Soulmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 3)

by David Estes

I can give it all back.

  Though she wasn’t certain whether the thought was a foolish lie, the naivete of her newness to this world, she clung to the idea like a rope dangling from a cliff, thinking it over and over and over again, until it wasn’t a thought, but a belief.

  She felt the third eye on her forehead burn, flashing in the dark, its blue light slamming into Zur’s chest. He screamed, but she didn’t stop, forcing her will upon him, expanding, shredding through flesh and muscle and bone, and then pouring into that last speck of soul that remained, a twinkling ember in the darkness. Repairing. Joining. Healing.

  Images flashed: His daughter, laughing as he chased her around their dwelling; her face glowing with light from a fire as she told him a story while eating supper; the excitement in her eyes when she found a tiny pink flower growing, against all odds, in a snowdrift.

  Memories poured forth, a hundred, a thousand, a brief lifetime flashing in a moment.

  Zur groaned and rolled over, facefirst in the snow. Slowly, Lisbeth turned him over, watching his soul sleep for a moment.

  She slumped beside him, exhausted, staring up at the sky, at the billions of stars overhead. The red ones soared past, leaving behind fiery trails. The gold ones twinkled like flipped coins. The green ones exploded again and again.

  A vibrant, shifting soul blotted out the sky.

  Crone.

  “So now girl understands.”

  Lisbeth didn’t have the energy to respond, so she merely nodded. Yes. I understand.

  For she was not a destroyer of souls, but a strengthener, a forger, a bringer.

  And though the thought of war scared her, she knew it was her purpose.

  Twenty-Two

  The Northern Kingdom, Darrin

  Tarin Sheary

  The leftover soldiers of Darrin were quickly learning that the Armored Knight was a man of his word. By the end of the third day, they collapsed in ragged piles, barely taking the time to stuff their mouths with sustenance before falling into their bunks.

  After day four, dozens left in droves, marching from the city in groups. Tarin didn’t try to stop them—he only wanted the strong ones anyway.

  He laughed at his own thoughts. None of them are warriors, save perhaps Sir Jonathan.

  Just as quickly, he chided himself for being unfair. They are still here. They are still trying. And so are you. That has to count for something. Tarin only hoped that when the enemy finally arrived, those left wouldn’t turn tail and run. Regardless, he knew he would stand and fight, even if it was only him and his monster to defend the city. He would defend Annise’s kingdom to the bitter end, one way or another.

  And anyway, despite their faults, the men had talents of a different nature. Captain Morris, who was just Morris now that he’d been demoted—he’d almost looked relieved when Tarin told him—had a remarkable ability to make self-deprecating jokes at the exact moment when the men seemed on the verge of giving up. They would laugh and continue on, having forgotten their struggles. It was a skill Tarin had yet to master. The skinny old geezer, who everyone called Creak on account of the sound his knees made when he ambled past, could shoot an arrow as straight and true as any man Tarin had ever met. “I used to win every tourney I entered,” the man said. Tarin had charged him with training the archers. They wouldn’t get that much better in the short time they had, but any improvement was better than none. Fay, as she’d promised, had managed to find enough blacksmiths to keep the forges going day and night, the sounds of hammers meeting anvils providing a raucous accompaniment to every other activity.

  Tarin stood watching Sir Jonathan drilling the men on the snowfields, which had begun to turn to slush under the strangely warm winter temperatures. Like Tarin, ever since that night of unhappy stories, Sir Jonathan had thrown all his strength into the task at hand—training a bunch of green soldiers who’d spent more time drinking in the last year than fighting.

  But Sir Jonathan’s story…Tarin shook his head. It was worse than he’d ever expected. Cruel soldiers had broken into his home, had taken advantage of his wife, and had lied about it later when accused by the knight. Without proof other than her word against theirs, the charges had been dropped. His wife had descended into a dark place, and Sir Jonathan an even darker one, a place of shadows and sorrow and pain.

  And anger.

  Tarin understood that part more than any of the others.

