by David Estes
He cocked his head to the side, finally realizing the dull sounds of war were in the background. It’s not over? He didn’t think to wonder how that was possible when the night was long gone. Instead, he shoved to his feet, clamped his dagger between his teeth, and began to climb out of the fortress of the dead he’d built himself.
Roan
Bodies shifted under his feet. Twice he stumbled, using pale-skinned arms and legs as foot and handholds. “Light and dark. Life and death,” he muttered under his breath. “Same coin. Two sides.” In his mind, he saw the coin spinning end over end. He’d always thought it could only land on one of two sides, which was why he’d thought of Bane as the enemy for so long. But now he saw a third possibility, watching as the coin landed on its narrow side, refusing to fall in either direction.
In real life, such a thing might be impossible, but theirs was a world of ancient magic, their markings forged by the gods, who were neither good nor evil. And our fates are not determined by them, nor by the Western Oracle. We make our own fates.
He reached the top, his arms and legs smeared with barbarian blood.
And he looked at himself.
For just a moment, he saw his own face through the shadowy shroud. He saw his own desires, fears and hopes cast in a different, darker light. “Bane,” he said.
“Roan.”
“You’re alive.”
“Yes.”
“What happens next?” Roan asked. He was so used to trying to convince Bane how to act, what to do, that the question seemed like it had come from another. Yet he knew it was the question he should’ve been asking the deathmarked boy the entire time.
“How many unfilled portions remain on my mark?” Bane asked, though Roan was certain he already knew the answer. Bane bowed slightly so Roan could get a good look.
“Two,” Roan said.
“That’s your answer. Two rulers must die, one way or another. Only then can there be peace. Look.”
Atop the pile of the dead, Roan turned to cast his eyes over the killing fields. It was covered with the bodies of barbarians and humans alike, the dead now outnumbering the living. The fiercest fighting continued near the edge of the unnatural forest, where a large tree had collapsed.
Two rulers must die, one way or another.
Roan, finally, knew exactly what he needed to do.
“Will you help me?” he asked, turning back to Bane.
The boy’s eyes misted over and he nodded. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
One-Hundred-and-Two
The Western Kingdom, Felix
Tarin Sheary
He was not Tarin Sheary, nor some monster, but a new creation, feeding on violence like a crow on carrion.
A circle of empty space had formed around him, and any who breached its edges met the steel spikes of the Morningstar’s three skulls. Locating him was as easy as looking for where the bodies were piled thickest.
The man he most wanted to inflict violence on had eluded him thus far, but he was tireless in his pursuit, killing any who stood in his way. Something was screaming, but he knew it was coming from deep inside him, or perhaps from his own lips. Nothing to concern himself with.
Ten barbarians charged at once, raging bulls of fury. He smashed two in short succession with his spiked balls and then lowered his head and barreled into a third, picking it up and slamming it down onto a fourth. The fifth slashed harmlessly across his Orian-forged adamantine armor with its claws, which gave Tarin the opportunity to grab its arm and twist, snapping the bone in half.
Five more dove on his back, trying to wrench his armor off his body. They were exceptionally strong, jerking him to and fro. Reaching back, he slung one over his head, slamming it hard onto its back. He grabbed two others and brought them together head to head. Their eyes rolled back as they slumped to the ground. The final two scrambled away, off to seek easier prey.
He turned slowly, seeking his target.
An armored woman stood before him, holding a hilt that led to a chain that led to a spiked ball. Long dark hair spilled from her helm, falling across her shoulders. She was…familiar.
No. She is a stranger. Leave her. Seek your target.
He started to turn away but she spoke. “You are Tarin,” she said.
That is not your name for you have no name. “Tarin?”
“Aye. The greatest warrior the world has ever known.”
Warrior. Yes. You bear no marking but you are warmarked all the same. Now make war.
“You are mine,” she said. “And I am yours. Don’t forget. Now go.”
Confused, Tarin finally turned away, wondering why he had the urge to stop and go back.
Zelda
My responsibility, Zelda thought. All those years ago when she knew Helmuth was hurting, she should’ve gone to him, comforted him. Instead, she’d hid in her own room, angry at what their father had done. By the time she’d visited her brother, he was already gone.
Which made all this her fault.
And Zelda wasn’t one to shirk her responsibility.
Somewhere along the lines she’d obtained a club dropped by one of the barbarians, and now she wielded it viciously, cracking any skulls that ventured too close.
Though her instinct was to barrel right through the middle of the Horde, she forced herself to think like her brother, Helmuth. He still had the advantage of numbers, and he wouldn’t open himself up to risk unnecessarily. It was just like the games of strategy they’d played together as children—games he’d always won. Eventually he’d grown tired of beating her, moving on to challenge their father. It didn’t take Helmuth long to defeat him either.
Through the lens of her brother’s mind, Zelda scanned the battlefield, looking for the thickest knot of barbarians, racing around the edge, leaping or dodging corpses, ignoring any barbarians who looked interested in a fight. Her target was the back of the largest knot, where she knew Helmuth would be biding his time, plotting his next move.
