Lifemarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 5)

by David Estes

  No one spoke for a while, chewing on their own thoughts. “We can’t stay here,” Annise finally said.

  “Why not?” Sir Jonius said. “Now that we know Helmuth and the main body of the Horde have left the north, we can best protect our people behind the walls of Darrin, as we have for centuries. For all we know, the barbarians will leave us alone.”

  Tarin considered it. Darrin had always been a stalwart border castle, fighting for every inch. Still, the barbarians they faced were different than the human and Orian foes he had fought. He’d seen the way they moved, the power displayed in every stride, every attack. Yes, they’d retreated when faced with destruction, but he was certain they hadn’t given up.

  “They will come,” Tarin said.

  “But can we defend ourselves when they do?” Annise asked. “Commander Metz?”

  “We are prepared for every eventuality,” he said neutrally. “We will not be defeated for lack of discipline.”

  “I know that, Sir. But you didn’t answer my question. Will we win?”

  “I don’t know,” Sir Metz said, and coming from the honest-to-a-fault knight, it was only slightly better than an outright no. “But we can try.”

  Annise took a deep breath, and Tarin could see the way her shoulders sagged slightly under the weight of this decision. She valued her counsellors, but in the end her mind would rule. Then, as quickly as they’d drooped, her shoulders lifted and broadened, the strength of her entire countenance seeming to grow before his very eyes.

  “For now, we shall defend this castle as many others have before us.”

  A collective sigh seemed to draw from the lungs of each person in the room, even Tarin’s. After their long, harried flight across the northern hill lands, none of them were ready to move again.

  “But,” Annise said, pointing a single finger in the air, “we will also prepare to leave at a moment’s notice. The instant the battle turns against us, we will make for the Mournful Mountains.”

  Twenty-Eight

  The Eastern Kingdom, Ferria

  Gareth Ironclad

  Gareth’s frustration boiled over. “What do you mean there are no inkreeds for the north?” he growled.

  The stream worker’s lips were tight, sheened with silver paint that matched her long hair. Her pink eyes were fearless, staring him down like he was naught but a common street rat trying to steal her satchel. An Orian woman. She looked young, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, but Gareth knew for a fact she was in her sixties and had long served the royal streams.

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but I was mistaken.”

  One of the first things Gareth had done upon returning to Ferria was to visit the royal streams and inquire about their supply of inkreeds. This very woman had spoken truly when she’d said they still had a small cache of inkreeds for Castle Hill, Darrin, and Blackstone. Now she was lying, or at least not telling the entire truth. Gareth had the urge to slam his fist into the wall. He breathed slowly. This had to be the work of General Jormundar. The Orian general had agreed to Gareth’s plan to help the north too quickly—Gareth should’ve been suspicious. Instead, he’d let the man’s political maneuverings get the best of him. The very inkreeds he needed had either been burned into ash or hidden away somewhere he would never find them.

  I hate this, Gareth said. Not being a leader or a ruler per se, but having to deal with underhanded dealings and backstabbing. For the first time in his life, he truly appreciated how his father had handled those who served him.

  But Gareth could play this game, too, if he had to.

  You forced my hand, General. Now it’s time to fall into line.

  “Thank you,” Gareth said to the stream worker, whose lips bore an undisguised smirk. “I will return if I require your services.”

  She bowed and turned back to the stream, awaiting the next message that would never come now that the stream network had been shattered by war and fear.

  Gareth departed the stream and made his way to the inner ring of the multi-ringed castle his family had lived in ever since his forefather, Mortis Ironclad, had made peace with the Orians, directed the construction of Ferria, and been declared the King of Ironwood. Four centuries of strife, happiness, fear, death, and life had passed since then, and as Gareth ordered a horse to be prepared for him, he felt the weight of all that time pressing down upon his shoulders. How had his father done it? Ruled a kingdom split in half by two races as different as the sky from the ocean? The answer punched through his mind on the knuckles of his father’s heavy fist.

