Fire Wolf Page 7

  She counted the wagons.

  One … two … three …

  “Surrender!” Skye shouted. “We have you surrounded, and there are plenty more arrows where those came from.”

  The guards looked at each other and then one by one tossed their swords into the roadway.

  Four … five … six … seven …

  Something was off. Hadn’t Owl said there would be twenty wagons?

  The men moved closer to the convoy to collect the enemy’s steel.

  Eight … nine …

  A wave of nausea swept through Myah.

  Ten wagons. Only ten wagons?

  With no more thought than breathing, she enhanced her eyesight and her hearing with her magic, and the world around her exploded into a barrage of color and sound. Heartbeats and exhalations, the peeps of birds and woodland creatures. The neigh of horses; the stomping of their feet. The slight movement of the burlap covering the back of the wagons.

  So many heartbeats.

  Too many heartbeats.

  Her senses rushed back to her at the same moment she screamed, “Skye!” Shrill and sharp and full of all the warning she could muster. “It’s a trap!”

  He swung around, finding her in the tree. As he turned, the burlap coverings flew off the back of the wagons and soldiers launched from the wagon beds. Myah drew her bow and let the arrow fly. Its tip piercing the throat of a soldier directly behind Skye, the blade of the man’s weapon already arching toward Skye’s neck. The body toppled into the road, and with it, a melee of armor and leather-clad men.

  The roar of battle cries shut out the forest sounds.

  Skye grabbed one of the rear guards by the shoulder and pulled him from his horse. The man landed half on his side, but he rolled and drew his sword. He was on his feet seconds later, throwing up his arm to block as Skye brought his sword down on him. The metal rang as it collided.

  Cal was not far from Skye. He took on two of the guards with an almost rehearsed resolve. He used two thin swords that were lighter and required the wielder to come in close to make the kill. He kicked one, spun, and sliced the second, before ducking to avoid the broadsword aimed for his head. Myah let the next arrow loose, hitting the guard at Cal’s back in the side. He dropped with a scream, clawing at his side, trying to dig the arrow out of his bloodied flesh. Cal silenced him shortly after when he spun in a circle, slicing the man’s throat, and then jumped forward, driving both weapons into the second man’s chest.

  “Retreat!” Allen shouted. His booming voice vibrated the very stone of the earth.

  The men scattered for the ruins and the woods, the Ostens hard in pursuit.

  Myah maneuvered down the branches, keeping her eyes on the enemy, more so than the limbs of the Whispering Ash. When she reached the lowest branch, Myah surveyed the landscape. The roadway turned not far from them, cutting off her field of vision, and the roar of the Nordlingrace River made it impossible to hear the whine of wagon wheels or the clop of horse hooves. But her instincts told her the men in the wagons were not the only surprise.

  Her breath caught.

  A full patrol of Osten soldiers, riding hard to reinforce their comrades, rounded the corner to the east.

  And from the west, more Osten soldiers, cutting them off from the rendezvous in Namir.

  Myah’s heart leaped in her chest as she threw herself from the tree.

  ~EIGHT~

  MOVE!” Skye shouted to Myah, even before her feet hit the ground.

  A pair of horses leading the patrol leaped into a gallop; their riders drew swords, brandishing them to the side while their other hands held tight to the reins. Their hoofbeats were like thunder, roaring amid a storm—disorienting and captivating all in one breath.

  He grabbed her hand, dragging her with him as the pair of Osten soldiers followed them through the ruin. She ran hard, straight into the trees with Skye. She glanced over her shoulder once. Three horsemen pursued Cal and Allen, and eight other soldiers on foot sliced through the trees behind them, searching for the men who had managed to escape the road. The road that had become a graveyard.

  “Keep going,” Skye said, shoving her. “Just keep running.”

