by Sam Ryder
That thought returned, but again I tempered it. For all I knew, it was just a random idea with no truth behind it.
I knew that was a lie.
The Three stood before me, two looking worse for wear—Persepheus and Minertha—and the third—Airiel—looking like the recovering goddess that she was, practically shimmering. Somehow I’d been transported to their cave, laid on one of their soft mattresses. I knew what came now—the “reward” for Leveling up.
I didn’t want it. Vrill was back. Eve was alive. These women, goddesses, were still just as beautiful and alluring, but my mind felt sharper now, my control over my carnal desires stronger. “What were you talking about? What is happening?”
Minertha opened her mouth to speak but Persepheus lifted a hand to silence her. Maybe Persepheus hadn’t changed after all, the same old woman with the secrets, lies and half-truths.
But she didn’t lie this time. She just wanted to tell me herself. “The inactive artifacts are awakening,” she said.
“What?” I said, reaching down to tear off the rest of the cocoon, freeing my legs. I swung them over, unembarrassed by my nakedness. It was nothing these three hadn’t seen before, and anyway, my body felt like that of a stranger now. Not only was it bigger, but there was something else too. Like a sharp constant pinprick in my mind. Not just a further heightening of the senses, but something else too. I felt…smarter. Maybe that was the wrong word. It wasn’t like my IQ had magically gone up, more like I was more aware of the many thoughts in my head, able to process them all simultaneously whereas the previous version of myself would’ve needed to consider one at a time or lose them all. It’s like I was listening to this conversation while also analyzing and assessing a dozen other conversations at the same time.
It felt…awesome. But also somewhat disorienting.
“You should take a few minutes to get your bearings,” Persepheus said.
She was probably right, but my mind refused, wanting to process everything at once. “No,” I said. “About the artifacts….” In the background, my mind hummed along, remembering the mission through the caves, where I’d battled the freaky albino demons and the massive leader, barely managing to escape with my life.
At the same time, I noticed something hovering above each of the goddess’s’ heads. The things were fuzzy around the edges, but only because more ooze had dripped from my forehead, muddying my vision. I dashed the slime away with my knuckles, my eyes zoning in on the numbers.
The numbers. Their life meters. I could see their life meters.
Minertha’s read “14”. No. Not possible. She should’ve still had a few months left, maybe more. Persepheus’s was at 18. Airiel’s was at 204 and, as I watched, continued to climb one digit at a time. 205, 206, 207…
“He can see our lifeblood,” Airiel said breathlessly.
“Impossible,” Persepheus said. “None but a god can sense the bridge between life and death.”
“Not true,” Minertha chimed in. “Once there was a Demigod who could do the same.”
A Demigod. Though in my head I’d known I was now Level 5, a Demigod, it took the goddess voicing it to make it true. “You mean, this is unusual?”
“Most,” Persepheus said. “Rare.”
I didn’t know what it meant, if anything, nor did it matter. I needed to ask them about how low their life meters were, but not yet. “Back to the artifacts,” I said. “If they are active now, does that mean we can use them?”
Min nodded excitedly. Her typically brown skin had a pale tint to it. Her immortal body was failing her. As I watched, her life meter wavered and the 4 became a 3. 13. She flinched. She was dying before my very eyes.
And I had the power to save her. Because of that thought I’d had before, the one that had clamped onto my mind like a leech, refusing to let go. And I would try. But not yet. Not until I’d secured the safety and future of the Warriors. My people. My friends. “The artifacts will choose the Warriors,” I said, remembering what Airiel had explained to me on that day so long ago, when she’d been the one on her deathbed.
Persepheus nodded. “Carry them out the backdoor,” she said. “All of them. The time has come to put them to good use.”
I was about to obey but stopped. I knew I shouldn’t hesitate when such an advantage was at our fingertips. I knew I didn’t owe these three women anything. But I had knowledge and I wasn’t one to keep secrets. “I know the location of Minertha’s heart,” I said. “Beneath the mountain where I fought pale demons. The artifact that was leading me to Vrill was going haywire, twisting in circles. I thought it was because I was too deep, or because Vrill was on the move. But that wasn’t it, was it? Your heart”—I gestured to Minertha—“was interfering with it. It’s hidden away somewhere in the caves. Tell me I’m not right.”
Minertha said, “I can’t do that. But recovering my heart is not your task. Not now. We must stop the Morgoss army before we think about recovering the last two hearts.”
I didn’t know whether she was being selfless or selfish, but it didn’t matter in that moment. The course of action she was proposing was better for the Warriors.
I had a better idea. “We’ll do both,” I said. With that, I grabbed my loincloth where I’d spotted it resting on the edge of the bed. Instead of tying it on, I balled it up and chucked it against the wall. Then I headed into the adjoining cave, right over to a hardy-looking set of armor I’d spotted the last time I was in this place.
No more loincloths for us. From now on we’d be the most well-armored force Tor had ever seen.