  With allies.

  That was how his father had done it. He rode the line between friendship and respect with each and every one of his generals. The problem was, Gareth’s own generals weren’t on his side. Yes, they’d been willing to ally themselves with the west for a time, but only because it was a joint effort to attack another enemy in the Phanecians. But now…

  Their hearts will never agree to my plan to help the north, even if their words do.

  Which meant Gareth needed another ally, one whose voice could not be contained, so loud the generals, including Jormundar, would have no choice but to listen.

  As soon as his horse, a black destrier with white markings just behind its ears, was prepared, Gareth wasted no time in leaping atop its back, digging in his heels, and charging through the gate from the inner ring.

  Behind him, he heard the stablemen cough, their lungs filled with dust.

  Gareth’s horse swept around the final bend, past legionnaires performing training exercises, who stopped to watch as their king rode as if hunted by a dragon’s shadow. He didn’t look at them, didn’t pause to see which, if any, of the generals were in the main courtyard. Instead, he galloped up to the castle’s main gate, flashing a sign to the hidden Orian channelers positioned somewhere atop the wall.

  Open the oredamn gate, he thought.

  Unlike a standard gate that required a wheel to be turned, pulled by strong men or cattle, chains clinking, gears groaning, this gate seemed to peel itself back, parting in the center like a curtain being drawn to either side. What had been strong iron a moment ago was now liquid ore, channeled by the Orian gatekeepers who had seen his hand signal and obeyed without question.

  Without another thought, Gareth spurred his horse forward, not looking back to see if the gate had closed behind him. He was energized, life breathed back into him by the drastic measures he was about to take. Previously, his generals had advised him to withhold the information about the Horde from his people. You don’t want to incite panic, General Jormundar himself had said. Grudgingly, Gareth had agreed. After all, there was a time and place for such news, and before he made the situation public he wanted to have a plan to protect his people, to calm their fears.

  But now the generals had left him no choice. He would tell his people the truth, and then he would convince them that helping the northerners would provide an ally they sorely needed if they were going to survive the dark day that was rolling toward them like a great wave.

  As he made for the main part of the village, iron-sheathed trees flashed past. An alliance between nature and people, Gareth thought. It was something he’d once heard Gwendolyn Storm say. She’d told him it was how her father had described the creation of Ferria. At the time, he’d made light of it. Now it felt like providence, for everywhere he looked was the evidence. Houses channeled from iron grew amongst the trees, joining with them, sharing a wall or sprouting metallic branches from their roofs.

  A true alliance, Gareth thought. That’s what we need with the north. If both parties were not in it with their hearts, it would fail. The Horde would sweep across them, devastating all. That can’t happen. I won’t let it.

  Gareth’s thoughts faded as he heard a noise in the distance, loud enough to rise above the furious clop of his horse’s hooves. He cocked his head, listening, trying to make sense of the dull roar.

  He slowed his steed, bringing it to a trot as they mounted a small rise, beyond which
was the village. “Whoa,” he said, drawing back on the reins until his horse stopped completely. He gawked at the scene unfolding before him.

  Villagers lined the streets, human and Orian and everything in between. They were stacked hundreds thick, standing shoulder to shoulder and front to back, all staring at something in the center of the main town square. Not something, Gareth realized. Someone. Every so often, they would roar in agreement or approval, a collective cheer so loud he’d heard it from a distance.

  Gareth dismounted, frowning, trying to remember whether he’d forgotten about some obscure Orian holiday. He shook his head, nothing coming to mind. He strode forward, but none noticed his approach. As he reached the rear of the throng, the form that drew their attention came into focus.

  General Jormundar. The tall, strong military commander stood atop a platform that had been the pedestal for an iron statue of Gareth’s own ancestor for as long as he could remember. Mortis Ironclad stood a full twelve feet tall, one hand raised in defiance to his enemies, holding not a sword but, of all things, an axe. It was said that before he’d come to Ironwood he was a mere woodsman, a woodcutter. The axe had become a symbol of sorts—of how they would chop down not trees, but their enemies.

  General Jormundar had chosen his spot well, using that famous symbol as the backdrop as he riled up Gareth’s own people. “I have seen the Horde with my very own eyes,” Jormundar shouted. Of course, he didn’t mention it was an image projected into his mind. “They are a force the likes of which the Four Kingdoms has never faced. A scourge that would seek to wipe us from the very face of the earth. But will we let them?” A resounding No! thundered through the crowd. “Will our ancient alliance of humans and Orians be shattered by barbarians from across the ocean?” No!

  Gareth gritted his teeth, for the general’s words were not far from the same he would’ve spoken. That he had planned to speak, if given the chance. But, once again, he’d been outfoxed by the experienced Orian man. He started to shove through the crowd, but the general’s next words stopped him short. “Will the iron people of the east be defeated in Ironwood, in the city of Ferria, which has long been a stronghold unbroken by lance or sword or even the dragonfire of our enemies?” No! No! No!

  Dammit, Gareth thought. After this speech, no one would want their legionnaires to leave the safety of Ironwood. Gareth knew he could order his armies, or a portion thereof, to ride northward, but it would come at a grave price: the respect and trust of his own people.

  If he was going to help the northerners, he would need to come up with another way, for he was not willing to ignore the opinions of the Ferrians.

  He turned and marched back the way he’d come, no one having noticed he was ever there.

  Twenty-Nine

  The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End

  Ennis Loren

  Ennis awoke with a shudder, his entire body convulsing.

  His eyes fluttered wildly, unable to focus on anything.

  Pain coursed through him, sharp and fast, and he rolled over into the fetal position. The agony passed suddenly, leaving him feeling empty, hollowed out. His stomach heaved and his mouth exploded open as he vomited a thick stream of bitterness.

  Where—who—what…

  His mind struggled to clamp down on the world around him, which looked faded and old. Gray clouds plumed overhead, but they were too close, and they smelled like

  Smoke, he realized, trying to sit up but crashing back down as his lungs filled with the noxious air. He coughed, hacking up black phlegm that he spat into the puddle of vomit.

  Images rushed back to him. They seemed like distant memories, or perhaps the events from a stranger’s life. Sai Loren with his haughty expression, casting his own brother from the city. The sad eyes of Wheaton, even as he turned his back on his own kin. A man—that’s me Ennis thought—stumbling through the forest, his eyes wide with fear. Pale, loping forms suddenly all around him and a man, his legs bound with yew and iron.

  And then the pain, so immense he had blacked out.

  Oh Wrath, Ennis thought. Oh Wrath. I must warn them! I must tell them the enemy is here, at their very doorstep!

  Instead of sitting up, Ennis crawled forward, searching for the path through the trees.

  Wait. Wait. There were no trees, and his hands scraped not against dirt and leaf and twig, but across cobblestones. Dark water streamed between the gaps in the stones, tiny rivulets that changed course at each intersection, drawing squares along the street.

  The street, Ennis thought. I’m not in the forest anymore. I’m in Knight’s End. But how…

  His gaze caught something that draped from him, slithering like a snake across the stonework. Links, connected to each other. A chain. He groped with one hand at his neck, feeling the hard truth. A band of iron clasped around his throat like one of the choker necklaces favored by some Phanecian women. Except this one was connected to a chain, which drew a path through the…

  Blood, Ennis thought, for the dark water wasn’t water at all, but rivers of blood coursing down the street.

  He followed the path of the long chain, but it disappeared into the smoke.

  Screams tore through the fog, but none of them lasted, cut off mid-shriek. People, Ennis thought, his chest filling with dread. My people.

  Panicking, he tried to back away, the chain clanking after him, slowly being coated with blood. He gagged as the chain pulled tight and he heaved forward, barely catching his fall with his hands before he crashed facefirst onto the hard stones.

  Footfalls surrounded by screams echoed through Ennis’s ears. He stared in the direction of the chain, watching as dark boots emerged from the smoke, followed by legs bound with yew and iron. Fear slithered through him, but he clamped his teeth down hard, grinding them together, fighting against the images that tried to break through his mental defenses.

  Broken bodies. Rivers of blood. Gnashing teeth and flashing claws. Smoke, so much smoke.

  “You are strong-willed,” a rumbling voice said, and Ennis managed to crane his head to look at the man standing before him. The leader of the Horde. Of all things, a mere man. His brow, eyes, and the corner of his lips were lined with deep wrinkles that spoke of a hard life. Something shone darkly on his chest, which was bare. Three black spots, illuminated by edges of bright white light. Not spots, Ennis realized. Drops. Blood.

  He’s fatemarked. Wrath help us all.

  “Stronger than most,” the man said.

  And his power, Ennis realized, was simple.

  Fear.

  Pain.

  “But it is no matter. You will break like the others. They always break.”

  Ennis’s body began to shake as his mind weakened, finally crumpling as the horrifying images burst through.

  And then came the pain, causing his muscles and bones to tighten until his body was rigid, his jaw locked, aching from the grind of his teeth.

  “What is your name?” the man asked, as softly as if they’d met by chance and were exchanging pleasantries.

  Ennis didn’t want to tell him, didn’t want to form the words, but he found his teeth scraping apart, the answer hissing out with his next ragged breath.

  “Ennis…Loren.”

  Darkness devoured him.

  “Urghhh,” Ennis groaned when he awoke next. It was partly due to the rawness in his throat, partly from the ache he felt all the way to his bones, and partly from the brightness of the light that pierced his eyelids.

  He managed to lift a hand to shield them, his eyes cracking open. Between his fingers he saw a painfully blue sky marred not by cloud but only by slashes of black that flashed past from time to time.

  Birds, Ennis thought. And next: How am I alive? Why am I alive?

  After what he’d seen and experienced, waking up felt like the cruelest of torments. He tried to form words, but all he could utter was another groan.

  His mouth felt strange, tasted strange. Coppery. Like blood. It felt like a part of him was missing, and
for a moment he panicked as he checked his body for missing limbs, his eyes adjusting to the too-bright sunlight.

  He exhaled deeply when he found his hands and feet. But the feeling persisted. His lips were dry and he tried to draw what moisture he had left in his mouth to lick them. He gasped, for his tongue didn’t reach far enough. Instead, it wriggled like a fish on a hook, bouncing oddly about in his mouth. He shoved his fingers, which tasted of ash, into his mouth, feeling around.

  He choked, but it wasn’t from the bitterness that now coated his mouth and tongue. No, it was because of what he’d felt; or, more accurately, what he hadn’t felt.

  Most of his tongue was gone, cut out, leaving only the wriggling stump he’d felt when he’d tried to moisten his lips.

  Releasing a cry that was half-sorrow, half-revulsion, he curled into a ball, closed his eyes, and wept.

  Many hours later, Ennis stirred. At some point he’d fallen asleep again. Now, the bright light of the day was gone, replaced by a moonlit night speckled with a sea of stars. A shadow loomed over him and he flinched back.

  The shadow, however, didn’t move, staring at him, rising much higher than the heights that even the tallest man could achieve stretching on his toes.

  With a rush of realization, Ennis knew where he was. Corizen Corner. The largest area of commerce in all of Knight’s End. Usually, flags flapped crisply around the edges of this place, flying the sigils of each of the major noble families of the west. Someone, however, must have ripped them down, for now he could barely make out the pikes the flags were normally attached to. There was something odd about them…

  Ennis shook his head and refocused on the looming shadow. He now knew it was cast by a famous statue, erected more than a century and a half ago. The statue of Mallorhea Loren, a queen of great renown, famous for the years of peace she’d helped to usher in.