Fire Wolf Page 18

  As one of the Nordlin guardsmen turned his back, Garrett slipped past him through the open gates. Although he wasn’t confined to the city, he also didn’t wish to be seen by the Nordliners or any of his men who might have ventured out for an evening at the taverns. He didn’t need anyone in his business, and he was enjoying the short reprieve of being constantly spied upon with Malcolm remaining in Turris to protect the queen. That man was a blight.

  Garrett took the long way around the tent city outside the Nordlin walls before slipping into the woods. White covered the bare tree limbs and blanketed the forest. Even without the moons’ glow, it gave the impression of light, especially so near the torchlight of the city.

  “Lyulf?” he called. He knew he was there, somewhere close. His howls had punctuated the night since the Ostens arrival in Nordlin. He watched Garrett, or maybe he was watching the girl? Garrett couldn’t be certain of which. Not when it came to that oversized gray monster of a wolf. Several twigs cracked to the right. Garrett frowned. “I can hear you.”

  Still, the wolf didn’t emerge from the thickets.

  Garrett stilled, searching the dark. Silence. Not even a breeze rustled through the forest.

  “I’m serious, Lyulf. Come out already. If you jump me again, I’ll skin you.”

  A sound, high-pitched like a whistle, broke the stillness.

  Garrett dropped to the snow, narrowly avoiding an arrow. Instead, the tip of the weapon lodged in the tree to his right. Reflexively, he went for his swords, only to grab empty air—they were still in the guardhouse.

  With a curse on his lips, Garrett pulled a long, curved knife from the strap crossing his chest, and kept his body low. Another arrow came. He rolled to the right as it struck the snow. Two more followed in quick succession. Garrett moved, staying just ahead of them as they sailed into the dark. He took shelter behind a thin Whispering Ash tree, its leaves providing a hint of gold in the dreary white and black of the forest.

  Footfalls. Two men. Three men. It was hard to tell. They were closing in on him from the north.

  Garrett crouched, berating himself for not having his swords, but he had been attempting to follow Edgar’s request that the Osten guard remain unarmed while in Nordlin. At least Garrett had had enough common sense to carry a few knives.

  He let out a breath, stilling the riot in his mind so that he could hear his surroundings. The whisper of movement, the control of breath, the rush of the river to his left … and two distinct footfalls crunching the snow almost in unison. They were flanking him.

  Three, two, one …

  Garrett jumped up, immediately throwing a left strike with his knife, slashing downward, then a right strike, with another downward cut in the opposite side, driving the first of his opponents in retreat. His enemy brought up a sword, blocking the blade, even as Garrett worked through the strike movements to find penetration points along the man’s body. Nothing stuck. He jabbed and cut upward, blocked the sword, and then spun to land a kick to the man’s ribs. The blow knocked him into the ground.

  Before Garrett even had a chance to breathe, the second man came from the left. The assailant deflected the blade as Garrett brought it down on his companion in the snow. Garrett retreated, moving backward while keeping both opponents in sight. The second man wore a crossbow strapped to his back on his left side. His weight was off-balance, even with the single-handed broadsword in his right hand. It also impeded his movement on the left side. The first man was thinner framed, wielding a broadsword that was too heavy for him, and he probably didn’t even realize it.

  They circled.

  Garrett pulled another knife from the leather strap across his chest. A hunting knife and throwing knives against two broadswords? He had lived through worse odds.

  But he was still in trouble.

  This was not the best formation to fight multiple opponents. It left him too vulnerable, too many places exposed. Still, he could work with this.

  He threw the smaller knife. The blade sank into the thigh of the first man. He cried out, almost losing his footing, and the second man advanced. The sword slashed toward him, and he brought the hunting knife to block. The metal issued a horrible protest as it collided. While he had the sword blocked above him, Garrett slipped under his opponent's defenses with his left leg and kicked him in the knee. As his enemy dropped, his control of the sword wavered, and Garrett, rounded past him, slicing the man’s left shoulder. He shouted.

