Lifemarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 5)

by David Estes

  “Why don’t you hate me?” Roan asked, needing to understand.

  “Because you’re my brother,” Bane said simply. It was a pure statement by one whose existence was so marred by blood and murder he might’ve been drenched in it.

  “I’m a Loren, and—”

  “I’m a Gäric. So what? You think blood is all that determines brotherhood?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “Chavos was my brother too.” Roan frowned at the name, and Bane explained. “The Beggar? The one bearing the plaguemark?”

  Oh. Oh. Once the Beggar had accidentally passed the plague onto Roan. It was what had started the very sequence of events that had led him to this place. “But he…”

  “Afflicted me with the plague? Yes. His betrayal hurt. And I killed him out of anger. I shouldn’t have, but I did. I’ve done many things I regret.”

  “Me too,” Roan said, before he could consider his words. But they were true, not the least the way he’d handled Bane.

  Bane met his eyes, nodding slightly. The alternating shadows seemed to attach themselves to him, darkening his countenance further. “Sometimes I feel like my past will continue to be reflected in my every act, like I’m destined to repeat my mistakes again and again. Do you ever feel like that?”

  All the time. “Yes,” Roan admitted.

  Silence roiled around them, seeming to follow the striped mists. That’s when he realized:

  He was creating the bands of light, while Bane drew the strips of darkness. It was a strange dance, perfectly coordinated, like their minds were two halves of the same

  Coin.

  One light, one dark.

  One born to protect, to save lives. The other to kill, to end them. This boy was born to kill. Roan knew nothing of such impulses, as violence was as foreign to him as sunlight from the night. Is any of this truly Bane’s fault? he wondered. Would I have acted differently if I were in his boots? The truth was: he didn’t know—not with a certainty—a fact that scared him more than anything.

  “What are you going to do next?” Roan asked. It was the first time he’d ever given Bane a choice, rather than trying to dictate what the deathmarked boy should do.

  “I—I don’t know. I tried to follow the prophecy. I liked the sense of purpose it gave me. But then…”

  “Then what?”

  “Nothing improved. The wars continued. It was as if my actions only stoked the flames more. I didn’t understand. Then I thought I did. I thought perhaps I was meant to force the kingdoms into peace.”

  “Peace cannot be forced,” Roan said, which was the source of many days and nights of frustration for him.

  “I know that now. But where does that leave us? There are still four empty portions in my marking. They must be filled.”

  With blood, Roan finished in his head, finally understanding something he’d long struggled with. No. No. No. He wanted to scream his own rebuttal, to deny the truth that had broken through his mind like a long-awaited sunrise mired in storm clouds.

  He shook his head, closing his eyes. And when he opened them, all he saw was darkness, his thoughts manifested in this place that he now understood was the consciousness of two distinct minds brought together.

  Dark and light.

  For he knew four more rulers would die, else there would never be peace in the Four Kingdoms. Though he wanted to deny it, he couldn’t, the names of five rulers echoing from his mind through the place of darkness.

  Raven Sandes.

  Falcon Hoza.

  Annise Gäric.

  Rhea Loren.

  Gareth Ironclad.

  Among their ranks he counted a cousin, a sister, a lover, and two friends.

  Four of the five were destined to die.

  Roan fell from the dark place, trying to hold back the scream building in his throat.

  Roan couldn’t breathe, his chest constricting around his lungs and heart, his entire body shaking from the knowledge he’d gleaned in the darkness.

  Arms were wrapped around him, holding him, comforting him. The gentle susurrations of a whispered hush penetrated the names cycling through his head. Another voice arose, but this one spoke directly into his head, the image of a blue eye pulsating with each word. You are safe, Peacemaker. Come back to us.

  He didn’t want to. Because to return to reality meant he’d have to face the truth of a world he’d once yearned to understand, but which now he’d rather face beneath the safety of a thick woolen cloak. Like Bane, he wanted to return to that other place, where time stood still, where he could forget all else if he chose.

