The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  Ko-Jin shook himself. This was no time for philosophy, and certainly no time to think of his queen. Painful introspections belonged to quiet nights, not sunny days that smelt of gunpowder.

  “Loose!”

  The boom of Quade’s artillery pounded like a headache. The cannon fire sounded different today, more irregular. On days past, Quade had let loose huge volleys simultaneously. Today, he fired in waves.

  Ko-Jin searched the ramparts for Clea, and when he caught sight of her slight figure, fear sparked through his chest. The Elevated girl was red-faced and stooped. She was juggling cannonballs in the air, endeavoring to redirect them one at a time, but they only kept coming, faster and faster. The number hovering overhead increased—she was falling behind.

  Ko-Jin darted in her direction, his braid flying. The air was thick with smoke, and his ears roared. “Clea,” he hollered, “target the cannons themselves!”

  A small group of Chisanta surrounded Clea; Ko-Jin scanned these faces and wondered where Arlow had gone. He should be here. If Arlow had abandoned the girl, left her alone today of all days, Ko-Jin might finally kill him. Longstanding friendship or no.

  Quade’s soldiers were still coming—coming in waves that looked infinite, even from this high vantage. They bore ladders, many dozens of them, each tall enough to reach the top of the wall.

  A blast cracked the air, and this time Clea only just caught hold of the missile. The cannonball swerved, brushing the stone wall in its ascent. It rose to join its fellows, a swarm of iron swooping and swirling above their heads like heavenly bodies.

  Clea darted a glance in Ko-Jin’s direction. He read the emotion in that quick flash of her eyes—terror.

  He had ordered her to hit back and hit hard, and she was disobeying. She didn’t want to target the cannons, as he’d suggested, because the resulting explosion would kill scores, possibly hundreds. He didn’t fault her for ignoring his command—Never ask another to compromise their own code—but it was plain that her current tactic was failing. She was being worn down by her own mercy, as it was a greater strain not to kill.

  A series of rapid-fire blasts reverberated like thunder. She snagged each cannonball from its trajectory in time, but by the last she was plainly struggling.

  Then yet another boom pierced the morning.

  And she faltered.

  “Incoming,” Ko-Jin cried, diving away from the outer parapet.

  The crash was earsplitting; the rampart shook. He shielded his head and closed his eyes. Fragmented rock smashed to the ground below, and his men screamed. He kicked back to his feet. It was difficult to assess the damage through the smoke and floating debris. Ko-Jin blinked and felt his way blindly forward. He tripped over the body of a fallen archer, his boots slipping in blood.

  A breeze cleared the air, and Ko-Jin stilled.

  They had lost two merlons, blocks of protective stone that were now replaced by a jagged gap in their battlements. It would do Quade little good, so high off the ground, but still the damage glared like a missing tooth in an otherwise pearly smile. Worse was the ravaged corpse of a young woman, who had taken that round full in the chest.

  After a half-year’s effort, Quade Asher had finally landed a blow. He had made them bleed. Ko-Jin felt it keenly, as if his chest had been the one devastated by a cannonball.

  “Clea!” Ko-Jin shouted over the ringing in his ears.

  She faced the fallen archer, her young features contorted. She appeared to be mouthing something, but he could not make out the words.

  Ko-Jin saw the moment Clea changed her mind. Her eyes narrowed, her jaw clamped tight, and then all those weaving cannonballs high overhead went still. In unison, they shot through the air, careening to the earth like a cadre of asteroids.

  There came a mighty boom, an explosion so profound that the heat of it kissed Ko-Jin’s face. The stone shivered beneath his feet. He held his breath, waiting. When the smoke shifted, it revealed the remains of Quade’s artillery: smoldering scraps and drifting ash, and a crater where grass had been. The scorched earth was strewn with gore and broken men.

  The people of Accord cheered, but Clea’s pale face hardened, the light going out of her eyes. Ko-Jin wished he could comfort her, but he had neither the words nor the time.

  Because this was far from over.

  Despite an incessant rain of arrows, Quade’s infantry had arrived en masse at the foot of the wall, and ladders were being passed above the crowd.

  “Poles at the ready,” Ko-Jin bellowed. “Don’t let them up!”

