Read Chasing the Valley for Free Online

them . . .
    A flash of gold curls reveals one of the twins: either Clementine herself, or her quieter sister. She tumbles backwards, falling from her foxary’s back to avoid the blast of a guard’s pistol. The riders are Radnor’s refugee crew, disguised as foxary mercen­aries to sneak out of Rourton.
    It’s a brilliant plan – no one would suspect that a bunch of refugees could afford such a disguise. But even brilliance isn’t enough to survive King Morrigan’s guards and somehow the plan’s gone wrong. If they’re captured, they will die. They’ll be hauled off to the guillotine and beheaded at dawn, in the same market square where traders sell tea-leaves and crickets sing their way into cooking pots.
    I have to do something. I can’t just hang off a wall and watch the guards take them. The thought of Teddy’s grinning head beneath a guillotine, or that quiet twin sobbing as they lead her to the blade, makes me feel like vomiting. I’m a hundred metres from the gate; if I can just distract those guards, get them to chase me into the wilderness, maybe in the confusion we can all get away . . .
    There’s an empty turret above and to my left, with no signs of human life through the guardrail. I’ve been climbing at a diagonal without realising it, inching along the wall to find the safest handholds. I struggle up the rest of the wall and throw my body over the rail. There’s a rifle stand but no gun in sight. I guess the guard from this tower was clearheaded enough to take it, even while fleeing the bombs.
    A wooden crate squats in the corner, half-concealed by shadows and smoke. I shove up the lid with a grunt and scan the contents through watery eyes. A hessian lunch bag. A box of matches. A pair of climbing picks: the portable handholds guards use to scale the city walls quickly.
    And two emergency flares, ready to blast into the sky.
    Â 

 
    Â 
    I stuff the lunch bag into my coat. The climbing picks go into my sleeves, ready for quick access. I hesitate for a moment, then thrust one of the flares down my trouser-leg. The cylinder is cold against my thigh and its fuse scratches my skin, but I’ve run out of pockets and it might be useful later.
    The second flare won’t survive long enough to worry about ‘later’. I position it on the turret floor, pointing up into the sky. The fuse isn’t very long – a metre at most – and I tug on it uselessly, half-hoping it might extend like a coiled ball of wire. But it just flops to the side, frail and thin upon the stones.
    â€˜All right,’ I whisper. ‘I can do this.’
    I open the matchbox, trying to control the trembling of my fingers. There are only four matches inside. I strike my chosen match against the side of the box, fingers tensed. Nothing happens.
    â€˜Come on,’ I mutter, and try again. Nothing. For a second I’m afraid the matches have been ruined by mildew or rain. I can hear screaming from the gate now and the faces of Radnor’s crew flash through my head. Even though they’re a hell of a long way from being my family, all I can think is: I can’t let them die. Not again.
    The match sizzles into life. I almost drop it in surprise, but clench my fingertips tighter and cup my other hand to shield the tiny flame from the wind. It seems so fragile, compared with the bombing fires tonight. But this fire is going to save lives rather than destroy them.
    I press the match against the fuse. It catches immediately: a rush, a whoosh and then a sparkling trail of flame runs along the wire. I leap across to the turret’s edge and thrust the climbing picks into the crumbling mortar between a pair of bricks. Then I’m over the edge, clambering down the far side of Rourton’s wall. It’s much quicker with the picks to help me, and I’m slipping and huffing down the wall like it’s just another