Deathmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4)

by David Estes

  But none of that knowledge had prepared Gwen for what they’d found between the shoulders of the cliffs.

  Her heromark had pulsed, magnifying her vision like twin spyglasses. She’d seen multiple armies, from all different races and nations. Though she knew of Gareth’s alliance with Rhea Loren, she’d never truly believed that easterners would fight alongside westerners.

  Thousands had lost their lives already, and thousands more lives were at stake.

  The company of knights was the most surprising of all, because they seemed to kill without discretion, falling amongst all the others and slaughtering at will.

  And then she’d spotted Gareth in a fight for his life.

  She hadn’t thought about whether her heromark could protect her from a fall from this height. Hadn’t thought at all, really. She’d just acted, hearing Raven’s protest vanish behind her as she’d dropped toward the ground, which suddenly seemed a great distance below her.

  When she landed—her muscles and bones aching slightly, but none the worse for wear—Gwen couldn’t help but to offer a cocky line before throwing herself into action.

  The knight, despite his prowess in battle, clearly didn’t expect his enemies to drop from the sky, because she managed to duck under his sword with ease, smashing her shoulder into his midsection and knocking Gareth free from his boot.

  “Please don’t pick me up and throw me anywhere,” Gareth said.

  “I can’t make any promises,” Gwen said, helping him up as the knight snarled, brandishing his heavy greatsword with ease.

  Another man appeared on Gareth’s opposite side. He was wheezing between clenched teeth, but still managed to grip his own blade.

  “Ennis,” Gwen said, and she couldn’t hide the surprise in her voice. She was glad to see him alive. Yet another surprise from Rhea Loren, she thought. “Now the party can really begin.”

  Before Ennis could wheeze out a response, the knight attacked, sweeping his blade low and forcing all three of them to duck. At least that was the natural evasive maneuver one would expect. Gwen, however, liked to surprise her foes. She jumped instead, so high the sword cut the air well beneath her. At the same time, she slung her bow from her back and nocked three arrows to the string, firing them together, aiming for where she suspected the weak spots were in the knight’s armor.

  One slipped through his eye slit, another stuck in the narrow ridge between helmet and breastplate, and the third glanced harmlessly off his chest. I’m losing my touch, Gwen thought as the knight died.

  She landed in a crouch next to the still-ducking Gareth and Ennis.

  Raven

  That mad, mad woman, Raven thought, feeling a shred of awe at the same time. Gwendolyn Storm was already on the canyon floor, fighting the knights swarming over the gathered armies. The jump should’ve killed her—should’ve killed anyone—but it hadn’t.

  But we can be mad, too.

  She wheeled Siri around, sending her into a dive, flames already jetting from her maw.

  The fire swarmed over a knight who had just killed one of the eastern soldiers. He froze in place as the flames washed over him, and then collapsed, his armor already melting, revealing scorched skin and portions of bone.

  As Siri soared over the fray, careful that her wings didn’t clip the canyon walls, Raven snapped her whip, catching another knight around the neck, jerking him back. He stumbled over a corpse and several soldiers managed to land blows across his body, staggering him.

  He should’ve been overwhelmed by the attack.

  He wasn’t.

  As Raven looked back, he regained his feet and cut down his foes one at a time, leaving a circle of death around him.

  Siri shrieked and Raven swiveled to face forward, only to find one of the knight’s arms wrapped around the dragon’s neck. Somehow, he still managed to grip his blade, which he was using to slowly carve through scale and sinew, muscle and tendon, seeking to sever the beast’s head from her body. Such an act should’ve required the strength of a hundred men, and yet this single knight was making progress as Siri bucked and writhed, trying to dislodge him.

