Dante Reeves wanted the warlord's throne, and he could not even step toward it. He knelt in the sand at the edge of the wrecked cargo plane. Its torn belly gaped open. Its broken wings threw long shadows over him. He had counted his followers twice. Nine men. Nine men could not take a throne. Nine men could not even survive an open desert. He knew the problem better than anyone. The warlord ruled from a fortress. Dante ruled from nothing. Every raid he tried left his people exposed on flat ground. Last week the warlord's riders had run them down and killed two. Without walls, Dante was just a target with big dreams. He pressed his hand against the cold metal of the wreck. The plane had crashed here years ago. Nobody claimed it. Nobody wanted this dead ground. That was the point. He tilted his head back and stared past the fuselage, at the canyon wall behind it. A narrow slot cut into the rock. He had walked it that morning. Inside sat an old stone shelter, low and round, built by hands long gone. Weathered rock. A hearth still black from fire. A flat landing space out front, sheltered on three sides. One way in. Easy to defend. Hard to find. A growl stopped his thinking. Dante turned slowly. A grey wolf stood at the canyon mouth. Fire lit its horned brow and licked along its neck like a mane. Heat rolled off its open jaws. It watched him with steady eyes. This beast guarded the canyon. This was why no one else had claimed the shelter. Dante did not run. He drew his blade and held it low. "I need this place," he told the wolf. "You can share it or you can burn it. Your choice." The wolf lunged. Dante rolled under the flames. He felt the heat scorch his sleeve. He came up behind the beast and swung, not to kill, but to drive it back. His blade caught the horned brow with a hard ring. The wolf yelped and staggered. They circled. Dante bled from one arm. The wolf favored a front leg. Neither backed down. Then Dante did the thing his men would call mad. He lowered the blade and knelt. "Guard it with me," he said. "Or die alone here." The wolf held still a long moment. Fire dimmed along its neck. Then it turned and walked into the canyon, toward the stone shelter, and looked back once. Dante followed. By dark he had his men inside the walls. A slim tube light, salvaged from the wreck, flickered against the stone and threw uneven glow across their faces. Outside, the wolf lay across the only path in. Dante finally had a stronghold. But the warlord would learn of it soon. A man who claims dead ground makes himself known. Now they would come to him, and Dante's walls had never been tested.