Deathmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4)

by David Estes

  One of them had a blade for a hand, the weapon glinting at his side as he ran into battle.

  This is it, Falcon thought. The end of an era. And the beginning of a new one. Slaves were fighting alongside former masters and generals. Rebels were allied with oppressors. Masters of phen sur joined masters of phen ru and phen lu. Even a group resembling pirates were somehow involved.

  We cannot waste Jai’s sacrifice, Falcon thought as he swiveled around and sprinted amongst them. The Phanecians were falling on all sides, cut down like stalks of tall grass, trampled underfoot.

  Falcon met a stalwart leather-clad soldier who stood in his path. The man was quick, flashing a bladed kick that would’ve opened Falcon’s neck had he been a hair slower. Instead, he threw his head back and the razor whistled past his chin. He followed through, springing backwards on his hands and then ducking a slash, bringing his own blade up into his foe’s sternum. The breath left the man’s lungs and he doubled over, clutching his chest.

  One of the pirates came out of nowhere and removed the man’s head from his shoulders.

  Falcon nodded to him and she nodded back, a dark look in her eyes. They turned away from each other and ran onwards.

  Falcon didn’t meet another enemy, the Phanecians having retreated further into the canyons, pursued by the rebels.

  The day is won, Falcon thought, feeling a swell of jubilation rolling around the melancholy that had set in. We have won.

  It was like something out of one of his books, something impossible. Remarkable. In his world, there were no happy endings. The villains won. The villains thrived.

  Not anymore, he thought. This is a brave, new world.

  He saw the slender but strong form of a Teran woman kneeling on the ground, weeping, and every thought of victory or change or new beginnings were shattered.

  It was Shanti. Jai’s unmoving body lay before her, catching her tears.

  Falcon started toward her, but stopped when a sound arose.

  Trumpets blared from somewhere deep beyond the canyons.

  Eighty

  The Southern Empire, the Bloody Canyons

  Grey Arris

  The addictive mix of fear and excitement that battle brought was something Grey knew he might never get sick of. And thus far, he hadn’t lost a single man or woman, the enemy routed. Slavers, he thought with disgust as he ran on.

  He drew even more comfort in the knowledge that his sister and Erric were well behind them, safe at the rear of the rebel army. He even spotted Kyla separating one of the Phanecian’s heads from his neck. He felt a slash of gruesome pride watching her fight.

  Grey had killed his share of the enemy too, ignoring the flair of their flips and spins, waiting for his opportunity to stab them somewhere fatal. Eventually, however, there was no one left to fight, the enemy in full retreat.

  Still, he gave chase, determined to help end as many of the Phanecians as possible so they would be unable to mount a counterattack.

  When he heard the horns, he slowed to a jog, then a walk, then stopped completely. All around him, the soldiers and pirates did the same, staring at the retreating enemy, wondering what had caused the sound.

  The Phanecians stopped, too, whirling around, running back toward them. What the hell? They saw the rebels and stopped again. Their eyes darted from one end of the canyon to the other, and Grey could see the fear in their eyes.

  A cry arose and Grey could see them now, banners flapping in the hot breeze. Westerners! he thought, seeing the rearing stallion sigil. Wait. There were other flags too, bearing the crossed iron swords. Easterners. A chill ran though him. An east-west alliance? Impossible. But he could not deny his eyes, could not deny the gleaming armor and razor-edged lines of the raised swords as they marched, blocking the Phanecians’ retreat.

  Their enemy was caught between the fire and the flame.

  Kyla appeared beside him. “What do we do?” she asked.

  Grey said, “Kill any Phanecians who try to escape this way.”

  “And the others?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “We wait and see, I guess. They are not the enemy. Not yet.”

  She nodded, gripping her sword tightly.

  Grey spotted movement along the canyon wall, something that was out of place amongst the soldiers. He squinted, watching as a form skirted the edge, taking shelter in the shadows. There was a flash of gold, there and gone. There was something awkward about the way the person moved. Wobbly.

