Soulmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 3)

by David Estes

  She stiffened at the voice—she’d forgotten anyone else was with her. Blinking rapidly, she cleared her vision, feigning a sneeze to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

  She turned, composed once more, her eyes like steel, her chin raised. Queenly. “Ready the horses. We ride for Knight’s End at once.”

  Forty-Two

  The Eastern Kingdom, the Rot

  Gareth Ironclad

  Forlorn vines hung from the fungus-afflicted trees of the Rot. Mournful howls burst through the swamp from time to time, shattering the silence.

  Gareth Ironclad distracted his mind with anything and everything. Look, he thought, crouching by the dark, fetid waters. Even here, inkreeds grow. He plucked one from the mossy riverbank, cracking it open and letting the ink spill across his fingers, staining them black. He pulled out another, and another, and another, counting them, breaking them, splotching his clothes, his skin, smearing streaks on his face.

  Gwen sat nearby, her back to a rotting stump. Her eyes were closed, though Gareth was certain she wasn’t sleeping. Neither of them had said a thing after what happened on the banks of the Spear. They were both trying to process what it meant.

  No, Gareth thought. It means nothing.

  Didn’t it?

  Yes, they hadn’t expected Rhea Loren, the tyrant in a young woman’s body, to create a threat and then save them from it, but that didn’t mean she was on their side. One act did not a saint make. Gareth had seen what Darkspell’s potion had done to the man—clearly it was meant for a far broader group of people than just Orians. Perhaps Rhea had sensed his treachery at the penultimate moment, leaping into action, saving her own skin and the lives of her people. A noble act, yes, heroic even, but not entirely selfless.

  The lies we tell ourselves are the basest of all deceptions.

  It was something Gareth’s mother liked to say whenever Gareth or one of his brothers tried to justify their mistakes. It was usually followed with:

  Those who own their actions shall rule the world.

  Gareth threw down the last of the inkreeds, its broken stem still leaking dark fluid. He’d ripped every single one from the soft earth, and now his skin and clothes were stained, almost like a reminder of his lies.

  Because the truth had shone on Rhea Loren’s face, sparkled in the unshed tears in her eyes, rang like a bell calling shepherds home from pasture:

  Peace. We can have peace.

  That truth shuddered through Gareth, and something made him turn to look at Gwendolyn, whose eyes were now open, staring right at him. “It’s time to go home,” she said.

  “I—” I can’t. Memories flared like red stars streaking across the night sky:

  The disgust in Grian’s eyes as he refused to pay the ransom for his own brother’s release.

  His father’s words to him when he was eight name days old: You are the Shield, son; that is your purpose, your calling. Do not fail your brothers, nor your people.

  I won’t, Father. I won’t.

  The light pouring from Roan’s chest, from his body, as he saved him from the mortal wound Gareth had sustained at the hands of the Kings’ Bane.

  It was all for a purpose. A greater purpose. And I’ve been running away like a petulant child avoiding his chores.

  Self-loathing roiled up inside him, but Gareth tamped it down, gritted his teeth. Stood, his hands black with ink. “The king shall return to Ferria. I shall return. The throne is mine.”

  It might’ve been Gareth’s imagination, but the dead eyes peering up from the swamp’s depths seemed to narrow, hardening their eternal stares.

  Forty-Three

  The Eastern Kingdom, approaching Ironwood

  Gwendolyn Storm

  They’d set out from the Rot a week earlier, disguising themselves before entering each village along the way. They gathered gossip and stole supplies, including a pair of purebred stallions keen to run. Though she hated doing it, procuring mounts was a matter of necessity, and Gwen vowed to send double the horses’ value back to the owner once they reached the castle.

  Gwendolyn’s initial optimism had swiftly waned as the story had gotten worse with each town they passed through:

  The legions march for Darrin. War is inevitable with Calypso; it’s only a matter of time. The Bridge of Triumph will soon be crossed into the west. Our armies shall fight our enemies on three sides. King Grian predicts complete victory. Revenge shall be ours.

  And then there shall be peace.

