Deathmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4)

by David Estes

  That’s when Mortis felt the tip of the lord’s blade against his back. He glanced around at the young man, and could see the cold calculation in his eyes. A piece of the puzzle fell into place. Something Scarlett had once told him about Lord Farley.

  She’d sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around her legs. She’d had a distant look in her eyes. Mortis had asked her what it was like to serve the wealthy every day. “It’s like being a possession,” she’d said. “I’m invisible to the ladies, until they need something. But the men…they always see me.”

  “What do you mean?” Mortis had asked.

  “They look at me like they’re starving. They…undress me with their eyes.”

  It had startled Mortis, causing the very core of him to rise up in protest. “They claim to be devout followers of Wrath!” he’d said, his voice rising.

  “Do you believe me?” The question had hung in the air, and Mortis could feel the importance of it. To her. It was important to her.

  “Always.”

  She’d turned to him and smiled, and then leaned in for a kiss.

  Normally, Mortis would have gladly accepted such a gesture, but not on that night. He’d grasped her chin between both hands instead. “Have any of them ever…touched you?”

  Unshed tears had sparkled in her eyes, and she didn’t have to answer for him to know. Yes. Perhaps it had been a casual touch, almost made to appear accidental—a grasp, a clutch, a bump—but that didn’t change what it had done to her, this strong, proud, beautiful woman. She looked scared and violated.

  “Who?” Mortis had growled.

  She’d shaken her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “I know,” she’d said, clutching his hand in hers. “And that’s why I love you.”

  No matter how hard he’d tried to learn which of the lords in the castle had been harassing her, she’d refused to answer. Now he knew why.

  She was afraid of what Mortis might do. Because it wasn’t just any of the lords.

  It was the most powerful of them all—Lord Farley.

  His sadness didn’t vanish so much as get pushed to the bottom of a cauldron boiling over with his rage. “What did you do?” he said, his eyes locked with the lord’s steely stare. Such insolence could get a man locked in the dungeons, but Mortis was beyond caring. Far beyond.

  “Nothing,” Lord Farley said with a smug smile. “It’s you who did something.”

  At that same moment, one of the guards yelled, “We found something, my lord.”

  Mortis stared at the lord, whose sword arm hadn’t wavered in the slightest. With the tiniest bit of pressure, he could run steel through Mortis’s body. He could take away the pain, the anger, the life that no longer felt worth living.

  He didn’t—at least, not yet. “Go inside and face the truth,” Lord Farley said.

  Mortis considered attacking the lord. Why not? He had nothing more he could lose. But first he needed to know what they’d found.

  He marched into the cabin that no longer felt like his, but the home of a stranger. Everything inside was his—the carvings of animals on the walls, a hobby of his; the old, battered pots and pans, drying on the rack; the too-small bed in the corner, its covers yanked back by the soldiers—but he no longer cherished any of it.

  And his axe.

  His axe.

  A woodcutter cared for their axe like a mother for a child. He sharpened it daily, oiled it before bed. Replaced the wooden handle whenever it became overly notched. Placed it in its rack, where it was now.

  Beneath it was a dark puddle. Small drips fell from the blade from time to time, splashing, causing tiny ripples to appear.

  No.

  Everything was worse now. He could hardly bear the knowledge that she was gone, but to know it had been his axe…the very same she’d handled so expertly on the day of their first meeting.

  It broke something in him.

  If he was angry before, he was livid now. A pinprick in his back, the pressure of a meaningless blade wielded by a pathetic man who’d taken everything from him.

  He took a step forward and the blade at his back followed. “Arrest this man,” Lord Farley said. The guards stepped forward.

  There were two ways to play this: Allow himself to be arrested, tried, and executed, or fight now and die.

  The lord seemed to sense his intention. “Don’t,” he said. “I won’t hesitate.”

  Mortis dropped to his knees.

  “Good,” the lord said. “It is better this way.”

