Harbinger: Fate's Forsaken: Book One

by Shae Ford

  Fire arced across the sky. It hit a house in front of them, blowing the roof off. Smoldering planks rained down from the sky and hissed as they fell around him, thudding into the snow. Darkness. He saw Brock leaning against the side of the Hall. He stared with empty eyes as fire consumed the roof; death froze his mouth in shock. Darkness. Shadows stood in their path. They raised their swords and roared out through the slits in their iron helmets as they charged. Darkness. A flash of gold: a wolf’s head emblazoned upon a soldier’s tunic. It bared its teeth and seemed to snarl as he lunged. Kyleigh rushed to meet him. Darkness. Blood — blood everywhere. It melted the snow and trickled out from the wolf’s painted eye. Darkness. The snow was slush: dark, sticky slush. Men wearing wolves lay everywhere. Kael had to leap over bodies to keep up. Darkness.

  And then a cry.

  Someone shouted, and the familiar sound blasted through the fog in Kael’s ears, tearing the numbness away. He could feel the world again — feel his heart as it beat wildly in his chest. His lungs burned from the cold and his eyes streamed against it. His legs still ran, but now he fought against the power. His neck ground against his shoulder as he forced his head to turn. He blinked, clearing up the darkness long enough to see …

  Roland.

  He lay on the ground a stone’s throw away. He crawled backwards, clutching at the arm that hung limply at his side. Blood squeezed out between his fingers and his eyes burned defiantly as they met the man standing over him.

  “Go on, do it!” he roared. “Do it, bloodtraitor. Kill me in the name of your precious Earl — and may the mountains take you!” He spat a mouthful of blood on the soldier’s boots.

  Time seemed to turn back on itself as the soldier raised his sword. No — this wasn’t how Roland was supposed to die. This wasn’t what he wanted. He deserved better than to perish at the hands of a traitor.

  Kael’s legs kept moving, but he managed to free an arm. His shoulder cracked as he pulled his hand towards his only weapon: the knife at his belt. He held it by its blade and watched as the soldier’s head tilted back, as his sword reached its pinnacle and that tiny shred of white skin peeked out from under his helmet.

  Then he threw.

  The sword began its fall — but never got to Roland. He watched as the soldier stumbled backwards, grasping at his throat, before he finally collapsed.

  Kael’s body jolted as his knees hit the ground. His head came shortly after. Pain. Impossible, fiery pain glanced his skull. It blinded him. In the back of his mind he knew what had happened. It’d only happened a few times before, but he remembered the pain well.

  He’d used too much of his power to break whatever Amos did to him, and now he had a whisperer’s headache. His body would go limp and at any moment, sleep would take him. He’d lay in the snow, paralyzed and unconscious, until the cold devoured him or the wolves tore him to shreds.

  This was the end, he was certain of it.

  *******

  The ground beneath Titus’s feet was still hot. Little bits of grass glowed red all around him in a bald patch of earth that stood out like a hole in a sea of snow. A twisted lump of metal lay in the middle of it. He kicked it over.

  Swords.

  “She was here,” he said to the crowd of soldiers around him. He pointed to the nearest cluster of men. “Scour the woods. Look for any sign of where she might have gone. Move!”

  They hurried to obey.

  He’d been close, then. So close to catching her. He stalked over to where his guards held the surviving villagers. At the front of the herd, an old man knelt in the snow. They’d found him lying just a few yards from the carnage, clinging to his wounded arm. His face was pale from blood loss and his eyes were glazed in pain.

  Titus knew he would be dead in a few hours. “What is your name, subject?”

  “Roland,” he muttered, his lips swollen through the blood.

  “Tell me, Roland — which way did she go?”

  His eyes sharpened, then hardened. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  Titus fought the urge to knock the beard off Roland’s chin. “Tell me where she went, and I promise you’ll be rewarded. She’s dangerous, subject. She threatens the Kingdom’s peace.”

  “What peace?” Roland spat. He jerked his head in the direction of the smoldering village. “If this is the Kingdom’s peace … then I’m glad someone’s fighting it.”

