Fatemarked Origins (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4) Page 18

  I could turn back, he thought. Go back to Knight’s End. No one will recognize me now. I can start a new life. I can be anyone I want to be.

  That’s not what Mother wanted for me.

  It’s my life.

  Am I really arguing with myself?

  Mother? Are you there?

  I am here, child.

  Mother?

  You have done well, sweetness. Her voice was the same as before, like an echo in his head, but softer now, as if it was fading. Henry didn’t want it to fade.

  I haven’t done anything.

  You left your home. That is something.

  He’d never thought of it that way. I think I might go back, Henry thought to her.

  It is your choice, she returned, and he could tell it’s not what she wanted him to do.

  Is it?

  Yes. Fate will smooth out the wrinkles, regardless of what you decide. You can go back, live a simple life. A long life. A good life with no regrets.

  But not an important life, Henry thought, reading between the lines.

  A good life is still important. The life I paved for you will be a lonely one. I will not force you.

  Which implied that she could force him if she wanted to, even from the grave. His mother was dead, but not irrelevant, he realized.

  Suddenly, the path under his feet was as obvious as the mountains that flanked him. I will go north, he thought to her.

  There was no response.

  His mother was already gone.

  The pass was straight and narrow, a sliver of gray sky pouring mist down from above. The mountains on each side were like the shoulders of giants, jostling for position. The ice-sheathed river groaned beneath his heavy trod, but didn’t crack—it was thick and strong.

  Like me, Henry thought.

  Though he felt a tingle of fear running along his skin, it wasn’t like before, when it used to consume his every thought, making him hide from his tormentors. He didn’t know what the north held for him, but he would face the future head on.

  Some instinct gave him pause, and he stopped, tilting his head back and sniffing the air. A faint odor tickled his nostrils. Smoke and sweat.

  A sound pricked his ears, so distant it might’ve been from another land entirely.

  Without thinking, he dove for the ice, feeling the whoosh of air zip past the space where his head had occupied only a moment earlier. The arrow whistled just high, its sharp downward angle slamming the sharp tip and half of the shaft into the ice. Henry stared at the black shaft, which twanged back and forth as it settled.

  I’m under attack. The thought, though true, startled him. He was no fighter, having avoided the constant scraps that boys tended to engage in while growing up, trying to best each other. Running and hiding was his preferred method of dealing with such conflicts.

  And yet running was the furthest thing from his mind now.

  Rage swelled up inside him, as hot and thick as boiled tar, shooting strength into his bones, power into his muscles, adrenaline into the blood rushing through his veins.

  He didn’t want to run. Not anymore.

  He wanted to fight.

  The moment he made the decision, everything seemed to slow down, time coalescing into a focused window of light through which Henry looked, seeing the world like he’d never seen it before.

  The next arrow came in lower, but Henry was already rolling away, watching the dart’s path, retracing it back to its source: a shadowy cleft in the mountains. A cave perhaps, or at least a crawlspace large enough for a human.

  Finishing his roll, he pushed to his feet, charging for the edge of the frozen river, where a steep cliff flanked the waterway. Another arrow ripped past, sliding against his shoulder and slicing a shred of fabric from his shirt. He was prepared for the next dart, snatching it from the air with hands that were too big to be his, and yet were. With a roar that sounded inhuman to his ears, he snapped the shaft in half, tossing the shattered pieces aside.

  He reached the cliff, momentarily protected from his attackers.

  He breathed.

  He raged.

  He marveled at his own poise, wondering at how he had caught an arrow from midair. If he hadn’t been the one to perform such a feat, he would’ve believed it impossible.

  Suddenly the impossible seemed not only possible, but a foregone conclusion. I will defeat them. I will.

  He started climbing, his bare feet and hands finding purchase on rocks that, to the naked eye, appeared unclimbable. When he reached the lip, he peered over the embankment, zeroing in on that dark space from where the arrows had originated.

