Firefrost: A Flameskin Chronicles Novel Read online

  Firefrost

  Camille Longley

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

  Copyright © 2020 by Camille Longley

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by an electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  ISBN 978-1-952795-00-8

  Edited by Theodora Bryant

  Cover Design by Aero Gallerie

  Illustrations by Pauliina Hannuniemi

  Chapter Headings by Amanda Smith

  Map by Daniel Hasenbos

  To Grant—

  You are the origin of all my love stories.

  Chapter 1

  Sol

  Only a fool would bring horses into the pass when there was this much snow, and only a fool would attempt such a journey so late in the season.

  You could make it through on foot, with snowshoes; Sol had done it many times with Pa. But with horses? Forget it.

  Sol pulled on the horse’s lead line. “Come on, girl. Come on.”

  The horse whinnied and balked as Sol coaxed it through the snowbank. Ice crunched beneath its hooves and lacerated its skin.

  “Why are we going so slow?” Lady Isabella asked. She rode sidesaddle on a lovely mare, her elegant skirts draped around her.

  “The snow’s too deep,” Sol said, pitching her voice low.

  Isabella’s pouting lip was the only thing visible from beneath her mountain of furs.

  Officer Poulsen left Isabella’s side and stomped his way through snow to help Sol push the horse forward.

  “We should turn back,” Sol said through gritted teeth. “I told you this would be impossible.”

  “We have no choice,” Poulsen said. “Not unless you want these mountains to burn.”

  Sol yanked on the lead line. She hated the Tokken uniform they had forced her to wear. Since when had the Tokken armies done anything for her village? The Tokkens hadn’t offered any relief when the Flameskins had burned down their temple, or when they’d torched their fields. Not until they realized they needed a mountain guide did they ever offer aid.

  Sol wasn’t doing this for the Tokkens and their blasted war, anyway. No, she was doing this for her family, for the food the Tokkens had promised her.

  “We’ll stop at the bluff ahead for the lady’s lunch,” she said. “And I’ll scout out the easiest trail for us to take down this side of the mountain.”

  Poulsen nodded and they trudged on.

  At the bluff, Isabella’s maids quickly arranged a bed of furs on the ground for the lady to rest her weary body and started a fire to heat some food.

  Sol scowled at Isabella and her retinue. Two dozen soldiers had volunteered to join the winter caravan to Cassia, and they all hovered around Lady Isabella like a flock of besotted birds. They cooed at her and fawned over her, and she sent them running to fetch sticks for her fire.

  Lady Isabella was about Sol’s age, eighteen, and they both had the same green Tokken eyes and black hair. But Lady Isabella was a delicate flower who wilted at the first sign of inconvenience, and Sol was a huntress, born in the mountains and raised by its cruel winters and its wild ferocity.

  The horses barely moved when Sol brushed a hand over their necks. They were in pretty bad shape. The winter air was too cold, and the snows too thick and deep. She wouldn’t be surprised if they froze to death one of these nights. Isabella had forced Sol to lead eight horses up and down the Ulve Mountains. One horse to carry Isabella, and seven others to carry all her silly gowns and the dowry her father had promised her Cassian prince.

  Sol sighed as she marched down the slope. She was going to miss the Solstice Festival for this journey, and it felt like a betrayal not to be home with Ma during the holiday. But what choice did she have? If Sol hadn’t left, there would’ve been nothing to eat at Solstice, and that would’ve shamed Pa’s memory more than anything else. He had always made sure they feasted on Solstice. Always.

  As Sol descended the slope, the chattering of the ladies disappeared behind her, and the still winter forest enveloped her. This was what she loved about the mountains. The silence, the serenity. The forest was the only temple worthy of the gods. Sol stepped lightly, treading where no mortal had walked before, leaving footprints in the glittering carpet of crystal beneath her feet.

  She made quick time on her snowshoes and found one of the trails she and Pa had taken last year. This way was longer, but it wasn’t as steep and had been protected from the snow by the cliffs overhead.