  The woman—because it was clear she was a woman now—emerged from the shadows and was struck by a ray of sunlight sneaking past the canyon walls.

  There was something about her face…

  Grey’s breath caught in his lungs; his mouth went dry. His eyes widened. It cannot be. It cannot.

  It was. Though now marred by glistening scars, there was no mistaking her soft porcelain features. Nor her golden hair, though it had been partially hacked off, unevenly. Even without her beautiful, pristine dress, which was replaced by filthy, tattered rags, she was unmistakable, as undeniable as a shard of glass poking from a bed of moss.

  Rhea Loren.

  He didn’t think, just acted, taking off at a sprint toward her, the way blocked by what was left of the Phanecian army.

  Rhea

  She had nothing left, her legs like lead, her swollen belly an immense weight, dragging her down like an anchor.

  The only solace she could take was that the Phanecians had been defeated. Bane had lost.

  Yet even that thought felt empty. Ennis had not killed her, but he might as well have, his contempt for her a dagger to the heart.

  Stop it. Focus on what matters. You must beg for your child’s life if it comes to it. You cannot fail.

  Clutching the side of the rock wall for support, Rhea watched the Phanecians. They were standing back to back, awaiting the enemies on both sides—their final stand. Something else caught her gaze: a man running, breaking away from the rest of the rebel army, who were also giving chase. He had dark, unkempt hair and a handsome, boyish face. He was strong, that much was clear in the taut lines of his arms, shoulders, chest…

  He was missing a hand. Something glinted in its place—a blade.

  Rhea leaned forward, her palms sweating, a sob choking from the back of her throat.

  Grey Arris plunged into the midst of the Phanecians, shoving, slashing, fighting his way toward her.

  Their eyes met, and it was like he’d never left.

  Grey

  These men were nothing but pathetic obstacles in Grey’s path. He thought he took a slash across his shoulder, perhaps one along his abdomen too, but he felt nothing but a brief flash of pain, his adrenaline drowning out all else.

  He saw the recognition in her eyes as she spotted him, felt it reflected in his own gaze. She knows who I am. Only one soldier remained between him and her. Grey parried a strike on his blade hand, shoving the man away as he streaked past.

  The space between them was insurmountable, a chasm too great to cross.

  Or is it? What am I doing?

  He knew, but couldn’t think it—didn’t want to think it—because the implications were too much for him to swallow, like trying to choke down an entire apple without chewing.

  Somewhere along the lines, his subconscious had unlocked what was the most different about her—not the scars nor the short hair—even if the rest of his brain pretended not to notice.

  Rhea is pregnant, he thought. Not just with child, but very with child, her belly protruding in such a way that Grey thought it could not possibly grow any bigger.

  Though it was possible she’d been with another man since that fateful night in the cryptlands, something told him she hadn’t.

  Which meant the unborn child was his.

  “Rhea,” he said, stopping at the edge of that chasm. The warmth of blood flowed down his arm, his stomach.

  “You’re hurt, Grey,” Rhea said.

  “I always have been.”

  This was
n’t real. Couldn’t be real.

  Was real.

  “Your face,” he said, reaching out to touch her, his hands stopping short of her cheeks.

  “They cut me. The furia.”

  The realization felt like a fresh wound. He’d never considered what harm their relationship could have for her. They cut her because of me. Because of what we had, what we did. “Oh Rhea.”

  “I’m—I’m sorry. I saw what Wrathos did to you. I never intended that. I summoned the monster to protect my people. But I lost control…I was a fool for thinking I could control it.” There was something broken in her expression, something he’d only seen once before, on the night her father died and Shae was abducted by the furia. He’d been that way once, long ago. Not ever again.

  “I understand. I’m sorry too.”

  “I saw you too. You were so brave.”

  Somewhere a battle continued to rage. It might’ve been a thousand miles away. A million. He knew he should’ve felt a level of subconscious fear at seeing the furia again, the ones who took his hand, but they were insubstantial next to the woman before him.

  “Are you…are you hurt?” Grey asked.

  She shook her head, her hands absently rubbing her belly.

