Soulmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 3)
Page 26
The door shook as another heavy blow battered it. But it held. There was still time for a speech.
“Tonight, we defend the north as wolves defend their caves. Tonight, we rain hellfire and steel on our enemies. Tonight, we live and die in honor, men unbroken, souls of stone.”
Rattling hinges. Splintering wood. Creaking timber.
Time marches with our enemy. Annise, oh Annise. I’m fighting. I’m here, till the end. “We are the chosen defenders. We are the chosen warriors of our time, men who will be sung of by the bards a hundred years from now—nay, a thousand years. What say ye?”
The men roared in the face of the next blow, which blew the doors inward.
The real fight began in earnest.
Annise!
The battle was not going well, Tarin noted as he swung Morningstar, smashing it into the helm of two foes in short succession.
Tarin’s men were determined, aye, but a few ill weeks of training were nothing against years of battle experience. And the easterners had a platoon of Orians, too, the fierce forest dwellers clad in pristine iron armor, their movements nimble and efficient, their eyes shining in the dark—yellow, orange, lavender.
In short, the men of Darrin were outmatched and outnumbered.
And yet, none had retreated, none had fled from the threat of death. Even when Beorn Stonesledge himself marched through the courtyard, his sword slashing, stabbing, hacking at everything in sight, Tarin’s men held the line.
He was proud of them, almost like a father to a son.
Annise. I have done good. I think you would be proud of me, too. The monster inside is silent. The monster inside is imprisoned. I am fighting on my own.
And then a new sound arose, distant and foreign. Voices raised, slightly higher pitched than the standard battlefield cries he’d grown accustomed to over the years. He turned, seeking the source of the sound and then they were there. A hundred armor-clad soldiers, all of whom appeared to be women, marching in perfect formation, their voices raised in challenge to the attackers.
At their head, a familiar face, his plate so thoroughly polished it was gleaming under the starlight.
Sir Metz.
“Division one—right flank!” he ordered. “Two—left flank! Three—with me! With me!” With that said, he charged right up the middle into the heart of the battle.
Tarin didn’t consider the how of the situation—only caring that Zelda had apparently changed her mind, sending reinforcements to Darrin at the last moment, perhaps saving the city. A hope, a chance, Tarin thought, vowing not to waste it.
He redoubled his efforts, commanding his last remaining group of soldiers to support Metz’s push into the center while the knight’s other two divisions harried them from the sides.
Due to the unexpected appearance of Metz and his women warriors, the battlefield tilted for a few moments as the easterners struggled to cope. The women fought like wildcats, without fear, throwing themselves with reckless abandon at the enemy. We should’ve permitted women into the army centuries ago, Tarin thought.
Still, Darrin was outnumbered two to one, and inch by bloody inch, Stonesledge and his soldiers regained their advantage.
Enemies closed in, slashing his men and Metz’s women to the ground. Tarin tried to protect them, hated seeing them perish under his watch, but he was only one man. He fought and killed, bodies piling up around him, staining the hard-packed snow scarlet. Dead eyes were the only spectators now, watching, observing, counting down the seconds until Darrin fell.
Metz fought valiantly, too, a master swordsman, but it wasn’t enough—couldn’t have been enough even if the battle was waged a hundred times.
Beorn Stonesledge burst through the line, his sword spraying blood in a crimson arc. He gripped the ironmark amulet he wore around his neck with one hand, while swinging his sword with powerful strikes with the other.
Several of Tarin’s men and Metz’s women released a cry, charging to meet Beorn, to defend their leaders. There were so few left, perhaps two dozen. Two dozen souls. Tarin, for the first time, cried, “Fall back! Back!”
Surprised, the men and women whirled and looked at him. He shouted again and the men turned to run. Metz’s women hesitated, waiting for confirmation from their captain. The knight’s eyes flicked from Tarin to one of the women and then back again. “Retreat!” he echoed, and his soldiers fled.
