Fatemarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 1)

  Thirty-Four

  The Northern Kingdom, Raider’s Pass

  Annise Gäric

  Annise awoke with a start. She listened intently, initially only hearing her own breathing. Then:

  The shriek of a birdcall in the distance, answered by another, then another, rolling down the line until the calls were within their encampment. They were under attack.

  She sat up quickly, thrusting the thick blanket away from her. She pushed to her feet, already dressed and ready. The spare armor she’d been fitted with was snug against her thick trousers and greatcoat.

  Her tent flap opened and the Armored Knight filled the entrance. In this moment, she could discern none of the boy named Tarin she’d once known. He was truly the monster he believed himself to be, a towering armored warrior with death in his eyes.

  Annise reached for the sword by her bedroll, but Tarin said, “Princess, you’re to stay here in safety. I will defend you to my death.”

  Though his intentions were honorable, a spark of anger flared up inside her. “For my mother?” she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm.

  “For you,” Tarin said huskily.

  Frozen hell, Annise thought. She ignored the snow flurries in her stomach and took a step forward.

  “I don’t need defending,” she said. “Either you fight alongside me, or you do not fight at all. Just don’t accidentally hit me with your hellfrozen Morningstar.”

  For a second she thought he was going to hold her hostage in her tent, so she added, “I’m the Bear-Slayer, remember? You said it yourself.” She didn’t remind him that she had only scared the ice bear away, not killed it.

  With a short bob of his head, Tarin moved aside, and Annise strode out into the frozen night. The sword felt unwieldy in her grip, and her hand was already aching from holding the weapon too tightly. She tried to relax, loosening her fingers. She wasn’t about to admit she was scared, nor that she was no swordfighter. If it came down to it, she would do what she had to do to survive.

  Somewhere in the distance, she could see the occasional flame arc through the darkness, landing in the pass between the mountains. She watched one of the fire arrows the whole way, until it hit something and stopped. There was a brief moment when there was only darkness, like the flame had been snuffed out in a snowdrift, but then flames burst in all directions, taking shape.

  The burning shape was that of a human. The victim staggered, stumbled, and then fell, vanishing from sight.

  All around her, soldiers were on the move, pushing toward the front lines, preparing to carry out her brother’s war plan if necessary.

  Beside her, Tarin said, “I would be honored to fight alongside you.” He held the chain of his Morningstar in one hand, the steel links curling around his neck, the barbed ball dangling in front of his chest.

  “Just don’t get in my way,” Annise growled, but it was an act. She’d never seen real battle, and the thing with the ice bear was nothing more than adrenaline and dumb luck, both of which she’d need on her side before this night was over. The only man she’d ever killed was the one who Tarin had paralyzed.

  As one, they slipped into the stream of soldiers moving into position.

  That’s when the first of the ice slings unleashed their payloads. At the same time, Annise saw an unearthly burst of light from the pass.

  Roan

  Moments earlier

  The northerners were rolling barrels that had once been filled with water down the hill. Now, in the cold, they were completely frozen and as deadly as battering rams. Roan had watched one woman a mere arm’s length away get hit by one. She hadn’t even had time to scream before she was gone. One crashed down from above, and Roan ducked, feeling a whoosh of air as it swept past his head.

  A narrow miss, which made Roan wonder for the hundredth time whether he’d made the wrong decision in pressing forward in the direction Gwendolyn had gone. So much for being my protector, he thought. Not that he’d ever have the opportunity to inform King Ironclad of his dissatisfaction with her services.

  Still, he moved onwards, trying to find someone he could help. The bodies he did find lodged on the trail, however, were unmoving. He checked them one at a time, but there was no life within them. Some were incredibly young—barely more than children—while others were old and grizzled and had likely seen more battles than Roan had seen name days. Several of the dead were Orians, their flawless skin and strangely colored eyes so out of place amongst the carnage and ice.

  Roan had just finished checking one such warrior when he heard a new sound. A rumble, almost like thunder, emanating from above. What new torture is this? Roan wondered, gazing at the hillside.

