Deathmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4)

by David Estes

  There, he was a joke.

  All his old feelings of anger and fear and sadness returned as he was dumped unceremoniously in the back of a wagon surrounded by iron bars. To his surprise, there were other boys like him, too, dirty and fearful, watching him with wide eyes and tight lips.

  He had been wrong. So wrong.

  No one knew he was Helmuth Gäric. No one even seemed to care that he had a name. He was referred to only as “boy” or “you”. And each time a command was given, two dozen boys would look up and look at each other and try to figure who the guards were calling.

  Helmuth was given a task less strenuous than the others, who were charged with constructing buildings. Mixing mortar. When the vat of sticky rice soup was first dumped next to him, his stomach growled. Then he learned he would be mixing it with sand and clay to create a thick mortar for the other boys to spread between stones. The soup looked less appetizing after that. After only the first night, his hands were raw from clenching the mixing rod, his muscles ached from the repetitive motion, and his head was spinning from lack of sleep.

  What was left of the sticky rice was breakfast, which they ate in the gray darkness that preceded dawn. No one spoke, the other boys equally exhausted, plopping down around the vat and using their fingers to shove the rice into their mouths. A ladle was passed around and each boy got a sip of cold water.

  Before dawn arrived, the boys were ushered behind the very wall they’d constructed, huddling together. Just before the weariness took Helmuth, he realized why they were hidden.

  So the other citizens don’t know what they’re doing to us.

  Day after day, they slept; and night after night, they toiled under moonslight. The walls grew larger and wider and greater in number as the structure began to take shape. It would be an immense building, almost like a miniature castle, and Helmuth knew for certain it would be for Lord Blackstone’s own purposes, though no one told them anything. In fact, they weren’t even allowed to talk, and one would swiftly earn the broadside of a sword if they dared to so much as whisper.

  Still, slowly, Helmuth began to learn the names and stories of the other boys, even if they were whispered in the spare moments before sleep overtook them after a long night of backbreaking work.

  There was Lodi, whose mother had died in childbirth and father had been a soldier killed in Raider’s Pass. And Drake, who couldn’t even remember his parents, or what had happened to them. And Harry, who told stories about his childhood that could only be lies, though no one called him on it. According to him, his father was one of the wealthiest men in the realm, a great lord, but other lords had conspired against him and stolen everything out of jealousy. “One day ’e’ll come back for me,” he liked to say. No one had the heart to tell him what a load of bollocks that was.

  Dreams were not meant to be stolen.

  Helmuth talked little, preferring to listen, though he knew none would believe him either even if he told them the truth about his life.

  As the months passed, Helmuth barely noticed the way the skin of his arms and chest tightened, the muscles bulging beneath. His hands grew stronger, too, thick with calloused layers that had formed after the blisters had broken and bled, the sting so painful he would sometimes cry out in his sleep only to be silenced by a well-placed kick to the ribs.

  Each day, his anger grew. He was surprised to discover his own rage was not shared by the other boys, who seemed resigned to their fates. “How can Lord Blackstone treat us this way? We are not paid for our labors. We barely receive enough sustenance to complete our tasks. He treats us like slaves.” He railed on and on, but all he received were blank stares in return. “Why aren’t you angry?” he asked them. “Don’t you want justice?”

  Eyebrows rose. Mouths fell open. Finally, one of the boys, Lodi, said, “There is no justice for us, because we don’t exist.”

  How Helmuth longed to tell them the truth of who he was, how he could save them all, get them the justice they deserved. But that would mean going back to his father. And what guarantee was there that King Gäric would interfere in the affairs of Lord Blackstone?

  None. Not to mention the guards would never let him go, no matter what he said. They would laugh at him, their only response offered by a backhand to the cheek.

  More months passed and they got to work on the roof. Helmuth was charged with cutting tiles, each of which needed to be the exact same shape. Not square—no, that would be too easy—but like the crests of waves.

  The other boys clambered over the structure, fitting each shingle into place.

