Deathmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4)

  You will make the climb now or you will die.

  Once, Helmuth might’ve given up. Frozen hell, not so long ago he might’ve even wanted this fate.

  But everything had changed the moment he gained some semblance of control over the power inside him. I am fatemarked, he thought now. And this is not my fate.

  He angled his head away from the fire, focusing on the blue sky and a single white bird winging its way across the endless expanse.

  And Helmuth climbed.

  Hand over hand, up and up, not even considering the fact that the task would be made easier with two good legs—because, in his world, that had never been a possibility. Smoke chased him, stinging his eyes, which began to water furiously, tears dripping from his chin.

  But still he climbed, his vision blurred by smoke and tears.

  Three quarters of the way up he passed his previous best mark. However, unlike the last time he reached this height, his arms did not wobble, did not weaken.

  A pull higher. Two.

  Threefourfivesixseven…

  His sweat-slick hands slipped and he almost fell, clutching the rope with a single hand, gripping the woven strands so tightly he felt them cut through his callouses and into the meat of his palm. It should’ve been the end of Helmuth Gäric.

  But he was strong now. It wasn’t the end. He gritted his teeth and swung his opposite arm back over, snatching the rope, regaining control.

  Fire licked at his feet, hungry, clawing.

  A sudden thought sprung unbidden into his mind. The fire at his heels was like the Lesser. Ravenous, uncaring of who or what they destroyed. Devouring all. Like a Horde, he thought. Confused, without direction, powerful only if united in a single purpose by a single leader, aimed at their enemies like an arrow shot by a master marksman.

  I can be their leader.

  The thought was outrageous, impossible, and yet in this moment, with flames burning his heels and smoke stinging his eyes, anything was possible.

  But only if he made the climb and escaped the fire. Now. Here.

  He shoved the idea to the back of his mind and set his sights on the end of the rope as it disappeared over the edge of the cliff. He reached higher, lengthening each upward pull, feeling the heat recede the slightest bit, a reprieve that felt like a hailstorm abating.

  His muscles quivered, but didn’t weaken, bulging from his skin so hard he almost expected them to break through. Somewhere beneath him the king was shouting something, but he couldn’t make out the words, couldn’t hear anything but the beat of his own heart, not in his chest but in his skull, hammering away again and again and—

  The sun hit him full in the face and for a moment he was blinded, almost forgetting himself and reaching up to block the light with his hand, a mistake which would’ve been fatal. The return of the heat at his feet snapped him back to reality and he flung himself over the edge of the boulder, grabbing an iron post hammered into its face, where the rope was tied. His next motion was to roll away just as the flames, pushed by a stiff wind, shot up and over, tearing through the rest of the rope and leaving a trail of ash where Helmuth had been a moment earlier.

  Helmuth lay on his back, staring up at the most beautiful sky he’d ever laid eyes on. A rarity in Crimea, there was not a single cloud marring the glassy blue surface, and he might have been staring into a mirror if not for the lack of reflection. Moons were painted on the cobalt expanse, one green, one red, both full. It was something that only happened twice a year, and he knew that on this night they would come together and kiss for a single, stolen moment before going their separate ways, only to meet again half a year later.

  In the daylight, they were fuzzy and faded.

  But in the night, Helmuth knew, they would be as radiant as mirrored globes under the light of a noonday sun.

  Helmuth now knew that the king’s shouts had been to his guards, his soldiers. Which made Helmuth realize something else:

  He didn’t expect me to make the climb. He expected me to die.

  However, once the king realized there was a chance Helmuth would outrun the fire, he’d sent his guards to clamber up the sloped portion of the boulder on the opposite side. He thought I would try to escape. Me, a cripple with no strength in my legs.

  Once, Helmuth would’ve scoffed at such a notion, but not now. He is smart to fear me escaping. It will make it harder, yes, but not impossible.

  Now, as the guards placed him before the king, who sat in his stone throne, Helmuth felt much larger than his true stature.