  Sir Jonathan had snapped. He’d cornered each of the three soldiers separately, disarming them and cutting off their manhood with their own blades. Then he’d killed them, slowly. Painfully. He’d relished every cut, every scream of pain, every drop of blood that spilled out.

  When finally, his hands stained with the blood of a trio of evil men, he returned home, he found his wife dead, an empty vial with the distinctly bitter smell of darkweed lying beside her body on the floor.

  He’d carried her outside, his expression frozen, his mind blank, marching her through Darrin in his arms, forcing everyone to see the unfair justice of the world they lived in. He knocked on the door of his commanding officer and told him everything, including his own crimes.

  He’d been in the dungeons ever since, having to daily make the decision not to kill himself—“She wouldn’t have wanted that…”—until Fay had shown up and released him.

  Frozen hell, Tarin thought. What is wrong with this world and the people who live in it?

  Snapping him from his thoughts, a man approached—one of Fay’s charges. Well, Tarin was being generous thinking of him as a man, for Lucky was half his size and a third his width and looked as if a stiff breeze might knock him flat on his back. Still, Fay said the boy was a hard worker, and kept the fires burning hot. The boy was struggling under the weight of a large metal plate, which he carried with both arms. Somehow, he managed to reach Tarin before dropping it awkwardly in the slush with a slight splash.

  “Begging your apologies, Lord Commander,” Lucky said. “Shoulda used a cart for that one.” The boy, like many of the others, refused to look directly upon Tarin’s face, except when they thought he wasn’t aware of their stares.

  Tarin frowned. He wasn’t sure any of his men would be able to carry the plate of metal, much less use it for anything. “What is it—some kind of shield?”

  Before Lucky could answer, Tarin casually flipped it over with one arm, as if it weighed nothing. The boy gawked at him.

  Tarin ignored him, his breath hitching. For, carved into the opposite side was the image of a large knight wielding a long length of chain attached to a spiked ball—what could only be Tarin’s weapon, designed by Fay herself—the Morningstar.

  Anger plumed from Tarin’s mouth as he grabbed up what he now realized was a chest plate—his chest plate. He shoved past Lucky, who yelped and dodged away, and marched for the forges, his own fires stoked by each step. Damn woman! he thought, kicking up slush as he stomped.

  He knew he should stop, should try to calm his temper before confronting Fay, but his feet just kept moving on their own. He burst into the sweltering area, the ching! ching! ching! of hammers ringing in his ears, stalked to the back, where the largest fire of all was raging. That’s where he found Fay, sheathed in sweat, her muscles taut and rippling, using a massive sledge to pound away at a piece of red-hot iron.

  “What the frozen hell is this?” Tarin roared.

  He felt the monster inside him stir, try to rise up, but he gritted his teeth and pushed it back down.

  Fay drove her hammer down twice more, sparks flying, before setting it gently on the bench, turning to face him. “Your new chest plate,” she said. “I thought that was obvious.”

  Tarin felt his face flush, felt the monster probing at his weak spots. It wanted blood. “No,” he growled, low and dangerous.

  Fay’s eyebrows narrowed. “No what?”

  Tarin shook his head, not wanting to explain. “I explicitly ordered you not to work on my new plate until my men had been outfitted with weapons and armor.”


  “No,” Fay said slowly, drawing out the word with a roundness that made it sound to Tarin like she was speaking to a misguided child. “You said not to have any of the men work on your armor until after the rest of the work was done. Thankfully, I am no man; we’ve got too many of them around here as it is.” Tarin tried to rebuff her, but she went on. “And, you need armor as much as anyone. You’re beginning to resemble a sardine in an old tin can. A very large sardine, yes, but not a look fit for the Lord Commander.”

  Tarin growled again, but Fay refused to back down. “I will continue with this project. If you don’t like it, you’ll have to restrain me.”

  He was aware that several of the other smiths had stopped what they were doing to watch the commotion. “Fine,” he grunted, hefting the plate with one arm over his shoulder and turning to leave.

  “Did you even try it on?” Fay said to his back. “I need to know whether you need any alterations.”

