands, his ears and his nose – he could even identify which street he was on by its smell. I often saw him perform this trick for richies in the hope of earning a few coins.

‘The corner of Goddert and Waverly Roads,' he would say, tapping his nose. ‘I can smell the baker that way, and there's a sewer on me right.'

Now, I try to copy some of his tricks, but I lack his years of practice to guide me. All I smell is metal and the sweat of my companions. At one point the wind stops abruptly, then starts again. Perhaps I'm walking between parked biplanes.

A door creaks open, and I know we have reached the tower. Hands yank me inside and the cobblestones turn to smoother tile beneath my boots. I'm not sure how many rooms are in this building, or where Sharr plans to take me, but I know the tower is large enough to house dozens of pilots. There seems little hope of memorising my route through the corridors – but still, I try. Left, right, up some stairs, another left . . .

I trip a few times on the stairs. My hands sting with the impact of catching myself, but it's better than smashing my face. Whenever I stumble, a hunter yanks me back upright and Sharr's nasty laughter filters through the dark.

When we have climbed four or five sets of stairs – and I have given up memorising Sharr's circuitous directions – I realise our footsteps are quieter. There are my own feet, of course, as well as Sharr's and those of the hunter who grips my arm, but no one else. I stop and twist aside, shouting muffled names through my gag. ‘Teddy, Clementine, Maisy!'

Sharr strikes me again. ‘Shut up.'

The hunter pushes me forward. I obey, but my heart is racing. Where have the others been taken? Will they be housed in a separate prison cell? Or will they be executed immediately, given shots to the head like those hunters in the forest?

I yank myself loose and stumble backwards. ‘Teddy! Clementine, Mais–'

Sharr smashes me across the forehead with something cold and heavy. I fall, unconscious.

 

I awake in darkness. At first I think the blind
fold still covers my eyes, but I can't feel any fabric. All I sense is a terrible throbbing and a trickle of blood down the side of my face. Someone is dabbing it. Are they trying to torture me? It certainly feels like it; they're pressing harder now, shoving gobs of fabric into the wound. I let out a moan.

‘Danika?'

I freeze. I know that voice . . .

‘Danika, hold still. I won't hurt you.'

I open my eyes. Lukas Morrigan crouches beside me, pressing a wad of material against my head. He has a gash across his own cheek, but it looks a few days old; the blood has dried into a crimson crust.

‘Where are the others?' I manage.

Lukas looks worried. ‘The others? They've been caught too?'

‘Yeah. Sharr caught us.'

Piece by piece, my pupils adjust to the dark. There is no sign of my crewmates, just Lukas, and the shadows. The realisation makes my stomach twist. I have to get out of here. I have to find my friends. But I can't do that yet – not when I've barely begun to grasp what's happening. I yank the fabric out of Lukas's hands. Then I take a deep breath to steady myself, and try to make a clearer assessment of my surroundings.

We are locked inside a prison cell, its rough stone lined with metal bars. The bars must be magnetic. That way, no one could use their proclivity – whether it's Air or Stone or Darkness – to slip between them.

The only light comes from the moon, which shines through a skylight far above our heads. It isn't hard to grasp the skylight's purpose. At noon, the wastelands' sun will strike directly into our prison cell: a trap of heat and misery. How better to keep your prisoners in check, than with the scorch of sunstruck metal?

And the skylight isn't a route of escape, either. The ceiling is at least five metres high; there is no hope of reaching the opening without a ladder. Even if my proclivity were Air, it would be no use; those same magnetic bars form lines across the skylight. I could probably squeeze between them without using any powers, but there's no way to climb that high. We are trapped.

‘You shouldn't be here,' says Lukas, sounding distressed. ‘I made a deal with Sharr – I handed myself over so she'd let you go.'

I stare at him. And for a moment, I forget the prison cell. I forget everything except the question that hangs in the air between us. ‘
What?
'

‘That's why I left you in Gunning.' His voice cracks, taut with tension. I can't tell if it's shame, or apology, or just concern. ‘I'm so sorry I left you. I'm so . . . it's just . . .' He runs a hand through his hair. ‘I thought she would catch your crew. Torture you. Kill you. So I left you behind, and I found her. I offered to trade myself into her custody if she would let you escape.'

I stare at him. ‘You're her cousin. Why would she want –'

‘She wants my place as heir, Danika. No one knows I'm still alive; my own father thinks I died when my biplane went down. I thought if Sharr had the chance to dispose of me and become heir to the throne, she would forget about your crew.' He shakes his head, looking suddenly broken. ‘Danika, I'm sorry. I tried. I just . . . I thought she'd leave you alone.'