Above the walls rose the Black Cliffs, dark, jagged teeth devouring the sky. They were known as the Razor, the last barrier before the sea, providing protection from eastern ships. To the south, the Mournful Mountains offered another natural barrier, though more and more the easterners had managed to breach the stone behemoths via tunnels and caverns, wreaking havoc on the north.
Evidently the second-to-last tourney of the season had almost been canceled due to the ongoing war, but King Gäric had decreed the contest must go forward, as it would raise the soldiers’ spirits.
Tarin was glad, which surprised him. It would be another opportunity for him to practice controlling the fire inside him, a burning sensation he was slowly growing accustomed to. He could win without killing, so long as he didn’t give in to the bloodlust, the monster lurking in the shadowy confines of his ribcage. So long as he remembered who he really was.
He stepped over the side of the cart and smiled beneath his scarf as the soldiers stopped everything to gawk at him. He was at least a head taller than all of them, and thicker too. If Annise could see me now, he thought, she wouldn’t be so quick to challenge me to a wrestle. The thought made him giddy with amusement, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time, since before he became ill.
As usual, Bart took care of all the arrangements at the inn, and all Tarin had to do was trudge up the stairs to their room, which had a high, gabled roof capable of accommodating even his height. Knowing his sponsor, it was likely the most expensive room in the lodge.
“I’m going out,” Bart said. “I’ll return with half a cow and a flagon of ale.” He was jesting—Tarin seemed to eat more every day—but no one laughed.
When he was gone, Fay settled onto one of the beds, curling her hands behind her head. “Are you nervous about tomorrow? If you win you will be knighted and also invited to Castle Hill for the Tournament of Champions.”
He was nervous, but not about his performance. “No,” he lied.
“Good. Because I should have your armor finished soon. And it’s fit for a champion, so a champion you must be.”
Tarin wished he could smile, but the truth was he felt like he was sleepwalking half the time these days. He often asked himself: What’s the purpose?
“I will win,” he said. And then he went to bed, his stomach growling like a caged, half-starved lion.
The next day dawned clear and cold, each gust of wind like a bite from some unseen creature with a single razor-sharp fang.
Tarin found the beginnings of winter exhilarating, a wonderful opponent to the fire burning inside him. It helped him ignore the stares, the whispers, the pointed fingers.
Bart had practically forced him to eat the cold meat he’d brought back the night before, as well as two loaves of bread and a dozen eggs. Tarin had choked them down, chasing the food with four large skins of water.
Bart had also seen something strange while he was gathering supplies. “I saw many of your melee opponents at the tavern last night. They were drinking and laughing and slapping each other’s backs. I’ve never seen them so friendly with each other on the eve of the tourney.”
“What does it mean?” Tarin asked.
Fay interrupted. “Nothing. They’re not focused. They’re fools. You will crush them.”
Though Fay’s confidence cheered him, Tarin felt a lance of fear slide through his gut. What if he was forced to unleash the monster he’d caged inside of him? What if they gave him no other choice? Then you shall, the voice said. He shook his head and tried not to think about it.
The tournament was a wonderful affair, and Tarin wished he was still a boy, here with Annise, cheering and clapping for their favorite knights.
The wish made him unbearably sad, and the sounds of swords clashing faded into the background, obliterated by the sound of his own thumping heart.
When it was time for the melee, he strode onto the field, dragging his Morningstar behind him, the spiked ball carving tracks in the sodden earth. Twice he checked that his scarf was secure; he still refused to let anyone see his skin, what he had become.
The melee at Darrin was different than others he’d competed in: there were no divisions for knights and commoners. All combatants took the enormous field at the same time, spreading out, some practicing their sword work, while others did nothing but stare at each other in an attempt to intimidate. There were more than three-score warriors in all, the largest melee Tarin had ever competed in, almost like a true battle.