  One night, Helmuth heard a strange scream, loud at first but then tailing away, like a comet streaking out of sight. Another sound followed, which he could only describe as a thump. More sounds followed, the voices of the boys on the roof, but they were swiftly silenced by the barks of the guards.

  He was given his own reprimand, so he resumed his work.

  It was only later that he learned what had happened.

  Harry had slipped and fallen from the roof.

  He was dead.

  His wealthy father would never be able to come to save him now.

  This is a bad place, Helmuth thought, as he resumed work the next day. Blackstone. The north. The Four Kingdoms. Though he had never visited anywhere other than Castle Hill and Blackstone, he knew the rest of the lands were no better. There were slaves in Phanes. Dragons in Calypso. Rulers in Ferria and Knight’s End who, in their lust for power, sent their soldiers to the frontlines to die.

  And for what?

  More land. Control. So they could build monuments to themselves and bask in their own glory.

  It made Helmuth sick.

  Something rose in him, heat surging in his chest. He gasped, clutching at his own breast. Through his clothing he could see something…glowing darkly. Well, three somethings, like circles, only not perfectly round. Like raindrops.

  Or teardrops.

  One of the guards had noticed him now, and the fact that he’d stopped working. But Helmuth didn’t care about his heavy footsteps, or the slight tensing of the man’s leg as he prepared to kick him. He scrabbled at his ragged overcoat and the other layers beneath it, drawing them up, ignoring the wash of cold air that rushed over his skin, his eyes widening at what he saw.

  Three black teardrops, surrounded by red light, a stark contrast to the contours of his pale skin.

  A fog seemed to rise from the markings, swarming outward.

  The guard muttered “What the frozen hell?” and his foot dropped. Helmuth didn’t know whether he’d seen the markings or just the strange fog, and he didn’t really care, because he felt…good. Whole. Powerful, though he wasn’t certain why.

  “I can’t go on like this,” a voice said. It took Helmuth a moment to realize who had spoken, that it was the guard, his voice so different now, drained of all command, a withered thing that implied a sadness so complete it had brought him to his knees, his head tucked between his hands.

  Helmuth could only stare, watching as the fog spread, touching other guards, each of whom reacted immediately. Some fell to the ground, wailing. Other stood stock still, shaking their head, tears blooming from their eyes.

  On the roof, the other boys stopped what they were doing and stared.

  Helmuth, shocked and trembling, panicked, swatting at his own chest, the anger fading, which seemed to draw the heat with it. The fog dissipated first, and then the three black spots, along with their fiery rings of light.

  The guard, still on his knees, looked at him warily, his chest heaving. “What are you?” he said.

  Helmuth was disgusted with himself. It wasn’t natural, not any of it. Not the black tears that appeared from nowhere, only to disappear moments later. Not the light and heat emanating from his skin. Not the fog that brought strong, full-grown men to their knees, causing them to sob like babies.

  He echoed the guard’s question in his mind. What am I?

  The only answer that came to him was: A monste
r. A crippled monster.

  Even now, the guards refused to go near him, watching from afar, whispering to each other. They are deciding what to do with me. Would they kill him? If so, could he stop them? Another, more pointed, question arose.

  Should I stop them?

  After all, what did he have to live for? This life of labor, breaking his back for a lord who cared nothing for him, who didn’t even know his name or where he came from? Now, even the other boys wouldn’t go near him, huddled together and staring just like their guards, hiding their own whispers behind cupped hands.

  They fear me, too, he realized. I am a castoff amongst castoffs. Shunned by my own family. Shunned by my masters. Shunned by the others like me.

  No, he thought. There are no others like me.

  He decided in that moment that if the guards came to kill him, he would not defend himself, not with his own hands or the strange power he felt lingering inside his chest.

  But they didn’t come to kill him.

  No. He was sold instead, traded for coin like a possession.