  “I’ll let you know.” Tarin left, feeling frustrated.

  Is the north full of stubborn women? he wondered. No, he thought, just stubborn people in general. It was their greatest strength and weakness. They didn’t know when to give up.

  He stopped outside in the slush, trying to slow his breathing, trying to stop the thoughts of broken bodies, rivers of blood, severed—

  “Argh!” he roared, sprinting back toward the fields.

  He had to sate the monster’s appetite, and there was only one way he knew how, other than violence:

  Action. Movement. Work.

  He slung the chest plate to the ground and whipped out Morningstar, unleashing it into the clear sky, cutting silver arcs, sweat dripping from his face, his men—having long finished their own training—gawking at their Lord Commander with jaws open, mouths agape.

  He fought invisible enemies long into the night, until his soldiers left to take their evening meal, until he was alone…

  You are never alone, the monster reminded him, purring in the dark.

  Toward the south, well past the peaks of the Mournful Mountains, gray clouds of smoke blotted out the sky as the Tangle continued to burn.

  The next day, Tarin awoke to a headache, which was exacerbated by the clang of metal against metal. He groaned, squinting when he opened his eyes to bright light hitting them.

  “Top of the morning,” a voice croaked, descending into a choking laugh-cough.

  One eye open just a slit, Tarin gazed at Creak, who was sitting on the bottom bunk across the aisle, staring at him. “What time is it?”

  “Noonday, I’d say.”

  “Why aren’t you training the archers?”

  “The woman told me to watch you. Make sure you’re okay.”

  “What woman?” Tarin said, though he only needed one guess.

  “The blacksmith. The one with the big mouth.”

  “Do I give the orders or does she?”

  “Most think it’s near on the same thing.”

  Tarin groaned again. It was hard enough organizing this strange assortment of castaways without Fay pulling stunts like this.

  “May I speak freely?” Creak asked.

  “Don’t you always?”

  Creak chuckled. “Good point. The blacksmith woman might be a stone-cold heartbreaker, but she’s only worried about you. Truth be told, we all are. Since the day you showed up, you’ve hardly said more than a word to anyone. You stomp around like some beast from the Hinterlands that looks like it wants to rip someone’s head off, and then you go mad in an instant, working like a dog for an entire day without stopping. Leaves us all a little…unsettled.”

  Tarin jerked back. Worried? His men were worried about him?

  “Everyone watched you last night. I almost skipped dinner because of it, and that’s saying a lot. We finally dispersed when we couldn’t keep our eyes open any longer.”

  Tarin tried to remember last night, but it was all foggy, like it had been a dream. He remembered swinging Morningstar, again and again and again; he remembered feeling the wind on his face, the slippery ground beneath him…

  He remembered the men watching him, but at some point they’d faded away, disappeared into the background, and all that existed was his weapon, his beating heart, and the thing purring inside him.

  “Gather the men on the fields. I want to speak to them.”

  “Good idea,” Creak said, his joints crackling as he rose and limped outside.

  Tarin rubbed his face, trying to chase the sleep away. He hadn’t slept that long in years. He started to stand, but cracked his head on the underside of the top bunk. He cringed, massaging his scalp. Lately, he’d begun to feel like a real life giant. Fay was right—his armor was so tight against his skin it was bruising him. His entire body ached.

  After taking some time to clean his face in the washbin, he headed for the forge. When he arrived, it was deserted—Creak had followed his orders efficiently. He was about to turn away, when he heard a noise in the back.

  “Hello?” he said.

  Fay eased around a wooden shelf full of raw materials, raising an eyebrow when she saw him. “Welcome back to the land of the living. Want to tell me what that was all about last night?”

  “No,” Tarin said.

  “I didn’t think so. Let me know if you do.”

  “Look, Fay, I’m sor—”

  She waved him away before he could finish. “Nothing to be sorry about. You’re damn right I circumvented your orders. But I’m not sorry about that either. You will have a fresh suit of armor—one that fits.”

  That’s when he noticed the dark circles under her eyes. “How late were you up?”

