Truthmarked
Book Two of the Fatemarked Epic
David Estes
Copyright 2017 David Estes
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For anyone who believes in magic.
Map of the Four Kingdoms- Circa 532
The story so far…
PART I
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
PART II
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
PART III
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
PART IV
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
PART V
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
The Fatemarked
Royal Genealogy of the Four Kingdoms (three generations)
Acknowledgments
A sample of SOULMARKED, Book 3 in the Fatemarked Epic by David Estes
Map of the Four Kingdoms- Circa 532
To view a downloadable map online: http://davidestesbooks.blogspot.com/p/fatemarked-map-of-four-kingdoms.html
The story so far…
The Hundred Years War has stretched over a century, ravaging the nations of the Four Kingdoms. Before the war began, a prophecy was made by a woman now known as the Western Oracle. The prophecy, which promised the coming of the fatemarked, who would bring peace to the lands, has been forgotten by many, while others believe it to be naught but a legend. Still, the truth of the ancient words has begun to come to pass, as there are those being born with strange markings that grant the bearers unusual powers. In some lands, the marked are revered; in others, hated, even put to death.
One of the fatemarked, the Kings’ Bane, has his own prophecy: to bring death to eight rulers across the Four Kingdoms, which will usher in a time of peace. His work has already begun—three rulers have been killed in swift succession: King Wolfric Gäric, known as the Dread King of the North, King Gill Loren of the West, and King Oren Ironclad, the Juggernaut of the East, have all fallen. But Bane’s task is far from finished, and now he plans to turn his attention to the south…
Little is known of what has been transpiring in the southern empires of Calyp and Phanes, except that the two nations have been embroiled in a civil war caused by the marriage dissolution of the two main sovereigns, Empress Sun Sandes and Emperor Vin Hoza….
In the kingdoms, however, time has marched ever onwards…
To the west:
With the death of King Gill Loren at the hand of the Kings’ Bane, his eldest nephew, Jove Loren, attempts to usurp the throne from the true heir, Princess Rhea Loren. To accomplish this, Rhea is charged by the furia with breaking her vow of purity with a common thief known as Grease Jolly, an alias for his true name—Grey Arris. As punishment, a “W” for whore is carved on her face, leaving permanent scars. In her mind, her greatest attribute, her beauty, has been stripped from her, leaving her with nothing left but revenge.
When her horror and sadness turn to white-hot anger, she murders her cousin Jove and reclaims her crown, vowing next to win the war and defeat her enemies on all sides…
Meanwhile, Grey Arris’s sister, Shae Arris, who is fatemarked, is abducted by the furia and taken south to a chain of islands called the Dead Isles, which are rumored to be haunted. Grey, charged with thievery, has his hand cut off as punishment, but manages to escape Knight’s End with some help from Rhea. Grey follows the furia, eventually hiring onto a ship, The Jewel, which is headed south. His goal: find his sister and rescue her…
To the north:
After Bane murders the Dread King, the crown shifts to Archer Gäric. However, before he can claim it, his uncle, Lord Griswold, swoops in, accusing he and his mother, Sabria Loren, of conspiring to kill the king. The eldest of the king’s heirs, Annise, feels powerless as she watches the execution of her mother. When Archer is brought to be executed, however, the executioner suddenly makes himself known as a famous warrior known as the Armored Knight. They escape through the sewers along with another knight, Sir Dietrich.
While they travel to the southern part of the realm, Annise realizes she has turned eighteen and now has the primary claim on the throne. She refuses to tell her brother, though she confides in the Armored Knight, who turns out to be her long-lost friend from childhood, Tarin Sheary, believed to be dead, but now cursed by the witch’s potion that saved his life. They also meet up with their eccentric aunt, Lady Zelda, who reveals that the Kings’ Bane is actually their younger brother, who was smuggled from the north immediately after birth.
When the easterners attack Raider’s Pass, Archer is knocked unconscious by the Kings’ Bane, his own brother, who turns up to try to kill Annise, who is now the lawful queen of the north. However, Sir Dietrich manages to fight Bane off, showcasing his uncanny skills with the blade. Bane, exhausted from the ordeal, vanishes. Annise and the others seize victory from the east, killing King Ironclad and others.
Now, with Annise having declared herself the true queen and with Archer comatose, the Gärics and their allies are marching north toward Castle Hill to reclaim the throne from the usurper, Lord Griswold…
To the east:
When a young man named Roan, who grew up in Calypso, contracts the plague from a mysterious beggar on the street, he’s sent to quarantine on an island called Dragon’s Breath. There he reveals his own fatemark, called the lifemark, which allows him to heal himself and escape the island, which is guarded by two-headed dragons. Fateful currents pull him to the east, where a chance meeting makes him the prisoner of Prince Gareth Ironclad, who immediately brings him to Ironwood and the eastern capital of Ferria, the Iron City, where humans live in harmony with the Orians, a mystical people who can channel the ore that lies beneath the forest.
