Fatemarked Origins: Volume I (The Fatemarked Epic Book 1)

by David Estes

  “Oh heart,” she said, her hand hovering in the air between them, blocked by that hellfrozen barrier. “I didn’t know what else to do. I just wanted my baby to live. I’m sorry.” She backed away, repeating that word—sorry—again and again, only silenced when the door closed behind her.

  Tarin was alone, and yet he heard a voice: I’m here. You’re not alone.

  “Who’s there?” he asked, alarmed. “Father?”

  I could be your father.

  “I already have a father.”

  Not anymore.

  “Liar!” Tarin said, straining against the ropes, anger heating his blood, sending strength to his limbs. He wanted to see whoever was talking to him, wanted to hurt them, to make them shut their lying mouth. He’d never felt such pure rage before, like an inferno raging through his entire body. He hated feeling this way.

  He loved it, too, like he was truly alive for the first time in his life.

  And he felt powerful, even as the ropes snapped, breaking away from his arms and legs, even as he threw off the blanket and leapt to his feet—his legs strong and sturdy, stronger and sturdier than before—scanning the room for the bearer of that cursed, lying voice, and—

  The room was empty.

  He stood there, panting, his fingers curling and uncurling at his sides, pent up energy seeming to drip from his hands. “Show yourself!” he said. He grabbed the small wooden table by his bed and smashed it against the wall. Wooden splinters went every which way as the legs snapped off.

  I’m in the looking glass, the voice said, so close that Tarin whirled around, swinging a closed fist wildly. He caught only air.

  Confusion settled in. That’s when he noticed his arm, which was bare. His skin was like frosted glass, not pale exactly, but transparent. Through his flesh, he could see his veins, which had turned black and been lifted up, protruding from his skin like tiny snakes.

  But that wasn’t all. When he opened and closed his fist, he saw muscles rippling beneath the surface of his skin, practically bulging. Everything was thicker, too, like his very bones had expanded. The witch’s spell came back to him:

  …made strong…made whole…bones to iron…muscles to stone…flesh to glass…blood to ash.

  A tremor shuddered through him.

  I’m in the looking glass, the voice repeated, and this time Tarin sought out the only mirror they had, a tiny oval framed by rusty tin. He snatched it from where it lay, spun it around, and stared into it, seeking out the owner of the voice.

  What he saw horrified him.

  After throwing on a thick winter coat—though it was summer, he wanted to cover himself—Tarin left home through the backdoor, scuttling between buildings, sticking to the shadows. Somewhere along the way he began to cry, but when he brushed away the tears his fingers came back black.

  With a muffled sob, he wiped his fingers clean on his cloak, but they still looked gray. He didn’t want anyone he knew to see him like this, so he hurried on, even when someone shouted in his general direction. He was aware that his shadow was taller and thicker because he was taller and thicker.

  The thought only made him run faster. He should’ve been breathing heavily by now, but instead his lungs were strong and consistent, like he was standing still and not sprinting along the muddy hills of Castle Hill.

  He didn’t stop until he’d reached the edge of the city, looking back at the tangled web of houses and farms surrounding the castle, which stood gleaming white in the sunlight on the highest hill. Could he really leave his mother, who he loved, who had done so much for him?

  You have no mother.

  And his father, who had given him a good life, despite his humble beginnings?

  You have no father.

  And his best friend, Annise, who was surely waiting for him to come outside and play Knights ’n Trolls with her?

  You have no friends.

  You have no one but Me.

  He knew it was true, because he was Tarin no longer, not even a shadow of his former self. “Who are you?” he asked the thing inside of him.

  I am You and you are Me. We are strongest when we are One.

  Tarin didn’t like the sound of the voice, but he knew he had no other choice. After all, the voice had saved him and cursed him all at the same time, just as the witch had saved him and cursed him.

  With one final look, he turned away from Castle Hill, away from his home, away from everyone he’d ever loved.

