Deathmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4)

  The axe dropped from his hands behind him, and they fell together, landing at almost the same instant.

  Mortis stared at the cloudy sky, at the empty spot where his would-be killer had stood only a moment earlier, the killing stroke mere seconds from falling.

  A rustling sound filled his ears, but he didn’t turn to locate it. Just stared at that sky, at the gray clouds moving over him like ships across a stormy sea, occasionally silvered at the edges by the light from one or both moons.

  It was beautiful, the night, Mortis realized.

  He hadn’t thought such a thing in a long time.

  And then the rustling stopped and Sparrow was there. Not standing over him like the conquering hero that she was, but falling to her knees at his side, much like he’d done on the night that changed his world and brought him to this very place all these years later.

  Her expression was one of fear, her brow furrowed as her gleaming eyes searched him for injury.

  “I am unhurt,” Mortis managed to say, though it was a lie.

  The concern fell away and she pressed her body against him, cradling his head in her hands. He relished her warmth, like a cocoon of healing.

  For the first time since they kissed all those years ago, he didn’t feel completely awful for the feelings he’d long held for this woman of the iron forest.

  He could still see Scarlett in his mind—not as she was at the end, bloodied and broken, but as the vibrant, beautiful maiden he’d fallen in love with—and she was smiling. And he knew he had her blessing—had always had it, even if he didn’t feel worthy of such a thing.

  He didn’t kiss Sparrow on this night, though he would, many, many times, but he did hold her for hours, until long after the battle was over, the enemy routed, their thundering retreat flowing past like winds chased by the howls of wolves.

  Ten years later

  Mortis painted a single finger along the swell of Sparrow’s hip, feeling her tremble slightly beneath his touch. The years had stolen none of the restless energy that seemed to connect them.

  She is so beautiful, he thought, watching her chin lift to expose her neck, the skin as supple as cured leather. An invitation, which he gladly accepted, kissing her, painting her with fire.

  Clad in armor, Sparrow was a warrior. Like this, she was his. And he was hers.

  He still loved Scarlett, would love her until time cracked the earth into two pieces like a split piece of wood, but he loved Sparrow equally. There was no competition between them for his heart, for such a thing was foolishness when death separated two lovers with an impenetrable wall.

  He reached her chin, growing hungrier but forcing himself to linger on each spot of skin, to draw out the moment before

  Their lips met.

  It was fire in the dark, sunlight in the shadows, stars exploding in the night sky.

  A feeling that would never grow old.

  And, surprisingly, it was the same moment that his thoughts strayed to another place, grabbing hold of an idea that had been sneaking around the edges of his mind for years.

  The last ten years had wrought much change on the east. Though the animosity had only grown between the east and west, such hate was not shared by all on either side. Mortis had opened the hearts of the Orians to the idea that perhaps not all colonizers were to be feared. Instead of attacking new settlements, the Orians had sent Mortis as their ambassador, inviting the humans to visit Ironwood.

  Many opted to stay, learning the ways of the iron forest and its people. Many became legionnaires, willing to fight for this magical place.

  But there was something missing, Mortis knew. He’d known for a long time.

  He could see it in his mind, and it was beautiful.

  “Where are you?” Sparrow asked, drawing him back from his reverie.

  He blinked, staring into those piercing eyes that were his to stare into. “What?” he said.

  “You stopped kissing. And you know I grow angry when you stop kissing.”

  Ore, how he loved this woman. And though he knew she was more than capable of protecting herself, he also knew he would die to keep her safe. But there were other ways too. The Calypsians had been growing ever bolder on the southern border and there were rumors that their dragons had reached maturity. It was more a matter of when, not if, they would attack.

  Our defenses are stronger than ever, Mortis thought. But it wouldn’t be enough against dragons. The forest was simply too big.

  “We need to build a city,” he said now. “An iron city.”

  Sparrow’s lips parted slightly and she laughed, the sound like music to Mortis’s ears even though she was mocking him. “You silly humans, always needing to conquer everything.”

  But Mortis didn’t want to conquer the forest—he wanted his city to be a part of it. He explained everything, and by the time he was finished, Sparrow’s eyes were as full of excitement as he suspected his were.

  “And what will you call this city of iron?” she asked.

  The name came to him like it had always been there, just waiting for this exact moment.

  “Ferria,” he said.

  Postlude 2: Fay Da

  The Northern Kingdom, Blackstone- Circa 520

  Fay Da wasn’t always Fay Da. No, she was born Rose Smith, a name she’d once been proud of. Roses were the finest of all flowers, after all, and she was the finest blacksmith in all of Blackstone—perhaps even the entire frozen north.

  Then why am I so miserable? she thought now.

  Once she might’ve believed her depression stemmed from the loss of her parents in short succession several years earlier. Her mother had been kicked by a horse. Her father—her teacher, her best friend, her confidante—withered away with a broken heart shortly thereafter. But she knew that wasn’t the root cause of her melancholy, only a contributing factor.

  Lord Blackstone, she thought now. The man, yes, but not only.

  The job.