With the help of one of the Orians, a fatemarked named Gwendolyn Storm, King Ironclad swiftly learns of Roan’s marking, and forces him into helping their armies as they march on Raider’s Pass to enact revenge on the north for the killing of the queen. Roan reluctantly agrees, and soon learns that the east has another of the fatemarked, a mighty warrior named Beorn Stonesledge, the ironmarked. Roan also discovers that, as the first-born son, Gareth is “the Shield,” which means his life is forfeit, to be given to protect the second-born son, Guy, the true heir to the eas
tern throne.
Along the way, Roan begins to grow close to both Gwen and Gareth…
At Raider’s Pass, the north defeats them, killing King Ironclad, Prince Guy Ironclad, and injuring Beorn Stonesledge. Gareth Ironclad is nearly killed by the Kings’ Bane as he tries to protect Guy, but Roan saves him by using his lifemark.
In the aftermath of defeat, Gwendolyn Storm realizes who Roan really is: Roan Loren, prince of the west and true heir to the Western Kingdom. She helps him escape and together they slip away, crossing the border between nations and into the Tangle, the largest western forest, known to be almost impassable…
And now, the story continues…
PART I
Bane The Beggar Jai
Rhea Annise Raven
Roan Grey
The warmongers shall resist the flow of destiny, until they are shattered upon sword and shield, sorcery and magic.
Truth, in the end, shall reign.
The Western Oracle
One
The Northern Kingdom, Silent Mountain
Bane Gäric
He was leaving the only home he’d ever known, the little cave high on the western flank of Silent Mountain.
Bear Blackboots was long gone, and soon Bane would be too. He didn’t blame the man he’d always known as “Father” for leaving. There was so much blood on both their hands that sometimes Bane felt as if he was drowning in it, a lake of crimson forcing its way down his throat.
He saw the lake in his dreams, too, only it was burning, the waters literally on fire. How it was possible for liquid to burn, he didn’t know. When he dreamed about the lake of fire, he could never divert his eyes from the flames, which licked at the bloody lake, an inferno of death and pain and—
Their cries.
He could hear them, too, his victims screaming. Are they innocent? he wondered to himself. Does it matter?
And in his dream, he would always be drawn to the lake, to the fire, to the cries. He would stumble down the rocky embankment, pulled forward by an irresistible force. He would pause on the precipice of the shimmering waters for a long, naked moment, the heat of the flames washing over him like a summer wind, and then he would fall.
He always awoke before he hit the water. Before the fire could touch him, burn him. Before those he’d murdered could judge him for his sins.
Why, he did not know, but he always felt invigorated afterwards. Ready for what was to come next.
All he knew was that three rulers were dead: His uncle, King Gill Loren of the western kingdom; King Oren Ironclad, the Juggernaut of the east; and King Wolfric Gäric of the northern kingdom.
His father.
What kind of a person kills their own father? he wondered.
He shook his head and cast away the pointless question. What he was didn’t matter. All that mattered was the Western Oracle’s prophecy, the one he was meant to fulfill. His only purpose.
Eight rulers shall die in the name of peace…
Eight bloody rulers, sent to the lake of fire. Three were dead. Five would follow.
Lost in his thoughts, his hand absently touched the flesh of his unnaturally bald scalp, a place where hair had never grown. He could feel the heat of his fatemark pulsating, hotter in the three sections that had already been filled in with blood.
He bit his lip and then dropped his hand. He shouldered his pack, which he’d stuffed with provisions—melted snow, smoked meat, extra clothing, a knife—though he wasn’t certain he needed such earthly things anymore.
Bane was going south, and Death would quench his thirst, and feed him, and clothe him. The knife, yes, he would need the knife.
Something drew him, a dark energy like his own, which was closing in on one of his prey…
No.
Not something. Someone.
I don’t have to be alone anymore, he thought, and then vanished.
Two
The Southern Empire, Calyp
The Beggar
He was the Plague. The Plague was him. Even now, as he stood watching the empress’s cavalcade, he could feel the disease flowing through his blood, humming along his skin, billowing from his mouth with each exhalation.
He had killed before. Oh, Mother… Many times. Oh, Father… Countless souls, devoured by what was in him, the evil that trembled along his pale flesh.