She spotted him through the throng and redoubled her pace, rounding the edge of his army, finally gaining a clear view of the man who’d once been a boy who was her brother and friend.
Now, he bore no resemblance to that child she’d loved playing with. He was tall and brutish-looking, his face scarred and weathered, his dark hair hanging in greasy knots around his face. But it wasn’t the physical changes that struck her the hardest. No, it was the look in his eyes. Cold and calculating and gleaming with the desire to destroy.
What happened to you, brother?
Her brother had always enjoyed victory before, but not destruction. It was her other brothers who had gained pleasure from lording power over their victims, not Helmuth—never Helmuth.
Until now.
My responsibility, she thought again, lowering into a crouch. She circled around behind him, staying out of direct sight. She willed her footsteps to be quiet as she finally closed in from the back, only a dozen steps away now. Slowly, she raised the club, her fingers aching from gripping the gnarled wood so hard. Nine steps—seven if I extend my stride. The club seemed to grow heavier, and she lifted her other arm to support it. Four steps, two.
In the back of her mind, she expected her brother to turn, to clamp his hand around her throat, recognition dawning in his eyes as he looked upon the sister he hadn’t seen for decades. She expected him to stop her.
He didn’t, still watching the battle unfold before him.
An unexpected sob caught in her throat. Zelda was not a crier. Things made her sad, but she handled such things differently than other women. Even the death of her husband hadn’t shaken her the way this was. Still, she had to do it for the good of all the others she loved.
She steeled herself and prepared to bring down a crushing blow.
She swung with all her might, but then changed her mind on the downswing, her emotions getting the better of her. It was far too late to stop her swing completely, but she managed to redirect it, the blow glancing roughly
off Helmuth’s shoulder.
He winced, grabbing his arm and whirling around to face her.
There was no realization in his eyes. No moment of wonderment as he looked upon the sister he’d abandoned to find himself. They were not the eyes of her brother, not anymore.
“You should’ve killed me when you had the chance, Zelda,” he said. There was a subtle threat in his tone.
“I’m sorry for everything,” she said.
And then she attacked.
Gareth
Thank Orion that man is on our side, Gareth thought, watching through the leaves as Tarin Sheary felled foe after foe. Gwen was unconscious from loss of blood, but Gareth had managed to stem the flow with torn and balled up portions of his shirt.
At one point, one of the barbarians had stumbled through the branches. Gareth had managed to kill him—he was fairly certain it was male, though it was hard to tell—but only after being badly bloodied and bruised in the process. The second attack had come from one of the larger barbarians, a female, and he might’ve been killed if his legionnaires hadn’t arrived in the nick of time, rushing through the forest and throwing themselves against the Horde with reckless abandon. An Orian archer’s arrow had pierced the large female ear to ear. “Thank you,” Gareth had breathed, but the woman had only nodded and rushed off to find another target.
The tide had shifted momentarily, before the Horde regained their advantage, pushing them back once more.
Now, Gareth was torn. He could stay with Gwen and fight those barbarians that came to him, or rush back into battle. But what if she dies? I need to find a healer.
Roan, he thought, shoving branches aside until the way was clear.
Something large leapt at him from the side and Gareth parried a strike from a massive club with a large nail in it. The blow was heavy enough to rattle his hands and send shockwaves up his arms. He spun back the other way, furious, opening the throat of his attacker. “Roan!” he shouted, though he didn’t know whether the Peacemaker was within shouting distance or even still alive.
Someone stepped forward, a human man wearing tattered clothing, his beard thick and unkempt, not unlike his hair.
I know this man, Gareth thought, though it took him a moment to place him.
“Ennis?” he said. This was the man who’d betrayed his own country to rescue him. All in the hopes of establishing a peace between the east and the west, something that at the time had seemed impossible.
Ennis shook his head, his thick mane shifting from side to side. His mouth opened to reveal what was left of his tongue, a wriggling worm. “I am No One,” he gurgled.
Gareth was shocked at the change in the man. When he’d left Phanes, the man was weathered from the time he spent imprisoned in one of the Phanecian war cities, but he was still Ennis. But now…
“Ennis, we can still make peace. We are still fighting. There is still hope.”
All around him, the battle raged, barbarians killing humans and Orians in droves, occasionally losing one of their own.
We are losing, Gareth thought. Badly. His own mind betrayed the words he spoke to Ennis.
“I’m sawwy,” Ennis said. I’m sorry.
“What?” Before the question was fully out of Gareth’s mouth, the man had quickstepped forward, the grace of his movements a contradiction to his weary appearance. He swung a heavy two-handed sword at Gareth’s chest. Gareth managed to come to his senses and leap back, taking the blow on the broadside of his blade, deflecting the strike downward.
Ennis spun, rotating his sword around his body, trying to sweep in from Gareth’s left side.
For most of Gareth’s life he’d been known as the Shield, but it wasn’t the shield he’d learned to use. No, he’d been trained in the sword, and now he fell naturally into combat with the seasoned soldier, parrying strike after strike. High, low, stabbing, slashing—it mattered not. Several times he saw openings in Ennis’s defenses, but passed them up, hoping the man would tire himself out.