  Sol kept waiting for Pa to appear on the trail as she walked: Listen, Sol, a pewter hawk. That’s an omen of change.

  She stopped and gazed at the hawk circling above in the blue sky. Pa would’ve known how to take care of the horses in the snow. He wouldn’t have let them suffer from the cold. Make sure to pick the hooves and keep them dry. That’s what he would’ve said.

  She sighed. It was going to be a lonely Solstice this year.

  Something disturbed the sacred silence of the winter. Sol froze midstep, straining her ear to the sound. Deer? The soldiers surely wouldn’t complain about fresh venison. They might increase her pay as well.

  The crunch, crunch of boots without snowshoes alerted her to someone’s approach. Had Poulsen come looking for her? She’d been gone longer than usual. Sol turned and saw a flash of red through the trees, and her heart skipped a beat in her chest.

  A Flameskin soldier.

  She crept forward and hid herself behind a large pine, then peeked around it to watch the soldier. Would it see her tracks? Ashes and cinders, she should’ve been more careful. Pa wouldn’t have been so careless. But there wasn’t supposed to be anyone in the pass, not this late in the season; that was the reason they had waited so long to go. Lady Isabella had delayed the trip until the Tokken Army had been sure the Flameskins had retreated for the winter and weren’t waiting to ambush them in the pass.

  The Flameskin soldier wore a red uniform with brass buttons crossing her chest. She was a true Flameskin and wore no hat and no fur coat despite the bitter cold. The heat of her demon pyra would keep her warm. She slogged through the forest with a hand on the hilt of her sword, taking a curving path through the woods.

  Had the Flameskin come to attack their party? Were there more of them?

  Sol’s heart pounded in her chest. She wanted to run, to tear through the woods and never look back. Flameskins were dangerous, and this one could kill Sol with the flick of her wrist. But if there were more, she needed to know so she could warn the Tokken soldiers.

  Sol steadied herself and started forward, sliding her snowshoes slowly and soundlessly through the powdery drifts of snow. It was slow progress, but she was as silent as a dryad in the woods.

  The trail the Flameskin’s footprints had left was clear, and Sol followed it, watching anxiously for any signs of Flameskin soldiers. She descended the slope and spotted movement in the valley between the trees. Horses. Tents. Red-uniformed soldiers. A Flameskin camp.

  Sol covered her mouth with her hand and stifled a gasp. If the Flameskins found her, the blue Tokken uniform beneath her fur coat would be a death sentence.

  She started back up the hill at a quick pace. She had to get back and warn Officer Poulsen. Sol silently cursed Isabella under her breath. They should never have come through the Ulves in the middle of winter.

  “Hey!” a man
shouted.

  Sol whirled around. A red-coated soldier stepped out from behind a tree a dozen paces from her. Sol froze in place as he marched toward her. Her hands shook and she tripped over her snowshoes, falling backward into the deep snow.

  “What are you doing out here?” he asked, peering down at her.

  “I’m—I’m a hunter,” she stammered.

  “You seen any travelers on the trails? Any Tokken soldiers, or a rich lady?”

  She shook her head. Ashes. They were waiting to ambush Lady Isabella.

  The soldier narrowed his eyes. “You sure?”

  Sol stood shakily, and as she rose her fur coat parted, and her blue uniform flashed beneath it. The soldier’s eyes went wide, and Sol grabbed her knife.

  “Tokke—” His words strangled in his slit throat. Red blood poured from his neck and down his uniform. He dropped lifeless into the snow, spattering it with red.

  Sol fell onto her hands and knees, still gripping her bloody knife in one hand. She closed her eyes and swallowed bile. She still remembered the first kill she had ever made, and how she had cried over the rabbit’s lifeless body.

  This was nothing like that.

  A life for a life, Pa had always said. Hunters were guardians of life, and she took life so her village could eat. Huntress, they called her. But she hunted beasts, not men.

