Deathmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4)

by David Estes

  Annise shook her head. That was the strange thing. “No, they are trained to obey their masters. It would take months to retrain them to new masters. Unless…”

  Tarin finished her sentence. “They had help from one of their old masters.”

  It was the only thing that made a lick of sense. The Brotherhood must’ve spared the lives of one or more of the mamoothen masters. “Frozen hell,” she said again. This changed everything. One fully grown, trained mamoothen was as good as a hundred soldiers.

  Archer raised an eyebrow. “What hope do we have against mamoothen?” It was the first time she’d ever heard such pessimism from her younger brother, who wore bravado and fearlessness like a fine coat.

  “The Sleeping Knights will make up the difference,” Tarin said. Annise shook her head, knowing it was a white lie, an attempt to calm her nerves. “I will make up the difference.” The growl in his voice made her turn her head sharply to look at him, expecting to see that telltale darkness in his eyes, the one that meant he’d given himself over to the monster inside him, the one that turned his blood to ash, his bones to stone, his fists to hammers.

  Instead she found him smiling. Archer laughed, recognizing it also. It was a jape, nothing more. Not yet.

  No, Tarin’s monster purred in her head. He is closed off. But I am knocking…

  She started at the voice. In a way, she felt more connected to Tarin now that she could hear that snakelike voice, those whispers in the dark, but she hadn’t grown used to it, not fully. She wondered whether she ever would.

  Tarin said, “Don’t listen to it. Slam the door. Focus on me.”

  She did, and the voice vanished. Swiveling, she checked that no one else had noticed the odd exchange. If anyone had, they didn’t show it. Archer and Sir Jonius were conferring, discussing the minutiae of strategy. Dietrich was organizing his company of riders, barking out orders with the familiarity of a man having experienced countless battles. Sir Metz was doing the same with his women soldiers, but with less passion, more strictness. Their lines were perfect, their eyes trained forward, unblinking, reacting to his voice alone. His armor shone with hues of green and red in the moonslight. Apart from the others were the Sleeping Knights. They stamped their feet with unspent energy. Lisbeth Lorne stood before them, her real eyes closed while the marking of a blue eye on her forehead blazed with light.

  Annise wondered what she was saying to them, where only they could hear.

  It must be enough. We must be enough. I can’t lose another. Not her. Not Zelda.

  That’s when she noticed Archer had finished speaking with Jonius and was staring at her, a frown creasing his otherwise handsome face. Are you all right? he mouthed.

  Yes, she mouthed back, though she wasn’t certain it was true. The hopes of an entire kingdom hinged on a strange skinmarked girl she barely knew, a group of women soldiers who’d only seen one battle, and a ragtag company of soldiers numbering less than a hundred.

  Then again, against all odds they’d won at Darrin.

  She turned and raised her own weapon, the Evenstar, a gift from the same blacksmith, Fay, who had forged Tarin’s weapon and armor. She waited a moment for the soldiers and their commanders to quiet, focusing on her. “Men, women, ancient knights!” she said, earning a smattering of laughter from the men. One or two women laughed, too, but were quickly silenced by a sharp stare from Sir Metz. The butt of the jape, the Sleeping Knights, ignored her, staring longingly at the castle walls.

  Annise knew they expected a long, drawn out speech about honor and kingdom and crown and—

  “Kill the bloody sellswords!” she shouted, lowering her weapon and turning to face her home.

  “Nice,” Tarin said, digging his heels into his enormous horse. “Very concise.”

  “Sometimes less is more,” she said, bringing her own stallion into a trot beside him.

  All around them, hooves thundered, boots stomped, and the war cries began.

  Next came the arrows, falling like rain.

  Christoff

  As the arrows fell amongst his troops, Christoff forced himself not to run through their ranks, trying to block each dart with his shield. You can’t save them all, he reminded himself. They are well trained. They can protect themselves.

