Soulmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 3)

by David Estes

  “That’s the point,” Ennis said. “Rhea doesn’t want any of us to know who will be guarding the prisoner. There’s a traitor in our midst.” Perhaps mentioning the last part was a mistake, but Ennis suspected it wasn’t. What true traitor would actually say the word traitor, drawing attention to himself?

  “Still, I’ll have to confirm it with the queen.”

  “Feel free,” Ennis said nonchalantly. “Though she’s gone to bed.”

  The guard chewed on his lip for a moment, considering. Waking the queen was clearly not his idea of a good time. “Change of plans,” he said. “We’ll keep the guard that’s on duty.”

  Wrath. Gwen is probably halfway to the top by now, Ennis thought. The woman climbs better than a monkey.

  “Fine by me,” Ennis said. “I’m happy to get some shuteye. But I’ll have to inform the queen in the morning. Heads will roll.”

  “Don’t you mean inform Rhea?” the guard said.

  Ennis frowned. There was something about the man’s tone. “What?”

  “You called her Rhea just a moment ago, like she was your lover and not your queen.”

  “Did I?”

  Wrath, Wrath, Wrath! It was a fatal mistake, one that had foiled his lie before it had had a chance.

  “Yes,” the guard said, taking a step forward. “Your name is Bern Gentry, isn’t it? There are a lot of guards around this place and I’m bad with names and faces, but I wouldn’t forget yours, not after the queen chose you for Darkspell’s little demonstration.”

  Ennis turned away, panicking, trying to shadow his face. “Nah. Name’s Jack. Mother said I just had one of those faces…”

  Footsteps approached from behind.

  These men are innocent, he thought. They are only following orders.

  Ennis had killed in battle before, but never like this, never his allies.

  Something Rhea had said to him before the battle in the Bay of Bounty came back to him, as if it had been floating on the edge of his mind for some time. We all must sacrifice ourselves for that which we believe in. But was betraying his queen, his kingdom, something he believed in?

  Yes, he thought. As it stands now, yes.

  “Nothing else to say for yourself, Bern?” the guard said. “Not that you’ve been seeking revenge for what the queen did to you? Not that you’re a liar and a traitor?”

  Surreptitiously, Ennis closed his hand on his sword’s hilt, his muscles tensing.

  He spun, slashing the man’s throat before he could utter another accusation. Warm blood spurted out, splashing him across the face.

  He thought, It is done; I have crossed a line I can never uncross.

  From there everything seemed easier.

  While the next guard came at him, the third man fled, probably off to sound the alarm, to gather reinforcements. Ennis ducked under his foe’s blade, simultaneously throwing his sword down the corridor. He was many years from his days of entering tourneys to show off his rare sword-throwing ability, but it wasn’t something he could unlearn—the sword flew straight and true.

  Bullseye. The blade impaled the fleeing guard in the back, likely severing his spine. He collapsed like a dropped sack of potatoes.

  Weaponless, Ennis threw his elbow backwards blindly, landing an awkward blow on his opponent’s shoulder. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the arm holding the sword, or he might’ve dropped his weapon. Instead, the guard raked his arm back across his body, forcing Ennis to jerk away. The edge of the sword brushed past, and Ennis felt the sting of a slash opening up on his cheek.

  I was lucky. It’s naught but a flesh wound.

  Ennis knew he wouldn’t get lucky again, so he did what any wise warrior would do in a situation like this, weaponless with his foe advancing upon him:

  He kicked him in the groin.

  The guard buckled over, groaning, his blade finally slipping from his fingers and clattering to the floor. Ennis kicked him again, this time in the head, and the man landed hard, rolling over once before going still. He contemplated finishing him off, but there was no honor in murdering an unconscious man, and anyway, by the time the guard came to this would be long over.

  Let him tell Rhea the truth.

