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  Fire Wolf

  Fire Wolf

  Fire & Reign

  H. Danielle Crabtree

  Fire Wolf: Fire & Reign Copyright © 2019 H. Danielle Crabtree

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN: 9781093170795

  ASIN: B07QBM8QVK

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover art by Janice Duke

  http://www.janiceduke.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  H. Danielle Crabtree

  https://www.hdaniellecrabtree.com

  First printing: May 2019

  Dedication

  For my grandmother, Eliza,

  whose love shaped my life. XOXO

  ~PROLOGUE~

  Death.

  The stench lingered amid the acrid smoke still wafting from the debris of the burned village—a small, ramshackle cluster of buildings and huts gathered on the edge of a small lake. Fishing boats dotted the rocky shore, tied up at the water’s edge. The dinghies rocked back and forth rhythmically with the lapping water churned up by the wind, mere background noise to distract from the odor that permeated everything.

  Garrett could taste the ash on his tongue as he breathed in through his nose. The air choked him, gagged him, made him hate.

  The men—his men—not guarding the villagers raked through several of the structures that the fire had not fully consumed, sending up plumes of smoldering ash. The embers flashed red and orange and gold, and reminded Garrett of his life before the Elite Guard, when he had been just a boy, bound in service to the Royal Guard, and he would sit with his master, Oren Kendrick, around a campfire and listen to stories of magic and assassins and intrigue. He had eaten up every word, desperate for more, eager for the day that he would lead a regiment to defend the royal house.

  Garrett had imagined something more duty and honor-bound like protecting the prince from bandits, or saving the princess from all sorts of mythical, magical beasts straight out of the fairy tales his mother had once been fond of telling.

  Burning villages and destroying lives had not been included in that childish, yet grand picture of his life.

  Yet, here he stood, sifting through the wreckage of yet another shattered town.

  Serving his queen.

  The snow swirled in thick flakes that danced on the wind currents, causing the flames of their torches to jerk about violently. They lowered the fire to the remnants of the buildings and set them ablaze once more.

  Nothing left.

  Queen Elysia had issued her orders with icy authority.

  And Garrett had obeyed, steeling his heart, making himself cold, even though he burned with rage each time she commanded him to kill innocents so mercilessly.

  After five years of destruction, he felt like a dog, so worn down and damaged that he could not bite back. He wanted to tear a piece of flesh from her now.

  Using the tip of his sword, he poked through the ashes of the village’s tiny store, searching absently. Sometimes trap doors or hidden contraband revealed itself post-flame no matter how hard the villagers attempted to hide things from the Elite Guard. The queen was determined to give them no means of resistance. Even if that meant starving them into submission.

  But, the truth was, his men rarely, if ever, found anything of note.

  Garrett eyed the body to his right—the shopkeeper who had protested when they lit the torches used to ignite the buildings. His charred, withered body was all that remained of the old Namirrian man, who once hunched over when he stood and limped when he walked. Not even the man’s cane remained, so thoroughly the flames had consumed it.

  Garrett lifted his sword, holding it level as he turned in the former store. There was nothing there. There had barely been any grain or supplies in any of the homes before the fires had started. Those now sat atop his company’s wagons.

  He strode from the building, following the wagon-cut road through the maze of smoldering structures to the edge of the village. Smoke billowed past him, blotting the pathway before him in patterns of thick black and soft gray. The closer he got to the prisoners, the louder the cries became. Children screamed. Women sobbed. The old and infirmed moaned.

  But no men could be heard. Not a single husband or man of fighting age remained to defend their families against his guard.

  “Master Garrett.” Malcolm Roth’s strides were definitive, his boots crunching in the frozen snow as he came toward Garrett. Malcolm met him before he could reach the prisoners. The older soldier’s aged, weather-lined face reminded Garrett of leather left out in the sun too long, but his thick build and height made him an imposing figure. “Our men have found no signs of weapons or other illegal contraband.”

  Malcolm’s source had assured the queen that this village housed dissidents and stored contraband for the many resistance groups that had bloomed since the house of Ashen had taken the throne eight years prior.

  “Could your source have been misinformed?” With a smooth arc of his arm, Garrett slid his sword into the sheath he wore on his back. The muscles in his arms flexed and corded with the movement, causing the puckered, red scars marring his left arm to shift as if they were living flame. He hated those scars, and no matter what he did, he never seemed to be able to forget they were there.

  Malcolm lifted his chin. “Gabriel has not ever failed me before. More than likely, these villagers got word and moved the weapons before we arrived.”

  Possible excuse, Garrett thought. It would explain where all the men had gone, and like fools, they had left their wives and children to suffer in their stead.

  This had been a wasted journey.

  Garrett scanned the faces of the villagers, his eyes stopping on a flaxen-haired child with eyes so blue they almost glowed amid the white of the snowfall. She clutched a rag doll to her chest, even as her mother pulled her tighter to her own breast at Garrett’s scrutiny. Garrett remembered eyes just like the child’s. They had belonged to a pale-faced girl whose gift of magic had emerged as a small girl. Her magic had steadily built until it shown through her eyes, even when she was not wielding it.