  No one knew how young Tarin was. Two full moons after the witch had forced her hot potion down his throat, he was already as tall and broad as a man grown. Not knowing which way to go, he’d set out east, and was now somewhere between Castle Hill and the lesser castle of Walburg. All he knew was that he needed to get as far away from his family as possible before he changed his mind.

  Occasionally he came across small farming villages. He never let anyone see him, covering his hands, body and face with thick folds of cloth. He survived on scraps of food flung his way when scared farmers saw him coming. Everyone who saw his strange attire assumed he bore some disease.

  Not anymore, he thought, chewing on a half-frozen heel of bread. It used to hurt, seeing the terror in the eyes of the people he came across—he’d cried the first time someone had run from him—but not anymore. His black tears scared him too much, for one. And it was better that those he encountered feared him. Stayed away from him.

  Yes, the voice agreed. You only need Me.

  He relished the dark of night, when none but the northern beasts would be able to see him through the inky gloom. It was only then that he pulled back the scarf covering his face and breathed in the night air, which had grown quite cold, autumn chasing away summer with an icy sword. Yet the cold didn’t seem to penetrate his skin anymore. He slept under the stars, staring up at the fathomless sky, sometimes gazing at the twinkle of a single yellow-white star for hours at a time.

  Wondering whether they felt as alone as he did.

  Wondering whether Annise was looking at the same stars as him.

  Wondering whether she missed playing with him or had already found another friend.

  The only time he found true peace was when he slept.

  I can show you peace, the voice would whisper just before he drifted away into oblivion.

  Every few days he was forced to curl up into a ball as his body was wracked with violent tremors accompanied by vines of agony that seemed to split his bones apart before mending them back together.

  As much as he hated the pain, he loved it, too.

  Because it reminded him that he was still human, or something like it.

  That he was alive, or something like it.

  That he could still feel something.

  Also, the agony chased away the sadness that threatened to suffocate him.

  And when blessed sleep would finally come, he never dreamed, remembering only a deep, impenetrable blackness that felt more like home than anywhere else.

  He hated waking up from those sleeps. Hated coming back to the reality that was his new existence. Hated the way he was always changed, standing taller, his footsteps sinking further into the mud and snow. He’d thought he was a monster before, which made him wonder exactly what he was now.

  All he could do was put one foot in front of the other, and continue walking toward something he couldn’t quite explain. A destiny? A future? Whatever it was, it felt better than standing still.

  After months of travelling, Tarin finally reached Walburg, a grey-stone castle with high turrets and four small towers surrounding a larger one. He’d never seen a castle besides Castle Hill, and he was amazed at how different this structure was from the white stone blocks of the king’s fortress.

  Can I make this place my home? he wondered.

  Immediately, he noticed a difference as he passed along the cobblestone streets. Though people raised their eyebrows and passed as far away from him as possible, they didn’t run from him. The reason soon presented itself as he came acros
s alleyways between the stone buildings. The narrow corridors were strewn with humans sleeping in various positions, covered head to foot with cloth to keep warm. He knew they were beggars and vagrants, but then again, so was he. The thought actually made him smile beneath his scarf. In this city he wouldn’t stick out as much as he’d expected. He could blend in, and none would notice him.

  Except for one problem: he’d grown even more, something he realized when he passed a marketplace. One of the vendors was selling jewelry and other trinkets, including mirrors. One mirror stood tall and narrow, and when Tarin reached it, he sucked in a quick breath.

  The person he saw wasn’t a man, but a giant, too large to be captured on the mirror’s face. Everyone in the marketplace was looking up at him, most of them staring.

  I’m just a boy! he wanted to shout. I just had my ninth name day!

  But he knew no one would believe him, nor would such information help him. It would only make them even more scared of him. That’s when he saw it:

  A large tent sat atop a broad wooden pavilion. A sign hung, an announcement in large letters:

  WALBURG ANNUAL TOURNAMENT OF CHAMPIONS

  PRELIMINARY ROUNDS OPEN TO ALL

  ENTER HERE

  Yes, the voice inside him said. Tarin headed for the tent.

