Lifemarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 5)

by David Estes

  The general’s face flushed, and the color clashed with his hair. He didn’t move.

  “General…”

  The general stepped forward instead of back, his face livid, his hands clenched at his sides, one closing on his sword hilt, his braid touching the back of his hand. “No. It is you who shall leave, you who are relieved of duty.”

  Heavy footsteps sounded from without the iron throne room, and a dozen tall, broad-shouldered Orian legionnaires filed inside, several with bows already in hand while the rest gripped beautiful gleaming swords.

  The beautiful ugliness of Ironwood, Gareth thought. For some reason, his thoughts went to Roan, who, despite himself, had fallen in love with this forest. He hadn’t been here long enough to see it for what it was: another prison. But it doesn’t have to be, he reminded himself. I won’t allow it.

  “I didn’t want it to be this way,” Jormundar said. “All you had to do was be reasonable. No northerner should ever be permitted to set foot in the east unless their head is on a pike.” The cold viciousness in the general’s tone made Gareth sad first, angry second.

  He said nothing, wishing for a different world, the one Roan had painted for him, where peace was not only a possibility, but a reality. Maybe it is, he thought, but not today.

  “Nothing to say, King Ironclad?” the general said, a note of mocking in his mellifluous tone.

  Gareth stood. He had been a fool to trust this man before, but he wasn’t a fool now. His naivete had been a gift to the general before, but the man’s overconfidence would now be the Orian’s undoing.

  “You are hereby all under arrest, under my authority,” Gareth said. Jormundar gawked at him, though his expression of control hadn’t changed. His pure Orian legionnaires, however, glanced at each other, uncertainty in their eyes.

  “You misunderstand me,” the general said. “This isn’t treason—this is a coup. Step down from the throne or we shall drag you out.”

  Gareth knew it was petty, but he couldn’t help but to anticipate the look on the general’s face when he realized the error he’d made:

  Underestimating me.

  “Arrest them,” he said, keeping his voice low, a barely smoldering fire.

  “You have some nerve—” the general started to say but stopped at the sound of steel being drawn from scabbards. Half a hundred soldiers, men and women, Orian and human, marched inside, surrounding the rebels. Silent arrows were nocked to silent strings, but Gareth didn’t see any of it, because he was watching the general, a mouse who’d thought he had the cheese but who had, in reality, stumbled headlong into the trap.

  The color of his face went from flushed pink to sunrise orange to bright red in a few moments, before draining of all color, as pale as a snowcapped mountain. His teeth locked together as he tried to muster whatever bravado he had left. Despite his attempt, however, there was no mistaking the slight tremor in his voice. “This isn’t over. I underestimated you, that is all. But if you allow the northerners to shelter south of the Mournful Mountains, there will be mutiny. Mark my words.”

  “Thank you for your concern and advice, general,” Gareth said. “But you misunderstand me. I’m not just granting Annise Gäric and her people entry to the east, I’m bringing them here, to Ironwood.” As the general’s jaw dropped and his mouth fell open, Gareth nodded to his soldiers, who moved to arrest the Orians, who did not struggle.

  And though Gareth felt a small measure of satisfaction, he couldn’t help but remember the way the people of Ferria had reacted to the general’s words in the town, how they’d rallied together in their shared belief that the northerners were enemies to be crushed.

  Three days later

  Each side of the rocky, twisting road was lined with a colonnade of fir trees and pines, blue spruce and evergreens, painting a distinct path through the lower foothills of the southern flank of the Mournful Mountains, stretching all the way to the border city of Crow’s Nest.

  Gareth rode at the head of a column of legionnaires, royal flagbearers on either side so there would be no mistake as to their identity. The easterners who lived this far north were a stalwart people who’d survived this long not by asking questions but by answering them. Not once in over three hundred years had a northern soldier reached the flatlands beyond the foothills, and that truth was primarily due to the strength of Crow’s Nest.

