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  Call of Fire

  Order of the Fire Series Book 1

  P.E. Padilla

  Copyright © 2019 by P. E. Padilla

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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

  Cover Art by Covermint Design

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  PEP Talk

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Letter to the Reader

  Author Notes

  Newsletter

  About the Author

  Also by P.E. Padilla

  For all those who ever searched for the place where they belonged, I dedicate this book. Keep looking, for the finding is worth the suffering of the quest.

  1

  The air left Kate Courtenay’s chest with a whoosh as she slammed against the stone wall. Her shield took the brunt of the blow, but it still knocked her back.

  Redirecting her momentum, she spun and rolled away as her opponent’s weapon sliced the air where she had just been.

  The wind from the strike swept up her red hair and flicked it to the side.

  She regained her feet and whirled, throwing her shield arm out in front of her, angled just right to deflect the next strike she sensed would be coming. The dull thud of the heavy weapon against her shield echoed through her battleground.

  No sooner had she deflected the strike than she delivered one of her own, similarly blocked by her adversary. They traded blows, dancing and spinning around each other several more times, neither gaining the advantage.

  The linen lining of Kate’s doublet was slick with sweat and stuck to her as she moved. The outer layer was leather, and compared to the padded armor her opponent wore, it seemed the more comfortable choice, even in the minimal heat of the late morning. If she was struck, it would do more damage, but she had no intention of being struck.

  As she and her adversary surged back and forth, Kate laughed, delighting in the pure fun and freedom of combat. He scowled at her, and his attack speed increased, but she matched him stroke for stroke.

  Another slash of the opposing sword thrummed through the air at her. Instead of dodging or blocking it with her shield, she swung her own weapon to intercept it. Swung it with all her might. She knew her trainer would have been appalled at the risk, but she knew where the other sword would be, could sense it.

  The two weapons met with such force that the attacking sword shattered.

  Wood splinters rained around them as Kate’s swing wound down. Seizing the opportunity, she rammed her shield into her opponent so powerfully it knocked him clear off his feet. He flew backward as if a group of strong men had pulled on a rope tied to his shoulders, and he upended over a low stone wall, landing on his back on the grass lining the other side.

  Long, slow clapping filled the air. Its pace was somehow ironic. Or sarcastic. Kate answered with a comical bow, shield hand near her stomach and the wooden sword in her other hand dipping low toward the ground in a flourish.

  “That was masterful and exciting.” Charlotte Church’s nasally voice whined in the most apathetic way. The woman stood well away from the combatants, in the shade of a nearby oak tree. She wore a dark-blue dress, buttoned up to her chin, with long sleeves. She was always one for being formal.

  Kate stepped up to the wall and put her hand out to her hapless opponent. Her pale face held a smile, nearly a smirk as the man gripped the proffered hand and pulled himself up. Kate’s green eyes twinkled, and her smile grew into a wide grin.

  Dante Bellweather, career soldier of the Order of the Fire and current sword trainer for a rambunctious noble woman, blew a breath out over his neatly trimmed moustache and beard.

  “You don’t take combat seriously,” he said, that vein on the left side of his forehead throbbing. “You should be put into real battle. That will curb your amusement. Fighting with a sword is not a game, no matter how many nobles claim it is.”

  Kate’s smile turned downward. Why was he scolding her? Was it because she was a woman, because she was a noble? Would he be saying the same thing if she were a man, a recruit in the Order? She let it go and tried to look suitably chastised, dipping her head to look downward as she took the tongue-lashing. From the corner of her eye, she watched the man who had taught her everything she knew about fighting.

  Dante was a former member of the Order of the Fire, a soldier of the Red Command. He had decades of experience in actual combat, both with the Order and as a mercenary after he left the Order’s service. For the last ten years, he had been retained by Kate’s father, the Duke Courtenay, to train her to fight as well as any man. She had certainly not seen a man that could beat her.

  Dante still kept his grey hair short so it was easy to don and doff a helmet. His beard was similarly trimmed short. It gave him a refined look, Kate thought. He was a bull of a man, muscles honed from a lifetime of combat and hands calloused from the dozens of years he had lived by the sword.

  He groaned.

  “I’m sorry, Dante,” Kate said. “Both for the hard hit and for not being serious enough. It’s just that I never feel as free as when I’m fighting.”

  “When you’re sparring,” he corrected.

  “Yes, when I’m sparring. The energy that goes through me just makes me want to laugh and smile. I’m sure you understand. We’ve talked about the battle rush enough, and of when you were younger.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “I understand. But I also understand that if you don’t take it seriously, you could come to harm and never make it to an older age. You must treat every encounter as if it could be your last. If you don’t, it most likely will be. What is the first rule of combat?”

