Deathmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4)

by David Estes

  In his heart, however, he knew she didn’t want to be found. Not until she’d slayed her own demons.

  “Yes. Luckily,” Roan said. He strode back to the carriage and climbed up, still gripping the arrow.

  Twenty

  The Southern Empire, Citadel

  Gwendolyn Storm

  Ore, what is wrong with me?

  That penultimate moment of decision continued to replay over and over in her mind, like a recurring dream. Pulling the arrow back, the string tightening, her hatred for the Sandes woman roaring through her veins…

  I had decided to kill her. Despite Roan. Despite my heromark.

  Her heromark. She tried to think. Had it flared, causing her to yank her shot wide, before leaping from the carriage and sprinting back toward the City of Wisdom?

  No. It hadn’t.

  I shot wide on purpose. I changed my decision.

  Do this, and I’ll never speak to you again. Roan’s words echoed again and again. Did he mean if he killed Windy, or if he killed any of the Sandes? Did it matter?

  “This changes nothing,” she hissed under her breath, trying to convince herself.

  For one, Roan was a reasonable judge of character, so if he believed Lady Windy was the best of the Sandes, maybe she didn’t have to die. But the others…Raven and Viper for certain…had to die. Power in their hands was like offering a blade to an assassin. Perhaps Whisper too, although it was said she was softhearted and weak.

  Gwen skirted the edge of the city, which was beginning to fill with shadows as the sun sank below the tops of the buildings. She shook her head, trying to clear it. She’d gotten what she wanted from this city: information. Raven and Whisper were in Zune. It was a harsh punishment by their own aunt, but then again it only proved how rotten the Sandes family really was. Treachery. Deceit. Murder. War. That was the way of them. Sometimes a diseased tree could be saved by cutting off the bad portion, but not usually.

  In most cases, the tree had to be chopped down, the roots pulled up and burned.

  That was the only way to save the rest of the forest.

  And, regardless of what Roan thinks of me, I will be the axe.

  Twelve days later

  Zune

  Her trek across the desert had been hard, but Gwen had managed all right, sleeping under more of those broad brown leaves during the day and traveling under the stars during the relative cool of night.

  Before she’d left Citadel, she’d inquired as to the best passage to Zune, and although several scholars had given her strange looks and hurried away, eventually one had helped. The woman had even shown her where to procure supplies and how to obtain the sweet, thirst-quenching juices from the prickly cacti that grew along the way. Gwen had tried to offer her gold for her efforts, but the woman had refused—apparently sharing knowledge was reward enough for her.

  Grudgingly, Gwendolyn had to admit that the scholarly citizens of Citadel were not the warmongering Calypsians she’d expected of their neighbors to the south of the Scarra.

  Then again, hidden in the shadows in an alleyway in Zune, she was finding that the cities of Calyp were as different from each other as night from day.

  The streets of Citadel had been swept clean, free of debris. Zune was littered with food scraps, fought over by mangy hounds and feral cats. Where the City of Wisdom was orderly, Zune was a chaos of activity, dirty, barefooted children racing along its unkempt paths, merchants hawking their wares, escorts batting their eyes and sidling up to dark-eyed men.

  Gwen had not seen a single weapon carried by the patrons of Citadel. Here, in Zune, everyone seemed to bear arms, from rusty daggers to longswords to hammers. She spotted a large bald man with an entire belt dangling with enough weaponry to outfit a small army.

  Here I must tread carefully.

  Or not, she thought, an idea bursting into life. A crazy, foolish idea. And you called Roan a fool…

  She strode recklessly out from the shadows, nearly stumbling over a mead-soaked man sleeping along the edge.

  Several men gawked openly at her, while one of the harlots eyed her with interest.

  Let them look.

  She strode up to one of the men and said, “Which way to the fighting pits?”

  The man’s eyes, which were brown bordering on black, roved over her, taking in her armor, her lean, muscular form, her silver hair, and finally settling on her yellow eyes. He flinched slightly. “Follow the crowds,” he said, pointing up the road. “Evening bloodsport starts at nightfall.”

