Deathmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4) Page 27

  Next, they secured the male’s arms and legs to the mast using thick ropes. Each taking a hand and foot, they used knives to saw off its claws so it wouldn’t be able to cut through its bonds when it awoke. Lastly, they borrowed leather belts from several of their dead soldiers to clamp the creature’s head to the mast, tightening them around its broad forehead.

  Finished, Annise studied the creature more closely. Its eyes were wide apart, leaving a grizzled white forehead and the bridge of its flat nose between them. Its ears were large and quite curved, occasionally twitching while it slept. No hair grew on its face, nor its head. In fact, Annise couldn’t see the evidence of any hair on its body at all. The ridged humps on its back were hidden behind it right now, but Annise could still remember how hard they felt as she carried it.

  Tarin said, “Annise.” He tried to wrap an arm around her.

  She shrugged him off. “Not now, Tarin.”

  “It’s secure. We are safe now. This can wait.”

  “No, it can’t. Fetch me a bucket of water.”

  “Annise…”

  “Now!”

  Tarin didn’t look angry at being commanded like one of her common subjects. Only sad, which, for some reason she couldn’t quite explain, made her blood boil. This time, however, he didn’t object.

  She stared at the creature, half-expecting its eyes to flash open, half-wanting them to. She could picture herself digging them out of their sockets with a knife. The image did nothing to comfort her.

  She took a deep breath, fighting back tears.

  Tarin returned with the bucket. “Dump it on its head.”

  “Annise…”

  “Do it!”

  He did, the water cascading off the creature’s bald, ridged scalp. It snorted, stirred, but didn’t awaken.

  “Get another.”

  Tarin knew better than to argue this time.

  It took six buckets of water before the creature finally awoke, its eyelids rising slowly, lazily. Annise’s hand instinctively went to a knife sheathed in her belt.

  The creature’s dark eyes darted to her hand, then back to her face. She could see the intelligence behind them. Perhaps the creature was more animal than human, but it was no fool. It recognized the danger it was in.

  That is good. I can use that.

  “Do you speak the common tongue?” she asked.

  It growled, revealing its pointed teeth, straining against the leather straps. It tried to curl its fingers over to test the ropes, releasing a shriek when it realized its claws were gone.

  Annise stepped forward, grabbed it by the chin. Squeezed. Brought her other hand up, clutching the knife, the tip a breath from its eye. “Do. You. Speak. The common. Tongue? Answer me!”

  Tarin knew better than to intervene, though he hovered close by.

  The creature’s pink tongue flashed out, as if tasting the air. Its nose twitched, sniffed. “Human. Sweet blood. All we can drink, he says.” Its voice was more melodious than Annise had expected, not the guttural shrieks she’d heard in battle. It drew the words out slowly, carefully.

  She gripped its chin harder. “Who are you?”

  It stared at her, unblinking. “Horde.”

  “That is your name?”

  “Not mine. Us. We? We are one. We are Horde.”

  Frozen hell. Annise wondered if the ones they’d left in Crimea could sense what their comrade was going through. If they could see through his eyes.

  “What is your purpose?”

  Air whistled between its lips, through its throat. It reminded her of the laugh of a dying man. “Purpose? Destroy. Devour. Swarm. End.”

  She remembered the ruined, silent buildings of Moray, a once proud city laid low. Had they done the same to the rest of the Crimean cities? The capital, Rockland. Was that even possible?

  A thought occurred to her. “Where are all the ships? The harbor was empty.”

  Its eyes seemed to grow bigger at the question, twinkling slightly. “Others sail across big waters. They learn to use floating wood. Must move on. Must destroy. We stay behind to wait for others to come. Others like you.”

  Annise swiveled her head and her eyes met Tarin’s. She could see the fear in his, felt the fear in her own. Oh gods. Did he mean…

  “The Horde is going to attack the Four Kingdoms next?”

  Another flick of its tongue. “Devour, yes. We are The End of All Things.”

