Deathmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4)

by David Estes

  Hold me as I die. I will need your strength to do what I must.

  He’d been speechless. And then angry. This woman—this beautiful woman—felt as if she was out of options, that the only choice left was to die to stop the violence.

  All because of these creepy Knights, Dietrich thought.

  Finally, she’d drifted away to sleep, but only after he’d agreed to do what she asked. And he would, Dietrich knew, but not if he didn’t have to.

  I’ll snuff out the fire before it consumes Lisbeth.

  He stepped forward, the faded memories of a thousand battles flitting through his mind. Battles that should’ve killed him. Impossible odds, ones he’d overcome. Perhaps tonight would be his last fight, but if so he would take enough of these damned Knights with him that Lisbeth might be able to control the rest.

  And then she wouldn’t have to die.

  Another step forward brought him closer to the first of their ranks. If they sensed him, they gave no indication, their eyes vacant and unseeing. He wondered whether their hearts still beat in their chests, or if they lived on the thrill of battle alone.

  His sword slid from his scabbard noiselessly. He could feel the thrum of his swordmark as it came to life in the center of his back. Heat spread throughout him. Power. Strength. Death.

  Lisbeth’s life.

  He sprang forward, his sword arcing through the air.

  The Knight moved, his own blade coming up to block the strike, but Dietrich had expected it, was already feinting left, moving right, sweeping his leg around the Knight’s knee—which was so cold, a column of ice—driving the tip of his blade through the man’s back—.

  Only he was gone, the Knight spinning away with a speed that rivalled his own, slashing hard…

  Clang! Dietrich deflected the blow, and the next besides, taking quick steps back. He felt the attack from behind the instant before it arrived, ducking as the white sword flashed past overhead, cutting sharply to the side and dancing free. The third attack came on an odd angle, the Knight a head taller than him, and it was all he could do to parry it and spring back once more.

  It was like fighting a hundred of himself.

  That was when he realized: I won’t be able to kill any of them.

  The only time he’d ever experienced a foe who could match him blow for blow, speed for speed, was when he’d fought Bane at Raider’s Pass. He’d emerged victorious then, but only just. Now he didn’t stand a chance.

  I have to try.

  He rolled his neck, gritted his teeth, and strode into battle.

  Blindinglightflashspotsdancingkneesfoldingnostrengthfingersopeningswordfalling

  Darkness

  Memories

  His father’s death.

  Friends dying in a city they should never have been in on a mission they should’ve rejected.

  His own life, forfeit. Remembering how he wanted to die—how he should’ve died.

  Meeting Tarin, the big lug.

  Finding friendship.

  Finding purpose.

  Sabria, Zelda, Archer, Annise.

  Belief.

  Lisbeth Lorne.

  I’ve failed you.

  No, you haven’t, brave knight.

  That voice, as soothing as sunshine after the long, cold winter. He could melt into it, fall into it, drift away and never return…

  Laughter, harsh and without humor, cut through his thoughts and snapped him back to reality.

  Lisbeth stood before him, her third eye bursting with blue light. A wispy tendril curled between them, slowly fading into the night. The rest was shooting into the Knights, who barely seemed affected.

  We were only playing with him, Dietrich heard the Knights say. They spoke in his head, as one, a sensation that made his vision swim vertiginously.

  No more. He is not your enemy. That was Lisbeth, and Dietrich had never fully appreciated the strength in her until now.

  She didn’t need him to be her knight in dented armor; no, she just wanted him to hold her when she did the only thing she thought she could do.

  Once more, he promised himself he would do whatever she needed, but he wouldn’t let her die.

  Not so long as he had strength left in his body. His soul.

  Thirty-Seven

  The Western Kingdom, Cleo

  Gareth Ironclad

  The western border city of Cleo was, like most western cities, surrounded by a high stone wall. The towers rising from within were also constructed of stone and mortar. Though Gareth had always loved the fluid iron beauty of Ferria, he had to admit there was something majestic about the soaring gray stonework. A red flag flapped at each of the corners, adorned with the western sigil—the rearing stallion atop a cliff. A symbol of independence from Crimea.

