Truthmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 2)

by David Estes

  “Brace yourself!” she cried down to Zelda.

  And then she released one side of the chain and dropped.

  Frozen air rushed past her and she bounced off the slimy side of one of the tentacles, twisting in the air before landing hard on her shoulder. Zelda landed hard beside her, eyes wild. They started to slide, and Annise scratched at the side of the beast’s slick skin to no effect. Frantically, she reached down and drew her sword, using a short thrust to jam it into the monster’s flank and arrest her slide. Zelda did the same, stopping at almost the same position.

  They hung for a moment, just breathing, looking around. This close to the creature’s body, the tentacles seemed to have forgotten her, flailing downwards, searching for fresh victims on the ground.

  “We have to climb higher,” Zelda said.

  Annise nodded, raising her Evenstar by the leather handle, whipping it overhead and slamming it down further up. The spikes struck, sinking deep into the monster’s flesh. With a grunt, she wrenched out her sword, using one arm to pull herself higher. Zelda began doing the same, using her sword to clamber up the slick skin.

  Next Annise jabbed with her sword, higher still, repeating the rhythm as they scaled their giant foe. Swing, pull, jab, climb, again and again, until she was at the apex, looking down upon the bloody battle, which had spilled into the castle courtyard in which she used to play as a child.

  She was horrified to see that while she’d been scaling Mount Slimeworm, three additional monsters had arrived, and were now doing battle with the third and fourth cavalries, as well as several platoons of foot soldiers. The rest of her army were bottlenecked at the castle gates, trying to press forward into combat.

  Of the new monsters, one was like a giant crab, its massive claws snapping men in half like individual pieces of kindling. Another had feathers and razor-sharp talons. It scooped up a handful of soldiers and flew overhead, dropping them to their deaths. The third had skin bristling with spikes, like a porcupine, and dozens of spearmen were trying to shove the tips of their long weapons between the quills to pierce its flesh. Four men were already impaled on its hide, dead.

  Annise shook away the images and turned her attention back to the worm she rode, which was continuing to attack the first cavalry, though it was down to only a handful of tendrils. Still, simply by rolling over, the worm could probably squash hundreds of men. She needed to finish it now. Sir Metz’s words came to mind: Even a worm has a brain.

  “Dig,” she said to her aunt, who had just reached the summit. Without an Evenstar, it had taken Zelda a fraction longer to complete the climb.

  Her aunt grinned excitedly and raised her sword overhead.

  Annise mimicked her movement, and then, in unison, they brought their blades down into what she hoped was the creature’s head.

  If the worm felt the blows, it showed no sign, nor made a sound. She yanked her sword free. Again and again they cut into the worm, digging a ragged chasm into its flesh, carving deeper with each strike. Annise grunted with each stroke, her arms burning from the effort. Something changed, the black meat becoming lighter toned, and then a pink liquid spewed forth, splashing across her face. She clamped her mouth shut, the blood bitter on her tongue, and continued stabbing. Up, down, up, down, up—

  The world dropped out from under her, but she managed to slash down once more, her sword acting as a grappling hook as the monster fell. Screams assaulted her ears as howling wind provided accompaniment.

  Deep in the monster’s flesh, she rattled back and forth, bashing into her aunt when the beast slammed to the ground. She lost her grip on her sword, though Evenstar tangled around her as she shook loose, tumbling hard to the ground, banging both elbows and a knee.

  Already, bodies littered the ground around her.

  Dazed, she stared at the snowflakes falling into the courtyard.

  She blinked.

  Young Tarin, just a boy, raced across her path, hurling a snowball. Expertly, she caught it in one hand, crushing it with her fingers. He squealed and tried to run away, but she launched her own snowball, catching him between the shoulder blades. He sprawled headlong in the snow, doing a full somersault and coming up wearing a grin and ice in his dark hair. “You win again,” he said. “You are the queen of Snow Wars!”

  Her eyes opened and Tarin was there, but he wasn’t that small, skinny boy, but a broad-shouldered warrior in night-dark armor, no longer riding his stallion. “Annise,” he said, kneeling beside her.

