Fire Wolf Page 6

  A better place? Everything in her gut told her Cal was right. The high ground, trapping them in the ravines cut by the river, and the river itself—even her uncle would have agreed with Cal. But she knew the look on Owl’s face, the muscles tight and the lines etching his skin in a way that said he had thought about it and taken in all the variables in a way that others couldn’t.

  “Where?” Myah asked.

  Owl looked up at her, holding her gaze. “Oasisian.”

  Cold fingers of dread prickled Myah’s skin, and she shivered. Was he serious? “We’re going to ambush them at the City of Kings?”

  Oasisian had once been the capital of the four kingdoms—the City of Kings—because it was the stronghold of the royal house of Esparrow. It had been destroyed eight years prior when the Osten army sacked the city and killed the royal family.

  “The ruins will give us good cover, and it’ll allow us to flank the convoy on three sides, and trap them by the river on the fourth,” Allen added. “They also will not expect the attack from there. No one wants to go near there these days.”

  Myah agreed with the strategy, but the thought of venturing into the ruins of the former capital scared her. The Ostens killed half the people in the attack, and a fire had decimated the rest of the city, making it uninhabitable. Tens of thousands had perished that night. Nothing remained now but a maze of fractured stone walls, a trail of cobblestone streets, and the ghosts of the dead.

  The thought of venturing to Oasisian made her stomach flip until she wanted to throw up. Her balance wavered, but Cal’s hold on her shifted subtly, enough to support her weight and steady her. His dark eyes found hers as if asking if she were okay, before he asked, “How many wagons total? We should not venture that far unless it is going to be really worth it. And frankly, a supply convoy could be five wagons or thirty, depending on what they are up to.”

  “Agreed. Riding all night for a pittance, without a quick escape, seems foolhardy,” Skye added.

  “I was told twenty by my sources.”

  Twenty wagons meant at least twenty men as drivers, plus their guards.

  “And how many men are coming with us?” Skye asked.

  “Everyone,” Allen answered. “Owl will stay here, of course, but the rest of us will go.”

  Everyone, Myah’s thoughts shouted at her. She quickly did the math. They had, at most, fifty men. Fifty men, to take on twenty wagons plus their guards, and get back through the wards near Oasisian? “That won’t work,” Myah said. She brushed her hands on her leather pants as she stood. Her friends rose beside her. “I can get a handful at a time back through the wards, but I can’t safely get all our men through, plus supplies. That is too much, and if we are pursued … We could lose a lot of people, Owl.” Not to mention, she would have to find one of the breaks in the wards her uncle had created. It was not as if she had them memorized. She was not technically allowed beyond the borders. Her uncle had only taught her how to read his magic in case of … in case every fear in his heart ever became a reality.

  “What if we took the supplies to the gap in the ward,” Skye offered. He placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently, and then let his hand fall away. “We can all slip back into Nordlin and pretend the wagons came with the refugees. Your uncle’s guards don’t know our men.”

  “And then I can bring the rest of us through one of the entrances,” Myah concluded, but the idea still left her feeling uneasy. “It’s still risky, Owl.”

  “But the timing couldn’t be more perfect, My,” Skye said. “And it would make that wait for supplies from the Stone Isles a little more bearable.” He raised both of his eyebrows at her expectantly.

  She sighed. “How much time do we have?”

  “None. We have to leave now if we’re going to be in position before dawn,” Allen answered. “It’ll be a hard ride to get there, but we’ll have the moons to light the way at least.”

  A flare of anxiety shot through Myah, worse than anything she had ever felt before. It was as if a warning, deep in her soul, whispered to stay away from the city. “You’re sure about the numbers?” she hedged.

  Owl pushed his glasses up his nose. “I’ve confirmed with two different sources. Neither knows each other.”

  “It would be the perfect blow to their army,” Cal said with a shrug. “A man can’t fight if he’s starving.”

