by David Estes
He knew the king deserved all that and worse, but…
But what? There is something inside you. Something powerful. Something you can use.
Steeling himself, Helmuth made a decision, though it scared him greatly. If the king came to hurt him, for the first time in his life he would fight back.
The king never came.
The sky above him grew darker. Then lighter. Then lighter still, until faint strands of sunlight danced along the edges of the hole cut in the boulder.
Finally, bone weary, Helmuth crabbed his way back to his room, dragged himself into bed, and fell instantly asleep.
Three seconds later he was awakened by a noise.
Or at least that was how it felt. In reality, his sleep could’ve lasted for three days or three weeks—there was no telling in this windowless place.
He turned toward the sound. The gray-haired woman stood in the doorway, clasping a tray. “Eat,” she said. She placed the tray on the ground and started to leave.
“What is your name?” Helmuth found himself asking, though he had not known he was going to ask until the words left his mouth. Why didn’t I think to ask earlier? It occurred to him that no one had asked his name yet either.
She frowned at him, and he noticed the dark circles under her eyes, which were bloodshot. “My name? I am Woman. I am You. I am Nothing. Just like you.”
And then she was gone. Helmuth wanted to call after her, to apologize for upsetting her so, but he remained silent. After a few moments, he clambered over to the tray, tucking into the food right in the doorway as he peered down the corridor. The woman’s form was but a shadow fading into shadows as she retreated.
“What do I do after I eat?” he hollered, not caring if he disturbed the other boys. Not caring if the king heard him. Not caring about much at all, if he was being honest with himself.
He didn’t expect the nameless woman to answer, but she did, her voice echoing down the hall. “Climb,” was all she said.
So he did. Day after day he returned to the throne room, spending hours upon hours trying to conquer the rope. He learned from his past mistakes, realizing his own limitations. When his arms began to shake from weariness, he would slide back down the rope rather than pushing higher and falling. It was a good thing, too, because a fall from the heights he could now achieve would’ve killed him at worst and shattered his spine or skull at best.
Strangely, however, he didn’t grow scared when he looked down anymore. Quite the opposite. He felt…at peace. He felt…victorious. The rope wasn’t the enemy—not anymore, at least—if it had ever been. It was a tool.
At night he dreamed of reaching the top, rolling onto the surface of the boulder, staring up at an entire world of stars or clouds or sky, not just the small circle he could see now.
He didn’t know what he would do then, only that it would feel like escape.
And perhaps that would be enough.
On this day, he was three-quarters of the way to the top, his greatest height yet. The temptation was strong to push onward, to give everything he had left in his final ascent.
He took a deep breath, reining in his emotions before sliding all the way to the bottom. The rope slipped through his calloused, sweaty hands easily now. They still bled sometimes, but that was nothing next to the hope of reaching the top.
At the bottom, he eased himself to a sitting position, flinching slightly when he realized someone else was there.
It surprised him because he hadn’t seen anyone in days, save for the forlorn unspeaking boys in the rooms he passed twice daily. His food and water were brought when he was climbing, and he never saw who delivered it, though he assumed it was the gray-haired woman.
Now, however, he was shocked to find a familiar man standing before him.
Krako.
“I…” Helmuth started, but then realized he didn’t have the slightest idea what to say.
Krako shifted from foot to foot, clearly nervous. “I didn’t tell the king about what…happened. If that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Why not?”
The carriage driver squinted, as if he himself wasn’t certain of the answer. “Because I feared what he might do to you.”
“But I hurt you,” Helmuth said, immediately realizing it was a foolish thing to say. Am I trying to convince him to tell the king?
“It wasn’t intentional though, was it?” The man’s eyes locked on his, and Helmuth found his stare strangely comforting. Almost fatherly.
He shook his head. “It’s only happened once before.” He couldn’t believe he was talking so openly about himself, but it felt…good. Like a weight was slowly being lifted from his shoulders with each word. “Me losing control of it, that is.”
Krako seemed to consider his words. “What is it?”
Helmuth slumped forward, feeling suddenly exhausted, and not from the climb. “I don’t know. It’s…new.”
Krako bit his lip, closed his eyes. Opened them. When he spoke again, his words were halting, placed one at a time. Precise. “I felt…utter despair,” he said. “Though even that seems too casual a word for it. I could see things. Bad things. Vile things. Teeth in the dark, biting, crunching, devouring. Me. They were devouring me. There was no hope. Not for me. Not for anyone. I wanted it to be over. I wanted to die.”
His words were like knives jabbing Helmuth’s ears. I made him feel that way. The smoke. The hot pulse in my chest. What is it? What am I?
They were questions without answers, and there was only one thing left to say. “I’m sorry.”
Krako nodded. “I won’t tell the king about any of this. Just…be careful, son. There’s only one thing King Streit fears, and it’s not armies or beasts or ghosts.”
“What is it?”
“Magic.”
Magic. It was a word used occasionally in the north, but mostly in faerie tales or talk of the forest dwellers in the east. Every so often a witch would develop a devout following, but would eventually be shunned and cast out. The north believed in one thing and one thing only: Strength.
