FIRE PRINCE will be released on Oct. 19, 2021. Keep reading for a sneak peak of the first chapter of the second book in the Fire & Reign series.

Fire Prince

Fire & Reign Book 2

By H. Danielle Crabtree ©2021

 

Chapter One

Soot, salt, and blood sucked the last of the moisture from Skye Lamar’s lips. His tongue smacked the roof of his mouth in search of a hint of saliva, but found only more of the same. His tongue swept across his chapped lips too, yet all he uncovered was the taste of death. Revulsion twisted his stomach into a knot.

He cleared his throat and sucked in a breath, letting the cold Nordlin air chase away the heated fatigue aching every muscle in his body.

Four hours had passed since Nordlin’s people had fled the city and sneaked past the Osten army lines.

Six hours since the Ostens breached the castle.

Eight hours since they had executed civilians in the lower city, hanging their bodies from the walls like decorations.

Sixteen hours since the attack started with the trebuchets igniting the west end.

Sixteen hours since Skye had sent Cal to protect his family and get them out of Nordlin, then went in search of Lord Edgar and Myah.

Twenty hours since he had seen Myah last, twin flames of fury sparking in her blue eyes over his dalliance with Alena Bell, and days that felt like forever since the last time he had tasted Myah’s soft mouth and had felt the warmth of her fingers pressed into his.

Now, Skye counted the hours until he found her.

A guardsman shuffled down the line of refugees, his boots sticking to the frozen ground cover, and making him bump into Skye as he stumbled past him.

Skye steadied the shaggy-haired man with a gloved hand. Scratchy bristles darkened the guard’s jawline, and dirt smeared his cheeks and forehead, his bare hands an equally blackened mess.

“Thank you.”

The din of yelling men and women, screaming children, and crying wounded nearly swallowed the man’s tenor. The guard’s eyes squeezed shut, then reopened. A deep breath filtered past his lips, ghosting white amid the darkness. He swiped a hand down his face.

“Can you tell me where Lord Edgar is?” Skye asked.

“Just ahead.” The guardsman’s arm jutted out, pointing to the front of the procession of refugees.

“Thank you.” Patting the man’s shoulder, Skye pushed ahead, picking up his pace.

Crunch, crunch echoed his footfalls as he carved a fresh path in the frozen ground.

“No! Keep them moving.” With a single arm, Lord Edgar gestured wildly, securing the reins of his horse with the other.

As the throngs of people passed him, the creature pranced beneath him, and Edgar received a reverent touch on his foot, his shin, his knee, and any other part they could reach—as if to reassure themselves that their high lord was not a ghost.

“You there!” Edgar shouted at a member of the Nordlin guard. Black hair jutted out from the guardsman’s head as he jerked his chin in the lord’s direction. “Take more men to the rear to protect the retreat.”

“Lord Edgar.”

Attempting to draw the high lord’s attention over the noise, Skye waved his arm above his head. His black cloak snapped like a banner around him. The leg injury from the fight with Master Garrett in the woods, near the Nordlingrace River, stung and burned when he picked up his pace. It had had less than a week to heal.

“Lord Edgar,” Skye tried again.

This time, Edgar drew his horse around, cutting the distance between them with a few strides of the animal’s long legs. “What news?”

“Master Griffith is seeing to the worst of the injured, but many more have burns, broken bones, and open wounds.” Skye had not seen that much devastation since the initial assault on the capital of Namir—before he and his family had fled to Nordlin. “They won’t all make it to Glacier’s Edge. We’ll need to find a place to camp.”

Edgar dragged his hand down his face and cursed. Nordlin’s main army camped in the far north, at Glacier’s Edge and Frost Bay, protecting the water borders not warded by Edgar’s magic. The high lord had sent a message to the commanders as soon as the Osten army attacked Nordlin City, but without enough food or supplies, and with the number of injured, their people would not make it through the mountains.

“What about my sister and niece? Were they helping Griffith as I thought?”

“They—” Skye paused. His lips clamped tight, trying to find the words, the right words to break the news to his friend’s uncle. “No. They weren’t, and no one has seen them.”

Pushing back his blond hair, dripping with snow, from his soot-smudged face, Skye glanced back toward the fallen city. An orange glow ignited the cloud-covered sky, as if someone had set it ablaze along with the capital.

“I-I think they might still be in the city.”

“I need you to find them, Lord Lamar. The Osten commander is executing the captured nobles. If he has Caitlyn and Myah …”

Skye squeezed his eyes shut and rolled his neck to loosen his tight muscles. The last day had been a nightmare, but if Lady Caitlyn and Myah were among the captured, Skye would get them out. After all, he had a lot of practice sneaking into Osten-held outposts. “I’ll find them.”

“Take a handful of men with you, but don’t engage the Ostens unless you have to. Get in and get out. Understood?” Lord Edgar ordered.

“Understood.”

“I’m taking the group to the lakes. Meet us there.”

Skye knew exactly how he would get back into the ruins that had once been their home, and if Skye were lucky, he would get to drive a knife through Master Garrett’s icy heart for leading the attack on Nordlin City.