  The Crimean ship was a beautiful vessel, its edges smooth and well-sanded, its decks lacquered and free of salt stains. It wasn’t just a Crimean ship—it was a royal ship. One of King Streit’s own private vessels, used to transport the delicacies he bought in the Four Kingdoms.

  The sea breeze blew through Helmuth’s hair, cold but not unpleasant, and he trailed a hand over the railing to feel the salt spray on his fingers.

  He didn’t understand the turn of events that had landed him on this vessel, but for the first time in his life he felt like things might get better. Yes, he’d been purchased in a private sale between the guards and the Crimeans. But so far they hadn’t put him to work, or abused him, or berated him. No, they’d cleaned him up, fed him, even provided new clothes, free of holes or ragged edges. Fine clothes, like the ones he used to wear in Castle Hill. Princely clothes. A snow-white shirt with billowing sleeves. A purple tunic hemmed with golden thread. For colder days, a thick greatcoat with furred cuffs and collar. Sturdy black trousers adorned with silver buttons used not for their utility, but for decoration. They were gaudy and wasteful, but Helmuth didn’t care. Even his boots were soft leather, the craftsmanship the finest he had ever seen. The Crimean who had handed them to him had said they were made by a man named Swansea, a famous western bootmaker who operated out of Knight’s End.

  As he sat on a plush chair by the railing, he closed his eyes. And though it might’ve been Helmuth’s imagination, he thought he felt the winds change slightly. A subtle change, but a powerful one.

  I am finally going where I am meant to be going, he thought.

  As it turned out, it was true, but not in the way he believed.

  Though his time on the ship was new and exciting, eventually Helmuth grew bored of the endless days at sea, so he was overjoyed when the call of land finally arose from the scout in the bird’s nest.

  His excitement only rose as the ship swept into port, the sails lowered, steered by long oars that sprouted from hatches in the sides like dozens of insect-like legs. The anchor was dropped, unfurling like a long, clanking snake, slithering beneath the water.

  The long pier approached, and rough-looking men waited, catching the ropes that were thrown from the decks by the sailors, tying them to iron posts. The ship juddered to a halt.

  Helmuth grabbed his crutches, which were also new, crafted from fine yew, painted a rich mahogany and stitched with plush but firm pads that fit perfectly under his arms. One of the Crimeans helped him up the steps to the gangway, but he managed to cross the plank without assistance, though he felt wobbly and unbalanced. The problem wasn’t his strength—no, his arms were stronger than ever—but the fact that the surface beneath him was no longer moving, even if it seemed like it was. The effect was one of unsteadiness, each “step” seeming to lean one way or the other.

  Still, it felt good to be back on solid ground, and there was plenty to distract him.

  Moray was the largest port city he had ever seen, at least ten times the size of Blackstone, which Helmuth had thought was enormous. If the books were correct, it was the largest harbor in all the world, and Helmuth didn’t doubt it for a second. Dozens of ships passed each other like giant monsters, trading positions on the piers. Hundreds of dockworkers scuttled about, hauling cargo from the ships to carts and vice versa. The words he heard them speak, most of which were followed by hearty laughs, made him blush all the way to his ears.

  Everything smelled of salt, and sweat, and life.

  At the end of the pier, he was greeted by a boy. Though he looked as young as Helmuth—thirteen or perhaps fourteen—Helmuth thought maybe he was older, considering the shadow of a shaven beard he could detect on the boy’s cheeks and chin.

  His most obvious feature, however, was the color of his skin.

  Red. Not dark, like blood, but as vibrant as sunset, the color of a blush. Helmuth couldn’t help himself:

  He stared openly.

  The boy laughed. “You have never met a Teran, I take it?” he asked.

  Helmuth shook his head dumbly, unable to formulate words. A Teran! Though he’d read of the people hailing from Teragon, a place of thick, humid jungles and vast flatlands, he always thought the descriptions of their skin color were exaggerated.

  They were not. Helmuth thought this boy was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.