  No, this creature wasn’t a man; he was a demon. This was a mercy killing. Rabid dogs, Pa had called the Flameskins. She had freed this soldier from the demonic pyra that had possessed him.

  Sol wiped her hands in the snow and took a deep breath. Bury the body. Cover her tracks. Alert the others.

  There wasn’t time for any other thought.

  Chapter 2

  Kelan

  Kelan tore open the letter and scanned the page, then looked up and met his Uncle Haldur’s eyes. “What is this?”

  “Can’t you read? An advancement, Kelan.”

  A crooked smile lifted Kelan’s face. Lieutenant Kelan Birke. It had a nice ring to it.

  Osten jumped up from his seat on the floor of the tent. “But, sir! He’s barely eighteen.”

  Kelan covered a smirk. Osten had been passed over for promotion once again.

  He’s not worthy, Kelan’s pyra said.

  Its voice hissed inside his mind like a crackling tongue of fire. Kelan winced at the searing burn of its words, and the way his pyra purged his mind of all other thoughts but flames.

  Uncle Haldur pulled a brass lieutenant’s star from his pocket and pinned it to the lapel of Kelan’s red coat. “He can handle the responsibility. He’ll be taking over this camp when we leave.”

  “Taking over?” Kelan asked, gaping at him.

  “Yes. I have to return to Cassia and get the reports from our spies.”

  “I’m not going with you?”

  “No. You’ll stay here in the pass until Lady Isabella comes. And then you’ll kill her.”

  Kill. Kill. Kill, his pyra chanted.

  Kelan winced again. “Lady Isabella can’t have left so close to Solstice. She must be waiting until spring.”

  “Then you’ll wait here until she comes.”

  “But, Uncle—”

  “You will call me ‘Sir’ or ‘Commander Birke.’”

  “Sir, the war is happening out there.” Kelan jabbed his finger toward the tent wall. It fluttered in the icy wind. “I don’t want to be stuck in these mountains wasting my time. I want to fight. I want to burn the Tokken Army.”

  Yes. Burn them, his pyra said.

  Kelan mentally shoved it away, trying to block out its commands. Fire seeped into his blood, fueled by his growing frustration. His fingers twitched at his sides, threatening to ignite.

  “The army needs you here, Lieutenant Birke,” Haldur said. “And I promoted you so you could lead this troop.”

  “Leave me, instead,” Osten said. “We have enough restless Flameskins here already.”

  “I want to fight,” Kelan said. He balled his fists and willed the flames in his blood to retreat, but his anger made it impossible.

  “Lieutenant Birke,” his uncle snapped, “don’t make me regret your promotion. We can’t let Lady Isabella slip into Cassia. If she marries Prince Terrulius, this war will get much, much bloodier.”

  “Osten is fully capable of managing this camp.”

  “I need Osten to lead me through the pass. And you need the experience of managing a troop if you’re going to be any use to me next season.”

  “But I could gain that experience on the field, fighting. Isn’t that what you’ve taught me to do?”

  Haldur eyed Kelan. “Is that Kelan speaking, or his pyra?”

  Kelan stiffened and fear coursed through him like ice in his veins. It doused his pyra’s fire and weakened the burning voice in his head. “Does it matter?”

  “It does, if you haven’t yet let it possess you.”

  Kelan swallowed. Wasn’t that what he was asking for anyway? If he returned to the battlefield, he’d lose himself to his pyra’s influence. His pyra probed his mind even now, searching for an entry. He had resisted it for six years, but each day his pyra’s whispers grew more insistent, and his will to deny it grew weaker.

  Was it even his own desire to fight in the war? Or had Kelan confused his own thoughts with his pyra’s voice?

  Haldur scowled at him. “Why do you resist it? You could be so much more powerful, like Markus.”

  Kelan gripped the button hanging on a chain around his neck. “I like to be in control, Uncle. I can use my pyra without letting it possess me.”

  “You’re wasting time, Kelan. Embrace your pyra and let it fight for you.”