  The hairs on the back of her neck pricked up. She tried to remember the world history lessons she’d been forced to endure growing up. She’d never heard of the Horde, but perhaps it had been known by a different name. Something gnawed at her. A week spent learning about disparate groups of barbarians located north of Crimea. Hairless, yes, they were hairless. Humanoid, but animalistic, with claws and fangs. The Crimeans had tried on numerous occasions to wipe them from the face of the earth, but they would always go to ground, hiding in the mountains, repopulating within their tribes. Annise recalled what her tutor had said about their social structure, how infighting and tribal disputes kept them disorganized, despite the fact that their population was estimated to be tens of thousands. “But if they ever manage to unify,” her tutor had said, “gods help us all.”

  In her history books, they were known by a name coined by one of the Crimean kings somewhere along the way. “The Lesser,” Annise murmured.

  At the name, the creature spat in her face and tried to bite her hand. She recoiled, using her wet sleeve to wipe away the spittle, fighting the revulsion that welled from deep within her stomach. Tarin stepped forward, and she sensed his action, his need to protect, to defend, before the blow came. “Wait,” she said.

  He stopped, his jaw tight, his eyes fury. She knew the monster was whispering to him now, sending strength to his body, preparing him for what would surely be a death blow, even if he didn’t intend it to be. Saw the indecision on his face. “Tarin. It’s me. Annise. Wait. Please.”

  He took a deep breath. “As you command, my queen.”

  At the title, the creature bucked against its bindings once more. “Who are you?” it asked.

  Annise’s stare bore into it. “Queen Annise Gäric, First of Her Name, Ruler of the North. And your executioner.”

  “Gäric,” the creature said, its singsong voice dropping to a whisper. “Purpose. Vengeance. Kill me if you must, but you will die either way. He comes for you.”

  Annise’s eyes narrowed. She’d received enough threats in the last year to start a collection. “Who?”

  “Our leader.”

  Something clicked into place. The disparate tribes. There was only one way to unite those with such a history of hating each other. A common leader, a shared purpose. She felt like she was on the verge of discovery, the puzzle of her life missing exactly one piece.

  “Who is your leader?”

  The creature’s lips formed into something resembling a banshee grin. “The Lost Son. Kklar-Ggra. In your tongue, Son-Gäric.”

  Annise turned at a voice. “Frozen gods of the north,” Zelda said. “My brother. Helmuth is alive.”

  Forty-Two

  The Southern Empire, Phanes

  Rhea Loren

  She awoke to bumps, groaning as her head pounded in time to each jolt beneath her.

  Rhea attempted to lift a hand to her temple, but couldn’t manage it, her chains rattling.

  “Thank Wrath,” a voice said. Her cousin, Gaia, hovered over her, brow knitted together.

  The chains felt like coils of fire against her skin. Though the air was open above her, she felt like she was in a small room, the walls and ceiling pressing in. She breathed deeply and counted to ten, trying to regain control.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “On a horse-drawn cart. They’re taking us somewhere. The next city over. Ah, Hemptown, right?”

  Rhea nodded, immediately regretting it as fresh spikes of pain lanced through her skull. She tried to blink away the cobwebs. He’d hit her, the Phanecian general.
But before that, he’d learned of the impending attack. And he’d told her about their commander, some newcomer. Which was strange in and of itself, since Phanecians weren’t known to warm up to outsiders, and they certainly wouldn’t promote one to a position of power.

  But they did, or so the general claims. Which meant this “newcomer” wielded some kind of power of his own. Or they were desperate. Maybe both.

  “Awake I see,” a voice called.

  Speak of the demon spawn.

  “No thanks to you,” Rhea said, trying to keep the quiver out of her voice. It was hard; she felt extraordinarily weak. “I shall see to it that you are killed slowly when my army arrives.”

  The general, who was atop the same behemoth stallion as before, laughed. “Your army will not attack. Not now that we have you. Which begs the question: Why did you make such easy prey of yourself?”