  “The extra supplies would address the council’s concerns about the refugees. It would be a win for your uncle,” Skye added.

  Myah took a deep breath. The timing was not just advantageous; it was near perfect. Almost too perfect. But Skye’s expectant look and Cal’s wide grin made her second-guess the doubt.

  Hadn’t Master Griffith told her fear was the enemy? That she would have to learn to work through it or be held back. She had never been on a raid of this magnitude. Most of her efforts were providing cover from afar with her bow and arrows until it was safe for her to move in because her skill with a knife or sword was laughable at best. She could stay behind, she reasoned, but Cal and Skye had always kept her safe, and she knew they would again. Besides, if something happened and they could not make it back to the gap in the wards, only she could get them back into Nordlin. They would need her.

  No, she had to go, despite every instinct telling her she should not.

  “Then I guess we’re going to the City of Kings.”

  ~*~

  Garrett unfurled a map across the back gate of one of the wagons. “Hold that,” he commanded, and three men each moved into position to keep it from curling up or blowing away in the gusting wind. They all shivered in the cold wind, even the torchbearers who held the light overhead so that he could review the route one last time with Malcolm.

  “If we’re ambushed, it’ll be here.” Garrett stabbed a finger at the map.

  Malcolm leaned over the parchment. “I disagree.” His second in command drew his finger down the line that marked the road. “Here.”

  Garrett’s entire body tensed. A passing wave of rage slithered through him just looking at the sketching of the former city on the map. If he could, he would cut the ruins from existence with a knife.

  He had forgotten they would pass the city on the way to meet the army. Lords, he hated that forsaken place. He had called Oasisian home for most of his childhood, and he knew every pathway of its labyrinth-like streets. He easily remembered the smell of the fresh-baked bread wafting through the air in the early morning, and the stench of too many bodies in close quarters in the summer in the older sections of the city, where wealth and privilege were as foreign as the languages spoken in the islands in the south.

  He also remembered the night it burned. The memories were always as painful and as fresh as the day they happened.

  Subconsciously, he curled his left hand, noticing only as the scarred flesh flexed in the torchlight.

  He really hated reminders.

  “The ruins are open ground. The road near the ravines makes more sense strategically,” Garrett argued.

  “Which is why they’ll choose the ruins. They can hide there, strike with an advantage, and then disappear into the maze of old walls and fortifications,” Malcolm countered. “Besides, my source—”

  “Do you really want to trust another source after what happened last time? Elysia won’t tolerate a second failure,” Garrett pushed.

  Malcolm growled. “There is nothing wrong with my sources. I know—” Malcolm closed his mouth, cutting himself off. The muscles in his jaw ticked. “If these vermin are any good at planning, sir, they’ll know we’ll expect them on the road between the high ground and the river. They’ll select an alternative location we won’t expect.”

  Garrett wanted to swear. Malcolm was right. And worse still was that Malcolm knew he was right. His dark eyes pierced Garrett in a silent challenge.

  Garrett could accept the recommendation and give Malcolm a win in their game, or he could ignore the advice and potentially mess up the plan. Although the second choice
was far more appealing, it could also jeopardize his place as master of the Elite Guard, and he could not give Malcolm that win.

  “Both are good options,” Garrett said instead, his gaze fixed on Malcolm’s unyielding glare. “Take half the men, and round south, cutting through the forest. You’ll meet back up with the road … Here—” He tapped the map west of the place he thought the best option for an ambush. “You’ll then come east on the road until you meet up with us and the wagons.”

  “You know I’m right,” Malcolm hissed. “This is a waste of time. You just—”

  “Take the men, Malcolm,” Garrett cut him off. His voice dropped low, menacing.

  His anger burned hot, like fire in his veins, a storm of wind and flame whipping into a frenzy. If Malcolm wanted to command, he would have to take it the same way Garrett had—by killing the former master of the Elite Guard. The leadership had always been claimed through blood, through loss in battle. Garrett would need to deal with Malcolm soon or end up with a knife in his back.