  Still, he kept one eye on Private Sheary—he was still trying to come to terms with the fact that she was Tarin’s cousin—watching as she deflected an arrow with her shield; her positioning was perfect, just like he’d taught her, making herself a smaller target by holding the metal plate away from her body, in line with the downward angle of the projectiles.

  She’s a fast learner, he thought, feeling a warm swell of pride in his chest.

  Focus on the task at hand. He blocked an arrow of his own, one that would’ve penetrated the steel grill of his face shield. His own training kicked in, and he gave the command for evasive maneuvers. He didn’t need to look back to confirm that his company had obeyed the order, cutting a zigzagging path toward the white castle walls.

  On the right flank, his peripheral vision located the Sleeping Knights galloping ahead, their long strides almost rivalling that of the horses ridden by Dietrich’s small force. Twice Christoff had requested that his soldiers be permitted to train with the ancient knights; and twice Lisbeth Lorne had informed him that the Knights had rejected his request, a response that had perturbed him greatly.

  Slowly at first, but then swifter, the distance to the castle evaporated like dew under the morning sun.

  As he ran, Christoff reminded himself of his goals for this battle. First and foremost, support his troops and prevent loss of life. Second, help take the castle. And a not so distant third: find Lady Zelda and save her.

  The gates loomed, and somewhere behind them a mamoothen bellowed.

  Zelda

  The nature of the shouts had changed. No longer commands but distress, and Zelda could almost picture the sellswords diving aside as the mamoothen herd—no longer confined—broke away from them, a stampede of heavy hooves and rage.

  Zelda smiled at the image, backing away from the wall, curling into a ball and covering her head with her arms as the earthquake-like stomps got louder, louder, closer, closer, reverberating through the prison…

  The stone wall exploded inward and Zelda closed her eyes, feeling a hail of small, sharp stones and larger, blunt stones ratchet off her body. The pain heightened her focus even more, and when she was certain the worst was over, she sprang to her feet with a litheness she hadn’t felt in years.

  One of the mamoothen stared at her with big, brown eyes. Her favorite: Chantilly, a gentle giant to those she favored and a monster from the Hinterlands to those she despised. And because Zelda despised the Brotherhood, Chantilly would hate them too. A dozen other mamoothen crowded behind her, like Zelda’s own security force.

  Blood running down her neck and arms, Zelda strode forward, raising her hands to the sky—which she could now see—so Chantilly could pick her up with her powerful trunk, placing Zelda high atop her back, just behind her ears.

  Zelda whistled again, this time lower and shorter. As one, the mamoothen released their cry, turning away from the rubble of the destroyed prison.

  Time for battle.

  Lisbeth

  The Knights had quickly outdistanced her, but Lisbeth was with them anyway. She heard their thoughts, a chaotic spill of coming violence and bloodlust. There were other ideas, too, more noble ones—like northern pride and honor and victory—but at the core of everything was the violence.

  The need for war, the insatiable thirst of a man dying alone in the desert.

  It was this desire that scared Lisbeth the most.

  Her soulmark burned like a candle on her forehead.

  She concentrated, trying to touch each of their minds in turn, to rein them in. Some responded, slowing, falling back to wait for the other two companies to catch up. But most pushed back, mental shoves that knocked Lisbeth off balance, almost causing her to fall.

>   She regained her balance, however, running toward that miasma of pulsing, beating souls that was her company of Knights; and beyond, more than a hundred souls of the enemy, as black as tar—dark souls who’d committed unspeakable acts against the innocent.

  These are bad men, Lisbeth thought. They deserve what is coming to them.

  She knew, however, that was just an excuse for the fact that she couldn’t control the Knights, no matter how hard she tried. Maybe the men they would kill on this night deserved to die, but what about the next people the Knights killed, and the next? If she didn’t find a way to hold them back now, she might never be able to later.

  They will swarm the lands south of the Mournful Mountains, killing all in the name of the north.

  This isn’t my purpose. It isn’t!

  She hated the bitter taste of the lie in her mouth.

