by David Estes
It was despair they felt. He was despair. But not only…
He rushed forward and they fled to either side. One was slightly too slow and he grabbed the male’s ankle. He didn’t hang on—didn’t need to hang on. Just the barest brush of his fingers against flesh and his power shot into his victim. The creature’s scream was the fairest melody to his ears.
Pain. That was the power of his mark. A touch to cause excruciating pain. He could transfer the power through any weapon, too. His preference was a dual-bladed axe.
The male was still howling, his fingers scrabbling over his body, searching for an injury that wasn’t there; no, the pain was inside him. Eventually, it would burn itself out, leaving him unharmed.
Son-Gäric moved on, charging along the perimeter of the ship, wondering whether any of the Horde would throw themselves overboard to avoid his touch. He slapped his palm against another, then another, leaving them curled on the decks, their screams as bright and hot as an inferno.
When they were all cowed, he stood at the ship’s helm, gazing upon the rest of the fleet, hundreds of ships moving like shadows against the blue-gray sky. The rest of the Horde would be feeling the despair by now, would be hearing the screams of pain. And they would learn. No more infighting. Unification was the only way to move forward.
As Helmuth Gäric stood like a god, he raised his hand in the air, making a fist.
Roars followed, cries of battle and defiance. Slowly, one by one, the warriors on his ship stood, panting.
And then they roared too.
Crows fell from the sky, one by one at first, and then in droves, plunging into the water, their necks breaking as they slammed onto the decks of the ships, driven mad by Helmuth’s power. Soon the sky was clear, the ever-present darkness gone.
It shall return, he knew.
Abruptly, the winds changed, filling the sails. Pulling them eastward toward their bloody destiny. The Horde dove on the birds, tearing into them with their teeth.
PART IV
Bane Rhea Ennis
Jai Falcon Grey
Gareth
The evil inside us matches only the evil beside us,
To pray, to betray, skies darken to gray,
While our shadows hold knives and our dreams consume lives,
Our wounds no longer bleed, filled with ash and our own reckless deeds.
Japarti, famous Calypsian poet
Forty-Three
The Southern Empire, Hemptown
Bane Gäric
I am the Kings’ Bane, he thought as he watched Rhea Loren sleep.
He remembered when he’d killed her warmongering father.
In sleep, she looked so peaceful, so harmless, the edges of her scar glistening in the torchlight.
And yet it was she who had summoned the monster Wrathos. She who had brought an army to the Southron Gates. Like the other rulers, she would need to die before this was all over.
Bane had once believed that fulfilling the prophecy was a simple endeavor—kill eight warmongering rulers and there would be peace.
Not anymore. No, he’d killed half a dozen rulers already; he’d felt as pieces of his eight-portioned deathmark filled with blood; and then his mark had grown, two more portions added. When he’d tried to befriend Chavos, the plaguemarked beggar, he’d been betrayed. When he’d gone in good faith to Roan Loren, the Peacemaker, offering him knowledge, Roan had been horrified.
Rut them all, Bane thought now. The only hope for the Four Kingdoms rested on his shoulders. Not as the murderer of kings—the Kings’ Bane—but as the god that he was, he who would rule the continent as high king. They would be resistant at first, but he would cow them with force and death and fear. He would make them be peaceful. Any who defied him would die.
A fortnight ago, Bane had thought long and hard about where to start, where to build his army. His original home in the north was decimated—he would find no strength there. The west feared him, aye, but they also had the furia and an unhealthy obsession with their god, Wrath. No, he would need to crush them, not join them. The east held possibility, but his last trip there had been fraught with frustration, leaving a sour taste in his mouth.
Which meant his path lay in the south. Calypso had suffered a great defeat at the hands of the easterners, losing all but one of their dragons, the guanero wiped out. There were even rumors that Raven Sandes had lost the throne to her aunt, Viper.
