Footsteps crunched in the brittle snow.
“I’m supposed to give you water,” a new voice said. “To keep you alive.”
David said nothing. He didn’t want water. He didn’t want life.
Liquid splashed onto his head, cascading down his cheeks and dripping from his chin. The water the man had promised. It began to freeze on his skin.
Steel slid from a scabbard. This is it, David thought. This man is going to defy his master’s orders and kill me.
“I watched you kill my brother,” the man continued. “My cousin too. This is a small city. Lots of relations here.”
David tried to speak, to tell this man he was so sorry, but something stopped him. The meaninglessness of those empty words, perhaps. His lips closed.
“Nothing to say still?” The anger was there. Determination too. No words would stay this man’s hand.
A final memory bubbled to the top of David’s mind, like a dead fish in a pond.
King Wolfric Gäric sliding that blade into his father’s chest.
This had all started because of a monster, and now he was a monster too. Worse, he’d followed the monster king’s orders blindly. This mission had nothing to do with the north. Inflating a cruel king’s ego had been the only purpose. I’m a fool.
Once again, David knew he’d wasted his swordmark. Yes, he’d defended the north from its enemies without their borders. But a greater enemy remained within, spreading like a disease. The Dread King needs to die.
The thought burst through his mind like sunlight through thick cloud cover.
It was a second chance.
It was a true purpose.
It was revenge, yes, but it was more than that too. It was hope for a better future for the kingdom he still loved, even after everything.
A hand grabbed him by the collar, lifting him up. When David opened his eyes, a sad, tear-filled stare met his. “This is for my family,” the man said.
He’d made a mistake.
David’s hand was already clasped around his, peeling his fingers away from the sword hilt.
His swordmark flared with restless energy.
David hadn’t killed the man. Never did he want to kill like that again, and certainly not in the name of a tyrant. The man would wake up a little groggy with a bump on his head. He’d be punished for allowing the prisoner to escape, but then he’d continue being a soldier.
Life, for him, would go on.
For David, too.
He hadn’t returned to camp, though he would need to eventually. He would need to tell the story of the Blade, of their final battle. They needed to be remembered for years to come.
For now, however, he had other work to do.
The fire crackled happily, dining on a sup of dry leaves and pine nettles he’d found out of the wind and snow. David had constructed a long torch, painting the business end with the flammable sap of the green fir tree. He stuck the branch into the fire, watching as it burst into flame.
He was naked from the waist up, his skin bloodstained.
He didn’t need a looking glass to know exactly where his swordmark was located.
Reaching over his shoulder, he extended the fiery end of the torch toward his flesh.
The pain was immense, but he refused to release the torch as the flames burrowed into his skin, hungry, ravenous.
He didn’t release the torch until he passed out.
The voice seemed to emerge from a long tunnel, echoing to his ears.
“Thank the frozen gods of the north you’re alive,” it said.
Familiar. Friendly. Captain Stapleton.
I’m not dead, David thought. He was surprised at the relief he felt, even as the events of the last few days rushed through his mind like a chill winter wind. Still, the relief was truth. He didn’t want to die. Not anymore. Not until the Dread King was dead anyway.
His eyes fluttered open.
Captain Stapleton draped a warm blanket over him, though he wasn’t cold. His small fire continued to smolder nearby, providing heat. “What happened?” the captain asked.
“We failed,” David said. “All dead. Except me.”
The captain’s stare darkened. “I feared as much. The scouts returned with news of a battle. That’s all they knew.”
“You came looking for me?”
“For all of you, yes.”
“Thank you.”
The captain nodded, seeming to hesitate before speaking again. “They…hurt you? Tortured you?”
David nodded slowly.
“Burned you?”
David didn’t look away from the captain. Something told him the captain knew the truth, or at least a portion of it. “Yes. They burned me.”
Something silent passed between them. “That is what I will tell the others.”
“I need…time,” David said.
Captain Stapleton took a deep breath. “I understand. As far as I’m concerned, you died with the others. If you ever return, however, I would be honored to have you by my side.”
A swell of emotion welled up inside David. This man wasn’t just his captain. “You are a true friend. I am forever in your debt.”
“You can have what little food and water I have with me. This blanket too. Stay safe, son. May we meet again in a better world.”
They clasped hands and then the captain departed, his footsteps fading away.
David groaned as his back began to burn anew. He threw off the blanket and rolled over into the snow.
Several months later
He’d come up with the plan almost by chance. After traveling back through Raider’s Pass, making excuses at the border about war injuries and Captain Stapleton’s orders that he rest and recover before returning to the front lines, David had gone back to Gearhärt. He’d watched his mother for a long time, making sure she was well. He didn’t reveal himself to her, fearing he would never leave her side again.
That’s when he’d seen the poster. It was about a tournament, the first of many across the realm. As a boy, he remembered cheering on the knights as they did battle for glory and wealth beyond measure. Now, however, it was a particular prize that interested him.
