Fatemarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 1)

  No, Annise realized. There! He was behind the king, his lips a snarl.

  Seemingly from out of nowhere, a form appeared from the side, sliding his sword in front of the king’s back, blocking Bane’s killing stroke.

  At the same moment, Tarin whipped his Morningstar around once more.

  There was a vicious CRUNCH! as the spiked ball landed squarely on the king’s exposed head.

  Annise turned away, trying to blink away the awful image. Not even the massive king could rise from a wound like that one.

  Roan

  Roan had managed to work his way through the pass, healing several injured easterners as he went. His energy was waning, but he refused to stop until he was unconscious. It was strange, but now that he’d begun using his mark more, his body seemed to grow accustomed to the bouts of fatigue, fighting them off and recovering more swiftly.

  With each person he healed, he felt something burning inside of him, a feeling he couldn’t quite pinpoint until he emerged from the canyon and onto open land. That’s when he realized what it was that he felt:

  Purpose.

  He moved forward, searching for those who were injured but not dead, allowing his mark’s energy to range outwards, further and further, rainbows of white light illuminating the snowfield.

  All around him, the battle raged, but he ignored it. Twice a northerner tried to remove his head from his shoulders, but each time he’d managed to duck the blow until an ally moved in to protect him. He had a sword, but it hung from his belt, unused. His purpose did not involve killing.

  It involved saving.

  Cries began to rise up on all sides. “Protect the healer!”

  He spotted Gwendolyn, and a swell of airy relief filled his lungs. She was fighting like an ore cat, felling foes like saplings under an axe, alternating between her bow and her sword, a graceful dance of death.

  Roan was about to move toward her, just in case she sustained an injury, but then saw Prince Gareth running in the opposite direction. He was screaming at the top of his lungs, his sword pumping beside him.

  Tracing a line in front of the prince with his eyes, Roan saw the impossible. The king, his enormous frame wobbling, his enormous Foehammer slipping from lifeless fingers, his caved-in head resting like a rotten pumpkin atop his shoulders.

  He fell. The king fell.

  Though it was obvious from a distance that even Roan wouldn’t be able to save the monarch, he sprinted after Gareth anyway, determination coursing through him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Roan realized Gareth was now the king, a thought that struck him as exceptionally strange.

  Near the king’s body, Prince Guy was doing battle with a strange adversary. A boy, unarmored, wearing nothing more than a black cloak, stabbed at the prince with short rapid strikes. Guy was barely able to block them, backpedaling against the ferocious onslaught.

  Gareth was closing in, and Roan knew exactly what the new king had in mind. He was planning to protect his brother, not only with his sword, but with his body, becoming the human Shield he was born to be.

  Despite all the trouble the prince had caused him, despite all the mockery and the threats and the taunts, despite how he’d rejected his kiss, Roan couldn’t let him die. Not today. This was why he was here.

  He sprinted, hurdling the dead, dodging those locked in battle.

  The boy knocked Prince Guy’s sword away. He swung a final blow toward his throat. Gareth tried to dive in front to block the killing stroke, but Guy was already falling, his neck slashed open. The boy tossed him aside and plunged his blade deep into Gareth’s chest.

  Roan didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, rushing forward and diving at the prince, who was lying on the cold hard ground, blood bubbling from his armor and his lips. “No,” Roan breathed. “You’re not dying on me. You’re not.”

  He reached for the prince, but a strong arm grabbed his hand and pulled it back.

  The boy, his skin pale and smooth and free of hair, neither stubble nor eyebrow nor lash. “I smell it on you,” the boy said, as Roan struggled against his grip, which was like iron. “You are not supposed to be here.”

  Roan didn’t care what the boy smelled, but for once he disagreed with the notion that he shouldn’t be in this place at this time. “I am,” he said, his mark flaring to life.

  The boy released him and cringed, backing away. “No,” he said. “Impossible. You can’t be both.”