  She didn’t bother to thank him, hustling the way he’d indicated. Sure enough, there was an obvious flow of traffic in the same direction. Mostly men, with the occasional dangerous-looking woman. Most kept one hand on a weapon, with the other hand on a pouch, presumably containing coin for wager at the pits.

  As she’d expected, her appearance garnered more and more attention as she went, and then the whispers started. She ignored them, continuing along. She was ready. She had been for a long time.

  Eventually, the throng funneled toward a large gate with an aged and cracking wooden sign that simply read “PITS” in scraggly red letters. Several guards kept order while a man sold tickets inside. Already two of the guards were looking in her direction, frowning, while people she’d seen in the crowd pointed at her. One of the guards shouted something.

  Not just yet, she thought, slipping sideways, jostling bodies out of her way.

  The main gate wasn’t truly an option, not until she’d confirmed that Raven and Whisper Sandes were indeed somewhere inside the complex, which was ringed by a high stone wall. Luckily, she knew something about human nature. Where there were humans, there would be hunger. And where there was hunger, there would be food. And mead. Though it was possible the food supplies would be brought in via the main entrance, it wasn’t likely. Which meant there was a back entrance somewhere, for deliveries, for kitchen staff to gain access to the arenas.

  Gwen shoved her way against the flow of traffic until she reached the wall, sticking to its edge, stepping over beggars holding wooden cups. The wall arced in a large circle, the crowd thinning out the further she got, until she was the only one left.

  Just ahead, she saw a break in the wall. Two guards manned the back entrance, looking bored. The staff would’ve entered hours ago, preparing for a long night of cooking, selling, and cleaning.

  On silent toes, Gwen sprinted along the wall, darting past the first guard and cutting to the right, yanking the door’s handle outward. It wasn’t locked, and she slipped inside, slamming the door behind her, throwing down the wooden bar in one smooth motion. The guards’ muffled protests filtered through the thick door, which rattled on its hinges as they tried to open it.

  Gwen moved down a short corridor and beneath an archway. Beyond was a broad atrium lined with wooden shelves sagging under the weight of various foodstuffs, from sacks of flour and grains, to glass jars of pickled vegetables, to dried, cured meats. There was a tang in the air, the aroma of fire and spice.

  Gwen’s stomach rumbled.

  Several kitchen workers moved through the area, not noticing her as they grabbed the items they needed, hefting them over their shoulders and returning through one of several doors delving deeper into the complex.

  Gwen followed one of them, a flabby, long-jowled fellow whose full apron was smattered with dried blood and grease stains. He pushed through the swinging door, oblivious to the shadow behind him. She made it through before the door swung back, dancing to the side as a surprised ruddy-faced woman coming in the other direction almost collided with her.

  “Who the hell—”

  But Gwen was already in motion, spinning around the woman and sliding across a wooden tabletop laden with chopped vegetables—carrots, zucchini, okra, and several others she couldn’t identify. Landing on her feet, she dodged around a barrel-chested man who tried to hit her with a frypan, ducked under a wooden rolling pin swung by a flour-faced woman, and dove headfirst past two men with carving kni
ves.

  She rolled to her feet, sensing the attack before it came, throwing her hands backward just as one of the knives zipped past, embedding itself in the wall. Holy Ore, do all kitchen workers in Zune know how to throw knives with such deadly precision? she wondered as she vaulted off her hands and back to her feet, plucking the knife from the wall and, with a deft flick of her wrist, sending it back the way it had come.

  The blade flew true—stabbing the man’s floppy hat and knocking it from his head.

  Aye, her heromark was burning like a hot coal now, throbbing with life.

  Casually, she opened the door and walked through.

  Really? she thought. Another kitchen? This one was bigger than the last, and, apparently, the commotion she’d caused had carried through the door, because each and every staff member had stopped what they were doing to stare at her. And there were a lot of them, at least twenty.