  “Name?” the man said, his quill ready to scrawl Tarin’s information on a scroll, its corners weighed down against the wind by small rocks. He hadn’t looked at Tarin, one hand idly stroking a wispy brown beard.

  Tarin considered the question. Choose, the voice said, and he knew what it meant. He could remain the eight-year-old boy who had been bedridden and dying in Castle Hill, or become the man who’d traversed the harsh lands to Walburg.

  “Choose,” he said aloud, still considering.

  The man, however, took it for an answer. Choose, he wrote on his page, only then looking up to see who had spoken. His eyes widened and he snorted. “Yer a big fella with a strange name,” he said. “Shall I add a title?”

  Tarin had watched enough tourneys with Annise in Castle Hill to know what he was truly asking. There were the knights and everyone else. Because of his sheer size, the man was open to the idea that Tarin might bear the title Sir. Tarin almost laughed—me, a knight?—but instead only shook his head.

  After scratching an X next to the name, the man said, “Events?”

  Tarin hadn’t thought about it yet. Though the premiere event at any tourney was the joust, he had no idea whether he could still ride. As a boy, his father had taught him to be an excellent horseman, but now he weighed at least two stones more. Additionally, he’d never held a lance in his life, nor did he have a horse. No, the joust was out. Archery had never been his strong suit either. There were several other events of skill and talent, too, but he ignored those as well. That left the duel and the melee.

  “How many can I choose?” he asked.

  “You can choose two, Choose.” The man said, chuckling at his own jest. “But you only need choose one if you prefer.”

  The voice pounded in his head. And he listened.

  “The melee,” he said. “Just the melee.”

  “Weapon of choice?”

  Tarin’s shoulders slumped. He had no weapon but the cursed strength in his bones.

  A man stepped forward, and said, “I will sponsor this entrant.”

  Through the slit in his scarf, Tarin gaped at the man. He was old, but not withered, with broad shoulders and thick forearms corded with muscle. His face was pocked with scars and his nose bent slightly too far to the left.

  “I was wondering when you would show up, Bart,” the scribe said. “Weapon of choice?” he asked Tarin again.

  Tarin had heard of merchants sponsoring poor commoners in the tourney before, but that didn’t diminish his surprise at Bart’s offer. He had a sponsor! He thought of swords and hammers and knives and shields, but none of them seemed quite right. No, the voice agreed.

  “The mace,” Tarin said, and the voice inside him purred with delight.

  Bart flung a few gold coins at the scribe for the entrance fee, and they left.

  The thick man—Bart—led Tarin from the platform. “I would’ve chosen the longsword for you,” he said. “Or perhaps a spear. With your long reach you would be hard to defeat.”

  Tarin didn’t know what to say. He didn’t understand why this man would sponsor him, a stranger in these parts. He assumed it was simply because of how large he was. But he’d never fought anyone—not for real anyway. He and Annise had wrestled often enough, but she always forced him to submit.

  No, he thought. That doesn’t matter. That wasn’t me. This is me.

  And you have Me now, the voice agreed.

  Tarin wasn’t exactly sure why he’d chosen the mace either. He’d never swung a mace. In fact, once his father had shown him one, and he wasn’t even able to lift it. So he said nothing, just continued following his sponsor, who weaved a path through the streets of Walburg until they reached a blacksmith’s forge. “This is my man. The best smithy in all the north. Maybe in all the Four Kingdoms.”

  Which was why Tarin was surprised when a young woman presented herself as they stepped inside, her skin slick with sweat and dark with grime. In one hand she held a large hammer and in the other a long sword, red hot from the fire. She had short night-dark hair, gray eyes, and a pointed chin. Though she was slender, her arms looked strong, particularly her right one, the one holding the hammer.

  “Fay,” Bart said. “Meet Choose.”