  Mortis closed his eyes, fighting off the images that assaulted him. The prince’s subtle gropes and grabs—first Scarlett’s bottom, then her breasts. Maybe she’d snapped at him, told him to sod off. It was something she would do. She wasn’t a woman to be trifled with.

  He could see the lord laughing it off in that devil-may-care way of his. He could see her fiery nature only making him more determined. “What did you do to her?” he whispered.

  “What was that, woodcutter?”

  Mortis didn’t need an answer. Lord Farley had gone to her that night. She’d opened her door, expecting Mortis. He’d forced his way inside. He’d forced himself upon her. She would’ve resisted. He would’ve hit her, tried to subdue her, but she was no easy prey. She would’ve scratched and clawed and—

  The bandage above his left eye.

  “You’re a murderer,” Mortis said.

  “The evidence tells a different tale,” the lord said.

  The guards were close now, their boot falls vibrating the floor just beyond.

  “I demand a fair trial,” Mortis said.

  “You will get one, though it won’t change the outcome.”

  Rough hands on him, dragging him to his feet. The clink of iron manacles being prepared. The swell of his lungs as he heaved in a breath.

  I will not go quietly.

  His shoulders sagged, as they might expect. Because he was broken, defeated.

  Or so they thought.

  Suddenly, he surged forward, his eyes flashing open. One of the guard’s grips was broken while the other managed to hang onto his wrist. He whipped his freed hand around, slamming his fist into the second guard’s nose.

  Mortis was strong from cutting and hauling wood day in and day out. The guard sank like a dropped stone. Lord Farley was shouting something, though the words were meaningless to Mortis, because instead of whirling to face the other guard, he dove for his axe, clutching the familiar handle like an old friend, swinging it around with precision, steel flashing.

  It sunk deep into the guard’s chest, his eyes widening, his mouth bursting open with a gasp. The guard’s own weapon, which was now clutched in his hand, slipped from fingers sapped of all strength.

  The lord of House Loren stared at him, his smug expression gone. His grip tightened on his sword, but Mortis didn’t fear it. Though the prince had been trained as a master swordsman from birth, his own pain would more than make up the difference.

  The lord seemed to realize the same, because he turned tail and fled.

  Mortis charged out into the night, but swiftly realized he could not catch him. Mortis was a larger man, not fleet of foot, while the lord was slender and lithe and came from a family of runners. By the time Farley reached the castle doors, the odds would be greatly stacked against Mortis.

  He longed to go to her, to Scarlett. To hold her. To give her the final rest she deserved.

  But then you will be found and executed.

  I will kill them all.

  That’s impossible. And the one you want vengeance on most won’t come anywhere near you.

  I can’t leave her.

  It’s what she would want.

  What would she want?

  The answer to his internal debate came as pure and clear as a bright morning sunbeam.

  She would want you to live.

  He ran. He used the small wooden door in the castle wall that was for him, leadi
ng into the forest. How often had he passed through this door to fell trees, cutting them into sections and hauling them into the castle to be split into firewood for the lords and ladies? As he plunged through the darkness, branches whipping across his face, slashing his skin, he wondered how many of those logs had warmed Lord Farley’s bedchamber.

  The desire to go back and seek vengeance rose again like a dark tide, but he swallowed it down.

  Scarlett wouldn’t want that. It was that truth that drove him onwards, until his strength faltered under the powerful weight of grief pressing down upon his shoulders.

  He collapsed, his entire body shaking, barely noticing the sharp thorns and stones piercing his clothes and skin. Sounds emerged from his throat he didn’t know he was capable of forming. Animal sounds. Gurgles and croaks and groans and growls.

  His face was wet. His hands were crusted with blood.

  My axe, he thought, realizing he was no longer carrying it. Somewhere along the way he’d dropped his only weapon.

  He curled his knees to his chest, holding them tight, like a newborn babe trying to recreate the comfort of sleeping in the womb. The tears stopped as he rocked back and forth.