Tarin strode forward as they passed, swinging Morningstar in long slow arcs above his head, gaining momentum with each rotation. “You, too, Metz,” he said. “Save yourself.”
“No,” the knight said.
“I am the lord commander of this castle, and I order you to retreat, Sir.”
He saw the moment of hesitation on the man’s face, the point of indecision as he grappled between his sense of honor and the innate need to protect the lives of others. Finally, he nodded, striding after what was left of his platoon.
Tarin turned to meet his foe’s gaze.
“We meet again,” Stonesledge said, a grim smile creasing his bearded face.
“It shall be the last time,” Tarin said.
“Yes.” Legionnaires crowded around the enormous man, Orians and humans alike.
Tarin stepped into their midst, unafraid.
Annise, I come to you.
The voice burst through the calm of his mind like a punch through an ice wall. Tarin, no!
Her.
How? Tarin shook his head, trying to understand, even as the first attack came, from his left flank. He blocked two swords with his chain, jabbing his elbow backwards into the jaw of the soldier who leapt in from the right. At the same time, he probed through his mind for that voice, that connection, the one he thought was lost, the woman he believed was dead.
Annise?
I’m here.
How? I heard your goodbye. The monster implied you’d fallen from a cliff.
I almost did. I thought I was dead.
Tarin’s first thought was: a trick. But no, the monster could never impersonate her—he would know the difference.
His Morningstar crushed another man’s skull. Invigorated, Tarin kicked out a huge boot, knocking another man back. Two Orians leapt in, their movements lithe, sliding beneath the chain, jabbing at his midsection. He turned sharply, avoiding one blow while taking the other one on his plate. Using his momentum, he punched one in the face and wrapped his chain around the other’s throat, dispatching her with a twist of his wrist.
Tarin, it is time. Release the monster. It’s the only hope.
No. Anything but that.
Please. You must. For me. Do it for me.
Anything. He would do anything for her. So he did. He released the monster.
The hiss was so loud it was a shout, a growl, a roar of delight, of freedom.
Tarin felt his body expand, grow, strengthen even more. The monster’s roar exploded from his own mouth as he charged.
Men, women, and Orians alike scattered as he bashed through them. Several blades rang off his plate, one knife wedging itself into one of the paper-thin gaps. His Morningstar destroyed at will, cutting a path to Beorn Stonesledge, who waited, his mouth opened slightly in surprise.
“What devilry is this?” he muttered.
“Now you die,” Tarin said.
It was easier said than done, for Stonesledge was a devil in his own regard. His broadsword lashed out, and though Tarin blocked it with his chain, the impact shivered through him, rattling his white armor.
And then Stonesledge was there, ducking under the chain, hammering blows upon his face, his helm, grabbing his armor with monstrous hands, trying to wrench each plate free.
Tarin responded in kind, snagging his spiked metal ball and slamming it into Beorn’s head, again and again and again. He was vaguely aware that he was fighting more than one foe—pinpricks of pain flared in his legs, back, arms…
Annise’s voice was there still, but fading, like a distant memory: Hang on, Tarin. Hang on, my love. I am here.
I am coming.
Hang on…
He roared, spinning in a circle, crushing bones, rending flesh, a reaper of souls. Bodies flew, shattered, broken. Dozens more charged in to take their place. So many, too many.
Annise?
Hang on.
Annise?
Gaps in his armor, filled by blades. His skin punctured, his black blood flowing, tasting it in his mouth.
The night faded into a world of pain.
Forty-Five
The Northern Kingdom, the outskirts of Darrin
Annise Gäric
Annise could feel the beat of his heart in her chest; his ragged breaths flowed past her lips.
He was dying, she could feel it, could feel each spike of pain. Hurry! she urged herself as her boots struggled to find purchase on the icy city streets. The gray walls of Darrin seemed to close in with each step.