  “To defeat your opponent as quickly as possible,” she said petulantly, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Yes. If possible, cut first. The ideal engagement is cutting down your enemy before he has a chance to strike. We work on defense, but the goal is to get him first, preferably without ever needing that defense.”

  “I know,” Kate said, swishing her ponytail over her shoulder. “I’ll try to remember. I’ll also try to contain my joy when sparring. You have to admit, though, that was a pretty good defeat. I knocked you over that wall.” She pointed toward the stones fitted into place, separating one lawn from the other.

  “It was.” He moaned. “I’m too old for this.”

  “Oh, come on,” she said. “You’ll be fighting another twenty years. Maybe you should join the Order again, get in some real combat.”

  “No thank you. I’m enjoying my retirement.” He rubbed his lower back. “Mostly.”

  “Ahem.” Charlotte had stepped up to the two and held out a hand towel to Kate. As Kate’s lady in waiting, she was supposed to do such things when there were no servants about. The grimace on her face wa
s an extra touch that was not required. “If you are finished scampering through the dirt, your mother would like it if I got you ready for the ball tonight. We have few hours left and—” She scanned Kate’s sodden clothes and disheveled hair and sniffed. “I believe we will need every minute of it.”

  Kate shot a glance to Dante and rolled her eyes. He chuckled.

  “I saw that, Lady Katherine,” Charlotte interjected.

  “Very good. Then we have established that you are not blind. Oh, come then,” Kate said as she took Charlotte by the hand. “We might as well get this over with. How I wish there were dragons nearby to slay instead.”

  “Everyone knows there are no such things as dragons,” Charlotte muttered. “As if the world needs anything more to cause ladies to act like barbarians, running around with swords. Are not demons coming through the gates from Hell sufficient?”

  “What was that?” Kate asked.

  “Nothing, milady, nothing at all.”

  “Thank you, Dante, as always,” Kate threw out to her trainer as the two women started walking toward the manor house. She pulled the tie loose from her hair to let it fly free. “I could never have learned so much without your expert tutelage.”

  “Attitude aside,” the grizzled swordsman said, “you are a fine student, and a natural with a blade. You’ll make me proud during the test, I know you will.”

  Kate stopped, and Charlotte nearly ran into her. “I would do better if you would give me some little clue as to how I will be tested. Just some tiny hint?”

  “Best of luck in the testing, Lady Kate,” he said, avoiding the plea completely. “I am anxious to hear it announced that you have been accepted into the Order of the Fire.”

  Kate blew a raspberry at her trainer, which started Charlotte mumbling again about the way ladies were supposed to act.

  “Come on, Charlotte.” Kate winked at Dante before he turned to walk in the other direction. “I do swear that if I left things up to you, I would be late for everything, even an important ball.”

  Charlotte sputtered at Kate’s back as she hurried to catch up.

  “It’s very exciting, isn’t it?” Charlotte said a few moments later, after she had regained her composure.

  “Yes. I am anxious for the test to finally arrive. It’s a wonderful tradition. Seven hundred ninety-two years, the Order has been protecting the realm. I’ve been training for this for years. It’s too bad the testing only happens every three years, or I would have tried last year.

  “In fact, I remember clearly when I first decided I would join the Order. My father had told me of my forebears, men of valor and honor who sacrificed all to the Order, serving decades and finally retiring, elevating our house. I wanted to be like them, an honorable warrior. I wanted to belong to something greater, a family of heroes.”

  “No, no,” the lady in waiting said. “I meant the ball. It is the start of the Festival of the Test, and to be honest, the most important part. It’s wonderful. Everyone will be there. It is a chance for ladies to spy out future husbands, for young lords to make business acquaintances, and for every young woman of note to showcase her beauty and grace.” The last she said as she looked at Kate’s scuffed doublet and unkempt hair. She sniffed and muttered something about ladies wearing men’s clothing.

  “A lot of rubbish,” Kate answered. “The ball! How I hate all those primping little peacocks and the silly dances they perform. And not just the literal kind. Everyone is playing a part, preening for others. There’s not an honest face in all the hundreds of people. Give me a sword and a good, honest battle any day. I was made for the Order. It is my calling. I can easily do without parties and balls and courting.” Her face twisted into a most unladylike scowl, and she had the urge to spit, though she knew it would cause Charlotte to faint straightaway.

  “Oh, Lady Kate. I despair of your future when you say things like that. You’ll drive your poor duchess mother to an early grave, may the Creator forbid it.”

  Charlotte strolled across an expansive lawn, Kate trudging behind her toward the east wing of the house. Charlotte prattled on about the ball the entire way.