  A sapphire eye gleamed in the darkness. The glow of entwined hands. A bare-chested man standing nearby, weary lines etched in his face. And those strong arms wrapped around him from behind, the fingers of which he now saw, so delicate and dainty, belying the strength within them.

  “Rhea?” he murmured.

  “Yes, brother. It is me. Are you well? You were screaming. And shaking. The woman—Lisbeth—called to me in my sleep and I came immediately.”

  Who are you? he thought. In this moment, she was the only one who could’ve comforted him—not because she was his sister, but because of the change that had been wrought in her, the difference as great as the striating bands of light and dark he and Bane had created. She represented his hope for change.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.” She unwrapped her arms and he slumped onto his back, his chest finally unclenching as he managed a deep breath. “What happened? What did you see?”

  “I—I was trying to—” Roan didn’t want anyone to know why he was here, what Bane had almost done. He didn’t want them to hate the Kings’ Bane anymore, though he knew they would.

  Falcon stepped closer, his narrow eyes focused now, any semblance of weariness gone. “Roan. What did you see in the Well of Truth?”

  Roan shook his head. How could he explain any of it? “Nothing,” he said. “I saw nothing.”

  Falcon frowned, but didn’t question him further. “I’m sorry if I caused any of this.”

  “You didn’t. It was a series of unfortunate events. But I’m fine now, and we have much to discuss.”

  “Now?” The question came from Rhea, and Roan suddenly felt bad for having interrupted the sleep of a new mother, something he knew was precious.

  “No. On the morrow. We shall reconvene the council, or what’s left of it. Even without your cousin’s involvement, we have decisions to make.”

  Falcon pursed his lips and shifted from one foot to the other. He looked uncomfortable.

  “What?” Roan said.

  “I thought to do the same exact thing, so I had invitations delivered to those leaders who remained in Phanea.”

  Roan searched the emperor’s eyes for his point, but came up empty. “I don’t understand. What is the problem?”

  Falcon’s eyes found his feet. “I’m sorry, Roan. They’ve left. Raven and Gwen flew on dragonback to Calyp. Gareth and his army left shortly after.”

  Roan’s heart sank, for he knew they flew and marched toward death itself.

  But he couldn’t pray for any of them to survive what was to come, for if he saved one he might lose another.

  Nineteen

  The Northern Kingdom, halfway to Darrin

  Annise Gäric

  The hits keep coming, Annise thought, feeling numb as she watched the scouts return the way they’d come.

  The news was grim and grimmer. The Horde was still gaining on them, which meant the rearguard had been unsuccessful in even slowing their enemies. Which meant that…

  Oh Zelda, Annise thought. Once her aunt had been an enigma to her, an eccentric woman who was always eating and was shunned by the courts and her brother who ruled the realm. I never gave her a chance. Annise wondered whether the same could be said for her Uncle Helmuth, who’d been driven to want to annihilate his own people.

  To the north, sunlight reflected off an enormous body of water. If Ann
ise didn’t know better, she’d think it was an ocean, for one could not make out the opposite side. From experience, however, she knew it was the Frozen Lake, the southernmost bounds of which stretched into the northern kingdom. This far south, it wasn’t frozen, but she knew the further into the Hinterlands one went, the lake became more solid, at least up until the strange portion of warm water that had almost caused her to drown.

  She blinked away the memories as the flags calling the refugees to march were raised. Weary bodies rose on weary feet, shuffling along at a speed that most would consider slow but which was impressive considering the distance they’d already traveled on this day alone.

  Annise knew it wasn’t exhaustion alone that hunched their bodies, for she felt the pull of gravity as much as anyone. It was grief and despair too. There was not one counted among them who had not already lost someone to the Horde, be it a soldier in the rearguard or a family member who hadn’t made it out of one of the cities in time.

  “Your Highness,” Fay said.