  She was dead now, lost to betrayal, flame, and fear.

  The same kind of fear he had brought upon these people.

  “Gather the men,” Garrett commanded. “We’re leaving.” He could not stomach any more reminders of the past today.

  Garrett began to step forward, but when Malcolm did not move, he turned toward the older man. Age lines wore deep on the man’s forehead and around his black eyes, framed by thick black lashes and bushy, caterpillar brows. His unsmiling mouth, pressed firm into a line as if he had just sucked on something sour, reminded Garrett of the queen’s expression when her majesty was in an especially caustic mood.

  “Is there a problem?” Garrett asked evenly. Sometimes, the men forgot who was in charge of the Elite Guard. His youth often made his men bold with their challenges. And sometimes, Garrett had to remind them. He was not afraid to, as much as he loathed each death. It was a waste of life to deal with challengers, but it was only a matter of time before another one sought to claim his command. If Garrett were a betting man, his coin would fall on Malcolm.

  “No, but the queen’s orders were clear,” Malcolm insisted.

  “And what orders would those be?” Garrett countered coolly.

  “She ordered nothing left.”


  Garrett’s eyes darted to the prisoners, then back to his second. He understood his meaning, and he knew there would be no way around it now that Malcolm had reminded him.

  Curse this man.

  Bile rose in Garrett’s throat, and only years of practice kept his features schooled enough to hide his thoughts. This demon always forced his hand, but if he went against the queen’s orders, Elysia would remove him as master of the Elite Guard—a position that he needed to maintain.

  “Then we leave nothing,” Garrett said.

  He turned from his second in command, striding away at a steady pace toward the horses, his posture relaxed, but his mind in a torrent.

  When the screams rose up behind him, Garrett felt another piece of his soul die.

  PART I:

  The Jewel

  of the North

  ~ONE~

  Myah cupped her hands over her mouth, attempting to warm them with her breath. The air from her lungs turned to mist in the frigid morning, ghosting away like the black of night with the first rays of dawn. The gray light lingered even now on the horizon, giving them little time to work under the cover of night.

  She flexed her long, slender fingers, working out the stiffness before she climbed the evergreen tree, its branches thick with snow from the storm two nights earlier. She was seeking a clear view into the center of the small military outpost. When she found a spot high enough, she draped the leather strap of her quiver on a tree branch, and then straddled a neighboring limb.

  Mounted torches stood on either side of the gate’s exterior, and orange light flickered near the main building protected by the log wall. A single soldier paced the grounds, a cough from his throat rising across the distance. Faint, but harsh, as though he suffered from a lung infection. His body curled forward as he walked, and then straightened when the fit passed. Seconds later, he slipped inside the smaller of the two structures.

  She called forth her magic, focusing on enhancing her vision. The world around her lit up into a rainbow of colors and faceted hues, and then her eyesight rushed forward until she felt as if she were standing within the outpost. She scanned the area, searching for any signs of trouble she and her friends might encounter, but found nothing.

  No guards on the walls. No one outside the gate.

  Odd, but not entirely unheard of, she reasoned, given the time of day and location of the post in the border mountains’ pass.

  She let out a breath and released the magic. Her body shuddered, and she placed a hand on the trunk of the tree at her back to steady herself as her vision returned to normal. She blinked to clear the remnants of magic from her eyes.

  It was time to get to work.

  Myah clenched her thighs, bracing her body to give herself balance as she lengthened her spine, bringing her torso fully erect. Her dark cloak spilled around her body as she rose up. Then, with one over-the-head tug, she freed the bow crisscrossing her body. It snagged on her thick braid, pulling at the strands, before coming free. She brought it in front, her gloved hand gripping the shaft as she retrieved two arrows from the quiver hanging from the branch beside her. She nocked the first and placed the other between her thighs on the thick limb that supported her weight.

  Shadows shifted to the north of the outpost. She watched the ghosts of light flit toward the outer wall, following the natural edge of the small clearing. The specters stopped at the barrier of the fort.

  Myah took a deep breath and then exhaled, releasing the arrow with it. Her lips turned in satisfaction as the tip of the projectile embedded in the wood. She followed with the next one, placing it higher on the wall than the last.

  The shadows shifted up the wall, then arced over the top before landing in the interior.

  Her friends were inside.

  ~*~

  Skye landed in a crouch, his boots crackling the hay beneath him. He scanned the area, searching for any threat within the outpost, anyone who was alerted to his presence by the sound. His hand rested easily on the handle of his sword as he twisted from side to side. Nobody was about, and a prickling sensation skittered up his back. Where were the soldiers meant to be guarding the place?