~~~
OF DEMONS AND SHADOWS
In its nest of bones, the monstrous white demon stirred. Its eyes narrowed and it growled. Something had awoken it. A nightmare. No. A memory. Of the man who’d escaped its grasp. The man’s scent had been intoxicating. Even now, the demon could practically taste the human’s sweet flesh.
Beneath the pile of bones, the demon could feel the never ceasing thrum of the heart it had been entrusted with protecting. It had been a close call. The man had clearly been the kind known as a Seeker, those the demon had been warned about, charged with finding and stealing the goddess hearts.
That thought gave it solace in the dark. For it meant the man would return. He had sensed the heart, the power that resonated from it every second of every minute of every hour.
He would return.
And when he did, the demon would taste his blood.
~~~***~~~
Greetings reader! Thank you for reading the third book in the debut series in my Men’s Adventure Fiction penname, I hope you enjoyed it. I have a HUGE favor to ask. Book one in the series, Warrior, could really use some positive reviews on Amazon to ensure I can entice new readers to the series. This will allow me to continue it and add additional sequels. If you can spare a minute, please tell me what you thought of all three books via Amazon reviews. Then send me an e-mail ([email protected]) to let me know you did it. There might just be a reward for you as part of the deal.
Back to business. As many of you might already know, my real name (and my primary author name) is David Estes, author of the #1 Amazon bestselling series, The Fatemarked Epic. So if you enjoy epic fantasy sagas with detailed worldbuilding, mythical creatures and races, and, yes, dragons, check it out today. You can get started for the price of a Starbucks coffee or for free via Kindle Unlimited. The entire series is available, so no waiting for sequels! Keep reading for a sneak peek.
GET FATEMARKED HERE
As for the next book in the Monsterworld Saga…Demigod will be out by the end of the year! Sorry for the delay, but I’m working hard on another series before I can come back to this one. But I promise you won’t have to wait too long for book four (which may or may not be the final book in the series, wink wink). Thanks for all your support and I hope you enjoy Fatemarked while you wait for Demigod.
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fatemarked. Misunderstood. Worshipped. Hated. Murdered at birth. Their time to step into the light has come.
An ancient prophecy foretold their coming, the chosen few who will bring peace to a land embroiled in a century of mistrust and war. When kings start dying, that hope and belief swiftly turns to fear. Roan Loren is one of the fatemarked, but has hidden his mark of power his entire life, fearing the damage it might cause to those around him.
A great evil is coming. He can't hide anymore.
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Prologue
The Northern Kingdom, Silent Mountain (circa 518)
The newborn babe awoke in an empty cave, lit by a swathe of green moonlight. The weather was cool, but dry, and a warm blanket swaddled his arms and legs. For a moment he did nothing but stare at the point of a stalactite overhead, which stared right back at him. He was hungry, but he did not cry.
Heavy footfalls echoed from an indeterminate distance.
The cave mouth was soon filled by a mountain of a man, near as wide as he was tall, which was saying something considering his eight-foot-tall stature. He’d been called many names in his life, and none of them out of kindness: troll, ogre, beast, monster. I am all of those things, he thought.
To his friends, who were few, he was known simply as Bear Blackboots, his birth name lost decades ago, squashed under his thunderous trod and what he had become after his mother had been murdered.
Bear stood over the child, and his long brown beard tickled the nose of the swaddled babe, but the infant didn’t smile nor fuss.
In one hand, Bear held a book, its brown leather cover worn, its pages yellow and brittle. In the other he held a torch, which he waved over the child’s hairless scalp.
In a blaze of light that sent the shadows running, a mark burst into being, like a single glowing ember in the midst of a dying fire. The mark was a perfect circle, pierced in eight points by four fiery arrows that split the symbol into eight equal portions, like silver scars from an octagonal mace.
The enormous man yanked the torch away from the babe with a gasp, and the mark vanished in an instant, leaving the child’s head pale and smooth once more.
So it’s true, Bear thought. After over a century of searching, his life extended well beyond that of most mortals, he’d finally found his true purpose, the one his mother had foretold the day before she died.
Because of you, child, the Four Kingdoms shall suffer, Bear thought. Unless I slit your throat now.
He raised a meaty hand, thick and strong enough to crush small boulders. The edge of a knife glinted.
After a moment’s hesitation, he dropped his hand with a sigh, letting the blade fall from his fingers. “What shall be, shall be,” he murmured, his voice grainy and rough from years of disuse.
Who am I to destroy one with such a destiny, and only an infant who will never know his mother’s breast? Mother? Are you proud of me? Of course, no one answered. She hadn’t answered him for many years.
From one of the many pockets inside his worn leather overcoat, he extracted a milk jug, capped by a drip cloth. “Eat,” he said.
The child ate, and for fourteen long years he thrived under the mountain man’s surprisingly gentle care. Bear only referred to the boy by one name as he grew:
Bane.
One
Fourteen years later (circa 532)
The Southern Empire, Calyp
Roan
“Out of the way, cretin!” the horse master shouted as the royal train galloped past, charging for the trio of pyramids in the distance.