  “One of these days, you’re going to lose her favor.”

  Garrett flexed his fingers again. Lords, he itched to pull his swords and end him. He smiled, locking down every emotion in his body driving him to murder.

  “Take the men, Malcolm,” he repeated evenly and then retrieved the map. He rolled it back up but did not dare look away from the men surrounding them. The tension hung heavy around them. Every muscle in his body was taut as a bowstring poised to loose an arrow.

  Malcolm threw his hand to his heart in a salute and then bowed slightly at the waist. “Sir,” he spat out and then spun, his broadsword clanking at his hip.

  “The five of you go with him,” Garrett said to the men who had been hovering around them, listening to every traded barb between master and commander. He did not need them stirring the pot in Malcolm’s favor—not tonight. Not with the long day ahead. He didn’t have the stomach to deal with a formal challenge on top of everything else, and Garrett had been aware of the guards’ feelings toward him since he’d killed their last master five years prior. Not a single man appreciated being led by a master five years younger than the guards’ most junior member. Garrett had been sixteen at the time, and that animosity had not changed.

  The men acknowledged him and then slipped off in the direction his second had gone, taking the torches with them.

  Garrett scrubbed a hand down his face. Weariness made him ache to his bones, and he craved sleep, at least a few hours, before they continued into Namir.

  ~SEVEN~

  Acold breeze nipped Myah’s cheeks, and she pressed her back against the stone ruins to get out of the wind, huddling down and leaning toward Skye. The back of his hand brushed against hers, sending a shot of warmth through her. Her eyes sought his face, and he half-smiled when he caught her looking at him. He squeezed her fingers and then stood to peer through a crack in the wall.

  They had been in these ruins, just off the road, at the City of Kings since before sunrise. Some of the men dozed where they sat, others were scattered in the woods alongside the road, but not too far from the ruins, while a few others scouted and kept watch for the Osten supply wagons.

  Myah shivered, unsure how much longer she could sit without freezing to the bone. The morning sky had darkened to an angry gray with patches of blue lingering to the south. The sky reminded her of the old stories when spellweavers could still command the elements, and they would summon violent storms and earthquakes at will to destroy their enemies. Those tales had given her nightmares as a child, even though they were meant as a cautionary tale as to what happened when the gift of magic was abused. The keepers of elemental magic—fire wolves, gray water whales, the white sky owls, and the black earth badgers—had cut off the spellweavers access to their magic around the time the four kingdoms were formed, but after the spellweavers had shattered the moon in two. Never again would a spellweaver harness the elements, and cut off from their human counterparts, the sacred animals had faded into legend.

  And now, here Myah was, in Oasisian, the former seat of spellweaver power that had been turned into a graveyard. Bones, picked clean by carrion birds and rodents, still littered the fields in the area. The marrow was bleached white by the summer sun and still half-protruding from the earth after eight years of freezes, thaws, and floods.

  Myah often wondered if their spirits were trapped here, much like their bones.

  The thought gave her chills.

  She needed to think of other things.

  She pressed a hand to Skye’s back, drawing his attention. She gestured with her chin toward the road, and he shook his head.

  Nothing yet.

  A lot rode on the timing of this raid, and everything going in their favor. If they were off even a little, they would miss getting back through the wards with the refugees and be trapped by the army.

  These Ostens needed to hurry up and meet their fate, Myah thought.

  Myah slid up the wall to stand and tapped Skye on the shoulder. She gestured to the Whispering Ash trees that climbed above the crumbling walls around them. The ancient trees maintained their golden, weeping, vine-like leaves year-round, and made the perfect place for spotting.

  She picked up her bow and quiver, throwing the leather strap over her shoulder. Silently, she skirted around the waiting men and headed to the nearest tree. She could feel Skye’s presence as he followed her through the maze of old streets and buildings.