  The first man limped. Blood coming down his pants to drip steadily in the snow. The wound was nasty, but not fatal. Had he managed an artery, Garrett thought, he would bleed out in minutes. He gripped the broadsword, advancing on Garrett with quick, repeated slashes. Right, then left, jab. Garrett’s body flexed forward to avoid the tip; he barely missed the end of the sword in his stomach.

  Left, jab, block; right, right, block, jab. This time the weapon grazed his chest. The sting of the wound reminded him he was still alive. This wasn’t over yet.

  The second man was up, joining the first. Garrett was back to two, in a bad fighting formation, and no way to defend both sides at once with only a knife.

  Garrett pulled another throwing knife and launched it at the first man. This one went into his right shoulder. He shouted, and his grip on the sword faltered. Garrett rushed forward to take advantage of the man’s weak arm, but the second man jumped between them, driving him away from the first.

  Garrett’s breaths were becoming ragged. His blood, warm and hot and sticky, dripped down his chest. He could feel the moisture on his skin. He blocked a swing aiming for his head, and then took a knife to his left side. It was shallow, but his muscles knotted. He stumbled backward, lost his footing as he slipped in the snow, and went down hard on his side.

  When he looked up, the man’s arms were raised over his head, the blade angled to drive it through Garrett’s chest. His breath caught. It was in that moment, a heartbeat away from death, that he heard a low growl and then saw a wave of gray and white fur fly over him and attack the swordsman.

  The cries of Garrett’s attacker exploded. The wolf snarled and growled, echoed by the man’s screams. They carried on for seconds that felt like hours before Lyulf released him, backing up to position himself between Garrett and the men. The first man scurried to his feet and rushed to the second man, helping him up. Blood marred the white, following their footprints as they retreated from Garrett and the wolf, and then ran when they had paced far enough away that they felt secure enough to turn their backs.

  The wolf’s hackles lowered. The folds of his lips relaxed to cover his bloodstained mouth, and when he turned his head to take in Garrett, he whimpered and then sniffed and licked at Garrett’s wound.

  “I’m all right,” Garrett said, brushing Lyulf away. The wolf pushed in again, pressing his snout deeper into Garrett’s wounded side. “Really, I’m fine.”

  Garrett pushed him back, and the wolf stilled.

  “Thank you, Lyulf.” He rubbed the fur in the space between his large, erect ears.

  Lyulf licked him from chin to forehead.

  “Gross,” Garrett protested as he wiped the blood-soaked wolf slime from his cheek. “You know, you could have helped sooner.”

  Lyulf huffed and sat in the snow beside him.

  “Just because I can handle myself, doesn’t mean I don’t need help from time to time.”

  Lyulf grumbled.

  Garrett sighed, shifting to his knees. “I’m sorry, but this was the first chance I could get away from Phillip. I was able to talk to Myah tonight.” Garrett winced and pressed a hand to his side, and then got to his feet. He used the trunk of a tree to steady himself; the gray bark scratched at his palm. “You mind explaining to me why you are protecting her? She’s not her.”

  Lyulf sniffed and then rose to all fours. The wolf pushed his body into Garrett’s.

  “Fine,” Garrett bit out. “Show me.” He stiffly moved so that he could place his forehead to Lyulf’s and closed his eyes. His bloody
hands found purchase in the soft gray tufts below his friend’s ears.

  The magic flowed between them in an endless wave of fire.

  Flashes of Myah in the snow, hand clasping a companion’s, as they stood around a shallow grave with two other cloaked figures. One he recognized as Cal Raymond—the same idiot who had just stabbed him—but he could not see the faces of the other two.

  Skye Lamar and Cal riding from the city, heading toward the river.

  Caves, an endless network of caves at the water’s edge.

  Myah and her uncle visiting the refugee camp, distributing supplies. A man, dressed in the rough trousers and threadbare shirt and cloak of a peasant, held a flaxen-haired child, her eyes so blue they practically glowed.

  The eyes caught his attention.

  Where had he seen her before?