  “I am Vrinn,” the young man said. “I shall be your escort to Rockland.” He had a smooth voice, enunciating each syllable with such clarity it almost made Helmuth unable to focus on the words themselves, and only the honey-rich sound of them.

  One, however, stood out. Rockland. It was a place of history and legend. The Crimean stronghold, where a long line of Streit rulers had planned the conquering of the world. Supposedly, there were few places the Crimeans didn’t control—the Four Kingdoms being one of them, if only because the Crimean colonists had fought for their own independence.

  A fat lot of good that did us, Helmuth thought. He felt something pulse in his chest at his angry thoughts, and he quickly tempered them. Whatever…force…lay dormant inside him, he was determined to keep it there.

  “Come, I shall show you the city,” Vrinn said.

  Something occurred to Helmuth. Vrinn’s eyes had never left his during the exchange, not once darting to his withered legs or to the crutches supporting his weight.

  “Don’t you have any questions for me?” Helmuth asked.

  The boy’s eyes twinkled. “Apologies. How was your voyage? You were comfortable, I hope?”

  Comfortable? “I, uh, yes. Very. It was…long. I am glad to be on land again.”

  Vrinn laughed, the tone almost musical, seeming to match everything else about him perfectly. “Good. Now come, I have a carriage waiting.”

  “Thank you,” Helmuth managed.

  Helmuth had often thought the spires of Castle Hill were the most amazing structures he’d ever seen, nearly piercing the clouds with their points. Sometimes he’d dreamed of climbing them, feeling the wind rushing over him as wings sprouted from his back. And then he would leap off, soaring over the northern capital as people stared. In that moment, his old nickname, the Maimed Prince, would melt like snow under the beat of a hot sun.

  Well, the structures of the city of Moray made Castle Hill look like a child’s model constructed of twigs and paper. His neck hurt from leaning back to look up at where the buildings vanished, actually disappeared, into the thick blankets of clouds. It had to be a thousand steps to the top. No, he thought, ten thousand.

  As the horse-drawn carriage bounced and bumped along, Vrinn seemed to notice his incredulity. “We have a system of weights and counterweights to reach the higher floors,” he said. “Still, it’s not for the faint of heart.”

  Something about his tone gave Helmuth pause. “You’ve been up there?”

  Vrinn nodded. “Every time I am here I make a point of traveling to the top of the tallest building.”


  “Why?” As soon as he voiced the question, Helmuth felt its importance nestle into him. This young man had not judged him for his birth defect, had seemed to not even notice it. And now he spoke of a love of heights like Helmuth could only dream of.

  “To see the world in a different way,” Vrinn said, and the breath rushed out of Helmuth, though he hadn’t been aware he was holding it in so deeply. There was something different in the boy’s eyes now. Gone was the lighthearted youthfulness that had seemed to follow this boy wherever he went, replaced by a shadow.

  It was gone in an instant.

  “Do you want to go?” Vrinn asked, the twinkle in his eyes having returned.

  “Go?” Surely, he was misunderstanding.

  “To the top.” He pointed up and Helmuth followed his aim all the way to the clouds.

  “I—” He suddenly felt dizzy. Beautifully, wonderfully dizzy, his heart seeming to flip within his chest. “I am allowed?”

  “Your ship arrived early. King Streit does not expect us to depart Moray until the morrow. I am trusted by the king, so I am given certain…benefits. So yes.”

  Helmuth had so many questions about why he was here, and King Streit, and what was going to happen next, but he pushed—more like shoved—all of those away to consider later. “I want to go,” he said. Then, remembering his manners, he added, “Please.”

  “Good. So do I. Stop the carriage!”

  It was a feeling unlike anything Helmuth had ever experienced. He could tell they were moving, climbing, the wooden walls, floor, and ceiling shaking and juddering, but nothing about their tiny box changed. Pressure built in his ears and he swallowed to release it.

  It was madness. What if one of the ropes snapped? What if the wood cracked under the pressure of their ascent? What if—