  Gwen spurred her horse onwards, charging across the plains. There was no time to lose. She needed to deliver Gareth to the castle before it was too late, before Grian’s reckless actions destroyed their people.

  Gareth’s horse maintained pace beside her, though he lolled in the saddle, half-asleep; he didn’t have the boundless energy she possessed when in the throes of her heromark, which continued to flare on her cheek. A few days earlier she’d tied him into the saddle so he could sleep. She was glad for his slumber—he would need his rest before facing his brother.

  Somewhere in the distance, a silver light sparked, the reflection of the sun on steel.

  Ironwood.

  Gwen dug her heels into her stallion’s sides and raced on.

  The night was cloaked in a blanket stitched with stars. To the west, the horizon glowed—the Tangle burning. And before them, Ironwood drew closer, as if hauled in by an enormous rope.

  As the distance fell away, the feeling of a great weight pressing on Gwen’s chest intensified, until breathing became laborious. It was a feeling she’d had before, a sense of foreboding provided by her heromark. She felt as if a noose was about her neck, tightening, tightening, cutting off her airways.

  Beside her, Gareth stirred in the saddle. “I’ll have some mince pie with a side of roast potatoes,” he murmured. At first Gwen thought he was still dreaming, but then his eyes flew open and he smirked. “Wouldn’t that be nice? A warm meal. A soft bed.”

  “The last time you said such things you got drunk in Restor and challenged passersby to a drinking duel.”

  “Thank you. Lest I forget.”

  “I’m here to serve,” Gwen said.

  Gareth turned his gaze forward, peering into the night. “Those aren’t stars,” he said, pointing at the lights of Ironwood.

  “No,” Gwen said. Orelights they were called. Orian channelers captured firelight within the ore as it was formed, causing the metal to twinkle in the dark.

  “Another village?” He almost sounded hopeful. Though the prince—no, the king, she reminded herself—was resigned to the fact that he would return to Ironwood, he was clearly hoping to delay his homecoming as long as possible.

  “No,” Gwen said again.

  “Damn.”

  “Not damn. Destiny. Roan would be proud of you.”

  “If he’s alive,” Gareth muttered.

  Gwen pulled back on her reins, pulling her horse to a stop. Gareth’s horse, used to following her commands rather than his, halted as well. “Don’t say that. He is alive, and so are we. That means something. You mean something.”

  Gareth seemed surprised by the seriousness of her words, her tone. “I…yes, you’re right. It’s just hard with this whole failed-Shield thing hanging over my head. It feels like a blade about to fall.”

  “You are not the Shield—not anymore,” Gwen said.

  Gareth frowned. “Then what am I, if not the very thing I was born to be?”

  Gwen drew her horse closer, until she was near enough to rest a hand on his shoulder. He met her gaze, and for perhaps the first time since she’d known Gareth Ironclad, First of His Name, Shield of the East, she saw the true man behind the façade. Is this what Roan sees in him? If so, I understand their connection. For this was not a man of arrogance and bravado, of quick japes and meaningless banter; no, this was a man of substance, of worth, of strength—even in his self-doubt and unbelief.

  Gwen chose her words carefully. “None of us are born to be one thing, but many. You were a Shie
ld for a time, but as the seasons change, so shall you. For now, you must be the Sword.”

  She turned away from him and rode on, eventually hearing him fall into stride beside her as the clouds devoured the stars, one by one at first, and then in large swallows, casting the world into abject darkness.

  Forty-Four

  The Northern Kingdom, Darrin

  Tarin Sheary

  The monster inside him had been silent for days, and Tarin was beginning to wonder whether it had died with Annise, her final gift to him.

  He jammed his teeth together until his jaws began to ache, and threw himself back into his work. Lingering on such thoughts would cause him to collapse, to curl up in a ball. He wouldn’t do that—couldn’t do that. No, he owed Annise so much more than that. His strength. His commitment. His life.

  And he would give it, gladly, for the hope she’d harbored for the north, for her people.

