There it was, just above her shoulder blades. A dragonmark. When he’d first seen it, he’d thought it was black, but this close he could see it was mottled with many colors, mostly vivid blues and greens. Around the sharply defined edges, her skin was marbled with red, almost as if the mark had sprung painfully from the flesh beneath.
“I …” Esprë said quietly. Her smile vanished. “I didn’t think you knew about that.”
Kandler let the collar go. He’d seen enough. “I didn’t think you did either.”
“It itched when it first came in.” One of Esprë’s hands snaked back past her neck to scratch at the dragonmark, as if even thinking about it irritated the skin again. “Then it burned. Now, I don’t notice it much.”
Kandler stood there mute. He didn’t want to have this conversation. He just wanted his daughter back, for them to have their old life back.
“Are you going to arrest me?” Esprë asked in a small voice.
Kandler was so surprised he coughed. “What? No! Why would I do that?”
“Because,” Esprë said. A tear rolled down her cheek, but she kept her eyes glued to Burch and Sallah at the bow. “I … I killed all those people.”
It took Kandler a moment to figure out what the girl meant. Then it hit him. The people of Mardakine who had disappeared. He shivered in the evening air then reached out and hugged his daughter, shaking his head.
“You didn’t kill them,” he said. “The vampires did.”
It was Esprë’s turn to shake her head. “I think they turned Shawda into that thing that attacked the knights,” she said. “But she was already dead.”
Kandler narrowed his eyes at the girl. “What makes you say that?” he said slowly.
Esprë bowed her head. “Every night before each person went missing, I saw them. In my dreams. I saw them running.” She held her breath for a moment and closed her eyes. “I saw them die.”
Kandler ran his hand through Esprë’s hair. “Those were just dreams,” he said. “You can’t control those.”
Esprë looked up at Kandler, her face soaked with tears now. “That,” she said, “is what I’m afraid of.”
Kandler hugged the girl tighter as he wiped her eyes dry. “It’s all right,” he whispered. He tried as hard as he could to believe that.
“Up there!” Burch called from the bow.
Kandler looked to where Burch was pointing. In the distance, smoke rose from a hollow in the hills.
“Does the trail head that way?” Kandler asked.
“Straight,” said the shifter.
“What’s the plan?” Sallah asked.
She and Burch turned back to look at Kandler. At Kandler’s direction, Esprë brought the ship in low over the crest of a hill and nestled it into the deepest part of a hollow.
“Does this thing have an anchor?” Kandler asked Burch.
“Didn’t see one,” the shifter said. “Just mooring lines.”
“Nothing around here to tie off to, though,” Kandler said, thinking out loud. “It’s just as well, I suppose. We’re not all going.”
Sallah snorted. “I should have known. Very well. I will go alone.”
“I’m in,” said Burch. “You’ll need a tracker.”
“I think I can follow the smoke,” Sallah said.
“You need to get back, too.”
The lady knight nodded at the shifter as a soft smirk played across her lips.
“Very well,” she said, gathering up her fellow knights’ swords. “Let’s go.”
“I’ll come!”
All three of the adults turned in shock. Esprë looked up at them bravely, her eyes still red from weeping. “You need all the help you can get, right?”
Kandler leaned over and put his hand on Esprë’s neck. “That’s very brave, but no.”
“But, Kandler—”
“Forget it. You’re not coming. Besides”—the justicar smiled—“we need someone to stay back here and fly to our rescue.”
“I knew you’d come, boss.” Burch grinned.
“You’re going to leave a child alone in the Mournland?” asked Sallah. She slung the other knights’ swords across her back.
“It’s safer than coming with us,” Kandler pointed out. “Besides, she’s the only one who can fly the ship.”
“I haven’t tried it yet.”
“But you’re going with us.”
Sallah grimaced. “You should stay here with your child.”
Kandler looked down at Esprë. He wanted to stay with her—he’d risked so much to make sure she was safe—but he couldn’t leave the knights to die.