When the lord of the castle, Lord Darrin the Eighth himself, announced the start of the skirmish, the crowd cheered so loud their presence was almost like a horde of warriors, attacking from all sides at once. Tarin sprang into action, immediately bringing his spiked ball into a slow orbit over his head. A few fighters feigned left and right, as if they might attempt to breach his weapon’s circle, but then danced away.
To Tarin’s surprise, no one came near him at all, the warriors gathering in a pod at one end of the field, not fighting…
Just gathering.
Bart’s words from earlier came back to him: I’ve never seen them so friendly with each other on the eve of the tourney.
So this was the answer to the mystery. They had formed an alliance. An alliance against him. Alliances weren’t unusual, and, given his prior success, he’d faced them before. He’d crushed them before, sometimes facing as many as half a dozen opponents at once. But never this many, never half a hundred.
I’m doomed, he thought.
Use me, the monster said. Calmly. Deliberately.
“No,” Tarin hissed.
They will kill you.
“Let them.”
Though Tarin had oft wondered about his purpose in this life, and whether he would’ve been better off without the witch’s potion, better off succumbing to the bone-eating disease, he’d never truly wanted to die. Do I now? he asked himself. Can I simply drop my weapon and let them kill me? In some ways he knew he deserved it; he’d killed people, after all, even if only by accident.
But deep in the trenches of his battered heart and soul, he knew he didn’t truly want to die.
“Let them come,” he said, rephrasing his prior sentence.
Aye! the voice roared, building the flame inside him into an inferno.
They came, charging from one end of the field to the other, where Tarin stood waiting, unmoving. To his surprise he was not scared. There wasn’t room inside him for both the monster and fear.
There were so many that they jostled for position to get to him, crowding in, canceling each other out when their own weapons got in each other’s ways.
And Tarin swung his Morningstar like it was an extension of his own arm, his own fist, connecting with helmets and breastplates and shields and blades, smashing them like ancient, brittle bones. Metal shrieked. Men groaned.
Before Tarin’s onslaught, knights and commoners alike became one foe. They were the same: human flesh to be broken, blood to be spilled.
At some point Tarin realized he was screaming—no, roaring—his voice rising over the crowd noise, silencing them.
Bodies fell on top of bodies, so many he couldn’t count. Blood streamed from dozens of wounds, some of which would almost certainly be fatal. It covered Tarin’s rusty armor, soaking through his underclothes, mixing with his sweat. Some of it was his, he knew.
But most of it was theirs, a thought that made the beast inside him cackle with glee.
When it was over, Tarin lay on his back, bleeding dark rivers from slashes to his legs, his arms, his stomach. The quills of several arrows poked from his flesh. The pain was everywhere, surrounding him in a sea of silence.
And then he stood, spinning in a drunken circle, taking in the desolation around him. Men were groaning, writhing, howling. Others weren’t moving at all, their eyes staring at nothing. For a few moments, the dark eyes of the crowd stared, shocked. Entranced by the devastation he’d wrought on the battlefield.
They hate me, he thought. But no
t as much as I hate myself. The bloodlust was gone, stripped away the moment that last foe fell, leaving only a huge empty cavern in his chest, cold and dark and…
Alone.
And then the crowd cheered louder than he’d ever heard them cheer before.
Tarin still couldn’t believe all the attention he’d received since winning the melee in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds. Every day there were lords and ladies who wanted to “meet the victor,” but he’d asked Bart to keep them all away. Twelve of his opponents had died, something he tried not to think about. Many of the others would require months, if not years, to recover from the injuries he’d inflicted. He had been in bed for a few days, on Bart’s orders, though he knew it was unnecessary. His body seemed to heal much faster than normal men.
Bart counted the gold every night, his smile growing so broad Tarin thought it might crack through his cheeks and reach his ears. Fay wasn’t around much, but now she peeked through the doorway. “You awake?”
Tarin nodded. He was glad to see her. The truth was he was tired of Bart’s company, of his constant talk of the future tourneys they would win, of the gold they would pile in their little cart. He was tired of it all.