  Cal landed beside him slightly off-balance, and nearly toppled to the ground and into a brown mare to their right. The horse lit into a series of agitated snorts over their intrusion. Skye moved quickly to the creature, whispering soothing words to settle the beast. His bare hands stroked the soft coat covering its long face. He smoothed the dark brown from her cheek and then down the front of her nose. Her head tossed once, twice more, before she quieted. She snorted and huffed and then returned to chewing on the hay in a long trough near the corral’s fence.

  He cut Cal a look and pressed a single finger to his lips, reminding him to be quiet.

  Cal’s shaved head tipped to the side. His jaw set, the muscles twitching along his jawbone, just before he mouthed an obscenity at Skye. It was not the common speech, but Cal had said it often enough that Skye knew it had something to do with what Skye could do with his own mother. Skye smirked. Cal could be a jerk, but he was still the best person to have at his back.

  Skye gestured to the gate.

  After a quick nod of his head to indicate which direction he was taking, Cal slipped behind the mare and hopped the fence. He stuck to the perimeter as he moved toward the guardhouse. He slid his sword soundlessly upward from its sheath and then carried it in front of him.

  Skye had meant for Cal to take the gate, but his friend had always preferred to be in the thick of trouble. Sometimes Skye wondered how they had survived their adolescence with their penchant for getting into scrapes, but then chalked it up to good luck and skill. Skye’s father had made sure they both knew how to handle a sword, and he and Cal had been training together since Cal had come to his family as a small child. Their bond of friendship made Cal predictable—at least to Skye.

  Skye followed a similar path along the wall but in the opposite direction. He slipped toward the gate as silent as a ghost on midwinter’s eve. Each step was precise as he kept watch for the enemy. A thick piece of timber barred the barrier, which slid across the entire doorway. Four wooden pegs protruded the beam, giving Skye a hint at the weight he could expect. He grimaced, and then gripped the first peg, pushing forward with all his strength. The timber scraped along its path. It was not impossible for a single man, but having several men to move it would have been a lot faster. He felt the strain with each step he took through every muscle in his back and arms and through his legs as he dug his boots into the frozen ground.

  Heaving a breath, Skye relaxed and let his muscles recover before he pushed against the peg once more. The beam slid clear of the first rung.

  “What—!” someone shouted. Skye stiffened, ceasing his effort for a second and searching the area. Still no one. What guards were here must be in the guardhouse, meaning Cal should be taking care of them in three, two, one … The man shouted again, but the cry fell short and ended in a grunt and the brushing sound of a body hitting snow.

  Skye kept working on the gate even as more noise erupted from the guardhouse. The sounds of furniture tossing and pottery breaking, but no steel, no shouts.

  “Only one guard.”

  Skye looked toward the sound of Cal’s voice. His friend, with a wide grin on his face, stood in the entryway to the barracks. He put his sword back in its sheath, which hung from the leather baldric strapped across his chest. His black cloak fluttered in the slight wind. He looked triumphant with the guard, facedown, at his feet, just outside the structure’s door. Blood speckled the white snow around the man’s head, the crimson stark against the white, even in the low light of the morning.

  “They must not like him, to leave him here at a post alone,” Skye panted out, pushing against the peg and eking past the second to last rung that kept the door closed. Sweat beads trickled down his back.

  Of course, it reasoned that they were in the middle of nowhere, in the mountains. It was not as if this was a high
-priority outpost for the Osten army. He, Cal, and Myah had targeted it for the same reason. Easy in, easy out. However, it still did not make sense to leave him alone. Unless … Skye swore, about to voice his thought when Cal continued.

  “I don’t like him much either. He smells like garlic and boiled cabbage.” Cal waved his dark hand in front of his face as if he could fan away the man’s stench. His lip curled on one side in disgust.

  Skye let out a short laugh and shook his head. Leave it to Cal to find humor in every situation. Skye stopped his efforts to catch his breath.

  “You’re just sore that you didn’t get to punch anyone else.”

  “True.” Cal nudged the body with the toe of his boot. “I almost feel sorry for him. Going through life smelling like yesterday’s bad lunch.”

  Skye rolled his eyes. “Speaking of lunch,” he forced out between breaths. “I’d like to be home before midday, so how about you put some distance between you and cabbage man, and help me with this beam? Myah will be here any minute.”

  With two men, the beam moved faster, and by the time they cleared the gate, Skye could hear Myah coming through the snow on horseback. She rode through the opening seconds later, leading Skye and Cal’s horses. She pulled her mare to a stop in the middle of the courtyard and then spun to face them.

  Her dark red hair, the color of oak leaves in autumn, hung over her shoulder in a thick, fishtail braid. She pulled the gray scarf from her face, revealing her cheeks, pinked from the cold. Her eyes were alight. Blue, like the color of a winter sky, and they glittered like sunlight on snow, as they always did after she used her magic to enhance her senses.

  She stole Skye’s breath every time.

  Myah tugged on a brown sack, tied to the front of her saddle, and tossed it in Skye’s direction. He plucked it out of the air as he walked toward her and draped it over his shoulder. Cal was right behind him.