  “I’m fine,” she said, though she felt as if she’d been trampled by a horse and two oxen.

  “You’re incredible,” he said. “Both of you.”

  “Tell us something we don’t already know,” Zelda said, already back on her feet.

  Annise shook her head. Though Tarin’s words warmed her from the inside out, they didn’t have time to linger here. “We have to get back.”

  “The monsters are fighting each other,” Tarin said. “It might give us a chance.”

  She looked past him and saw he was right. The creature with the claws snapped the giant bird’s wings off as it tried to claw out its eyes. The porcupine-like monster tucked itself into a ball and rolled up against them both, poking holes in their skin.

  “My fool of a brother can’t control them,” Zelda said.

  Annise nodded grimly. But still, even with the monsters distracted by each other, they were losing soldiers in droves as side effects to the carnage.

  Nearby, the worm’s skin shriveled and fell away, leaving a half-naked man in the center. He was dead, his head opened by the two Gäric blades. Tarin strode over and retrieved the swords, handing the weapons to Annise and her aunt, and helping Annise to stand.

  Side by side by side, they strode back into the battle with the monsters.

  Annise was exhausted, slumped on the ground, her arms on her knees. She could barely lift her sword or Evenstar. Though they’d killed forty-six monsters thus far—Sir Metz was keeping the tally, shouting it out with each new victory—their foes kept coming, relentlessly. Her uncle had begun releasing one at a time, having realized very quickly that the monsters would fight each other if released together.

  The cost of each victory had been steep. Annise didn’t know the exact numbers, but she was certain she’d lost at least half of her force. The third cavalry was gone, as well as the sixth. All of them had taken significant casualties, and most of the horses were lost. In reality, they were all just foot soldiers at this point—even Annise, the queen, her title as worthless in battle as a dress constructed entirely of diamonds.

  Another monster fell—a mamoothen as big as a small mountain that had been their toughest foe yet. Its wooly hide was bristling with arrows and spears, many of them broken. Sir Dietrich had done the most damage, carving a line across the beast’s throat. Like all the other monsters, when its fur and skin peeled away, a dead man was all that remained.

  “Forty-seven!” Sir Metz shouted, his voice easily discernible in the exhausted silence.

  What nightmare will emerge next? Annise wondered.

  The ground rumbled beneath her, as if in response. Something bellowed, a cry that sounded more anguished than angry. And then the monster stalked through the inner arch set into the courtyard wall on four legs, forced to duck its head, which reached to the top. Its fur was black, its snout long and gray, sitting above a large mouth. Its paws were big and padded and ringed with curved claws. The enormous bear reared up onto its hind legs and released another mournful bellow, revealing sharp teeth as it pounded its chest.

  “Archers!” Dietrich shouted. After the initial wave of four monsters, the commander of the first cavalry had gotten into a rhythm. Archers first, then foot soldiers, then cavalry, if any remained. A three-pronged attack that worked in the end, though it took time and sacrifice. Too much sacrifice. “Fire!”

  The archers unleashed a storm of arrows, which hit various parts of the bear, though none were shot high enough to hit its head. Several stuck in its fl
esh, but most bounced off of its strong hide. This wasn’t unusual—most of the monsters seemed to have almost armor-like skin.

  The bear roared again, and then charged, scattering the archers to either side. Dietrich cried his next command, and the foot soldiers bravely charged, an assortment of seasoned veterans and old men and boys no older than Archer. They hacked and jabbed. Some even launched grappling hooks, using them to try to climb the bear to get a shot at its head.

  They are spectacular, Annise thought, watching. Another mid-battle decision they’d made was to have half the army attack a monster while the other half rested. That way the attackers were always fresh, or at least fresher than they would be. An added benefit was that the soldiers wouldn’t get in each other’s way. Tarin paced beside her, watching as the bear swept a claw across three men, slashing their throats open.

  “Tarin,” she said, but he ignored her, continuing to pace. As the battle had progressed, he’d grown more and more agitated, until she could barely get more than a growl of response from him. “Tarin.”

  Still nothing, his fingers flexing and opening around the handle of his Morningstar.

  “Sit down,” she said. “That is a command.”