  Inwardly, she winced. She’d been waiting for this very question. “I was looking for someone important to me.”

  His eyes narrowed further. “Who?”

  “My cousin. Ennis Loren. He went south. He passed through the Gates. He was seen being…captured.”

  The general licked his lips. “Which Gate?”

  “Hemptown.”

  He smiled. “You’re in luck. We are heading there now. Won’t be long. The border cities are less than a day’s hard ride from each other. You can inquire about this Ennis fellow when we arrive.”

  “Why are we going to Hemptown?” she asked, though she already suspected the answer.

  “Our new leader is there. You said you wanted to meet him, no? He is the one who is going to help us take back our empire from the slave-lovers, and then…”

  He left the rest unfinished, riding off, leaving nothing behind but silence and a cloud of dust.

  Hemptown was a much larger city than Sousa. The sandstone buildings were just as squat, but they sprawled out as far as the eye could see in each direction. Children ran through the streets. Leather-clad soldiers marched. Women carried baskets on their heads. Other females moved like water in clusters, performing a strange, but beautiful, dance.

  They passed a training area, where soldiers practiced flips and spins, slashing at straw-filled dummies with blades strapped to their wrists and ankles. Other soldiers held strange metal rods attached to wooden triangles. They jammed the wood against their shoulders and looked down the rods toward where archery targets were propped on wooden stilts.

  A deafening roar burst from the rods a split-second after fire jumped from their tips.

  What sorcery is this? Rhea thought, her eyes flicking to where the targets were now in shambles, chunks blasted from them as if they’d been struck by lightning, or hail.

  “Cousin,” Gaia said. “What…”

  “I don’t know.” She’d heard of something called fireroot that grew in the south, but as far as she knew it needed to be ground up, bundled, and then lit to create an explosion. And the fire on the tips of the rods didn’t explain the damage to the targets. Something had been…shot…from the rods. They’re cylinders, she realized. If ground fireroot was packed into the barrels, followed by a projectile—a stone or chunk of metal—the powder could be exploded, sending the projectile through the shoot.

  The resulting weapon would be at least as powerful as a bow, if not more.

  She chewed on this new information, watching as the soldiers fired off another volley, decimating what was left of the targets. The practice yard vanished behind them.

  Just ahead was a large dusty square. All around the edges were merchant carts and stands, the crowd thick as buyers shouted out offers and handed over coin. It’s chaos, Rhea thought, so unlike the orderly markets in the west that she might be rolling across the surface of the moon. More like the sun, she mused, considering the heat, which felt like it was cooking her from the inside out.

  The throng parted for the general and his men, staring at Rhea and Gaia as they passed.

  Abruptly, the horse pulling them drew left, slaloming between tents before pulling into a large covered area full of horse stalls, most of which housed a variety of massive Phanecian stallions. In the shade, the temperature seemed to drop by a quarter. Once all the horses were inside, a metal gate was closed.

  “Carry them,” the general ordered.

  Rhea said, “I have legs,” but her protest was ignored as two large men grabbed each of them from the cart, hauling them under an arm like they were rolled up rugs requiring delivery.

  Rhea didn’t fight it; there was no point. I am at their mercy for now. But if they give me an opening…

  Could she be that other version of herself again? The cruel, calculating killer who never lost control of her situation? Did she even want to be?

  To find Ennis and protect Gaia…

  Yes.

  They were carried through a doorway and along a narrow corridor, the stench of animals fading with each step. A quick turn to the right sent blood rushing through Rhea’s skull and she felt as if she might pass out. She bit her lip and tried to fight off the dizziness. With a rush of cooler air, they entered a much larger room with a low wood-squared ceiling. Rhea craned her neck to take in her surroundings. The space was devoid of furniture or wall-hangings. Empty save for a single mat laid in the center. On the mat sat a black-cloaked figure, facing away. His head was bald, shining orange under the light, which was provided by a series of torches set into a cast-iron chandelier hanging above him.

