Deathmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4)

by David Estes

  I don’t want to die. The realization took her by surprise, stealing her breath. Her lungs returned with a gasp, her heart beating double time, aching in her chest. It hurt to know she still had the will to live, even after everything, but that she could do nothing to stop the inevitability of her own mortality at the hands of this formidable warrior. Please… The appeal hung on the tip of her tongue, but she refused to let it fall. I will not beg.

  Instead, she said, “You will spare my sister?” The words were slurred, like she was speaking around a dozen mashed-up grapes.

  The Orian didn’t answer, taking a step forward. No, Raven thought. She couldn’t let her kill Whisper, couldn’t bear to pass into the Void with that knowledge. She took a staggering step to the side, positioning her own broken body between Gwendolyn and Whisper.

  The mark on her foe’s cheek—an X with squared-off corners—pulsed brightly. There was something strange about her expression. Gone were the hate and anger, replaced by a steely determination that Raven couldn’t quite make sense of.

  Still, she saw the moment Gwendolyn’s leg muscles flexed in preparation to launch. Raven knew she only had one opportunity left and this was the moment to act. She timed her own attack perfectly, right when the Orian was in midflight, still bringing her fist around for a final blow.

  Raven lashed her own arm upward, keeping her palm flat and stiff, driving into her opponent’s neck with the hard bones of her hand.

  Gwendolyn was too fast, catching her attempted chop in a tight fist, letting her momentum slam into Raven, knocking her backward, landing atop her. The Orian stared down at her with catlike eyes, the crowd once more roaring their approval.

  Raven opened her mouth to offer one more plea for her sister’s life, but Gwendolyn spoke first. “You swear you tried to stop the attack on Ferria?”

  The question shocked her, but her response was automatic. The truth. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  That was a harder question. “I—Roan. He believed—he believes—peace is possible. I thought maybe I could try…to work toward something bigger than myself. Bigger than war.”

  The Orian snorted out a laugh, so out of place for the situation that Raven felt like she’d entered a dream. “Sounds just like Roan. If I help you escape and take back your empire, will you form an alliance with the east? A true alliance.”

  What? Raven understood the words but couldn’t seem to make sense of them. This was madness. Escape? There was no escape from this Void.

  Gwendolyn seemed to realize her confusion. “We might fail. We might die. But I will try if you will.”

  Raven shook her head, causing spikes of pain to shoot through her temples. “I—yes. I promise. I will do what I can.”

  The crowd was getting restless, their catcalls and screams tumbling down from above. They wanted their kill. “Good,” Gwendolyn said. “Can you walk?”

  Raven didn’t know for certain, but she said, “Yes. I think so.”

  “Good. I will help you over the wall, and then I’ll follow with Whisper.”

  How could she trust the woman who almost just killed her? Because the only alternative is death. And maybe—maybe—she really meant what she said. For the first time in a long time, Raven felt a shred of hope.

  It was short-lived.

  Gwendolyn Storm

  “Not the wall,” Raven said. She glanced up the sides of the arena, gesturing. Gwen followed her gaze, where the pit masters were also getting restless. They’d surrounded the wall, their hands already on weapons.

  “We have to try,” Gwen said.

  “The tunnels,” Raven said.

  Gwen frowned. She was comfortable in the open air, where she would have options. But the tunnels… “They’ll become our tomb.”

  “It’s the only way. At least then we won’t have to fight as many at once.”

  It made sense, in a way. In a mad kind of way. “Fine. But how do we get the gates open?”

  “Leave that to me.”

  Gwen nodded and rolled off her, feeling bad as Raven struggled to regain her own feet, wincing at each movement. There’s no time for pity and regrets, she thought, focusing on the pulse of her heromark.

  Raven hobbled toward the wall, bending over to pluck her whip from the ground. Gwen followed her lead, reclaiming her own blade. She added a bow and satchel of arrows from the weapons rack.

  A commanding voice rang out from above. “Resume the fight or all three of you die,” he said. One of the pit masters.