  Annise turned her head to meet the gaze of a woman she’d laughed with, fought with, reminisced with. The expression on her face was kind, but also chiseled from stone, unwavering. “Iron Fay,” Annise managed. “Well met. What say you?” She couldn’t stop the quaver from creeping into her voice.

  “The people look to you,” Fay said with a slight nod of her head. That last word seemed to reverberate in Annise’s mind: you, you, you…

  That’s when she felt something warm and wet on her cheeks. She wondered how it was that she didn’t even realize she was crying. She glanced about her, seeing the furtive glances and sidelong looks of her people—mothers and fathers and children and career soldiers too aged to fight. I’ve lost so many… she thought. But then those words were replaced with another idea: But not all. I have not lost all.

  Slowly, she raised her chin and straightened her back. Pointedly, she wiped away the tears, obliterating their tracks on her skin. And then, while her people looked on, she raised her hand, palm out, separating her two longest fingers to create the narrowest gap between them: the sign of the north; a shield, cracked but not broken.

  Never broken.

  One by one, her people mirrored the gesture, hands rising across the throng like a crashing wave. Their shoulders unhunched and their strides lengthened. The ghosts of the past haunted them, yes, but they would not be overcome.

  Not so long as blood flowed through their veins.

  Annise met Fay’s eyes once more. The edges of Fay’s lips curled up. “Well met, Your Highness,” she said.

  Tarin

  Tarin was a man possessed, running as hard as he’d ever run, galloping across the northern hill lands, slowed only by the occasional rise but making up for it on the downslopes. Without armor, he felt light and strong, and even the bruises that covered his body were beginning to heal.

  You’re welcome, the monster said.

  Now you’re getting a sense of humor? Tarin retorted.

  Or maybe you’re finally recognizing it.

  Maybe, Tarin admitted.

  The monster snorted.

  Was that a—a laugh? Tarin asked.

  I don’t laugh. It is beneath me.

  How can anything be beneath you when you have no solid form? Or is everything beneath you? Or around you? Or are the things beneath you the same things that are beneath me?

  Look who’s the jester now.

  The truth was, Tarin felt more alive than he’d ever felt before. It was like he’d been given a second chance. Or maybe a third. He was losing track of the number of times he’d almost died. And if not for the thing inside him…

  Yes. You’d be dead. And stop thinking of me as a thing.

  An ‘it’? Tarin thought.

  Even worse. Monster is fine.

  Good. Monster. You saved me.

  More than once.

  More than once.

  More than twice.

  A lot of times, all right? But I gave you life, so let’s call it even.

  Deal. Just don’t hold me back when the battle gets fierce. I’m tired of having to stitch you up.

  Deal, Tarin thought, surprised it didn’t feel more like a deal with the devil. I’m losing my mind.

  Or getting it back.

  Maybe.

  The monster snorted again, and Tarin redoubled his speed as he crested another hill. Finally, he spotted life on the land spread before him. I’m catching up. He caught himself before the monster could interject. We’re catching up.

  Oh yes. Yes, we are.

  Helmuth

  Nestled in the shadow of the snowy mountain range, his Horde had passed a hollowed-out shell of a castle a while back. They’d prowled around for a while, feasting on the hundreds of corpses rotting in the courtyards, gardens, and atriums, but he hadn’t let them linger. Not when he was this close to spilling blood of his own.

  Now, as he lengthened his strides, he marveled at the ravenous nature of his army, who never seemed to be fully sated. From experience, he knew the barbarians were born starving. They were also born with teeth, and were fed raw meat the moment they emerged from their mothers, growling and gnashing their jaws. The first time he saw the act of birth, he almost threw up, but he forced himself to watch. Again and again, until he appreciated the beauty in the creation of new lives. Lives that would serve him in the only purpose he had left.

