Lifemarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 5)

  He stood gingerly, inspecting the yew and iron bands strapped to his legs. When his eyes met hers again, gone was the easy confidence, replaced with fury.

  “You’re like all the others,” he said. “You think I’m a cripple, don’t you? Don’t you!?”

  Gwen didn’t know what to make of this new line of inquiry, but anything to keep him talking, for she’d just spotted a welcome face through the foliage. Gareth Ironclad pressed a finger to his lips as he crept closer.

  The Horde leader picked up a spear. Gwen tried not to give away her fear, for this was Orian steel. Time was running out… Hurry, she urged Gareth in her mind.

  The man tossed the spear back and forth from one hand to the other. “Let’s try this one more time,” he said.

  “Good luck with that.”

  “I don’t need luck. I have created my own fate.”

  “You don’t create fate. It just is.”

  He laughed but stepped closer, now within striking distance. Gwen weighed her options. If she could keep him talking long enough for Gareth to sneak up behind him…

  But this man was no fool, and the strike came without preamble or warning, the Orian spear tip thrust through her armor like a knife through butter, entering her flesh, sliding between her ribs, penetrating deep.

  Gwen gasped, alternating spots of shadow and light dancing across her vision. She tried to speak, to say something, anything, to shout for Gareth to run but everything was fading and she closed her eyes so she didn’t have to watch anymore of her friends die.

  Gareth

  My fault, Gareth thought. He could’ve moved quicker, but he’d thought he had more time.

  His guilt morphed into anger and he crashed forward through the foliage, bringing his sword to bear. The man spun like he was made of wind, catching Gareth’s wrist before he could strike, prying his fingers open one at a time until the blade fell from his grasp.

  And then came the pain, like pins stuck under his fingernails, twisting, stabbing, bringing him to his knees.

  Gareth could think of nothing as his body spasmed. Another bolt hit him and his eyes flew open wide enough to see the spiked ball arcing like a falling silver star.

  Tarin

  The Morningstar would’ve taken the man’s head from his shoulders, but he ducked. The force of the momentum almost yanked Tarin’s arm from his socket as the spiked ball crashed into leaf and branch, ripping it to shreds.

  The man—Helmuth Gäric, Tarin knew—lashed out, grabbing the chain, jerking it hard and almost pulling Tarin off his feet.

  “No!” a voice screamed and then Annise was there, smashing her Evenstar into her uncle’s back, knocking him off balance.

  Until that moment, Tarin was still just Tarin, mostly. But seeing the love of his life, the fierce warrior that she was, risking herself for him reminded him of the promise he’d made her.

  He couldn’t be Tarin anymore, not only, not if they were going to win the day.

  For the first time since the fateful day he was cursed with life, Tarin Sheary gave himself over to the monster.

  Entirely.

  Annise

  Her uncle’s back arched and she expected him to fall, but he didn’t, managing to leap a branch and dive through the leaves, vanishing amidst the undergrowth.

  She turned to check on Tarin, only to find him charging like a bull after her uncle, his Morningstar trailing like a deadly tail.

  The Orian woman wasn’t moving, but Annise placed her fingers before her lips anyway. Weak breaths brushed her skin.

  Next she checked Gareth, who was curled up in the fetal position, muttering under his breath. “Are you hurt?” she asked. More muttering. She didn’t see any visible wounds, but she’d seen the way his body had convulsed at her uncle’s touch. “I’ll come back for you. Rest. I’m going to get help.”

  She climbed back out of the mess of the fallen tree and into the light. As far as she could tell, it was still night, but the battlefield was as bright as midday, the light coming from somewhere southward, just before the massive wall that separated the west from Phanes.

  What she saw took her breath away.

  Her uncle stood amidst the Horde, which still numbered in the thousands.

  Facing them were a familiar few, undaunted by the multitude gathered against them:

  Tarin Sheary. Zelda Gäric. Christoff Metz. Mona Sheary.

  Annise strode over to them, catching the eye of her aunt. “He’s my brother,” Zelda said. “He’s my responsibility.”

