Soulmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 3)

by David Estes

  Watching the dragons Raven had once loved destroy each other twisted something inside her chest.

  And yet the worst was still to come.

  Rider rasped, “Please. Help him.” She was dying, and her entire focus was on her dragon, her friend, her blood ally.

  Raven remembered what Roan had said earlier, about being able to heal. She twisted her head to look at him. “Save her,” she said. He nodded, eyes wide. Just as she started to turn back around a light caught her eye through his shirt. She shook it off and refocused.

  Siri’s path was barred by three dragons. Beyond them, Cronus took Heiron from behind while the large dragon was distracted by other foes. Cronus’s claws slid around Heiron’s long neck, clamping tight. He began to tear into him.

  Raven had to look away. The sound that burst from Rider’s mouth sent shivers down her spine. It was a cry of one’s soul being ripped away, shredded into a thousand pieces. Raven understood—she couldn’t imagine losing Siri—but the sound still made her cringe.

  Broken, bleeding, Heiron fell from the sky. Time seemed to stop, the dragon’s eyes finding its master’s as it dropped, locking on Rider in a final shared connection.

  And then the sea swallowed him.

  The mighty dragon was lost.

  “Oh gods,” Roan breathed from behind.

  Raven had no choice but to flee.

  Rider was dead in her arms, the final blow dealt when she watched the murder of her dragon.

  “I thought you said you could save her!” she screamed at Roan.

  “She didn’t want to be saved,” was all that he said in reply, sadness in his tone.

  The dragonia gave chase, but quickly stopped—Siri was the fastest, outdistancing them as she charged northward.

  Once they were alone again, Raven halted her flight, commanding her to hover in place as she took in the hopelessness of the situation.

  She was certain the ships had seen the command from Rider, but they continued to churn westward. Evidently Shanolin’s treason extended to her captains. How could I have been so blind? She’d been so focused on Whisper, on the decisions she had to make, that she’d become complacent. She hadn’t spent nearly as much time with her soldiers and dragon masters as she should have. And the entire time Shanolin had been whispering in their ears, probably promising them riches and power and who knows what else.

  One ship did, however, turn away from the rest, angling south, as commanded. Even from this height, she could make out the reptilian beasts on deck.

  The guanero.

  “Goggin,” she murmured.

  Roan said, “You still have an ally.”

  Even as she realized the truth of his words, the dragonia launched themselves at the ship, streaking past it, shooting bursts of flame across the wooden vessel. When they were finished, the ship was an inferno and Raven’s heart was a smoldering wreckage.

  This is my fault, she thought, sickened by the sight of men, women, and guanik leaping from the sides of the ship. The dragons left the ship to burn, the guanero and guanik to drown, speeding after the ships.

  “Siri, turn around,” she said, barely loud enough for the dragon to hear. “We have to save as many of them as we can.”

  Even as the dragon began to wheel about, Roan said, “No.”

  “What?”

  “You can try to come back for them later. There’s no time. Go to Ferria. Stop this before they’re all dead.”

  But Goggin. But my loyal warriors.

  I am the empress.

  I am a sacrifice.

  Whisper’s words: I couldn’t lose you, too.

  “I’m sorry, sister. I’m so sorry.”

  She gave the command and Siri soared westward. Soon the shimmering, iron-sheathed trees of Ironwood came into view.

  At long last, she’d reached Ferria.

  It was here, she knew, that she would die.

  PART III

  Gwendolyn Bane Roan

  Gareth Goggin Rhea

  In the beginning, there shall be Death and there shall be Life.

  And they shall be two sides of the same coin.

  The Western Oracle

  One-Hundred-and-Four

  The Eastern Kingdom, Ferria

  Gwendolyn Storm

  Gwen raced outside, feeling a strange calm set in as her heromark flared on her cheek.