  She’d initially fallen into the employ of the most powerful noble of the northern kingdom’s largest city a year after her father’s death. The position was gained through a well-connected friend of her father who’d been determined to help her.

  A friend who was now dead.

  Because of me, she thought. Like so many others.

  Her job was simple: Outfit the soldiers of Blackstone with steel and armor, weaponry and shield.

  The truth was infinitely more complex.

  And getting more complex by the day.

  Lord Blackstone was a greedy man, as miserly as the day was long, but he was also practical, and when he’d first explained the reasons for the changes, Rose had assumed the decision was made from a place of necessity.

  Make the infantry’s armor smaller and thinner, he’d said. I want them to be fast. It will save lives in the long run.

  It had also saved the lord thirty percent more coin in the short run.

  And, Rose now realized as she stared at the lord, no percentage of coin would ever be enough for Lord Blackstone. Not until his lowest class of soldier was fighting in naught but cloth napkins and wielding rolled up parchment as swords.

  “Excuse me?” she said, even though she’d heard him perfectly well the first time.

  Lord Blackstone’s thin eyebrows were sharpened to black points on each end. “The formal orders will be delivered to your office. I came as a courtesy.” He turned and stalked off. He would be obeyed without question.

  Rose seethed.

  The first time the armor requirements for the light infantry had been…altered…Rose had obeyed without question. She still remembered the blood-stained fragments of sheared armor that had been returned to her to be used as scrap metal. So, the second time she had questioned, and her well-connected friend who’d helped land her the job in the first place had been threatened.

  So, again, she had obeyed. Lord Blackstone had had him killed anyway, to send her a clear message:

  Obey or pay the price.

  This was now
the third time in three years she’d been commanded to reduce the weight and size of the infantry’s armor. As she looked at the requirements set out in the formal orders, her mouth gaped open. Hundreds will die who might’ve been protected, she thought. Maybe thousands.

  She shook her head, trying to understand. Why would Lord Blackstone want to see his own army decimated on the frontlines by their enemies? Just to get richer? Something about it didn’t feel right. I’m missing something. I must be.

  Regardless, she knew she had to do something, Rose did what she did best:

  She forged.

  A fortnight later, when the new design was perfected, she wiped the grime from her cheeks—which only made her cheeks grimier—and released a deep sigh of satisfaction. The new armor was an original composite, forged of six different types of metal, five of which were inexpensive and could be easily procured. The sixth—while not inexpensive and less readily available—was used in such small quantity that it didn’t inflate the overall price of the suit too much. All said, she was within the budget specifications provided by Lord Blackstone. Additionally, the armor was, in fact, thinner and lighter, giving the infantry the added benefit of greater speed and agility.

  It was a once in a generation breakthrough, and, although it pained her to admit, would not have been possible if not for Lord Blackstone’s greed.

  Finally, Rose would be able to protect the soldiers she’d been charged to protect and satisfy the lord’s growing treasury.

  All that was left was to present it to the lord of Blackguard himself.

  “I love it,” Lord Blackstone said, after a thorough demonstration had been conducted. Rose’s new armor had been placed on a dummy constructed of animal skins stitched together and filled with water. Then it had been attacked mercilessly by swords, arrows, and even hammers. Save for a few dents, the armor had held up incredibly well, so much so that none of the skins were leaking so much as a drop of water.

  “You have truly outdone yourself,” the lord added, running a hand over a sample of the metal.

  Rose didn’t smile so much as beam. For the first time in years, she felt…happy. Like she’d accomplished something worthy of her father’s legacy. This was what she was meant to be doing—not churning out flimsy armor for foot soldiers meant to die.

  Lord Blackstone’s fingers played with the hairs of his goatee, twirling them together and plucking at them. He sat on Blackstone’s royal seat, a gaudy velvet chair with golden tassels dangling from the arms. Behind him was an enormous tapestry depicting a battle between the north and the west. It was the bloodiest battle of the Hundred Years War. It was said a thousand men had died every hour. “What of the new design for the infantry?” the lord asked now. “Has that been completed yet?”

  Rose’s smile vanished. “Wha-what? This is the new design.”

  The lord scoffed. “Smith. What makes you think I would outfit my lowest level soldiers in armor of this quality? This is armor fit for a lord, and I will wear it proudly, as well as my top generals. You should be honored by such a fact.”

  “Honored?” The word felt like a slap, drawing heat to her cheeks. “Thousands will die on the frontlines.” She knew she was being far too bold by half, but couldn’t help herself.

  The lord waved her protest away. “Bah. Thousands will die regardless of what we do. This is a war. Men will die. Must I remind you.” The last part was a threat, she knew. To her. To anyone she cared anything about. Though she preferred being alone these days, she occasionally went for a drink with her smiths. She wouldn’t call them her friends, exactly, but she couldn’t bear the thought of any of them disappearing simply for being associated with her.

  Her mouth hung open, but all further arguments died on her lips. It left her feeling cold and useless.

  “Dismissed.” The word was like a dagger to the heart not because it was a sharp command, but because it wasn’t. Instead, it was uttered with a casual indifference that demonstrated just how untouchable Lord Blackstone believed himself to be.

