Fatemarked Origins (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4) Page 19

  They’re becoming soldiers, Henry realized, just as the message from the caller clarified in his ears. “War ’as been declared ’cross the Four Kingdoms! Join the King’s Army and earn two Shields a day and a hot meal! None shall be turned away!”

  Two Shields a day didn’t sound like a lot to Henry, but clearly these men were desperate for it, their eyes seeming to light up whenever the caller announced that part.

  “Ho! You there!” the soldier called, pointing in Henry’s direction. “Yer a brawny fella. Wat’s yer name?”

  Henry turned to look behind him to see who the soldier was speaking to. There was no one there. He turned back and said, “Me?”

  The soldier laughed. “Aye. You.”

  “I’m—” He almost said Henry, but his true name seemed to get caught in his throat. He coughed. “I’m…”

  Who am I? Was he a loner, destined to tramp through the icy tundra of the north, surviving off the land? Or could he live here, or in another village? His mother was right—he didn’t need her. Not anymore. He could control what he was. Who he was.

  I don’t need to change again. I don’t. I can just be me. Not Henry, no, he died with my mother, but this other person. Strong. Capable. A survivor.

  He thought of the bloody footprints he’d left in the snow through Raider’s Pass: broad, clawed, deep. And then he thought of the dead man’s boots he now wore: slightly too small, oily black, warm.

  “My name is Bear Blackboots,” he said. “And I am no fighter. Good luck with your recruiting.”

  He walked on, ignoring the soldier’s calls.

  Three years later (circa 355)

  Bear Blackboots was happy in the northern city he’d learned was called Walburg. Situated well east of Castle Hill, nearly halfway to the border castle of Darrin, Walburg was a peaceful city with hardworking folk who preferred to keep their heads down and their backs bent.

  Although, just as his mother had prophesied, war and violence had broken out across the Four Kingdoms, in this small castle village Bear felt safe. He’d built a life here. Year after year, he made a living as a hunter, traipsing through the woods and using his unique set of skills to take down elk and moose, and even the occasional ice bear—though killing the latter sometimes felt so awful Bear would sleep for days after, refusing to come outside.

  The meat and pelts sold for enough Shields to keep Bear sheltered and clothed.

  After the first year Bear had even saved enough coin to purchase a companion, a trusty old wolfhound he named Sir. Sir had gray and white speckled fur, one black ear and one white, and four paws that looked as if they were wearing white socks. Bear had no need of a hunting dog, but Sir did his best to help him chase down prey on their daily jaunts, seeming to relish the thrill of pursuit.

  They went everywhere together, until people almost began to identify them as a single entity.

  Now Sir nuzzled against the back of Bear’s hand as he approached Kirby Soup, a tavern owner famous for the various rich, aromatic soups he concocted. “They’ll warm you from head to toe!” he regularly proclaimed.

  “Watcha have fer me stew today?” Soup asked.

  Sir barked and bounded up to Soup, his tail wagging faster than a hummingbird’s wings. Soup chuckled and scratched the hound under the chin. At first, Soup had been aloof to Sir’s antics, but, as the hound did, he eventually wore the man down. Now they were best friends.

  “Half a quail and half a stone of moose meat,” Bear said.

  The round-bellied man narrowed his eyes. “What happened to the other half?”

  Bear rubbed his stomach.

  Soup’s eyes, which were as rich and brown as the stews he created, widened. “You ate all of it?”

  Bear gestured to Sir. “With help.”

  Soup shook his head in amazement. “Never seen an appetite the likes of yers.”

  “Well now you have,” Bear said, smiling broadly.

  “What price?”

  “You have to ask?”

  “It’s robbery, I tell you,” Soup said, but he quickly counted out the required coins and passed them over.

  “You’re lucky you get the friend’s discount.”

  “Robbery,” Soup muttered again, accepting the package of wrapped meat. His complaints were all for show, Bear knew, as his friend had confided in him a long time ago. Soup didn’t want his other vendors to get the idea that he was soft.