But now…
Is that what this thing is inside me? Helmuth wondered, lying in bed. Magic? And if so, how had it gotten there? How was it possible?
There was only one answer:
The fatemarked.
For the last century or so, their fame had grown. They were born with strange markings only visible under torchlight, markings that gave them specific powers. They manifested themselves through the Four Kingdoms, from Phanes to Calyp, from Knight’s End to Ferria. There was even one in the north, the Ice Lord, who could channel ice through his fingertips. Long had he fought for Helmuth’s father and the crown.
I am not fatemarked, Helmuth thought now, frowning at the cracks in the ceiling. Of course he wasn’t. Like all babes, he’d been inspected under torchlight when he was born. And like most babes, he bore no markings.
But what if his, for whatever reason, had taken longer to develop, finally manifesting itself on that life-changing night in Blackstone? Was such a thing even possible?
Before the fatemarked appeared, most would’ve believed them to be impossible.
And anyway, he realized, I’ve stood naked in this dark place numerous times, my body lit only by torchlight. And nothing had happened, not the faintest glimpse of the marking that appeared only when—
It hit him.
Only when I’m angry.
Helmuth peered down the long corridor, scanning for movement, listening for sounds. Nothing.
He shucked off his shirt, staring at the smooth contours of his muscled chest. He wondered whether his family would recognize him anymore. There were even hairs beginning to sprout at odd angles, dark and spiky.
Focus. The torchlight danced across his skin, but the only light was from the orange-yellow reflection of the flames.
Helmuth closed his eyes and drew his childhood into his mind.
Shame was the first emotion he felt, hearing the nicknames uttered
just loud enough for him to reach his ears. There goes the Maimed Prince! To think, he’ll be our king someday. Frozen hell save us all!
His shame morphed to a sadness so deep he could feel it in the marrow of his bones. He remembered the day his father stripped him of his birthright because he was too weak. Too damaged. It didn’t matter that he’d been born like this, that he’d never been given a chance.
Hope came next, as surprising as a gusty breeze on a windless day. Hope for a better life elsewhere. Anywhere else.
But in Blackstone, where he only found more shame and sadness, his anger was born.
He hated the soldiers who had made he and the other boys work for nothing but scraps of gruelish food unfit for animals. He hated his father for not believing in him. He hated his brothers for their constant japes and arrogance. He even hated little Zelda for not coming to him that day when he needed a friend the most.
And now, most of all, he hated the horrid king holding he and these other pitiful boys captive, treating them like possessions.
The anger came hot and fierce, exploding in his chest.
He opened his eyes, his stare as intense as it had ever been.
His chest was no longer smooth pale skin. Not only.
Three black markings had appeared, sheened with bright white light, pulsing like a heartbeat. They almost appeared liquid. Blood, he thought. They are drops of black blood.
And they are mine.
Mine to command.
Helmuth didn’t know what to feel. Though he knew he was the same person he’d always been, he felt different. Stronger. Not just physically, but mentally too. Emotionally. He’d faced his old feelings—of shame, of sadness, of fruitless hope—and he’d honed them into something else.
Anger.
Power.
A weapon?
While he tried to wrap his mind around these revelations, he returned to his routine, attending the throne room each day to climb the rope.
Krako showed up most days, and Helmuth began asking questions.
“Where is the king?”
Krako sighed. “Not here.”
“I know.”
Another sigh. “Fighting.”
“You mean conquering,” Helmuth said, remembering the stories Jorg used to tell him. Stories of the House of Streit taking over the world one kingdom at a time.
Krako snorted out a laugh. “Usually you would be right. But not this time. The Lesser have long thwarted Crimea.”
Helmuth’s heart did a little flip. The Lesser! He remembered the last story Jorg had ever told him before he ran away. “You mean they’re real? The barbarians?”
Krako nodded seriously. “As real as a thorn in the king’s ass.”
“They live in the northern mountains,” Helmuth murmured, the story coming back to him one piece at a time. “They’ve defeated the Crimeans more than a dozen times. Why don’t the Crimeans give up? Why do they care?” It was a question that had nagged at him ever since he’d first heard the story.
An echo of a smile seemed to ripple across Krako’s lips. “Three reasons. One—the Streits are too proud to give up, especially when their enemy is so close, right on Crimea’s border. Two—the mountains to the north are largely unexplored, and there is assumed to be precious metals for the taking.”
“And the third reason?”
Krako’s echo-smile turned grim. “It is said if the individual barbarian clans ever united, their number would be as vast as the salt in the sea. If they weren’t as dumb as rocks, they could swarm across the whole world.”
“Why now?” Helmuth asked Krako when he showed up the next day. He’d had a night to sleep on all the information, and now he had more questions. “Why is King Streit going to war against the Lesser again now?”
“Can we talk about something else?” Krako said.
“No. So either talk or leave.” Helmuth couldn’t believe his boldness. He wondered if his tongue would be so sharp the next time he faced the king. If he survives the Lesser, he thought. He should be so lucky.
“Fine. The barbarians are attacking the borders. An entire village was burned to the ground. When King Streit’s soldiers finally arrived, there was nothing left but bones.”