The procession thundered past, a long line of horses and the guanik, the reptilian creatures with clawed feet and mouths full of fangs, their pink tongues hissing between their black lips. Their riders, the royal guard, or guanero, wore dark leather armor bearing the dragon-rising sigil of the kingdom of Calyp. In the midst of their protectors rode Empress Sun Sandes and her trio of daughters, in order of birth: Raven, Fire, and Whisper. The guanik they rode were the largest of the group, towering above the others, giving the crowd a clear view of their leaders.
And their leaders a clear view of the crowd.
Empress Sun was like a ray of light, her hair long and blond, an impressive contrast to her night-dark skin. The juxtaposition was such that her figure appeared to be cut from alternating daggers of sunshine and shadow.
I am ready, the Beggar thought.
He melted into the crowd, almost vaporous in his movements, like a curling billow of smoke. The Southrons called him many things, out of fear—Death’s Bastard, Demon Child, and other worse titles—but the name he liked the best was the Beggar.
That wasn’t always your name.
He pushed away the thought, because it was an echo from the past, no longer relevant to today. No, that boy was long gone, fading like mist at first light.
I am the Beggar.
For that’s what he was. He wasn’t a beggar in the classic sense—he had no interest in food or water—but a beggar of forgiveness. Because of his tattooya, the mark on his neck—three partial circles, joined in the middle, broken at the edges—most could not really see him. Well, they could see him, but not the real him. To any he happened to meet, they would have little memory of him later, and could only describe him as a smudge of shadow wearing a gray hood.
There was one exception to this rule: those who also bore a tattooya. He knew this because once he’d been spotted by one of the empress’s daughters, Fire Sandes, the girl who bore the firemark. Her eyes had zoned in on him like a hawk hunting a field mouse, but he’d managed to slip away into the crowd before she could determine whether he’d been real or just a trick of the hot southern sun.
There had been one other, a young man who’d been knocked over by a royal procession, not unlike the one he was watching now, who the Beggar had helped to his feet. A young man who he’d killed by accident, touching him with his plague-infected skin through a tear in his glove. A man who surely must’ve been marked, because he could see him clearly. Roan, the man had called himself.
That man was likely sent to Plague Island, like the rest of the Beggar’s victims. Sent to die, quarantined from the rest of Calyp. There were whisperings that the island had been destroyed by dragons. But those were only rumors, of course.
The Beggar wondered what power Roan’s tattooya had given him. He also wondered if the poor man had died slowly and painfully, or if he’d found a way to end things quicker.
He was snapped out of his morbid revelry when, suddenly, one of the riders cried out. Horses were commanded to halt, and the guanik, as if by some instinct, skidded to a stop.
I am ready.
The Beggar stepped forward, separating himself from the crowd, which was backing away from the fearsome lizards, which snapped their jaws and clawed in the dirt.
Amidst her protectors, a young woman slid lithely from her guanik’s scaly shoulders. Her hair was so dark it was almost blue, plaited down her back where it dangled, snakelike, to her waist.
The Beggar knew her on sight. She was Raven Sandes, eldest daughter of the empress and First Daughter to the Calypsian empire. An eight-barbed whip dangled from one hand, and she wore a black, sleeveless leather tunic that would’ve
made even the most liberal of westerners gasp on sight, as well as a short skirt that left little to the imagination. Her exposed skin was brown, not quite as dark as her mother’s, smooth, and seemed to go on forever.
Was she the one who had called out? the Beggar wondered.
“Sister, why did you stop us?” Raven asked, looking over her shoulder.
“I could ask the same thing, Fire,” the empress said, though she remained mounted.
Fire Sandes, the Second Daughter, leapt from her scaly steed, flanking her eldest sister. Fire, like both her sisters, was named in the usual Calypsian manner, her physical attributes linked to the natural world. In the princess’s case, her tattooya was a firemark, it was said; thus, her namesake. Her skin was a shade darker than Raven’s. Her short hair was like a candle flame atop her scalp, lighting a serious expression. She was scanning the crowd intently. Looking for something.
No, the Beggar realized. Not something. Someone. Me. She’s looking for me. That’s why she stopped the procession. She caught a glimpse of me.
And, unlike the last time she’d spotted him, he held his ground, even going so far as to take a step forward, then another.
What am I doing? he wondered to himself. It hit him like a sandstone block to the head.
I want to be caught. I want to be captured. I want to be killed.
I am ready.
He was all alone now, a gray island in an ocean of dust.
The Third Daughter swept beside her siblings. “Can we go? Please,” Whisper Sandes said, her voice like wind moving over a desert dune. Four years Raven’s junior, Whisper was small and thin, and wore a white flowing dress that nearly reached the ground, rivaling the length of her chestnut hair, which was so long it could be braided and used as rope. Of the three sisters, her skin was the lightest.