  The vision spun leaving only a single figure of a man exiting the city gates. His hood covered his head, the fabric low enough to cover his eyes, and a cowl of fabric covered his nose and mouth. The image followed him from the city to the caves. It was then the man turned around, dropping his hood. He threw out his arm as if ordering him away. He then pulled down the cowl from his face and shouted.

  Garrett sucked in a breath and pulled away from Lyulf. The magic relinquished, and Garrett was once more a mess of blood in the Nordlin woods.

  A mix of emotions twisted through him. Fear, anger, sadness.

  Rage.

  What was that man doing in Nordlin?

  ~TWENTY-ONE~

  The clear, steady peal of a bell drew Myah from sleep. She lay in her bed a moment, processing the sound. Why was there a bell in her room?

  Its loud clang came again, setting her heart into a skitter as she realized what it was—the alarm bell from the guardhouse.

  She rose and grabbed her robe, throwing it over her nightdress, and shuffled into the hall. Several servants scurried past.

  “Why are they ringing the alarm?” she asked as she wrapped her robe tightly around her and tied the sash around her waist.

  “There was a wolf attack outside the city. They are expanding the watch.”

  “Who was attacked?” The refugees lived outside the city walls. Any one of them would be easy prey.

  “Cal Raymond.”

  Cal? Her heart leaped into her throat. “Is he all right?”

  “Don’t know, my lady. They are taking him to Master Griffith.”

  Myah couldn’t remember her trek across the castle, whether it took minutes or hours. She climbed the steps, rushed down the hallway, and pushed open the door to her tutor’s workspace.

  Cal sat on one of the cots, his clothes covered in blood. He cradled his right arm, clutching it close to his chest. His brow furrowed; his mouth pinched in agony. The pallor of his dark skin seemed off, paler if it were possible.

  Skye hovered to the right of him, balancing his weight on one leg. Blood soaked one of his pant legs and stained the rest of his clothes. Had they both been attacked?

  “Cal?” Her voice came as a question, although she couldn’t voice the million thoughts swirling in her mind. She crossed the room and knelt before him.

  “I’ll be okay, Myah. It looks worse than it is,” Cal whispered. The muscles in his face contorted, betraying the pain he felt.

  “They said you were attacked by a wolf?”

  Cal’s eyes cut to Skye, then back to Myah, before he confirmed her question with a nod of his head. Myah’s anger spiked. He was keeping something from her, she could tell, and that usually meant he was covering for Skye.

  Myah rose and turned around. “Was it really a wolf?”

  “Yes,” Skye bit out.

  He bounced on the one leg, trying to adjust his weight. He was pale. There was definitely something wrong with his leg, she thought, and then she noticed something else odd. His hand covered his shoulder, and blood bloomed on the fabric beneath his fingers.

  “Liar,” she hissed. “What happened to your leg?”

  “Nothing.” His eyes darted toward the back room where Master Griffith slept. The door was ajar, and she could hear her tutor moving about his private chambers.

  “What did you do?” she hissed.

  Skye shuffled to one of the cots and sat down hard. “What you couldn’t,” he whispered. His hands trembled.

  What she couldn’t? A wave of anxiety rushed over her.

  Garrett.

  They had done something to the Osten.

  “I told you I would handle that!” she chided, keeping her voice low. And, she was, in a way. Although he scared her, he also wasn’t what he seemed. “I told you to leave it alone.”

  “He’s dangerous,” Cal cut in.

  “I’m not disputing that,” she said, fixing her attention back to Skye. “But I specifically asked you to let me handle it, and you went behind my back.”

  “Really, handle it?” Skye scoffed. “I saw you dancing with him. I saw you talking to him. I see the way he looks at you when your head is turned. The only other person in this castle with a hungrier expression is Lord Phillip.”

  She stood her ground. “And I saw you too, Skye. Sitting with Alena, dancing with her the entire evening, acting as if I didn’t exist. So stop acting like a jealous suitor just because two men happen to show me attention.”

  “I’m not jealous, Myah, just appalled at your stupidity.”

  Her fists clenched. “Master Garrett is actually pleasant,” she defended, at least he had been since arriving in Nordlin. “I wish I could say the same about you right now.”