  Gwen looked up at him and offered a response in the form of a rude gesture.

  Raven had moved to the weapons rack as well, snatching twin throwing daggers. She glanced at Gwen, the barest edge of a smile forming on her blood-crusted lips. Then she whirled and threw one of the blades. It was an expert throw, sinking deep into one of the pit master’s throats before he could so much as consider dodging.

  With a gasp, he fell from the seating area, tumbling over the wall and into the pit.

  “Kill them!” the other pit master roared.

  In every corner, the gates opened, chains rattling, guards pouring through.

  “Get Whisper,” Raven said, already moving for one of the gates. Gwen scooped up Whisper and slung her over her shoulder, giving chase.

  Half a dozen pit masters blocked the way forward, while dozens more dropped from the sides of the arena. Raven cracked her whip, and when she jerked it back one of the men fell, his head twisting gruesomely.

  Still, it was only one foe down, and Raven was moving gingerly. Because of me, Gwen thought. She burst forward, accelerating ahead, swinging her blade hard against the sword of one of the master’s, using her momentum to spin around him. Whisper’s feet became a weapon, bludgeoning him in the head as she passed. She ducked under the next guard’s swipe, kicking him hard in the kneecap. Another two slashes of her blade and the path was clear. She turned to wait for Raven, surprised to find her almost on her heels, her face flushed and dripping a mixture of blood and sweat.

  “Go,” she breathed.

  Gwen did, moving into the flickering darkness of the tunnel, careful not to bump Whisper’s head against the unforgiving stone walls. She heard the rattle of chains behind her, and turned to watch Raven bring the gate crashing down. One of the masters had been trying to follow them, and was caught by the falling iron spikes, one of which had gone straight through his leg, pinning him to the ground. He howled in agony.

  Raven turned away, her face an expressionless mask.

  She led the way into the tunnels, starting to turn left down an even darker corridor, but stopping when loud voices met them from the shadows.

  “This way,” Raven said, and Gwen had no choice but to follow her down the opposite path. Whisper stirred in her sleep, mumbling something under her breath.

  “Shh,” Gwen said. “You’re safe now.” The girl drifted away again, her body going still.

  The tunnels beneath the fighting pits were a maze, and Gwen began to lose more and more faith that they would ever taste fresh air again. Thrice they were forced to divert their course by pit masters blocking the way forward. Two of those times they had to fight off a wave of assailants before managing to retreat. Gwen had lost her blade in the last melee, while Raven’s whip had been wrenched from her weakening grasp.

  But none of that was as bad as the moment they reached the dead end. Above them was a long shaft, the top of which was a circle of sparkling stars. Some sort of a ventilation shaft.

  Raven whirled to charge back the way they’d come, but was stopped by the wall of torchlight reflecting off swords.

  Gwen looked up. “We can climb out. I can make it with Whisper.”

  Raven’s shoulders seemed to sag, but she nodded. “Please. Save her.”

  Something about the way she said it gave Gwen pause. Like it was a goodbye. “You can make the climb too. Don’t give up. Not now.”

  “I will give you as much time as I can. Give me your bow.”

  “No,�
� Gwen said. “If you cannot make the climb, I will fight alongside you. We will kill them all if we have to.”

  Raven gritted her teeth. “No. You must save Whisper. She is the Last Daughter now. She is the empire’s last hope.”

  The torchlight drew closer, displaying the fierce expressions of weary, angry pursuers. Gwen placed Whisper gently on the ground. Raven leapt on Gwen’s back, beating on her shoulder with one, weak fist. “No! Pick her up! Climb! You have to climb!”

  Gwen flipped her over, catching Raven in her arms. Placed her next to her sister. Turned away, grasping her bow between determined fingers. Drew her first arrow. Took aim at the spot just above the torchlight.

  Fired. Drew another. Fired again. The shouts of pursuit quickly morphed to screams of pain, the clattering of falling bodies, tumbling over each other. Dropped torches bounced across the ground before going still, haloes of light filling the tunnel.

