Deathmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4)

by David Estes

  She shook her head. “No. You will watch through a window. Then you will see.”

  He wanted to argue, but took a deep breath instead. One thing at a time. “Fine. Lead the way. More quickly this time.”

  If Joaquin moved slowly, the dalla was mud oozing down a hill—and not a steep one. She spoke as they walked, other Dreadnoughters parting widely around them as they passed. “Ontonoman has survived many years, despite the dangers of the islands. Other Dreadnoughter cities have been less…successful. Vigilance is paramount to survival.”

  Survival from what? “The Phanecians? I saw the paintings on your walls.”

  Her expression changed to one of disgust in an instant. “Before the shipping lanes were closed by Empress Sandes, the slavers came often to our shores. I almost wished one of them had stubbed a toe or accidentally cut themselves with one of their blades. Instead, they smashed down our doors and abducted our people.

  The thought made Goggin sick. This was what the Sandes—what he—had been fighting against their entire lives. Oppression. Slavery.

  “Were many of your people killed in the battle?”

  The dalla stopped abruptly. “Killed? Commander, there was no battle. We did not resist.”

  She started to walk on, but he grabbed her arm. She froze, her eyes darting to where his strong fingers gripped her elbow. “Release me, slowly. Do not break the skin.” He was so shocked by the command that he obeyed, drawing his hand away. “Never touch me again.”

  She turned away and continued on. Joaquin said, “There is no violence in Ontonoman.”

  “Spill no blood,” Goggin muttered.

  “Exactly.”

  “You let the Phanecians take your people without a fight. You are weak, the lot of you.”

  The dalla overheard their conversation, her slow pace having only carried her a short distance away. She turned back, calling over her shoulder. “It takes great strength not to fight when it’s all you want to do. No, Goggin, we are not weak.”

  Goggin stewed for the rest of the journey, wondering how a people could simply watch as their friends and families were enslaved. Thankfully, the walk was much shorter than the previous one. Soon enough, they reached one of the city walls.

  “Climb,” the dalla instructed.

  Goggin eyed the staircase set into the side of the wall. It was wide and solid-looking, with a thick stone siding to prevent anyone from falling. Like the ground, the steps were covered in wax, making each step springy and soft.

  Up and up they went, until the dalla said, “Stop.” The platform they’d reached had a rare alcove in the wall. Joaquin held the door for him and Goggin entered the small space, which contained a round window at the far side. As with all the other windows he’d seen thus far, there was no latch to open it and the edges were sealed with gum wax.

  Drawn to the light, Goggin crossed the space and peered out the window.

  A short grassy space separated the wall from the beach, and then the ocean. Squat, barrel-shaped trees grew intermittently, their broad leaves bright white and frond-like. The view offered little else other than the beautiful island scenery. He drew his gaze from the window and said, “Why am I here?”

  The dalla pointed to the right and said, “Watch.”

  Frowning, Goggin turned back to the window, pressing close to look in the direction she’d indicated. A hand protruded from the wall. Then another hand. Someone was reaching from a window.

  An open window. Goggin darted his eyes back inside, locating a closed door set in the side wall he hadn’t noticed when he entered. Another room. With an open window. He stepped quickly to the door, yanking on the handle. It held firm. Locked. “Open it,” he said.

  “I cannot,” the dalla said. “It can only be opened from the inside. A necessary precaution.”

  Goggin lowered his shoulder, readying himself to bash it down.

  “Just watch,” the dalla said. “Then we can talk.”

  He took a deep breath, considering. He’d been stuck in this closed-off city for two weeks—he could stand another few minutes. “Fine.”

  He went back to the window, where one of the hands now held a knife. “What is he—”

  “Shhh,” the dalla said.

  Goggin wasn’t used to being shushed. “I will not—”

  This time he silenced himself, watching in surprise as the knife slid across the tip of a finger on the opposite hand. A small slice appeared and then a single drop of red blood.

  What the hell is this?

  The finger twisted around, the drop of blood quivering as gravity tried to pull it from the wound. It hung, elongating for a moment, and then fell.

