Lifemarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 5)

by David Estes

No, Roan said, his inner voice growing weak. She’s hope and peace and the next generation and everything that’s important in this life. Just try. Please try.

  I will try, Lisbeth said.

  The child spoke:

  Noura

  The world was a place of such beauty that Noura could barely look away. The colors. The sounds. The people.

  Her mother’s face. Her father’s eyes.

  Now there was pain, a clenching in her chest. She wailed, scared. Her mother tried to comfort her, but she could not. “What is happening?” her mother said.

  “The halfmarked,” the kindly woman in the blue dress said.

  “Do something!”

  “I’m trying.”

  Noura could hear the kindly woman’s voice in her head, but it was distant and she couldn’t make out the words.

  But there was another, the one from the Beginning. The woman who spoke to her inside, teaching her. Speak, my daughter, she said now. Speak and they will listen.

  I have no voice, Noura thought. I am too new.

  Not from your mouth, from your heart.

  Oh. Oh. She understood. Somehow, she understood.

  I am the peacemarked, she said, and she could feel the recognition in many others, bright collections of light and fire. She could feel the recognition in one other too, his light darker, filled with pain and turmoil. You have had your time, but now it is mine. A coin has been flipped and it need not land on one side—life or death. There is another option, a world of sadness and joy, a world of loss and hope, a world that shares the good with the evil, the war with the peace, a place where hope flowers grow in the north and gods share the adoration in the south, where the sun rises and falls and the moons and stars paint pictures in the night sky. This is the world I was born into, but it doesn’t exist without us, and it doesn’t come for free. There is always a cost.

  I am not the cost.

  The words came to her from another place, and she knew it was the woman speaking to them all—her fatemarked brothers and sisters.

  It was the woman’s last words before she left this world forever.

  The clenching in her chest eased and then ceased all together.

  And she smiled.

  Noura smiled.

  Her peacemark began to glow even brighter.

  One-Hundred-and-Three

  The Western Kingdom, Felix

  Helmuth Gäric

  Fools, Helmuth thought, fighting back to his feet. Some greater power filled with pain—a power he could appreciate—had held his heart in its grasp, only to release him.

  Now they would all suffer for that mistake.

  The first to attack him was the massive knight wearing the spiked armor. He had the look of a northerner, which brought great pleasure to Helmuth. The blow would’ve ended him, but it never fell. Instead, his mist fell upon the surprised knight and he missed, his weapon’s chain wrapping around his own leg. The next to come was his niece, Annise, and he was impressed by her fearlessness as she swung her small, spiked ball. He ducked under the attack and grabbed her by the throat, sending a jolt of pain through her body, thrusting her back just in time to turn and take a slash in the arm instead of the throat from the man he’d thought he’d broken.

  Blood welled up from the long rend in his skin, flowing down his arm and pooling in his palm.

  Helmuth’s hand shot out and clamped on Ennis Loren’s wrist.

  The man kept his feet, managing to switch the sword to his other hand.

  What the hell? Helmuth thought. He glanced at his chest though he didn’t need to. His painmark continued to flare, sending power through to any he touched. This man, however, was unaffected. He feels no pain, he realized. Not anymore.

  The realization came just in time for him to twist Ennis’s wrist and break away, dodging a stab that would’ve ended him.

  It was too close a call. He needed to slip away behind his army and regroup. The situation in its current condition was spiraling out of control. He charged for the edge of the circle, sending tendrils of mist out before him to shove his Horde aside and open a gap through the throng.

  Several humans, however, stepped in his path, shoving him back into the circle. He could see the jolt of pain that shot through their bodies, but they merely grimaced and held their positions.

  He sensed the next attack from behind and dropped to the ground, using his attacker’s momentum to send him over his head. Ennis landed awkwardly on his back and neck, his eyes rolling back. Helmuth swiftly clambered to his feet and struck the next attacker, a man clad in the armor of the east. His sword was well-practiced and efficient, hemming him in with lithe, smooth strokes.

