Lifemarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 5)

by David Estes

  And yet something was different.

  She’d had a rider then, too, but not Gwendolyn Storm. Not her soul.

  Another.

  Memories flashed before her, of dragonfire and iron arrows biting at her scales and of a brown-skinned woman with short dark hair, refusing to fight, refusing to give in to the violence that had been bred into them from the moment they were born, long before they’d been bonded together.

  Bonded.

  My soul. A groan rose from within her, her heart aching, and she could sense it was broken and that a huge chunk of her soul was missing, leaving only a sliver behind.

  And though she tried to cling to that single shard of what she’d been before, it wasn’t enough, and she felt herself slipping, falling, spiraling into the depths of a dark place that called for her—had always called for her—its voice growing louder and louder, swallowing her whole.

  Her second neck grew and grew, until the base of a giant skull began to form.

  Gwendolyn

  “What is happening to her?” Gareth asked as they watched the dragon sleep.

  Gwen wished she knew for certain. When she’d left Siri on the roof, she’d seemed all right. The growth of her neck had slowed and the dragon hadn’t argued with Gwen when she’d left. But she’d felt something was off even as she and Gareth were catching each other up on all that had transpired since they parted ways.

  Gwen had rushed up to the roof to find Siri rocking back and forth, her neck having finished its growth, now sprouting a head. The growth of the head was taking longer than the neck it seemed, but still, once it was finished…

  “She’s descending into madness,” Gwen said, each word quivering. “It’s not enough. I’m not enough.”

  “Gwen,” Gareth said. “You’ve done everything you can for her. But…”

  She knew it was only their friendship that stopped him from finishing the sentence. He wanted her to suggest it herself. “But we need her to fight. I’m not a naïve fool, you know.”

  “I’m sorry. I do know. I just feel…awful.”

  “Because of a dragon?” He’d changed even more than she thought. As much as she had, perhaps.

  “Well, partly I suppose. But more because of what you’ve been through. Raven was your friend, right?”

  She almost laughed at the simplicity of such a statement when her relationship with the fierce Calypsian empress had been more complicated than a love triangle between a Peacemaker, an Ironclad king, and a fatemarked Orian.

  Is my entire life destined to be complex? she wondered.

  “She will fight,” Gwen said. “When the time comes, she will fight. So will I.”

  Gareth nodded. “And the Calypsians?”

  Gwen shook her head. “Whisper is as stubborn as her sisters. Maybe more so. She will fight the Horde only if they enter the Scarra. And for that to happen, we will all have to be destroyed.”

  Gareth smirked. “Then let’s hope the Calypsians don’t have to fight.”

  Eighty

  The Southern Empire, Calypso

  Whisper Sandes

  Whisper was so tired of people trying to manipulate her. Men. Women. Her aunt. Even her own sisters. Godsdamn Gwendolyn Storm and her dragon.

  And now, the latest: Goggin.

  She never understood what Raven had seen in the man. Though she knew he was in pain, as she was, it didn’t bring them any closer together. If anything, it had the opposite effect.

  Yet, he wouldn’t leave her alone. “Raven would’ve wanted you to fight,” he said now. He’d used his position to bully her guards and barge into this very room, where she sat upon the dragon throne, relishing the way its barbed metal edges cut into her skin. Her mother had always told her that a throne wasn’t meant to be plush and comfortable to sit in, else the empress grow too complacent and decide never to leave. Well, she would prove her mother wrong. Barbs or no, she would sit in this throne as long as it took to protect her people. No one else had to die. No one.

  “You know nothing of my sister. I saw the way you were around her. Foolish japes. Drunk on simpre half the time. It was a wonder she suffered your presence at all.”

  She expected him to lash out—she almost wanted him to—or to grow sullen and leave, or perhaps laugh it off with a pointless quip, which would only prove her point for her. Instead, she got something else entirely. “I wondered the same thing,” Goggin said. “But she didn’t suffer me. She honored me. There’s something I want to tell you.”