  Goggin lost sight as it plummeted quickly to the earth below.

  There was a sizzling sound, and where it must have landed a tendril of steam rose, wispy and white. Strange…

  Then the earth cracked open. Goggin gawked as the rift widened, more smoke pouring from the growing gap. Something moved. Something alive. A clawed hand burst into open air, scratching at the ground. Then another. The…thing…dragged itself out of the hole, dry dirt crumbling around it.

  What in Surai’s name… Goggin thought, feeling his knuckles begin to ache as his fists squeezed harder.

  The…monster was the only word for it…stretched its long neck, muscles and tendons popping. It had skin the color of night, muscles bulging on its arms, legs, chest. Even from this height Goggin could tell it was at least a head taller than him, and broader-shouldered to boot. As if drawn by a sixth sense, it craned its head back, slowly working its gaze up the wall until it met Goggin’s stare. Its dark eyes narrowed and it released what he could only describe as a snarl.

  Then it began to run.

  Straight toward the wall, flinging itself onto the stonework, its claws digging into the gum wax, finding purchase as it pushed itself higher.

  “Now!” the dalla shouted from behind him. She had pressed in close and was peering around him. Joaquin was on the opposite side, and Goggin could feel the small man’s body trembling. “Shoot it! Shoot it!”

  Arrows zipped from the adjacent window. Two sailed high, while the third and fourth seemed to deflect off the monster’s leather-hard skin. The fifth and sixth—how many archers are in that room?—hit solidly, penetrating the creature’s flesh. One protruded from its thigh and the other from its shoulder.

  Dark liquid spilled from the wounds.

  The monster unleashed a roar, coiling its legs, seeming to gather its strength.

  It leapt, its powerful body cutting the distance to the windows in half with a single bound, its claws sinking deep as it hung on.

  More arrows flew, most missing as it twisted its body away, climbing higher, leaping and grabbing. One shot brushed by its head, severing a dark ear. Another hit its sternum. In short succession, three darts plunged into its abdomen.

  Bullseye, Goggin thought, finding his hands pressed against the glass.

  He waited for it to fall, to die.

  It didn’t.

  If anything, the arrows only seemed to piss it off more. Another massive leap and it was grabbing the window’s ledge and the dalla was screaming “Out! Out!” and the adjacent door was springing open, Dreadnoughter archers tumbling through with fear in their eyes, turning to slam the door shut, jamming their backs against it as it—

  THUD!

  The wooden frame shuddered, dust raining down.

  THUD!

  A splintering sound as a large crack formed in the dead center.

  “The stone blocks!” the dalla shouted. Half of the archers scrambled to where two large stone blocks were set in the corner on wheeled carts. Together they pushed them over, struggling to heave the blocks to the floor.

  Goggin snapped out of his frozen stupor, striding over to help. “On three! One…two…”

  The door thudded and cracked and they heaved. The three archers still holding the door dove out of the way just in the nick of time as the stone block wobbled, teetered, and t
hen fell from the cart, landing heavily before the door.

  “The other block,” the dalla said. “Hurry.”

  Goggin shook his head. This was pointless. Foolish. It would take a dozen more men and ten stone blocks to seal off the door effectively. And even then, the monster would simply find a window to break.

  “We have to kill it,” he said, the door shuddering from another blow. This time the monster’s fist burst through, raining wooden splinters. It scrabbled around for a moment, razor-sharp claws blindly seeking its prey, and then dragged itself back through the hole.

  “Retreat,” the dalla said. “We can lock the next door. Barricade it. Regroup.”

  “The monster will still be out there,” Goggin said.

  The dalla’s face contorted into a fearsome expression. “You know nothing of what we face. We have battled the monsters for centuries. We retreat. The monster will grow bored and climb back down. Then we will kill it from a distance.”

  Goggin let his shoulders sag, as if resigned, but then lunged out and grabbed a sword from one of the archer’s scabbards. Finally, a weapon!

