Deathmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4) Page 35

  Bane Gäric

  Another man went down, and Bane was beginning to grow bored. Perhaps this was part of the Phanecian culture, but he found it to be brutal and pointless. Such behavior explained a lot about why the Four Kingdoms had been at war for so long.

  He moved through the crowd, shoving bodies out of his way. One man tried to push him back, but he grabbed his arm and jerked it hard to the side, snapping his wrist. The man howled.

  Bane pressed on, drawing his dagger as he approached the front.

  Falcon had just defeated another opponent, a big man who’d fallen as easily as a felled tree, and the emperor turned back to the crowd. He gestured for his next foe to step forward.

  Bane strode forward, shoving an overeager Phanecian away.

  Falcon said, “Who are—” but Bane wasn’t in the mood for talk, lashing out with his blade and cutting off the question. He was impressed by Falcon’s ability to switch gears, ducking the killing stroke and sliding gracefully away.

  But that wouldn’t change the result.

  He stalked forward once more, faking left and slamming his fist into the emperor’s head. It sent Falcon reeling back, blinking furiously.

  Dimly, Bane was aware of the doors clanking open, a shout from the Phanecian rebel woman preceding her arrival.

  He moved faster, his deathmark burning like a lit torch on his scalp. Falcon tried to spring backwards on his hands, but Bane caught him with a kick to the chin, toppling him. This ends now, he thought, firing forward, slicing down with his knife.

  Falcon rolled. The blade slammed into the stone floor, sending shivers up his arm. Suddenly, Bane felt weak, like he’d run a long way without food or water. He focused on the pulsing of his deathmark, but he could feel that snake inside him, wriggling, trying to clamp around his heart.

  Chavos’ final gift. The plague.

  “No,” he growled, more to himself than anyone else, fighting to his feet, kicking Falcon in the face as he tried to stand, switching his dagger from one hand to the other, slashing it left to right in an arc that would open the emperor’s throat and end him the way he’d ended his father…

  Pain exploded from his side and his fingers opened, releasing his weapon, sending it clattering to the floor. Shocked and horrified, he clutched his ribcage, blood spilling between his fingers.

  Silver flashed on the edge of his vision and it was only a combination of animal instincts and the speed provided by his deathmark that saved him, allowing him to duck as the blade cut past, disturbing the air where his head had been a moment earlier.

  Sonika Vaid, however, was not to be deterred. She kicked out, catching him in the chest. She moved like a combination of air and water, graceful in a liquid sort of way. Her movements were a violent dance, and Bane could feel his weakness slowing his response.

  This had all gone wrong, and he had no choice left but to retreat.

  But first, a threat: “I command the four cities now,” he said. “I will bring them down upon your heads like hammer on anvil. None shall survive.”

  That said, he commanded his deathmark, strangely looking forward to being back in Hemptown with his soldiers, men who believed he was someone worth fighting for.

  Nothing happened. What the…

  Sonika seemed to sense his confusion, lashing out with another kick, which he managed to slip away from, barely. Her blade sung again, slashing across his shoulder, cutting deep. His side ached, blood flowing freely. His chest felt like it had been crushed by a hammer. And now his shoulder stung.

  He stumbled backwards, trying to put distance between himself and the woman who’d turned him from predator into prey.

  A human wall blocked his retreat, shoving him forward.

  This is it, he thought. The balance between his mark of power and the plague had finally tipped away from him and he was plummeting into darkness.

  How can this be the end? How can everything I’ve done, everything I’ve gone through, be for naught? And what of the Western Oracle’s prophecy? I am supposed to change the world!

  Sonika thrust her blade forward like a spear, and it was all he could do to sidestep it. He had not thought of a counterattack, pushing all of his strength into his deathmark, which flared in response.

  Nothing happened.

  Still, nothing happened.

  I’m too weak. I’m too—

  He roared, beating his own chest, not caring that it was bruised and battered, allowing the pain itself to give him energy, to allow him to break

  free.

  The world spun and vanished.

  Falcon

  How am I not dead? Falcon thought. Everything was foggy. He knew he’d managed to dodge one killing blow, but the second was inevitable…until it wasn’t.

  Her. He stared at Sonika, who finally looked away from the spot where Bane had vanished. Her eyes met his. He opened his mouth to say something, thought he wasn’t sure what exactly, but she shook her head.

  The Phanecian advisor, Poy, stepped forward. “That was Bane,” he said.

  Falcon said, “Yes.”

  “He killed your father.”

  There was no point denying it. He nodded.

  “He tried to kill you. The last Hoza.” He said the last word with a reverence that had been absent from his tone before.

  “He failed,” Falcon said.

  “Because of me, you fools,” Sonika said. “While you were measuring your own manhoods, I was doing something productive. It will take women to fix this empire.”

  Poy was not to be deterred. “That was phen sur?” he asked.

  “Yes. A modified version.”

  “You can teach it to our women?”

  Her brows knitted together. “They already know it. They simply must change their way of thinking. Why are you asking me this?”

  Poy said, “I will convince the others to fight. This is our empire; we won’t allow an outsider to conquer us with our own soldiers.”