  Long, dark shapes tumbled down the slope, bouncing and changing direction, scattering hither and thither. Timber, Roan realized. Entire tree trunks, stripped of branches and limbs, rolled from high above in an avalanche of wood. Whilst boulders and barrels cut a relatively narrow path of destruction, this new weapon used broad killing strokes and would be nearly impossible to dodge. As if to illustrate his thoughts, one massive log took out a dozen soldiers just ahead of him.

  Roan froze, unable to move, bound to the cliff by indecision. He glanced right as another tree barreled down the hill. Unless it changed course drastically, it would land somewhere near him.

  He forced his feet to move, charging forwards even as he could feel the log closing in from the side, a dark shape bucking and writhing, creaking and hammering. At the last possible moment, he dove, half-tripping on another soldier, who lay prostrate on the trail.

  Pain erupted in his calf as the end of the log clipped his leg, shattering bone and tearing muscle. He moaned, landing on sharp rocks that protruded like lances from the packed snow.

  Rolling in agony on the path, he used his lifemark, which began to warm his chest, fingers of healing stretching toward his injury.

  Nearby, the soldier he’d assumed was dead, groaned. He or she was still alive.

  The blood of innocents cried out to him. Why? Why? Why did you heal me only to let him burn us alive?

  “No,” Roan growled between his teeth. That was long ago and his guardian was long dead. Markin Swansea couldn’t hurt Roan anymore. And Roan had healed that girl with the pox, back in Glee. She was still alive. In fact, she’d hugged him around the waist before they’d rode out from Norris, where they’d left her with a family, safe and sound. Once more, she’d called him her hero.

  Roan shook his head. No, he was not a hero, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do something heroic. He could do it again, especially now that he knew his guardian had lied to him about so much.

  The soldier groaned once more, and Roan squinted in the darkness until the face clarified. A girl—she appeared young, but it was obvious from her coppery hair and orange eyes that she was Orian, so age was a moving target. Still alive, but barely, her face green in the moonlight, already slick with wet snowmelt.

  Roan gritted his teeth and rolled over, growling through the agony that lanced through his ankle. He reached out and touched her.

  Light burst from his chest, arcing from him to her, swarming over the metal armor she wore. She gasped, and he could feel what she felt, could feel her injuries, which were deep beneath the surface of her skin. A crushed lung, cracked ribs, a punctured organ. The light knitted her tissue and bones back together, sapping Roan’s strength.

  The girl breathed in and out, in and out, and then said, “You saved my life.”

  Roan said nothing. He hadn’t done anything. His mark had saved her. He’d done nothing but touched her and made a choice.

  And now he felt like sleeping, his eyes closing of their own accord.

  “Healer,” the girl said, and he felt her cold hands on his cheeks. “Warm yourself. Repair your leg. There is time. The battle has moved away.”

  Roan couldn’t open his eyes, but he had just enough awareness to concentrate on the heat that still lingered in his chest. He let it drift throughout his body, warming his
extremities before settling on his devastated leg. The pain throbbed once, twice, and then vanished.

  His eyes flashed open and the forest dweller reached down to help him up. Like all the Orians, her small stature hid a remarkable amount of strength—she easily pulled him to his feet. “Thank you,” she said. “Be safe.” And then she was gone, sprinting along the trail toward the screams. Toward the danger.

  Roan marveled at the young warrior. Despite having nearly died, she was willing to risk her life again. Even still, he wanted nothing more than to turn around and flee. He was no soldier. She’d called him a healer, but he wasn’t that either. What am I? Roan wondered.

  “You are…” Roan whispered, feeling the words in the mark in his chest. “You are…” They were right there, so close he could touch them, taste them, hear them echoing in the dark folds of his mind.

  But still, he couldn’t say them, couldn’t speak the truth. The truth was a dangerous beast, and Roan didn’t know what would happen if he uncaged it.