  “As late as you,” she said. “Wanted to make sure you found your way back into your bunk. Figured I might as well get some work done.”

  “Let me guess, you were up at the crack of dawn.” Something about one of his own working harder and longer than him didn’t sit well with Tarin. He’d served under good leaders and bad leaders, mean sons of bitches and kind-hearted souls, but the ones he respected most were those who toiled alongside their men. That was the kind of leader Tarin wished to be, not a hot-tempered giant that everyone worried about.

  Fay smiled. “I don’t need much sleep. Heard you called a little meeting.”

  “Aye, the man you ordered to watch me sleep is organizing it.”

  Fay’s smile broadened. “I got these men wrapped around my small finger.”

  “Perhaps I could learn a thing or two from you,” Tarin said. He turned away, then looked back. “Coming?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  Most of the men were looking at his feet. The few brave souls who managed to meet his stare quickly looked away, flinching.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  Some looked. Some didn’t. None held his gaze, except Fay, Creak, and Sir Jonathan, who seemed immune to his strange appearance.

  “Look at me!” he shouted.

  All eyes flicked to him. Held, barely. “Don’t look away,” he ordered, tracking across each line of men, holding each set of eyes for a moment or two before moving on. He met all one-hundred-and-twenty-six pairs of eyes before he was finished. Fay’s held sparkling amusement. Creak’s curiosity. Morris’s were bloodshot, likely from sneaking a bottle or ten of ale. Sir Jonathan’s were steel, as if forged by one of Fay’s smiths. In between those familiar eyes were eyes of all shapes, colors, and temperaments. Individuals, each with their own hopes and dreams, fears and insecurities.

  “I am just a man,” Tarin finally said, when the silence had almost become another soldier, standing amongst them. “Just as each of you are.” Fay coughed. Tarin rephrased. “A human like you. Something happened to me a long time ago, when I was a boy. It changed how I look. It changed something inside of me, too, but I hope it didn’t change everything.” He paused, remembering why he wanted them all here in the first place. “Why are you here?” he asked.

  “For the food!” Creak shouted immediately. The man had a quick tongue, Tarin had to
admit.

  “Aye,” Tarin said. “Castle food isn’t half bad, but it won’t last. So you have to find another reason, a bigger reason. Or else you shouldn’t be here.”

  Fay warned him away from the topic of leaving with her eyes, but Tarin ignored her. No, he wouldn’t hide from the steady flow of deserters, he would face them head on. It was the only way to stem the tide.

  “I will tell you my reason,” Tarin said.

  The men shifted from foot to foot, like a habit, a way of keeping warm. They waited. Some had averted their eyes the moment they were no longer being ordered to stare at him, but most had not. Tarin continued to meet their eyes, treating them like the individuals that they were.

  “I came here to try to protect someone,” he said. “That first day, when I saw you lot, I almost left.” A few chuckles rolled across the crowd. “But someone convinced me to stay, and she was right.” Eyes shifted toward Fay, and Tarin enjoyed watching her squirm in discomfort. “My reason for staying is my own—to protect Queen Annise Gäric, our lawful ruler, from the eastern invaders who would murder her and smash her throne. But that is only my reason. You each need your own. We don’t have time to sit around and think about it, we have to keep training, but I want you to consider this question. If you don’t have an answer by the time we see our enemies’ weapons flashing over the cliffs, then you should leave. But even if you all leave, I shall stay. I shall fight. And I shall spill the blood of my foes across the land of our fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers.”

  Silence fell once more, the sun glittering through the clouds, which were thickening once more.

  Someone thumped their chest. Sir Jonathan, his expression coursing with determination. “I fight for my wife, may she rest in peace. That is my reason.”

  Several men nodded, gaining confidence from the knight, who Tarin had appointed as their new captain. More fists thumped chests, and voices spoke over each other, stating their reasons for staying. I got nothing better to do…I just like a good fight…I hate those damn easterners…I always wanted to earn me knighthood…I really am here for the food (Creak’s answer)…and many, many more, none better than another.