  Jingling the coins around in his pocket, Bear said, “Hope today’s soup has them lining up. Sir!”

  Obediently, the hound gave Soup a final lick before following behind, nearly tripping Bear as he trotted around his feet.

  Bear’s next stop was the cobbler, a squinty-eyed fella who never seemed to look anyone in the eye. He went by Cobb, just as most people in town used their occupation as a title of sorts. Except for Bear, of course, whose name was unique enough that everyone just called him Bear. “Morning, Cobb,” Bear said, letting in a gust of icy wind as he opened the door to the shop.

  “Shut the damn door!” Cobb said, staring at Bear’s left temple.

  Bear had already closed the door, but he didn’t try to point that out to the cobbler. Nor did he point out that every customer had to open the door to enter the shop. Cobb had never been particularly rationale.

  “What?” Cobb growled. It was a relatively nice growl, for him anyway. “What’s that?” He gestured to Sir, squinting in the hound’s general direction.

  “My dog.”

  “Mangy mutt,” the cobbler muttered, though Sir was anything but mangy, his fur thick and well-groomed. “Should wait outside where he belongs.”

  Bear ignored him. The man was all bluster, as cold as a northern winter. “Need a new pair of boots,” Bear said instead.

  “Again?” The cobbler pretended to sound annoyed, though Bear had gotten good at discerning the greedy gleam in the man’s narrow eyes. Bear was one of his best customers, on account of all the walking he did.

  “Same size. Same make.”

  “Color?”

  Bear played along, as he always did. “Hmm, perhaps brown this time. Or blue, aye, blue! No, no, wait, I’ve got it! Black. Yes, black will do.”

  “Are you pissing around with me?” Cobb asked.

  Yes. “Never.”

  “Fine. Black it is. Take off your boots and lemme measure your feet.”

  Measuring was also unnecessary, as Bear’s feet had stopped growing the same time the rest of him had. Even still, he was the largest man in town, both by height and weight. Every time a recruiting party came through Walburg he was forced to hide in the woods for fear of being made to join the army. Thus far it was by volunteer only, but Bear suspected that would eventually change as the war dragged on.

  Lord Briar, the possessor of the large gray castle from which Walburg got its name, was a known lackey of King Gäric, and would almost certainly uphold any laws passed at Castle Hill.

  Bear let the thought slip away, and, grudgingly, shucked off his boots, peeled off his socks, and sat on a rustic, termite-gnawed bench. Sir stayed by the door, his tail between his legs. Once Cobb had tried to smack him with his cane, and the dog had a long memory.

  “I’ll give you a trade-in value of half a new pair,” Cobb announced, hobbling over. It was the same thing he always said. The cobbler would harvest the leather and soles from the old pair.

  “Sounds fair,” Bear said.

  “Course it is!” The gray-haired man squatted and inspected one of Bear’s enormous feet, which were coated in a dark layer of hair. Cobb cringed, like he always did. Then, using a piece of leather marked with various measurements, he calculated the size, width, length, and height, shaking his head and muttering with each one. “A damn giant, you are.”

  “Thanks for noticing,” Bear said.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then shut your trap!”

  At the door, Sir whined loudly.

  “You too, mutt!” Cobb growled.


  Sir sat on his haunches and went quiet.

  The man went back to measuring, triple-checking everything, though nothing had changed since the last time. “You heard about them Southron savages?” he asked suddenly, squinting up at Bear. “You know, the ones with the strange marks?”

  Bear flinched like he’d been hit in the face.

  “You stupid or something?” Cobb said.

  “No, I—I haven’t heard. What marks?”

  The man pulled on one of the hairs on Bear’s foot, as if testing its strength. “’Sall gossip and rumors, but there are those who are sayin’ a coupla babies have been born in Calypso with markings on their skin. Something’s wrong with them, that’s for damn sure. ’Tain’t natural.”

  Bear’s heart pounded out a steady rhythm, slightly faster than before. He recited dozens of his mother’s prophecies in his mind. Prophecies about the fatemarked. Prophecies he hadn’t thought about in years.