  “You should have let us take care of him when he first got here. You can’t trust him!”

  “Trust him?” She shoved her finger in his chest. “You want to talk trust. You did this behind my back!” she seethed.

  The noise from the back room abruptly stopped. Myah clamped her mouth shut as Master Griffith stuck his head out of the door. “Is there a problem?”

  Myah’s face felt hot, almost scalding from her anger.

  “No, no problem,” Cal interjected before Myah or Skye could say anything.

  The tension in the room coiled around her, compressing every muscle in her body. She felt surrounded by water, trapped under an ocean without any landmark to find the surface.

  “Myah?” her teacher pressed. His wise eyes narrowed at her.

  “It’s fine,” she insisted. She waited until the healer had disappeared into the back again before she spun on Skye once more.

  Anger flashed across his face. “I’m not the enemy, Myah,” he gritted out, keeping his voice low. His lip twitched in a snarl. “I’m doing what I must to protect this kingdom … and you.”

  “You have jeopardized this kingdom,” she barked in an angry whisper. “You lied to me and risked the lives of the people under my family’s protection. I thought I could count on you—on you both—to trust me with this.” She threw Cal a scathing look.

  Skye grabbed her arm. She eyed his hand, and it only took a second before he let her go. “My—”

  “Don’t,” she interrupted. “I don’t want to hear it.”

  Master Griffith emerged from the back room with several jars in his hands. “Here we are.” He wiggled one of the crocks.

  Myah took that as her cue. There was no way she was helping Master Griffith clean up those two idiots.

  She turned for the door and abruptly stopped, her slippered feet slid on the tiled floor. Garrett’s body filled the doorway. Blood dripped down his chest and his right hand pressed against his left side; crimson seeped through his fingers.

  “Let me guess, wolf attack?”

  His dark brows lifted. “Training accident,” he countered.

  “At two in the morning?”

  He shrugged the shoulder not bleeding. “I like to keep my men on their toes. Night is the best time to attack. Most people don’t expect it.”

  A throat cleared behind her. “Perhaps Master Garrett would like to take a seat while I administer to Cal and Skye. I will be happy to look at your
wounds when I’m finished,” her teacher offered. “Unless you’d like to practice some of your healing spells, Myah?”

  “Another time, Master Griffith.” Her sugary sweet words belied the sheer anger she felt at all of them right then. “My uncle expects me early to go over a few matters.”

  Garrett smirked at her and then leaned so that he could see past her. “I’d appreciate any assistance you can offer, sir.” His shoulder brushed her as he passed, his boots thumping on the floor, and he grabbed the stool that sat next to the fireplace, all the while ignoring the murderous glares Skye and Cal shot his way.

  Myah shook her head and absently pulled her robe tighter around her body. “Idiots,” she muttered, before descending the staircase.

  ~*~

  “I’ll agree to the export of coal, iron, and nickel, and the trade of wild game meat and furs, along with supplies of timber.” Edgar leaned back in his chair, his body relaxed, his expression neutral. If Myah did not know her uncle well, she would count him as indifferent to the trade discussion that Phillip had finally stopped brushing off. However, Edgar’s gentle finger tapping against the arm of his chair conveyed his agitation. Edgar thought Phillip asked for too much from Nordlin.

  Myah swirled the wine in her goblet before bringing it to her lips. She sat quietly on a settee across from her uncle in his study, observing the two men. She had tried to stay out of the conversation, to allow her uncle to take the lead in the negotiations.

  Phillip sat across from them both in the second armchair. He crossed his long, thin legs and pressed his pale fingertips together, creating a steeple. He tapped them together. “What of the whale oil? The queen prefers it to the coal, and she will be most displeased if that is not included in our trade agreements.”

  Myah set her goblet down. The fire snapped behind her. “We do not hunt whale on the open water. Any resources we culled from them were only taken when an animal dies in shallow water or beaches. It is a rare occurrence, and not a practice our people are willing to abuse just to appease your queen,” Myah said.