And Tarin had already made a decision.
Darrin would be his last tournament. He would not go to Castle Hill, a place he vowed never to return to. He didn’t know what he would do next, just that he would give all his gold to Bart and part ways. He wouldn’t miss much about the man, though he thought he might miss Fay, who’d been nothing but kind to him.
“I have a surprise for you,” Fay said, stepping into the room carrying a mighty load on her back.
The armor gleamed darkly in the daylight streaming through the window over his bed. His breath left him in a rush. “How did you know?” he asked, but he already knew the answer. She’d seen his blood after that first injury, all those weeks ago. She’d seen how black it was.
The armor was as dark as night, polished to a shine, each curve and edge forged to perfection. Just looking at the exquisite workmanship, Tarin knew it would fit him perfectly.
“Let me help you try it on,” she said.
Tarin stood. “Over my clothes.”
“There is room to grow,” she said. Piece by piece, she fitted the armor to his body, covering every inch. All that was left was the helmet. “You’ll need to remove the scarf.”
“Look away,” Tarin said.
“Look, I don’t care about—”
“Please,” Tarin said, and he was aware of the desperation in his voice.
Fay nodded and turned her back. Slowly, he peeled away the sweat- and bloodstained cloth, dropping it to the floor. Like everything else, the helmet was a perfect fit, padded on the inside for comfort. It even had a net of thin, metal mesh at the front to cover all but his eyes. Fay had thought of everything.
In some ways it made him sad that he would never wear it in a tournament. In other ways he was glad a suit of armor so perfect would never see battle.
He was surprised when tears threatened to spring from his eyes. He blinked them back, not wanting her to see the blackness rolling down the face mask. “Thank you,” he said.
Fay turned and said, “It was just a job.” But she couldn’t conceal the lie from her voice.
Tarin was about to ask for a looking glass, when a heavy knock thundered through the door. “Open up in the name of the king!”
“We wanted to make sure you were human before conscripting you into the army,” the man said. He was a soldier, the commander of the army camped at Darrin. Commander Corry.
Tarin wasn’t sure how to respond, so he said nothing. Amidst her protests, the soldiers had forced Fay to leave. Now two of them—burly, weather-beaten soldiers wearing dark uniforms bearing the northern sigil—guarded the door while the commander talked to Tarin.
“We’re still not sure what you are,” the commander said, chuckling. “But we don’t really care. So long as you do to our enemies what you did to those men in the melee.”
Tarin’s first reaction was No, I’m done with all that, but then he considered it. This wouldn’t be a tournament. This would be real. This would help protect the north. This would save lives, rather than destroy them.
“What do you want from me?” he asked.
“Ride with me to Walburg. There you will be trained for several months before returning to Darrin, where you will help us defend the north from our enemies to the east.”
“And if I say no?”
“Don’t,” the commander warned, and Tarin knew he didn’t have a choice in the matter. Then again, he didn’t think he wanted one.
“Then yes,” he said. “I’ll go with you to Walburg.”
Bart had already left. He’d shaken his head at Tarin and muttered something about lost opportunities before riding away. Fay had gone with him, but she’d at least offered him a thin smile and taken one last admiring look at the armor she’d made for him.
Tarin was on one knee, his head lowered. Lord Darrin stood before him, as well as Commander Corry. The lord of the castle accepted a long sword handed to him by the soldier. “By the power and authority vested in me by the Dread King of the North, King Wolfric Gäric, I dub thee—” He paused, and Tarin looked up. Had the lord changed his mind? Would he instead chop off Tarin’s head for what he’d done during the melee? “What is your name again?” he asked instead.
“They call him Choose,” the commander said.
“Sir Choose? Sounds odd.”
“No,” Tarin said, catching the glint of the sun off his armor. “I wish to be known only as the Armored Knight.”