  Annise shook her head. “We do this together. All of us.”

  Behind them, every Phanecian, Teran, easterner or northerner still alive flocked to support them. Annise glanced back. Though they were now outnumbered four to one, she didn’t doubt their chances for a single moment.

  “Attack!” she shouted, and the battle began anew.

  One-Hundred-and-One

  The Western Kingdom, Felix

  Lisbeth Lorne

  Lisbeth flew, rocketing ahead of the barbarians and Sir Dietrich, reaching Rhea Loren and Grey Arris and their child. She could see directly into the babe’s soul, which was bursting with energy, so bright she had to look away.

  “They are too many,” Grey Arris said. “Even with Dietrich, we will lose this battle.”

  “If Noura dies, all is lost,” Rhea said, her voice full of conviction. She continued to cradle the child in her arms, a mother to the end.

  Lisbeth glanced back to find Dietrich almost upon them, the Horde at his heels, running on all fours, loping along like bears.

  “I can draw help to us,” Lisbeth said, considering the options. “The Calypsians are on the other side of the Spear. But they have to agree to come to me.”

  “They won’t,” Rhea said. “They refuse to get involved.”

  “I must try.”

  “What if there is another army that will come?” The question came from Grey Arris, his brow furrowed in contemplation. Sir Dietrich skidded to a stop a small distance away, spinning on his heels and slamming his sword into the closest barbarian, whirling it back around to slash another. It wasn’t enough, the remainder flowing around him like water passing an object in a stream.

  “Tell me,” Lisbeth said quickly. “Who is left? Who will come?”

  Grey Arris stepped forward, his blade hand raised and at the ready. “The pirates in the Burning Sea,” he said. “They will come. Find Kyla Smithers.”

  Kyla

  The open sea had almost always been good to her. Yes, on occasion it had taken from her—her father, her daughter—but that was the way of the world, not the sea. This was where she belonged.

  Rut that bastard, she thought. Rut him to the bottom of the ocean.

  Kyla didn’t truly hate Grey Arris—they’d shared too much living for that—but it didn’t stop her from cursing his name a dozen times a day. The worst thing wasn’t that he’d chosen Rhea Loren over her—she was a queen, after all, so what chance did Kyla stand?—but that he’d patronized her with talk of returning to Talis and finding the boy she’d once fallen in love with. Kyla knew, however, that love was a priceless, shattered vase, and once you dropped it there was no way to restore it to its original value.

  No, she was done with men for a while. Though many thought of the sea as a woman—‘a nasty ol’ bitch,’ many of them like to call her—Kyla had always thought of it as something without gender, encompassing the whole of human emotion between the calm, patient swell of its tides and the fearsome, angry storms that dragged many-a-ship into its depths.

  She squinted, watching the storm to the west. It was gaining strength and she knew they’d be wise to avoid it. She was just about to give the order to turn on a southeasterly bearing when she felt the tingle. It started on the back of her neck but swiftly made its way into her skull. It wasn’t unpleasant like a headache but was strange nonetheless.

  And yet not as strange as the voice that came on its heels. Kyla Smithers?

  A string of creative c
urses one could only learn at sea amongst a pack of crude seamen slipped from her lips. Because she knew that voice.

  She knew that voice. She’d heard it once before, during the battle in the Bloody Canyons. It had preceded the images of the barbarians swarming the Four Kingdoms.

  The Four Kingdoms she wanted nothing else to do with, full of too many painful memories. All she wanted was to sail toward the sunset in search of a different life—one that wasn’t hers.

  “Leave me alone,” she muttered. Several of the sailors raised their eyebrows at her on account of the cursing and talking to herself.

  You don’t have to respond out loud.

  This better?

  We need your help.

  We?

  Yes. All of us. The Horde are here. They are strong and great in number.

  Despite herself, Kyla’s heart sank. Though she’d turned her back on the Four Kingdoms and Grey Arris, she didn’t want either of them to be destroyed. Then again… She frowned. Did Grey ask you to contact me?

  Yes. But please, we must hurry. They are here and I don’t have long.