  Gareth remembered their history. Twice the Four Kingdoms had defeated the Crimeans. The second time had required a tenuous alliance between the west, north, and east, a treaty that lasted barely long enough to win the war.

  He wondered whether this alliance would last any longer.

  Gareth held his breath as they came into range of the watchful archers, half-expecting arrows to fall like rain upon his legionnaires. Instead, the defenders trained their arrows toward their feet. Save for one archer, who tilted his bow back and fired a single shot, the arrow fluttering strangely as it flew.

  It was a beautiful shot, arcing perfectly, the distance well-gauged. Gareth lifted his shield and caught the arrow in the dead center. Instead of sticking, it clanked off, tumbling to his feet. He bent down to inspect it. The long wooden shaft was wrapped with a white cloth and had no arrowhead, just a dull wooden tip to allow it to cut through the air.

  An arrow of peace.

  Gareth never thought he would see the day. Would his father have been proud or disappointed? It didn’t matter. Though his father was a good man who he’d respected, as a king he’d brought nothing but war on three sides. Grian had been no better. Gareth couldn’t—wouldn’t—rule the same way. His other brother, Guy, would’ve been the best king in five hundred years, this he knew. And Gareth had to be even better. The thoughts of his family left his mouth dry. He swallowed thickly. The Phanecians had to be stopped, but then that would be the end of it.

  Roan is right. We need this—all of us. We need peace.

  Even his flimsy peace with the Calypsians was moving forward, despite how badly he’d bungled the return of their dragon. After the dragon had flown away, disappearing over the horizon, Viper had looked at him murderously, but, in the end, had allowed him to keep half of the gold as restitution for the Calypsian attack on Ferria. The rest he had gladly returned to her.

  He was thankful Gwendolyn hadn’t seen the exchange, having already left on her own mission, one he hoped wouldn’t ruin everything.

  Now, he handed the arrow to one of his best archers—an Orian, of course—who promptly fitted it to her string, took careful aim, and fired.

  With the utmost precision, it reached the same archer who had originally shot it, bouncing off his shield.

  The alliance ceremony completed, the city gates began to open.

  Gareth blew out his breath and gave the order to march, horns blaring from his trumpeters.

  Upon their arrival inside the city, there’d been plenty of narrowed eyes and thick silence, but it had gone smoothly enough. Gareth had even managed to hold back the rude gestures he felt compelled to offer the furia patrolling the streets. Silence and mistrust were better bedfellows than threats and violence.

  Plus, it would take more than a signed piece of parchment to overcome a century of war.

  His soldiers had been shown to an area designated for them to make camp. They had half a dozen wells at their disposal, and, as a sign of good faith, the westerners had provided enough bread and meat for a small feast of welcome.

  Satisfied, Gareth requested an audience with Queen Rhea.

  As a pair of western guardsmen marched him toward the castle, his heart quickened several paces. He didn’t
fear Rhea Loren, not exactly, but seeing her again would be strange. After all, she’d become somewhat of an enigma to him. His jailor, his ransomer, his threatener, and then, seemingly out of nowhere, his savior and ally.

  The world is a mysterious place full of mysterious people, he thought.

  His stomach curdled when he saw the red-clad Fury waiting for him inside. Her dark stare met his, and he could almost feel the intensity of her animosity lancing into him. “Sorry about your sister,” he said, referring to the last Fury he’d been in close quarters with. The woman he’d helped kill before escaping his tower prison.

  He wasn’t sorry at all.

  She glared at him, not amused.

  “What happened to bygones and all that?” Gareth said, forcing a grin onto his lips. He knew this was a defense mechanism—the japes, the banter—but he couldn’t help himself. Plus, amusing himself at the expense of the holier-than-thou warriors had become something of a hobby of his.

  She spun on her heel and marched along an expansive hallway, her footfalls echoing with each step. He followed, his armor clanking mildly. The walls were unadorned in that spartan western manner, save for several large paintings of what Gareth assumed were parts of their god, Wrath. A strange eye here, a mixture of stars and moons and the sun, swirling to form the pupil, the cornea. A foot there, constructed of mountains and valleys, each toe a rock.

