Fatemarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 1)

by David Estes

  “No. He’s afraid you might die from a broken heart,” the prince said, laughing.

  Something boiled over inside Roan. “I have done nothing to her, have no romantic interest in her, and her opinion of me is even less important than yours,” he snapped.

  The prince held up both hands. “Whoa. I did not seek to offend thine soft and furry ego. I fear my words struck closer to the target than I intended. Like many others, you have fallen for an angel as unreachable as the moons, and as fierce as the sun’s heat.”

  Gods, he’s impossible, Roan thought. “I have fallen for no one. I suspect it is you that has fallen for her, am I right?”

  The prince smiled broadly. “I am human—I want what I cannot have, and I have no interest in that which is mine.” Something about the way he said it, about the way he looked at Roan, made him wonder whether they were talking about Gwen anymore.

  “Like the eastern throne?”

  The prince seemed to find this humorous. “Maybe you have a bigger rock for a brain than I initially believed. The throne is just a throne, while Gwendolyn Storm is molten ore.”

  “But she will not have you?”

  “No more than she’ll have you, Southroner.”

  Roan remembered what Gareth had told him about the long lives Orians lived. “But surely she’s had mates. She’s been many years in this world, has she not?”

  “Yes. At least ninety-five, if my calculations are correct. Supposedly she was once bonded.”

  I shouldn’t have brought you here, Gwen had said a day earlier after he’d persisted in asking about the poetry on the gate to her dwelling.

  “Was he a poet by any chance?”

  Gareth made a face. “You believe a strong woman like Gwendolyn would take up with an artist? Surely not. From what I’ve heard, he was a legionnaire.”

  “Couldn’t he be both a poet and a soldier?”

  “Why do you persist in this line of questioning? Are you a poet hoping to romance her with fine words and tender prose? Ha!” The prince chortled at his own wit.

  “In truth, I would rather kiss you than her,” Roan said lightly.

  The prince laughed, but Roan could tell it was forced, his cheeks blushing with embarrassment. “You are a fool, you know that? I would rather kiss my horse.” And yet he looked away, unable to meet Roan’s eyes.

  Roan watched him carefully, and then twisted the subject back to Gwen. “What happened to her bondmate?”

  “He perished in the Dragon Massacre, like many other legionnaires.”

  Roan breathed through his nose. She’d lost so much in the war with the south. It was a wonder she spoke to him at all, much less looked at him.

  “And was he a pure Orian?”

  Gareth squinted and cocked his head, eventually shrugging. “As far as I know. Which means roughshod humans like you and I have as much chance as a worm crawling out of the muck.” He laughed loudly, which only made Roan more certain the prince was overcompensating for something. Hearing the laughter, Gwen turned to look at them. The prince offered a wave and a sly smile, which she ignored, turning away.

  Something the prince had said earlier had struck a chord on the strings of his soul. “You truly do not desire the eastern throne?” he asked.

  Something unrecognizable flashed across Gareth’s face, but quickly vanished beneath a smile. “It is not mine to take.”

  Roan frowned. “But you are the eldest-born son, are you not? Even amongst multiple births, you would have rights.”

  “Legally, that is true,” Gareth said. “But we have our traditions.”

  “What traditions?”

  “You would not understand.”

  “Try me.”

  Gareth looked away. Roan had never seen him look so uncomfortable, especially when on horseback. Even Roan’s comment about kissing him hadn’t unnerved the prince as much. The prince said nothing.

  Roan pressed further. “Why won’t you take the throne that is rightfully yours?” he asked.

  Gareth only shook his head and dug his heels into his steed’s sides, spurring it away from Roan. Roan cocked his head to the side, but didn’t give chase.

  A shadow fell upon him from behind, and he twisted about to find the king’s enormous horse sprinting to catch up. The Juggernaut slowed his steed, settling into an easy trot beside him.

  “Ho, king,” Roan said.

  “Ho, healer,” the king said. “Well met. What say you?”

  “I say I’m ready for a long sleep,” Roan said.

  The king chuckled. “The dead may sleep, while the living must soldier on.”

  Roan didn’t feel like arguing about kingdoms and war with a man who seemed as disinterested in peace as the Southron emperors and empresses. Instead he asked, “Why is Prince Gareth loath to inherit your crown?”

  “He is the Shield,” the king said evenly. “As my eldest brother was before him.”

  “How can a man be a shield?” Roan said, trying to understand.

  “By protecting those he loves.”

  “Meaning…?”

  “A life to save a life.”

  Wait. Roan remembered something the prince had said back at Barrenwood, something cryptic about dying long before he’d have a chance to be king. At the time he’d thought it was just another one of Gareth’s flippant remarks. “He wants to die to protect his brothers?”

  “Want might not be the best word to choose. But yes, he will eventually die to save Prince Guy, who is next in line for the throne. It is his duty as the eldest brother, as the Shield.”

  Roan squinted, although the sun was not bright. “You mentioned you had an older brother, that he was killed by northerners…”

  “Coren,” the king said. “A year older than me. He was known as Thunder because of his booming voice.”

  Was. Something clicked and turned, like a key in a lock. “He died to save your life,” Roan said.

  The king said nothing, just stared ahead, a wistful look barely visible beneath the shadows cast by his thick, dark brows.

  It all makes sense now, Roan thought. Gareth’s devil-may-care attitude, his gallows sense of humor, his cavalier attitude toward life and a throne he never intended to claim. He was the Shield, destined to die for one of his brothers, so Prince Guy could live on and become King Ironclad. A royal tradition. But—

  “Why?” Roan asked. “Why must he die? Why can’t the princes protect each other? Why can’t they be each other’s Shields and allow Gareth to take the throne?”

  The king sighed, a deep huff of hot air. “I loved my brother,” he said. “Although he was only a year my elder, he seemed years more mature. He would’ve made a great king.”

  “Then why didn’t he? Why isn’t he the king now?”

  The king offered him a narrow glance, but then faced forward once more, gazing into the distance, where his sons were racing each other across the grassy plains. Always competing. “It was twelve years ago, during one of a series of battles at the Razor,” he started. “My father had taken ill, and thus the command of the eastern legions had fallen to Coren and I. Our scouts had discovered a hidden cave along the shoreline, one that had potential as an avenue through the cliffs. Prince Coren concocted a scheme in which we would split our force in two, with half scaling the Black Cliffs and distracting the northern defenders, while the rest pushed through the mountain, attacking by stealth from behind.”

  The king paused, licking his lips. Roan could almost see the memories flashing in his eyes, the dark jagged cliffs rising against a gray northern sky, heavy white waves crashing on the rocks. “Coren made the decision to lead the group over the mountains, while he sent me through the caves.”

  “What happened?” Roan asked, bringing his horse to a stop while the king did the same.

  King Oren Ironclad slowly turned to face him. “We made it through, and when we did, the northern army was in disarray. Coren had led his armored battalion directly through the middle of them, cutting them in two. It was
a move the north hadn’t expected, because it was suicide. He’d left his flanks open on both sides, and allowed the enemy to surround him. They thought they’d won.

  “We came upon them from behind, killing at will. We killed thousands that day, while they only managed to end the lives of hundreds of our men and women, most of them from Coren’s force.

  “When I found my brother, he was still alive, but barely. His horse was lying atop him, dead, while he bled from a dozen wounds. Coren couldn’t speak, but the look in his eyes said enough. I was your Shield. Do not waste my sacrifice. Be the king you were always meant to be. Be strong, mine brother. We took Darrin later that day, but lost it in a week’s time, pushed into a full retreat through the tunnels by northern reinforcements. The Ice Lord was present, as was the Dread King of the North. They sealed the tunnel soon after.”

  Roan felt his eyes stinging. Not from sadness, but from anger at the pointlessness of it all. Of war. Of killing. “Then your brother’s death was for naught,” he said.

  The king’s eyes were sword blades. “Say it again and I shall end you,” he said. “My brother’s death was for me, just as my wife’s death was for my sons, for her people, whom she loved. Coren paid the ultimate sacrifice so I would be a good king, so I would always remember what I lost to sit on the ore throne, so I would be honorable and wise and protect my people. Gareth will one day make the same sacrifice, and only then will Guy be able to become the king he was always meant to be.”

  With that, the king pulled his horse away, returning to his place at the front. A few moments later, Roan did the same, unable to stop thinking about what it would be like growing up knowing your life was not your own.

  They rode on, the sun reaching its apex as Roan snoozed in his saddle. He was jerked out of his fog when one of the forward scouts galloped back toward the head of the column, shouting loudly. Roan spurred his horse after Gareth’s, who’d moved in the direction of his father.

  They reached the king at the same moment the scout did. “Ho! Rider! What news?” the king said.

  “It’s Glee,” the rider said. His horse stamped his feet and panted while several horsemen prepared water and oats for the animal, exhausted from the long sprint.

  “What of the town?” the king said.

  The rider shook his head, his shoulders slumped. “It’s riddled with the pox,” he said. “I barely escaped with mine own health.”

  The king growled out a curse, and Roan knew exactly why. The plan from the beginning had been to ride hard and fast, and thus, they’d purposely kept supplies to a minimum. They’d intended to resupply at the two major towns along the way, first Glee, and then Norris.

  “We can divert to Portage,” Prince Guy suggested. “If we ride hard, we will make it in three days.” Roan squinted, trying to remember the old maps his guardian had showed him from time to time. The eastern and western kingdoms were separated by the Spear and Hyro Lake. He could faintly picture Portage as a border town on the eastern edge of the great lake.

  “Our forces will be starving in two,” the king said.

  “Plus the western legions have been harassing Portage for days,” Prince Grian said. “We will be required to stay and fight. The people will see us as saviors and reinforcements.”

  “What about changing course toward the northeast,” Gareth said. “Crow’s Nest?” Roan knew much of Crow’s Nest, the northernmost city in the eastern kingdom. It was located on the rocky elbow where the Mournful Mountains met the Black Cliffs near the northern castle of Darrin. With the exception of the tale the king told about his brother’s death, neither the north nor the east had had much success traversing the razor-sharp cliffs in order to penetrate their enemy’s lands.

  “We’d be better served retreating to Ironwood,” the king muttered. “No. We ride on for Raider’s Pass. We will reach Norris almost as fast as we would Portage. We’ll begin half-rations when we next make camp.”

  “What about Glee?” Gwendolyn said, entering the conversation. Roan tried to catch her eye, but she was arrow-focused on the king and his sons.

  “Glee is not our concern,” the king said.

  Gwen narrowed her eyes, and Roan was suddenly glad she wasn’t looking at him. “You are the king, are you not?” she said. “And they are within the bounds of your kingdom, yes?”

  Roan gawked at her nerve. In the south, speaking to a member of the Sandes royal family in such a way would only guarantee that your tongue would be served at their next meal, marinated and fried.

  And yet here, in the east, the king only looked amused. “I am the king, and this is my kingdom. We will send word of Glee’s predicament to the Orian healers in Ironwood. That is all we can do.”

  Gwendolyn wasn’t about to be placated by such a response. “The healers will be too late. There will be no one left. The pox spreads like wildfire.”

  The king sighed, and despite the huge size differential between he and Gwendolyn, for once he almost appeared smaller. “What would you have me do?”

  Her eyes were golden steel as she finally turned to face Roan. “You have the ultimate healer riding with you. Send Roan to prove his worth.”

  Twenty-One

  The Northern Kingdom, approaching Gearhärt

  Annise Gäric

  Tarin refused to speak to Annise, or even look at her. Ever since she stopped him from killing the tree farmer, he was like a deaf, mute monolith, responding only in grunts and head nods as he dragged the three dead soldiers into the trees and buried them beneath the snow.

  She’d sent the farmer and his wife inside to get warm, and she wanted so badly to follow them, but she wouldn’t until Tarin was finished. She was scared to leave him alone with the last soldier, who eased in and out of consciousness like a lake trout slipping above and below dark waters. The soldier occasionally moved his arms, but his legs were like stone, and Annise was pretty sure he was paralyzed from the waist down.

  Four soldiers. One Armored Knight. No contest. Despite the exceptional fighting ability she’d seen Tarin display during the melee, she wasn’t prepared for the level of violence he’d unleashed on these northern soldiers. It made her unlikely defeat of the ice bear on the Howling Tundra appear nothing more than child’s play.

  Frozen hell, he was like a man possessed. And that look in his eyes as he choked the farmer…

  It scared her deep in her gut, where she felt a dark hole open up that was more than just gnawing hunger.

  Tarin finished with the dead men, his armor smeared with blood, and then stood over the final soldier, who was, at present, sleeping in the snow, his chest rising and falling. Tarin bent down and slipped a knife from the soldier’s belt. Ran a gloved finger along the blade, slowly. Pressed it to the man’s throat.

  “Wait,” Annise said.

  Tarin didn’t move, a statue once more.

  “We should question him.”

  Tarin paused for a moment, and then gave a slight nod, retracting the blade and standing. He took two big steps back, and gestured for Annise to move forward.

  She moved next to the fallen soldier and knelt down. Pinched his leg, hard. He didn’t react. Definitely paralyzed.

  “Oi,” she said. He didn’t react. He was still breathing, hot vapors escaping his lips, which were beginning to look pale blue. She grabbed him by the top of his breastplate, lifting him up off the ground. He was heavy in all his armor, but Annise had always been strong. She’d once heard one of the lordlings refer to her as being strong as an ox. She’d been confident it wasn’t a compliment, so she’d forced him to eat yellow snow.

  Annise shook the soldier, but still he slept. She glanced at Tarin, who pretended not to watch. Holding him with one hand, she pulled the other hand back and then swung it in a vicious arc.

  The man’s eyes shot open when she slapped him, a gasp bursting from his lips. He stared at her, his eyes twitching back and forth. He tried to land a punch, but Annise grabbed his arm and forced it down, pressing a knee to his chest, cons
olidating her strength into a single point. Without use of his legs and without any leverage, the soldier slumped back, resigned.

  “What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?” Annise asked gruffly.

  “You’re her,” the soldier said.

  “Aye, I get that a lot,” Annise said.

  “You’re Princess Annise.” He frowned. “What happened to your face?”

  Annise pressed down harder. “I wrestled an ice bear. The bear lost.”

  The man groaned but shut up. “Are you going to answer my questions?” she asked. He nodded. “Good. What is your mission?” She released some of the pressure so he could speak.

  “You’re going to kill me,” the soldier said.

  “Not if you answer my questions.”

  The man looked at her, but said nothing.

  Annise reached a hand toward Tarin, flexing her fingers. He understood her meaning, hesitating only a moment before handing her the confiscated knife. She gripped it tightly, and then shoved the blade toward the soldier’s face, stopping a hairsbreadth from his eye.

  The soldier’s breathing accelerated. “Fine, fine, frozen hell, woman!” he gasped. “I’ll talk. We were sent to find you.”

  “How many men are searching?”

  Another pause. Annise slid the knife’s edge along his skin, shaving off a ragged portion of his beard and cutting him in the process. “Ah! What are you doing?”

  “Sorry, never done that before,” Annise said. “Want me to do the rest?”

  “I was going to answer! I was just thinking. Three hundred. Griswold hand-selected three hundred soldiers to conduct the search. The grid stretches from Castle Hill to Gearhärt to Walburg. We’re hitting all the small towns and settlements within the triangle.”

  “Not Darrin?”

  “King Griswold said it was too far east, that he couldn’t spare any men away from the front lines.”

  Annise frowned, ignoring the false title given to her uncle. “Front lines?”

  “I can’t feel my legs,” the soldier said, his eyes going suddenly wide. “Why can’t I feel my legs?”