  Somehow she knew this day would come, as if she’d been preparing for it her entire life. The events of the Dragon Massacre—more than eight decades past—flashed through her mind, frozen images of the worst day of her long life. The last image was of Alastair, her warrior poet, his final words sliding from his tongue, warming her, destroying her.

  The beat of dragons’ wings. Shouts from the castle. Screams from the village.

  Not this time, she thought, bounding down the iron steps, ignoring shouts from Gareth and Grian behind her. Their orders applied to their captains, their legionnaires, not to her. They could fight for control, for power, but she was of a single mind in this moment.

  Save them. Save as many of them as she could.

  Their dark, sinewy forms streaked across the sky, blotting out the sun, casting dark shadows upon the world. Though Gwen knew the dragons could attack any part of the castle from any direction, it was the second wave she was more concerned with, and they could only come through the front gates.

  She ran.

  Men and women garbed in armor fell behind her as if they weren’t moving, though they too were running. Those on horseback were no match for her speed either, the horses’ eyes wide as she accelerated past, skidding and changing direction as she passed through each inner gate.

  And then the front gate stood before her, a large group of legionnaires behind it, awaiting the enemy.

  THUD! The battering ram shook the iron gate. Gwen had to get the legionnaires away, spread them out. The soldiers knew this from their training, but old habits were hard to change, and none of these men and women had ever faced a dragon, much less the several that swooped down now from above.

  THUD! The ground under her feet shook as she raced forward, waving her arms. “Disperse!” she shouted. “Spread out!”

  Numerous faces turned halfway toward her, torn between the threat behind the iron gates and her barked command. And then their training kicked in. They scrambled around each other, heading in all directions, filling the courtyard, leaving several arm’s lengths between each of them.

  Good, Gwen thought. It would at least give them a chance. The dragons would try to herd them, as they did eighty-four years ago, like sheep, but it would be harder now that they weren’t gathered in bunches.

  She spotted an Orian atop the wall, manning the gate. With a burst of speed, Gwen raced directly toward the wall, throwing herself up it. She ran up the wall, reaching the surprised Orian’s side in an instant. The woman was protected by a metal chamber flanking the gates. Another Orian waited in a similar position on the opposite side.

  “Situation?” Gwen asked. The purple-eyed woman was clearly one of the hundred or so channelers responsible for the iron defenses that had been implemented since the tragedy of the Dragon Massacre. She glanced at Gwen’s cheek, where she could feel her fatemark continuing to burn.

  The Orian shook away her surprise and said, “Gwendolyn Storm. Thank Orion you are here. They made landfall right on top of us, pouring from the ships. They are still coming.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “Orders.”

  Gwen thought of the two brothers barking commands at the captains in the throne room. The situation was chaotic enough without adding a power struggle to it. “I’ve got your orders. Initiate all ore defenses.”

  The woman hesitated for a moment. Gwen was somewhat famous given her fatemark but she wasn’t in the chain of command. Her eyes snapped to the gates as another heavy THUD! reverberated through the wall.

  Gwen grabbed her shoulders, steadying her eyes back on her. “I have lived through this before. These
Ironclads have not. Your captains have not. Listen to me.”

  The woman, seeming to realize the truth of her words, nodded. Then she raised a hand, spinning in a circle. Gwen watched as, from dozens of other protected areas of the castle, Orians raised their hands in recognition of the signal.

  She dropped her hand, placing it on the wall of the iron chamber and closing her eyes. Concentrating.

  The iron rippled and then began to move.

  Gareth Ironclad

  Gareth knew now wasn’t the time to argue with his brother, but several of the captains were turned toward him, awaiting orders.

  He opened his mouth to speak. His teeth clamped shut, nearly biting off his tongue, when Grian barreled into him from the side.

  He hit the metal floor heavily, the breath gasping from his lungs. They rolled several times before coming to rest. He was vaguely aware of the captains brawling nearby, half for him and half for Grian. The recognition made him ill. They were under attack and their captains couldn’t even save their petty differences for another time. Neither could his brother, it seemed.

  Grian held him down. “I warned you, brother. You should’ve stayed away.”

  Gareth couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. But that didn’t mean he was defeated, though he pretended he was, letting his shoulders slump, his eyes close…

  He bucked his head forward as hard as he could, smashing his forehead into Grian’s nose. Blood spurted out and his brother howled, clutching his face.

  But he wasn’t done. He’d promised to be the Sword, and that’s what he would be. He grabbed Grian by the collar of his shirt, hefting him up, slamming him against the wall. “We are all going to die. We’ll discuss the throne later. For now, I am king. Agreed?”

  Shocked, his brother nodded, his eyes wide.

  “Say it.”

  “You are king,” he said, blood dripping from his lips.

  Gareth released him, and his brother slumped to the floor. He turned to face his captains, who had stopped their fighting to watch the brothers do battle. “You all heard him?”

  They nodded.

  “Then go. Do your duty. Dragon defenses. We have a castle to save.”

  As they hustled for the exit, Gareth released a breath. He only hoped there was still time. Grian stood, spitting a wad of blood in his direction. “This changes nothing,” he said. He strode from the room, following the captains that were no longer his.

  A dark-cloaked form appeared before Gareth. “You escaped me once,” Bane said. “But not again.”

  Bane Gäric

  The true King Ironclad plucked a sword from a rack mounted to the wall.

  Bane knew it wouldn’t be enough, despite the weakness he felt in his blood, the plague flowing through him—Chavos’s curse.

  He strode forward, drawing his knife. There wasn’t time to waste—he could feel the presence of his nemesis, his opposite, drawing near.

  Gareth swung, a graceful arc of steel slashing through the air. Bane sidestepped nimbly, feeling his deathmark burst to life atop his skull. Before the king could finish his stroke, Bane leapt forward, thrusting his knife into his midsection.

  Clang!

  Surprised, Bane barely managed to maintain his balance as Gareth shoved him back. His sword had blocked the strike, somehow sweeping across in time to protect him.

  Bane grinned. This almost made the entire event all the sweeter. Death was death, but there was something to be said for a death truly earned. He danced forward, dodging another expert blow from Gareth. He lashed out with a foot, kicking the king in the knee, hearing a satisfying crunch as he fell to one knee, hobbled.

  He dropped his knife, punching Gareth in the face five times in short succession. Ironclad fell back, his sword skittering from his hands.

  Bane retrieved his knife. It felt cold against his warm palm. He stood over Gareth, whose face was a bloody mess, one eye already closed from the swelling. “Now you die,” Bane said, plunging the knife down toward the king’s chest.

  Gareth rolled unexpectedly, and the knife missed, slamming into the metal floor. Bane’s stroke was so powerful that the blade not only bent, but snapped, its point clattering away.

  Slightly annoyed now, Bane dropped the blunt weapon, turning to face his resourceful foe, who was back on his feet, fists raised and ready for a fight. Gareth spat out a wad of blood and said, “Come on, Bane. What else you got?”

  If you only knew, Bane thought. He was about to finish him, when there was a heavy sound as something landed on the roof.

  A thrill ran through him.

  He’s here.

  Roan Loren

  Roan had sensed his cousin’s presence the moment they’d come within range of Ferria. It was like a dark cloud in his mind, a swarming feeling of nothingness.

  He’d told the empress to steer Siri toward the castle apex. To his surprise, she continued to follow his advice. The pain of those she’d lost had made her numb. He felt awful he’d been unable to save her dragon master, but the woman’s will died the moment her dragon had fallen.

  As they’d soared over the castle, Roan had taken it all in:

  The other dragons launching themselves at the walls, most gathering at the gate, trying to melt it down as the foot soldiers smashed it again and again with a battering ram; the castle defenses coming alive as the Orian channelers wove their magic, iron spikes bursting from the walls, killing soldiers in waves; the dragons recognizing the threat, taking to the sky, but not before one was pierced in the breast by an enormous steel shard; the dragon fell, landing with a thunderous crash amidst the eastern legionnaires, who fell upon it with sword and lance. The residents of Ironwood were not idle either, ore panthers bursting from the foliage, falling upon the Calypsians with claw and tooth. Ore hawks appeared, too, doing battle with the dragons in the sky. Fiery plumes erupted from the dragons’ mouths, vaporizing several of the hawks, while others managed to slip past, pecking and clawing at the beasts’ necks. All in all, it was war: chaotic, furious, violent.

  And then he’d seen her:

  Gwendolyn Storm, a flash of steel armor and silver hair, racing along the wall, cutting down the dozens of Calypsians that had already scaled their way into the castle.

  How? The last time he’d seen her she was imprisoned by his sister, Rhea Loren, in Knight’s End, her fate tied to his own mission.

  And yet she was here, and, with a shock, he realized he’d always expected her to be, just as he expected to see Gareth. It’s why I’m here, he thought. Rivers of fate coming together, joining, coalescing…

  The urge to stop, to go to her, to show himself…it was a force of nature—a lightning strike in his brain—but he resisted. If any of them survived this, there would be time for tearful reunions later.

  Darkness closed in as Siri landed atop the throne room.

  Roan grabbed Raven’s shoulder, forcing her to look at him. Her eyes were vacant, each blink slow and tired. “All is not lost,” Roan said. “Until we are dead, there is hope. Never forget that. Now go, save your people.”

  “I should’ve listened to you,” she said, her eyes casting over the castle. “I’ve destroyed everything.”

  Roan shook his head, feeling a sudden tenderness toward this broken woman, a victim of circumstance and the pressure of an entire empire weighing on her shoulders. “It’s not your fault. You made the right decision. Shanolin betrayed you. This is on him.” He cupped her cheek softly. “May we meet again.”

  He flung his foot over the dragon, dropping the distance to the roof, landing in a crouch. Without looking back, he slid down the domed roof, cringing in pain as his ankle turned when he fell onto the top of the stairs in front of the throne room.

  He pushed healing into his leg, his chest instantly warming. Light crept from the edges of his shirt.

  Inside, two men stared at him.

  “You need a haircut,” Gareth said, somehow managing one of his token smirks despite being battered, bloody, and bruised. One of his
eyes was hidden behind a mound of swelling.

  “You look like hell,” Roan returned.

  Bane said, “That’s where you’re both headed.”

  “Hello, cousin,” Roan said, stepping inside the throne room.

  “Peacemaker. It’s been a long time.”

  “Not long enough.” Despite his easy words, Roan felt a slash of fear burrow through him. Bane was unpredictable, and his very presence felt like a harbinger of doom. There was something different about him. It was subtle, but Roan could see the way his hands shook.

  Before he could contemplate the meaning, Bane said, “Good luck,” and whirled, grabbing a sword from a rack on the wall, spinning it deftly toward Gareth.

  Roan leapt into action, weaponless, naught but his fatemark to protect them both. Instinct drove him to thrust out his arms and a burst of light shot from his fingers. When Bane’s blade hit the light, it stopped and stuck. He tried to yank it back, but doing so only caused it to shatter into a thousand shards, each tinkling to the floor like broken glass.

  “I see you’ve learned a few new tricks,” Bane said. “But so have I.” His slammed his foot to the floor, which cracked, the metal separating in a jagged vein, quaking as it broke apart.

  Roan dove to the side, narrowly avoiding being sucked into the widening void. The roof above them began to crumble, ragged chunks of iron breaking away and tumbling into the abyss. Now Bane and Gareth were on one side, Roan on the other.

  Oh gods. He’s dead. I’ve failed him.

  Gwendolyn Storm

  The spiked, crimson dragon that had flown over her head had borne two passengers. One was dark-skinned, a Calypsian. But pressed against her back was another, his skin fair, his long blond hair windblown behind him.