  Ahead, amidst a hail of arrows, the Knights threw themselves at the wall, not waiting for the battering ram to move into position against the gates. Instead, they climbed like spiders, their fingers finding small cracks between the wall’s stones, where the mortar had chipped away. Atop the wall, the archers redoubled their efforts, shooting straight down.

  Arrows deflected off armor and shield, and the Knights climbed higher.

  Her breath left her as one fell, and she felt the air whooshing around her, felt the fear of dying, felt the crunch of his body against the cold, hard ground. She collapsed, her dress coiling around her like a windblown shawl.

  She panted, her heart beating rapidly in her chest, then slowing. Slowing. Stopping.

  Wait. Am I dead? But no, her heart was beating wildly at the same time, even as it had stopped. Different hearts, she thought. I’m feeling all of them at once.

  One, however, had died. They can die. Somehow that thought gave her solace. Somehow it scared her. She regained her feet, the pain gone.

  The arrows had ceased. Where are the archers?

  Fear racing through her, Lisbeth Lorne ran for the wall, which had already been taken by the Knights. Not a single dark soul was left alive on the ramparts.

  Annise

  Annise’s eyes met Tarin’s. He wore a grim look of determination, which she suspected mirrored her own. They were on opposite sides of the battering ram, a medium-sized felled tree stripped of leaves and branches. As they shoved it forward, retracted it, and shoved again, each blow reverberated through her hands, sending shockwaves up her arms.

  Somewhere along the way, the arrows had stopped falling. The Sleeping Knights, she thought. They are a dangerous force.

  Another thud. And another. Archer yelled something as they pushed in unison once more. The next impact earned a cracking sound, splinters protruding like a porcupine’s quills. The next two blows were enough to break through the heavy wood of the crossbar, the door exploding inward to reveal a snarling army of career sellswords already doing battle against an army so ancient they would’ve been right at home on display in a museum.

  Still, the Brotherhood were holding their own; several of the Knights were even dead or injured on the ground. Dozens of sellswords were down too, the cost of defeating the ancient foe.

  She charged forward, bringing her Evenstar into a tight orbit over her head. Tarin’s weapon was spiraling, too, and as they met the waiting enemy, they unleashed their spiked balls as one.

  Tarin’s aim was true, bludgeoning an enemy soldier in the face, mangling his iron mask and throwing him back like a stuffed dummy on the practice field.

  Annise’s target ducked, the metal projectile narrowly missing his helmet. The momentum of her swing carried her forward and she brought a knee up into his jaw, rocking him back. Still, he was a seasoned warrior, and even off balance he attempted to impale her on his sword. Luckily, it was a glancing blow, her armor protecting her with a shriek as the blade scraped past.

  All around her, there was mayhem, both sides’ ranks broken, all semblance of structure and command gone in the heat of the battle. In short, it was a street fight.

  And street fights happened to be Annise’s specialty.

  She grinned and threw herself into the fray.

  Zelda

  Chantilly and the other mamoothen rampaged across the castle grounds, tearing trees up by their roots, smashing walls, bursting through hastily closed gates like they were wet paper pulled from the royal streams.

  Several bold members of the Brotherhood tried to stop them, standing bravely in their path, firing arrows or throwing spears.

  They might as well have been tossing nuts and berries, for all the good it did. A chorus of trumpets preceded the squishing of hooves on corpses as the men were trampled. For one, Chantilly lowered her head and gored the enemy soldier through the ribs, bucking her head and tossing him aside. He landed in the branches of a pine tree, slumped across the bed of nettles as if he might be sleeping.

  He was not sleeping.

  Zelda turned her attention forward once more, gathering her bearings. Just ahead, the wide courtyard funneled into a narrow corridor with a gate at the end. Beyond that was the outer courtyard and the main castle gates, where sounds of battle could be heard. With a dozen mamoothen flanking the sellswords, the outcome would be determined swiftly.

  Zelda frowned, noticing something strange as Chantilly entered the corridor at full charge, her leathery skin nearly scraping the white stone walls on either side.

  The ground was covered in a thick layer of straw. Which wouldn’t be odd, if this was the stables or the cow pastures. Here in the promenade, however…

  Severon is an arrogant bastard, but he’s no fool.