Gareth’s unwillingness to fight him seemed only to infuriate him. “Hit me!” he screamed, spit flecking his beard. “Stab me! Fight, damn you! Fight!”
His slashes grew faster and wilder, every stroke meant to be a killing stroke. One almost took off his head, but Gareth ducked at the last second, finally attacking in frustration, slashing Ennis at the knees.
The man fell back, his sword flying from his grip. Instinct took over and Gareth pressed forward, thrusting the tip of his sword beneath Ennis’s chin. He stopped, breathing heavily. Nestled amongst Ennis’s beard, his blade had broken the skin, a trickle of blood meandering out from the dark hair.
“Do it,” Ennis said, and Gareth could see the desperation in the man’s eyes. “Pease. Kill me. Set me fwee.” Set me free. Gareth’s translation of the last three words broke his heart.
It was a request from a friend, but Gareth knew sometimes a friend was better served through rejection than blind obedience. Roan had taught him that several times over, though it had taken a while for the lesson to get through his thick skull.
Gareth struck him, not with his sword—which he pulled back—but with the back of his opposite hand, a firm slap across the face. “Get up,” Gareth said, extending a hand. “You’re going to help us win the day.”
Ennis’s eyes pooled with tears and he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, but then he grabbed Gareth’s hand.
Shae
It was time to end this. They’d tried and failed. The lives of the fatemarked were important, yes, but not at the cost of everyone else. If they had the ability to kill the leader of the Horde, they had to take it before it was too late. Her greatest regret was that Grey’s daughter would be caught in the crossfire.
I’m sorry, Shae thought, wishing she had Lisbeth’s power so she could cross the distance between she and her brother to speak directly into his mind. Please forgive me for everything.
“It’s time,” Erric said, and she could see the sadness in his eyes, mirroring her own. The sadness wasn’t for what they were about to do, but for her. He loved her as a brother might love a sister, and she loved him in return.
She nodded, grasping his hand without looking, her fingers threading through his in that way that had been so familiar and easy from the moment she’d met him.
She closed her eyes.
Gods forgive us, she thought, their hands beginning to glow.
Roan
Walking side by side with Bane, Roan felt tied to the boy like he’d never felt connected to anyone in his life. His fatemark burned hot in his chest and he could see the orange glow of Bane’s as well.
Twice barbarians had tried to assault them, but each time Bane had stepped forward and ended them, his deathmark flaring.
Sometimes there are those who must die in order for there to be peace.
Those words he’d learned so long ago rang truer than he could ever imagine. Two more rulers must die, he thought sadly. It was the only way to end this.
They strode past the hottest part of the battle to where a smaller skirmish had broken out, forming a circle. Around the edges, eastern legionnaires and northern soldiers and Teran slaves and Phanecians fought barbarians. Roan’s eyes, however, were drawn to the center, where a large man stood, weaponless, his arms hanging loosely at each side. He wore a furred leather vest, his arms bare. His thick trousers reached his boots, but were pulled tight by manacles of iron and yew.
His chest burned with a marking of blood. The painmark, Roan thought. The reason for all of this. The Oracle’s grand plan.
It worked! Roan wanted to scream. Are you satisfied now? We are united! We are fighting and dying for the peace you promised!
Several were gathered in the circle with the Horde leader, mist roiling around them. Roan’s eyes widened as he recognized them. Ennis Loren. Gareth Ironclad—Roan’s heart skipped a beat. Northerners—the armored knight, his Morningstar arcing overhead. Annise Gäric, wielding a similar weapon. A squat, broad-shouldered woman.
<
br /> Roan spotted someone else apart from the fray. Well, two someones, holding hands, their heads bowed as if in prayer, their eyes closed. No, he thought, starting toward them.
His chest clenched and he felt a great ache in his heart, as if a hand was squeezing him on the inside. He dropped to one knee with a groan, his eyes locking with Bane’s. The boy had fallen too and was clutching his chest. “What is happening?” Bane breathed, fear in his dark eyes.
“The halfmarked,” Roan grunted. “They’re going to end it.” Roan’s lifemark flared, trying to thwart the assault. “Shae! Erric!” he shouted, but if they heard him, they gave no indication.
He tried to push to his feet but immediately fell back, sapped of strength.
Lisbeth, he tried. Are you there?
It hurts, she answered. The halfmarked.
I know. Can you speak to them?
They are blocking me. Somehow. This power is great. The Oracle’s failsafe. It’s over.
Tears bit at Roan’s eyes. They were tears of joy for those who would live—Rhea and Grey and Annise and Gareth and Ennis and Falcon and so many others. But Gwendolyn. But Bane. But Shae and Erric and Lisbeth and—
Noura. His niece had only just been born and now she was going to die? She bore the peacemark—that should count for something more than turning the night to day and chasing away shadows. There had to be a greater purpose.
Lisbeth?
Goodbye, Roan. May I see you in the stars.
No! Roan said. Please. Open a connection between Noura and the halfmarked.
Roan, she’s only an infant.