Frozen hell. So it’s true… “They’re cannibals,” he said.
Krako nodded, wrinkling his nose at the word. “There are few things Crimeans fear. We fear the House of Streit. And we fear the Lesser. Nothing else.”
Unsummoned, an image of one of the Lesser—a larger, female one—sprang into Helmuth’s mind based on Jorg’s description. The immense, muscled barbarian leapt atop the king, who was powerless against the attack. His throat opened in an instant, and then she sank her fangs into his face.
Strangely, the image wasn’t as repulsive as he thought it would be.
He wondered whether the barbarians could ever be united. And if they were, was Krako right? Would they swarm across the entire world?
It’s what the world deserves, he thought darkly. He shook his head, wondering where the thought had come from. He couldn’t truly think that.
Could he?
There’s the Maimed Prince! Frozen hell save us all!
You have your own talents, but you are no warrior. This from his own father.
Get back to work! the soldiers in Blackstone had shouted after Harry had fallen from the roof.
King Streit is not a good man, Vrinn had said before jumping to his death.
I take things that are thrown out, unwanted, and I make them beautiful, the king had said.
“Kid!” a voice shouted, jarring him from his thoughts.
He found Krako backing away from him, chased by the gray fog pouring from Helmuth’s chest. He was no longer surprised by what he could do, no longer feared it. With naught but a thought, he sucked it back inside himself.
Krako stood panting, his eyes wide with fear, his hands held before him as if he might’ve been able to hold off the fog of despair Helmuth had accidentally summoned. But Helmuth knew such a thing was
Impossible.
Because I am
Unstoppable.
The king returned to Rockland in a foul mood.
Krako had already informed Helmuth that the Crimean army had been defeated in the northern mountains. Well, sort of. It was hard to discern victory from defeat against this mountain-dwelling enemy, who attacked from the shadows and whose true number could only be guessed at. At the least, the king had retreated, leaving only enough soldiers to protect his borders.
Helmuth “stood” before him, balancing on his hands, his arm muscles flexing as they held his body aloft.
The king said, “You are still hideous. Pathetic. You cannot even stand.” They were words that once would’ve cut Helmuth to the quick. Not anymore. Instead, they seemed to bounce off his skin, skittering away and vanishing as if they’d never been spoken. “Have you even climbed the rope?”
“Three quarters,” Helmuth said.
The king snorted. “Pathetic. You were too scared to go on. You will never be anything. You will always be a cripple. You think walking around on your hands like a crab will make you strong? I could squash you under a single boot.”
Helmuth felt his anger rising, but tamped it down. The temptation was great to unleash his growing power, but it still didn’t feel like the right time. The king might shout for his soldiers. They might swarm him before he could disarm them with the fog. Or they might shoot arrows from afar.
No, when he finally decided to fight back, he needed to be certain he would win.
“Then do it,” he said instead, his voice low.
The king laughed—actually laughed. “I’ve missed this part of my life,” he said. “The thrill of battle has its allure.” Even when you lose? Helmuth wanted to say. “But this is my true calling. When I am finished with you, you won’t even recognize yourself.”
I already don’t, Helmuth thought. And I like it.
“Now climb. All the way to the top.”
&
nbsp; Helmuth almost lost his balance, surprised by the turn of events. “Now?”
“Did I stutter?”
“I am not ready. In another week perhaps…”
The king stepped forward, grabbed his arm and shoved him toward the rope. Though Helmuth tried to brace his fall, his legs tangled and he landed hard on his cheek, wincing.
“You will make the climb now, or you will die.”
What? Helmuth stared at the king. So this is it, he thought. He didn’t have more time to plot and wait. There would be no right moment to unleash his power. It was now or never. But first, at the least, he should attempt the climb once more.
“Fine.” He pushed his body up and reached for the rope.
And then he started to climb.
His muscles responded immediately, settling into the rhythm they’d grown accustomed to after days of climbing. Clutch with one hand, reach with the other, pull pull pull…
The first half of the ascent was easy now, and though his face was tensed with the effort, he even managed a smile. He wished he could see the king’s face, his jaw dropping open at the progress Helmuth had made in such a short period of time.
That’s when he smelled it.
At first it was just a bitter tang in the air, a whiff of something he had never smelled in this carved out boulder palace. He almost stopped, but then thought better of it and kept climbing.
The first tendrils of smoke climbed past him, curling as they sought the fresh air and open sky above.
He stopped.
“Climb, boy,” the king said, a hint of amusement in his tone.
Helmuth looked back.
What the frozen hell?
The rope was alight with fire, streaked with curls of gray-black smoke that seemed to cling to it for a moment before going airborne. Like him, the smoke sought its freedom.
The king held a torch, casting a devil’s shade of red across his haughty, victorious expression.
Helmuth tried to summon anger, but found himself cold with fear. The first quarter of the rope had already been chewed away by fire, and even if he slid down and dropped he would suffer grievous injuries, maybe even death. His eyes wide, his throat tight, he realized the king’s prior words were a promise not a threat: