Lifemarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 5)

by David Estes

  “Annise.” When Annise refused to look at her friend, Iron Fay grabbed her chin and pulled it toward her. “Annise.” Annise stared at her, unblinking. “Do you see what you have done? Do you see?”

  Annise frowned, not understanding. She saw pain. She saw death. She saw the brokenness of a kingdom that had once been strong. Aye, her father had been feared and despised, but at least he had not been defeated. At least his citizens had not been cut down like chaff by their enemies.

  “Look,” Fay said, gesturing to the side.

  Annise looked, and she saw carts piled with bodies, gurneys carrying the injured who would likely not survive the night. She saw healers brandishing hot metal shafts that would be used to seal wounds.

  “No,” Fay said. “Look.”

  This time Annise understood, for Fay was not pointing to the dead and dying, but the living, those sitting in hushed groups beyond the carnage, breaking bread and holding hands and hugging their children to them like they would protect them against the icy fires of frozen hell itself. She was pointing to the survivors.

  “I—”

  “We should mourn the dead, yes,” Fay interrupted, “but we should celebrate the living. The north is not done fighting yet.”

  Annise felt a fool. Once more, she’d been chastened by this mysterious blacksmith, who seemed to have more wisdom than a woman of her young age should. And in that moment, Annise made a promise to herself:

  She would never despair again, not so long as a single citizen of the north remained under her protection.

  Twenty-Two

  The Northern Kingdom, Darrin

  Tarin Sheary

  Tarin was brooding. Usually he would handle the aftermath of a great battle by expending what remained of his energy, walking it off alone, or performing some variety of backbreaking work. Physically punishing himself. But here, in this walled-in city, he felt like a prisoner.

  Nearby, Sir Jonathan hummed some unrecognizable tune.

  Tarin gritted his teeth together. I almost hit her again, he thought. It was strange, like he was experiencing someone else’s memory but knowing the stranger was himself.

  Yes, it was, the monster said.

  Go away.

  The monster laughed. You think I would’ve hurt her?

  You did before, once.

  That was before I met her. I like her. Hell, I like her more than you.

  That, Tarin could relate to. Then why? he asked, trying to understand.

  As a reminder, the monster said.

  Of what?

  That we are in this together. Our mind must be one, or else we will tear ourselves apart.

  Tarin chewed on that for a moment. Something nagged at him again. Perhaps two somethings, but each time he closed in on them they seemed to be just out of sight, on the edge of his mind.

  “A silver coin for your thoughts?” Sir Jonathan said.

  Despite himself, Tarin chuckled. The knight had said the same to him a long time ago, in the wake of a brutal battle. It was not long after that that a series of events started him on the very path that had led him back to Annise. He also remembered his response on that day. “They’ll cost you a thousand.”

  Silence resumed as the two knights watched the scene unfolding before them. The smell of copper hung like a fine mist in the air. Without his armor and covered in gore, Tarin knew he must look like a monster from the Hinterlands. But he didn’t care about any of that—not anymore. Next to protecting Annise and the other northerners from this terrible evil, what people thought of him was nothing.

  Healers worked on the injured, trying to save arms and legs and lives.

  Survivors huddled together.

  Something else from that long-ago day struck Tarin as important. Crows. He used to count the black-winged scavengers after each battle. The more crows, the more casualties. On that day there had been a lot of crows.

  But today…

  No crows. Tarin frowned, trying to figure out what it meant.

  Nothing, he thought. It means nothing. For despite the lack of birds, there were a lot of corpses. But…

  He jammed his knuckles into his forehead, trying to think.

  An ear-rending scream bloomed, snapping his head up to watch a young woman—one of Sir Metz’s soldiers—getting her arm cauterized. Or at least what was left of her arm. She screamed and screamed and screamed, until she passed out from the pain.

  Despite the horrible nature of it, the sound provided Tarin with a moment of clarity and he realized what had been bothering him earlier. Not just the lack of crows, though he knew that was important too. For he remembered the way Helmuth Gäric had looked as he stood on the wall at Gearhärt. Confident, strong, mist roiling off him like it did from the ground on a cool spring morning. And he remembered the crows. Hundreds of them wheeling about the Horde leader’s head, cawing and preparing for the death they knew was soon to come.

  And yet here, in this place of death, there was not a single crow. But that wasn’t all. No, there was something off about the number of barbarians they’d faced.

  Too few, Tarin thought. As he sat, watching the pain and suffering of the injured, he wondered why he hadn’t realized it sooner. Despite numbering in the hundreds, the group of barbarians they had struggled to defeat was miniscule next to the much larger force they’d seen in Gearhärt, which had numbered in the thousands. And no sign of their leader, Helmuth. No, Tarin thought. They hadn’t fought the Horde at all.

  The true Horde was somewhere else.

  But where?

  Twenty-Three

  The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End

  Helmuth Gäric

  Abandoning the north had been a difficult decision, but Helmuth had sensed the need to march south with his Horde, sending only a small portion of his strength to pursue his queen niece and her aunt, Zelda. My sister.

  It’ll be enough, he thought. His command—Bring me their heads—would be fulfilled before the return of winter.

  His Horde prowled through the undergrowth of a large forest, clearing a path for him so he could stride through unfettered. When they came upon a body of fresh water, they would stoop down all in a line and drink. Only Helmuth cupped his hands and brought the water to his lips. Several animals had been killed by the superior size and speed of the barbarians. They ate the meat raw, licking the tendons clean and sucking the marrow from the bones. Yes, his Horde would be strong when they finally reached the western stronghold.

  Unbidden, a memory unlocked itself from the vault in his mind.

  Helmuth, a boy of just ten, hobbled into his father’s council chambers, his wooden crutches creaking. They needed to be oiled, and the sound hurt his ears. I can’t even move quietly, he thought. Add that to my list of failures.

  He shoved away his insecurities because he saw what his father was doing.

  A map! he thought, watching as his father, the king, scanned the broad sheet of parchment that had been unfurled across the enormous council table. The corners curled upwards, but were held down by metal pieces that represented the military forces of the various powers in the Four Kingdoms.

  Helmuth loved maps, and spent long hours studying them in the library. He knew the names of every major city across the Four Kingdoms, and most of the minor ones too. If a blank map were given to him, he would be able to place the dots for each city with precision. Along with the maps, he enjoyed studying the movements of the various armies during times of war, and the strategies they employed to defeat their enemies. Something he’d learned from his studies: it wasn’t always the largest or strongest army that emerged victorious, but that which was the most well-trained and commanded by a general with superior tactics.

  Now, Helmuth’s father, King Wilhelm Gäric, the Undefeated King, looked up from the map to look at his son. “How did I know you’d show up here eventually?” his father asked, a twinkle in his eyes.

  Helmuth grinned. “I just wanted to see if anything has changed.” Over the last several weeks
, the two-pronged war had intensified as both the east and west probed for weaknesses in the northern defenses.

  “It has,” his father said. “Can you see?”

  Helmuth leaned his crutches against the table and eased into a chair, leaning forward to get a better look. The map was littered with pieces of various shapes and sizes, each bearing one of the major royal sigils. The Phanecian and Calypsian armies were lined up along their borders in a purely defensive position. For several years their disputes with their neighbors to the west and east, respectively, had been at a standstill. Meanwhile, the attention had turned to the north, where clusters of eastern armies were assembled in two distinct places: Crow’s Nest and Raider’s Pass. Both locations were primarily infantry comprised of both human and Orian legionnaires. On the western front, the mounted forces were spread between Raider’s Pass, Bethany, and Knight’s End.

  Helmuth noticed something strange. His eyes widened and he opened his mouth to speak. Before he could utter a single word, however, the sound of screams and pounding feet obliterated the silence. He turned as his brothers charged into the room. Wolfric, who was still two years Helmuth’s junior, tackled Griswold, who was small for his age. Gris cried out as his knees and palms scraped against the stone floor.

  Watching the scene unfold, Helmuth cringed.

  Victorious, Wolfric stood up, raising his fist. Gris cried, hot tears streaking his cheeks, staring at the blood dribbling from his knees and palms. “No crying,” Wolf said. “Right, Father?”

  The king sighed and stood from his place at the table. “Son, this world is full of violence as it is. Lording the same over your brother is beneath you.”

  Chastened, Wolf stared at his feet and said, “Yes, Father.”

  “Now help your brother up.”

  “Yes, Father.” Wolf offered his hand to Gris, who was still blubbering.

  The king approached Griswold, crouching down to inspect his injuries. “They are mere flesh-wounds, son. You shall survive.”

  Though his eyes were still wet, Gris smiled. “I’m bleeding, Father,” he said.

  “Yes. But your body will heal, and then it will be stronger.”

  “Do you bleed, Father?” Wolfric asked.

  The king chuckled. “Of course. But not if I can help it.”

  “Because you’re the Undefeated King?”

  Helmuth sat listening, frozen. All his excitement over studying the map with his father had been swept away the moment his two brothers had entered the chambers. Despite being younger than him, they’d never looked up to him, never been kind. The games they liked to play always involved running and jumping and wrestling—all things he was incapable of participating in. When he asked them to play games with him, they refused, calling him a maiden.

  He wished they would leave.

  While he sat, the conversation had moved on, and now his father was herding them toward the table. “You, too, Zelda,” he said.

  Helmuth’s head swiveled around, searching for his sister. She emerged from the shadows in one of the corners, as silent as a mouse. He hadn’t even known she was there, and he wondered how long she’d been watching. Though she was only four, and a girl no less, Helmuth always felt more comfortable in her presence than with his brothers.

  “Sons, daughter, look at this map.”

  “Do we have to?” Wolfric said. “This is boring.”

  Helmuth shook his head at his brother’s audacity. Their father was giving them the opportunity to participate in his war strategy. In Helmuth’s mind, there was no greater honor.

  But their father was a patient man. “Wars are not only won by fighting, son. In some cases, they are won before the fighting ever begins. Here, while studying the maps, the movements of our enemies. Learn their tactics and you will gain the key to victory.”

  Wolfric screwed up his face in concentration, staring at the pieces so intently it was as if he thought he could destroy them with his mind. “They’re blocking us?” he said at last.

  Helmuth barely managed to hold in his laugh. That was his conclusion?

  “Well, yes, I suppose they are,” the king said evenly. “But that’s not a problem, because I have no interest in marching south.”

  Wolfric frowned. “You don’t? Then how will we conquer the other kingdoms?”

  The king leaned forward, placing his fingers on one of the pieces, a golden crown representing his own location on the map, currently positioned directly over Castle Hill, the northern capital. “To what end would I seek to take more than what I need? The north provides for its people. We are protected by oceans and mountains.” He shook his head. “No, I will not conquer. I will defend.”

  “Boring,” Wolfric said, knocking over his chair as he slipped to the floor, bounding away. “Can’t catch me, Gris!” he shouted, and soon Griswold was chasing him as they left the chambers.

  Helmuth’s mood lifted immediately when they were gone. “Father?” he said.

  “Yes, son.”

  “You’re going to reopen the trade route with Crimea, aren’t you?”

  The edge of the king’s lips twitched, his eyebrows lifting. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because the west has spread itself too thin, and their proximity to the eastern forces will cause strife between our enemies, distracting their attention away from the north. Meanwhile, we can resupply and reposition our forces here and here.” Helmuth reached out and shifted several armies toward Blackstone, nestling them against the Bay of Bounty. “We will have strength in numbers.”