  Just ahead, Gareth saw an old crook-backed man with a cane herding a small flock of sheep across the path and onto a relatively flat hill tufted with lush, green grass.

  Gareth frowned. The man seemed completely at ease, unperturbed by the coming invasion. Did something go wrong with the stream I sent? he wondered. No, couldn’t be. He’d sent it himself, although the newly appointed royal stream worker had offered. He’d seen his words vanish into the crystalline waters, so unless the inkreeds for Crow’s Nest had been mismarked…

  The last of the sheep passed in front of them, but the man stopped on the side, watching. He was chewing on a long blade of brittle grass, and he nodded to Gareth as he approached. “Your Highness. We have not had the honor of hosting an Ironclad in almost three years.”

  “It has been too long,” Gareth agreed. “But I wish I were here under better circumstances.”

  The man looked about fifty, though his eyes seemed younger, a pearlescent mixture of blue and gray that made Gareth certain he had Orian somewhere in his ancestry. “There are no better circumstances in Crow’s Nest,” the man said.

  Though Gareth knew it was true, the idea disturbed him, cutting to the heart of everything that was wrong with the Four Kingdoms. “Are you aware of whether Crow’s Nest received the royal stream I sent three days ago?”

  The twinkle in the man’s eyes faded, but somehow it only served to enhance their color even more. “We did, Your Highness. An announcement was made.”

  “So you know about the Horde?”

  “Aye.” There was no change in his tone, which surprised Gareth. Even though he was fairly certain the Horde wouldn’t reach Crow’s Nest for several days, he’d wanted to warn them just in case. But this man seemed as unconcerned by the idea of a cannibalistic army of barbarians as he was about the presence of over three thousand legionnaires on his mountainside. Maybe I should have mentioned the northern refugees, too, Gareth thought.

  “But you’re still herding your sheep like it’s any other day.”

  “I am.”

  “I don’t understand.” Gareth had been here on several occasions, but never stayed more than a night or two under the shadow of the mountain. In many ways, these hill dwellers were an enigma to him.

  The man scratched at the patchy layer of rough gray hair growing on his chin and jaw. “My people have lived on the brink of extinction for many years. That is what life is on the border of a war that never ends. We do not fear death the way others do, for it is our constant bedfellow. So aye, we will plant our fields and plan to harvest them. We will herd our flocks to pasture. And if we die, we die. But we don’t plan to.”

  Though this man was clearly beyond his prime, thinner than most, weathered by wind and time and experience, Gareth felt a certainty that he’d want him at his side in a fight. “Then the east is more secure than I thought. Thank you for educating me.”

  “My pleasure, Your Highness. Now I must attend to my flock, lest your legionnaires starve from lack of meat.” He turned away and strode up the hill.

  Gareth noticed he was no longer hunched over, swinging his cane at his side rather than planting it to assist his climb. The man’s words rang in his ears:

  And if we die, we die. But we don’t plan to.

  Good, Gareth thought. With that attitude, maybe, just maybe, there was still hope.

  But first: it was time to convince the people of Crow’s Nest to open their doors to welcome their enemies into their homes.

  A fire blazed happily in the large stone hearth dug into the wall. Mead flowed like water, served in large clay jugs by thickset men and women with steady
hands. Meat and potatoes were served in a hearty stew that left Gareth’s stomach feeling warm and full.

  They were in a large, high-ceilinged banquet hall. On the walls were mounted the massive heads of strange mountain-dwelling beasts known as horned kippur. Their antlers were long and curved, ending in anywhere from six to twelve prongs depending on maturity. They were notoriously hard to find and even harder to kill as they sprung agilely from rock to rock across the mountainside. Their hides were also known to be the best type of leather, supple but strong.