  Roan breathed deeply, steeling his nerves, which had been severed in half a dozen places.

  And then he started forward once more, testing the limits of his weary body.

  Annise

  The easterners burst from the pass, their armor glinting in the red and green moonlight. Though their numbers had clearly been culled while they ran the gauntlet, there were still hundreds of them, swords raised high. Toward the front was a gargantuan man who could only be King Oren Ironclad, the Juggernaut, his famed Foehammer hefted on his shoulder. He shouted something and his soldiers roared in response.

  The ice slings released one final volley, huge chunks of ice arcing through the sky and landing amongst the enemy, who scattered like fallen leaves. Several were crushed, but the rest regained their feet and charged toward the north, now well past where the long-distance ice slings would be effective.

  So this is what it has come to, Annise thought. This journey, all started by the death of her father, was on the precipice of fate, and she felt like a single false step could mean the end. Her brother had found his army, and yet his rebellion against their uncle hung in the balance.

  “Annise!” a voice cried now, and a hand grabbed her shoulder from behind. Arch stared at her, his eyes wide. “You should not be here.”

  “I tried to stop her, Your Highness,” Tarin said.

  “You are my king,” she said, “and my brother, and I will not hide behind an army like a weakling.”

  For a second it almost looked like Arch might laugh, but instead he offered a thin smile. “No, my sister, you are anything but weak.” To Annise’s surprise, he threw his arms around her and pulled her tight. “Tonight we fight together.”

  “For the kingdom,” she returned, and he kissed her cheek.

  “For the kingdom,” he echoed.

  And then they charged into battle, their cries lost amongst hundreds of others.

  Bane

  Raider’s Pass was already in turmoil when Bane arrived as quietly as a whisper. He could smell death in the air, could hear it in the cries of the warriors who did battle. He sniffed again, and smelled something else.

  Royalty. Bloodlust. Barriers to peace. For who could be blamed for the Hundred Years War but the leaders who rallied their troops into battle, drunk on their desire for power and conquest?

  His bare scalp burned with need, a fire for death that had to be sated or else he would be consumed. Bane blinked, and he moved, not with his feet but in another, unexplainable way.

  Swords clashed around him. An enormous man wearing dark armor from head to toe swung a black chain ending in a spiked ball in a deadly arc. Twice Bane watched as it crashed into the skulls of armored warriors. He could feel their instantaneous deaths deep in his bones, in his marrow, in the black hole that should’ve been his soul.

  Another massive man roared and strode forward to face the armored knight. He was wearing a necklace that bore a strange symbol: an iron fist. Ahh, Bane thought. This man is like me. This man is fatemarked. More specifically, ironmarked.

  Armed with the ironmark, the enormous man fought with the strength of ten men, tossing opponents aside like a child’s playthings, closing in on the armored knight. The knight swung his spiked ball at the ironmarked, a heavy stroke so powerful it would kill any man in an instant. But this was no ordinary man. The ironmarked caught the chain in his hand and began to reel the knight toward him.

  Bane licked his lips as he watched. To see another who was fatemarked was exhilarating, the raw power intoxicating.

  The massive knight dug his heels into the snow and attempted to stop his progress forward, but his feet slid across the ice. He’d have to release his weapon if he were going to survive the encounter. The large knight was stubborn, however, refusing to give up his spiked ball and chain.

  The ironmarked grinned as he dragged the knight into his grasp. Bane leaned forward, eager to watch.

  At the last second, the knight dropped the chain and drove forward low to the ground, tackling the ironmarked around the waist. The large man went down, his head cracking against the hard ground. The knight was remarkably nimble for his size, pushing quickly to his feet while his opponent’s girth caused him to flounder like a turtle on its back. The armored knight snatched up his weapon and whipped it down hard, again and again, on the ironmarked’s body, landing blows to his chest, abdomen, legs, and finally his head.

  The huge man fought the strikes at first, attempting to block them with his thick forearms, but was eventually overcome, his body going still.