“Where’s the honor in that?” Kandler said with as much bravado as he could muster. He turned to Esprë and put his hand on her shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Haul the ladder up after us, and don’t let it down until you hear me call your mother’s name.”
The girl nodded.
“Your place is here with the girl,” Sallah said. She stepped between Kandler and the ladder.
Kandler looked down into Sallah’s eyes. “If those warforged took down three knights, then you need my blade.”
Sallah glared at Kandler for a moment, then turned and lowered herself down the ladder. “We don’t have time to waste,” she said as she disappeared behind the railing.
Burch followed right after the knight, stopping to give Esprë a quick kiss on the top of her head before he left.
“I’ll be fine,” Esprë said as Kandler turned to her.
“I know you will.”
“Just come back alive, all right?”
Kandler kissed the girl on the forehead. “We’ll be right back,” he said as he started down the ladder.
When the justicar reached the ground, he gave the ladder a sharp tug. Far above, Esprë pulled the ladder up.
“Not until I hear mom’s name!” she called as the others padded off toward the smoke.
The trio kept to the hollows as much as possible, creeping along the crests of the hills only when necessary. Soon they made it to the final crest. Burch lay on his belly and peeked over the top then beckoned the others to follow.
A dozen or more tents stood scattered about the bottom of the hollow, all loosely gathered around a central campfire from which a large plume of smoke curled up to disappear into the darkening Mournland sky. Other than a few lanterns glowing in a tent here and there, it was the only source of light in the entire camp. Warforged lumbered about the place on their business, ducking in and out of tents as they went.
“They seem riled up,” Kandler whispered.
“I don’t see Sir Deothen or the others,” said Sallah.
“There,” said Burch, pointing to the largest of the tents. Its front flap faced the trio and opened onto the circle around the fire.
“How do you know?” asked the knight.
“Trail goes there,” the shifter said. “Plus, it’s the busiest.”
Sallah stared at Burch in disbelief. “You can follow the trail through all that traffic by watching from here.”
Burch grinned. “I saw a knight when the flap opened.”
The knight slapped the shifter affectionately on the back. “I’ll never underestimate you again,” she said. She turned her attention back to the camp. “I don’t suppose you know the best way to get in there?”
“We don’t have to,” said Kandler.
“And why not?” The lady knight glared at the justicar.
Kandler pointed down at the tent. “They’re bringing them out.”
The front of the flap opened wide, and a warforged emerged. The three knights followed him, each with his own warforged escort. The knights’ hands were bound, and their legs were hobbled with rope. Their faces were cut and bruised. One of Brendis’s eyes was swollen shut, and Levritt walked with a limp. Another warforged wearing a white tabard followed them out.
The warforged who had led the procession from the tent cupped his metal-plated hands around his lipless mouth and called out to everyone in the c
amp. “Gather round! The breathers refused to talk. They are no longer useful, so it’s time to shut them down!”
“Shut them down?” said Sallah. “What does that mean?”
Kandler answered. “They’re going to execute them.”
The warforged gathered in the center of the camp as the three guards brought their charges out and forced them to kneel in front of the fire. Deothen resisted, but two of the warforged stepped forth and kicked him in the back of his legs. The elder knight fell on his face but did not cry out. The two warforged who had kicked him hauled him back up on his knees and held him there.
The last warforged who had followed the knights out of the tent did not take part in the abuse. He wore a white tabard over his metal carapace. The cloth was stained and grimy with dark, three-fingered handprints. “Superior,” he said to the one who had called all the others around, “is this truly necessary?”
The warforged leader laughed. The sounds echoed in his metal-lined chest and cheeks. “Breathers aren’t welcome in the Mournland, Xalt. That’s what Bastard says, and he gets it straight from the Lord of Blades.”
“These men can harm us no longer,” Xalt said. “We have pulled their fangs.”