  “Everyone, simply everyone who is anyone, will be at the ball. Mayhap you will encounter young Lord Seafarthing or even Lord Droette. They are both unmarried and very handsome. I know for a fact that Lord Droette is smitten with you. Or at least, he was the last time you saw him, two years ago. He may show his interest tonight. It will be magical.”

  Kate only half listened to Charlotte. The duke’s daughter was busy taking in the manicured yard with its aged trees, flowering vines perfectly placed and tied to trellises, and the spotless paths paved with flat stones. She had never really noticed how magnificent the grounds looked, let alone the manor house that sat in the middle of it like some huge, gleaming, plump spider in a web. To her, it had always been…just home.

  “…and the dresses! We will see the latest fashions from the best designers from Salornum,” Charlotte continued. “Oh, to be a young lady attending the ball. You are the envy of the entire kingdom, my lady.”

  “Charlotte,” Kate said. “Believe me. If I could let you take my place, I would. I should be training, not wasting an entire evening on frivolous social engagements.”

  The lady in waiting gasped and put her slender-fingered hand to her mouth. She nearly tripped over a nearby bench as she did it. Kate laughed at her reaction.

  “It really is a pity that your father is a baronet—I truly mean no slight—and so you are not able to attend the ball on your own pedigree. I know how much you would enjoy it. If I could only allow you to go in my stead.”

  “Perhaps I should join the Order and achieve inclusion in the Black, or attain an officer’s rank so I may elevate my family to a higher station,” Charlotte said with gritted teeth.

  “Oh, Charlotte, how many times must I tell you? Even if you had the stomach and the skills for the job, you would have to have twenty years of service and be of the Black or the Gold before you could retire with a title. I dare to say that you would not be so excited about balls twenty years from now.”

  Charlotte hummed her response.

  When they reached her chambers, two serving women leapt to their feet in her dressing room. Serla, the older of the two, nodded to Charlotte and jerked her head toward Rowina, the other servant. The three of them were to help Kate dress. As if she needed other people to put on clothes. It was annoying.

  “First, though,” Charlotte said, almost as if she were reading Kate’s mind, “a bath. A lady cannot very well put on a beautiful dress when she smells like a dog kennel.” She leaned in toward Kate and sniffed. “An overcrowded dog kennel. Yes, definitely a bath.”

  2

  The women swarmed Kate and took her training clothes off, then led her to the tub in her bathing room. It was already filled with steaming water. Kate stepped in and let out a sigh as she sank down until the water was up to her neck.

  Her helpers seemed to think she had no time to soak and enjoy the bath, however. Serla took up a bar of soap and a scrub brush in her strong arms and began to scrape at the lady’s skin until she felt as if she was being flayed.

  Kate had learned not to try to stop the women from doing what they thought was best, or more importantly, what they thought her mother would want. It was better all around if she held her tongue and tolerated it. It would end soon enough.

  And end it did, after every inch of her body was scrubbed clean and flushed. Her fair skin shone a light-pink color, making her look ridiculous, at least to her. Rowina had washed Kate’s hair while the Serla worked on her skin. With her locks wrapped in a towel and her body draped with another, she stepped back into the dressing room.

  In the room’s triptych of full-length mirrors—the three panels almost allowed Kate to see the back of her own head—she eyed her naked body as Serla took away the towel used to dry her.

  She liked how she looked, though her form was unconventional for one of her station. Whereas the ladies
at court were soft and curvy—mainly because dresses were pulled tight to reshape some of the more malleable parts of the body—Kate was anything but soft.

  Kate towered over most of the women she had ever met, and some of the men. Her lithe body was comprised of taut muscle; her arms tight, with visible striations; and her back and stomach showed the definition she had worked so hard to develop. She had no idea if any of the young men at court would find her desirable, but then again, she didn’t really care.

  “Ooh, your dress is lovely,” Charlotte cooed. “I simply cannot wait to see you in it.”

  While Serla started brushing Kate’s hair in preparation for curling, the younger Rowina reverently carried the dress to Kate from across the room where it had been hanging on a tailor’s dummy.

  Kate generally scorned such things, but even she admitted the dress was beautiful. It was a gown of turquoise silk, with a fitted robe of grey brocade covering her arms and three-quarters of the turquoise silk petticoat beneath. A matching silk ruffle trimmed the edges of the outer garment and just below the elbow, where the sleeves flared out over the wrists and were edged with darker colored lace.

  Serla wound Kate’s hair tightly around hot metal cylinders from the heating box sitting over a brazier and pulled them out again, leaving the red locks in gentle curls. Meanwhile, Rowina began dressing the lady in layers, a simple chemise beneath voluminous undergarments first. By the time they got to the dress itself, Kate had had enough. But that was also when they ran into their first big problem.