  She would design the new infantry armor to the lord’s exact specifications.

  Rose felt ill.

  The new armor she’d designed for the infantry not only was inferior, but looked it, constructed of used metals of dubious origin. Thousands of soldiers will die, because of me, she thought. She could see her father’s eyes in the back of her mind, his disappointment. But what was she to do? She could refuse to follow the lord’s orders, a crime which would result in her execution. She could brook another argument, but he would only threaten—or worse, hurt—someone she was associated with. She could run away, but even that was a hollow idea, cowardly, because someone else would only fill her shoes.

  Soldiers would still die, needless deaths she could’ve prevented.

  But how?

  She left the forge and crossed the snow-blown area to the castle’s side entrance. She didn’t have a plan, not really, but knew she needed more time. Surely Lord Blackstone couldn’t deny her that. She could make excuses about the specifications being more of a challenge than she initially believed, and he would trust her because none had ever openly defied him…

  She froze, hearing voices echoing from an open door on the right. The door that led to the grand hall adorned in bloody tapestries of battle and death.

  Voices filled with mirth. Laughter.

  She peered around the corner. From afar, the individuals were hard to make out. Lord Blackstone for certain was there, his voice as familiar to Rose as an old scar. The other two, she soon realized, were the lord’s top generals, Drummond and Wheeler. Not once had they objected to the changes to their soldiers’ armor, a fact that had never sat well with Rose. She’d always believed they were sheep, but now…

  They were coconspirators.

  “If the last battle was any indication,” Drummond was saying, “if we lose a thousand men they will be replaced by three thousand. Maybe more.”

  “Not to mention the tax coin that will be sent our way,” Wheeler added. “A fifty percent increase, at the least I’d say.”

  More laughter, Lord Blackstone’s loudest of all, a booming tone that reverberated through the hall.

  They want their infantrymen to die, Rose realized with horror. Suddenly it all made sense to her. The more men they lost on the frontlines, the more their sacrifice would be recognized in Castle Hill, where King Gäric resided. Military resources would be reallocated, funneled to Blackstone. Coin too, filling their coffers to overflowing.

  Getting richer and more powerful off the blood of their own men.

  It was criminal.

  It was horrifying.

  Rose wanted them to be punished.

  Perhaps it was the adrenaline, or the feeling of being backed into a corner, but in that moment an idea sprang into her mind. Yes, it would cost her everything—her job, her livelihood, her reputation, perhaps even her life—but it would cost Lord Blackstone too.

  Oh yes, it will cost him dearly.

  “This looks no different to your other design,” Lord Blackstone said, peering at the armor. He ran a finger along the surface of the breastplate, curling his nose as it came away sheened in a layer of fresh oil.

  It had taken her all night, but she’d accomplished her goal.

  Rose kept her tone even, though her heart galloped in her chest. “True. Which is another of its benefits. The infantry will believe they are adorned in the same armor as the lords. They will fight harder for you.” To demonstrate, she stabbed a sword at the armor. Unlike the previous test, in which the blade would’ve deflected solidly off the metal with a tonal clang, this time the blade pierced the armor with a loud skreek. The stitched skin inside burst and water pumped from the “wound.”

  The lord licked his lips at the appealing prospect of his men fighting even harder for him. Or perhaps it was the thought of them dying that delighted him. His eyes narrowed a moment later. “How will we tell the difference in the sets of armor?”

  Rose smiled, as if
sharing a secret between them. She lowered her voice to a whisper, gesturing to a spot on the other set of armor she’d brought—the original design. There was a marking there, engraved on the left breastplate.

  A sword crossed with an axe, a crown hovering between them both.

  “Only your armor will bear this symbol. That is how you will tell.”

  The lord smiled back. It was a devil’s smile.

  Three months later

  It is done, Rose thought. There was no turning back, not that she wanted to. For months, she and her smiths had toiled to forge both types of armor, thousands of sets of plate for the soldiers and much less for the lord and his ilk.

  Lord Blackstone himself had requested she march into battle with him, so she could “see the fruits” of her labors. Oh, I will see the fruit, she thought. It might not be as sweet as you expect, however.

  The lord hadn’t even tested the armor he was provided with. He feared nothing. Even if he had, Rose had been prepared for it. One spot on the chest plate was forged of the new composite, and she could’ve stabbed it a hundred times and it wouldn’t have torn. The rest was weak.

  She’d purposely kept her smiths ignorant to the ruse. Only she knew which armor was which, and it was she who’d etched the symbol in each one. There were just over a hundred marked suits, which had been provided to Lord Blackstone and his ignoble entourage.

  The rest of the armor was sent to the infantry, who marveled over the crisp, lightweight feel.

  Now, beyond the dark spear-like spires that marked the Blackstone coastline, Rose saw the western armada. More and more, the westerners, under the command of King Loren, had taken to attacking the northern shores. Blackstone was the first and only line of defense, which was one of the reasons the sprawling city had grown so much in the last decade, as all types of merchants and tradesmen and women flocked to the city to meet the needs of its burgeoning military.