Roan barely managed to fall backwards without getting trampled, his lungs filling with fine dust kicked up under dozens of hooves. As he coughed, he used a hand to cover his mouth with the collar of his filthy shirt. The tattered cloth was brown (though at one time it had been white, its true color eternally lost under layers of Calypsian dust) and as stiff as a leather jerkin.
Royals, Roan thought, slumping against the side of the sandstone hut he’d crashed into when he fell. He’d been living on the streets of the City of the Rising Sun ever since he’d run away from his guardian, a large, gruff Dreadnoughter by the name of Markin Swansea, six years earlier. Three years ago, Markin had been murdered. As far as Roan knew, his guardian had gone to his grave still protecting his secrets, something he remembered every day of his life.
“Are you injured?” someone asked, drawing Roan’s attention away from the passing cavalcade.
“I’m no worse for wear,” Roan grunted, trying to see past the shadows of the stranger’s gray hood, which hid his face from the fiery Southron sun. It wasn’t unusual garb for a Calypsian, their long cloaks designed to protect against both sun and dust.
The hooded stranger extended a gloved hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, Roan took it, allowing the newcomer to pull him to his feet. “Thank you, …”
“No one. I am no one,” the stranger said, his voice of a timbre that reminded Roan of sand being gritted between teeth.
“Well, No One, thank you all the same. I’m Roan.” He was genuinely appreciative—in Calypso acts of goodwill were rare and far between. In a gesture that was automatic, if pointless, Roan shook as much of the loose dirt off his clothing as possible. Stubbornly, his shirt remained brown and filthy.
“You can see me?” the stranger asked.
Roan eyed him warily, wondering whether the odd man had been chewing shadeleaf, which was known to cloud the mind. “Yes,” he said. “I can see you.”
The royal procession continued to thunder past while Roan and the stranger watched it without expression. Throngs of dark-skinned Calypsians lined the streets. Though the plague—a strange flesh-eating disease transmitted by touch—had been running rampart through the city for years, the city dwellers obviously weren’t letting it affect their day to day lives. They wore colorful cloaks that stood out against the beige sandstone huts. Some cheered their leaders, but most remained silent. Perhaps they were weighed down by the heat.
Amongst the horses in the cavalcade were several guanik, long, reptilian creatures armored with black scales. As they impressively kept stride with the horses, their pink, snake-like tongues flicked between rows of dagger-like teeth. Their riders were the guanero, the royal guardians of Calypso.
While Roan watched the guanik and their hooded riders with narrowly disguised disgust, an authoritative voice suddenly shouted, “Halt!” Like appendages attached to a single creature, the line of horses and guanik reared to an abrupt stop, raising yet another cloud of dust.
When the fog cleared, Roan saw a broad-shouldered man wearing leather riding armor slide from his guanik’s scaly shoulders. His black hair was spiked in a dozen places, held up by some kind of shiny liquid.
Roan knew exactly who he was, and hated him for it.
The shiva, the master of order in Calyp. This man had the authority of House Sandes, the empire’s governing family. Roan had once watched him run down a woman in the street for some crime she’d never had the chance to defend herself from.
And now he was walking toward Roan and the hooded man standing beside him.
“Ho, beggar!” the shiva called.
Roan said nothing, but was dimly aware of the way the stranger beside him tensed up, shuffling back a step.
“You are a stranger to these parts, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I have not once asked for anything,” Roan said. “Therefore I am no beggar. And just because I’m a stranger to you doesn’t make me a stranger to Calypso.”
Regardless of whether he was or was not a stranger, Roan didn’t understand why this man would waste a moment on him. The shiva scowle
d at Roan. He was garbed from head to toe with leather armor marked with the royal sigil, a silver dragon over a rising red sun. He eyed Roan and the stranger warily, his dark eyes darting between them. “I spoke not to you, but to your companion.”
Roan glanced at the hooded stranger. “He is not my companion. We’ve only just met.” And yet Roan found himself stepping in front of the man, blocking him. Defending him?
“Then move aside.”
Roan didn’t, and he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because he showed me kindness. Perhaps because he cared.
The shiva sneered at Roan. “What are you going to do, peasant?”
Nothing, Roan thought. Choke on dust. Burn up under the sun. Help no one but myself. Live the only life I was ever offered.
“Oh no. Not again,” the stranger murmured behind him. Confused, Roan looked at the man, who had thrown back his hood and was staring at his gloved hand in horror. The gray glove had a slight tear in it, on the heel of his palm, exposing a sliver of white flesh.
Roan was instantly drawn to the man’s face, which was much younger than his voice had suggested. His skin was the palest Roan had ever laid eyes on, as white as the eastern clouds or the northern snowfields, a physical trait that was extremely rare in Calyp. His flesh was also parchment thin, doing little to mask the bright blue veins running beneath the surface. But more than any of that, Roan noticed the man’s eyes, which were as red as sunrise.
And those red eyes were staring at Roan. “I’m sorry,” he said, stumbling backward, throwing his hood back over his head. He turned to run, tripping over his own feet before catching his balance and darting into an alley.