  And still Gwen fired arrow after arrow, wasting none. Killing at will. Sending them all into the Void they believed in.

  Finally, when she reached back for another arrow, she came up empty. Slowly, the torches advanced once more.

  “Climb,” she hissed, grabbing Raven under the armpit and shoving her against the rock wall.

  Raven shook her head. “I am spent.”

  Footsteps closed in. Even if they started climbing now, the pit masters were too close, would pull them from the wall. Gwen could keep fighting, could kill more of them, but they had her if she stayed. If she wanted to save herself, she had to go now, with or without the Sandes’ sisters.

  Either way, Raven would die, and with her the hope of peace between the east and Calyp.

  Slowly, Gwen turned to face her last fight.

  Warily, the men stalked forward, their weapons glittering.

  Somewhere in the night, something shrieked.

  Siri

  Her soul’s scent was so close now she could taste it. There was something off about it, the coppery odor of blood mixing with her usual smell of sweat and sand.

  Deep inside, she felt Raven’s pain like a red-hot knife in her heart. Siri shrieked, diving for the ramshackle city that seemed to be crammed together, the streets narrow, the buildings tall, sharing walls on both sides.

  Pits spotted a significant portion of the city, some small, barely large enough for Siri to fit inside, and others larger as she flew over them, until they culminated in a grand arena that rivalled the training area for the dragonia in Calypso.

  Inside, there was chaos. Two-leggers ran amok, some screaming, others stopping to point inside the giant pit, where there were bodies. Siri tried to sense their heartbeats, but most were silent. A few moved, writhing in agony.

  Everywhere else, men ran holding weapons, charging down staircases into the tunnels that must run beneath the pits.

  Siri circled the area twice, letting her senses roam. With each pass, she could feel the nearness of her soul.

  The little girl with the hair so dark it almost looked blue.

  She remembered when Raven named her. Siri had flowed from her lips so easily, like it had been waiting there from the moment she was born—the moment both of them were born.

  All the years they spent in each other’s company seemed to angle toward this very moment in time.

  The dragon’s senses sharpened further, a blade of iron honed down to a single point.

  The stone shaft was a beacon, and she knew Raven lay somewhere beneath it.

  She dove, shrieking once more, flames already crisping her breath.

  Rather than attacking the shaft, she chose a portion of ground just beyond it, a stone walkway that had a slight echo beneath it.

  A tunnel.

  Fire erupting from her maw, Siri crashed into the earth.

  Raven Sandes

  The call seemed to come from a great distance away, a heart-piercing cry, as the earth began to move around them. Raven clutched Whisper’s motionless body, using her own body to protect her sister’s as rocks rained from above.

  She smiled against the pain, lance pricks on her back, her shoulders, her scalp.

  Pit masters screamed as the tunnel collapsed on their heads. Their screams didn’t last long.

  Gwen pressed against her side. “What is happening?” she screamed.

  “My soul,” Raven said. “My soul will save us.” How it was possible, she did not know. And yet, she did.

  She is perfection. She is Calyp.

  With another shuddering crash, the destroyed tunnel caved in further, until a spot of natural moonlight shone through. A shadow blocked it a moment later, broken only by a thin gout of flame.

  “Holy Ore,” Gwen whispered.

  “No,” Raven said. “This time it’s fire. And her name is Siri.”

  Gwendolyn Storm

  She knew this dragon, with its red scales and spiked back and tail. She felt its voice in her head as she did before, that deep, ancient thunder that spoke of a greatness she could never hope to achieve.

  You are an ally? the voice said. The dragon.

  I am trying to be, she thought, her jaw locked so tight she feared her teeth might crack.

  Come.

  The dragon lowered its head into the tunnel. Raven easily clambered up, using the spikes as handholds. She looked back. “Hoist my sister up.”

