Lifemarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 5)

by David Estes

  They traipsed out into the frigid night, their feet crunching on the crystallized layer of top snow. Their boots sank halfway up their calves, but their trousers were thick and designed to keep the moisture from soaking through to their skin.

  There were guards, of course, but the boys knew their patterns of patrol, as well as their blindspots. Going through the mamoothen shed was always a safe option, so long as the enormous tusked beasts were not overly disturbed by their passing.

  They entered the high-ceilinged structure quietly, a carpet of hay masking their footfalls. On either side, enormous leather-skinned forms swayed from side to side in their sleep. Mamoothen slept standing up for some reason, their mouths releasing enormous breaths that billowed out, forming ghostly clouds in the cool air.

  Halfway across the long length of the shed, Archer skidded to a stop, thrusting an arm across his brother’s path to bring him to a halt. Archer’s heart skipped a beat, his breath catching in his throat.

  For their aunt, Lady Zelda, was staring right at them, her back pressed against a water barrel, which she leaned against while sitting on a pillow of hay.

  Neither boy breathed, wondering whether they were visible in the darkness. Waiting for the reprimand. Truth be told, she looked dead.

  “Is she…” Garon started to say, trailing off.

  The edge of Zelda’s lip twitched and Archer almost screamed. She’s sleeping with her eyes open, he realized. He gestured for Garon to follow him, and they snuck past, slipping back outside.

  Behind the shed, Garon gasped. “What was that?”

  “A close call,” Archer said. “Why? Did you want to go back? Chick-en.” He made flapping motions with his arms.

  “Nay. What do I have to fear from an old woman?” Despite his brother’s bravado, Archer could tell he was overcompensating. The run-in with their eccentric great aunt had shaken Garon, a realization that made Archer grin in the dark.

  “C’mon,” he said, threading his way between trees as they made their way downslope toward a service door that led without the castle. The benefit of this particular exit was that it avoided the city itself, spilling onto the empty terrain to the east of the castle.

  It took both of their strength to lift the heavy iron bar that prevented entry from the outside. The hinges needed to be oiled, and they froze at the great creaking sound, expecting an alarm to be raised by some vigilant night watchman. Instead, silence ruled the darkness, and they made quick work of opening and shutting the door behind them. With any luck, they would be able to reenter via the same door, throwing the bar back into place with none the wiser.

  “Shite,” Archer said, when he saw what awaited them outside the castle walls.

  “What do we do?”

  An entire makeshift village blocked their path. Archer felt foolish for having forgotten the Garzi were still encamped on the eastern tundra. Once a year—usually during the coldest winter months—their neighbors from the Hinterlands would migrate southward to Castle Hill to trade. The rugged people from the Hinterlands were a strange race, much taller than any of the northerners save Archer’s father, with long, triangular-shaped heads and too much hair. Each year when the Garzi first arrived, Archer and his siblings would watch them from the walls.

  And every year one of them would ask why the Garzi never came inside the castle or city. “They aren’t used to being closed in,” the queen would always answer. “They feel safer with room to roam.”

  Archer thought it was odd, particularly considering the structures they built were made entirely of snow and ice. Now, he felt colder just looking upon their homes.

  “Perhaps they won’t notice our passing,” he said to his brother.

  “And if they do?” They’d all heard the stories. How before the new treaty had been signed with the Garzi they would kill any who crossed into the Hinterlands. It was said they worshipped a great lake monster, sacrificing their children to the water goddess each year.

  “Then they’ll cut out your bones and gnaw on them,” Archer said, punching him.

  “And pluck your eyeballs from your head and roast them on a spittle,” his brother retorted, offering a punch of his own. “Guess we’d better stick close to the wall so they don’t catch us.”

  “Guess so.”

  Neither boy wanting to be outdone by the other, they soldiered on, the snow growing thicker as it formed drifts against the outside castle wall. The temporary Garzi village was still and silent. The snow began to fall in earnest, obscuring anything more than a few feet away.