  With a grunt, he leaned back against the load, straightening his knees, his back, hauling the enormous stone across the castle courtyard. Other men tumbled away, unable to keep up with his pace. Step by painstaking step, the boulder closed the distance, eventually skidding into position beside the others. It would be painted with oil, prepared to be lighted and launched at the enemy as they charged across the frozen expanse riddled with traps and blockades.

  It would not be enough—this Tarin knew—but that didn’t matter, especially now. No, his death, whenever it came, would be welcome, the ground around him littered with his dead enemies.

  Yesss, the monster finally hissed.

  What happened to her? he demanded. Who killed her?

  She was on a mountain, on the edge of a cliff. And then she wasn’t.

  Tears threatened, like the air before a summer rain, but Tarin blinked them away. Could it be? Could the magnificent woman he loved truly have died in a terrible accident? The truth hurt him more than anything else, because it meant there was no one to punish, no one to seek revenge on. You couldn’t fight a mountain any more than you could the moons or the sun.

  He roared, slinging the thick rope to the ground, stalking back toward the next boulder, his men scattering to either side to avoid being crushed by his rage.

  Except one. Fay. She stood before him, her hands extended. “Tarin, stop,” she said.

  “No,” he growled, changing direction to brush past her. She stepped to the side, forcing him to stop or bash into her. He stopped.

  “Talk to me. What is happening to you?”

  “Nothing that hasn’t happened before,” he said. I lost her once, and it nearly destroyed me. This time it will strengthen me against my enemies.

  “Not good enough,” Fay said. “But it will have to do. Come with me.”

  “There’s work to be—”

  “The others will finish it. Come.”

  Tarin sighed. Sometimes arguing with Fay was like arguing with an ice bear. No wonder Annise had been so fond of the blacksmith woman. “Fine.”

  She led him past his men as they started hauling the next stone to the pile. Through the castle gates. Past the prison and the barracks. Veering from their path only when she reached the forge, which, for once, was eerily silent.

  “Why have the fires been doused?” Tarin said, an annoyed edge to his voice.

  “We’re finished,” Fay said matter-of-factly.

  Finished? Comprehending that word was a challenge at first, but then he took in the dark circles under Fay’s eyes, the bloodshot gleam in her gaze. While he’d sunk inside the darkness of his own mind, Fay had continued to shine the way she always did. “Good,” he said, a sad understatement he had meant as a compliment.

  Fay laughed. “Yes. It is good. My fingers are covered in burns. Maybe now they can heal.”

  Heal. Another word that seemed to have no meaning anymore. Perhaps some wounds could heal, but not all. Not the one he had suffered. Tarin knew his heart would limp for the rest of his life, regardless of how long or short.

  She brought him to the back of the area, where she’d been toiling for days and nights on end. Like the others, the fires of the enormous forge were extinguished, naught but smoldering coals giving off no light.

  A thick blanket hung on the wall, lumpy with whatever was hidden beneath it.

  “Do the honors,” Fay said, gesturing to the blanket.

  “Fay, I’m not really in the mood.”

  “Neither am I,” she said, her hands on her hips.

  Not wanting to argue, he strode forward, whipping the blanket away in one swift motion.

  His breath blew from his lungs.

  The monster hissed its protest, but Tarin silenced it with a growl.

  “Do you like it?” Fay asked.

  It wasn’t a matter of liking it or not. It was a matter of truth. The armor plate hanging before him was magnificent—no one could deny that, not with its spit-polished faces, sharp-angled joints, and iron fittings made for weapons—but it was a lie.

  For the armor was painted white.

  The color of purity. The color of goodness.

  “I can’t wear that, I’m sorry.” There was a reason Tarin had always worn black armor, a reason the very color he bled was that of darkness, a reason that he was so capable of destruction and little else.

  “You will wear it, else I will be forced to shove three soldiers in it to fit the size.”

  It was meant as a light-hearted jape, but Tarin could hear the desperation in her voice. This suit of armor wasn’t just about protecting him in battle, but something more, hidden in the quiver in her voice, the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. To this strong woman, Tarin sensed, everything hinged on what he did next.