  “We found a couple more, Your Earlship!” someone shouted, just in time to save Roland’s life. “Caught them hiding up in the trees.”

  Soldiers dragged two men on a lead behind them. They were young, hardly old enough to be men at all. The one with hair on his chin whimpered and clutched a bloody hand. The other one had a long braid — and a lump the size of an egg on his forehead.

  In two strides, Titus drew even with them. He smacked the bearded man’s face with the back of his hand. “Where is she, maggot? Where’s the Dragongirl?” He opened his mouth, and Titus hit him again. “I’ll make you bleed, maggot! I’ll dress the trees with your innards, beat you to death with your own severed arm. I’ll —”

  “No, don’t! I’ll tell you anything,” the bearded man gasped, falling on his knees.

  Titus wrenched the man’s head back by his beard and forced him to look into his eyes. “Tell me where the Dragongirl is.”

  “I don’t know anyone by that name, I swear it!”

  Titus could tell by the panic in his sputter that he was telling the truth. He shoved the bearded man down and pointed at the one with the braid. “You. Have you seen her?”

  He shook his head.

  Titus fought to hide his frustration. He knew it’d been a small chance: these people, stuck high on this miserable pile of rocks, wouldn’t have heard of her. They wouldn’t have even known to look for her. It was most unfortunate.

  “You’ve deeply disappointed me, both of you,” he said. “There’s nothing I hate more than feeling disappointed. I should kill you for it.”

  The bearded man whimpered from his place in the snow while the one with the braid took a defensive step backwards. But Titus had no intention of killing them. He’d lost a good number of men to the perils of the mountains and could use an able-bodied tracker — someone who knew the trails well enough to keep his march alive.

  So at his signal, the soldiers forced the two men to kneel. With another wave of his hand, they threw Roland into the snow between them. He gave the cowards a sword each.

  “Kill or be killed, gentlemen. That is how I run my army — it’s the price of entry. Slay your kinsman and I’ll make you a soldier of the Earl. Or you can be brave … and try not to scream when we split you open and leave you for the crows. I believe in choices.” Titus raised his hand. “You may begin.”

  The one with the braid leapt up.

  “You don’t have to do this, Laemoth,” Roland said as he advanced. “I know it’s hard, but be brave. Trust it’ll work out.”

  The one called Laemoth sneered through his bruises. “Keep your trust, old man. I make my own fate.” He turned to the bearded one. “On your feet, Marc. We’ve got a chance to live and I’m going to take it.”

  Marc needed a little encouragement. The soldiers beat him with the flats of their blades until he stood.

  “Put it on his chest,” Laemoth said, sticking his sword to Roland’s back. “We’ll gut him at the same time.”

  Marc stood like a man caught in a bog, as if any sudden move would sink him faster. Time dragged on and Titus grew impatient. “If neither of you are going to accept my offer, then I suppose there’s no point in waiting. Archers!”

  Having a dozen arrows trained on his chest seemed to help Marc reach a decision. He held his sword to Roland’s other side and watched with wide eyes as Laemoth began the count.

  “One —”

  “I’ve got to, Roland. I’m sorry, but they’ll kill me if I don’t. I’ve got no other choice.” Marc’s voice was pleading.

  “— two —”


  Roland held his chin up. “You’ve always got another choice. It may not be what’s easiest, but it’s always there.”

  Marc took a step back. The hand that held the sword trembled.

  “— three!”

  With a cry, both men lunged forward. Their swords went straight through Roland and out his tattered jerkin. Laemoth ripped his blade free, but Marc’s slipped through his fingers as Roland fell.

  He died without a struggle: just a soft breath, and then his body lay still.

  Marc fell to his knees. “I’m so sorry,” he choked.

  “Never apologize for surviving, boy. It makes you look like a whelp,” Titus said, and reiterated his point with a kick to Marc’s rump that sent him sprawling face-first into the snow. “Do we have tunics for these men?”

  The soldier responsible for the armory gave him a smirk. “Sorry, Your Earlship — we’ve only got one.”