  Men were pouring from the shadows, gripping swords and spears, charging down the mountainside. They wore thick wool coats and heavy trousers as their dark boots pounded across the sloped terrain, kicking up powdery snow. Six, seven, eight…

  A dozen. Two more.

  Fourteen men. Bandits. Trained killers who slaughtered their victims and took all they had. These infamous raiders give this very pass its name.

  I have never fought before, Henry thought. Unless, of course, he counted the times he’d been cornered in the alleys of Knight’s End. Those encounters always ended in black eyes and bloodied noses.

  This time he felt no fear.

  With a powerful pull of his arms, he threw himself over the cliff and sprinted toward his enemy.

  Most of the men stopped, shocked by the unexpected attack. They weren’t used to such willing prey. Several, however, continued running, smiles curling their lips, their dark eyes gleaming with anticipation.

  Still Henry ran, closing the distance rapidly.

  The first raider approached, spear held outward, aimed at Henry’s heart. Henry blinked and the world slowed once more, until he could see the way the spear bounced up and down with each of the man’s steps, until he could see the individual drops of snowmelt dripping from his chin, the way the sunlight reflected off the whites of his eyes.

  The man cried something unintelligible, shoving his spear forward. Henry slapped it away with naught but his hand, swinging his other hand, which was now curled into a fist, in a round arc. His knuckles slammed into the man’s face, and he heard an audible crack as bones broke. The man’s nose, his cheekbones, perhaps his jaw.

  The bandit went down like he’d been struck by lightning, unleashing a high-pitched howl of agony. The rest of the men stopped, their mouths agape, staring at their comrade writhing in the snow.

  Henry stared, too, in awe of what he’d done. And then he bent down slowly and retrieved the man’s spear. He had never used one before, and his newfound instincts offered no assistance. He raised the spear and broke it over his knees, throwing the jagged pieces to each side.

  “You want to play, stranger?” one of the bandits, a thick-chested man with a heavy red beard, said. He wore a red scarf around his head, something that seemed to set him apart from the other men, whose clothing was all dull grays and browns. Their leader perhaps. “Nobbs. Hogbarn. Steppers. Take him.”

  Three men moved forward. One was significantly taller than the others, and yet Henry realized he was just as tall, easily able to look the man in the eyes, which were narrowed and focused. The other two were shorter, aye, but muscly and battle-scarred.

  A few weeks earlier Henry would’ve run at the sight of any of these men.

  Not anymore.

  The tall man spun a sword in a graceful arc, like he’d done it a thousand times. The other two prodded with spears, moving in on the flanks. The swordsman is trying to distract me, Henry thought.

  So instead he faked left and then charged right, slipping past the reach of the spear before the wielder had time to react. He smashed his forearm into the man’s throat, sweeping out his legs with his foot. Gasping, the man went down.

  The shuffling of feet announced the other spearman’s arrival from behind. Henry ducked, using his thick body as a catapult, throwing the man, spear and all, over his shoulder. Screaming, the bandit tumbled down the h
ill, unable to arrest his fall as he slipped over the cliff and down to the ice-covered river below.

  Henry knew he’d injured his first two foes badly. But this third one was almost certainly dead.

  Something about the difference took his breath away.

  Not in a bad way, however. If anything, it excited him. The power was intoxicating. He controlled life and death. His own. These men’s.

  As the taller man charged, sweeping his sword back and forth, something snapped inside Henry. He was fire. He was fury. He was blood and ash and bone and, above all else, he was death.

  He roared, and the sound seemed to cut through the cold like thunder.

  The man’s eyes widened like full moons, and Henry could see the fear in them. It didn’t come naturally to this man’s face, the way it always had to Henry’s. No, this was a new emotion for this man, who was used to being feared, not the other way around.

  He skidded to a stop, dropping his sword, but it was too late.

  It was too late for all of them.

  Henry leapt forward, raking a clawed paw across his foe’s face. It wasn’t a punch, not exactly, and yet the man’s face split open, lines of blood appearing. Henry didn’t think about what he was, what he’d become, the entirety of his being narrowed to a single emotion: bloodlust.