  But this man was not immune to his power, as Ennis had been. Helmuth waited for an opening and then grabbed him, shooting pain through his very bones. The man’s hand opened and he fell.

  Helmuth loomed over him, drawing his own blade.

  Roan

  Roan’s head was spinning from hearing the Western Oracle’s words spoken through his own niece directly into his head. His chest, however, no longer ached, and the halfmarked had stopped the flow of their power. Good, he thought. This is good.

  “Bane,” he said. “Are you ready?”

  Shadows seemed to coalesce around the boy’s face and head, broken only by the fire burning on his scalp. “Let’s kill this bastard,” Bane said.

  Together, they strode through the throng, a narrow passage opened by their allies, who fought valiantly on either side.

  They spilled into the circle and Roan immediately saw what was about to happen, the impending death of the ninth ruler. “No!” he shouted, already knowing it was too late to save Gareth, the blade flashing down toward his head.

  Clank!

  Bane appeared from thin air, blocking the thrust from the Horde leader, shoving him back with a force so powerful the large man almost lost his footing. “You,” Helmuth said.

  “Aye. And I brought friends this time.” Bane gestured back toward Roan, who’d been joined by the halfmarked.

  “It is no matter,” Helmuth said. “One or many, you are too weak, as I once was. But this is a new day. A day on which the world will burn.”

  He shot forward, sending fog all around Bane, who screamed, clutching at his skull. And then he struck, a flurry of blows that Bane barely managed to deflect with his blades, all the while screaming and grasping at his head. Atop his bald dome, his deathmark was fading.

  Two sides of the same coin, Roan thought, focusing. He sent a stream of light from his chest toward Bane, not to heal him, but to stoke the fires of Bane’s marking. Sparks flew from his scalp as his mark burst back to life. The mist recoiled like a snake before a held torch, and Bane managed to regain his footing, slashing out at the Horde leader, who danced back.

  “Should we strengthen Bane?” Shae asked, having arrived beside him, her brow furrowed.

  Roan considered it. Killing Helmuth could be the difference between victory and defeat, but he knew the halfmarked could only use their power once more on this day. And, in his heart, he felt there was a greater purpose. “Not yet,” he said.

  In the center of the circle, Gareth had rolled away, shoved out of harm’s reach by Bane. The painmarked was calling his Horde to him, but any barbarians who tried to break free were fought off by valiant defenders. He spotted Sonika and Falcon and a knight with sword strokes crafted to perfection. Ennis Loren was on his feet and fighting too. Hailing from the north was a massive knight and Queen Annise Gäric, as well as a woman who was a smaller version of her.

  All fighting. All resisting.

  Roan knew he couldn’t kill, not even these barbarians, but he was fighting too, supporting Bane in what he was born to do.

  Bane’s dagger moved so quickly it might’ve been a shard of silver light through a cracked doorway. His body vanished and reappeared just as rapidly. Helmuth Gäric bellowed as he was slashed on the arm, the chest, the back. Again and again his mist tried to wrap around the deathmarked
boy, but Roan was with him, his light chasing away the fog of pain and terror.

  Bane appeared at Helmuth’s front and stabbed him in the gut. Helmuth kicked at him, connecting solidly, throwing him back. The Horde leader followed through, bleeding from many cuts, diving atop Bane and driving a blade toward his throat.

  Roan was about to rush forward, already preparing to send his healing power toward Bane, when everything stopped.

  Roan blinked, trying to understand. Not a soul moved or breathed, their positioning frozen in time like some artist’s depiction of a great battle. After the cacophony of battle, the perfect silence was a shock, almost as if Roan had lost his hearing. Only the sound of his own ragged breathing told him he had not. Overhead, the sky was filled with a blinding light, brighter than the noonday sun, brighter than Roan’s own lifemark. He looked back toward its origin, which seemed to come from the south.

  And he understood. Noura Loren, daughter of his own sister, Rhea Loren, the peacemarked. The light came from her. Inexplicably. Impossibly. It was an infant who had saved Bane’s life. Who had possibly saved them all.