  “How are you here?”

  A breathy laugh stretched its wings from her lips. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I’m guessing you could say the same.”

  He couldn’t hold back the smile. It was true. She probably wouldn’t.

  “Your child,” he said, gesturing to her stomach.

  Her eyes never left his. “What do you want me to say?”

  “The truth. Just tell me the truth.”

  “Grey?” a voice said from behind before she could answer.

  Grey turned to find Kyla standing, sword in hand, fresh blood dripping from the blade. Beyond her the last of the Phanecians were being corralled, their weapons dropped as they surrendered. Pirates, rebels, easterners, and westerners, both soldiers and furia, Orians and humans, swarmed them.

  Grey felt a pit form in his stomach. Kyla had been so much to him—everything to him. She still was, in a lot of ways. She’d saved him when he was lost. And he knew he had saved her too.

  But he couldn’t deny what he felt for Rhea, especially because of the unspoken truth he’d seen in her eyes.

  The child is yours.

  Kyla’s eyes had darkened, and he remembered her threat from before. If I meet her, I will kill her.

  Grey said nothing, could not fathom what to say. Which was exactly the wrong thing.

  Kyla spun on her heel and strode away.

  Grey knew he should go after her, but his legs wouldn’t move.

  He turned back to Rhea to find tears streaking down her cheeks. “You should go. I’m not worthy of any of this. I’m not worthy of you. Whoever that woman is, she is.”

  “That’s for me to decide,” Grey said. He took a step forward, but then stopped.

  He shook his head, scanning the canyon from one wall to the other. He frowned, trying to puzzle out something in his mind. Something was strange. For one, the blare of trumpets had seemed to come from too far away. And it hadn’t echoed the way sound seemed to travel through the canyons. Plus, amongst the eastern-western army he couldn’t seem to locate a single trumpet.

  Another army is coming, he thought, though he wasn’t certain how that was possible.

  “Grey,” another voice said, and his heart sank as he turned toward his sister. Shae sat in the cart with Erric, their hands clasped.

  “What?”

  Her eyes darted between Grey and Rhea, then back to Grey. “She is here.”

  “Who?”

  “Our purpose. The keeper of souls. And she brings death to us all.”

  Eighty-One

  The Southern Empire, the Bloody Canyons

  Lisbeth Lorne

  The Knights didn’t run. They didn’t need to. None could escape their fury.

  Instead, they stalked forward, into the canyons. Lisbeth and Sir Dietrich walked amongst them, unspeaking. Lisbeth sensed she had a role to play in what would transpire, but not yet.

  The trumpets no longer blared. As the Knights had swarmed through the Phanecian war city, one brave boy with a dead woman at his feet had lifted the instrument to his lips and blown with all his might. Three long blasts. A warning to those who marched into the canyons before them. Death ended the sound.

  Hemptown was now a city of corpses.

  Shadows grew before them as the canyon walls rose on all sides.

  Far in the distance, between stone and sand, Lisbeth could make out an army of souls of many colors: greens, reds, blues, oranges, a kaleidoscope of life, like a twisting, writhing flame the moment before it is snuffed out.

  I must fight them. It scared her, for she knew she would lose. But she also knew that it wasn’t about victory. It was about showing up, standing tall, trying.

  I will try.

  “You should go,” Lisbeth said to Sir Dietrich. “Once I am gone, I can no longer protect you.”

  His blue soul darkened slightly. “Who said I need protecting? Anyway, you are going nowhere.”

  She wanted to stop him, but could see the steely determination swirling through his soul like a dust storm. “Thank you for not abandoning me.”

  “Never.”

  They walked on, the rainbow of souls growing ever closer. They were turning now, confusion flashing. Others piled behind them, different. Another army. And another. There were disparate groups of souls, too, each with their own features, some rugged, some polished. Armies amongst armies, a ragtag assortment of peoples united in battle.

  They outnumbered the ancient Knights a hundred to one.

  It will not be enough, Lisbeth knew.