  Wiping the blood—his own mixed with that of the first guard he’d killed, the suspicious one—from his face with his sleeve, Ennis stalked over to the man with the sword in his back. Grunting, he pulled it out, swallowing the bile in the back of his throat. He felt ill; not because he’d killed, but the way he’d killed. A slashed throat before the man had time to defend himself; a sword in the back: We all make sacrifices…

  Yes, he had sacrificed. His soul, his honor, any chance of achieving the seventh heaven and looking upon Wrath’s face…

  It wasn’t the time or place to think about it, and anyway, Ennis had always been a practical man. What’s done is done, move on. Focus on the task at hand.

  His next order of business was to sever the chains attached to the pulleys, which were used to haul the lift to the top of the tower. Without someone to pull them, he couldn’t use it anyway, and he didn’t want anyone else to be able to.

  He ran for the staircase, taking the steps two at a time.

  Gareth Ironclad

  Sleep wasn’t coming easy for Gareth. He couldn’t stop thinking about how that guard was probably still staring at him. He couldn’t stop thinking about why he was still alive. He couldn’t stop thinking about where Roan might be, whether Gwendolyn was still alive in the dungeons, and finally, whether Ennis Loren would ever follow through on his promise to help them escape.

  Since he’d returned to Knight’s End, Gareth hadn’t seen so much as a glimpse of the man now disguised as Bern Gentry, lowly guardsman.

  A sound drew him away from his thoughts.

  His eyes flashed opened; he faced away from his guards, in view of the boarded-over window.

  A bird, he thought. Pecking at the wood. They did that sometimes, trying to get in. One of the boards rattled as the wind picked up, whistling between the slats. A dark eye stared in at him, a circular knot in the wood that had fallen out, the inky night sky peering through. Sometimes Gareth stuck his eye to the hole just to see something different than the inside of the tower cell. Usually the rare glimpses of the outside world were short-lived, however, as most of his guards discouraged such activities.

  What the hell? he thought, flinching suddenly. The eye had changed, lightened, a yellow orb gleaming in the dark. And then it was gone.

  Had he imagined it? The guards hadn’t reacted, so either they hadn’t seen it or it hadn’t truly happened. He blinked. Pinched himself, felt the throb of pain on his arm. I’m awake. Still, his eyes might’ve been playing tricks on him—that happened when you were imprisoned sometimes, almost like a mirage in the desert.

  Because only one person he knew had yellow eyes that shined as brightly as that in the dark. And she was supposed to be locked up, too, in the dungeons.

  Gwendolyn.

  Gwendolyn Storm

  Looking through that hole in the wood probably hadn’t been the smartest move, but everything was so still and silent inside the tower that she couldn’t not take a peek. Gareth, lying on a bed, had stared right back at her, had flinched at the sight of her eye, had seen her. Which meant it was possible the guards standing by the door—a bored-looking man who seemed more muscle than brains and a red-clad Fury, so still she might’ve been sleeping with her eyes open—might have seen her too.

  Gwendolyn held her breath, clinging to the edge of the sill.

  When no alarm was raised and Gareth—cleverer than he acted sometimes—didn’t blow her cover, she exhaled slowly, considering the situation.

  Ennis should have arrived by now. Climbing steps takes less time than scaling a sheer tower wall…

  Then again, he might’ve had guards to deal with. Gwen wondered whether, when it came down to it, he would be able to do what needed to be done. She had a feeling killing guards who were only following orders would pose a c
hallenge for the man, who seemed to have more honor than good sense. Not that she was against honor, just when it got in the way of doing the right thing.

  Still, the determination she’d seen coursing across his face in the gardens, almost like a living, breathing thing…she needed to give him a little more time, a chance to come through on his side of the mission.

  She waited, listening to the night, hoping, praying to Orion.

  A voice broke the silence, muffled through the wood and yet as clear as a ringing bell to Gwen’s ears.

  “I was sent to relieve you of your post,” Ennis said.

  “What?” the guardsman’s gruff voice replied.

  “So…” a third voice cut in, a woman’s voice, as sharp as a knife. “…the traitor has finally revealed himself.”

  Steel rang on steel.

  A man grunted in pain.

  A body fell.

  Gwendolyn began frantically prying at the wooden boards.