  Falcon forced strength into his legs, moving to Sonika’s side. She eyed him with interest. He wiped blood from his face. “And what of the Terans? The Dreadnoughters? Those who have been enslaved for years? What will you do with them when the day is won?”

  Poy sucked his teeth, closed his eyes. Grimaced slightly. “If they stay in Phanes, perhaps we can change. I make no promises, as each man and woman must decide for themselves, but I can promise that we will try. I will try.”

  It was good enough for Falcon. “Good. Now we must prepare for war. We will need every able-bodied person over the age of sixteen.”

  His eye met Sonika’s, and she nodded.

  Sixty

  The Southern Empire, Hemptown

  Bane Gäric

  Bane wished she was here, the one who had made him, had given him his mark of power. Not his mother, Sabria Loren, who he’d never known, but another mysterious woman: the Western Oracle.

  He hadn’t bothered to open his eyes since he returned to Hemptown. He was exhausted, but sleep wouldn’t take him.

  He felt lost and alone.

  I am alone. I am lost.

  But he was also alive, though his wounds were painful. His deathmark had saved him, and even now it was feeding off the last of his reserves to heal his injuries, stopping the flow of blood, knitting his flesh back together. Not that it mattered.

  It’s over, he reasoned, feeling himself falling, once more, into despair.

  “I should kill you,” a voice said, startling him. Rhea stared at him, her eyes hidden beneath a shroud of long dark lashes. Her scar was a series of glistening slashes against her smooth cheeks.

  Bane wondered why his mark had brought him to this particular spot. In the cell of his prisoner. He shook his head, not really caring about the answer to that question either.

  “Then kill me,” Bane said. “Get your revenge.”

  “They will kill me. Your soldiers,” she said.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Do you deserve less?”

  Her answer came withou
t hesitation. “No. But my child does.” She gestured to the bulge of her stomach beneath her clothes.

  “Your child is better off never being born.”

  Rhea crawled closer. He could let her wrap her hands around his neck, let her squeeze…

  “What happened to you?” She gestured to the wound in his side, still slick with blood, though the skin and muscle were healed.

  He laughed. “I lost. Again. I feel that is all I do. I’ve failed the Four Kingdoms for the last time.”

  She seemed to chew on that. “You”—she took a deep breath—“killed my father. Why?”

  “He refused to consider peace.”

  “He was a good man,” she growled. “He didn’t deserve to be murdered. You killed dozens of guards too.”

  Bane couldn’t deny it. Half the time he didn’t know why he did the things he did, only that the compulsion to kill was a thorn in his chest, pricking, always pricking. “I’m sorry. It is I who should’ve never been born.”

  Rhea cocked her head to the side. “You believe that?”

  He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers.

  “Then there is hope for you,” she said. Finally, she turned away from him, staring between the bars. “Guard!”

  For some odd reason, Bane felt lighter after talking to Rhea, after the honesty they shared. Maybe this wasn’t over yet. He grew weaker by the day, but that only meant he needed to act sooner. A swift resolution was the only hope for peace.

  He stood, striding toward the door as the guard appeared, unlocking it for him.

  He would sleep for many hours, and then he would march to war.

  Sixty-One

  The Southern Empire, Phanea

  Falcon Hoza

  “Why?” Falcon asked.

  The Phanecians were organizing themselves into battalions. Those officers who had survived the rebellion took charge quickly. Poy made certain each person—both men and women—who wanted to fight promised not to harm any of the freed slaves. The first priority was the force gathered against them; after that, the social structure of New Phanea could be discussed.

  Sonika looked at him differently than she had before. Her expression was still hard—he figured it had been that way for a long time—but thoughtful too. “You were willing to risk your life for our cause,” she said simply. “That’s good enough for me.”

  Falcon allowed himself a smile, though his lips still tasted metallic. “I love this empire.” When Sonika frowned, he rushed on. “Not what we’ve done, the decisions we’ve made, the people we’ve hurt. But the land itself. The spirit that is still here. My father cast a darkness over us, but that doesn’t mean the sun won’t rise again.”

  “You should get cleaned up.” She gestured to his eye. “Get your injuries tended to by a healer.”

  “No,” Falcon said. “There’s something else I have to do first.”

  Falcon had been informed that Jai’s army had already departed for the Bloody Canyons. Good, he thought. It is better this way.

  After asking Sonika and her Black Tears to stay behind to ensure the Phanecians followed through on their promise to prepare for battle, he marched out into the streets of the city. He was not surprised to find thousands of Terans nestled between the canyons, many of them hauling supplies on their shoulders, pushing heavily laden wagons and carts. They could’ve easily stolen horses to pull them, he thought. They didn’t. That recognition gave him a swell of hope, even as he listened to the shouts above the din.

  One shouter was a thick-necked man of perhaps fifty years old. “Let no Teran remain in this Absence-forsaken land,” he said. “Return to the land of our mothers, our fathers. Return to where our god died of sadness. That is all that is left for us. We have nothing here. Nothing.”

  The other shouter responded, though her words came out more desperate, as if she knew they were falling on deaf ears. It was Marella, the woman who’d been a slave in Garadia Mine under Jai Jiroux’s rule. “We have a chance to build something new,” she said. “This is our home now. Our children were born here. Our brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, have died here. We have fought for our freedom. Now is our chance to make Phanes our empire.”