  Myah nodded but ran as Skye had ordered. Branches whipped her mercilessly, and she threw up her arms to protect her face. She ran blindly, her boots catching on brambles and ivy covering the forest floor, hidden by snow, until her chest heaved and her sides burned with sharp pain. Only then did she dive behind a large tree, struggling for breath. It came ragged, hard, and hot with the cloth covering her nose and mouth. She searched for Skye, and it was then she realized that he was not with her.

  She heard the clang of steel on steel and peered around the tree. Skye fought one of the soldiers and more were coming. She had to help him.

  Myah fumbled for her bow and grabbed for an arrow. Her trembling made it difficult to set the arrow, but when she finally managed to nock it, her muscle memory from years of shooting took over.

  Holding it at the ready, she spun to where she had last seen Skye. He was on the ground. The man he had been fighting stood over him, holding the hilt of his blade with both hands. He lifted it high, about to drive the tip through the young lord. She gasped and let the arrow loose. It struck the Osten in the back of the neck. The man sucked in a hissing, gurgling breath before toppling forward to the ground, and Skye scurried to his feet.

  “Skye,” she called, alerting him to her presence. Her voice was a tangled mess of fear and anguish.

  When their eyes met, she saw relief in his. He jogged toward Myah. Skye was only halfway to her when more soldiers cut her off from him. He stopped, darting his eyes to her and then back to the Ostens.

  Myah gasped and ducked behind the tree to hide before they could see her. She inched back to watch and caught a glimpse of Skye as he took off in the opposite direction, leading the group away from her position. She heard a cry and then a splash and smiled. Skye had dumped at least one of his pursuers in one of the bogs that pocked the forest.

  She let out a relieved sigh and then froze.

  A single figure lingered near her position.

  He was not dressed like the other soldiers, but the signet of Ost—a Whispering Ash tree blazing red with fire—adorned the breast of his cloak. A hood obscured his face. He carried thin swords in each hand. The plants around him barely rustled as he walked, unless he sliced the branches in his path, and even his boot prints were missing from the wet earth. She had never seen anyone move through the forest with such silence, or without leaving a mark for someone to track.

  He bent down, examining something in the mud, and then looked in her direction and stood.

  Myah nocked an arrow and took a deep breath to steady her nerves. She stepped out completely from behind the tree and fired. The arrow sliced through the air but did not strike her target. His twin blades spun in front of him and deflected the projectile. It bounced off the flat edge and landed somewhere to his right.

  The movement dislodged his hood; his appearance left her shocked.

  He was her age, if not slightly older. His inky-black hair covered one of his eyes, and the rest of his hair appeared to bleed into the scarred tissue—burn marks?—marring the left side of his throat and parts of his jawline closest to his ear.

  She retreated a step as he continued his approach.

  “You know who you and your friends have attacked, don’t you?” he asked.

  Myah nodded in response and took another step back—away from the nightmare sent to devour her.

  She reached into her quiver. Only one arrow remained—where had they all gone?—but she pulled it out and set her bow. He moved slowly, as if he felt no rush in ending her existence, and she did not intend to let him. Her limbs tingled with fear.

  “Please don’t be foolish,” he said. “Surrender.” He lifted his blades into a ready position in front of him and continued to advance on her. “Besides, you already tried that approach,” he pointed out. His lips twitched
into a smirk. He rotated his weapons, one clockwise and the other counterclockwise. The hilts rolled in his hands as he walked.

  Myah pulled back on the string and backed away, so as not to allow him to gain more ground on her.

  He straightened his left arm, extending the blade toward her. He lunged, and Myah jumped back, almost losing her footing. He did the same with the second sword, but this time, it did not startle her. He was toying with her, testing her reflexes, and no doubt hoping she would release her only means of protection before she had the perfect shot. She only had to keep him at bay, get one perfect shot, and then run—fast—for the wards. Nordlin City was a distance away, but the boundary with Nordlin was close. She would find safety in the shelter of her uncle’s magic.

  “You’re not going to get away,” he said.

  “I’ll wager you’re wrong,” Myah replied. She pulled back harder on her bowstring and locked eyes on her target—his heart.