  The Knights roared as one, a battle cry that would torment their enemies’ minds, infiltrate their souls. They lifted their weapons, swords stained crimson from their bloody march south.

  Lisbeth gripped Sir Dietrich’s hand and said, “It is time.”

  His blue soul never wavered. “I will do what I can,” and then he fell amongst the Knights from behind, his sword flashing.

  Gareth

  What is this new evil? Gareth thought, watching the massive Knights approach. Their armor and swords were splattered with blood, still oozing from the edges, painting a bloody path behind them.

  It took his mind off Rhea, who he’d seen conferring with a rugged-looking man near the edge of the canyon wall.

  He exchanged a look with Ennis, who only shook his head.

  Gareth recalled the tale of the easterners defeat in Darrin, how a large company of powerful knights had marched in and decimated their forces, plucking victory from the hands of defeat for the northerners.

  And the crisis in Bethany he’d heard rumors of…were these knights the cause?

  Something about them was otherworldly, though he couldn’t discern what.

  We have the numbers, Gareth thought, even as Sai Loren gave the command to attack.

  The two forces—the easterners and westerners running, the knights striding—met in a frightening clang of steel. Dozens of men and women fell. Gareth watched an Orian he knew to be a formidable warrior get cut down like he was made of wind. Two furia fell at the hands of one foe. The Knights moved through them like reapers harvesting crops, hacking and slashing. Their armor repelled all attacks, their swords separating skin and bone and muscle like rolled sheaves of parchment.

  Gareth raised his sword, and Ennis did the same.

  One knight slashed down three soldiers in front of him, moving toward them with a confidence beyond that of the fiercest warriors Gareth had ever seen. Steel flashed and Gareth narrowly danced away, not even attempting to parry the powerful blow. Ennis wasn’t so lucky, slamming his sword hard against the knight’s shoulder to no avail, then taking a heavy boot to the chest that rocked him back, leaving him gasping.

  Gareth took advantage of the distraction to attack from behind, but the knig
ht spun faster than he thought possible, catching him with an elbow to the jaw, snapping his head around. He barely managed to hang onto his sword, which he brought up as he came out of the spin, blocking a strike so strong his own blade smashed against his chest plate.

  We are all dead, he thought. It wouldn’t matter if they had twenty thousand—a hundred thousand. These knights were unbeatable.

  Still, he tried to roll away, only to feel the breath punched out of him when the knight’s boot came crashing down on his chest. A drop of blood fell from the sword as the knight raised it in a final killing stroke.

  It splashed on Gareth’s face, followed by a shadow.

  Holy Orion, he thought.

  The dragon shrieked as it flew overhead, its red scales shimmering under the sun, its spiked tail sweeping back and forth as its leathery wings beat the air.

  The knight’s sword stopped as he craned his neck skyward, making a slight grunting noise.

  That’s when something dropped from the dragon’s back, something metallic, like a suit of armor. It spun once, twice, and Gareth could see the legs now, wind-milling, preparing to catch the side of the steep cliff as she fell—for Gareth now knew it was a person and a she, because he knew exactly who this was even if her presence was impossible, because she hated dragons—she hates dragons—but then she ran down the face of the cliff and leapt at the last moment, landing just before where he lay pinned on the ground.

  She grinned, her cat-like eyes gleaming.

  “Miss me?” Gwendolyn Storm said.

  Gwen

  The flight from Calypso had been less harrowing than she’d expected. Maybe I’m getting used to riding dragonback, Gwen had thought as they’d soared over the fiery waters of the Burning Sea. Then had come the crimson-painted peaks of the Red Rocks and, finally, the Bloody Canyons.

  Viper Sandes had admitted to everything in exchange for her own life. How she’d plotted against the empire from the moment her sister won the throne. How she’d ignored the Phanecian rebels’ request for help. How, even now, there was a war being fought between the slavers and the rebels. To Gwen’s surprise, Raven hadn’t hesitated to agree when she’d suggested they fly to Phanes to help. The reinstated empress had put Whisper in charge while they were gone. Goggin would reorganize the palace guard.