  He pointed it at the dalla. “Leave. All of you. Close the door.” He ignored the cracking of the door, the thudding, the monster’s growl, his eyes boring into the Dreadnoughter’s.

  The dalla eyed the blade, shaking her head. “You fool. You will kill us all.”

  “Aye. I’ve heard that before. Now go!” He thrust the blade forward, forcing them to back off. One by one, they retreated onto the landing. The last thing Goggin saw before the door closed were Joaquin’s frightened eyes.

  Goggin turned back to the other door, which now had three holes and a dozen cracks. “Come on,” he growled, just as the monster burst through once more. Goggin rushed forward, narrowly eluding its slashing claws, thrusting the sword forward toward where a large portion of dark leathery skin was visible through one of the holes.

  It was like trying to drive a spear through a brick wall.

  Wrong spot, he thought. Try again. He jammed the sword in again, but the monster was already bringing its arm back, swinging it around. Just as his blade entered the creature’s gut he felt the blow slamming into his skull like the business end of a battering ram.

  He spun around, dazed, his legs wobbling, his fingers losing their grip on the hilt.

  Stars danced before his eyes as he clutched at the wall for balance. Everything was fuzzy, but he had the presence of mind to duck as the next blow came around. The monster’s claws whistled past, scraping chunks of stone from the wall.

  Goggin shook his head, clambering on all fours until he was out of range. His head pounded. He reached up, searching for blood—what was it about blood again that was so important?—but his hand came away clean.

  He looked back at the door, where the cracks had joined, becoming a widening gap as the monster strained to tear the wood into two ragged halves.

  The sword was still protruding from its stomach, having only penetrated a hand’s width.

  So far, Goggin thought, gathering what strength he had left, clenching his teeth to stop the room from spinning, finding his feet, swaying slightly but not falling, and then rushing forward while the beast was distracted with the door.

  He hit the sword’s hilt at a run, grasping it with both hands and using his momentum to shove it in further, until the blade vanished into dark flesh. Then he twisted.

  The monster tried to rain down blows on his head, but he dropped to the floor, popping up again only to twist the blade back the other way, simultaneously dragging it upward, rending his foe’s muscular chest in two. Then its neck. Then its head, which parted like cheese.

  It fell back.

  Releasing an enormous sigh, Goggin fell back, too, in the opposite direction. His vision faded, but not before he spotted a long slash on his forearm, just beginning to ooze with

  Blood.

  Oh no, he thought, and then he passed out.

  The monster lunged for him, slashing his chest open with its claws, clamping its fangs down on his throat. Blood flowed like water, spilling to the earth, each drop sizzling, spitting steam, and growing into monsters.

  An army of monsters.

  He knew he was dying, but still, he tried to raise his blade, to kill at least one of them, to give the rest of the Dreadnoughters a fighting chance. His mouth tried to form words—I didn’t know. I didn’t understand. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—but all that came out was a blood-filled gasp.

  Goggin sat up in bed, sucking at the stale air, swinging at monsters that were…

  Not there.

  The familiar room was empty, save for the slash-faced depictions of Phanecians on the stone walls. He was sitting on a soft mattress set on the floor. The thin rug where he’d first met the dalla lay in the center of the cavernous space. She did not.

  He swiveled his head around, but he was alone. No monsters. No Joaquin. No dalla.

  He remembered the injury he’d sustained while fighting the monster, his gaze darting to his forearm. His skin was wrapped with white cloth, and there was no evidence of blood seepage. Slowly, he peeled off the cloth, each layer coming away clean. Finally, he reached the skin, which was entombed by a hearty portion of gum wax, sealing off the injury.

  He sighed, slumping down, his heartrate returning to normal.

  He hadn’t created an army of monsters with his blood. Someone—the dalla probably—had gotten to him fast enough, before his blood could spill out.

  “We were fortunate,” a voice said.

  He sat up once more and turned toward it, finding the dalla standing in the doorway, which now stood open.

  He sighed again, even more deeply this time. “There is no need to thank me. I just did what I do—”

  “Thank you? Is that what you expect? You almost destroyed everything we’ve worked so hard to protect.”