  “No,” Raven breathed, clambering to her feet. She took two big steps and then threw herself on his back, using her momentum to drag him away. She hit the hard ground on her side, a shockwave shuddering through her injured arm. More bones cracked and snapped. Spots danced before her eyes as she rolled. Images flashed too:

  Siri’s body twisting, one of her wings slashed open, air pouring through; another of the knights clinging to the sheet of severed skin, hacking away; the dragon’s eyes full of fear as she came down, crash-landing, her powerful body ending the lives of friends and foes alike.

  As her dragon, her soul, her friend, came to a stop, several knights stalked toward her.

  Blinded by pain, rage, and fear, Raven dragged her broken body to its feet. Though she’d only just regained her empire, that didn’t matter now. She would die for her soul, just as she knew Siri would die for her.

  Lisbeth

  Lisbeth was falling again, the chasm of black souls opening wide to swallow her. Join us! they screamed, excited in their bloodlust, in their work of death.

  Never, she growled back, pressing against the wall of steel, searching for weaknesses.

  This is your last chance. We have spared you because you set us free. But you are fast becoming our enemy. Join us now or die.

  She ignored them, sending her soul out again, probing, finding several tiny cracks in the wall. Her soul filled them, trying to widen them.

  Pain streaked through her and she screamed. Abruptly, she was aware of blue flames dancing across her vision. “Lisbeth? Lisbeth?” Sir Dietrich’s arms encircled her, and she relished their warmth, their strength, adding to her own.

  She could feel the answer to all her failures in the marrow of her bones, deep in her soul, a knowledge so true it was more faith than wisdom.

  She spoke to him in the place between whispers.

  “My life is forfeit,” she said. “This is what I was born for. To stop them. But it will cost me my life.” There was no sadness in her tone, only certainty.

  Dietrich’s lips were soft against her cheek, a contrast to the rough stubble on his face. She could feel her own soul reaching for his, wanting nothing more than to melt into it. Concentrating, she reined it in. “No one is born to die,” he said.

  “I was. I am. This is my purpose. Otherwise, I am a husk.”

  “No. Please. We can fight them together. We can do this.” His voice was tight, but the fight had left him. He knew, too.

  “I’m sorry, Sir. I might’ve—I might’ve loved you if we had more time.” The truth on her lips hurt more than anything else.

  His blue soul was streaked with red now. “I do love you, Lisbeth. I’ve known it from the moment I met you.”

  The truth in his words was torture. “Don’t say that.”

  “I can hold back the truth no longer.”

  She gasped as the dark souls clutched her once more, ripping her away from the blue soul. She shouted from the depths. “Promise me you won’t let me go! Promise me!”

  His words were spoken through the wall of souls. “I promise.”

  Agony tearing through her once more, she shoved back against the wall with everything she had left.

  Grey

  Grey didn’t know what was happening, not exactly. There were knights and soldiers and furia, and then a dragon had crashed into the canyon. Thankfully, he had his sister with him to navigate this new world, to focus his energy.

  “You must protect us,” she said. He didn’t need further urging. He would die for her. Erric, too, he realized. And Rhea. He scanned the fray for Kyla, but couldn’t find her. He feared for her, hating himself for not having the words she needed before.

  One of the knights broke through the lines and strode toward them. Grey raised his blade hand, immediately knowing it wouldn’t be enough, not nearly enough. But then Rhea was at his side, raising a blade
he didn’t even know she had. Even still, the blow knocked them back toward Shae and Erric. I must buy them time, Grey thought, straining against the strength of his foe. Rhea was grunting. He glanced back to find Shae’s and Erric’s eyes rolled back, their bodies convulsing as light streamed from their clasped hands.

  The knight’s eyes widened as he looked over Grey’s head, seeming to realize something. He drew his blade back and struck again, more frantically now, but Grey and Rhea managed to repel the attack once more. But he was certain the next blow would break them.

  And then there were more people with them. An eastern soldier with striking good looks and a slight curl to his lip. “Gareth?” Rhea said. Another: a westerner with Rhea’s chin and eyes but taller. “Ennis?” Finally, an armor-clad Orian, her hair as silver as a longsword. “Gwendolyn?”