  The artist’s message was clear: Wrath is all around us. Sees all. Knows all. Will crush you like an ant if you sin.

  Despite himself, a shiver ran down his spine. He covered it up with another joke. “These paintings, I take it the artist has seen Wrath to be able to draw with such detail?”

  The Fury didn’t turn, kept walking. “You don’t have to see to know. Faith is a quiet friend.”

  That might be true, but… “In Ironwood, the forest speaks to us. The ore obeys. We see the evidence of our god all around us.”

  “Only a fool requires such evidence.” She stopped abruptly and spun to face him, her eyes boring into him. “Before I was honored to become a Fury, I fought in the Bay of Bounty. I saw Wrath’s creature rise from the sea and destroy our enemies. I believed before, but now…”

  She let the thought melt into the ensuing silence, turning away once more.

  Gareth followed, slightly annoyed that he felt like a dog on a leash. “And it was Rhea who summoned this creature, right? This Wrathos?” He lengthened his strides to catch up, to watch her expression.

  Though she tried to hide it, he saw the muscle in her cheek flex, the slight purse of her lips. “Only Wrath can Summon his executioners. We are but our god’s hands and feet.”

  “Would Rhea say the same, I wonder?”

  Again, that tightening. At first Gareth thought it was anger, but now he wasn’t certain. Something seemed off about her reaction. From experience, the Furies were typically in complete control of their emotions, as cold and calculating as a spider preparing to feast on its captured prey.

  “Rhea isn’t here,” Gareth said, just as they turned the corner into a large chamber lit by colored light streaming through stained glass windows.

  There was a throne, usually reserved for the lord or lady of the castle. Or the king or queen, if they were visiting. But it wasn’t Rhea who filled the seat.

  A man with gray-streaked chestnut hair stared at him, his hands resting casually on the chair’s arms. “Welcome, King Ironclad,” he said. Though he appeared to be in his fifties, something about his mannerisms suggested a much older man. Aged by events out of his control. The Fury had moved to stand by his side.

  “Who are you? Where is Queen Loren?”

  “I am King Regent Sai Loren,” he said. “Rhea has been stripped of her queenhood after confessing to treason of the highest order.”

  Gareth had been taught the names of their enemies and was as familiar with them as those of his own kin. “You’re Rhea’s cousin,” he said, approaching. Now that he looked closer, he could see the resemblance to another of Rhea’s cousins, a man he didn’t know well but who he owed everything to.

  Ennis Loren.

  He remembered how Ennis had fought for him, had helped him escape.

  Had gone back and risked his own life to ensure Gareth and Gwendolyn survived. It was likely he’d been killed for his actions. Truly executed this time.

  “Yes,” Sai said, leaning forward slightly. “She murdered my eldest brother, Jove.”

  Gareth cringed. It didn’t surprise him. He’d seen that side of her: treacherous, fierce, fearless. But he’d also seen another Rhea Loren, still fearless, but caring, heroic, out for the good of everyone, not just herself.

  “I knew Ennis,” Gareth blurted out.

  The statement seemed to throw Sai off balance, his fingers tightening on the chair hard enough that his knuckles turned white. “What?”

  There was no point in holding back the information, plus he liked being in control of the conversation. “He helped me escape Knight’s End. Ennis was posing as a guardsman after Rhea faked his execution. That night…he fought the Fury who guarded me. He stayed to hold off the others while we slipped away.” A question burned on his tongue. “What happened to him?”

  Sai had been leaning forward more and more as Gareth spoke, and only now did he slump back, sighing. “Rhea sent him south, to Phanes. She banished him from the west. Her own kin.” There was venom in his tone.

  “Ennis is alive?” The thought sent his spirits flying. This didn’t happen, not in his experience. Good men perished in these lands.

  “Perhaps, unless the Phanecians have seen fit to do what Rhea could not. But I see now why she did it. Ennis left her no choice. What I don’t understand is why my brother helped you.”