  “You say these marked babies are only in the south?”

  “Didn’t say that. Just that the first ones were there. ’Twas one in the west, too, but ol’ King Loren, the bastard, had the child killed. His red priestesses said the creature was evil, a demon or the like.”

  “The Furies?”

  “Call them what you like.”

  They killed one of the fatemarked. The same fools who’d killed his mother. The King. The Furies. Wrath. What did that mean for his mother’s prophesies? According to her, the fatemarked would help end the war and bring about peace. But how could they do that if they were being murdered as babes?

  “Did the Southroners kill the marked babies, too?”

  “Nah,” the man said. “They’re worshippin’ them or somethin’. The easterners have one, too.”

  “And the north?”

  The man laughed. “Too cold here,” he said, nodding firmly, as if that explained everything.

  Bear considered all the information, as well as the source. Cobb was a crazy old kook, but he didn’t make things up. Embellished perhaps. Could it really be true? Had the fatemarked his mother had spoken of so often finally arrived? And if so, what would it mean for the war? What does it mean for me? Nothing. I am happy here. It’s not my concern.

  The lie was bitter on his tongue, more so because he hadn’t spoken to his mother in over a year.

  “I’ll have your boots ready first thing tomorrow,” the cobbler announced, pulling Bear away from his thoughts.

  “That soon?” Bear feigned astonishment.

  “I’m a master cobbler, you dolt! Course they’ll be ready that soon.”

  Bear pretended not to hear the insult. In his three years since arriving, he’d learned how to play all the games required to get by in Walburg. “Will you accept half the coin in advance?”

  “I suppose I could,” the bootmaker said. The greedy glint was back.

  Bear handed over twelve Shields and the man snatched them up, stuffing them in a pocket. “The rest is due upon receipt of your boots.”

  “I will bring it tomorrow morning.”

  He opened the door and Sir scampered out ahead of him. Just as he shut it behind him he heard Cobb shout, “Shut the damn door!”

  Thirty years later (circa 385)

  The war dragged on into its third decade. According to rumor, the fighting was particularly intense at Raider’s Pass, where King Loren’s army was pushing hard, ten thousand riders strong. The easterners were gathering near the Razor, preparing to attempt an assault on Darrin. It was said that in the south the battles were even bloodier, with the Calypsians riding dragons into battle, slaughtering their enemies at will.

  More than anything else, however, people loved to talk about those bearing skinmarks. Just the other day Bear had heard about a man in the east who could supposedly shoot arrows from his fingertips, ten at a time. Arrowmarked, he was being called. Grudgingly, Bear added him to the list he kept. The list already had twelve other names on it, though four of them were crossed out, dead, two murdered as babies in the west by Furies who still considered the marked to be demons, and two killed in battle. The latter pair had been Southroners, worshipped and revered and then sent to die.

  The nine known living fatemarked were spread across all Four Kingdoms, just as his mother had said they would be. Even the north had two of them. One was stonemarked, a brute with impenetrable flesh, who could crush foes with his bare hands. He’d been sent to Raider’s Pass, where he was almost singlehandedly holding the enemy at bay. The other was a woman whose speed was unsurpassed. She wielded a blade with such quickness she could supposedly block arrows with its edge, cutting them to pieces. She’d been sent to Darrin to hold the border. Neither of them had been given a choice. According to northern law, those bearing marks belonged to the crown. Though they were treated like royalty, showered with unimaginable wealth and abundance, at the core they were naught but slaves.

  Most of the other fatemarked were also participating in the war, in one way or another. Though his mother’s prophecies had said they would bring about peace, violence seemed to follow them wherever they went. What is the point of it all? Bear often wondered.

  On numerous occasions over the years, Bear had considered whether to seek these extraordinary people out, try to talk to them, find out how he could help them.

  Their fates will be yours, to help them is good.