That left Phanes. At first, Bane thought it madness. Join the empire that had brought slavery to the Four Kingdoms? The empire once ruled by Vin Hoza, the slavemarked? The empire that loved war almost as much as it loved precious things?
But the more he thought about it, the more he knew it was perfect. A slave rebellion was brewing in Phanea. Three of the four Hozas were dead. The Phanecians were leaderless, desperate, but still proud. When he came to them, they were skeptical. At first. Several masters of phen ru even tried to kill him. Their bodies had been burned on the second day. The rest decided to follow him, thousands of warriors trained in the art of death. He would use them to crush his enemies, and then he would turn the tables on them, too. By the time they realized his plans, it would be too late.
High King Gäric, he thought. It had a nice ring to it. He was tired of being Bane, a name hissed like a curse in the dark. He was tired of being alone and hated. When he was king, he would be surrounded by people he paid to carry out his will, to keep the peace.
These lands can be wonderful again.
It was that thought that drove him. He would be the perfect king, fair but strong, idealistic but realistic. Not vengeful like the Ironclads or pious like the Lorens or vain like the Hozas or overly proud like the Sandes or—he thought of his own family, who he’d never really known, but knew well enough to know he was better off not knowing them—or cold and heartless like the Gärics.
Something squirmed inside him. Sometimes, when he was thinking of the glorious future, he forgot about the plague that Chavos had transferred to him just before he’d died. Sometimes he tried to convince himself that it couldn’t hurt him.
But though his deathmark seemed to slow the progress of the plague, it couldn’t stave it off completely. No, he felt it worming its way through him, weakening his body and mind.
In moments like this, he was afraid.
I don’t want to die.
A tear dripped from his chin. He dashed it away with a finger, having not even realized he was crying.
I won’t die. I can’t. I will never die. I am too important.
Rhea stirred, drawing him from his thoughts. This woman, he thought. She is the key to breaking the back of the west, bringing them to their knees.
Her pink lips were tight, like a string pulled into a taut line. What are you dreaming of? The edge of her mouth twitched. Are you remembering when they cut you? Are you remembering the moment your father died?
In a way, Bane felt sorry for her. But not enough to spare her. The words of the Western Oracle formed in his mind’s eye. There are those who must die in order for there to be peace. It was that part of the prophecy that Roan Loren would never understand.
Rhea’s eyes fluttered open. The image of moth’s wings came to mind. At first, they seemed to have trouble focusing, but then their stare grew sharper, before widening.
She sat up quickly, her arms pushing back as she tried to scrabble away, slamming into the wall.
Bane said, “I’m not going to hurt you.” Yet.
Rhea seemed to shrink into herself, like a crab hiding in its shell. Seeing her like this, it was hard to believe the rumors about how she’d defeated the entire northern armada in the Bay of Bounty. “Where is my companion? Where is Gaia?”
“Your cousin? She is safe. You need not fear for her. I do not kill frivolously.”
Her jaw tightened. She doesn’t believe me. “What do you want?” she said.
“To talk.”
“You killed my father.”
There was no point denying it. “Ye
s.”
“Why?”
He sighed. Why did no one seem to understand what it took to achieve peace? “He was waging a war with the west. And the north. And occasionally the south.”
She seemed to chew on this for a few moments. “He had a good heart,” she finally said.
“He was a cruel tyrant!” Bane shouted, losing control.
The fear left her as she jutted out her jaw. “You are one to talk. Murderer.”
Ah. There you are, Rhea, Bane thought, regaining control of his emotions. “I could say the same of you. It is said you executed your own cousin, Ennis.”
She tried to control her expression, but he saw the subtle change. “I faked it.”
“I know.”
She licked her lips, and he could sense her next question before she asked it. “Do you have him?”
He laughed. So predictable. “Why do you care? You banished him from the west. He told us everything.”
Her teeth ground together, her nose twitching. Oh yes. How quickly the docile lamb turns into a wildcat. “I want to see him.”
Bane pretended to consider the request. “I might be able to arrange that. But you have to do something for me too.”
“What?”
Bane stood, looming over her. He could see her muscles tighten. He could see the way she prepared herself. If he attacked her now, she wouldn’t go peacefully. She would fight to the death. It would be her death, yes, but it would not be easy. “When the time comes to stop your armies from attacking mine, you must do so without question.”
“I will.” The answer came too quickly, though she spoke it with sincerity. She is lying.
Bane pretended not to notice. “Good. Come with me and I’ll take you to your cousin.”
He extended a hand, waiting patiently as she looked at it, hesitated, but then took it, her hand warm in his.
Forty-Four
The Southern Empire, Hemptown
Rhea Loren
Rhea had faced her fears before, and she’d conquered.
I will again, she thought as she walked beside Bane. She could still feel the coolness of his palm as he’d helped her up. She’d wanted to squeeze as hard as she could, until his fingers broke one at a time. She hadn’t, releasing his hand the moment she was on her feet.
Now her heart beat faster in anticipation. Was this a trick or did Bane really have Ennis? She wasn’t certain which was better.
Along the streets, the leather-clad soldiers stopped their training to eye her with barely concealed anger. They know who I am. The word must’ve spread about her capture. Many of them carried the strange weapons she’d seen earlier, the long metal tubes attached to wooden grips that seemed to use fireroot powder to send projectiles at their enemies. Such weapons in the hands of an army led by Bane…
“My army is well-equipped,” Bane said. “We will begin our march on Phanea soon. I must quell the slave rebellion.”
“What about the allied east-west army approaching the Gates?”
“They can wait. After all, I have three Lorens now. Surely they won’t risk a direct attack on Hemptown.”
You don’t know my cousin, Sai, Rhea thought. “What will you do to the slave army?”
“Nothing,” Bane said, “so long as they don’t resist.”
“And if they do?”
He slammed his fist into his palm. “Crush them.”
Wrath help us all.
No, she thought, chiding herself for her foolishness. Wrath helps those who help themselves, and I shall not go quietly. She knew Bane had recognized her lie earlier, but he hadn’t called her on it. Why? she wondered now. He likes having control. He wants to feel like he has the upper hand. Perhaps they weren’t as different as she thought. She vanquished the thought. We are as different as dark from light.
They entered a building with bars over the glassless windows. Oh Ennis. Have I found you at last?
Several guards lined the entrance, their eyes flitting to her as she passed. She ignored them, focused ahead. A wide corridor ran straight and narrow, lined with metal doors on either side. Voices emerged from some of them, whispery susurrations that sent shivers down her spine. Bane stopped at one of the doors and motioned for a guard to open it. The guard produced a key, turned it in the lock, and swung the door open wide.
Rhea froze as two sets of eyes looked out at her. One was Gaia, her face still smudged with dirt, her cheeks tearstained. The other made her look like a pampered princess.
His face was so dark with grit and grime he appeared to have bathed in it. His blond, wavy hair was longer now, curling around his ears and the nape of his neck. His usual stubbly beard was a thick bird’s nest, streaked with gray.
But what was the most different was his expression, his eyes. He looked at her with indifference, like she was an uninteresting gray painting on a gray wall lit by the muted light of an overcast sun.
He used to look at me like I was the sun, the stars, the moons.
No, Rhea had never shared the sort of love her older cousin felt for her, but she did love him. Her heart broke seeing him like this, a mere shade of the proud, honorable man he’d been not two months ago.
“Send her away,” Ennis growled.
Bane said, “As you wish.”
The guard started to close the door and Rhea leapt forward, trying to hold it open. “Please. Ennis. I’m sorry. I was a fool. I was—”
The door slammed with a clang that reverberated along the corridor.
Rhea pounded on it. She’d come so far, had sacrificed so much, she needed to reason with him, to explain, to tell him that she’d changed, or was trying to.