  He grabbed a pole of his own—a long shaft of wood with a T-shaped end, designed for this particular purpose. He tossed a second to Peer Gelson, who snatched it from the air and swung the wooden tool like a weapon.

  “Fire at will,” Ko-Jin ordered. “Swords in hand.”

  There came an irregular thwacking sound, as siege-ladders connected with the wall all along the parapet. Ko-Jin pressed the flat end of his pole to the nearest ladder, took a firm two-handed grip, and shoved forward with all his might. He thrust the ladder away from the wall; it stood suspended for a brief moment, perpendicular to the ground, then tumbled backwards. Men cried out as they were crushed.

  One down, he thought. But an instant later, it was replaced by three more.

  Ko-Jin worked as fast as he could. Bracing his feet and using the strength of his back, he toppled the large wooden constructions one after another. It took a good bit of power to accomplish and, glancing to his left and right, he saw that most of the common soldiers were struggling—particularly once the enemy began to climb, and their body weight anchored the ladders in place.

  The irregular twang of loosed arrows did not abate. The archers were doing a fine job of shooting down the enemy, sending them tumbling back into the throng below. But for every man who fell, there were five more waiting to climb.

  Clea, clutching Wynn’s hand for amplification, ran along the wall, upending ladders as she went. The men upon them shrieked as they fell, and so her progress was accompanied by a horrific kind of music.

  She was an effective counter, but she couldn’t be everywhere at once.

  Ko-Jin tossed his pole to the nearest strong-looking soldier and stepped back. He swiveled his head, taking in the chaos that raged all around him.

  Quade’s men were going to reach the top. Or, at least, some of them would. It was inevitable. And unprecedented, blight it all!

  He searched wildly for Chae-Na, certain she was disguised amongst the archers. But he didn’t know exactly where, and there were too many female soldiers for him to guess.

  He ordered himself to stop looking. Bray had promised to protect her, and she would do so. Chae-Na was his queen. Only his queen. It was now Veldon Gorberry’s job to worry irrationally over her wellbeing.

  Ko-Jin needed to focus.

  Beside him, three soldiers worked to topple a single ladder, now weighted down with a dozen men. They leaned far over the parapet, and so were all exposed. Someone on the ground was firing up at them. Ko-Jin watched as one of his men took an arrow in the chest, then flipped over the wall with a shrill scream.

  He sprinted forward to take that soldier’s place. He lent his strength, heaving until gravity took over, carrying the ladder away. It smashed into an entire swath of men below.

  The dead had begun to pile up against the wall. The next wave was forced to climb atop their fallen brethren. Though Ko-Jin had known this would happen, and that it was in their favor, the sight still crushed something inside of him—some last bit of innocence, now shattered into oblivion.

  I am death, he thought. And the killing is not yet done.

  He scanned the length of the wall. To his right, Clea had cleared the way. To his left, enemy soldiers had nearly reached the top.

  Ko-Jin dashed in that direction, unsheathing his weapon as he ran. Peer’s eight-man band of Chisanta was already there, ready.

  Ko-Jin arrived just as the first pair of enemies leapt onto the rampart: two men
dressed in robes, their hair long and braided. Brother Cosanta.

  “Sorry, chaps,” Whythe said. “No gifts for you.”

  He and Peer swept into motion, a mesmerizing and unified assault that Ko-Jin would like to study, at some future time.

  Several more of Quade’s men spilled over the wall. Ko-Jin whipped his blade to the ready and engaged the nearest soldier—a lithe Adourran who, Ko-Jin strongly suspected, had trained at the Elver school. The man’s style was a near replica of Ko-Jin’s old mentor’s. Though the puckered scar that slashed across his cheek didn’t look like an injury one would sustain at Elver’s. Likely, it was newer.

  The Adourran’s sword flashed with morning light, moving with precision and speed. Ko-Jin answered, and their blades chimed in rapid collision.

  For the first time that day, Ko-Jin felt like himself. A man-to-man fight was the stuff of his adolescence, so much more familiar than the large-scale conflicts which had become his lot of late. His muscles remembered; his feet remembered. He could almost forget where he was, and taste the spicy, arid air of an Adourran desert. For a moment, something like a smile touched his lips.

  The scarred swordsman began a sequence that Ko-Jin knew well—it had been one of old Master Elver’s favorites. Knowing what to expect, Ko-Jin spun left, and his blade arched wide and sliced deep into his opponent’s thigh.

  The smell of blood reminded Ko-Jin that this was nothing like the past. These blades were not made of wood. These bouts were not friendly.

  “Nice one,” Enton called to him. This, too, felt like a flash from his former life, but a discordant one.

  Enton had been Ko-Jin’s earliest instructor in the blade. They had shared many afternoons at Cape Cosanta, sparring with wasters, exchanging banter and grins. Today, Ko-Jin couldn’t return his brother’s smile. His heart was too heavy.

  The scarred soldier looked up with blank brown eyes. “Quade wants—”

  Ko-Jin kicked him in the head, and he slumped.

  Never kick a man while he’s down. In one afternoon, how many ways might he find to break his own personal code?

  The skirmish was a furious, disorienting affair. Most who scrambled over the wall were not prepared to face the deadly duos waiting for them. They certainly were not prepared to be knocked back by jets of water fired from Avearra, Enton’s bevolder, or to face a man whose skin could withstand blade and arrow, like Malc.

  As with most fights, it seemed to last a heart-hammering infinity, but in fact was over in minutes. The bevolder pairs dispatched all the soldiers who’d leapt onto the wall, and a moment later Clea sprinted past, toppling the last of the ladders.

  Ko-Jin glanced over the edge of the parapet and found Quade’s army in retreat.

  It’s over. He heaved a sigh, and waited for his pulse to stop raging in his ears.

  All along the wall, his men cried out their victory, the sounds of their cheers and hoots chasing after Quade’s fleeing army.

  Victory? Ko-Jin thought, mouth puckering in distaste.

  They had survived, yes, but that victory had been an ugly thing, no golden triumph. The field below was now littered with dead and dying men, the grass trampled and smoldering. Their wall had been hit, and people of Accord had bled. Thousands of lives lost, all in a single afternoon.

  A sharp pop sounded nearby, and everyone in the vicinity flinched. But it was not Quade who appeared—thank the Spirits—only Mearra. Ko-Jin’s heart dropped at the sight of her, knowing it was unlikely that she brought good news.

  “What’s he saying?” Ko-Jin asked.

  The young woman had to speak into his ear, because her soft voice could not carry over the surrounding chaos. “He’s been predicting for the last hour that there will be an attempted murder on the wall, but he isn’t saying who or where.”

  Ko-Jin’s brow creased. Yarrow usually provided detailed information. It was strange that in this case he should be so vague. “Blight it, Yar…” he murmured to himself, a familiar sadness brushing against his mind. Then, at full volume, to Mearra, “Thanks. We’ll just have to keep our eyes open.”

  She nodded once, then disappeared on the spot.

  A man nearby moaned, and then shouted, “Quade loves you!”

  Ko-Jin pivoted towards the sound, and found the scarred swordsman awake and clutching the wound in his thigh. “Quade wants you all!”

  At first the man’s words washed over Ko-Jin, meaningless yet oddly compelling. But then several others joined in the cry—enemy soldiers who had been subdued or injured—and slowly Ko-Jin had the sense of a shadow creeping into his mind.

  “Quade loves you all,” he heard. And then, echoing from several more mouths, “Let him in. He loves you. Let him in, let him in, let him in.”

  Ko-Jin knew he should cover his ears, block out these words, but his hands hung heavy at his sides.

  Maybe they should let Quade in. How long was Ko-Jin going to allow this bloodshed to continue? How sweet it would be, how easy, if everything were finally…over. One way or another.

  “Nobody move!” a young voice bellowed.

  Ko-Jin swiveled unfocused eyes onto Fernie. His young friend appeared to have taken a beating: his lip was split, and both eyes were blackened. Ko-Jin would have to ask him about it later.

  Fernie’s gaze fixed upon something invisible in the air, his eyes narrowed in focus. He muttered to himself, words that sounded like a stream of curses. And all at once, Ko-Jin’s mind cleared. He blinked into the light, feeling both relieved and violated, as if Quade had touched him in the flesh and left greasy fingerprints.

  “Alright, you’re all clear,” Fernie announced. Ko-Jin saw his own discomfort reflected back at him a dozen times over. Peer scrubbed at his forehead with the heels of his hands, and Enton smacked his mouth as if he tasted something foul. At their feet, two of the wounded enemy began to weep.

  “Ko-Jin?” Clea stood beside him. She seemed to have difficulty meeting his eye. “I…I don’t know what to say. I—”

  Ko-Jin only saw the threat because he happened to be looking at her: a man just behind the girl raised his pistol. And fired.

  Ko-Jin cried out, but too slow and too late. Clea’s eyes flew wide, and her hand twitched. At the last instant, the bullet swerved. It clipped her arm and then veered past. There came a sickening sound as metal connected with flesh.

  Ko-Jin wheeled around, and then his stomach dropped. It seemed impossibly bad luck, that the redirected bullet should have taken a civilian soldier between the brows. The young man was dead before he fell.

  Clea screamed. Behind her, Peer and Malc tackled the assassin to the ground. All around, people shouted out in dismay. Those nearest, members of the fallen soldier’s squad, scrambled in a vain effort to save their comrade.

  “Darren…” a young female soldier cried, falling to her knees. Several others followed suit, bowing their heads. Ko-Jin was ashamed that he didn’t know the lad, did not even recognize his face. But he marked the name: Darren.

  “Quade will win in the end!” the shooter bellowed, his mouth twisted in a cruel smile. Peer kicked him in the ribs, and he huffed but continued to shout, “This is all futile. Surely you know that!”

  The assassin was an older Chisanta, an enormous man with a tight, black beard. Ko-Jin recognized him as Jorren, Quade’s torturer, only recently rescued by Peer’s band.

  “What are you fighting for?” the man growled. “What’s the point?”

  Ko-Jin searched for Fernie, who met his gaze with troubled eyes. After a moment the young man shook his head. Not under Quade’s influence. Which meant this Chiona was a true servant of Asher’s, loyal by his own volition. It was a repulsive notion.

  Jorren jerked his elbow back, and Peer grunted as the blow connected with his gut. Malc let fly a punch that sent a tooth skittering across stone. Finally, the Chiona fell unconscious.

  Along the walls and within the city, there still came the cries of victory, the ringing of bells and thumping of fists. But near Ko-Jin
, all remained quiet.

  Clea stared at the soldier she had inadvertently killed, tears racing down her pale cheeks. Her shirtsleeve was soaked crimson; her blood dripped to the ground. Fernie awkwardly patted her shoulder, but she seemed not to notice.

  “I didn’t mean to…” she said in a choked voice.

  “We know. We all know that,” Fernie said.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, addressing the young woman kneeling at Darren’s side. The soldier wiped away her own tears and shook her head, as if to say it was no one’s fault. But it was. It was Quade’s.

  “Blighter…” Peer murmured. He was crouched beside Jorren’s unconscious form, holding up a crumpled slip of paper. “This was in the bastard’s hand.”

  “What’s it say?” Whythe asked.

  Peer bit down on his lower lip, the flesh turning white as it ran through his teeth. “It just says ‘Clea Tarron.’ But there are more in his pocket, see. This one says ‘Sung Ko-Jin,’ this one ‘Whythe Livington,’ and this one ‘Bray Marron.’”

  Peer passed the slips of paper to Ko-Jin, who examined them one at a time: each the name of an ally, each a person he would hate to lose.

  “That’s Quade’s handwriting,” Fernie murmured.

  Ko-Jin swallowed hard.

  Quade was wising up. He had found a hole in their defenses, and Ko-Jin feared what he might do with this knowledge.

  Carrion birds already circled overhead. Darren’s squad lifted the body of their fallen friend and carried him away. His blood glinted on the stone.

  So much death. He regretted it all.

  Ko-Jin bowed his head. May their spirits fly fast and find joy.

  The cannons blasted an erratic rhythm, but Chae-Na no longer flinched at the sound. Quade’s army swarmed the walls, bearing siege ladders. The taste of war clung to her tongue; her heart drummed a wild beat, and yet she wasn’t afraid.

  Or, at least, she wasn’t very afraid. This sensation was more akin to…well, sex, as she’d so recently discovered. It made her feel more awake than awake, with all her nerves crying a savage song. Her thoughts were sharp but wordless, a ballad hummed rather than sung.