  Together, they blocked the knight’s strikes, holding him at bay. The furia joined in, and Grey felt an icicle of fear trickle down his spine. They can’t hurt you anymore, he reminded himself and the feeling dissipated.

  Pirates joined in, forming a circle around the cart. To Grey’s relief, Kyla was there, though her eyes refused to meet his as she fought. Teran soldiers followed, and then Phanecians and the warrior women with the black tears tattooed on their faces.

  Knights threw themselves against them, still killing. But fresh defenders continued to replace those that fell, holding the knights at bay, creating a human wall of protection in front of the two halfmarked.

  Light poured from Shae’s and Erric’s hands now, a column that rose all the way to the sky.

  Something is happening, Grey thought as blades of light began to streak down like falling stars.

  Lisbeth

  Her strength wasn’t enough. As had happened each time she’d faced the Knights’ souls before, they were too strong. Instead of allowing them to dispel her, however, this time she continued to strain, refusing to back down. Blue flames flickered on the edge of her vision, the knowledge that Dietrich was still with her sustaining her even as pain roared through her.

  She felt the warmth of blood sheeting over her skin. It sprung from every pour like sweat. Her veins could not contain the stress on her body, which felt like it was stretching, beginning to tear apart.

  It is done, Lisbeth thought, throwing herself at the wall one final time, prepared to dash her soul against them in an explosion of whatever strength she had left.

  Wait. We are here. Take our strength for your own.

  Lisbeth’s entire body jerked at the voice. No, she thought. Voices. For there were two, one male and one female. She could feel their light shining nearby, and then it was falling across her, bright stars feeding her soul, replenishing it.

  Strengthening it.

  Her pain fell away. The black souls flickered slightly, wavering. They are scared, she thought. They fear the two who bear the light.

  Let them fear.

  With a scream, she launched her soul at the wall once more.

  And this time—finally—she broke through.

  Eighty-Two

  The Southern Empire, the Bloody Canyons

  Rhea Loren

  Everyone was dying, but still Rhea battled on.

  She felt nauseous and exhausted, sweat sheeting from her face. Grey had managed to usher her toward the back, but every once and a while one of the knights would break through and chop at her. She protected her unborn child with every breath.

  Their numbers were dwindling, but still they fought, protecting the girl—who she recognized as Grey’s fatemarked sister—and the one-legged man. The bright light continued to pour from their clasped hands, shooting into the sky.

  Rhea didn’t understand the purpose, exactly, but it felt like everything. Their one last chance.

  Another soldier fell before her, his throat opened. Grey blocked the knight’s next strike, but was then shoved away, leaving her exposed.

  Rhea brought her dagger up but she felt so weak, utterly spent. The knight slapped her weapon away with his sword and she lost her grip. She turned to try to run, but tripped on a body. There was no slow build up like she expected, where the knight’s sword would hover over her, preparing to be brought down, to end two lives with one stroke…

  The slash was quick and true, scraping across her stomach before she could attempt to dodge it.

  Shocked, she stared down at her round belly, which was now bare, protruding like a pale hill where her tattered clothes had been shredded by the blade. He missed, she thought in disbelief. How could he have sliced her clothes without breaching her skin?

  And then he was screaming, his large gauntleted fists dropped his sword and scraping at his helmet, pulling it off, revealing a face as old as time, his eyes sunken craters, his mouth open. Abruptly, his scream cut off, though his mouth remained open, his gray teeth clacking together.

  What is happening?

  He dropped to his knees, his armor rattling. His skin was cracking now, peeling away; crumbling.

  One of his arms fell from its socket, shattering into a thousand pieces when it landed. Then another. His eyes popped out—his nose broke off. His head fell from his shoulders.

  He was like a stone statue, devastated by time and weather, falling into ruin.

  He was dead.