At the end of the season, the dueling champion of the grand tourney in Castle Hill would receive knighthood. David Dietrich knew that knighthood could only be granted by the king himself.
That same day he entered his first tourney, in the soldier’s division.
Though he made it look hard, he easily won the dueling competition.
More months later
Behind David, Castle Hill rose like a white beacon.
It should be painted black, David thought. As soon as the Dread King is dead, I shall buy a paintbrush.
It was the final day of the grand tourney, on which the dueling champion would be determined. As the months had passed and he’d won each tourney across the realm, he’d grown more and more anxious for this day. Now that it was here, however, he felt doubt begin to creep in. Not in himself, or his dueling ability—his swordmark would all but ensure he emerged victorious—but in his plan. Killing the king with his own sword just as he knighted him? It was almost too dramatic to be plausible, like something that might happen in a play.
Stop thinking too much, David thought, snapping his thoughts back to the crowd’s cheers, to his opponent, a career knight who’d won the duel numerous times over the last decade. Sir Jonius. This same man was there when David’s father had been killed. The killing stroke wasn’t his, but he’d done nothing to stop it.
Then again, neither did I, David thought, remembering his own failures.
Jonius spun his blade expertly, like a professional dancer performing the northern jaunt.
David waited, his own sword raised. Though he’d burned his swordmark many months earlier so none, including himself, would ever be able to see it again, it continued to thrum whenever he held a blade. Hidden but not dead. Never dead.
The announcement of the finalists was made, the crowd
cheered louder, and the duelists circled each other. Unlike many of the other men David had faced thus far, Jonius was more cautious, using nimble footwork and deft sword movements to parry each strike.
David had not given himself over fully to his swordmark in any tournament. He still had a secret to keep.
Now, however, he let it flare a little more, unleashing a barrage of slashes, stabs, and hammer blows. Jonius danced back, blocking each, darting randomly to either side to escape before he could be trapped against the boundary.
David could see his goal in front of him, so close now he could taste it. He rushed forward again and again, an assault without end, until the knight stumbled, regaining his feet at the expense of his sword arm, which was now hopelessly out of position.
With a precise twirl of his sword, David disarmed his opponent and placed the tip of his blade against Jonius’s neck. Do you submit? the gesture said.
“I submit,” Jonius said, loud enough for the tourney official to hear. “Well fought. Where did you learn your sword work? It is impeccable.”
David had nothing to say to this man. Instead, he turned. Not once had he allowed his gaze to travel to where his enemy sat, watching the tournament from a place of honor.
Now, however, he did, his eyes resting on the king as he stood, his clap slow and methodical. His eyes were as dark as shadows, his grin as cruel as knives. “A brilliant end to a brilliant duel,” he said, the crowd hushing as he spoke. “And to the victor, a reward. Come forward.”
David’s eyes roamed across the rest of the royal family. The queen, who was previously a princess of the west, Sabria Loren Gäric. Her golden beauty was like the antidote to her husband’s dark poison. Beside her was the eldest child, Annise, a girl of only fourteen but as broad-shouldered as a man, her features all Gäric and none Loren. The second child, Archer, a twelve-year-old with the confidence of a man twice his age. He was the only one wearing a true smile, grinning from ear to ear.
As David’s eyes returned to the king, he wondered whether any of them knew what a monster Wolfric was.
He started forward, his fingers tightening on his sword’s hilt.
He stopped. Wait. In the moment, he’d almost forgotten himself, had almost made a grave mistake.
One by one, he opened his fingers, letting his blade escape his grasp.
None could approach the king with a weapon, especially not a champion duelist.
The king, surrounded by guardsmen, descended the steps to the tournament field. He was so close now. So temptingly close.
“Kneel,” he said. The Dread King himself. So close.
David kneeled, his eyes lowered to the king’s black boots. His mind focused on the sword sheathed in the king’s scabbard. The sword that he now drew. It was a ceremonial sword, thin and weak, but sharp enough to kill in a pinch.
“State your name,” Wolfric said.
“David Dietrich,” he said, glancing up for any flicker of recognition.
The king didn’t blink. How many men had he killed in cold blood that he’d forgotten their names? Not as many as me, David thought.
The king said, “David Dietrich, by the authority afforded me by the frozen gods of the north, I hereby grant you the title Sir Dietrich”—he tapped one shoulder with the broad side of the sword—“knight of the realm.” He began to tap the other shoulder and David thought, This is it, this is it, this is—
His swordmark went as cold as ice, something it had never done before.
And then the moment was gone, the king pulling back, his guards folding around him like a collapsible awning.
No! Sir Dietrich wanted to scream. He’d missed his one opportunity, the only one he would ever get. Yet again, he’d failed.
Before the thought could consume him, however, another idea appeared, unbidden. I have gained power and authority. If I had killed the king, they would’ve killed me on the spot. I would’ve ridded the world of a bad man, but that didn’t mean a new bad man wouldn’t take his place. I can do more.