  “Go,” the king said to the guards, and they went.

  Helmuth said nothing, relishing the silence and the power it gave him.

  “See what I have made you?” the king said.

  It should’ve sent Helmuth into a rage, but he was fully in control of his own emotions. Staring up at that perfect sky had brought him peace. Control. It had honed his desires, his goals. He remembered that mad, fleeting thought about unifying the northern barbarian clans. He remembered that word that had burst into being like a shadow cast by the first rays of dawn sunlight.

  Horde.

  It felt so right, in the same way that calling them the Lesser felt so wrong. For the barbarians were not Lesser. They were More. They had defeated the most powerful nation in the world for years, decades, centuries. They were unbeaten, despite the impossible odds stacked against them, despite being a fractured people, leaderless.

  If the clans are ever unified…

  Helmuth smiled at his own thoughts, envisioning a time when he loomed over the king, instead of the other way around.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  “I made myself,” Helmuth said simply.

  “Bah!” the king scoffed. “You would’ve never climbed to the top if I hadn’t been here.”

  “It would’ve taken longer, perhaps,” Helmuth said. “But I would’ve made it.”

  The king’s expression changed from one of gloating to one of anger in an instant. “You think my father and grandfathers conquered the world by being patient? Patience is akin to cowardliness, an excuse to hide from your fears.”

  They were a lot of words, but the king wasn’t really saying anything. Nothing true, at least. Because he would be patient, and it would be the king’s undoing. Helmuth said, “May I go back to my room?”

  The king stared at him for a long moment, and Helmuth thought he might deny the request. But in the end, being asked for his permission was enough to remind the king that he was the one in control.

  Let him think that.

  King Streit waved a hand as if he couldn’t care less what Helmuth did.

  Helmuth bided his time, continuing his daily strengthening regimen. The king didn’t summon him for over a week.

  And then he did:

  The fear in the gray-haired woman’s kind eyes was enough to tell Helmuth to be wary.

  In the throne room, King Streit lay on a mattress, his eyes closed, his cheek pressed against the pad. A thin sheet was cast over his body, almost how one would cover a corpse.

  Helmuth had made little sound as he entered, but the king must’ve sensed his presence, because he said, “Come closer.”

  A tendril of unease crept its way up Helmuth’s spine as he crabbed over.

  Something was off. Facts lined themselves up in his head, and then began to stack on top of one another, like the blocks of a tower. Or a building, rising through the clouds, higher than anything else in the world.

  The gray-haired woman’s sad eyes.

  Krako’s fear of the king.

  King Streit kicking out his crutches.

  Forcing him to climb.

  Strengthening him physically while beating him down mentally, emotionally.

  The boys in the rooms, with their unseeing eyes and broken expressions.

  And at the top of the tower:

  Vrinn.

  King Streit is not a good man.

  “The oil,” the king said now, his eyes remaining closed. Helm
uth noticed the glass vial of honey-colored ointment resting near the makeshift bed.

  King Streit was completely at ease. He feared nothing, certainly not this crippled boy he believed he was about to break forever. It would be so easy, Helmuth knew. He could summon his anger, send the fog into the king, watch as he quaked with fear at the things he saw. That Helmuth made him see.

  Is this the right time? He still felt like there was something missing, some sign, but the thought of touching the king made his skin crawl with invisible spiders.

  The king was staring at him. “The oil,” he repeated, the lazy lilt of his tone replaced with the sharp steel of command.

  Helmuth picked up the vial and dipped it to the side, allowing several drops to splash onto his hand. He rubbed his hands together, letting the greasy substance coat his palms, his fingers. As he did so, the anger melted from the king’s face and he closed his eyes once more. “Remove my covering,” he said, sounding tired.

  Helmuth did, and though he’d already known what he would find, bile still rose in his throat at the sight. The king’s pale body was unclothed, revealed in its entirety, his skin smooth and hairless, the shadows of his taut muscles evident beneath his skin.