  She slid the sword into a bath of water to cool—it hissed and released a cloud of steam—and placed the hammer on a bench. Then she stared Tarin up and down. “Choose? An odd name. Your new man?” she asked.

  Bart said, “He entered the melee and needs a weapon. A mace.”

  Her eyes slid over Tarin once more, and he had the disconcerting feeling she could see through his clothes. “He doesn’t seem the type for such a brutal weapon.”

  How does she know? How does she know I’ve never hurt anyone, much less fought in a real battle?

  She will see, the voice said. They will all see.

  “It is my weapon of choice?” Tarin said, trying to make his gruff voice sound even gruffer. Instead he thought he sounded like a confused child.

  “You have gold?” Fay asked.

  “Do you really have to ask?” Bart said, jingling a pouch he removed from a pocket inside his cloak.

  “Then I have just the weapon for you. It’s a mace, but improved. Newly forged, never before tested in battle. Instead of a blunt implement at the end, it has a spiked ball of iron capable of piercing armor and flesh. And rather than a club, it has a long chain. Most men would not be able to use it effectively, but you might just be large enough.” She turned and strode back into her shop, reemerging a few moments later with the enhanced mace strung across her shoulders, the thick chains clanking as she walked. “I call it Morningstar.”

  She held it out, and Bart inspected it. “The workmanship is fine,” he said.

  “Of course it is.”

  “But it looks too heavy. And I don’t want to test your new design for you.”

  Tarin couldn’t take his eyes off the weapon. He reached out and gripped the handle. Something surged inside him, a flood of heat, white-hot and blazing with power. Fay dropped the spiked ball, but before it hit the ground, Tarin swung the handle like a sword. She dove for the floor and Bart dodged away as the Morningstar whipped overhead. It was heavy, but Tarin was unnaturally strong now, and with each flick of his wrist the spikes slashed the air to ribbons, like it was a combination of lightning and thunder and the hail of a fierce autumn storm.

  He extended his arm to its full length and aimed for a suit of armor hanging on the wall. The ball slammed into the metal with a shriek, and the armor fell. His heart pounding, Tarin reeled the ball back in, until it hung from a short length of chain.

  “Frozen hell,” Bart said.

  “You owe me for the weapon and the a
rmor,” Fay said.

  The armor was sheared in half and pocked with holes.

  Because he wasn’t a knight, Tarin would fight in the Commoner Division. The melee was traditionally the final event of any tourney, so he’d spent much of the day as a spectator, watching the true knights wipe out the commoners, and then do battle with sword and lance. Unlike the commoners, the knights could enter as many events as they wanted, and one particular knight continued to appear on the victor’s platform.

  Sir Draconius.

  Tarin couldn’t help but to admire the knight, with his shiny silver armor, flashing white smile, and grace and valor. His arrows hit the target every time. His sword slashes were crisp and well-placed. He was the people’s champion, as well as the true champion, winning every event that he entered to raucous cheers and applause. Tarin found himself cheering for the gallant knight, too.

  Next to him, Bart only scowled. “I’ve sponsored several good fighters, but they always lose to him in the end,” he said. “Damn Draconius.”

  He’d been in a grumpy mood ever since they’d left Fay’s shop. Because of the damage Tarin did to the armor, Bart was unable to afford to buy new armor for Tarin, and thus, he would be going into the melee without protection. Fay had been unwilling to provide credit to Bart: “You have to pay to play,” she’d said. Bart had dropped the pouch of gold on her table and grabbed the mangled armor from the floor. Then they’d left, Tarin hauling Morningstar behind him.

  The joust finished with Sir Draconius as the victor. The knight lifted his faceplate and waved to the crowd, who tossed handfuls of pink hope flowers at his horse’s feet.

  And then it was time for the melee. The knights would do battle first, so they would have sufficient time to rest before the finals. Out of the twelve knights competing, half would advance to the final round.

  It was over quickly.