  “Make it quick and then leave me in peace,” Whisper said with a flip of her wrist.

  “I am alive because of Raven.”

  Whisper huffed out a breathy laugh. “Wrong, Goggin. You almost died because of her. She commanded you all to attack Ferria.”

  “Aye, and she also commanded us to stop. To retreat.”

  “It was too little, too late. I tried to stop her weeks earlier, but do you think she listened to me? No, she listened to fools like you and to the very same man, Shanolin, who would eventually betray her. So what does that make her? A savior?” Whisper knew what she was doing—replacing sorrow with anger—but she didn’t care. Whatever it took to keep herself from melting into a puddle. She never wanted to be that broken girl again.

  “She was my savior, yes,” Goggin said. “When I lost all strength, only the memory of her kept me from sinking into the ocean. For the rest of the journey, it was she who guided me home.”

  “And you brought monsters with you. How chivalrous.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be noble—I’ve never been that kind of man. I only wanted to take back what had been stolen from her.”

  “She didn’t need you.”

  “I know that now. But I needed her. Raven was the most capable woman I’ve ever met. You remind me of her.”

  Whisper scoffed. “You think flattery will work on me? Did it work on my sister?”

  Goggin chuckled. “No. It didn’t.”

  “She didn’t love you, you know. So you don’t have to mourn her as if she did.”

  Goggin’s smile didn’t vanish, but it grew thin, the greater part of his lips tucked behind his teeth. When he spoke, his voice was husky. “That’s where you’re wrong. She did love me, enough to lie to me to the very end, when she suspected her life was forfeit. And I will mourn her till the day I die. I don’t care if you respect me, or honor my wishes, but honor hers. Ride into battle and I will follow you to the ends of the earth. I will give my life to protect yours, even if you don’t want me to. That is how I will honor Raven. I’ve said my piece; the rest is up to you.”

  “Begone!” Whisper said, feeling a sharp spike from the throne scrape across her arm as she stood too quickly. Goggin had already turned and lumbered from the room.

  When Whisper glanced down at her arm, it was wet with blood.

  Eighty-One

  The Eastern Kingdom, Ferria

  Tarin Sheary

  “Fay?”

  “Don’t come in yet, I’m not ready!” a voice hollered from the back of the forge, where sparks were flying.

  “Fay, I’m coming in,” Tarin said, easing the door closed behind him.

  “No!” The sparks fell away, there was a clank, and Fay came around the side of the largest workstation, her face smudged with ash and glistening with sweat. She was wearing long, thick gloves and holding a large hammer. “I said I’m not ready.”

  “I know,” Tarin said. “I came to tell you we are leaving very soon. There’s not enough time for you to construct a full suit of battle armor. You’ll need days if not weeks for the armor I designed. I’ll have to settle for whatever you have so far and piece together the rest like I did before.”

  “Tarin, I’m—”

  “Really, it’s fine,” Tarin said. “The armor doesn’t make the warrior, right?”

  “Tarin, let me exp—”

  “What do you have so far? A couple of greaves? The helmet? Whatever you’ve got, it is enough and I’m thankful—”

  Fa
y slammed her hammer down on a nearby anvil with such force it made Tarin’s teeth ring. “Shut your oversized, black-lipped mouth, you big lug, and let me talk!”

  Tarin’s mouth clamped shut. He waited, wondering what this strong woman might’ve become if she’d decided a career as a she-knight, like her mother, was the path for her. A powerful ally for some, he thought, and a dangerous enemy for others.

  “Your armor is done,” she said.

  “What?” Tarin said, dumbfounded. The sketches he’d made her do were complicated. Particular. “Even the engravings?”

  “Yes, although I had plenty of help. Within the bounds of the forest, the top Orian channelers can make the impossible possible when it comes to ore.”

  It made sense. He’d seen all the beautiful armor worn by the legionnaires. He’d also seen how even commoners wore bits of armor, almost like decoration. And the Orians themselves…their armor was the most spectacular of all, like it was a part of them. Like his armor had once been… “Then why were you telling me to wait—that it wasn’t ready?”