  Gwen obeyed, only letting go of the girl’s warm body once Raven had her securely in her arms.

  It was time to part ways, Gwen knew. This wasn’t her world. She didn’t ride dragons or fight alongside Calypsians. It was time for her to return to Ferria and seek a future she wasn’t certain she deserved.

  She turned away from the dragon and began to climb the shaft, which was now riddled with cracks but still standing. Like her.

  “Gwendolyn,” Raven said.

  She didn’t turn—didn’t want to turn. Didn’t want to face the woman she’d bloodied and nearly killed.

  “Come with us.”

  Tears bit at her eyes. She shook her head. She had no right to compassion. Nor forgiveness.

  Those had to be earned, slowly, step by step.

  “Please.”

  She turned. Raven nodded at her, extending the hand that still worked. Gwen didn’t deserve to take it.

  But she did.

  She did.

  The dragon exploded from the ground, its wings buffeting the air like the edges of a storm.

  And for the first time in her life, Gwen didn’t feel angry or afraid at the sound.

  She felt only sad.

  Second Interlude

  Crimea

  THE HORDE

  Helmuth sat in a throne he didn’t want, watching his Horde sleep. They were scattered amongst the palace court, resting their thick, dirty forms where lords and ladies once stood to announce their meaningless petitions and settle their petty disputes.

  Some were sleeping. Others ground against each other, creating the next generation of destroyers. Some gnawed on the bones of humans and mongolbeasts alike.

  Watching them, he recalled when he’d first sought them out, how unprepared he’d been. They’d almost killed him during that first meeting, but, somehow, he’d survived. He’d tried again, growing stronger with each attempt, until he’d gained their respect. Their belief in what he could show them, the power he was able to unlock once he’d taken them from groups of disorganized infighting barbarian tribes to an organized machine of destruction.

  He remembered the day they chanted his name, stomping their feet and beating their massive drums. Kkla-Ggra Thum-thum! Kkla-Ggra Thum-thum! Kkla-Ggra Thum-thum!

  The memory faded, drawing a thin smile to his face.

  Soon they would have to move on, for the Horde was a migratory species, subsisting off the plenty of others, never stopping to create their own food and shelter.

  Helmuth stood, shouldering the hammer he’d held across his lap. He turned, drawing it back. Then he struck, again and again, shattering the back of the throne, breaking the armrests from the
sides, destroying the base.

  All around him, the Horde clambered forward to watch, giddy with excitement. When the job was finished, he turned toward them, speaking to them in their language.

  “It is time. The big blue beckons us. We sail to the great land of my father.” He paused. “There we shall drink the blood of kings.”

  The Horde roared and beat their chests and flashed their teeth and claws. They shall be the Fall of All Things, he thought. And I shall show them the way.

  PART III

  Annise Lisbeth Tarin

  Rhea Christoff Dietrich

  Gareth

  For as the fire’s embers darken into night,

  And the smoke that blinds, that burns, that fades,

  So shall the lives of those that play,

  The games of war, vanish in the coming light.

  Japarti, famous Calypsian poet

  Twenty-Eight

  The Northern Kingdom, Castle Hill

  Annise Gäric

  Tarin’s lips painted a trail of fire down her abdomen, his tongue smooth against her skin. Tasting her. Needing her. His hands roved over her body desperately, as if searching for water in the desert.

  She wanted him, too; she needed him.

  He moved lower.

  She moaned, pulling him up, finding his mouth, slipping her tongue between his lips. From the moment they first kissed, there had never been anything awkward between them, their passion like a wildfire, always tracing the thinnest of lines between control and chaos.

  The temptation was great. To escape, to forget, to lose herself in the safety of Tarin’s arms, in the smell of his hair—still damp from his bath—in the taste of his lips.

  She didn’t want to forget. Didn’t want to escape. Needed to remember. How close it had been, how she’d almost lost Zelda in the attack. How the Sleeping Knights had defied her command. How Christoff Metz had swooped in at the last moment, saving the day.