  “Both what?” Roan said. For the first time since the battle began, he slid his sword from his scabbard. For the first time since the battle began, he considered the fact that he might need to kill in order to save. The light in his chest moved along his arm and into the blade, which sparkled like a sunlit icicle.

  “A king and the Peacemaker,” the boy said, launching himself forward.

  Roan blocked the blow with his sword, which pulsed with white light, pushing back against the darkness that seemed to surround the boy and his blade like a shadow.

  Roan didn’t care who this boy was or what he knew, he wouldn’t let him get to Prince Gareth, who was running out of time. He shoved back with all his might and the boy vanished into the cold night air.

  Behind him, the prince gurgled, choking on his own blood. Roan whirled around and pressed his hands to Gareth’s blood-soaked cheek.

  Too late.

  The new king was dead, following his father and brother too soon.

  Roan looked up, blinking away the tears in his eyes before they froze on his cheeks. So many dead. Lives ended too soon. For what purpose? To what end? If my fate is to be here, to witness this, Roan thought, it is a cruel fate.

  Beyond the dead he saw a strong-looking woman, curvy and muscular, looking his way, watching as he huddled over the fallen kings. There was something about the determined look in her eyes that gave him pause. No, it was something else about her. Her cheekbones, or the slight tilt of her nose. Something familiar. She looked away, her attention drawn to something else.

  Roan peered back down at where his hand continued to rest on Gareth’s cheek. He felt something pulse, there and gone again, a flash of the very thing that had driven his every act since he entered Raider’s Pass:

  Life.

  The mark on his chest burst forth with what energy he had left.

  Bane

  Bane’s body was buzzing with electricity from his encounter with the Peacemaker. Too soon. The Western Oracle’s prophecy allowed for the death of eight rulers before he would do battle with the Peacemaker. And nothing in the prophecy stated the Peacemaker would be a king. But he was—that much was obvious.

  Bane reappeared a distance away from the battle, beginning to feel weak from using his mark. His scalp was still hot, and he could feel a fourth section of his deathmark begin to fill with blood; the third was already blood-soaked, from when the Juggernaut had died. Bane wished he’d been the one to kill Oren Ironclad, but dead was dead. At least he’d killed the eldest son of King Ironclad, the one named Gareth. The moment his father had died, he’d become king.

  A short-lived reign, to say the least.

  Wait. Wait. Somewhere across the killing fields, a brilliant white pulse shot from the ground toward the heavens, a column of pure light. He could feel the death-throb in his scalp begin to subside, his skin cooling rapidly, the blood draining from the fourth section of his mark.

  And he knew. He knew.

  The King Peacemaker had managed to save King Gareth Ironclad, ruler of the Eastern Kingdom, from death’s grip.

  Despite the weakness settling into his bones, the night was not over. Not until more royal blood had been spilt. The armored knight with the black blood had killed a king, but Bane had not. King Gareth was out of reach, but another was not, the lawful northern ruler.

  He disappeared, and when he emerged from the fabric of life, a young man barely older than he stood before him, staring, his mouth opened slightly.

  There was no mistaking the similarity in appearance: the man who thought he was the king
was his brother.

  Annise

  Annise was forced to use her hand to shield her eyes against the light, which was so bright it was as if the sun itself had fallen from the sky and crashed into the earth.

  The light came from the man she’d seen staring at her. He was with the easterners, but was so different in appearance from them that she couldn’t help but to stare back. He reminded her of the westerners, his sunshine-golden hair long and lustrous. He reminded her of her mother.

  The light vanished, and Annise was left blinking away white spots and her foolish thoughts. Why would a westerner be here, now? And no westerner would be caught dead in the company of an eastern army. They hated each other more than the north hated both of them. She had no idea what sort of sorcery the light was, but she didn’t particularly care at the moment, not when Bane was still on the loose somewhere.

  Bane appeared again, this time in front of Arch. No, she thought. Not him. Not my brothers.

  “Who are you?” Arch said, taking a step forward, his voice full of awe.

  “Arch,” Annise called out, but he didn’t react, unable to tear his gaze away.