  “The other project you gave me,” she said pointedly. “The secret one.”

  Ah yes. He’d almost forgotten. “The channelers couldn’t help with that one, too?” Tarin asked, immediately wishing he hadn’t when he saw the scathing look on Fay’s face.

  “Sometimes good, old-fashioned forging is better than forest magic,” she said. “Makes you appreciate the finished product.”

  “Of course, I, uh, just need the finished product before we leave.”

  “It’s nearly finished. It will be finished. Sit down and wait. Better yet, grab a hammer, I could use those luggish muscles of yours.”

  An hour later Tarin had a much greater appreciation for what Fay did, and for all the effort she’d put in on his behalf over the years. He was dripping sweat, his pale arms and face covered in a layer of ash. He had three small burns because he hadn’t listened to Fay’s instructions carefully enough.

  But they were done.

  “It’s perfect,” he said, watching steam rise from the cooling bath as Fay dunked the hot iron.

  “Of course it is,” she said. She wasn’t being arrogant, Tarin knew. The confidence she had in her abilities with iron came from years of experience, starting from when she was a little girl working in her father’s forge and her mother was off gallivanting as one of the rare she-knights in the northern realm.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Tarin eyed the sheet covering a portion of the wall. He knew exactly what was behind it. He’d tried to peek twice, but had only earned himself a hard whack. “Now can I look?”

  She drew the iron from the first cooling bath and slid it into the second. It would undergo seven distinct cooling periods before it was ready. “You can be such a child sometimes, you know that? A big, eight-foot-tall monster of a child. But yes, now you can look.”

  Tarin didn’t have to be told twice, and he did feel like a boy again, clambering out of bed and rushing to the hearth to see what pressies the fairies had left him for his name day.

  He took two big steps, grabbed the edge of the sheet, and flung it away, half-expecting to find, despite his instructions, another white-painted suit of armor.

  He did not.

  His breath caught. This one was as dark as jet, the cuirass breastplate made to look like the powerful upper body of a man, each muscle in the chest and abdomen perfectly formed. Protecting the shoulders and arms were the most seamlessly connected pieces of armor Tarin had ever seen: broad, rounded pauldrons were capped by spiked gardbraces. The rerebrace and vambrace had not gap nor imperfection from shoulder to wrist, each side finished with a gauntlet with a long tail for added protection for the wrist. The backs of the gauntlets also had spikes, so if Tarin were to backhand an enemy it would leave more than a mark—it would draw blood.

  The stomach, lower back, and torso area were guarded by well-crafted plackards, faulds and culets. Further down, a pair of cuisse and greaves would ensure Tarin’s legs wouldn’t be cut out from under him, his ankles and feet further protected by beautifully forged sabatons which looked to be just the right size.

  Rather than a gorget, the suit utilized an aventail constructed of small-linked mail to protect the vital neck region while allowing the greatest range of motion for Tarin’s head, which would be guarded by the crowning piece in the entire set:

  The helmet, which covered the whole of the head and face, bore not the standard look of a close helm or barbute, but the visage of a monster. Tarin had seen the barbarians up close, as had Fay, and he had to admit the detail was so well-rendered he almost shuddered. Almost.

  “This should work,” he said between clenched teeth.

  “Oh really?” Fay said. “I’m glad you think so. I was worried I would have to start all over.”

  Tarin turned toward her. “I’m sorry. It’s exactly what I wanted, it’s just…”

  Fay turned away to remove the hot iron from the cooling bath and move it to the next. He counted it as the sixth—somehow he’d missed three, four, and five. “I know. You’ve been running from the monster inside you for so long, it’s hard to look into the face of it and realize it was you all along.”

  Her words stung, though he didn’t think she intended them to. When she turned back, her expression was tight. “I get it, I really do, Tarin. I’ve been there. I’ve done things. But that doesn’t make me a monster. Nor you. You’re not the monster, even if you’ll be wearing the face of one. You never were. Not from the first day I met you. Monsters don’t have souls. And you most definitely have a soul. A good one. The best one.”