  He clenched his fists. “I did what your pathetic archers could not. I saved you and your damn city.”

  “You disobeyed my orders. If Joaquin hadn’t insisted on rushing back in like a fool and having the presence of mind to stem the blood with gum wax…”

  “Joaquin?”

  “Yes. He’s your only advocate at present. The rest of my people would have you dumped in the sea without a raft. I might consider it, but flotsam tends to only wash back up on shore.”

  Goggin ignored the threat and insult. “He stopped my blood from spilling.”

  She shook her head. “Oh no, it spilled. He managed to stop the flow with his gum wax but it was already too late.”

  “Then why…”

  “Haven’t monsters decimated the city? We keep it clean for a reason. Your blood had to touch the island’s earth to set off the reaction. We cleaned it up quickly, burned the bloodstained rags, and then resealed the doors and window. Still, we were lucky, if even a single speck of dirt had touched your blood…”

  Goggin felt bad. But only a little. “I didn’t know. I asked questions, but no one answered them.”

  The dalla said, “Would it have made a difference if we had?” Before he could answer, she continued. “I’ve known men like you. Big on courage, small on patience. You would’ve petitioned me again and again to leave the city, risking us all.”

  It was true, he would have. “You let Joaquin leave when I washed up on the beach.”

  “Yes. To ensure you didn’t bleed all over our island.”

  Oh. “I can’t stay here.”

  “No. You can’t. This we finally agree on.”

  “When can I leave?”

  “I’ll let you know.” With that, she turned on her heel and left.

  Just as Goggin had begun to count the stone blocks for the third time—the first two attempts had yielded two-thousand-and-thirty-six and two-thousand-and-twenty-one, respectively—Joaquin showed up, bearing a grin.

  Goggin immediately said, “Thank you.”

  The small Dreadnoughter shrugged it off like saving his city from an army of monsters was a daily affair.
“The room was clean, or at least where your blood fell. There was little risk.”

  Goggin could tell from the tight way the words came out that the man was purposely downplaying the event. “Still…thank you.”

  “What you did was courageous!” Joaquin said, sitting on the edge of the makeshift bed.

  “My seventh wife liked to say I’m always walking the line between courageous and stupid, and I usually fall on the wrong side.”

  “Ha! I think I like your seventh wife. Are you still married?”

  He shook his head. “When she threw all of my clothes out the window I suspected she was ready for me to leave. I’m currently between wives.”

  Joaquin grinned like it was the best story he’d heard all year. “The dalla wants you to leave. I’m to be your escort to the beach. You will be given food, water, and a seaworthy vessel.”

  “Weapons?”

  “Sorry. The risk of you accidentally cutting yourself while still on the island is too great.”

  Fair enough. He was getting off—that was the important thing. Now I can go back to Calyp and find Raven, if she’s alive. No more monsters. Well, at least not the kind that terrorizes the Dreadnoughts. “Thank you. For coming to my aid. Twice. For being my only advocate.”

  “You’re welcome, it was more excitement than I’ve had in years! And anyway, it was our fault for not containing the monster. We’ve done several such demonstrations without trouble. This time, we failed.”

  “Why do you do them at all?”

  He shrugged. “To test the island. To see if it is still cursed. Do you think we want to live our entire lives behind walls, always adding gum wax to the nooks and cracks? Always living in fear of breaking our own skin by accident? That is why we walk so slowly, planning each step to avoid tripping over. That is why we keep anything with a sharp edge locked away, only to be used for our tests. Have you ever tried cutting a rubbery tuber with a blunt utensil?” He laughed, but there was no mirth in it. Only frustration.

  “Why do the Dreadnoughters stay here? On the islands. They could come to Calyp. Many do. They are accepted. Well, mostly.”

  “This is our home. We have fought for our lives here for many years, and we won’t give in, not when our ancestors didn’t. Some grow frustrated and leave, but most stay. Leaving home isn’t as easy as you make it sound.”