  Finally, he stopped moving. Finally, he slept.

  Mortis awoke to the sound of dogs barking.

  He squinted, though it wasn’t bright in the forest, the thick, leafy canopy blocking out the early morning sunlight. Where am—

  Bile rose in his throat, memories flashing. Oh Wrath.

  Oh Scarlett.

  He swallowed the bitterness, trying to think. The sounds of the dogs were still distant, but he knew they would get closer quickly as they tracked his scent. He could lay here and let them find him. At the least, they could make his pain go away forever.

  Pain is what reminds us that we’re alive.

  His entire body jolted, as if she had whispered in his ear, her breath hot on his skin. But no, it was just a warm breeze, and the voice was in his mind, a memory of something Scarlett had once said to him. A large splinter had broken from her cart and pierced her skin. Mortis had removed it for her, warning her that it would hurt. That’s how she had responded, gritting her teeth as he’d used a heated pin and tweezers to remove it. She hadn’t so much as whimpered, though she’d released a sharp breath when he’d finished.

  I am alive. I am living for her now.

  The thought gave him strength enough to push to his feet. His body ached. Dried blood trickled from a dozen puncture wounds. He plucked out the thorns and nettles, tossing them aside. The baying of the dogs was closer now.

  He ran, his mouth dry, his stomach empty and hungry.

  Water, he thought. Not to drink, but to cross. It was the only way he’d be able to mask his scent from the trackers. Mortis knew these woods inside and out, as he’d traipsed far and wide searching for the best wood for his carvings. There were numerous streams and creeks, but the largest ran from north to south. To the north, it eventually widened into a sizable river, before meandering east toward the thriving colony of Bethany, which lay under the shadow of the Mournful Mountains.

  Mortis wondered whether he could hide there. Whether he could start a new life with a new name.

  It was a fool’s dream, he knew. The lord would hunt him to any of the new settlements. From Talis in the south to Restor along the Western Road. Anywhere he went, he would be hunted. Including Bethany.

  Which left several options:

  The least expected direction would be south, where skirmishes with the natives in the empires of Phanes and Calyp were common. It was said the border colonies were more like ghost towns these days, their refugees tramping down grass and flower as they retreated across the Forbidden Plains seeking protection. No, he couldn’t go there, which meant certain death.

  North was an option, but the frozen mountains and tundra were unforgiving during the warmest of seasons, and in winter they were deadly. Though temperatures were cooler in Crimea than in Knight’s End, Mortis had not seen snow in years. No, north was too great a risk.

  Which left east. Already rumors had been circulating of explorers and colonists fording the Spear, the largest river in the lands, separating the west from the east. At least one colony had sprung up out of nothing on the river’s eastern bank. It was called Portage. Surely Lord Farley wouldn’t pursue him that far.

  All these thoughts passed through Mortis’s mind in a few moments, as he wound his way through the thick undergrowth and tightly packed trees. It felt good to have a direction, something to run toward, rather than the ghosts he was running from.

  The baying of the hounds, however, grew ever closer, more frenzied now that they sensed their prey was within range.

  Where is it? Mortis thought, expecting to see the burbling brook around each tree, past each gnarled hedge.

  He looked back and thought he saw the flash of fur, but it might’ve been his imagination.

  Climbing a tree would buy him time, but then what? For one, he was no climber; and two, he would be stuck without food nor water. His pursuers would chop down the tree, or set fire to it.

  She would want you to live.

  It was that thought—that belief—that pushed strength into his weary legs. He ran faster, hurdling mossy logs and ducking under low hanging branches as he continued to swivel his gaze back and forth until—

  There!

  Like the blaze of a lightning strike in the dark of a stormy night, the ever-moving waters of the stream came into view, winding their way through the forest.