  “Maybe we should turn back and try again tomorrow night,” Garon said.

  “Scared?” Archer hid his own fear behind the mocking tone in his voice.

  “Course not. You?”

  “Ha! What sort of northerner would fear a little bit of sn—”

  The rest of his sentence transformed into a gasp as a huge form stepped across their path. The Garzi was more than a few heads taller than Archer, looking down on them from a face covered in furlike hair. He wore thick skins about his entire body save for his hands and face. Several spears were strapped to his back, poking upwards over his head like a porcupine’s bristles. “Darf nom gur,” the male said, reaching back to extract a long spear from where it had been strapped to his back.

  The razor-sharp tip glittered dangerously in the moonslight.

  “Archer?” Garon said. “Run?”

  Archer knew their only hope of survival was to split up. The slower of the two would be struck down while the swifter would have the slimmest chance of escape. And he was determined to be the slower, though he knew he could outrun his brother any day of the year. “Go,” he said. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Garon looked uncertain, but then turned slightly, his gloved hands curling into fists of determination as he prepared to flee.

  That’s when the Garzi deftly spun the spear around, extending the blunt shaft of the weapon toward Archer. “Darf nom gur,” he said again. And then: “Be careful on this night.” This time he spoke in the common tongue, though each word was tinged with a rough accent, scraping from the back of his throat. “You take?”

  Archer realized he was still staring dumbly at the shaft of the spear. He reached up and took it, nearly dropping the weapon, which was far heavier than the Garzi had made it look. The man nodded when Archer managed to keep it from touching the snow by gripping it with both hands.

  As swiftly as he had appeared in the storm, he vanished, his footfalls all but silent as he departed.

  “Did you see his collar?” Garon murmured, his voice full of awe.

  Archer hadn’t seen much other than his life flashing before his eyes, but he tried to remember. Yes. The man had been wearing a silver collar with a single stone inlaid in a golden hoop. He wasn’t just any Garzi.

  He was their leader.

  Zur.

  “No one is ever going to believe us,” Garon said as they walked northward. The storm had abated, leaving a sky full of small, meandering snowflakes that never seemed to reach the ground. The clouds had even mostly moved on, the sky speckled with stars.

  For the north, it was as perfect a night as there ever was.

  “We can’t tell anyone,” Archer said.

  “What? We must. Our friends—”

  “Can never know.” Archer knew he didn’t always act his age, but sometimes an older brother had to be responsible. A run in with a Garzi was nothing to brag about. Only those appointed by the queen herself as trade ambassadors were permitted to meet with their neighbors to the north.

  Garon huffed. “The most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me, and I can’t even tell anyone?”

  “Of course you can. But first tell Ma.”

  Garon clamped his mouth shut, the threat sufficient to take the wind out of his sails. “Fine. But I shall remain silent in protest.”

  “Then the world shall become a quieter place.”

  Garon glared at him, and then broke his vow even quicker than Arch
er could’ve predicted. “Can I hold the spear?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Zur gave it to me. And anyway, you were about to run for your very life. Chick-en. Bock bock bock!”

  “You told me to!” Garon protested, shoving him and trying to reach around to grab the spear. A minor tussle ensued, with Archer holding his smaller brother off with one hand clenching the collar of his greatcoat while the other hand struggled to cling to the shaft of the spear.

  “Submit,” Archer growled.

  “You submit.”

  “Over my dead bod—”

  For the second time on that night, Archer was unable to finish a sentence he’d started, his words cut off by a roar as a monstrous form erupted from what neither of them had considered to be more than a random snowdrift.

  Not a drift, Archer thought as he scrambled backwards, both his brother and the spear forgotten in his haste to get away from the creature that now loomed before them. A burrow. He’d learned all about ice bears growing up, how they liked to burrow into the snow to keep warm. But not this close to Castle Hill…

  It was standing on two powerful legs, two black eyes staring at them, its mouth open in a snarl of teeth sharpened to daggerlike points.

  “We’re not supposed to run, right?” Garon said, his voice quivering like a bowstring.

  Archer’s mind was fuzzy, and he couldn’t remember what they were supposed to do. Running seemed like the only thing to do. He shook his fear away, trying to focus. Yes. His brother was right. Ice bears were fast, especially on the snow where the boys would be bogged down. And if they ran, it would pursue them, unable to resist chasing its prey.

  “Mother fought an ice bear with her bare hands,” he said.

  “That’s only a story Da tells us so we don’t step out of line,” Garon said.

  “We’re Gärics, remember?”

  “That’s only a name.”

  Archer forced steel into his voice. “Aye, a name that means something. We must get to that spear. It’s our only chance.” He eyed the long shaft resting in the snow, the tip buried somewhere just beneath the surface. The ice bear still hadn’t moved, but the beast was closer to the weapon than they were. A distraction was what they needed.

  “Make snowballs,” Archer commanded.

  “This is hardly a time to play Snow Wars,” Garon said.

  “This is exactly the time. And you’ve always been better at packing them than I.” His eyes never leaving the bear, he scooted over to his brother, whose hands were now fumbling at the snow. He grasped one of his brother’s hands, squeezing through his glove. “We’re going to be fine.” He didn’t know where his confidence came from, but he felt surprisingly calm. “No sudden movements.”

  Garon took a deep breath and then nodded. He began to pack snowballs, more controlled now. Good, Archer thought. “Stay here. Start throwing when I tell you to.” Before his brother could protest, he rose into a crouch and began to run toward the spear.

  The ice bear exploded from its haunches, accelerating into a full gallop far faster than Archer thought possible. I’m not going to make it, was his first thought, while his second was to shout, “Now, Garon! NOW!”

  His focus on the spear was so complete that he didn’t even notice the snowballs whipping past him, not until one of them smacked the bear flush in the nose. It recoiled slightly and slid to a stop, which was just the advantage Archer needed. He dove for the spear, grabbing its shaft as he slid past, his momentum carrying him closer to the bear than he’d anticipated.

  The beast was enraged now, pawing at where the snowball had grown icy teeth and bitten his snout. It lunged at Archer, but he’d managed to find his footing and shove off. Just in time, too, as the beast collided with his shoulder, its claws raking across his face. Still, the impact was powerful, like getting hit by a stampeding cow. It threw him off his feet and twisted him around. He landed heavily in a nearby drift, stunned.

  Something warmed his blood, but he barely noticed, his focus on the bear, which stopped, turned, and attacked.

  Luckily, Archer kept his head, remembering to raise his spear with two hands. His eyes widened as it became clear the beast would not stop, fully prepared to impale itself on the point to get to Archer.

  And then, suddenly, it stopped.

  Archer heard a sound, a voice. “Hey, ice fool!” Garon shouted.

  “No,” Archer breathed, but the bear had already whirled around, seeking out the taunter. A snowball zipped through the air and shattered across the beast’s forehead. It snarled, shoving forward in the direction of Archer’s brother, who was already bending over to scoop up another snowball, rising, five feet of fearlessness that took Archer’s breath away even as a slash of ice-cold fear took hold, replaced just as swiftly by

  courage, which

  jolted through him like a

  thunderbolt,

  drawing him to his feet, his legs moving,

  adrenaline—or was it something else?—thrumming through him,

  giving him strength and speed beyond what he’d ever been capable of before,

  and in the center of it all:

  White, hot rage.

  The bear was fast, but Archer was faster and lighter. Still, the distance was too short for him to make up the ground he’d lost and he could only watch as the bear pounced upon Garon just as he hurled another icy projectile into its snout.