But had she? The thought stopped her cold. Just a moment ago she’d been plotting how to kill Bane, the ways she wanted to torture him. He deserves much worse, she reasoned.
And there it was, the slippery slope that had made her the person she was today. One could justify anything if they really wanted to.
I am not worthy of Ennis’s love.
As she walked away from his cell, she made a decision:
I will become worthy. Her child kicked in response.
Forty-Five
The Southern Empire, Hemptown
Ennis Loren
“I understand that you’re angry,” his sister said.
“You bet your arse I’m angry,” Ennis said. He hadn’t been angry with Rhea for banishing him from the west—no, he was long past caring about that. But bringing his sister here? Risking her life? It was unforgivable.
“It was my choice,” Gaia insisted, but Ennis didn’t believe that for a second. Maybe Gaia believed it was her choice, but Ennis had spent enough time with Rhea to know her abilities as a master manipulator.
“Rhea is not a good person,” he said, hating the way, even now, he filtered his words to shed the best possible light on his cousin. He shook his head. No more. “She is evil.” The truth. He felt lighter already.
Gaia sighed. “Maybe. Or maybe she was. But she’s changed, or is trying to. She’s trying to help you.”
“No one can help me. Nor you. We are lost. It’s a wonder Bane hasn’t killed us already.”
Gaia seemed to shiver at that. “Is he truly the Kings’ Bane? The one who killed Uncle?”
“Yes.” Ennis had been there that night, when a nightmare had become reality. Unlike many of the others, who had fled the castle amidst death and screams, he had not. He’d pursued the demon, slipping on blood-slick floors and dodging the corpses Bane left in his wake. He’d failed to catch him.
Aye. The start of a long list of my failures.
He’d never told anyone about that night, and he wasn’t about to now.
“Wrath,” Gaia whispered.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” Ennis said. “I won’t allow Rhea to claim another of my kin.”
A series of loud booms obliterated Gaia’s response.
Forty-Six
The Southern Empire, the Red Rocks
Jai Jiroux
<
br /> Jai Jiroux hated how the young soldiers watched him with their stoic expressions. Waiting for him to speak. To command.
On his heel, his justicemark pulsed. You are doing what you must do to save them all, it seemed to say. And though he knew that was the truth, how many of them would have to die to free Phanes from oppression?
The force of five-hundred—he’d left the other ninety-five hundred soldiers to protect Phanea—was nestled amongst the Red Rocks, directly in line with the war city of Hemptown, where most of the enemy activity seemed to be in motion. More soldiers arrived each day, from both the east and west. Gathering. Preparing. Occasionally they heard loud muted explosions.
“What is that?” Jai asked aloud.
“Fireroot powder,” Shanti said from the opposite side of the large rock behind which they hid. She glanced at him, her coppery brow furrowed. She wore her form-fitting leather armor, the outfit that made Jai’s heart flutter. She tapped the several pouches strapped to her belt, each of which was filled to bursting with the highly flammable powder ground from fireroot. “Small charges, not more than a pinch.” She reached up, her finger absently brushing the latest black tear tattooed on her cheek. The one for her mother, Jai thought.
“What use is that?” The question came from Sonika Vaid, the leader of the rebel group known as the Black Tears. She was Phanecian, her eyes as narrow as scythes, her hair long and dark, but had long abhorred the slave-driven culture of her people, eventually forming her own rebel faction. If not for her help, the rebellion would not have gone nearly as smoothly as it had thus far. All but one of the mines had been liberated, the slaves brought to the capital city of Phanea. The lone holdout was Kirev, a topaz and quartz mine that was protected by thirteen mine masters. The issue was that the masters had used fireroot powder to cave-in the entrances, sealing themselves and the slaves inside. They wouldn’t suffocate—each mine had plenty of air holes drilled—but soon their food supply would run out, even if the naturally occurring water source sustained their thirst.