Garrett deserved worse.

~*~

Like roaches scampering across fresh food, the Osten army tore apart the lower city, making it difficult for Skye and the four men who had joined him to get inside its walls.

Screams sundered the night as Ostens swarmed the old town. Distant wolves wailed in commiseration of the misery. Dark, menacing laughter caught on the wind, igniting Skye’s blood with rage. The fate of the people who remained would be no better than the bodies already dangling from the walls, the corpses’ heads on pikes above the shattered main gate.

Skye bounded up the staircase that bisected the city, leading from the old town, with its open timber-constructed homes, to the hilltop’s wood and stone townhouses outside the castle grounds. It had been Myah’s favorite way to get into the old town without having to pass the homes preferred by the nobles, which were closer to the castle.

Skye’s steps halted when the debris partially blocked the staircase. He probed the pile with his foot, testing that the mess would hold his weight, before he climbed over the fallen construction. Near the top, one townhome’s wooden beams had splintered, toppling sideways and blocking the stone steps entirely.

“What now?” asked Kropf, a former castle guard. His deep baritone rumbled to the rhythm of the burning, chaotic night. He was a sizeable man, with hands large enough to crush rocks as if they were walnuts.

“Main road,” Skye suggested. “Stick to the shadows.”

Breaking into a jog, he ignored the pulsing throb in his leg. He would be lucky to only be limping come sunrise if the wound kept protesting, but it would be worth the pain if he got Myah out alive.

They followed the winding road, past broken homes and shattered debris, catching the sound of movement—horses, pounding feet, shouting men, and screaming women.

Three of his men, including Kropf, flanked the shadows on the opposite side of the road. Skye gestured for them to take cover, and they slipped into the gapping maw on the side of one home. Together, Skye and the other man hurried into an alleyway to their right, crouching against the wall.

An Osten soldier on horseback, tall in his saddle, strutted up the road. The shuffle of booted feet echoed the horseshoes against cobblestone, moving away from the castle. With their approach, Skye and the Nordlin guardsman sank lower behind the barrels in the alley, waiting for the Ostens to pass.

When a heaving wave flew passed his lips, Skye realized he’d been holding his breath. Then, they were moving again, almost to the castle, almost to Myah.

Stealthily, he guided the quartet through a break in the wall that led from the orchard into the practice field; a curtain of ivy hid the access point year-round.

Nothing but rustling wind sounded as Skye drew his sword. Body crouched, he took the steps from the practice field upward, painstakingly slow. Had it been only days since he stood at the top of that wall, looking down at the field while Myah and that Osten guard master spoke? Knowing to the marrow of his bones that Master Garrett would be her undoing?

He ascended into the courtyard, and the four men following him spread out along the perimeter. The castle appeared intact, at least, and Skye knew all the servants’ passages and obscure hallways thanks to Myah.

The question was: Where would they keep the prisoners?

After leading them into the garden entrance, they moved through the maze and stopped at its center, their presence hidden by the tall shrubs and absent light.

“Let’s split up,” Skye whispered. “Kropf, come with me. The rest of you search the castle. If you find the prisoners and you get the chance, free them and lead them out. Otherwise, the priority is Lady Caitlyn and Lady Myah. We’ll meet back here.”

They branched out from the center of the maze, taking the various pathways leading into the heart of the castle. Skye’s steps followed the path toward the entrance of the great hall. He could imagine that Osten swine Phillip Rainecourt, the heir to the Ashen throne, sitting upon Edgar’s seat, his legs draped over the arm while he praised himself for his victory and manipulation of the future high lady into believing his visit was peaceful.

The muscles of his jaw strained as Skye gritted his teeth, his hand fisting tighter around the pommel of his sword.

When they entered the stronghold, they noticed the ceiling had collapsed in several places, exposing the covered walkway to the burnt red sky.

Kropf tapped his shoulder and gestured to a pair of Ostens dragging bodies from the corridor. The staccato sound of boots scuffing the stone stopped, and the men holding the arms and legs of the corpse chucked the body over the side.

Both Ostens leaned over the wall and cheered when the corpse landed somewhere on the steep, rocky hillside of the north side of the castle. 

Skye swore under his breath, his simmering anger about to reach a boil. Gesturing to the men, he pointed at Kropf. The bear-sized guardsman nodded, a low growl of affirmation rumbling his Adam’s apple.

They emerged.

Skye fought every movement of his leg muscles to make sure his injured leg did not give him away as he crept out of the maze toward the Ostens, the wound radiating fiery pain through his thigh.

The pair of Osten soldiers still leaned over the wall, laughing and pointing at something.

Kropf tapped his man’s shoulder, and the Osten spun around, his dark eyes a mask of shock as Kropf plunged a knife through his throat, stifling any sound that might have given them away.

The second soldier didn’t have time to react before Kropf slammed him into one of the intact columns that supported the roof. The Osten’s head struck the stone before his chin fell against his chest—his head bobbing on his neck like a boat on the surface of a lake during a thunderstorm.