  Grey asked for her. Though she fought the feeling, a sprig of hope grew leaves in her heart. The battle has begun?

  It will be over soon if we don’t stem the tide.

  Kyla didn’t understand what she was asking of her. We are many miles from land. There’s nothing we can do.

  I can bring you here. I can draw you.

  What does that even mean?

  It means I need you to do something for me.

  What?

  Convince your sailors to come, to give their minds to me. It will only take a few moments.

  Kyla didn’t know what to say to that, but she knew the woman known as Lisbeth Lorne was no normal woman. She was soulmarked, her power as enigmatic as Grey’s sister’s. What about my ship?

  Your soul is tied to it. It will come too if you let it. Now please, hurry! Her voice took on an out-of-breath airiness. They are upon us!

  I’ll do it. Give me thirty ticks.

  She clapped her hands thrice and then drew her sword, naturally shifting into her ‘pirate voice’. “Men! Long’ve ye served me father, the nastiest captain in the Burnin’ Sea. An’ now ye serve me. Obey me command an’ prepare fer war.” The men looked around at each other, but Kyla knew there wasn’t time to explain everything. Hell, she didn’t even know everything. “When the blue eye calls ye, answer it or ye’ll end up alone in the drink.”

  With that, Kyla raised her weapon and thought to Lisbeth, They will come. Do it.

  She felt the pull and she gave herself into it.

  Grey

  Grey leapt forward, barely avoiding a heavy fist from one of the barbarians as it tried to use its knuckles as a hammer. He’d grown up a street rat, and knew how to win a fight like this:

  Fight dirty.

  He spun and kicked the barbarian hard in the kneecap, dropping into a crouch in the same motion, scooping up a handful of dirt and tossing it into the creature’s eyes. It bellowed and scratched at its face, but Grey was already aiming another kick—this one for its midsection. He didn’t know whether it was a male or female, or even if it had the same…parts…as a human, but it seemed worth a shot. His foot connected solidly and the creature doubled over, clutching itself. He opened its throat with a slash from his dagger hand, splashing him with ichor.

  Foul, he thought, rating the moment number two on the most disgusting moments of his life, sandwiched right in between popping the tentacled sea monster’s eye and brawling with the nude vampire mermaids known as the Drahma.

  He spun about, locating Rhea, who had backtracked with their sun-bright daughter cradled in one arm. In the other hand she held a dagger, its steely glint mirroring the look in her eye. He’d never loved her more than in that moment, the emotion eclipsed only by his fear of losing she and Noura.

  I won’t let that happen, he thought, searching for Lisbeth as he ran to cut off a barbarian charging toward Rhea. Something about their daughter’s inner light seemed to be attracting them, drawing them like moths to a flame.

  The barbarian was so focused on his target that Grey managed to stab thrice into its back before it turned to take a swipe at him. He ducked, slashing across its thick ankle, severing the tendons he assumed were important. It stumbled and fell. Grey kicked it in the head on his way toward Dietrich, who’d caught up once again and was giving the barbarians all they could handle with his sword, which was naught but a blur as he slashed and stabbed.

  Grey spotted Lisbeth, whose blue eye was shining fiercely as she concentrated on something distant, oblivious to the raging battle around her. He didn’t want to break her concentration, but needed to know what was happening—whether any help was coming. “Is Kyla coming?” he shouted.

  Lisbeth responded with one word, spoken in his mind:

  Yes.

  The ship, the Jewel II, didn’t so much appear as explode into being, like a great act of cataclysmic creation. Where only a moment ago the space had been occupied by two dozen barbarians trying to breach the waning defenses of a swordmarked knight and a one-armed pirate, now there was slick, barnacle-crusted wood and massive salt-stained sails. Several of the barbarians imploded, their bodies unable to handle the pressure of such a large object shoving them. The event quickly rose to the top of Grey’s list but he didn’t care for he’d already scanned the ship’s decks and spotted Kyla clambering over the side and sliding down a rope she’d slung to the ground. Dozens of pirates followed, men Grey had fought with.