  Ennis Loren

  He could never have let the guard live, even if both he and the Fury had bought his story.

  The man’s blood dripped from his sword as he circled the Fury, whose sharp stare had him pinned like a fly on a board. This woman was not only trained in the art of killing, but she relished it. This was her purpose in life: To be Wrath’s enforcer, God’s Fury incarnate, a way to punish sinners without requiring god-like power to be spent frivolously. Once, Ennis would’ve thought killing her was the equivalent of killing Wrath, but now…

  The W carved into her face made him wonder whether this woman was truly ordained by Wrath, or merely by his cousin, a murderer, a sinner, a young woman consumed with power and control. A human, imperfect and prone to error.

  If so, I can kill her. I will kill her.

  The Fury didn’t speak, didn’t taunt, didn’t wave her blade, which was painted red, as if stained in blood, around pointlessly. Each step was as cold and calculated as her stare, which never wavered from her prey.

  Ennis had fought seasoned warriors before, mostly easterners trying to ford the Spear. The Hundred Years War had given him too much experience. He knew when to strike and when to sit back and let them come. But this woman…she was a spider in a web, as cunning as she was well-trained.

  As it turned out, the choice was made for him, for at that moment there was a sound off to the right, the splintering of wood being pried from its moorings.

  The Fury’s head snapped toward the sound, while Ennis remained focused, slashing out while she was distracted.

  Clang! She blocked his strike blindly, dancing deftly to the left and leaping his next blow. Whirling around, she resembled a tornado garbed in a red dress, her skirts swirling. Her sword was like lightning bursting from a cyclone.

  He was too slow by half, her blade shrieking along the edge of his sword and deflecting off his armor. His plate served its purpose, but the force of the hit threw him off balance, stumbling over an ottoman, of all things.

  And then her sword was upon him again, whipping for his neck as he dropped a hand to steady himself on the floor. He jerked his head sharply to the side, taking the blow on the helm, which popped off, clanking into the wall.

  He rolled right sharply, raising his sword as he emerged from the somersault, ready for the attack he knew would come.

  Which didn’t come.

  Instead, the Fury had taken the time to sprint in the opposite direction, circling around him on feet as silent as a mouse, her sword arcing on the edge of his peripheral vision. He ducked, and the edge of the blade was so close he felt the displaced air as it whistled by.

  Crack! The sound of the board breaking and clattering inside the tower only seemed to spur the Fury on more, as if she knew she needed to end him before help arrived. In truth, Ennis had to admit, he could use the help. At best, he was on equal footing with this woman; more likely, however, he was outmatched.

  And then reinforcements arrived, though not from Gwendolyn, whose arm was struggling to squeeze through the narrow gap provided by the broken board.

  From Gareth Ironclad.

  Gareth Ironclad

  Gareth, though surprised by the sudden appearance of Ennis Loren, had not been idle during the fight. Generally, his preferred weapon was a well-channeled Orian sword, but he was no stranger to improvising. Growing up with two brothers the same age had ensured he knew the ins and outs of an old-fashioned no-holds-barred brawl.

  First he’d grabbed a pillow, more to use as a distraction than an effective shield. Then he’d raced for the chair. It would be heavy to wield, but it was the best weapon he had. But then the wooden board had snapped in half, two ragged halves clattering to the floor—she’s here, Gwen is really, truly here—and Gareth had turned his attention away from the chair and snagged one of the boards.

  Now, he wasn’t a moment too soon. Ennis had lost his helmet, backpedaling like mad, basically trying not to die.

  Also having learned from fighting with his brothers growing up, Gareth attacked from behind, slamming the board down on the Fury’s back with all the force he could muster.

  The blow never connected, the Fury dodging to the side at the last moment.

  She has eyes in the back of her head, Gareth thought. When this was over, assuming they won, he would be sorely tempted to cut away her red hair to check for a second set of eyes.

  Pincered between them, the Fury trained one eye on each foe. Gareth’s eyes met Ennis’s, and a plan passed between them. Gareth hoped they were thinking the same thing.

  He threw his pillow.