Slowly, the man’s chin lifted, his glazed eyes blinking at Skye and Kropf.

Skye braced the man’s other shoulder with his left hand. “Hey,” he barked, low and menacing.

The solider, an older man with gray touching the tips of his black hair at the temples, lifted his chin and blinked at them again. Dirt smudged his cheeks, and he had a faint, unwashed stench to him.

Lifting his right arm, Sky angled the tip of his sword against the man’s chest. “Where is the woman with the fire hair?” he demanded.

“Don’t know,” the Osten gasped.

Skye stepped back, releasing his grip on the man while Kropf placed both of his burly hands on his shoulders. With one heave, the soldier’s feet dangled a few inches above the pathway. He cried out a warning, and Kropf slammed him back hard against the column.

“Where are they?” Skye growled.

Hand shaking, the Osten pointed toward the great hall. “In a closet near the hall. The commander—”

Skye shoved the sword into the man’s chest, and the blade slicked with red as he withdrew it. He didn’t care to hear what the commander had planned.

The instant Kropf released his hold, the Osten crumpled, his body sliding sideways into a heap on the ground. Skye stepped over the dead man, the blood spilling onto the gray stone staining his boots.

Kropf’s hand suddenly grabbed his arm, stalling his steps. “We should wait for the others. There are a lot of men that way.”

Skye angled his chin, catching the hum of voices that came from the great hall.

Five men could not fight an army.

Not unless Myah had learned some serious skills with her magic since the last time Skye had watched her practice.

Anticipation thrummed inside him as they returned to the center of the maze to find the others had arrived. Four servants shuffled uneasily while a few injured Nordlin guards were soot stained, bloodied, and broken—like the rest of Nordlin.

Skye’s gaze shifted to each of the men. How would he get everyone out and free the high lord’s family?

“We need a distraction,” he voiced.

“Agreed,” Kropf murmured.

“Suggestions?” Bending down to clean his blade on the ground, he wiped one side and then flipped it over to do the same with the other.

“This group takes the injured and servants out,” Kropf suggested, pointing to the three men who had accompanied them. “I will distract the Ostens while you get the Leichts.”

Skye hated the idea, but stealth had its advantages.

“Agreed,” Skye conceded with a sigh. “Get these people out of here,” he ordered the three guardsmen. They were all young, perhaps mid-twenties, with short blond hair and grayish eyes. Namirrian ancestry, if Skye had to guess. “Kropf, this is your idea. What do you have in mind for a distraction?”

A grin spread on Kropf’s lips. “You’ll know it when it happens. Just be in place.”

With a nod, Kropf disappeared into the maze, and the others retreated down the pathways toward the courtyard and practice field.

Skye took a deep breath and headed through the maze too, toward the great hall. He was eager to hold Myah, to see her alive, safe, and well. His beautiful friend.

He would have her in his arms soon, within minutes.

The hedges brushed his arms, his cloak, and hair as he slowed his pace, angling his body sideways to make himself small.

Ostens milled in and out of the great hall, but no one lingered before they shuffled back into the hall or toward the bailey.

They had thrown the double doors wide open, exposing the grand room to the frigid Nordlin air, and it took Skye a moment before he realized why—one door hung at an acute angle; its top hinge dangled from the doorjamb, while the decorative wooden plank had splintered at the hinge.

The storage closet lay past the damaged doors to the main hall, near a servants’ passageway.

Skye drummed his left fingers on his thigh as the minutes ticked away. “Come on, Kropf,” he muttered.

Bright red and yellow light flashed, and a loud boom shook the castle. On instinct, Skye ducked and threw his arms over his head, searching for the source of the explosion.

The bailey.

The soldiers in the great hall ran, drawing their weapons while heading in the explosion’s direction. Skye counted to sixty before he crept from the maze entrance and into the corridor in front of the hall. Staying in the shadows along the walls, he paused when he heard voices drawing near, only to filter off again.

When Skye reached the storage room, he shoved his knife between the door and the latch of the lock, to pry the metal piece from the wood. He hammered down on the end of the knife until the old, rusted mechanism popped.

His hands eagerly pulled off the metal piece the rest of the way, and tugged the door open.

Myah.

His mind, his heart screamed her name, and he smiled as he faced the occupants of the space. Relief, whole and pure like a summer rain, washed over him.

Caitlyn Leicht sat on the floor, her back pressed against the back wall. A figure, wrapped in Lady Leicht’s cloak lay beside Edgar’s sister, her head in Caitlyn’s lap, covered by the hood.

Overwhelming joy filled Skye. “Myah,” he breathed.

When the figure sat up, the hood fell away.

Instead of Myah’s blue eyes, Skye gazed into Alena Bell’s muddy brown.

A sob wrenched from Alena’s throat as she scrambled to her feet. She reached Skye in two strides and threw her arms around his middle, hugging him tightly.

“I knew you would save me,” she wailed.

Arms slack at his side, it took Skye a moment to process that Myah was not there.

 

FIRE PRINCE is available for preorder on Amazon today.