Free Chasing the Valley by Skye Melki-Wegner Page A

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.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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 . . .
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 smellthem die.
    I slide down from our foxary’s back. My feet aren’t too steady and I almost slip when I land in the