  He stopped pacing, his chest rising and falling, but he still refused to look at her. He didn’t sit, just watched as the bear killed two more men.

  “Tarin,” she said again. “Sit down. I command it.”

  He didn’t sit. Though he’d become more distant over the course of the day, this was the first time he’d disobeyed a direct command. Annise grunted as she fought to her feet.

  He faced away from her, those giant hands curling and uncurling, forever in motion. He was muttering something under his breath, but she couldn’t discern the words. She slipped her hands around him, across his chest. She had expected him to stiffen, perhaps to try to pull away from her. Instead his elbow shot back, catching her in the temple, the hard armor like a battering ram, knocking her back.

  Stars pulsed around her vision as it dimmed, her legs crumpling. She closed her eyes, willing the world to stop spinning, trying not to think about the fact that the love of her life had hit her.

  The world blinked back into focus and Tarin stood over her, his faceplate lifted, his mesh covering pulled down. His mouth was wrenched into something between a snarl and a twisted curve of horror. “What have you done?” he asked.

  Annise had no time to wonder whether he was asking her or the thing inside of him, the monster that had taken the beautiful boy he’d been, the compassionate, gentle man he’d become, and carved it into someone out of control, a creature of violence and bloodlust; she had no time because at that very moment, the giant bear reared up, turning in their direction. Its forepaws thumped down and it charged.

  “Look out, Tarin!” Annise cried, but it was too late. The bear’s monstrous strides devoured the space between them, and it swiped Tarin aside, knocking him into the air. His armor clanked heavily as he bounced off the stone wall before thudding to the ground. “Tarin!” Annise yelled, but he wasn’t moving.

  The bear stood over her, one paw on either side, its maw opening to reveal fangs dripping with black saliva. This is it, she knew. A prayer flitted through her, for Archer. It was his kingdom now, and he needed to recover to see it through, to take down their uncle.

  The bear’s mouth drew closer, stopping so close she could feel its hot breath on her face, see its eyes boring into her. Those eyes. Somehow, impossibly, inexplicably…those eyes were familiar to Annise, brown orbs as deep as the ocean.

  And she knew.

  She knew.

  “Sir Jonius?” she said.

  The bear seemed to startle at hearing the name, rising up slightly, clamping its mouth shut, blinking in confusion. In Annise’s peripheral vision, she saw Tarin stir. Not dead, she thought, relief swirling through her stomach.

  She refocused on the massive bear. “Sir Jonius,” she said again. “Do you remember me? It’s Annise, your little snow angel. I have returned.” Sir Jonius. The man who had always been kind to her as a child, who’d brought her presents on her name day, who never failed to wink at her as he passed. The man who’d carried out atrocities for her father. The man who had imprisoned her brother, watched as her mother was executed. The man who had let them escape from Castle Hill.

  The most confusing man Annise had ever met was now a monster.

  “You are still in there,” she said. “I have to believe that.”

  The bear unleashed another roar, so loud she was forced to cover her ears with her hands.

  On the edge of her vision, Tarin rose, stalking toward the bear, swinging Morningstar over his head. “Tarin,” Annise said. “Stop. I command it.”

  He stopped for a moment, continuing to swing his weapon. His face was a miasma of confusion, a river of blood streaming from a slash in his forehead. Anger, frustration, fear, sadness—she could see them all coalescing in his haggard expression.

  He started forward once more.

  “No,” Annise said. “Don’t. I know this man.” Tarin stopped. This time he remained still, letting Morningstar fall to the ground.

  She gazed back at the bear. “Sir Jonius, this is not you. You are no monster. You are a knight of the realm, and thus, you are sworn to obey the ruler of the kingdom. That is me. I am Queen Annise Gäric, come to reclaim my throne from the Imposter King.”

  The bear—Sir Jonius—reared up on its hind legs, raising its clawed paws, preparing to stomp down.

  I tried, Annise thought.

  To her surprise, the bear turned away, motioning with its snout toward the archway leading to the rest of the castle.

  Annise rose. Her soldiers were approaching, their weapons drawn. Sir Dietrich. Sir Metz. She waved them down. “Men! This is Sir Jonius. He is one of us now. Do not harm him. Understood?”

  The soldiers eyed the bear warily, but nodded. He roared once more and charged deeper into the castle. After only a moment’s hesitation, the men followed.

  “Forty-eight?” Sir Metz said.

  Ninety-one. That was the latest count. Annise knew they’d all be dead already if not for Sir Jonius in all his monster-bear glory. Fighting beside she and her men, he’d helped them slay dozens of beasts. Another stone monster. A creature made of snow that reformed its limbs when they shattered. A bull the size of a catapult. On and on, monster after monster battled them.

  Sir Jonius was leaking blood from numerous wounds, his dark fur matted and slick, red blood dripping behind him in the snow. But still he fought on, occasionally looking back to meet Annise’s eyes.

  Annise was still woozy from when Tarin had hit her, but the adrenaline had served her well, and she fought on, afraid to stop to rest for even a single moment. Afraid that if she did she would lie down and not get back up.

  In between monsters, Annise tried to get Tarin’s attention, but he was lost inside himself again, his helmet still off, his translucent cheeks crusted with rivulets of dried blood and bulging with black veins. When a new monster appeared, Tarin fought alongside Jonius, roaring and whipping Morningstar with all the force of a winter storm.

  On one occasion he killed a monster—a twelve-eyed shell-armored monstrosity—by shattering its carapace and digging out its heart.

  You’re incredible, he’d said to her earlier. It felt like a lifetime ago. Though, in a way, he was incredible, too, but watching the fury with which he fought sent a dark wave of dread down her spine.

  “Ninety-three!” Sir Metz shouted. Two more monsters had fallen, human bodies littered around them.

  Five more foes emerged, all at once. It seemed her uncle, in his final stand, had abandoned his strategy of releasing one at a time. The first three were of the usual variety: a creature made of bone with long sharp shards for hands; a beast that seemed to be made of tar, which oozed behind it like a black stream; a giant caterpillar with thousands of legs and a maw filled with a dozen rows of pincer-like teeth.

  But the last two were dif
ferent. For one, they were even larger, stretching toward the sky. For another thing, they both took on the shape of men. One was formed from ice, and wore a crown of icicles. A long beard formed of snow blanketed his chin and chest. Annise recognized him immediately—the Ice Lord. The bearer of the icemark, a cruel man who’d murdered hundreds during his appointment as her father’s weapon. Now he was as tall as the walls of Castle Hill. The second man was her uncle, Lord Griswold, the Imposter King himself, except now he was made of metal and wielding an axe the size of a tree.

  He drank the rest of the potion, Annise knew. Half for him, half for the Ice Lord. Their final stand.

  The two leaders waited at the back, watching as their last three monsters attacked. The caterpillar stampeded through the remaining men, swallowing several whole before being hacked to pieces by Sir Dietrich and Tarin. Annise fought alongside Sir Metz, who was as talented with the sword as anyone save perhaps Sir Dietrich, and Zelda, who was as fierce now as when they took down the very first monster. Together, along with the remaining archers and several spearmen, managed to dispatch the tar creature, though at least a dozen men vanished into its black slime in the process. Sir Jonius fought the last creature on his own, ripping off chunks of bone with his enormous paws. Even when a sliver of bone punctured his chest, he was able to bite through its spindly spine. The monster fell to pieces, revealing another dead man.

  “Ninety-seven,” Sir Metz said.

  The Imposter King stepped forward and laughed, a hollow rumble that seemed to penetrate Annise’s chest, rattling her heart.

  He swung his axe. Annise dove to the side as it crashed into the ground, opening up a long slash in the earth. It took her uncle a moment to wrench the axe head from the ground, and Annise took advantage of the respite to race forward, slashing Evenstar across his ankles. The spiked ball rebounded without effect, glancing off thick metal boots. He kicked at her and his toe caught her midsection, picking her up and tossing her through the air.

  The world spun and then she landed softly. Sir Jonius’s soft brown eyes stared down at her as the giant bear set her back on her feet. And then he charged into battle, swiping his claws across her uncle’s abdomen. Though his claws were sharp, they did little but score thin marks in the metal.