  Someone roared and strode forward, his dark eyes burning with anger. He stared at the ironmarked’s body, gripping his long, elaborately forged hammer with white-knuckled fingers. The newcomer was of impressive size, too, though not as large as either his fallen man or the knight he now faced.

  Bane’s deathmark pulsed with excitement. This man was a king. From the description Bear Blackboots had given him, it had to be King Oren Ironclad, Juggernaut of the East. A man who had seen many battles, who had chosen war over peace, following in his father’s footsteps. A man who had to die.

  The armored knight’s weapon cut through the air, battering the king’s armor. But, seemingly fueled by anger for his fallen comrade, the Juggernaut pushed forward, grabbing the chain, yanking it back toward him. The armored knight stumbled as the king swung his hammer at his midsection. There was a raucous clangor as the armor held true, the blow glancing off and past the knight.

  He swung a huge fist at the king’s head, catching him in the temple and dislodging his helmet. The Juggernaut was exposed, but not dead, wrenching his hammer back and bringing it down on the knight’s neck. This time the armor dented, and when the king landed an elbow to the knight’s face, his facemask and helmet popped off like a cork from a bottle of sparkling wine.

  Finally, tired of being merely a spectator, Bane moved in for the kill.

  Annise

  Annise had lost her sword and her brother somewhere in the fray. She’d used her blade to block a slash from an enemy soldier, and then Tarin’s Morningstar had finished him off. No matter where she’d charged, Tarin had been there, his spiked ball protecting her. She’d caught sight of Sir Dietrich several times as well, facing more opponents than should be humanly possible, and yet he always seemed to emerge unscathed, his sword moving with the speed of lightning strikes.

  Finally, however, after defeating the largest man Annise had ever seen, Tarin was locked in battle with the eastern king himself, who was also nearly as big as the Armored Knight. The distraction left Annise on her own. A young easterner burst through the lines and swung at her, but Annise was ready, pretending it was just a wooden sword on the training fields, not a razor-sharp blade of steel. She ducked and threw herself forward, hitting the man in the chest, rocking him backward. She landed on him and he gasped.

  Annise took his own sword, which he’d dropped, and stabbed him between his plates of armor. Like the only other man she’d killed, taking his
life seemed too easy, a thought which unnerved her.

  Still straddling him, she looked up, searching for Tarin.

  Her breath left her when she spotted him.

  He was face to face with King Ironclad, literally. Both men’s helmets had come off and they were staring each other down. The king’s head was bald, his dark beard long and thick. But that’s not why Annise couldn’t breathe.

  She could see Tarin’s face.

  Like his hand, his cheeks were so pale they were almost glowing, his skin as thin as stretched silk. Beneath his flesh were long snakes of black, his veins, which protruded in tangled rivulets.

  The king also seemed shocked by his opponent’s appearance, his confidence wavering as they circled each other. “What manner of northern devilry are you?” the big man bellowed, holding his mighty hammer in front of him.

  Tarin didn’t answer, flicking a glance at Annise, who couldn’t stop staring at his face. He looked back at the king, but didn’t respond, choosing instead to swing his chain over his head, preparing to strike.

  Like a cloud of vapor materializing from some unknown netherworld, a form appeared between them.

  Annise stood, gaping at the familiar boy, his scalp marked with a circle of fire, a quarter portion of the image as dark as Tarin’s blood. Like the first time she’d seen him, on the tower steps the moment before her father fell to his death, the boy’s resemblance to Arch was startling.

  Tarin’s Morningstar slowed and fell harmlessly to his side. He was also staring in wonderment at the boy.

  Annise’s brother. Now called Bane, according to her aunt. Kings’ Bane. Killer of monarchs. Bringer of death.

  King Ironclad continued to hold his hammer at the ready, eyeing Bane with narrowed eyes.

  A short blade appeared in Bane’s hand, materializing the same way that he had. He stepped forward. The king swung his own weapon in a deadly trajectory, but he caught only empty air. Her brother was gone.