  Rhea’s heart skipped a beat. There was something about him…something she couldn’t quite figure because she couldn’t see his face.

  The room spun as she was placed back on her feet and shoved forward. Gaia was held back. “Go on,” the general said. “Meet our leader. It’s what you wanted, right?”

  Something felt off about this whole situation, but there was nothing she could do it about it now—not shackled and guarded by soldiers. She stepped forward. “My name is Queen Rhea Loren,” she said. “My army is not far behind. They will attack the Gates in less than a day. Unless I stop them.”

  The cloaked figure didn’t move.

  Was he deaf? Or in a trance, unaware of her presence?

  She stepped closer still, peering at the strange orange light glowing on his scalp. It looked unnatural, though she knew it must be a trick of the torchlight.

  She raised her voice. “Did you hear me? I am Queen Loren, and I’ve come to negotiate the release of my cousin, Ennis Loren. If you agree to it, I will turn my army around and leave your borders immediately.”

  The man shifted, finding his feet more quickly than she would’ve thought possible. He turned slowly, and she sucked in a breath, surprised to find a much younger face attached to the muscular body and bald head. “Queen Loren,” he said. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” He bowed slightly and Rhea’s heart pounded as she saw the truth of the orange light. It formed a perfect circle on his scalp, split into ten equal portions by arrows. Six of the segments were filled with red. Blood, she realized.

  And before he spoke again, she knew who he was, the memory of the worst night of her life returning in a flash of images. Bodies piling up. The floors slick with blood. The walls spattered with gore. Her father turning, his throat split open in a crimson smile, his head toppling from his shoulders.

  “I am Bane,” he said. “You could say I knew your father.”

  Blood rushed to Rhea’s head, the room spun, and she collapsed.

  Third Interlude

  The Crimean Sea

  THE HORDE

  The Horde was growing restless. Kklar-Ggra couldn’t blame them—he felt it too. The endless days at sea, surrounded by an ocean devoid of enemies. Thus far, the winds had been against them, their sails hanging limp or else blowing in the entirely wrong direction. If not for the certainty that the gods had died long ago, he might wonder if they were against him.

  Food and water were in short supply.

  Even the murder of crows that had foolishly followed them over th
e sea had given in to madness. They fought for scraps on the deck, pecking at each other’s eyes and throats. Though they were not natural sea hunters, several attempted to pluck fish from the dark waters. One by one, they drowned.

  The Horde was no better.

  Though Kklar-Ggra had conquered the hearts of them years earlier, he could sense the subtle changes in their minds. Like the crows, they were squabbling more, fighting over the little food that was left. Several had killed each other already, and more would die if he didn’t set the tone now. One didn’t easily defy its nature, and these creatures had been fighting within disparate tribal factions for centuries; reverting to such tendencies was natural for them.

  It had been months since he’d unleashed his power, but it was time.

  A shred of fear crossed with a twinge of anticipation as he pulled his shirt over his head to reveal a muscular torso and chest marked with dozens of scars. The longest ran from nipple to navel, and was the result of that first meeting with the Horde, where he’d almost died. He’d worn it like a badge of honor ever since.

  I was such a green fool back then, he thought, running a finger over it. I couldn’t even harness or control my own power. I should’ve died.

  But he’d survived. Learned. And as for his power?

  He let it flow forth like a black tide, watching as the pale surface of his left breast came alive, displaying three black drops, two small and one large. Blood. Not his. Never his.

  The Horde watched warily, their powerful bodies backing away. Trying to hide, their fear evident in their wide, dark eyes.

  Let them fear me. Then they shall not fear their enemies.

  He stalked forward, feeling the power running along his skin, an electricity that made him feel more alive than the day he’d left Castle Hill to seek his fate.

  He felt the shadow of darkness waft from him, a fog that clouded the minds of his enemies and his allies alike. In the throes of battle, his Horde would feed off it, using it against their foes. But now…now they shrank away from him, howling in fear.