  By age two, each youngling’s fangs had grown in, sharp enough to pierce skin, and they were already approaching half size. By age three, they had claws that could tear through flesh and sinew, tendon and muscle. In short, they were deadly.

  Only a year after that they were full size, at the ripe old age of four. If they survived, that is. Before Helmuth had come along, the adult barbarians would pit their sons and daughters against each other. These were not good-natured wrestling matches, but fights to the death, ensuring only the strongest of their offspring would survive to represent them in their constant wars against the other barbarian clans and the humans who threatened their southern borders.

  Helmuth put an end to that, else it would take hundreds of years to grow his army to size. And even the weakest barbarian was twice the size and strength of most of the strongest humans. He could live with that. Oh yes, he could live with that.

  Now, to the north, a massive body of water glistened with morning light. To some, it would be a beautiful sight, but not to Helmuth. The only thing that remained beautiful to him was the ending of human lives. In his lifetime, he’d been spit on, mocked, abused, enslaved, and physically and emotionally tortured.

  And he would have his vengeance.

  The rabbits could run but they could not hide. He would hunt them to the ends of the earth if necessary. And then he would hunt them further.

  It wouldn’t be long now.

  Blood would be spilled.

  Annise

  Two days later

  Every muscle in Annise’s body ached, including ones she didn’t even know she had. Her mouth was dry from too little water, her eyes burning from too little sleep, her chest hollow from too little Tarin.

  Frozen hell, she thought. I must stop thinking his name. Which of course only made her think it more. However, after what Fay had said, she didn’t let her emotions show on her face. For her people were constantly watching her, as if waiting for the moment when their queen said, ‘Enough! I can go no further!’ But Annise would never say that, would never stop. If her legs fell off then she would curl her fingers into claws and drag herself across the harsh terrain. If her arms fell off she would clamp her teeth on the thick tufts of grass and pull, wriggling her body like a worm.

  I’m losing my mind, she thought, picturing herself with no arms or legs. I wonder if I would fight onward if I had no head!

  “What’s so amusing, Your Highness?” Fay asked. The blacksmith hadn’t left her side in two days, a fact that brought a measure of comfort to Annise. Fay was always sharpening a blade as they walked, the wick-wick-wick sound provi
ding a certain cadence to the staccato of their footfalls.

  Annise hadn’t even realized she’d been smiling. I am going mad, she thought. “Just picturing myself without a head. Oh, and without arms and legs too.”

  Fay raised her eyebrows, and a less confident woman might’ve offered some excuse and slipped away as quickly as possible. The blacksmith, however, said, “The Torso Queen?”

  Annise covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. Smiling was one thing, but she didn’t want her people to see her in the throes of mirth. “Aye. All fear my stomach and bosoms.”

  Fay grinned. “The forward scouts should return soon with news from Darrin. With any luck, we could reach the castle by nightfall.”

  Annise nodded, her smile falling away. She would not allow herself to hope for safety, not until the rear scouts had brought news of the enemy’s position.

  Then again, the fact that they were still alive was a small miracle in and of itself.

  But not all of us.

  The reminder sobered her, chasing away the unexpected moments of levity.

  A sound drew her attention, a murmur rippling through the throng. Annise scanned the horizon before them, searching for the cause of the disturbance. There! She spotted the pair of riders just as dozens of refugees began pointing in the same direction.

  They rode with vigor and energy, and Annise felt her heart soar. The scouts had returned.

  They disappeared for a moment as they descended into a deep trough between hills, but then emerged on the hillock, closer than before. Eventually, the hubbub died down, and a hushed silence fell across the crowd as the scouts wheeled to a stop before Annise, slipping deftly from their mounts and bowing at the waists.

  It was no time for traditions and respect. “Out with it, man!” Annise barked.

  The two riders, one man and one woman, snapped to attention. The woman said, “Darrin is not more than six leagues to the southeast. Sir Metz is commanding the army garrisoned within the city. Even now he is rallying them and preparing to ride out to meet us.”