  The last line of his mother’s poem played almost nonstop in his head, and yet something about the timing didn’t feel right. Or maybe I’m just too content living a peaceful life in Walburg…

  I am content, he thought, rubbing behind Sir’s ears as he stared into the flickering flames of the hearth fire. This was Sir number three, the first two having passed on after long and happy lives. They were buried in a small plot behind Bear’s cabin. Sir Three released a sigh of contentment. He was getting old, too, his hair thinning, his movement slower. It wouldn’t be long before Bear would have to bury another best friend, and seek out a new one. Some of his other friends were dying, too. Soup had perished when a fever raged through the city. His two sons had carried on his business, but it wasn’t the same. The soup was missing something, heart perhaps. Cobb had died, too, of old age, and now Bear’s boots were growing worn and thin.

  Though his beard was longer and thicker and the hair on his head more tangled, Bear didn’t look a day older than when he’d arrived in Walburg, a fact that was beginning to be noticed by some of the townsfolk.

  Their hearts will fail, their lives will end,

  But yours will last, it will extend.

  The meaning of the first two lines of his mother’s poem—no, her spell—were clear to him now. He suspected they always were, even if he didn’t want to believe it. His life would be longer than most. Am I immortal?

  No. Wrath. I will die, as all men must. Eventually.

  But am I truly a man?

  Bear was no longer scared of changing into his animal form. He could control the instincts that came along with it, choosing when to attack, when to hold back. He usually only allowed himself to change once or twice a year, roaming the forest with Sir by his side, hunting.

  Since that day in Raider’s Pass, he had not killed another human.

  You can’t stay here.

  His hand froze on Sir’s scalp.

  He hadn’t heard that voice in over a decade, maybe longer—he’d stopped counting the years long ago. Now, he pretended not to hear it.

  Sweetness.

  No. No!

  Henry.

  “That’s not my name!” Bear growled. Sir whined at the outburst and scampered away, eyeing Bear warily.

  You will always be my son, my Henry.

  “You’re dead!” Then, remembering he didn’t need to speak aloud, echoed the thought in his head: You’re dead.

  In the manner known to humans, yes.

  What other manner is there?

  The manner known to the gods.

  Wrath?

  Wrath, Absence, Orion…they are all the same Bei
ng, the One, the Creator.

  Bear said nothing. He didn’t know what to say after all these years.

  The people here will get suspicious. They will eventually come for you, turn on you. They don’t like what they don’t understand.

  Bear already knew this. He hadn’t delayed his departure out of ignorance or naiveté, no. He’d stayed because the thought of leaving felt a little like dying.

  You know where you must go.

  He did. When?

  Immediately.

  What is in Castle Hill for me? The northern capital had always been his destination; he’d known this in his heart for years.

  Nothing. Everything. A new beginning. An old ending. Life. Death. Hope. Futility.

  He chuckled. It was the only thing he could do. Is that all?

  No. Fate is there, too.

  That word again. Bear was beginning to hate it. Mine?

  Yes. Yours. And others.

  Bear sighed. You said I had a choice.

  You do.

  It doesn’t feel that way.

  That’s because you’ve always had difficulty disobeying me.

  Is that a bad thing?

  Maybe. I—I don’t know. I know much, but not everything. I don’t know how this will end. I don’t know whether what you do will change anything. But I hope it will. Now I must go. This time it is forever, I think.

  A pang of guilt hit Bear in the chest as he realized he felt only relief. Closure.

  Henry?

  Yes, Mother?

  I love you. I always will.

  I love you, too, Mother.

  Goodbye.

  Wait!

  I’m here.

  I’ll do it. I’ll go to Castle Hill. I’ll seek my fate.

  I know. Goodbye, Henry.

  Goodbye, Mother.

  His last two words fell on deaf ears because she was already gone. This time he knew it was forever.

  One hundred and fifteen years later (circa 500)

  Bear had lived too long. He’d given up on making friends, because they always died in the end. He did, however, continue raising wolfhounds from pup to maturity. Watching them pass on was tough, too, but he handled it in his own way.