  What now? he wondered, but not for long, because he knew. She hadn’t frozen him, which meant he had a role to play. He strode forward with confidence, dragging Bane by his heels until he was well clear of Helmuth’s death blow. He hoped it would be enough to turn the battle back in Bane’s favor.

  Roan stepped back, waiting. Waiting…

  Everything rushed back to life in an instant, the sounds of battle assaulting Roan’s ears. Helmuth’s blade thunked into the ground, his eyes widening when he found his foe gone, having disappeared before his very eyes.

  Helmuth pushed to his feet and spun, seeking his enemy. Bane appeared directly in front of him, slashing his wrist, causing the large man to drop his weapon. Helmuth gawked at the blood pumping from his skin, but Bane wasn’t satisfied, slashing the other wrist and then jamming his knife into his chest up to the hilt. He held it there, twisting it slightly as Helmuth gasped, blood bubbling from his lips.

  “Die,” Bane said, wrenching the dagger from his opponent’s chest and slashing it across his throat.

  He turned away as the man fell.

  Gareth

  The turn of events seemed to happen so fast Gareth had blinked and it was over.

  Now, the barbarians stopped fighting, standing dumbly, staring in the direction of their fallen leader.

  Several of them died easily as the humans continued fighting.

  But then, with grunts and snarls and snapping of jaws, the barbarians began, once more, to fight, except this time it wasn’t only the humans and Orians they fought.

  No, now they fought each other too.

  “Away!” Gareth shouted, realizing what was happening, that the spell had been broken.

  Heads turned his way, and understanding dawned across his allies. They retreated, watching the barbarians rip each other apart, until few remained, and those who did had grievous injuries.

  Tarin Sheary stepped forward. “My turn,” he said, his voice a growl as he stalked toward the few enemies. Gareth turned away, not wanting or needing to watch, his focus entirely on

  Him.

  Roan stood beside Bane, and something about their closeness felt right, inevitable. But Gareth wasn’t about to let an ancient prophecy get in the way of his grand reunion. He rushed into Roan’s arms, drawing him close, slapping his back and breathing in his scent.

  Roan pulled back, his eyes glittering in that amused way that had captured Gareth’s attention from the moment he met him on that fateful day all those months ago. “Miss me?” Roan said.

  “You? Not really. I’m here for Bane.”

  Roan laughed. “So am I. We all are, in fact. He’s our hero today.”

  Gareth glanced at the shadowy boy, who shifted uncomfortably under their scrutiny. Still, he could tell he was pleased by the compliment.

  “Where’s Gwen?”

  Caught up in the battle and the unexpected turn of events and their remarkable victory, Gareth had forgotten. How had he forgotten? “Hurry!” he said now, grabbing Roan by the edge of his shirt. “Come with me.”

  One-Hundred-and-Four

  The Western Kingdom, Felix

  Gwendolyn Storm

  The sounds of the battle had faded into the background. Gwen could hear the beating of her heart, though that was growing slower and weaker, and the rush of blood through her head, though that seemed to be lessening too.

  She cracked her eyelids, but the dark had given way to a bright day, and she jammed them shut again, seeing a whorl of spots.

  She remembered fighting the leader of the Horde; she was winning, she thought. And then nothing but pain as darkness closed in.

  I am…dying, she thought, the realization taking her by surprise. She’d known Orians who had died, the potential of their long lives snipped away like a length of rope chopped at the wrong end. Her father, for one. When he’d died in battle, he’d had fifty good years left in him at the least. War meant death, and Gwen was no stranger to it. And yet, even though she’d faced many dangerous situations in her short nine decades of life, she’d never been close to her final act.

  She thought of three people in those final moments:

  First, Siri—my soul? she offered to the sky. There was no response and she could feel a dark, empty space that had once been filled by the red dragon turned black. She had failed Raven. She had failed her soul.