“I—” he started to say, trying to understand his own thoughts.
The king turned back, frowning. “Something to say, Sir Dietrich?”
“I—yes—thank you.”
The king raised one eyebrow, nodded, and turned away.
You will die, Sir Dietrich thought. Just not today.
One year later
Sir Dietrich had begun to enjoy tournaments immensely, especially since they were just for a bit of fun now. It didn’t hurt that his fame had grown with each victory. Sometimes he even rejected the help provided by his swordmark, winning the old-fashioned way. It made him happy to know he was a damn good swordsman even without the mark of power.
Generally, he stuck to dueling, but lately he’d branched out into the melee, which was a whole different beast. Foes in every direction, bodies sprawled about, temporary alliances made and broken. There was something wild and passionate about the melee, something that reminded him of true battle, only without the dead bodies.
He’d won the three he’d entered so far, which only added to his celebrity.
Now, however, the melee in the border city of Darrin was giving him a world of trouble.
The knight he faced was a giant, his armor black and thick, covering every part of him, even his face. The Armored Knight, they called him. Supposedly he’d also never lost a melee, and he’d fought in a lot more than three. His weapon was a strange spiked ball on a long chain, which the powerful man swung with mighty strokes. The Morningstar, he called it.
It was all Sir Dietrich could do to avoid getting crushed. His armor was already so full of dents it could scarce afford another. Still, he fought on, dodging another blow, trying to break inside his opponent’s defenses.
Just as he thought he saw an opening, the Armored Knight changed his tactic, almost like he’d been baiting him the whole time. He took a long step forward, releasing his weapon and grabbing Sir Dietrich’s sword arm in a monstrous grip. His swordmark flared, sending strength to the arm. This usually meant he could break free and finish off his opponent.
Not this time.
The Armored Knight’s strength was beyond even that of his mark, wrenching his sword from his hand and throwing him down. With his grip on the sword severed, his mark’s power faded.
He tried to roll away, but the knight stomped on his chest, pinning him to the ground. “Submit,” the man growled.
“Yes. I submit.”
The knight released him, striding away as if nothing had happened at all.
“I want to see the Armored Knight,” Sir Dietrich said when the woman opened the door.
She eyed him like he was something rancid stuck to her shoe. “The big fella don’ take no visitors,” she said, already starting to close the door.
Sir Dietrich stuck his foot in the gap before she could seal it off. “Wait. Just tell him Sir Dietrich is here. Let him decide whether to see me.”
She chewed her lip for a moment but then nodded. He pulled his foot back and the door slammed.
He sat in a snowbank to wait. Occasionally kids ran past, laughing and playing. Despite the violence the city of Darrin had seen, the fathers and sons it had lost in the war with the east, there was still happiness here. The thought gave him hope.
Shadows descended as the sun, already hidden behind thick clouds, sank toward dusk.
He won’t come out, he thought. It’s probably better anyway. The last thing I need is a friend.
Grudgingly, he stood, dusting off the snow, most of which had already melted through his britches.
The door creaked open, an enormous form filling the doorway. Still armored, even his face. “What do you want from me? An apology? There are always winners and losers in this life.”
Sir Dietrich was so surprised by the knight’s sudden appearance that, for a moment, he was tongue-tied. He found his words one at a time. “I…don’t…know.”
The knight’s dark eyes—the only visible part of his body—stared
out at him.
I’m an idiot. Sir Dietrich started to turn away. “Sorry to bother—”
“Come in,” the Armored Knight said. “I don’t know what the frozen hell I want either. Maybe we can help each other figure it out.”
A personal note from David…
Congratulations! You are officially caught up on all things Fatemarked! I appreciate your support, it truly means the world to me and my family. Watch out for the fifth book in The Fatemarked Epic, Deathmarked, which will be released later in 2017. If you loved the complexity of the characters and plotlines in the first four books, I have the feeling you would enjoy several of my SciFi series, particularly The Slip Trilogy. Keep reading for a sample!
If you enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a positive review on Amazon.com. Without reviews on Amazon.com, I wouldn’t be able to write for a living, which is what I love to do! Thanks for all your incredible support and I look forward to reading your reviews.
Acknowledgments
Just a quick shout out to my cover artist, Piero, you rock! Love seeing you bring my characters to life in such an awesome way. Thanks for everything!
And thank you to my beta readers, Laurie Love, Elizabeth Love, Karen Benson, Kerri Hughes, Daniel Elison and Abalee Cook. This journey is so much better because you’re on it with me!
Finally, thank you to the readers who love knowing all the backstories, who always want MORE from me. You make me a better writer. May you all be book…uh…marked? *groans* Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.
The saga continues in other books by David Estes available through the author’s official website:
http://davidestesbooks.blogspot.com
or through select online retailers including Amazon.com.
High Fantasy Novels by David Estes
The Fatemarked Epic:
Book One—Fatemarked
Book Two—Truthmarked