  He crushed the tall man beneath his feet, tore into the other two downed men with his teeth, ravaging their flesh, tearing it open. Human blood dripped from his jaw, but he didn’t care, wasn’t disgusted by it. He was the apex predator, and this man was his prey.

  With a snarl, he planted his feet and threw himself up the slope, where the remaining ten raiders were already in full retreat, led by their red-scarfed leader.

  He closed the gap between them in mere seconds, swiping his hands across backs and chests and faces, clamping his teeth on unprotected throats.

  He killed them all until only one remained.

  The leader’s back was to the wall, his weapons cast aside. He held his hands out in front of him in surrender. A plea for mercy.

  Henry wasn’t in a forgiving mood.

  When it was finished, blood marred the whiteness of the mountain slopes, crimson pools and rivers.

  Henry was in denial. Not about the killing—no, he’d definitely done that—but about what he’d become. He refused to accept the sharp white claws flashing on either side, the thick dark shadows of fur brushing past. He refused to believe the sharp fangs brushing against the edges of his lips.

  Awkwardly, he pulled a pair of black boots off the largest of the dead raiders, balancing them between paws without the luxury of opposable thumbs. He draped another man’s blood-soaked trousers and shirt over his broad shoulders. The tall man’s.

  He walked and walked and walked, northward bound.

  Eventually he was Henry again.

  A man grown. A man with something dark inside him.

  He traded his own too-small, tattered clothes for the ones he’d stolen, not even bothering to clean off the blood. He pulled on the black boots, which barely fit, pressing tight against his toes. Then he kept walking.

  Three months later

  The adrenaline and bloodlust had faded long ago, leaving Henry empty, cold and alone. Surviving was easy for him now. The icy wind didn’t seem to touch him, never breaching his thick skin and hair. Hunting was second nature, and he never hungered, despite his voracious appetite. When there was no water, he simply crunched down on the snow, letting it melt on his tongue.

  Thus far, to his relief, he hadn’t encountered another human, neither friend nor foe. It is better this way, Henry thought, lumbering along in the snow, which was knee-deep now.

  For three months he’d remained in human form. Did I imagine the change before? he wondered from time to time.

  He couldn’t deny the truth, however, just as he couldn’t deny that his mother had finally, at long last, abandoned him for good. He spoke to her often, in the dark throes of night, but he received no answer.

  Have I disappointed you, Mother? Henry asked.

  He didn’t need her to respond to know that he had. Even as his mother was condemned by her own people, her own king, she’d preached peace.

  I’m a murderer. Nothing about that is peaceful.

  I defended myself. I saved myself and rid the world of bad men. How can that be wrong?

  It was an argument he had often, one that neither side had yet won.

  He froze, his instincts flaring. A hearty aroma breached his nostrils. Smoke, with the hint of something roasting, quail or pigeon perhaps. His ability to discern scents with exactness had long ago ceased to amaze him.

  He paused, considering what to do. If he stumbled upon another group of bandits, there could be more violence, and then…

  He didn’t want to think about it.

  On the other hand, they could be a peaceful camp, and he might make friends. I won’t have to be alone anymore.

  He gritted his teeth and set his jaw and moved in the direction of the smoke.

  After a while, he could see the smoke as well as smell it, the tendrils of gray and black curling over the crest of a snowy hill. Eager now, he lengthened his strides and covered the remaining distance.

  He stopped, surprised by what he saw. There was no small camp, no bandits, no caravan of northern merchants. But there was a castle, its gray walls and ramparts rising above a broad sprawl of tightly packed houses and structures, most of which had chimneys spouting smoke.