  Gareth had wondered the same thing for a very long time. There was only one answer. Still buzzing with the knowledge that Ennis Loren might still be alive, he said, “Because of this.” He motioned around himself. “This hope. This chance. That I would return to the east and, one day, sue for peace. That the east would come to the west’s aid, and vice versa. That we would stand and fight alongside each other like our ancestors did centuries ago. For our independence. For the lives of our people.”

  “Horse dung,” Sai said. Gareth frowned. He’d thought it was a decent speech.

  “Pardon?”

  “If Ennis believed that, then he was a bigger fool than I thought. We are enemies, you and I, King Ironclad. So long as there is a Loren and an Ironclad living, we will be enemies. There shall be no peace, not for the east and west.”

  Oh Ore. Grian was right. Father was right. I shouldn’t have agreed to this. I shouldn’t have done this. I’ve brought my legions into the hands of my enemies. He could already feel the trap closing around him. “If that is the case, we will leave immediately.”

  Sai stood. “That is not necessary. Even if we don’t see eye to eye, I am an honest man. I will honor the treaty you signed in good faith with my cousin. Together, we will end Phanes and find my brother, if he still lives. One day, the west will reciprocate in your time of need. But once our agreement is met, we shall be closed off once more.”

  “Fine. But I want to see Rhea. It is my right.”

  Sai’s eyes narrowed. “In the west, you have no rights.”

  With that said, he made a flicking motion with his hands. The Fury stepped forward and clasped his arm at the elbow, leading him away. Gareth didn’t put up a fight—couldn’t put up a fight.

  In spite of everything, the situation with Rhea didn’t sit well with Gareth. He’d seen her scarred face, and though the public believed she’d cut her own skin as a show of devotion to deity, that had never felt right to him. His first order of business was learning whether she was even in the city, or if she’d remained behind, in Knight’s End.

  It didn’t take long. Though the westerners seemed to have no love for him, they respected his position. When he cornered a soldier with a nervous tic near the castle entrance, he spilled. “She rode south with us,” the
man said. “But she was bound. She escaped on the Forbidden Plains.”

  “Escaped?” Gareth said. “How?”

  “Her cousin helped her escape.”

  Ore. How many cousins does she have? From his studies, he remembered at least five. Jove was dead. Ennis was banished. He’d just met Sai. “Wheaton?”

  The soldier shook his head, casting his eyes around to make certain no one was watching the exchange. Thankfully, the furia were in another part of the city. “Gaia. She had help from her man, a big fella called Nod. No one knows where they went.”

  “Did Sai search for them?”

  Another shake. “Only around our camp. He didn’t want to waste time searching for a needle in a haystack on the plains.”

  Gareth was surprised to feel a swell of release pass through him. Why did he care what happened to Rhea Loren?

  “Go,” he said to the soldier, and the man scurried away. Because she’s still Roan’s sister. And she stopped Darkspell from killing thousands…

  And, even after all the horrors she’d committed, she was fighting for peace, or at least something that resembled it.

  Still, there was nothing he could do about Rhea now. He had to focus on organizing his legionnaires, preparing for battle, and marching on Phanes. And perhaps, he thought, finding Ennis Loren.

  Thirty-Eight

  The Western Kingdom, the Forbidden Plains

  Rhea Loren

  Filled with horror, Rhea watched Nod die, his lungs filling with blood as he fought for air.

  Gaia had fallen to her knees beside him, her face stricken, tears spilling from her eyes.

  There wasn’t a moment to lose.

  Rhea threw herself at her cousin, forgetting her round belly, which made her movements awkward. Her shoulder hit first, her arms wrapping around Gaia’s shoulder as they tumbled to the ground. The air made a slight hissing sound as an arrow rocketed past the spot where her cousin’s head had been a moment earlier.

  Her cousin screaming beneath her, Rhea rolled off and dug her fingers beneath Nod’s body, which was still warm. He stared at her with sightless eyes and a ruined throat. Clenching her muscles, she strained at his weight, but only managed an inch before the corpse collapsed back down. “Help me!”