2: Cecilia (Thorne) Loren
The Western Kingdom- Circa 514
Although Cecilia had always been proud to be a Thorne, a house name associated with power, prestige, and unimaginable wealth, adopting on the surname of Loren had been an easy decision. The Lorens had ruled the west for many years, and becoming one of them was a magnificent honor. On her wedding day, now more than two years ago, just a few weeks after her seventeenth name day, she could see the pride in her parents’ eyes. Though Lord Grant Thorne and Lady Gertrude Thorne had never been particularly close with her, she could always tell they wanted the best for her—if only for the sake of the Thorne reputation.
And marrying Prince Gill Loren was most certainly the best thing that could ever happen to her or House Thorne. For one, the prince was exceptionally handsome, with intense sky-blue eyes that seemed to look inside her soul, wavy sun-kissed hair, and the typical broad-shouldered Loren physique. Secondly, Gill was a righteous man, well-versed in Wrath’s laws and with a full understanding of the proper path to achieve exaltation in the seventh heaven after death. Thirdly, someday Gill Loren would be king because of a unique set of circumstances:
Gill’s stern eldest brother, Ty Loren, original heir to the western throne, had died tragically and unexpectedly years earlier. And his stunning sister, Sabria Loren, had been married off to Prince Wolfric Gäric in the north as part of a political alliance that had crumbled like crushed ice less than two years after being established. Which left Gill as the heir to the throne, with Cecilia as his wife.
Queen Cecilia Thorne Loren, Cecilia wrote on a scrap of parchment on her dressing table. The parchment was already covered in a dozen imitations of the same signature. Some versions were simple and straightforward, while others were flowery and elaborate, with large looping letters ending in graceful flourishes. Truth be told, she preferred the baroque signatures, though she was certain Gill would prefer the more modest ones. Some excluded Thorne, but most did not. She planned on including her house name in her official royal signature, as it made her sound more…important. From her perspective, the more names and titles she had the better. As if being queen wouldn’t be important enough.
She dabbed the tip of her feathered quill in the inkwell once more, and signed again, crafting this effort into such an extravagant display of her signature that it made her laugh when she was f
inished. “You can’t take up half a page with your royal signature,” she scolded herself. And then she wondered, Could she? She shrugged. She’d have to decide when the time came.
It wouldn’t be long now. King Ennis Loren was seventy-three, a ripe old age for anyone in the Four Kingdoms, save perhaps the Orians in the east, who had unnaturally long lives on account of their dark ore magic. The truth was, the king had never fully recovered from losing his daughter, Sabria, to the north, four years earlier. In the two years Cecilia had known the king intimately, she’d found him to be despondent at best, miserable at worst. His mood had clearly affected his health, which had been on the decline season by season, if not day by day. Though he still hobbled to court to rule on the crimes of his people, and to settle petty arguments amongst his subjects, Cecilia could tell his heart wasn’t in it.
Queen Mira Loren, on the other hand, was as vibrant as ever, despite being only a year younger than her husband. Cecilia looked up to her as a role model, and hoped to one day be as beloved and respected a queen as her mother-in-law.
After studying the page once more, Cecilia crumpled the parchment in a tight fist and tossed it into the warm fire crackling in the hearth. It wouldn’t do for her husband to catch her daydreaming about being queen again. Fifteen years her elder, Gill already tended to treat her like a child. Well, most of the time. In the enormous bed that they shared, he seemed to forget her age entirely, especially when she disrobed and showed him just how much of a woman she was. She relished those moments, when his desire burned like a candle flame in his eyes, when all it took was a sultry blink of her alluring green eyes to capture the prince’s entire attention.
His yearning for her flesh hadn’t been dampened by her pregnancy. In fact, in many ways he seemed to want her even more as the skin around her belly stretched and her breasts grew fuller. Now, Cecilia lifted her purity dress and gazed at her round stomach, remembering the way his hands had, just the night before, desperately wanted to touch every part of her.