  Tarin’s eyes were wet. “Thank you for…” The armor? Her kindness? No, it was more than that, an all-encompassing gift she’d given him back when he was just a scared not-so-little boy who everyone was afraid of. “…your friendship.”

  “You’re welcome. Now do the honors and then you can repay me.” She nodded toward the cooling baths.

  Tarin frowned, but obeyed, using tongs to draw the iron, which was no longer red or even orange, the heat leeched from it by the cooling bath. Chains clanked. Spiked iron shrieked against spiked iron. He dipped the metal into the seventh and final bath. There was no sizzle or steam this time. “How can I repay you?” he asked.

  “It’s finished,” she said, ignoring his question. “The seventh bath is the shortest. You’ll find the iron is quite cool. You can touch it.”

  Tarin did, reaching into the bath and gripping the handle, which was so familiar to him, his oldest friend besides Annise. Fay had used the same handle and chain, switching out only the deadly ball at the end. Tarin lifted the weapon high into the air, the chain nearly reaching all the way to his feet. Hanging from the end of the chain were three smaller chains, linked together at the connection point by a single iron loop. At the end of each of the smaller chains was a spiked ball.

  No, Tarin thought, not a ball. Not anymore. For in the place of the solid iron balls were skulls of steel, the dead hollows of their eyes and toothless maws the last thing their victims would ever see.

  “To beat the enemy, sometimes you must become them,” Tarin whispered.

  Fay said, “You can repay me by ending every last one of the barbarians.”

  Tarin gripped the handle tighter, remembering all those the Horde had killed. Archer. Innocents by the dozens. Soldiers by the score. Oh yes, they would pay. They would pay with their lives.

  Tarin was nervous. He’d hurt Annise too many times in his short lifetime, and he feared to see her reaction to his appearance. He hadn’t told her anything about his new armor nor weapon.

  He was aware of all the other eyes on him as he marched from the forge to where the northerners had set up camp. Orians and humans alike gawked at him, many of their mouths falling open. They had only just gotten used to seeing his too-pale skin and dark, protruding veins, and now this? His armor made him look taller, bigger, monstrous.

  But Tarin didn’t l
ook at any of them through the narrow slits, his eyes trained only on Annise, who had her back to him, organizing her soldiers for the impending march from Ferria.

  She turned, her back stiffening when she saw him.

  Tarin stopped, gauging her reaction. Her face was stony, her eyes steel.

  She walked toward him, pausing when she was just out of arm’s reach.

  She will never touch me again, not after seeing me like this. A true monster, at long last.

  “Frozen hell, Tarin,” she said, and he waited for her to continue. “Tarin, you look…”

  Barbaric. Horrifying. Monstrous. More like an enemy than ally.

  “…you look amazing,” Annise finished, and the breath emptied from Tarin’s lungs.

  “I—do I?”

  Annise snorted out a laugh. “Perhaps have a little more self-confidence when you meet the enemy in battle. But yes.” She slid closer, standing on her tiptoes to grab his helm and draw his ear down toward her. “In fact, I’ve never wanted to bed you more than right now,” she whispered. “How long will it take to get all that plate off?”

  “Faster than you think,” Tarin said.

  “Then let’s get started.”

  Eighty-Two

  The Southern Empire, Phanea

  Roan Loren

  Finally, the Horde had been spotted. In some ways, Roan felt relieved. After all the time spent waiting, hoping to hear from Gwen or Gareth, or even Raven Sandes or Sai Loren, just hearing something felt better than nothing.

  War was coming. After everything Roan had done to try to prevent it, somehow it felt right. Fated. No, he didn’t want violence, didn’t want his friends to march into battle, but that didn’t mean they shouldn’t. Once he’d thought peace was about preventing war, but now he knew that was only part of it. The other part was ending war, which sometimes meant you had to win the day, defeat your enemies. Not everyone could be your ally or your friend. Evil had to be snuffed out before it burned the world to the ground.