  He half-jumped, half-stumbled down the shallow embankment, plunging his boots into the brook, which, this time of year, rose only knee-high. A small blessing, which allowed him to run not across the water, but along it. The hounds would track his scent to the water’s edge and then their masters would naturally begin searching directly across on the opposite bank. Going downstream would be easier, but his pursuers might assume the same.

  Mortis headed upstream, shoving through the water with his boots, oblivious to the chilly water filling them, pushing between his toes, like it had the first day he met Scarlett, when he’d spilled so much water on himself. Rounded rocks rolled and shifted under his trod, but he managed not to fall, his arms extended to either side for balance.

  He glanced back. Once, twice.

  Nothing.

  He could still hear the hounds, but they had not yet reached the stream, which, just ahead, curved to the right and out of sight. More determined than ever, he fought against the brisk current, more jogging than wading now. He almost stumbled but maintained his footing.

  And then he was around the bend, just as he heard the barking reach a crescendo and a male shout spill out from the forest.

  It made him want to freeze.

  He did not, taking advantage of every second and driving further upstream. The water level rose until it was waist-high, but he soldiered on, relishing the scent-masking fluid. Every now and then he scooped handfuls into his mouth, quenching his thirst. It did little for his hunger, but that could be dealt with when the imminent danger had passed.

  The sounds of pursuit grew more distant with every step, every bend in the stream, which was quickly becoming a river.

  When the last yips faded beyond hearing, Mortis finally dragged himself from the water, soaked to the skin, his heart still pounding, but slower than before.

  It was no time to grow complacent. The trackers would split up, each following the river with their hounds in a different direction. Eventually his scent would be discovered again. He considered that truth, and then plunged back into the water, which seemed colder now. He crossed over and used protruding roots to clamber up the steep embankment on the western side. It was what they would least expect.

  From there he raced along the river’s edge. Thankfully the forest wasn’t as thick here, and he made better time, winding his way through a place that felt like home again. His sanctuary. He’d built a life within its bounds, and now it was saving him.

  But do
I want to be saved?

  He fought off the thought, but it continued to swell within him, his only companion.

  Live for her, live for her, live for…

  “Her.” He realized he’d been speaking aloud the entire time, repeating the three words over and over like a chant. He didn’t stop—couldn’t stop—the words driving him toward something he couldn’t yet visualize.

  When his mouth grew dry, he drank. When his stomach growled, he growled back at it. When his legs grew weary, he stopped to rest them briefly before continuing his flight. Distance was his only hope, and even hounds needed to sleep sometime.

  He didn’t stop until he could no longer see where to place the next step, fearing he’d fall headlong into the river and drown. He slept where he fell, covering himself with fallen leaves and dirt.

  Sleep took him almost immediately, but not before he saw her face.

  The next day brought sounds of birds chirping and leaves rustling and waters burbling.

  No baying hounds. No shouting men.

  He was shivering from the cold, but almost laughed. He’d done it. Somehow, some way, he’d escaped.

  Mortis peeled off his shirt and wrung out what was left of the moisture. Then he did the same with his pants, laying them out to dry in a patch of sunlight warming a broad, flat rock. His boots were next, and when he turned them upside down it created a waterfall. It had been foolish to sleep with them on the night before, but he’d been too exhausted to care. His socks were like leeches stuck to his skin, sopping, and when he dragged them off they revealed pale, wrinkled toes that were more like salted slugs. They went beside his other clothes, as did his undergarments. Naked, he baked in the sun, ignoring the hunger pangs continuing to rumble within him.

  Eventually, however, he could ignore them no longer, his stomach feeling like a shrunken water skin, aching with need.

  Careful not to dash his bare feet on a stone or step on any thorns, he foraged for roots and berries. He found a brickleberry bush, but the pink berries were unripe and bitter, several months from the red sweetness that made for his favorite kind of pie. Still, they were better than nothing, and he chewed them until his mouth felt numb, forcing himself to swallow each half-chewed bite. He also managed to scrounge in the dirt for some edible mushrooms, though they were shriveled and did little to satisfy his hunger.