Superior slapped Xalt on the back. The blow landed with a metallic ring. “The Mournland belongs to us now,” he said. “These breathers invaded our territory. We must teach them a lesson.”
“What lesson is good to the dead?”
Superior shook his head. “You always twist my words, greaser. The lesson is for the other breathers. We need to send them a message, one that says, ‘Keep out!’ in letters drawn in their stinking blood.”
“Who would get that message here?” Xalt asked. “It would be better to shove them into the mists bordering our land. If they make it through, then they can tell the tale of their terror to their kind.”
“That’s just it,” Superior said, slamming a fist into its hand. “Breathers don’t listen. The only thing they understand is death. Why do you think they made us?”
“We weren’t all made to be soldiers, Superior,” said Xalt. He gestured at his own soiled tabard.
“Artificers made to fix soldiers are still soldiers, greaser. Now close your mouth and let me get on with this.”
Xalt shrugged and stepped to one side. Deothen cursed. Pinning his hopes on the artificer had been a long shot, but it had seemed like his only choice. He looked to Levritt on his left and Brendis on his right. Their eyes were filled with mortal terror.
“Have faith, my sons,” Deothen told the other knights. “The Silver Flame will keep us, in life or death.”
“Death, I think.” Superior chortled as he stood before the three knights.
“My fellow createds,” the warforged leader said, turning and spreading his arms wide to encompass the entire camp, “while we work to establish a homeland for ourselves, we are constantly assailed on all fronts by these foul, stinking breathers. Their repellent hunger for land, for food, for air—for things to consume—places them always in opposition to us. We know their nature. They made us in their image. They built us to fight in their war. And now they must pay the price.” Superior stopped for a moment to look down at the kneeling knights. As he did, he drew his sword. “Your deaths will send a message to your kind. The Mournland is no place for breathers.”
Deothen could contain himself no longer. “You cannot do this!” he shouted at the warforged leader.
In a scornful voice, Superior said, “You cannot stop me.”
Deothen bowed his head and uttered a final prayer to the Silver Flame to accept his soul into the purity of its presence. He closed his eyes when he heard the warforged step forward and raise his sword.
There was a sickening chopping sound. It took Deothen a moment to realize it hadn’t happened to him. He opened his eyes to see Levritt fall over next to him. The young knight’s head rolled in the opposite direction.
Deothen glared up at Superior, who stood laughing over the fast-cooling corpse. He prepared to curse the warforged as he’d never done before, but before the words could escape his lips, a shout went up from the other side of the camp.
Deothen looked past the warforged leader to see Sallah sprinting down the side of the valley, her blazing sword flashing before her. A smile spread across the knight’s face, and Superior stopped laughing.
A bolt stabbed through from the center of the warforged leader’s chest. Superior looked down at it in astonishment, then fell over atop Levritt’s corpse.
Deothen heard someone laugh. He turned his head to see Brendis cackling next to him, half-mad with hope or relief. Deothen turned his attention back to Sallah. He spied Burch high up on the ridge, peppering the warforged with bolts as they turned to meet the lady knight’s attack. Some of the missiles bounced off the creatures’ armored skin, but others found homes in their most vital parts. Two others lay dead, and three wounded had fallen.
Sallah’s fury surprised the warforged. Many of them hadn’t drawn their weapons when she reached them, and they fell without a word before her wrath.
When Sallah finally reached foes ready for her, the ring of clashing blades sounded to Deothen like a clarion call to battle. He struggled to reach his feet, but a warforged guard behind shoved him back to the ground.
When Deothen looked back up, Kandler was storming his own way down the hill. The sight brought a smile to the knight’s battered face. He watched the justicar battle his way through to Sallah in the thick of the brawl.
“I have your back!” Kandler roared over the din of combat.
Blood trickled from a cut on Sallah’s forehead and ran down her cheek. She nodded her thanks to the justicar then turned away and continued fighting without a word.