  “I will wear it for this battle only,” he said.

  The weight seemed to leave the room and Fay smiled. “Good. And after you’re victorious, we’ll talk about the next battle.”

  Standing alone atop the wall, Tarin was thinking about the inevitability of time. Even the strongest of men, the greatest of warriors, could not stop its ceaseless march. It devoured, it stole, it pierced stone and steel and skin.

  It shattered mountains and dried up oceans and knocked stars from their seats in the night sky.

  And now, as was inevitable, time had brought their enemies to their doorstep.

  Hundreds of torches danced over the cliffs as the eastern soldiers descended on ropes. Tarin’s forward scouts were rushing across the snowscape, dancing around each trap and barrier, falling back behind the safety of the castle walls. They did this on his direct orders—they couldn’t afford to lose a single soldier until the real siege began.

  “It’s time,” Fay said, coming up from behind. Her words seemed to echo his own thoughts.

  He nodded, spreading his arms and legs. Behind her, it took three soldiers to haul his armor up the steps. Plate by perfectly forged plate, Fay slotted his white armor around him. The fit was exquisite, so customized he barely felt as if he was wearing steel.

  The fires continued to gather to the east, building to an inferno as their enemies amassed.

  “Thank you,” he said when she finished. He waited a moment for the soldiers to leave, speaking only when they were out of earshot. “Your work here is done. And now it’s time for you to depart the city. Flee toward Castle Hill. Tell Lady Zelda what happened here. Tell them we fought valiantly but failed.”

  “Tarin—”

  He wasn’t finished, rushing on. “Tell her Annise is dead. Archer is king now, if he returns.”

  “You can’t know—”

  “I do.”

  Fay shook her head. “I’m not leaving.”

  “You must. Someone must speak for us.”

  “You can speak for yourself.”

  “The dead don’t speak.”

  “You’ve never failed,” she said. “You won’t now.”

  “No, I won’t,” he said, but he didn’t mean they would be victorious either.

  She shook her head, biting her lip.

  “Yo
u’re my friend,” he said. “This doesn’t change that.”

  “I know,” she said, managing a smile. “I’m mourning the loss of this perfect suit of armor, not the buffoon who wears it.”

  For the first time in days, Tarin smiled back. “I don’t blame you, it really is beautiful. I’ll try to do it justice.”

  Suddenly, she hugged him, her arms barely reaching to his back. Surprised, he slowly wrapped one arm around her, pulling her head to his chest.

  Screams burned through the night as brightly as the torches carried by the enemy. Dozens perished in the pits they’d dug. Others were slowed by the barbed-wire walls, only to be crushed by flaming boulders shot from the catapults hidden behind the walls. Creak and his newly trained archers rained arrows down upon the killing fields. Most missed, but enough hit their marks to throw the eastern army into chaos.

  The enemy, however, pushed forward, as Tarin knew they would. Though their numbers had been culled, they still had at least a five to one advantage, even as they approached the final barriers; and then, the wall.

  The eastern legions were led by a familiar foe—Beorn Stonesledge, his broadsword flashing in the firelight as he hacked through each barrier, arrows glancing off his armor. The last time they’d faced off, Tarin had emerged victorious, almost killing the man; but tonight, he knew, the story could be very different.

  He glanced down the steps at his men, his soldiers—for they truly deserved that title now, regardless of what happened henceforth—who were rallying at the gates, even as the first battering-ram blows rattled the great doors on their hinges. Though he could see the fear in their eyes, none fled—the cowards had all left the city days ago. These were the stalwart, the chosen, the heroes in human bodies. A swell of nostalgia took Tarin by surprise. Not a fortnight ago he would’ve written them off as a lost cause; now, however, these were his people, his soldiers, his friends.

  He strode down to meet them, a battle cry on his tongue. All heads turned his way. The monster roared inside him, but he growled, “No,” and chased it away. In the throes of battle, perhaps, he would need the strength the monster afforded him, but not now. Not in this naked moment of glory and honor.