  Rhea looked about her, seeing the truth. All the other knights had met the same demise, crumbling to pieces while the defenders watched, dumbfounded.

  It is over. Oh Wrath, it is over. My child…

  Her eyes found Grey, who was equally wide-eyed, fighting back to his feet, using his blade-hand like a cane. He met her gaze and his mouth opened. He shook his head, horrified by something he saw. Something he saw in her.

  Wait. Wait. He wasn’t looking at her face—not anymore.

  She felt something warm down below.

  Rhea looked down to find her belly slashed open, blood pouring from the wound, pooling in her lap.

  Then came the pain.

  She threw her head back and screamed, seeing nothing but the edge of the cliffs and the form that was silhouetted against the light.

  Eighty-Three

  The Southern Empire, the Bloody Canyons

  Roan Loren

  The entire journey north had felt right, purposeful. Yes, he’d been shocked to learn that the Western Oracle had created a great evil, the very same that was now threatening the Four Kingdoms, but he couldn’t change that now. All he could decide was what he did next.

  They’d found Condor and the other Terans waiting for them on the plains. Roan had told them nothing, only that they needed to return to their ship as soon as possible. The jaunt through the jungle had been swifter this time; even Windy managed to suppress her intellectual curiosity for the sake of haste. Condor had bid them farewell and safe travels, asking only that Roan would keep the location of their hidden village a secret. He’d promised her.

  Sailing across the Burning Sea had also been quick, both the tailwinds and currents lending them speed where, according to Windy, there should’ve been none. “These are strange winds and currents for this time of year,” she’d commented.

  Roan could feel the Oracle’s hand in all things now. The good. The bad. He wanted to hate her. Maybe he did, a little. But he could not deny that the things she’d set in motion were an unstoppable force. All he could do now was use the power he’d been given to help.

  So when they’d finally made landfall beside a group of ships—what looked to be pirate ships based on their dark, ominous flags—Roan had disembarked quickly, racing along the edge of the red cliffs, his lifemark drawn by something, almost magnetically. Windy and Yela yelled after him, but he didn’t wait—couldn’t wait—because something was happening now, he could feel it in his marrow, his blood, his chest.

  As he’d approached the red-armored canyons, he’d known something horrible had happened. Vulzures circled overhead. The enormous carnivorous birds filled the air. Not just a few, or a dozen, but hundreds.

  They were drawn to de
ath. Oh gods, I’m too late, Roan had thought. He knew he needed a better vantage point, to see if there was anything left for him to do, any purpose, no matter how small, for him to serve.

  So he’d climbed. The way had grown steeper and steeper, but still he toiled, fighting for every foot up, until he’d mounted the cliff and raced along the edge, scanning the carnage below.

  Now he felt sick as he stood above it all. Bodies piled upon bodies. Thousands dead. But thousands still moved, some injured but others whole, or whole enough. The battle was over, one side having claimed victory.

  He spotted a familiar large red-scaled form lying still. Siri. Is she…

  The dragon rolled over and shrieked, her pain laid bare in that sound. Others cried out, too, asking for help. His lifemark beat in his chest. He could feel its desire to heal, to save, but there were too many.

  I will die, he knew. I will die if I try to save them all.

  He wanted to; oh, how he wanted to.

  But he could not.

  The Oracle had started painting this picture, and, for whatever reason, she’d chosen him to finish it.

  “Peacemaker,” a voice said. It was familiar, but different somehow. Sapped of strength. Quivering like a dewdrop in the face of a stiff morning wind.

  Roan didn’t turn his head as Bane approached. He couldn’t look at him, because he knew.

  “You did this.”

  Bane stood beside him. “You give me too much credit. I am no god. There were many commanders here today.”

  Roan knew he was right. He also knew Bane had been right about many things Roan had been blind to before. “Why?” was the only question he had next. Even if he hated them, he understood the Western Oracle’s motivations. But Bane remained an enigma.