  His father’s eyes sparkled. “What of Bethany? The force there is large.”

  “Aye, but they will be forced to march to Raider’s Pass to reinforce the army lest they be outnumbered by the eastern legions.”

  His father tapped the sizable force that remained in the western capital. “And what of Knight’s End?” he asked.

  Helmuth chewed on the question for a few moments. The entire map felt like a puzzle with only a single piece missing. If only he could find it… That’s it! he thought. “We don’t demand exclusivity from Crimea. We agree to allow Crimean ships to sail to both Knight’s End and Blackstone. King Streit will be satisfied because he’ll earn double the coin, and the west won’t refuse because they love their Crimean delicacies. Am I right, Father?”

  The king laughed, picking up the golden crown. “Almost. You forgot about the best part. With a break in the fighting, I can remain in Castle Hill for a bit longer with my children.” He placed the crown back over the northern capital. “Son, you have a mind for strategy. It will serve you well someday.”

  The memory faded and Helmuth bit his lip, using the pain to wash away the past. Warm, coppery blood flowed into his mouth. It could’ve all been different, Father, he thought. But you decided to exclude me, despite knowing I would be a better king than Wolfric. Not that his father cared now. He’d been dead and buried for years, while Wolfric had beaten the north into submission. Of course, now both his brothers were dead too.

  No matter, Helmuth thought, for he wasn’t looking to conquer. No, destruction was his only objective. And though as a lad he’d arrived at a peaceable co-existence with Knight’s End, this was a new day, and he was a new man.

  Up ahead, the forest thinned and a great wall blocked the way forward. Beyond it were the soaring majestic towers of Knight’s End.

  Ahh, he thought. I will do what you would not, Father. I will destroy Knight’s End.

  Maybe he was more like Wolfric than either of them had realized.

  PART II

  Ennis Gareth Annise

  Tarin Bane Christoff

  “You are Annise, and you will be stronger than your mother.”

  Sabria Loren Gäric, deceased

  Twenty-Four

  The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End

  Ennis Loren

  From the moment Ennis returned to Knight’s End, the city of his childhood had felt like a foreign place.

  Yes, the people looked the same
as they moved silently through the city, wearing their thick robes and high-necked purity dresses, spending coin at the various merchants, speaking in hushed tones, bowing whenever one of the furia passed by with a whirl of scarlet robes. Yes, the buildings were the same, the castle no different than it had always been, with its vaulted ceilings and stone columns and armored guardsmen vigilantly patrolling the walls.

  And yet everything was changed, the city’s spirit gone. Ennis knew it wasn’t Rhea’s absence—at least, not only.

  I have changed, he thought.

  His brother, Sai, self-declared king of the west, sat on the throne, listening intently as one general prattled on about shoring up their defenses in case the barbarian Horde made landfall in the Bay of Bounty, while another general argued that Bethany needed to be rebuilt and fortified, because what if the barbarians attacked through Raider’s Pass?

  The Furies stood silently, their gazes darting from person to person, restless.

  They’d arrived a week earlier after a swift gallop across the Forbidden Plains, avoiding the cities they knew were already destroyed by the Sleeping Knights, like Cleo and Restor. The bulk of the army was still several days away, but they had sufficient forces to protect the city, which was surrounded by the tallest wall in the Four Kingdoms.

  Plus, simply gazing through a spyglass across the Bay of Bounty gave them an idea of where their enemies were. Hundreds of ships were halfway out of the water, having sailed right up onto the land, destroying most of Blackstone’s docks and piers.

  When Ennis had first seen the size of the fleet, he had to admit he was shocked. Though Roan Loren and the strange fatemarked girl, Lisbeth Lorne, had shown him the same images as everyone had seen—the barbarians making landfall in the Four Kingdoms—he hadn’t truly believed it until he’d seen it with his own eyes. Oh ye of little faith, he thought now, still largely ignoring the discussion, which was growing ever more heated.