  “I am Bane,” the boy said. “I am your brother.” His black pinprick eyes flicked between Arch and Annise, as if speaking to them both.

  Annise shuddered as Zelda’s tale of her lost brother came back to her. This boy had killed her father, and if he was truly the Kings’ Bane, more would fall to him before the prophecy of the Kings’ Plague was fulfilled.

  Starting with Arch.

  Bane strode forward, grabbing Arch by the collar, lifting him effortlessly into the air. Arch struggled against the smaller boy, one brother locked against another—one she knew as well as herself, and one she barely knew at all.

  Arch managed to take a swipe at his brother, who merely dodged the blow. “Stop,” Bane growled. “Stay out of this. You don’t have to die.”

  Annise took a step forward, cocking her head to the side. Realization swarmed like angry bees. Bane wasn’t here for Arch, because Arch wasn’t the true king. By northern law, she was the ruler. She was the queen.

  Her lost brother was here for her.

  Arch took another swing at Bane, who blocked it with his blade, slinging his brother to the ground. Breathing heavily, Arch leaped up and fought back with all the skill he could muster.

  Her heart hammering, Annise charged toward the duo, praying she’d make it in time.

  “I. Don’t. Want. To. Kill. You,” Bane roared, shoving Arch back once more. Annise was ten steps away, five. With fresh determination, Arch attacked, his blows quick enough to disarm most opponents. But Bane wasn’t most opponents.

  He blocked each strike and then attacked, his blade sinking into Arch’s gut at the same moment Annise bashed into him with her shoulder. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs, his blade swinging wildly, slashing her hip open.

  She pinned him to the ground, but he bucked, as strong as an ice bear, throwing her aside like she was a dainty princess and not a broad-shouldered queen. He bared his teeth and leapt upon her and she knew she was dead.

  Until an enormous black shape eclipsed everything, standing before her. Tarin, the back of his pale head snaking with dark veins, swung his Morningstar at the Kings’ Bane.

  Bane dodged the blow and stepped inside its arc, punching the knight’s armor with his small fist. The sound was so loud Annise thought the earth itself might be cracking open. Tarin flew backwards, over her, skidding to a stop.

  “I’m sorry, sister,” Bane said. “I cannot resist it. Not anymore. This land needs a chance to heal, to start over. Father had to die. And now you do, too.”

  Annise wouldn’t fight back. Not against her own brother, no matter what he was. This was the brother she’d mourned as a child. The brother she’d lost. He hadn’t chosen his life any more than she’d chosen hers. She didn’t know if Arch was dead or not, but if he was alive, he would be king after she was gone, and she knew he’d be a good one.

  But Sir Dietrich had other ideas. His armor dented and splattered with blood that Annise suspected was not his own, the knight stepped forward to face her youngest brother.

  “Don’t hurt him,” she pleaded, struggling back to her feet. She didn’t know who she was speaking to. Maybe both of them.

  Bane ignored her. He sprang forward, his blade moving faster than Annise’s eyes could follow. And yet each slash was met with an even faster block by Sir Dietrich, whose sword almost seemed to separate itself from his grip, moving of its own volition.

  It was impossible. Even when Bane disappeared and reappeared several times behind the knight, Sir Dietrich managed to whirl and deflect his attacks. No swordsman in the Four Kingdoms was that good. Not naturally, anyway.

  Bane took a blow to the shoulder, and he roared, clutching his skin as blood poured between his fingers. He seemed shocked, his mouth agape. Another slash of Sir Dietrich’s sword forced the boy back, and he stumbled, falling to the ground. His body was beginning to shake, wracked with tremors. Sir Dietrich stood over her trembling brother, sword held high.

  Annise threw herself at the knight, knocking him aside as his sword came down. There was a meaty thump and a cry, and, as she landed, Annise turned her head to look back. Sir Dietrich’s sword was stuck in the ground, Bane having rolled away. The knight was glaring at her, dumbfounded. “What was that?” he growled.

  “You were going to…I couldn’t…I had to…” Annise started and stopped and started again, none of the words sounding quite right in her head.