  “Rub the oil into my skin,” he said.

  Helmuth hesitated, but only for the barest of instants, and the king didn’t seem to notice. His fingers touched the evil man’s shoulders softly, painting them with streaks of oil.

  “Harder.”

  He obeyed, not because he was this man’s servant, or plaything, but because earning his trust, convincing this man that he was broken, was a means to an end.

  “Harder,” the king repeated, and he dug in with his fingers, which were strong now, accustomed to hauling his own weight around and gripping a rope.

  Helmuth felt like he was being drawn toward a wall of flames, the heat scorching, burning, blistering his skin.

  “Lower.”

  He obeyed.

  “Harder.”

  No hesitation.

  “Lower.”

  A means to an end.

  “Lower godsdammit!”

  Helmuth stepped into the fire.

  “Harder!”

  And, to his surprise, he was not burned.

  Helmuth awoke to the earth trying to tear itself apart. He gripped his mattress with strong hands, watching as the cracks in the ceiling widened, snowing dust into his eyes.

  His bed jolted, lifting onto two legs for a moment before crashing back to the floor.

  Helmuth already knew this earthquake was ten times worse than the one he’d experienced with Krako on the road. No, a hundred times worse. And that one had almost killed him.

  But he was a different boy now. No, a boy no longer. A man, strengthened by experience and something else indefinable.

  He pushed over the side of the bed and crabbed to the door. The hallway should’ve been a place of chaos, people running about, trying to escape a shelter that suddenly had the potential to become a mass tomb. Instead, the boys peeked from their rooms, as silent and still as ever.

  They don’t care if they live or die, Helmuth thought. Like Vrinn.

  And then King Streit himself was there, striding down the hall, not even staggering as the earth bucked beneath him. Perfectly balanced. He wore nothing but a purple, silk robe, a boy trailing behind him as if tethered to the king by an invisible leash. “Out!” the king bellowed. “All of you. Follow me!”

  His eyes met Helmuth’s for a moment before skating on. The king had no doubts that every one of his playthings would follow without question. For they’d been broken like wild horses, their spirits his to control.

  Not Helmuth’s.

  He went the opposite way, hand over hand, faster now than he was even a week ago. Not as fast as someone with the use of their legs could run, but as quick as a hurried stride.

  The walls shook. Something fell from the roof and Helmuth dove to the side, the fist-sized stone narrowly missing his head.

  He didn’t consider how close a call it had been, simply pushed back up and continued on.

  He stopped when he saw a form emerge from the dimness, and he brought heat to his chest, prepared to use his fog of despair on the soldier who barred his way.

  It was no soldier. The gray-haired woman stepped forward. “Good luck,” she said, and then scurried past him in the opposite direction.

  “Wait,” Helmuth said, feeling foolish but unable to help himself.

  She stopped, her eyebrows raised in question.

  “What is your name? Please.”

  Her expression softened, and she said,” Lenora. Now go!” She hurried away.

  Helmuth allowed himself only a second to watch her—Lenora—before turning around. Ahead, there was a cracking sound, and he saw the earth begin to yawn open like rough lips parting. The crack moved to the walls, which snaked apart, then the ceiling. Jagged stones and rock dust rained down.

  Helmuth finally did his own equivalent of running, pushing his crabwalk into something of a gallop, a jolting, lurching race against the only thing blocking his escape…

  It was no longer a crack but a gap, widening by the second. Soon it would be too far for him to bridge. He raced forward, his concentration never wavering as he closed in, hitting the edge at a speed he’d never before achieved, planting his hands and pushing off and

  He leapt.

  It was a shadow of a true jump at best, but it felt like he was flying, and he wondered if it was how Vrinn felt for a second before the fear set in. He hoped so.