  “Sir, has there been any word of Markus’ whereabouts?” Osten asked.

  Uncle Haldur’s face darkened. Kelan went rigid and his breath caught in his throat. No one could ever know what had happened to Markus. Especially not his uncle.

  “No word yet,” Haldur said. “I fear the worst.” He turned toward the tent door. “I’ll try to send correspondence during the winter, but I doubt I’ll be able to get anything through the pass. You’ll remain in this position until you receive word to move.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kelan said, and sighed. If he stayed at least he’d put off possession for the winter. This would be his last season as Kelan, before his pyra took him.

  Haldur threw open the tent flap and walked outside. The chill winter air blew in, and Kelan’s pyra warmed his blood to compensate for the cold.

  Kelan moved to follow his uncle, but Osten grabbed him roughly by the arm. “You Flameskins are all the same. You flare up, burn yourselves out, and die young. The Tokkens will bury your bones in ash, Lieutenant.”

  Kelan yanked his arm away. “That would be lieutenant, sir.”

  Osten scowled and shoved him. “The only reason you got that promotion was because your uncle is the commander.”

  Kelan lifted his hand and the tips of his fingers sparked. Osten’s eyes went wide and he stumbled backward, his hand going to the emberstone around his neck.

  Yes. Kill him. Watch his body burn, Kelan’s pyra whispered.

  Kelan clenched his jaw and shook his head, as if that could rid him of his pyra’s voice and the fire that raced through his blood. “You don’t want to make my pyra angry,” Kelan growled. “Watch yourself.”

  With effort, Kelan retracted the sparks that lit his fingertips and strode out of the tent. Haldur had already mounted his horse, and a second horse waited for Osten. They would be out there fighting, rescuing Flameskins, and gathering intelligence, making a real difference in the world. And Kelan would be stuck at the top of the mountain wasting what precious time he had left.

  “I’ll see you in the spring, then,” Kelan said. His voice had a bitter edge to it.

  “And when I see you, you’ll bring me Lady Isabella’s smoldering body,” Uncle Haldur stated. He tucked his emberstone inside his coat and urged his horse forward through the snow toward Cassia.

  Chapter 3<
br />
  Sol

  Sol tested the tension of her bowstring. A little tighter than usual, from the cold, but she could pull any bow. She was about to notch an arrow when Poulsen crept toward her.

  “Can you use one of these?” he whispered, lifting a sword.

  “My pa taught me a few things.” She took the sword and hooked its scabbard around her belt.

  Poulsen eyed her steadily. “I hope you won’t have to use it.”

  “Just keep the Flameskins in the clearing and I’ll take them out.”

  Poulsen’s lips quirked into a smile. “If only the rest of us were as good as you claim to be.”

  Sol sighed. She had given him sound strategic advice, and he was mocking her?

  Poulsen picked up his own bow and notched an arrow. “You have to promise me not to die, Hunter, or we’ll never find a way off this mountain.”

  “I won’t.”

  A dozen Tokken soldiers crouched on the hill overlooking the Flameskin camp with bows in hand, their position hidden by the snowy outcropping. A dozen more waited below to rush the camp with their swords. The Flameskins sat around their camp in the clearing beneath them, and a couple stood as sentries, though they were inattentive. There were a few tents, but most of the Flameskins were out in the open, their red uniforms marking them in the snow like drops of blood.

  “Ready,” Poulsen whispered, and Sol drew her bow.

  The largest tent flapped open, and a man emerged. The Flameskins sitting around the camp jumped to attention and saluted.

  “Hold,” Poulsen said.

  Sol cursed silently as she slowly released the tension on the bow. Her heart thumped in her chest, and her body surged with adrenaline. If any of the Flameskins saw them, it would be over. Though their two parties were matched in number, Flameskins made formidable enemies. Their fire could hit long-range targets with deadly accuracy, and at close-range, a human soldier had no hope. Only surprise would give them victory.