  Sudden dread filled her and she pressed her lips together to whistle the short, sharp command to halt.

  But she never released that whistle, feeling a jolt as Chantilly’s forelegs dipped down into the first hole hidden by the straw. Zelda was wrenched from the beast’s back, going airborne, somersaulting head over feet.

  Chantilly! she thought as she flew.

  Christoff

  Two dead so far. Another member of his company fell, the third since the battle began. The sight sent a bolt of pain through him, but Christoff clenched his teeth and pushed on, carving a path between where the Knights and Sir Dietrich’s company fought.

  His soldiers were relentless, like wildcats, using the advantage wrought by their three-pronged attack to pounce on the enemy.

  Still, the sellswords were experienced, highly trained soldiers. They didn’t falter, even as it was clear the battle had turned against them.

  Another woman soldier perished, clutching her chest, where her plate was rent. Christoff flew to her aid, knowing it was too late, but wanting to make her death mean something, meeting his opponent with perfect form, parrying his frenetic, rage-filled strokes with cool, precise blocks, eventually seeing an opening and taking it, disarming him and finishing him off. His opponent died surprised that he’d been bested, his lips forming an O-shape.

  “Lady Zelda,” a voice said. Christoff turned to find himself clear of the main body of action, facing Mona—Private Sheary. Her face was smudged with dirt and blood, but she was alive. “Give me command and go find her.”

  “What?”

  “I won’t fail you. And you won’t fail Lady Zelda.”

  Words escaped him. It was as if she knew his mind better than he did. “I cannot abandon my post,” he finally managed.

  “You won’t be. You will be delegating temporary command to me.”

  He almost smiled. Almost. It was exactly the sort of loophole he liked to use to maintain his honor and loyalty while trying to make the right choice. “I, Captain Christoff Metz, do delegate temporary command of this company to Private Mona Sheary, until the time when I return or perish.”

  Private Sheary winced at the last part, but nodded grimly. “Now go! And don’t perish or I’ll kill you.”

  He was fairly certain it was an exaggeration, but he scurried off just the same. The quickest way toward the prisons was barred by the locked gate
into the promenade. Alternate routes came and went in his mind, but all would require going well out of his way. Time was of the essence. He had no choice but to climb the ivy-covered wall.

  The decision made, he sheathed his sword and approached the task like he approached every task, seeking the most efficient route to the top. The thick leafy ivy made it difficult to find the best handholds, but he took the extra time to locate them, knowing they would get him to the top with the least risk in the fastest time possible.

  Behind him, the sounds of battle faded, his concentration consuming everything else. A fall from this height would break his back at best, kill him at worst.

  Don’t perish or I’ll kill you. Private Sheary’s—no, Mona’s—final words lifted his lips in a wry smile. But they quickly drooped as he felt a shred of fear, something he’d never experienced while trying to save a life. The feeling surprised him. He wanted to see her again. Wanted to…touch her again, feel her lips on his skin.

  For a moment he froze, shocked by his own thoughts.

  A sound from above broke him from the trance. The archer’s arrow stared down at him. “Die, Sir,” the sellsword said.

  Annise

  She squeezed harder, the man bucking in her grip. When he stopped moving, she tossed him aside. Nearby, Dietrich’s sword was a tornado of blows, cutting down the three men who’d surrounded him. On the opposite side, Tarin slammed the Morningstar into the enemy. A soldier fell and didn’t get back up. Sir Jonius, an impressive swordsman in his own right, disarmed his foe and stabbed him between his plates. Archer, still on his feet, spun slowly, searching for his next opponent.

  Only a dozen or so enemies remained fighting, but now they turned and retreated, heading for the gate to the promenade, which swung open at their approach.

  “Company Dietrich! Pursue!” Annise said. Dietrich and his men charged ahead a step behind the Sleeping Knights, who had already given chase, blood dripping from their ancient weapons. Lisbeth Lorne was nowhere to be found.