  “Give me a boost?” she asked Skye when they reached the base of the tree. She secured her bow across her torso for the climb.

  Without hesitation, Skye interlaced his fingers, creating a step in his hands for her. She placed her boot in the hold, and with a slight jump from her and lift from Skye, she launched into the air and grabbed the lowest branch. She swung from the limb a moment, before kicking her leg up to hook the branch and then shimmied until she sat upright.

  Myah was about to spin around when she felt Skye’s hand touch her ankle. She peered down.

  “My,” he said, “if anything happens, if this goes wrong ... Don’t look back. Don’t stop. Just run for the nearest break in the ward and get home.”

  The lines of his jaw had hardened, intensified, and the look in his eyes made her breath catch. He was worried—just as she was. But she, Cal, and Skye had always done things with one understanding: They would always have each other’s backs. She trusted them; they trusted her to do the same. Today would be no different, she told herself.

  “You wouldn’t leave me,” she said, maintaining eye contact. “Why would you ever think I’d leave you?”

  He held her gaze and opened his mouth as if to answer, but then he quickly closed his mouth. He was hard to read sometimes, usually hiding behind arrogance and bravado, but Myah had learned all his vulnerable points over the last two years—she was one of those points.

  “Just please … promise me,” he said.

  “I only make promises I can keep,” she countered. She did not want to think about what might go wrong. Not right now. Not when everything about this place made her stomach tie in knots. Not when each moment longer it took the supply convoy to pass the city meant they risked missing getting back through the opening of the ward.

  She climbed several branches higher and could see the turn of the road to the east, where the road curved alongside the river, up to where the road curved again in the west. The rest of the great city hovered behind her, a ghost of its former self. The ruins became denser the closer they stood to the old palace.

  “Myah,” Skye called.

  She looked down, and he pointed at his face. “Put your scarf on,” he reminded, before returning to his position with the other men.

  Myah did as he said and pulled the cloth over her mouth and nose before she retrieved her bow and several arrows. When she looked at the road again, she saw the first signs of horses, wagons, and soldiers on horseback coming from the east.

  She sucked in a breath.

  Sure enough, her ta
rget ambled down the road. A procession of heavily laden wagons and twenty men emerged from the tree line, entering the section of the road that would have them trapped between the Nordlingrace River and the ruins.

  She threw her black, wool-lined hood over her head to cover her red hair. The hoot of an owl called twice—the signal the Ostens were almost there—the men below her rose, their bodies stiff from the cold, riding all night, and prolonged stillness. They drew their weapons, Skye included.

  With a deep breath, she readied her weapon and focused on their unsuspecting prey. They were closer now, easily within range of her bow, but not close enough for the others to ambush them.

  She sucked in a breath and drew back the string. One eye focused on her target; the other concentrated on the periphery of her vision, awaiting Skye’s signal to shoot. The fletching tickled the side of her cheek at her anchor point.

  The soldiers were almost upon them now. Skye raised his hand. When it dropped, Myah’s arrow sliced through the air with a whine before finding a home in the body of the lead soldier on horseback. It struck him in the side of his torso just below the ribs. His horse reared up when he cried out, and it tossed the man to the ground before racing down the road at a gallop. A volley of arrows flew in the wake of hers, downing the drivers of the wagons before they could flee, and finding homes in several of the men on horseback.

  The commotion, the shouts of surprise and pain, unsettled the horses. They pranced and snorted, forcing their riders to draw back on the reins to steady them or risk being thrown. In the fray, Skye and the others on the ground made their move.

  They rushed from the shelter of the ruins and the wooded areas and surrounded the wagons, weapons drawn.

  The remaining soldiers shifted about, no doubt looking for an escape, but finding none except the river rushing past them.

  Myah set another arrow and took aim, but she did not let it loose. She scanned the scene, her eyes ever watchful for anything amiss. The first of the Ostens to move would be the first to take her arrow.