  Kyla dropped the last few feet, landing in a crouch and looking just like the warrior that she was.

  There was nothing Grey could say, but, “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t do it for you,” Kyla said, glancing over his shoulder, where Rhea continued to protect their child. “I did it for everyone else.”

  With that, she spun back toward the pirates and led them into battle.

  Ennis

  This world of darkness and terror suited Ennis just fine, for it was the world he lived in now. Though he knew the pain Helmuth Gäric had bestowed upon him had long faded, the echoes of it rang out from time to time, and he’d grown to fear them.

  But he didn’t fear Helmuth—not anymore. He only feared who the man might hurt next if he didn’t stop him.

  Ennis had spent most of the battle skirting the fringes, picking off those barbarians who were isolated. It wasn’t an honorable way of killing, he knew, but he’d finally realized there was no honor in war, and death was death regardless of the manner of the act.

  All that was left was his goal. After that, he would welcome death in any form, so long as those he cared about were alive.

  He drew his sword slowly from the barbarian’s back, not seeing the blood dribbling from the fatal wound because he was looking past it at the man surrounded by his Horde. The easterners and northerners were gathered against them, but they stood little chance. The only hope was to kill the man responsible for it all.

  Ennis dropped to a crouch, using corpses as cover, watching as Helmuth retreated to a safer position. It wasn’t cowardliness that prompted the move, but tactics. This man knew he was the key to victory, and he wouldn’t give his own life if it meant defeat.

  He came closer, his Horde streaming around him, off to claim their prize of blood.

  Ennis stood, approaching on silent feet.

  Helmuth’s mist was roiling around him, its nightmarish spread prevented only by the bright light that had appeared to the south. The mist curled around his ankle and he shuddered, fighting off the images that tried to shove their way into his mind. Heads mounted on spikes. Rivers of blood. A dead boy, Leo. A dead woman, Rhea. He stood over them, his blade dripping.

  No! he wanted to scream. I wouldn’t. I would never.

  Helmuth Gäric turned and smiled. “I knew you’d be back,” he said. “They always come back once they’ve tasted the fires of pain. Pain is like a drug, addicting. I can offer you more, if you w
ish. Fight for me and I’ll give you what you want.”

  Ennis didn’t want more pain, did he?

  He bit his lip and fought back tears, the truth so obvious to him now. Yes, I do. That’s why I’m here. Not to kill this man or to save my friends and family. I came to hurt.

  Because then, maybe, he wouldn’t have to feel anything else.

  He nodded a moment before the pain started, stabbing his toes and working its way up his legs, wrapping itself around him like rope, tightening, tightening, until the world was red and black and licking flames.

  “Kill them,” Helmuth said. “Kill them all.”

  He wanted to, so they could all feel this glorious pain, which was the only thing he needed now. He charged into the fray, his blade slashing through barbarian and human both, content to inflict pain wherever he could.

  Roan

  His lifemark led him toward death. The light streaming across the land from Noura’s peacemark made it easier, the shadows of the night chased away by a brightness more familiar to noonday than midnight. All he had to do was search for the shadows that remained, watching for the places they shouldn’t be, folded and pressed together like thick woolen blankets.

  A wall of corpses caught his attention. Though the number of the dead was swiftly rising, this was an enormous collection for any battle. Seeing so many dead made Roan cringe, but he tried to focus on those still living. Saving them was what drove him.

  And there was no mistaking the shadows that seemed to crest the hill like a dark mound.

  Like he’d done so many months ago on the plague-infested island known as Dragon’s Breath, Roan began to climb the pile of bodies.

  Bane

  Beyond Bane’s shadows the day was unnaturally bright, though he couldn’t seem to locate the sun in the sky.

  How long have I been unconscious? he wondered, blinking. His body ached, but none of his injuries felt mortal. All around him were the dead eyes of brutish barbarian corpses. He remembered killing them, but it wasn’t enough. There were too many. He had the desire to gather his strength and vanish from this place so he wouldn’t have to look upon his own failure. After all he’d done, he couldn’t bear the thought of it ending like this.