  Long tables filled the room from end to end; the one Gareth ate at sat slightly higher than the rest, so he could see everything. He was surrounded by the patriarchs and matriarchs of the families that had lived in this city the longest. There were Cordners and Vastbruns, Friars and Mortons, Stonehalls and Masons, and many more. The lower tables were filled with Gareth’s generals and their captains. The rest of the legionnaires ate outside, under a cloudy sky that smelled of rain though not a single drop had fallen. This time of year, the mountaintops remained capped with snow, but it was too warm for it to fall this low in the foothills.

  Gareth listened to the conversation, much of which was for his benefit. A huge woman that stood a head taller than her red-haired husband, said, “Let ’em barbari’ns come. We’ll roast ’em on a spittle.” Gareth could almost believe her as he watched her sink her teeth into a huge mutton bone after dipping it in the stew.

  Her husband chuckled, wiping the back of his hand across his chin in a fruitless attempt to remove drops of mead from his thick orange beard. “Woman, you would roast your own cousin on a spittle if she looked at you funny.”

  She glared at him, and Gareth couldn’t help but laugh. Though he’d thought he would have less and lesser in common with these people because they lived in the rocky mountains and he in an iron forest, he’d witnessed similar scenes in the banquet hall back in Ferria many times. Easterners, regardless of where they lived, liked to bicker. They were loud and proud. They fought like ore cats and loved like there was no tomorrow.

  Which, these days, might actually be true.

  Still, there was an air of celebration, which again, felt strange. Do these people have no fear? he wondered. At the same time, he couldn’t decide whether they were exceptionally brave or utterly foolhardy. He also wasn’t certain it mattered one way or another. What mattered more than anything was that they were openminded.

  Gareth had given a speech a few hours earlier, all about the strength of the people of Crow’s Nest, how grateful the rest of the kingdom was for their sacrifice and commitment. Next he focused on the enemy they now faced, one without compassion or remorse. One who killed for the sake of killing and no other reason. One woman had cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Like the northerners!” which Gareth hoped wouldn’t be a prelude of things to come.

  He would’ve loved to delay further, but he also knew mead and meat and the feeling of frivolity was his best bet for sharing the news and the decision he’d made.

  So he stood at the large table. The eyes immediately around him noticed, and their lips closed, conversation ceasing. It took a while longer for the rest of the room to notice, a hushed silence moving across the space like a wave, stealing voices and laughter.

  Gareth said, “People of Crow’s Nest, I thank you for your hospitality. For your food, your drink, your loyalty to the great kingdom I’ve grown up in.”

  “Long live the king!” someone shouted. And another: “Ironclad throne! Ironclad throne!” The chant was soon taken up by the entire room, fists slamming against the wooden tables, rattling silverware and sloshing the contents of overfilled mugs over their sides.

  This was also so normal a scene he might’ve never left Ferria. In some ways, it only made what he had to say harder. He feared disappointing the very people who had kept their lands safe for so long. And yet he had to.

  He waited patiently for the hubbub to die down, and then said, “The Horde is coming.”

  “Rut the Horde!” someone shouted. It was the large woman from earlier, a fierce expression limning her face. “And their dogs too!” her husband added.

  Gareth smiled, nodding. “Your courage is the best of us all. We know this border is safe from the barbarians if they choose to come this way. But they are not the only ones we must be watchful for.”

  Though no one spoke, heads nodded around the room. They all knew of whom he spoke. The northerners. Not one of them had avoided losing loved ones at the hands of their neighbors over the mountains. They’d given as much as they’d taken, but still…

  “Yes,” Gareth said. “The northerners are being pursued by the Horde.”

  “Good,” someone said, but Gareth couldn’t tell who.

  He shook his head. “It is not good. For the first time in the history of the Four Kingdoms, every kingdom, every empire, every land, every people, share the same enemy. The Horde threatens us all.”

  “Here, here!” the large woman said, raising her mug. Others joined her and they clinked them together, taking long swills before slamming them down. Gareth wondered whether they’d be drinking to the next words he spoke. Not likely.

  He raised a hand in the air until the silence resumed. “Which means all the other kingdoms, empires, lands, and people are our allies.”

  The energy in the room shifted in an instant. Eyes narrowed, brows furrowed into frowns. “Whatcha mean?” the tall woman said. She seemed to have trouble with every silence, forced to fill them with the sound of her own voice.

  “What I mean is that now is the time to put aside our differences for a time, to consider how we can best face an enemy that would destroy us all. Queen Annise Gäric herself reached out to me, requesting my aide.”

  “And what did you say?” the woman asked.

  “I said yes,” Gareth said.

  Stunned silence ensued, even from the outspoken woman, who, along with everyone else, stared at him. No one drank. No one moved.

  Gareth said, “Queen Gäric hasn’t responded to my stream. I don’t know if any of her people survived the attack, but if they did, they will eventually come over these very mountains seeking refuge. Would you deny them?”

  More silence, and then: “What do you command, Your Highness?”

  In this case, Gareth was surprised to find it was the boisterous woman, who had pushed back her chair to stand. He remembered her surname. Hardy. It suited her perfectly. “Lady Hardy, I would—”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, but I’m no lady, Your Highness. Just a woman tryin’ to understand why we might let northern wolves into the chicken hovel.”

  Gareth could tell it wasn’t a challenge, not like General Jormundar’s had been. Her words were filled with naked innocence. This woman was trying to understand, and Gareth could sense the same from the rest of these simple people who’d done so much for all of them over the years.

  Which meant he wouldn’t truss his speech up with elegant words or try to propagandize his message to spin it into something they would be certain to agree with. No, all he had to offer was the simple truth.

  “Because they asked us to.”

  Two days later

  “Darrin is silent. Empty, as far as I could see.”

  The scout clasped a spyglass in one hand, her long fingers wrapped around the iron barrel. When she’d departed Crow’s Nest by royal command, her hair had been a soft violet hue, but was now dark with snowmelt—almost black. She had strong features in the way of her people. If Gareth had to guess, he’d say she was at least half Orian, if not three quarters. That was the reason he’d chosen her for the job—the Orians were known to have exceptional vision, even at great distances. Slowly, over time, they could control their pupils, widening them to improve their vision. The woman’s eyes were nearly fully black now. It was disconcerting, but he forced himself to meet her stare.

  Now, he couldn’t help but wonder if she would betray him like General Jormundar had.

  Stop, he thought. He was
tired of all the animosity between races and cultures. Tired of the hate. The east was built on trust and friendship between two vastly different races, the humans and Orians. They’d survived because of their differences, not in spite of them. If he started questioning the loyalty of every Orian in his service, what example would that be for the rest of his people?

  He blinked, realizing the Orian scout was still standing at attention before him, waiting for a response, or to be dismissed. The forest people were keenly perceptive and he wondered how much of his thoughts she had guessed. “And the surrounding area?” he asked.

  “A massive storm system had passed through,” she said.

  “Rain?”

  She shook her head. “Snow.”

  Gareth frowned. The north was a peculiar place. It was awfully late in the season for snow. Why would anyone want to live in such a harsh environ?

  He almost laughed, because he was certain there were plenty of westerners—Rhea Loren included—who would question the sanity of one who wanted to live in a forest made of iron.

  “Your Highness?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m just…tired. Did you see anything else?”

  The woman’s dark eyes refused to meet his now, and Gareth sensed she’d been holding something back the entire conversation, trying to find the right words. “Yes. I couldn’t be certain, for the snow was piled high, but…”

  “Tell me.”

  “There were dark spots in the snow. They almost looked ashy. At first I thought they might be black rocks protruding from the drifts, but now I’m almost certain they weren’t.”

  “What were they?”

  “Pools of blood,” she said, her eyes finally meeting his.

  “How do you know? Even with the spyglass…”

  “Fingers and a foot,” she said.

  “What?”

  “They were hard to spot, but amongst the dark spots I saw fingers poking from the snow. Three of them, like little branches. Nearby was a foot. Well, a boot, more accurately. It wasn’t attached to anything.”