  It took Myah only a split second to register the man’s actions. He rushed at her with frightening speed. However, in that same second, she took a chance and released the arrow. She did not wait to see if it had found its mark. She ran into the woods and did not look back.

  ~*~

  Skye crawled on his stomach through the brush and snow as he climbed up a low ridge that gave him a clear view of the road. His body ached; his fingers and feet were numb. Sleet and snow scattered down from the dark clouds above. The wind, a howl of whistles and hisses, made it difficult to pinpoint the enemy and only added to the cold, wet misery of the day.

  The Ostens hunted him. They had not stopped hunting since the attack at the ruins.

  He had lost sight of Cal and Allen when they scattered.

  He had lost Myah in the forest, even though he had circled back for her.

  Lords, where could she be?

  A branch snapped and Skye froze. Someone was close.

  He gripped his knife the best he could with his half-frozen fingers, and lifted off the ground, rolling onto his right side. Two horses cut through the brush, only their legs visible through the bramble of leafless plant life.

  Ostens.

  He was sure of it. Why else would anyone be riding in the woods when the road was so close?

  Skye pulled his sword from the sheath at his hip as quietly as he could and shifted his weight to his feet, keeping his body in a crouch position. Mud caked his chest and pants. It reeked of animal waste and decay from his trudge through the bogs around the ruins.

  He ducked his head. He could see the equines’ shoulders and boot-clad feet crammed into the stirrups.

  They came closer.

  Skye leveled his sword in front of him and drew back his left arm with the knife. He would hit the first one as soon as he could fully swing—

  He stopped. The wave of relief made his right arm drop, as if all the strength had left him.

  The horses lurched backward, the one closest to him slamming into the second horse.

  “Lords, Skye,” Cal hissed, trying to calm the animal. “You about stopped my heart.”

  “Sorry.” He shoved his sword back into the baldric, before taking in his friend. Mud and blood marred his clothes, and two stripes of red painted lines across his face, as if someone had dragged bloodstained fingers across his dark skin.

  “You hurt?” Skye asked.

  “No, but Allen took a sword to the gut.” Cal gestured to the second horse.

  The older man slumped forward in the saddle, his hand pressed to the wound. Allen looked up at Skye. Sweat beaded his forehead, and the glassy look to his eyes screamed of barely controlled pain.

  Cal held the leather leads, tugging the black gelding along with his. “Get on behind, Allen. We need to go or we’re not getting back into Nordlin.”

  Skye mounted behind the injured man. Allen groaned with pain, and Skye did his best to steady him. “Did you find Myah?” he asked, taking the reins from Cal.

  “I thought she was with you,” Cal countered.

  “We got separated. I led them away from her, but I haven’t been able to find her.”

  Cal cursed. “She’ll have headed for the wards—like we should be doing. We will find her on the other side. The Ostens are still milling around, and we’re running out of time.”

  Skye glanced back in the direction of the city. What if she didn’t make it through? What if they had taken her? What if—?

  “Skye,” Cal cut into his thoughts. “She’s smart. She’ll get to the wards.”

  “You’re right,” he responded to silence his own doubts. “Hold tight,” he said quietly to Allen, and then kicked the horse into a walk and Allen into a fit of agony.

  ~*~

  Wolves howled in the distance, but they were not Myah’s only companion. The soldier was out there, hunting her. His relentless pursuit left her aching and fatigued. Her mind felt addled. Thirst had left her tongue feeling thick in her mouth.

  She crouched behind a tree, not daring to sit down for fear she would be unable to get back up. The wind surged through the trees, and with it, scattered sleet touched her nose. She looked skyward.

  The dark sky she feared would soon open its full wrath.

  Myah stood.

  In the stillness, she could hear his movements when he drew close enough, but not so close that she could not keep evading him. Now, she was not sure if the weather was a blessing or a curse, whether it would aid in her escape or assist him in his pursuit.