  “Oh, what a pity. It seems that I won’t be able to take the two of you on, after all.”

  Laemoth snarled. “There’s one, isn’t there?”

  Titus pretended to think about it. “Yes, but two men can’t share one tunic. That’s the problem.”

  Laemoth figured it out first.

  He charged at Marc, sword raised, and the poor fellow barely had time to dodge before the blade cut the air above his head. Laemoth swung again and in his scramble to get away, Marc tripped over a snow-covered log. He fell hard on his elbow. Laemoth was on him in a second.

  Marc rolled to the side and the sword got lodged in the skin of the log. Laemoth tore it free with a roar, stumbling backwards as the blade came loose. He was off balance for half a second, nothing more. But when Marc lashed out and caught Laemoth’s knee with the side of his boot, it was enough to send him to the ground.

  He fell hard. A mixture of pain and shock creased his face as the sword tore through the front of his shirt and out his back.

  Titus never grew tired of the fights. When the King sent him to raise the Five’s armies, he’d set friend on friend, kin against kin — it was the only way to ensure absolute loyalty to the crown. He promised the victor life, and the loser death. It was amazing how much blood a man was willing to shed to save his own.

  But survival came at a price.

  When the fight was over, the victor would stare down at the broken body of his opponent and lose a part of himself. He would lose his fear, his compassion. Every weakness of his soul would be driven out: purged by the work of his own bloodstained hands. And when it came time to fight, he would fight. He would kill without remorse and bathe in the gore of battle. There wouldn’t be enough ale in the Kingdom to drown his nightmares, but he would have nowhere else to turn. His people would scorn him as a bloodtraitor.

  Battle would be his only relief.

  As Laemoth died, Titus kept his eyes on Marc. Those anguished lines around his mouth would eventually harden and freeze in a mask of hate. The many long nights that lay ahead would drive out his mercy. Titus knew he was witnessing the birth of a warrior — and it was a glorious thing.

  “Never run with your sword facing up,” he said, throwing the spare tunic at Marc’s feet. “Or you might end up like this poor fool.” He kicked Laemoth’s body aside, hauled Marc up by the hood of his coat and shoved him away. “Congratulations, maggot — you’ve earned your place in the Earl’s army.”

  While his soldiers made camp, Titus walked among the surviving villagers, asking for their skills. Those with valuable talents he added to his forces … the rest he disposed of.

  Most of the villagers fled when his army attacked, melting into the cover of the woods like the mountain rats they were. The only ones left were those too old to run — or too stupid to hide. He was about to give the order to kill them all and be done with it when an old crow caught his attention.

  He had tangled gray hair and sharp brown eyes. Maybe it was the stiff set of his jaw or his practiced, concentrated stare. But for whatever reason, Titus liked the look of him. He ordered the man on his feet. “And what’s your name?”

  “Amos,” he said.

  There was no fear in his voice. Titus could hardly keep the smirk off his face. “Any skills?”

  “I’m a healer.”

  His instincts were right: at long last, Fate smiled upon Titus. He’d lost his healer to a rockslide several miles back, and knew he would lose a good portion of his men to their wounds without one. But he kept his face stern. “A healer, eh? Well I suggest you get to work, healer. Prove to me that you’re worth your meals and I’ll let you live.”

  With a slight bow, Amos left to tend the wounded.

  Titus cut his thumb across his chest, signaling his men to begin the slaughter. Screams pierced the air of the snow-silenced night, and he had to raise his voice to be heard over the strangled cries for mercy:

  “Rest well, my wolves. For with the dawn comes glory and fresh blood!”

  Chapter 8

  A Long Climb

  “Amos! Amos!”

  Fire burst through the cracks in the wall, raced across the floor and swallowed their beds. A corner of the roof caved in, a wave of heat and embers flew out from the rubble and burned Kael’s cheeks.

  He was standing in the doorway, reaching in as far as he dared. He stretched his hands till his fingers hurt. He could see Amos standing by the hearth.

  “Amos!” he said again. “Take my hand!”