Behind her, an ancient army, having marched with barely any rest or sustenance—We have slept long enough, the Sleeping Knights had said, their voices unified—from the Garzi village to Darrin. Twice the knights had carried Annise and her comrades while they slept, the rhythms of their footfalls a strange but effective lullaby.
She still remembered the moment Lisbeth Lorne awakened the knights from their slumber, still remembered how weak the girl had looked afterward. And yet the girl had caught up to them on the second day, her face as pale as the snow, like she’d seen a ghost.
Annise had asked her if she was alright, and she’d said, “Yes,” and that was it.
The memory faded and Annise realized the city had passed by in a blur. Forms were running toward them, and at first she thought the enemy had come to meet them, but then she noticed the northern sigil each of them bore. They’re retreating, she thought, at the same time realizing at least half the soldiers were women.
Sir Metz almost collided with her, his eyes wide. For some reason, the knight’s presence didn’t in any way surprise her. “Sir Sheary,” he said, breathing heavily. “He ordered our retreat. He is facing the enemy alone.”
No. “As your queen, I order you back to the battle, all of you!” They didn’t have to be commanded twice. Metz, almost too eager, whirled and headed in the direction he’d come, flanked by two small groups of soldiers—one all men, one all women.
“With me!” Annise cried, racing after them. The satisfying clomp of hundreds of ancient boots fell in behind her.
Annise hoped they weren’t too late.
Tarin?
Tarin?
Answer me!
No reply came as she charged through the wide-open gate and into the castle courtyard, which was a mess of ruined bodies. She was forced to step on several just to get through to where the enemy stood, waiting for them. She was dimly aware of a commotion behind them—was Tarin still standing, still fighting?
Parallels between the reality she now saw and the vision Lisbeth had given her of the killing fields fell into place. No, it cannot be. There is still time. There must be.
Tarin?
Her knights poured around her, meeting the enemy with sword and shield, strength on strength. Though the legends said the knights were the most capable warriors in the realm, even the stories had underestimated them. They were like a many-limbed beast, hacking, stabbing, piercing the enemies’ defenses like rain through a sieve.
In a way, their violence was beautiful. Frighteningly beautiful, like an eagle swooping down to devour a rodent.
And then the enemy lines broke, opening to a view of the commotion beyond. A large man, still on his feet, but staggering, dark fluid covering his armor, his exposed face, pooling beneath his boots.
Tarin!
At that thought, his gaze jerked up and his eyes met hers. They were weary but determined, the look of the man Annise had known, had loved, had never—not truly—given up on.
With renewed vigor, he threw himself at the enemy, joining Annise’s knights and Metz’s soldiers. Annise ran toward him, slamming her own Evenstar against any easterner that moved. It didn’t matter their size or their skill—she was not to be denied, not when she was this close.
As she approached, a man nearly as large as Tarin swung a sword toward him. Beorn Stonesledge, apparently recovered from his injuries at Raider’s Pass. Tarin blocked the attack but was thrown back, stumbling. Annise reached him just before he fell, jamming her shoulder under his arm, holding him up, supporting him. Tears bit at her eyes as she growled, “End this.”
Tarin looked back, surprised, and it broke her heart to see the wounds on his face, which were likely nothing compared to what was surely hidden beneath his armor—the white plates that suited him even more than the black had.
With a roar, she flung him forward, providing a burst of momentum. Simultaneously, he swung his Morningstar, which slammed into Stonesledge’s helm, cracking it in two. But Tarin didn’t stop there, completing another arc of the spiked ball.
Annise looked away before the blow landed.
With a grunt, Tarin fell back. She caught him under the arms, using every bit of her strength to draw him slowly to the ground, resting his head in the crook of her shoulder. “Oh, Tarin,” she said as his eyes fluttered, his gaze piercing her as it focused.
The battle raged around them, the knights sweeping over their foes in a relentless dance of death, but she barely noticed, her world boiling down to a single drop of life: this man. This big, beautiful man.
“You’re alive?” he said. He sounded almost as if he believed this was a dream.
“Of course, I am, you big ice bear. You think the Hinterlands could kill me?”
“I thought…I heard your last words to me. The monster gave them to me. It implied you fell from a cliff.”
Annise frowned. “We almost did. I thought we were finished,” she admitted. “I spoke them in haste, but then we survived. A girl saved us. The monster didn’t tell you that?”
“No,” Tarin said, his voice a rasp.
“No more speaking,” Annise said. “Rest. Take my strength.” She kissed him on the lips, breathing into him, not caring that she tasted blood. All that was his felt like hers anyway, the separation between them fading away into a meaningless nothingness.
Swords rang out, shields clashed, men and women fought, and Annise kissed Tarin.
She felt the moment he drifted away into unconsciousness, a little piece of her breaking.
Forty-Six
The Northern Kingdom, Darrin
Tarin Sheary
Tarin felt as if he was sinking. It wasn’t a particularly bad sensation, especially because he could still taste her on his lips, but still, he fought against it, knowing instinctively that he should.
Her voice was somewhere above him, but he couldn’t make out her words. He could, however, hear her sobs, which made him realize:
I am drowning in her tears.
The thought made him unbearably sad, because she was unbearably sad.
A new voice came to him through the dark waters, taking form as a spark of light, as blue as the ocean or the summer sky. Changing, shaping itself into something familiar: an eye.
Rise, the voice said. It was that of a girl, pleasant and soothing and yet full of command. It was a voice not to be denied, and with it came a cascading avalanche of memories:
A witch pouring vile potion down his throat; fighting in endless tourneys, inflicting pain as he seized victory; countless battles, the lives of strangers snuffed out by his strength; the first time he saw Annise again, the way his heart seemed to open like a flower for the first time in a decade; their first kiss, a dazzling gesture full of urgency and need and passion; walking away from her to protect her…
He gasped, his eyes shooting open. Fuzzy images projected overhead, blanketed by smatters of winking stars peeking through the gray cloud cover. Clarifying, becoming truth. Becoming her.
My Annise.
He tried to speak the words but didn’t have the strength. “Shh,” Annise said, cupping his chin. “Save your
strength.”
“I can heal his soul, but not his body,” another voice said, that pleasant-soothing-commanding voice he’d heard in the water. A girl, kneeling, pressed in tight beside Annise, her eyes pale white orbs without sight, flanking the blue All-Seeing eye marked on her forehead.
“I can tend to his wounds,” another familiar voice said. Sir Metz, his blond straw-like hair as ruffled and out of place as Tarin had ever seen it.
A woman was beside him, and there was something familiar about her, too, like she was more than a woman—a memory. She said, “I will help. I have training in healing, too. From the time I looked after my mistress as she aged.”
Tarin’s lips tried to move again—Do I know you?—but Annise shushed him. “Later,” she said.
Forty-Seven
The Northern Kingdom, Darrin
Sir Christoff Metz
Private Sheary had been a great help tending to Tarin’s wounds, which were numerous. He wasn’t out of the blizzard yet, but he had a fighting chance—the man’s strength would serve him well now.
Although the queen had hovered like a concerned hummingbird the entire time they treated the knight, he’d eventually had to insist she leave and let the man sleep. He’d promised to inform her of any change to his condition, or if he woke up.
Private Sheary slumped down in a chair, looking exhausted. Sir Metz had the urge to do the same, but he knew slumping wasn’t an action befitting a captain. Plus, there was more work to do—he needed to take roll of the dead members of his battalion, who were many. The thought of so many dead because of his decision made his heart ache, but at the same time he felt an odd sense of relief that Private Sheary had come out on the other end without serious injury.
“Can you stay with our patient while I tend to other business?” he asked, maintaining a formal tone. He was growing more accustomed to hearing her speak to him informally, in private, but still wasn’t that comfortable doing so himself.