by David Estes
The reason for the delay had been the Horde. Not the whole of it, but a small group that had fought them on the bridge for hours. The memory of the battle continued to burn through his mind like a wildfire. He’d never faced a foe as merciless as this one. Their eyes were devoid of humanity, of compassion, killing as much for the sport of it as anything else.
And they had killed. Many. Gareth frowned at the memory. He’d lost several hundred. The northerners had lost fewer, but a greater percentage of their overall number. All at the hands of less than a hundred barbarians.
Ore save us all, he thought. Facing thousands of barbarians would take an army of tens of thousands. He only hoped they wouldn’t be too late.
General Jormundar rode at his side, mounted on a beautiful white steed, its back, flanks and head armored with light Orian-forged steel. “Your Highness,” he shouted across the staccato beat of dozens of horse hooves. “I’m sorry.”
Gareth’s eyes met his for a moment before the roughness of the terrain thrust them away. “I don’t want your apologies,” Gareth said. “Only your sword.”
“You shall have it,” the proud Orian said. “It will be an honor to fight by your side.”
More than anything else, it was this man’s words that gave Gareth hope that people could change.
He just hoped the cost of change wasn’t greater than what they had left.
Annise
“I think this horse is evil,” Annise muttered, cringing as another heavy bump shook her backside.
“Why is that?” Tarin asked. He was astride a massive stallion that had been loaned to him by Gareth Ironclad himself. Despite its size, the horse was beginning to labor under the weight of his body and armor.
“It seems intent on bruising my entire body,” Annise said, her teeth clacking together.
“Look on the bright side. I will nurse you back to health when this is all over.”
Under normal circumstances, Annise would’ve jumped at such an offer. Despite Tarin’s abundance of muscle and the magnitude of his stature, he excelled at pampering, always knowing when she needed a warm bath, hearty meal, or foot massage. But now, with her very bones aching and her muscles growing angrier by the second, all she could say was, “Urgh.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Tarin grinned. Somehow he seemed unaffected by the rough ride, and Annise had to admit she hated him just a little for it.
“Distract me,” she said. “That’s what I need.” It wasn’t only a distraction from riding a horse that she needed. Their losses at the Bridge of Triumph had been severe. She was proud of her people—though they were smaller in number than the easterners, they’d led the charge on the Horde.
“Hmm,” Tarin mused. “My tongue isn’t long enough to tickle your earlobe.”
Annise was in too much pain to be amused. “Tell me a story.”
“There once was a princess who became a queen…”
“A different story.”
“Why don’t you tell me a story,” Tarin countered. “Something scary.”
Annise considered the request. The only truly scary stories she knew involved her father. And he was the last person she wanted to talk about right now. And yet, she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about him. Her memories of him were like a glass half-filled with water and oil. A line had formed between each memory. For all her father’s faults, he hadn’t been a foolish man. Misguided, prone to selfishness, yes, but not stupid.
“My father once told me something,” she said, thinking about those who had lost their lives on the bridge.
“Your father?” She could hear the surprise in his tone.
“Yes. It was something my grandfather had told him. He said it to my brother back before he became the champion jouster in all the north.” Sadness formed in her throat at the thought of Archer, but she swallowed it down. “My father asked Archer why he walked defeated before the battle was fought. At the time, I thought it was an arrogant statement by an arrogant man, but now I think I was clouded by anger and disappointment. His words ring true now. All this time we’ve assumed the Horde would overcome us, would defeat us. Even now, we charge into battle because it’s the honorable thing to do, but in our hearts we assume defeat.”
Tarin seemed to consider her words, and then said, “You’re right. The Horde is too great a force. Even if all the Four Kingdoms unite as one, we cannot defeat them.”
“Wrong,” Annise said. “So long as we have strength in our bones, the day can still be won. But we must do whatever it takes.”
She saw the understanding in his eyes. “I will. I swear it.”
“Me too,” she said. “And if we survive this night, you can be my nursemaid for an entire year if you want.”
“Deal,” Tarin said, but Annise barely heard him because a shout had issued from one of the other riders. She squinted ahead, seeing something strange. A wall of gray to the southwest, blocking visibility more than a few miles.
“The Horde,” Annise said. “We’ve caught them. Can I speak to your monster?”
Tarin frowned. “Not yet. I should wait until—”
“Please.”
Tarin took a deep breath, and then his jaw firmed up, his teeth grinding together. “Yes. I’ve opened up communication.”
“Hello, monster,” Annise said. “I have a favor to ask: Kill them. Kill them all.”
Tarin grimaced, but then nodded. With a clank, he slammed his shield down over his face.
Annise knew it was unkind, but she also knew they would all become monsters before the sun rose again. They might as well accept it early.
Rhea
Rhea watched with awe as the markings on her daughter’s skin grew brighter and brighter, until she could no longer make out the individual designs. Noura did not cry, as content as if she were back in her bassinet.
“What’s happening to her?” Grey asked.
“I don’t know,” Rhea said, shielding her eyes with one hand. Looking upon her daughter was like trying to stare directly at the noonday sun.
“Look!” Grey said, pointing into the distance, where the light was pouring over the land.
The wall of fog began to diminish, pushed back by the babe’s fierce light. A castle appeared. To the east of it was a strange forest that seemed to be…moving. Rhea frowned, not remembering having ever heard of a wood in this part of the west. All around the city were the signs of battle: bodies strewn about, weapons discarded, men and women locked in struggle with massive white-skinned barbarians…
They stopped. All of them, turning southward to look—
“Oh shite,” Grey muttered. He stepped in front of Rhea just as several of the Horde broke away from the main battle and charged toward them.
Dietrich
He was death incarnate, spinning, slashing, plunging his sword through thick bone and layered muscle, ending the lives of the monstrous vermin that had infested their lands. Being strengthened by the halfmarked was like nothing he’d ever felt before, and he felt as if he could defeat the entire Horde on his own.
Until he couldn’t.
His energy flagged as the halfmarked’s magic wore off, leaving him feeling faint, although his swordmark continued to pulse in the center of his back. Three more barbarians broke through. One wielded a spiked club, whipping it toward his head with incredible speed. He managed to duck, stabbing it through the gut, his blade exiting out the creature’s back and severing its spine. It was all he could do to wrench his sword back out before the next attack came from the side.
He hit the barbarian in the mouth with his sword hilt, blood bursting from its blunt-looking nose. He spun back the other way to remove the head from the third barbarian’s neck, but was a split-second too slow to leap away from the second foe, which had recovered from the blow to the face to leap atop his back.
Dietrich was saved by the light, which seemed to swallow the world whole, chasing the gray mist. The barbarian released him, drawn away by what appeared to be a new sun risi
ng from the south. Dietrich, on the other hand, knew exactly what it was:
Noura.
He stabbed the barbarian through the heart and took off running, only a step ahead of the barbarians that followed.
Roan
While everyone else looked to the south toward the light of the peacemark, Roan looked north, where the fog was lifting, chased away by the fatemarked child.
He didn’t need Lisbeth to locate the easterners, for they were riding with speed across what was left of the Forbidden Plains, almost a hundred strong. And at their head:
“Gareth,” Roan breathed. Speaking the name almost felt like a prayer.
Several of the barbarians charged south, and Roan felt a pang of fear for Rhea and her daughter. At the same time, he saw Sir Dietrich a step ahead of them. Lisbeth Lorne was moving in that direction too. They moved with purpose, certainty.
What is my purpose? he wondered. This was the greatest battle the Four Kingdoms had ever seen and he was no warrior. Now that their protector, Sir Dietrich, was gone, they were surrounded by barbarians who were locked in battle with Phanecians and Terans, easterners and northerners. He felt lost.
Roan turned back to locate his sister and her daughter, but his gaze landed on another form, a thick knot of muscle and fur high atop the Southron Gates. Roan immediately knew what—who—it was. He could sense the great man in bear form was watching him, too, waiting for him to do…something. But what? What I was born to do, he thought. He watched Bear Blackboots, long-lived son of the Western Oracle, for a moment longer before his eyes darted to his niece in the distance. He wondered whether Bear knew his mother was here with them, watching over the battle with keen interest.
But when he looked back to the top of the wall, the bear was gone, as Roan had imagined him.
He gritted his teeth and prepared for his next act.
There was only one thing he could do.
He turned toward the halfmarked again. “Strengthen me,” he said again. “I can save so many lives.” For the first time since this battle began, he felt the light of hope, borne from the flesh of a newborn babe held in its mother’s arms.
Peace was not only possible, it was within their grasp.
Shae and Erric looked at each other uncertainly. Looked back at him. “I’m sorry,” Shae said. “The painmarked still lives. Until he’s dead…”
Roan was tempted to unleash his healing power now, regardless of whether he received any support from the halfmarked. Instead, he returned his gaze toward the north, where the eastern cavalry and their northern allies were cutting their way through the thin forest that had sprung up. He could see the impact they were having, but it wasn’t enough. Finally, the Four Kingdoms had rallied together, and they were still outnumbered and losing.
And then he remembered Bane, and he knew:
I have to find him.
Without considering the danger all around him, Roan took off, his lifemark pulsing slightly as it searched for the dark to its light.
Gwen
A heromarked Orian, three angry wood nymphs, and a dragon. I never thought I’d see the day, Gwen thought, stringing two arrows at once. She fitted them at odd angles, her mark guiding her fingers as she released them. Two more barbarians died. Nearby, several other enemies had surrounded one of the trees, setting it on fire. High in the branches was one of the nymphs, coughing as the smoke filled her lungs.
Gwen leapt forward, climbing the back of one of the torch-bearing barbarians, jumping high enough to grab one of the unscathed branches. She swung, releasing at the perfect moment to shoot higher, landing deftly feet first on another branch. It was thin, but she balanced easily, dancing along it, gaining enough speed to run up the trunk, kicking off and performing a backflip that allowed her to reach the nymph.
The smoke stung her eyes, billowing in thick black clouds now. “Can you create two vines?” she asked.
The nymph only coughed in response, but managed a nod.
“Good. On my mark.” Siri?
Yes, my soul.
A little help?
I’m coming.
“One, two…” On three, vines sprung from the nymph’s fingertips, curling around the branch and tying themselves tight. Gwen grabbed one and the nymph grabbed the other and then they swung down, down, down, their feet barely skirting the grasp of the flames as they climbed higher, and then they were free of the burning tree, arcing out into empty air with nowhere to land until—
With a shriek, Siri emerged from the trees and they released the vines, landing atop her back. Gwen reached out quickly, grabbing the nymph’s leafy shoulder, dragging her back just before she toppled off.
“Thank you,” the girl breathed.
“You can grow me a tree in return. Back in Ironwood.”
Siri ducked under a branch and then cut sharply to the left to avoid a tree that sprung up out of nowhere.
It was the next tree that got her.
The branch slammed into her neck, cracking under the force. Still, it was enough to throw her flight off-kilter and she twisted in the air. Another branch slashed through her wing, severing the broad flap of leather, air rushing through the breach. She clawed at the foliage, trying to hang onto something, but it was too late.
Gwen reached for the nymph to try to secure her, but missed, and then they were both falling. Part of Siri’s tail snapped out desperately like a whip and Gwen’s heart sank when it pierced the forest dweller’s fragile frame, the breath rushing out of her as she gasped.
Feeling ill, Gwen barely managed to contort her body in midair, landing on her feet but letting her knees buckle so she rolled. Nearby, Siri’s body crashed hard into the base of another tree, which snapped, teetering thrice before coming down on Gwendolyn, who covered her head with her arms.
Luckily, the trunk missed, though one of the larger branches held her leg tight against the ground. Siri! she cried. Are you hurt?
I’m…the two legger is not breathing.
It wasn’t your fault. It was—
Gwen stopped, sensing something different in the air. The mist was back, concentrated in this area, roiling over the land like smoke. A presence seemed to follow in its wake, a shadow she felt deep within her core, like the promise of great violence.
Siri, watch out. Get out of here. Fly. Fly!
My soul?
Gwen fought at the heavy branch, but without any leverage, her heromark was useless.
That’s when she heard the roar of her soul. Not in anger or determination.
No, this was a roar of pain.
Helmuth
All it took was the barest of touches on the dragon’s tail, his fingertips resting lightly against it. The creature bellowed its pain for all the world to hear. Helmuth had to admit, the creature was impressive. In this kind of pain, it was magnificent, its two heads snapping back and forth in agony.
And then something incredible happened.
While it writhed, a third head sprouted between the first two, bursting forth from its scales, shooting skyward. Its neck was longer than the other two heads and it had red eyes burning with malevolence.
For just a moment, Helmuth lost his concentration, but it was enough of a lapse for the dragon to launch itself from its haunches, springing away. It tried to fly, but the damage it had sustained to its wing only allowed it to glide a distance away, crushing humans and barbarians under its landing. It ran in a jolting, lumbering way, sweeping its tail back and forth, devastating anything in its path.
And then it was gone, leaving the battle well behind.
Helmuth took a moment to appreciate the force of destruction he’d just witnessed before turning back toward the tree now pinning the fatemarked woman. An Orian, he thought, watching her struggle futilely.
“Hello,” he said.
“What did you do to her?” the Orian said. “I cannot hear her.” There was a hollow aspect to her tone that spoke of the numbness of suffering a great loss.
“I set her free,�
� Helmuth said. He was aware of the battle raging around him. His Horde was winning, as he expected, though this group of defenders had proven stauncher than he’d given them credit for. They were full of surprises, not the least of which was the light bursting from the south, chasing away his fog of fear. His Horde would soon snuff it out, whatever it was.
“You evil bastard,” the woman said. She continued to work at the branch, though her efforts were having no effect.
“Bastard? No. Sometimes I wish I was. Maybe everything would be different if I hadn’t had a claim on the northern throne at all. That might’ve been better than having it stolen from me. Alas, you cannot change your birthright.”
“What do you want?”
“Want? Nothing. Only for you and all the rest to die. Only for these lands to be razed to the ground. All I want is destruction, for I have been destroyed so many times myself. But never again.”
He stepped forward, shoving branches and leaves out of his way. The Orian kicked at him with her free foot, and he was impressed by her unwillingness to give up, fighting to the last. It was almost a shame to end such a warrior. Almost.
He drew his sword, inspecting her armor for weaknesses. He could plunge the blade through her eye, he supposed, though it would be a pity to devastate such a lovely face. No, he would try to go through the plate.
Her eyes narrowed on him as he lifted the sword.
“You are going to die,” she said.
“We all die,” Helmuth said, and then he brought the blade down.
Gwen
A part of her felt cored out, but not because of this man’s sword. The blade impacted her plate with a shriek, glancing away. She took the opportunity to kick him in the face, grabbing his ankle with her hands and twisting hard. A jolt of pain coursed through her at the touch, but was then severed as he cried out and fell, swiftly rolling out of reach.