  Second, Gareth Ironclad. Gwen had never expected the friendship they now had. Once, she’d thought of him only as an arrogant princeling, but now knew a man with a heart of gold, a man who could make her laugh at almost any time of day or in any situation, though most of the time she pretended not to be amused. I should’ve laughed with him more, she thought now. The spots behind her eyelids seemed to be drifting aimlessly now, and she sensed the approach of the end. Will the Great Forest of Orion be lush and thick this time of year? she wondered. Was it always lush and thick? Would those she’d loved and lost be waiting there for her? Her father, her mother, Alastair—her warrior poet. She could see their faces now, as clearly as if they stood beside her. She’d wanted to be with them for so long, but now that she had the opportunity, she wanted to see another more.

  Third, Roan Loren. He’d changed her in ways she’d never dreamed possible, stripping her of the desire for vengeance, the need to hate, the yearning for war. He’d cracked the armor encasing her heart and allowed her to love again. Him. Raven Sandes. Siri. He’d shown her what it meant to be human, imperfect but still striving. Always striving.

  “Gwendolyn.”

  The voice might’ve been spoken by the wind, as soft and soothing and heartfelt as it was. She’d bruised others who had dared use her full first name. Roan was the only one besides Alastair and her father.

  She opened her eyes, drinking him in. Through his white linen shirt, his lifemark glowed. “Hello,” she said, her voice cracking slightly on the end.

  “Oh, Gwendolyn,” he said, and the two words were filled with so much—the past, present and future boiled down to a single drop of time.

  She licked her dry, cracked lips, trying to moisten them so she could speak, say everything she longed to say to this man who’d claimed her heart in the thickest part of the Tangle. “I—I shall miss you,” she said. Over Roan’s shoulder, she saw Gareth peering through tree branches. He nodded to her thoughtfully and then backed away.

  “You don’t have to,” Roan said. “I’m going to save you.” He placed his hands on her abdomen, fingers probing delicately between the breach in her armor.

  “Roan,” she said, his name sounding so familiar to her ears. The spots were gathering around his head, joined together by a halo of light. If she lived, he would have to choose between she and Gareth. If he chose Gareth, she would be brokenhearted. And if he chose her…she didn’t want to hurt her friend. And if Siri’s soul was lost to her… “I don’t know if I want to be saved,” she admitted.

  She
recognized the troubled look that crossed Roan’s face and she loved him even more for it. It was his expression of righteous indignation, the sign that he refused to accept that which others accepted without thought and that he wouldn’t sleep until he changed things. “A world without you is no world at all,” he said, and she felt a corner of the dark void of her soul brighten just a little.

  She didn’t know if what he said was true, but it had to be enough. He’d given her a reason to live—other than vengeance—and he was doing so again now. It was like she’d been sleepwalking through life for decades only to finally awaken from her slumber and find herself wrapped in the arms of one who loved her all along. She nodded, the world growing dim.

  “There is one ruler left to die for the prophecy to be fulfilled,” he said, and she could feel more than hear the sadness in his tone.

  Everything was fading on one side while the beginnings of light glowed on the other. At first she thought it was sunrise, but then realized it was Roan’s chest, the light growing brighter and brighter.

  And just as Gwendolyn blacked out, she understood his words. She wanted to forbid him from doing it, but she didn’t. He was a hero; a hero who had never fought and killed another, but a hero just the same.

  Darkness swarmed over her.

  Roan

  Strengthen me, he commanded across the link between the fatemarked.

  He could feel Lisbeth’s tears on her cheeks, could sense Dietrich’s fingers brushing them away. Goodbye, they said, as one.

  Bane was there, too, but he cloaked himself in shadow. The only part visible was his deathmark, a fiery circle, only one segment yet to be filled with blood. What am I without you? he asked, his voice a whisper.

  A hero, Roan said. More than I ever gave you credit for, and for that I’m sorry. Do not waste this life. Live it for us both.

  Bane hesitated for only a moment before saying, I will.

  The halfmarked, Shae and Erric, had waited patiently, but now they spoke. Are you ready?