  Beyond the knight, Bane had regained his feet, though his knife was missing and he was swaying from side to side. He was no longer clutching his shoulder, which bled freely. He looked as surprised as Sir Dietrich at what Annise had done. “Why?” he said breathlessly.

  “Because you’re my brother,” Annise said.

  Bane’s lips parted slightly, and then closed. A moment later he was gone.

  This time he didn’t reappear, gone to another place, to which, Annise suspected, she could not follow.

  Ignoring Sir Dietrich’s dark stare, Annise pushed to her feet and ran toward where Tarin had gone down earlier. She found the knight on his back, his eyes closed, his chest plate dented where her brother had punched him.

  “Tarin?” she said, ignoring the strangeness of his skin, which was too thin, too…stretched. She cupped his chin. “Tarin?” When he didn’t respond, she felt beneath his nostrils for breath. She felt something, but didn’t know if it was her imagination or the wind or air from the knight’s lungs.

  “Please, Tarin,” she said. “I know I haven’t always been the easiest traveling companion, but I—” I what? What am I trying to say? The truth whispered through her heart. “I need you. You are my hope flower, and I need you.”

  His eyes fluttered open and she let out a quick gasp of relief. He smiled, though it was weak. “Have you seen my helmet?” he asked.

  Annise laughed and sank back into a drift. For a long time, she stared at the snowfall, which hung like pale stars in the sky.

  Thirty-Five

  The Northern Kingdom, Silent Mountain

  Bane

  He’d tried to kill her, and she’d saved his life.

  His sister. The queen.

  He’d seen it in her eyes, a miasma of emotions, each trying to gain advantage: regret, hope, sorrow, love, anger.

  Anger, yes. That he understood. Sorrow and regret, too, perhaps. Hope? Love? Those were foreign to him, as impossibly distant as the shores of the Burning Sea.

  His shoulder was throbbing, his skin slick with blood. But that was only pain, of little concern to the Kings’ Bane. Though he’d lost his dagger, he had others. Sitting by the fire, he picked one up and thrust its blade into the flames, which were still crackling happily. Once the blade was sufficiently hot, he pulled it out and touched the broad side to his broken flesh, a flare of agony shooting through his arm as his skin sizzled. A moment later, his wound was sealed.

  It
would heal, eventually, which was more than he could say about the invisible tears in the fabric of his mind.

  Dropping the dagger, he curled and uncurled his fingers, taking deep breaths. He’d grown used to the feeling after, though he wouldn’t be able to stand if he tried. He lowered his head slowly to the ground, sighing with weariness.

  That’s when he noticed something: Bear was gone. Not just out—gone. None of the large man’s scant possessions remained. Both sets of his boots had been taken. All of his fur-lined clothing. Near the fire, a freshly stacked pile of moist firewood stood, drying in the heat. Six jugs of melting snow were lined up nearby. Recently carved meat hung from the ceiling, slowly being smoked.

  Bear was gone. “Father…” Bane murmured. “Father, why?” He’d been abandoned. He had no one.

  He was Death, and Death was forced to walk paths of shadow and isolation.

  He released the last of his energy through his throat, between his lips, his cry of anger and sorrow and pain and utter aloneness roaring from the mouth of the cave, startling a white owl who was perched on a scraggly tree on the mountainside.

  When he had no sound left inside him, Bane closed his eyes, still clutching the dagger between bloodstained fingers. He had nothing left but a prophecy. A prophecy about him. Eight rulers must die. Eight—no more, no less. I cannot fail. This is my purpose. Three dead—five to go.

  Though he didn’t trust himself to face his sister in the north again—not this soon—he had no qualms about cleansing the other kingdoms. He’d start as far away from the north as he could get. Not that he had a choice, because he already knew where he would be called to next.

  Yes. As soon as he’d recovered, Bane would leave the only home he’d ever known.

  The Southern Empire would be the next to fulfill the Oracle’s prophecy.

  Thirty-Six