  “Keep going, Myah,” she mumbled. It did not matter which way she ran; she was lost. She had no idea where the border was, but she had to find a ward point.

  Every step felt heavy and loud as she pushed through the frozen underbrush. Branches smacked her in the face, slicing little lines across her exposed cheeks. She closed her eyes and raised her arms to shield herself, but the stings from the trees’ backlash bit her hands and underarms through the cloth of her sleeves.

  As she broke through the thick barrier of bare plant life, Myah lost her footing. She shrieked as she slid down a rocky slope. Her hands dug into the earth to stop her descent. She landed hard in the bed of a rocky creek and lurched forward from the jolt, taking her to her knees.

  Myah cried out in pain and toppled into the water. The coolness of it froze her, and she stiffly extracted her body from the shallow stream. The wind rushed through the open space. The currents of air sifted past the wet barrier of her clothes and touched her skin as if she were naked. She shivered; the shaking did not stop when the gust died down.

  She was going to die—if not by his hands, then lost in the recesses of the forest.

  Myah fought back the urge to cry, but her breaths came in shuddering gasps. Her chest tightened and she could not breathe. She pulled the cloth from her face. She sucked in the cool air; her eyes closed.

  Please, she thought, let me survive this.

  The wind shook the trees, the water trickled, the wolves’ cries grew closer, and mixed with all of it was a strange whistle.

  She opened her eyes.

  Myah threw her body to the side, landing back in the water. A knife bounced off the rock in the spot she had stood.

  He had found her.

  Myah scrambled, still lying in the water, and managed to get to her knees. She grabbed the knife and crawled to her feet, her joints stiff and frozen as she rose.

  He jumped into the creek bed. His boots splashed in the water as he crossed. She stumbled away from him along the edge of the stream, trying to find a spot where she could climb out of the recess—the embankment was too high for an easy escape.

  She stole a glance over her shoulder. He reached for her, almost touching her. With the knife in her right hand, she spun, lashing out with the weapon. The blade missed him, and he grabbed her wrist. With her free hand, she pulled her bow from where it crisscrossed her back and swung the shaft at his face. He caught it with his other hand, snatching it from her as if her grip was nothing, and he wrenched the arm caught in his grasp, forcing it until the
knife clattered against the round stones at their feet. A scream tore from her throat as pain lanced down her arm from her wrist to her elbow to her shoulder.

  He shoved her and released her arm at the same time, sending her into the water. The rocks stabbed and bruised; she writhed in pain, trying to breathe through the agony crippling her.

  He picked up the knife and replaced it in a sheath that hung on one of two leather straps across his chest. The straps held five additional knives. He bent down, grabbed her arms, and hauled her to her feet by the front of her tunic; her toes barely touched the ground.

  Myah’s throat constricted, but she held his gaze.

  She kicked out as hard as she could, nailing him in the shin of his right leg. He did not flinch. She lashed out again, striking her knee against his thigh. The force set him off-balance, and he stumbled to the left, releasing an arm.

  She tumbled backward, landing on her rear. Pain shot up her tailbone, spidering into her buttock and lower back. Before the throbbing could leave her fully, she dug her heels in and scurried backward, trying to put distance between them. She fumbled for a palm-sized stone as she fled.

  He pulled one of the double swords from where it hung on his back, the hilts curved up over his shoulders like demon wings.

  Myah threw the stone wildly, and he sidestepped it with grace, bearing down on her. He lifted his arm; the sword angled to cut downward, to kill her.

  Myah sucked in a breath, and threw her magic outward like water, praying it formed a shield. The pink hues trickled in front of her but faded in tiny flashes of light like fireworks. She was too tired, too weak, too …

  She closed her eyes. Hot tears burned her cold skin as they slid down her frozen cheeks.

  The wind picked up, howling through the unsheltered channel. It prickled every inch of Myah’s skin, blasting through her damp clothes. A chill raced up her spine when the gust died.

  It was not the wind marking her end, but the cries of the wolves.

  Myah would die to their song.

  ~NINE~