  She was largely ignored, though a small crowd had gathered where she stood atop an overturned crate.

  Several of the Terans had noticed Falcon now, and he could sense the anger in their stares. He represented the institution that had oppressed them. The urge to turn and flee back inside the palace was strong. He could return to his quarters, unfurl his bedroll on the floor, open a good book…

  No. That was the old him, hiding between stories of better men, true champions of lore and legend. He had to be more than that scared boy. More than his father, his brothers, had expected of him. More than a pretender.

  More than these people expect of me.

  His body ached and his eye throbbed as he stepped forward, clearing his throat.

  “Don’t leave,” he said. It came out far too soft, and only a few heads turned in his direction. He tried again. “Don’t leave!”

  More heads turned, and then the murmurs began, rippling through the throng like the aftermath of a stone dropped in a still pool. Slowly, the rush of activity ground to a halt, as the attention focused on him, a Phanecian, a Hoza, just standing there.

  “You are no longer our master,” the man on the box said with disgust.

  “I never was,” Falcon said. “No man or woman shall have a master in these lands. Not ever again.”

  “Powerful words, but how can we believe them?”

  “Because they’re true,” Marella said, her voice full of more confidence now. “Everything has changed.”

  “Not the Phanecians,” the man said. “They cannot live without their slaves.”

  “My face says otherwise,” Falcon said.

  “Your own people did that to you?” the man scoffed.

  “Yes. And I did worse to them. I killed many before they agreed to fight for you.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “For us? They would not fight for slaves.”

  “They fight for Phanes. So long as you are in it, they will fight for you.”

  “We are leaving,” the man said. He eyed Marella. “Most of us, anyway.”

  “What will make you stay?” Falcon asked. He could see how some of the Terans were whispering behind their hands and pointing at his bruised and bloodied face.

  The man seemed surprised to be asked. No one asked him. No one asked any of them. Well I’m asking now. “It will take more than empty promises. Proof. We need proof that your people can change. Even then, it might not be enough.”

  But it was enough, Falcon knew. If this man, even for a second, was willing to consider staying, there was hope. “You shall have your proof.”

  Sixty-Two

  The Southern Empire, the Burning Sea

  Grey Arris

  “Is he…” Kyla’s question fell off a cliff.

  She’s alive, Grey thought for the millionth time. The thought applied to both Shae and Kyla. But perhaps not to Erric and Captain Smithers, both of whom were in battles for their lives. Erric’s severed leg had been seared with fire to stop the bleeding, but he hadn’t awoken, his chest rising and falling as steadily as the waves. Captain Smithers, on the other hand, was awake, staring at them with wide eyes, salt staining his thick beard.

  The man released a scream as one of Erric’s sailors, who had experience with healing, tended to him. A splintered shard of wood the length of Grey’s arm protruded from the captain’s abdomen.

  Kyla gripped Grey’s hand harder. “Is he…” she tried to ask again, unable to finish the question.

  Grey couldn’t lie to her, not after all she’d been through already. “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head.

  “But there’s a chance, right?” If Grey told the truth—that he didn’t think so—he knew it would only make things worse, so he said nothing.

  The healer packed more thick cloths around the wound, t
rying to soak up the blood leaking from the sides as he prepared to remove the wooden shard. He turned to Grey. “Get her out of here. I need your help.”

  Kyla said, “Grey, no. I’m staying.” Her brilliant brown eyes were as wide as the full moons before they kissed. They were drowning.

  “Kyla, you can’t be here. Not now. Please. Help Shae. I will come find you as soon as your father is resting.”

  “No.” She blinked back the tears.

  A gruff voice, strained but still full of a surprising amount of strength, spoke from behind Grey. “Yes, my daughter,” Captain Smithers said. “Listen to Grey. Sometimes the lad is right.” A thin smile curled his lips, which were too pale. His usually dark skin was pale now too.

  Like a ghost, Grey thought, a chill running through him. The man Grey knew was hale and hearty, not this broken fledgling.

  Kyla opened her lips to speak, closed them. Nodded. Said, “Fight, Father. You must fight.”

  “I always have,” he said. “I always will.” There were tears in his eyes now too.

  Kyla rushed forward and held both his hands as she bit her bottom lip.

  “I am so—” he started to say.

  “Don’t say it,” Kyla said, interrupting. “Don’t you dare say it.”

  “I love you. And I’m sorry for being a fool for so long.”

  “I love you too.” She rushed from the room, gone so fast it felt to Grey like she’d left an unfillable void in her wake.

  Grey turned back to the captain, a man he’d once despised but now respected as much as anyone he knew. “You’re not going to die, old man. You’re immortal.”

  That drew a laugh, one that devolved into a phlegmy cough. Something wet sprayed, splashing against Grey’s hand. When he looked his skin was splattered with blood. His heart sank.

  “I wanted to tell her I’m so proud of her,” Smithers said after he’d finished coughing up blood. He wiped the back of his arm across his lips, drawing a crimson smear along his skin.