  The Fury’s eyes widened in surprise, as did Ennis’s—apparently they hadn’t had the same plan after all—as Gareth shoved the jagged end of the board at the warrior woman’s face.

  She caught it with one hand, splinters stabbing into her palm, drawing blood. The pillow, on the other hand, landed harmlessly on the floor. It was a nice distraction but did little actual damage, unless, of course, the Fury had a severe allergy to goose feathers.

  Gareth, now weaponless, waited to have his head removed from his shoulders, wondering whether it would hurt less or more than being rejected by his brother at the Bridge of Triumph.

  The strike never came.

  Instead, the Fury’s eyes widened further, her mouth gaped open, and something shimmered from her stomach, protruding between two ribs.

  The tip of a blade.

  Her mouth, now dribbling blood, transformed into a snarl. “May you rot in the first heaven,” she said. Ennis wrenched his sword back through the way it had entered, and the Fury died, landing facedown and likely ruining a rather expensive-looking Crimean rug with her blood. All week Gareth had been considering relieving himself on the same rug, but it seemed she had taken care of it for him, a fact that held a certain irony.

  Ennis looked at Gareth, his light-colored beard speckled with drying blood. He said, “I don’t make promises lightly.”

  “I can see that,” Gareth said.

  Another board cracked, and they both pivoted to face the figure stepping through the now-open window. “Gwen,” Gareth said. “Thanks for the help, but we’ve got it covered.”

  Her armor shone in the starlight, her eyes as bright as twin yellow moons. Over her shoulders hung thick coils of rope. She eyed the two men before her eyes flitted to the two dead bodies littering the floor. She almost looked surprised, something that sent a flash of annoyance through Gareth. We don’t always need your help, he thought. Usually, but not always.

  Her gaze seemed to settle on the random pillow lying beside the Fury, soaking up her pooling blood. Gareth explained: “I guess they don’t teach pillow fighting in the Furium.”

  A surprised cough-chuckle exploded from Ennis. “You are full of tricks, prince of the east.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Gwen said. “You should’ve seen the stunt he pulled in Restor on the way here.”

  “My friends love to ruin a good time,” Gareth said, though he felt his cheeks burning. The Restor Incident had
not been one of his finer moments.

  “You don’t have long,” Ennis said, snapping them all back to reality. “I left one guard unconscious but alive, and other patrols might pass the base of the tower and see the bodies.”

  Gwen slung the rope to the floor. “Right. Secure it to something immovable. I’ll feed it down the side.”

  While Ennis located one end and hustled out the door, presumably to tie it to one of the tower’s permanent fixtures, Gareth said, “We’re going through the window?”

  Gwen didn’t look at him. “From what I heard, you already tried it once, only without the rope.” Her tone was cold. Hard. Angry.

  “I had no choice,” Gareth said. “Rhea Loren was going to use me against my brother, ransom me for Beorn Stonesledge. I failed my people once, I won’t fail them again.”

  Gwen didn’t look up. “One, there is always a choice; and two, you’re only failing yourself with this attitude.” He was surprised at the sincerity he heard in her words. She stood and hauled the rope to the window, easing it over the side, releasing it in segments, presumably so it wouldn’t draw attention from the ground as it unfurled.

  “You sound like Roan,” Gareth said, feeling a bulge of warmth in his chest.

  “He’s a wise man when he’s not being a fool,” Gwen said, finally turning to look at him. “And I believe I owe you a thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Ennis told me what you said when he offered you a chance at escape. He came for me first, just like you asked.”

  “He busted you out of the dungeons?”

  Ennis returned then. “She almost broke my neck in the process,” he said. “Truthfully, she had the situation well in hand. But yes, I tried to help.”

  “Thank you,” Gareth said. “I don’t know what else to say.” Strange, he thought, the way friends could be made in the unlikeliest of places.

  “There’s something you need to know,” Ennis said. He was looking at Gwen.

  “There’s no time; you can tell us—”

  “Darkspell is creating a potion for Rhea that will kill only Orians,” he blurted out.