Kandler and Sallah fought on, warforged bodies stacked at their feet. One warforged charged out from a nearby tent, a massive flail in his armored hands. Before he could reach the battling duo though, he tripped and collapsed in the dirt, a bolt protruding from its side. He dropped the flail and tugged at the shaft in an attempt to remove it. The next bolt pierced his eye. He fell with a crash and did not move again.
Beside Deothen, Brendis let out a little hoot. A warforged still guarding the prisoners backhanded the young knight from behind, knocking him face first into the dirt. Brendis kept right on cheering.
Sallah cried out and fell, clutching her leg. A warforged stood over her, ready to stab down into her with its long, heavy sword. Deothen prayed to the Silver Flame, promising his god anything in return for sparing the lady knight’s life.
Before Sallah’s attacker could finish its job, Kandler’s blade slashed out and cut the creature across the eyes, drawing sparks and a cry of anguish. The warforged fell back, clutching its face.
Another warforged tackled Kandler from behind, and the two went sprawling forward over Sallah, pinning her to the ground. An ironclad foot stomped on Kandler’s hand, and the justicar dropped his sword. A mass of three-fingered hands fell on him from all sides.
Deothen bowed his head again. He refused to weep for himself, although he could hear that Brendis’s cheers had turned to sobs. He did not begrudge the young knight his lack of composure.
When Deothen looked up, he saw the warforged lift Sallah and Kandler to their feet and carry them over to deposit them next to him and Brendis. Both of the fighters were badly battered, bleeding from a half-dozen cuts each.
A warforged stood before the prisoners and kicked Superior’s body aside. “I’m Superior now,” he announced to the others.
None of the others objected. At their new leader’s direction, the warforged holding Kandler moved Levritt’s corpse aside and put him in the dead knight’s spot on his knees. Sallah wound up on Kandler’s other side, and other warforged grabbed Brendis and propped him back up on Deothen’s right.
Deothen looked to the other knights. Sallah’s face burned with anger and shame. Brendis’s face was streaked with dirt still wet from his tears, but he had stopped weeping. His eyes stood vac
ant and distant.
Deothen lowered his head and began to pray. After a moment, the other knights joined in, recited the long-practiced words along with him.
Kandler leaned over and said, “Put in a good word for me.”
Deothen raised his eyes to look at him. The justicar’s eyes remained defiant. “I already have.” The battered knight shook his head. “You should have left us to die.”
“Coming down here wasn’t my idea,” the justicar said. He glared at Sallah.
Deothen’s lips spread in a smile that spoke of the weariness of all his years. “She is sworn to defend the helpless and to come to the aid of her fellow knights. You have no such duties, yet here you are. It was brave.”
Kandler shook his head. “Just stupid.”
“You got that right, breather,” Superior said. He threw a heap of swords in front of the prisoners. There were four of the knights’ swords, with Kandler’s own blade mixed into the lot. “You just added your own head to the tally.”
The warforged named Xalt stepped forward. “Superior,” he said. “This must end. We were built for violence but are not compelled to perpetuate it. We have free will. We have a choice. We can choose to put an end to this.”
Superior clapped Xalt on the back. “You speak well,” he said, “but we have lost many of our own the hands of these breathers. For that, they must pay.”
Xalt looked down at Levritt’s head, which had rolled near the fire. “This is barbaric. We cannot build a new homeland on the bones of our neighbors. How will we ever live in peace?”
Superior laughed. “We were made for war, and in war we shall live forever. Don’t deny your pattern, Xalt. We are all soldiers here, and soldiers are good for only one thing—killing.” He looked down at Kandler and the knights. “Or dying.”
Superior glared at the captives, each in turn. “You fought well, breathers, but your time has come to an end. Someday, your kind will know better than to invade this land. The first of our messages to them will be written in your blood.”
Marked for Death: The Lost Mark, Book 1 Page 21