  The landing was rough, his hip and shoulder pounding into the unforgiving ground, his hands and elbows scraping along the rough surface. He rolled once, twice, and then was back on his hands and moving onward, a huge smile on his face as he bit back a cry of pain.

  As expected, the rear exit was unblocked, unguarded. None would try to escape from the king, especially not a crippled, broken boy in the midst of the most powerful earthquake Crimea had seen in over a century.

  Months later

  Initially, Helmuth had snuck onto a wagon bound northward, nestling his body between crates full of chickens and woven hemp pots overflowing with seeds.

  Of course, the stowaway had eventually been discovered, but the man who owned the cart was reasonable, (if somewhat mad, considering he’d been trying to outrun an earthquake) especially after he discovered he could earn coin by hustling those who didn’t believe a cripple could climb ropes and heft barrels onto his shoulders.

  So Helmuth earned his passage northward, where the man, whose name was Jeb, swore there was even more coin to be made. “The soldiers stationed on the border like eggs as much as anyone,” he liked to say. “Most are too skeered to go anywhere near the mountains.”

  “Because of the…Lesser,” Helmuth had asked, barely catching himself before he said “Horde.”

  “Savages,” Jeb spat. He twirled a stalk of hay between his fingers, a habit of his.

  They stopped speaking when the earth began to rumble beneath them. The aftershocks had been coming and going, never seeming to lessen in their strength. “They could go on fer years,” Jeb had said. “Quake like that? The earth’ll never be the same.”

  Something about it felt right to Helmuth. Because I will never be the same, he thought now.

  The rumbling ended and Jeb grinned. “Kind of soothing, don’ you think?”

  Helmuth grinned and nodded. It was exactly what he had been thinking.

  A week later Helmuth got his first glimpse of the mountains. Though he’d seen true mountains for the first time on his journey from Castle Hill to Blackstone, the Mournful Mountains were like pebbles next to the Northern Fangs. True to their name, they were huge, black spikes that entered the clouds only to reappear above them, piercing the sky.

  “They’re something, ain’t they?” Jeb said, gazing in the same direction as Helmuth.

  “They’re…” Like destiny. The word he’d used to describe Vrinn sprang to mind. “…beautiful.”


  “Aye. They are. Too bad we can never see them up close.”

  “Aye,” Helmuth said. But I’m going to.

  I’m going to.

  That night, he stole away from their makeshift camp. The old merchant’s plan had been to approach the Crimean encampment on the morrow with basketfuls of freshly laid eggs. Sorry, Jeb, you’re on your own, thought Helmuth as he crabbed westward. I hope you make loads of coin.

  In the dark, Helmuth couldn’t see where he placed his hands, and soon they’d been pierced by sharp stones in a dozen places, but his thick layers of callouses were enough to stave off the worst of the pain. Thanks, King Streit, he thought.

  To the north, he could see the lighted edge of the Crimean encampment, which was in the foothills of the mountains. According to Jeb, bloody battle after bloody battle had been fought in these lands, but whenever the Crimean soldiers tried to advance, the Lesser would simply retreat into the cover of the mountains, disappearing into caves and tunnels. From there on out, they would attack sporadically and randomly at all times of day or night, eventually driving the Crimeans back across the border.

  Helmuth knew such tactics would frustrate King Streit to no end, a fact that brought a smile to his face even as a particularly sharp rock bit into his palm.

  After he was clear of the edge of the border guard, Helmuth angled northward, resuming his jaunt across the rocky, barren land. There was something about the night that made these lands more beautiful, less desolate, and Helmuth wasn’t scared of being alone in the dark.

  No, he’d faced worse and emerged from the fire unscathed. Or at least mostly.

  The mountains loomed closer, an impenetrable black wall. Despite the impossibility of such a thing, Helmuth didn’t doubt for one moment that he could climb them. I will climb them, he thought. As high as necessary to find the…the Horde. The word he’d chosen to describe the barbarians brought gooseflesh to his arms, legs and the back of his neck.