  “Hullo,” she said. “I’m here for the tour.”

  Evidently, they didn’t believe her, because all hell broke loose at that point. Several of them tried to hit her with various kitchen utensils—a spatula, a meat hammer, a butter knife—while others hustled out yet another door with shouts of warning on their lips.

  Time for the real fun to begin, Gwen thought as she dodged or blocked each attack. She leapt up onto a counter, kicked a chunk of spiced meat into one cook’s face and upended a pan of sizzling oil onto another.

  They howled.

  Another expert knife thrower—do they all practice this in their spare time?—launched three knives in short succession, two of which she ducked while the third rang off of her chest plate. An eye for an eye, she thought, sending three arrows back, two shaving hair from his head and the third slamming into a wooden cutting board he held over his heart.

  Still, they didn’t give up. One woman tried to grab her legs so she jumped from the counter, grabbing a large copper pot hanging from the ceiling on a hook, swinging feetfirst, kicking one man in the head and using his sprawling body to cushion her fall.

  She had to admit, it was the most fun she’d had in a long time.

  That’s when the fruit-throwing began. As the first apple zipped past, she couldn’t help but to admire the workers for their creativity and imagination. She caught the second apple and took a bite, juices dribbling down her chin. The third she shot from midair, coring it with an arrow.

  Next, they coordinated their efforts and threw several at once, forcing her to dive for the floor, chunks of fruit and juice raining down upon her as the apples smashed against the wall.

  They moved on to pears, which happened to be less ripe and harder, almost like stones. She took offense to that, and managed to hit two of the assailants with pears of her own, drawing groans.

  It was becoming less fun. Enough, she thought, finally moving for the door amidst a hail of tomatoes and boomerang-like cucumbers.

  On the other side of the door were the pit masters, burly and thick-necked and not looking too happy about the fact that they had her to deal with. Past them was the first of the pits, blocked by a wall of spectators, most of whom faced away, screaming and shaking their fists at whatever was happening in the arena below.

  The guards drew swords.

  She nocked an arrow, a special one, attached to a long, sturdy rope prepared for just such a situation.

  They charged.

  She aimed her bow skyward, where several long beams crisscrossed overhead, strung with large lanterns used to light the pits. Fired.

  The first guard to reach her slashed at her head—a foolish move in a swordfight, since the head was a relatively small part of the body and hard to hit—but she was already grabbing the end of the rope as it slithered away, swinging beneath the danger zone, using her feet like a battering ram as her momentum cracked him at the knees, and then she was soaring past him, arcing over the heads of the guards and spectators, flying over the first of the pits, where a fight was already underway—hence, the ruckus from the crowd.

  Gwen released the rope and dropped. Angling her body, she landed in a crouch on one of the stone staircases leading to the lower seats. The surrounding spectators stopped their screaming to stare at her. She ignored them, taking the steps two at a time so she could get closer to the action. For some reason, she’d always envisioned the fighting pits of Zune as filthy, crumbling holes where the dregs of society spent their nights.

  Not so. The staircase was of fine construction, blocks of black granite cut with graceful precision. The wall surrounding the pit was of equally good build. Everything looked rather…new, as if recently renovated.

  If nothing else, Viper Sandes had clearly taken her job seriously.

  Reaching the bottom, Gwen leaned over the wall. In the pit were two men, each bloodied, each staggering slightly. Circling each other, waiting for the other to make a move.

  These people are dogs, she thought. Treating such a thing like entertainment? Betting on fights to the death?

  Rage coiled inside her.

  Still, these two men were not her reason for being here. Hers was a greater purpose, one that might lead to true change amongst the Calypsians. She spun around to climb the steps, but stopped when she saw the guards stampeding down toward her.

  Time for a detour.

  The crowd gasped as she placed the heel of her palm on the short wall and propelled herself over the side. It was a large drop, but with her heromark pulsing her body found the perfect angle to land, only jolting her slightly. The surprised men stopped circling to stare at her as she raced past. At the far side of the pit, she launched herself into the air, using her upward momentum to find just enough purchase under her feet to reach the top, clambering over the opposite wall.