  But he didn’t move. Sparks showered down as the ceiling buckled in the heat. He shouted as loud as he could, he begged Amos to move. The ground shook and the roof sank further. The red-hot end of one plank nearly brushed the top of Amos’s head.

  Though his throat burned, he shouted with all of his might … but Amos simply couldn’t hear him. Then the roof collapsed in a wave of blistering heat and ash — and Kael went flying backwards.

  *******

  He jerked out of his sleep and the back of his head smacked against the floor. When he opened his eyes, Kael saw he was surrounded by rock: it made up the walls, the ceiling, even the floor he slept on. Gray, uncut stone stained with the black lines from a fire.

  Fire. He smelled smoke.

  The cold panic left over from his dream welled up and he jumped to his feet. His skull connected with the low ceiling and the pain sent him promptly back to his knees.

  “Oh good, you’re awake.”

  He blinked several times before the blurry shape ahead of him turned into Kyleigh. She was sitting cross-legged in front of a large hole in the wall. Behind her, he thought he could see snow and white clouds. He realized they must be in some sort of cave.

  “I’ve got your breakfast ready, and I’ve cooked it just the way you like it,” she said, nodding to the small fire beside her.

  Dangling from a spit in the middle of the flames was what might once have been a leg of meat. But now it was so charred beyond recovery that he doubted if even the flies would eat it.

  “I’m not hungry,” he said, and it was the truth. From the moment he woke he’d been grasping at his foggy memories of the night before, piecing them together. Much of it had been lost in the darkness of sleep, and the rest …

  He grasped at pictures as they swam by, but couldn’t get a hold of them. It was as if he stared through a filthy window into his memory: he could see the shapes moving outside, had some wisp of their meaning, but couldn’t quite tie them together.

  After many long and frustrating attempts, he saw something — a wolf’s head, rising out of the darkness. He tied it to the armor, tied the armor to the man, and very suddenly remembered that Tinnark had been under attack. But by whom?

  And then he remembered that the wolf’s head was the symbol of the Earl of the Unforgivable Mountains.

  “Why now?” he said, more to himself than anybody. “Why would Hubert suddenly decide to come after us when he’s left us alone all this time?”

  “Because it wasn’t Hubert — it was Titus,” Kyleigh said. She pulled the ruined meat off the spit and chucked it outside.
He heard it hiss when it hit the snow.

  “Titus … but I thought he was Midlan’s warlord,” Kael said. “How do you know it was him?”

  “I could smell him from a mile off. That man reeks of death. I also saw him when I went back to retrieve my boots.” She pointed to her clad feet. Then she bent and began digging through the rucksack, looking for something.

  But he was stuck on what she’d just said. “You went back, and all you got were your boots?”

  “Not all. I found this as well.” She held up his bow, the one Roland had given him. He couldn’t think to ask her how she’d found it. He couldn’t even be happy to see it. In fact, he knocked it out of her hand.

  “Why didn’t you save Amos? You went back for boots and a stupid piece of wood, and you couldn’t be bothered to save my grandfather?”

  “No, I couldn’t,” she snapped back. “You passed out. And by the time I hauled your sorry carcass to safety, Titus already had them rounded up.”

  “Who?”

  “The villagers!”

  His stomach sunk down to his ankles. For a moment, he’d been relieved: Roland always said that a dream of a loved one’s death actually meant they were alive and well. But for how long? He knew all too well what Titus did with his captives.

  “Were any …?”

  “I don’t know.” The anger was gone from her voice, but her eyes were still hard. “I couldn’t stay. The woods were crawling with soldiers and I had to get back to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are my first priority. We’re tied together, you and I.”

  “Not anymore.” He grabbed the bow off the ground and dug through the pack until he found his quiver. His hand brushed something familiar, and he pulled out Atlas of the Adventurer. He didn’t know how it had found its way into the pack, but he crammed it in his pocket nonetheless. What he didn’t find was his hunting dagger. It wasn’t in the pack and his belt was empty. Where on earth had it gone? “If what you say is true and you really did pull me to safety, then your debt is repaid. We can go our separate ways.”