  Where am I? he wondered, trying to recall whether he’d ever seen a map of the northern kingdom. Of course, everyone who lived in Knight’s End knew that Blackstone was the westernmost northern city, nestled on the opposite side of the Bay of Bounty. Gearhärt was a possibility, the border castle that was the last line of defense before Raider’s Pass. But that seemed unlikely; he’d been travelling for months, certainly he’d gone further than that. The northern capital, Castle Hill, on the other hand, was more toward the center of the realm, on the edge of the enormous Frozen Lake. Henry scanned the landscape, but didn’t see any lake. Of course not. I haven’t travelled nearly far enough to reach Castle Hill.

  Then where? Did it even matter? Henry knew he didn’t belong here, with these people. Did he? He was a foreigner, for one. Secondly, he was…dangerous.

  I don’t want to hurt anyone. Never again.

  Not even to protect yourself? Not even to protect someone else?

  Wrath. He was tired of arguing with himself. Before his mother was executed, he’d never had to make decisions like this on his own. She was truth. She was the answer. Mother, why won’t you answer me?

  I’m here, child.

  His heart flipped. Why did you leave me?

  I did not. I was only away for a while.

  Away where? Where are you?

  In a better place. I can see everything more clearly now. The truth of my prophecies. How the fatemarked will arise, how they will move like pieces on a chessboard, changing everything. You have a role to play, too, son.

  What if I don’t want it? What if I just want to be Henry? What if I just want to be normal?

  That is your choice, sweetness. I will love you the same. But son, you will never be normal, and you shouldn’t want that.

  Henry thought about it. He knew she was right. How could he be like everyone else after what he’d done? What did you do to me?

  I protected you.

  It was true. Without the spell she’d cast on him, he would never have survived the cold, nor the raiders who’d attacked him through the pass. And if he’d stayed in Knight’s End…

  They would’ve killed you, son. Because of me. I’m sorry.

  Mother?

  Yes, child.

  He knew he was a man grown, but it didn’t bother him that she still referred to him as ‘child.’ He would always be her child, he knew. Mother, I don’t want to hurt anyone else.

  Then don’t.

  He flinched, taken aback by the simplicity of her response. No, it was
more than that. It was like he’d been slapped. All this time he’d assumed that the things he’d done were some kind of natural instinct he had now. Not a choice. Not something he could help. Because if it had been a choice…

  I killed them.

  They would’ve killed you.

  It was true, but he could’ve let some of them escape. They were trying to escape.

  They were bad men. They would’ve killed again. They deserved to die.

  But what if I lose control again?

  Don’t.

  He sighed. I wish you were here. I need you to tell me what to do.

  No.The wind dusted his face, as if she’d echoed his sigh.You do not. Look how far you’ve come. You do not need me. Not anymore.

  Her words gave him strength, and though Henry realized she’d left him once more, he didn’t feel scared. He started down the hill toward the castle village.

  Unlike the cities in the west, which were surrounded by impenetrable walls, the northern village was unprotected. Only the gray castle had fortifications. In the event of an invasion, the commoners were apparently left to fend for themselves.

  Henry literally walked into town, unquestioned, unnoticed. As if it was an everyday occurrence. Perhaps it was. The villagers continued going about their business. A washerwoman hauled a cart laden with heaping mounds of dirty clothes. Her arms were thick and muscled, and she used no beast of burden to pull the load. Breath misted from her lips as she grunted from the strain. Henry passed a man with stacked cages full of white, brown, and red chickens. The man opened one, grabbing the fowl by the neck as it flapped and scratched. With a quick wrenching motion, he snapped its neck and the bird went limp.

  Hunger gnawed at Henry’s stomach, though he’d eaten not long ago.

  A loud, booming voice called from up ahead, shouting to the passersby. A soldier, his dull armor gray and bearing the cracked-but-not-broken shield sigil of the north. Beside him sat a scribe at a wooden table, with a long roll of curling parchment on which he was writing with a feathered quill. A crooked line of men extended outward from the table. They were a miserable lot, wearing raggedy clothing and unkempt beards. Several of them smoked ragweed pipes. None of them spoke, their eyes downcast, as if fixated on their time-worn boots.