  With the surprised guards frozen on the other side, she nonchalantly galloped up the steps and out of the pit.

  Six pits later and Gwen was no closer to her goal of finding the Sandes sisters. Perhaps they aren’t here. Or maybe they aren’t fighting tonight. Or at all. They could just be kept imprisoned, safely tucked away from their aunt and the new Calypsian regime.

  If so, Gwen knew she’d have to find a way belowground, to whatever dark tunnels and dungeons housed the fighters when they weren’t doing battle in the pits.

  I’ll just check one more pit first.

  She heard a commotion behind her—the pit masters, most likely, finally catching up to her—but she ignored it, slipping into the next ringed area, standing between a man and a woman, each leaning forward to get a better view of the pit below.

  A thrill raced through her.

  Yes.

  There were two women—well, one was more of a girl, slender and small-chested, her golden hair a stark contrast next to her sun-browned skin. Strangely, she wore a pale pink dress, which felt out of place next to the short blade she wielded. The second girl’s skin was darker, her body taller and more muscular, her hand gripping a whip. She wore ragged battle leathers. Her chest piece was shredded—are those claw marks?—and blood ran freely from a gash on her face.

  It was the same woman Gwen had seen Roan with in Ferria, on dragonback. Raven Sandes. Which meant the younger girl was her sister, Whisper.

  They were fighting for their very lives, a guanik bucking its scaly head and whipping its spiked tail around. Nearby, another guanik lay on its side in a pool of its own blood.

  The guanik charged Raven, who was a hair too slow to dodge. The beast rammed her in the midsection, throwing her against the wall, where she crumpled to the ground. With an animal scream, Whisper attacked from behind, leaping onto the guanik’s back and stabbing her blade into its rough skin again and again and again.

  Gwen was shocked. According to rumor, the Third Daughter was mild-mannered and quick to tears, not this bloodthirsty warrior garbed in a pretty pink dress. The audience went mad, any who weren’t already standing rising to their feet.

  There is violence inside us all, Gwen thought. It just took the right situation to bring it out.

  Th
e guanik squealed and spun around, throwing Whisper from its back. She rolled three times before coming to rest, her grimace partially hidden behind a veil of golden hair.

  Near the wall, Raven fought to her feet, snapping her whip at the guanik as it pawed in the dirt in preparation to charge toward her sister. The beast flinched back, its nose stung.

  One of the gates around the base of the pit opened, chains rattling. Another guanik lumbered through, half again as large as either of the other two.

  For a moment, Gwen forgot herself, feeling sorry for the two girls facing impossible odds.

  They cannot win this. They are not expected to.

  She shook her head. Why do I care? After all, she’d come here to kill them herself. Memories of dragonfire and blood, mangled iron and broken bodies, sprang up. Ash and smoke, burning, everything burning.

  Because of the Sandes. Because of orders given by Raven Sandes.

  The new guanik spotted Whisper lying helpless on the ground, lowered its head, and attacked.

  No. This beast will not rob me of my reward, my revenge, for Alastair, for my father…

  They are mine.

  At that very moment, one of the pit masters entered the arena, spotting Gwen’s gleaming armor immediately. He lunged for her, but she barged forward, knocking two spectators aside. They crashed into others, sending more bodies sprawling, a domino effect that would’ve been comical if not for the gravity of the situation.

  Gwen ignored the carnage around her, barreling down the steps and leaping over the wall in a single bound, twisting through the air, landing on her feet on the beast’s back as it charged. The enormous guanik tried to skid to a stop and twist its neck around, but Gwen had already strung three arrows, which she fired directly into the top of its skull.

  The beast jolted as if struck by lightning, and crumpled forward, its chin thumping to the ground.

  Gwen stepped off deftly, strung another arrow and located the injured guanik, which was staggering around the edge of the pit, looking confused. A trail of blood dripped behind it. It fell when her arrow struck its eye.