  “Ahhhhh!” Archer yelled, slamming his spear into the bear’s back where it sunk a bare inch, or maybe two. It was enough to get the bear’s attention, however. The beast released a high-pitched whine, rolling away from Garon, revealing his bloodied mess of a face, his greatcoat and the layers beneath shredded, uncovering his chest, which was a mess of ribbon-like skin and blood—so much blood.

  He wasn’t moving, his eyes closed.

  Spots of black and red danced before Archer’s eyes, swarming with flames and an animal scream that came not from him but from somewhere deep inside his being, roaring through his mind, breaking to the forefront of everything until he was the spots and flames and scream and nothing else, including his former self. Including Archer.

  He threw himself onto the ice bear even as it swatted at him with a heavy, clawed paw. The blow should’ve knocked him askew like before, but he simply absorbed it, a shot of pain rolling through him that was nothing next to the anger. He shoved the spear into the bear’s chest and this time it sank deeper, the tip almost hidden beneath fur and flesh.

  The bear roared, pummeling him with its claws, snapping at him with its powerful jaws.

  Archer slammed his fist into its face even as he twisted the spear with the other hand. He felt strong, invincible, like a version of himself reconstructed of steel.

  Yesss. Oh yesss. It felt good.

  He wanted to kill this thing. Not just once, but twice, thrice, as many times as it took for it never to walk again, its breath taken away, its heart slowing to a crawl and then stopping altogether. He wanted it to bleed into a lake.

  And then he wanted it to bleed some more.

  His vision filled with fur and blood and coal-like eyes that grew wilder and wilder and more desperate until they faded into nothingness. He was dimly aware of the blood spattering his knuckles, which were bare—when had he lost his gloves?—and his face, soaking into his greatcoat, both shoulders tattered and shredded by the bear’s claws.

  The bear’s face was a bloody ruin and yet still he pounded. He drew the spear out and shoved it back in, over and over, turning the bear’s chest into mincemeat.

  It was no longer moving, no longer fighting him, and yet still he skewered it on his blade, pulverized it with his fists.

  Strong hands grabbed him from behind, dragging him back from the bear even as he continued to swing at it. He wasn’t finished with the destruction, his need for blood unsated. He needed to get himself free so he swung an elbow back, connecting with whomever held him. The someone, however, took the blow without lessening
his grip. Archer elbowed him again and heard a grunt. Again. And again.

  The someone slung him down roughly into the snow, and through the spots and fire he saw who it was:

  His uncle Bane, his smooth-skinned face determined but not angry. Something was glowing through his thick, black hair, like a lantern hidden somewhere on his scalp.

  Archer instantly knew he wanted to kill this man, not because he held anything against him, but because he was alive.

  Do it, that voice said, egging him on.

  He tried, oh how he tried, but his uncle was far stronger than he looked, his hands pinning Archer’s wrists at his sides, his knees subduing Archer’s kicking legs.

  “I know darkness,” Uncle Bane said. “I know violence. I can help you.” With a speed that defied possibility, his uncle released one of his hands and landed a powerful blow to his cheek.

  The spots turned to stars, the fires extinguished.

  Archer’s vision swam, fading entirely to black.

  What am I? he thought, trying to make sense of everything that had happened.

  And then nothing.

  The voices seemed to rise from the depths, distant murmurs at first and then clarifying, taking shape in Archer’s ears.

  “…always knew it was a possibility, though I’d hoped…” Mother? Archer said. No, he hadn’t said anything, the words stuck in his head.

  “Hoped what?” Father? Again, his lips failed him. His eyes refused to open too, glued shut. His entire body felt…numb? Was that the right word?

  “I—I’m sorry.”

  Images rushed through his mind. Sneaking from the castle with his brother. Meeting the enigmatic Garzi leader named Zur, who gave him the spear. The attack by the ice bear. Garon’s bravery. And then…

  By the frozen gods…did I really…was that really…it couldn’t be…it couldn’t.

  But it was, Archer knew. It was him and it wasn’t. He could still see what he’d done, the destruction he’d wrought, but it was like watching a stranger wearing his face.