Harbinger: Fate's Forsaken: Book One (12 page)

He’d used too
much of his power to break whatever Amos did to him, and now he had a
whisperer’s headache. His body would go limp and at any moment, sleep would
take him. He’d lay in the snow, paralyzed and unconscious, until the cold
devoured him or the wolves tore him to shreds.

This was the
end, he was certain of it.

*******

The ground beneath Titus’s feet was still hot. Little bits of grass
glowed red all around him in a bald patch of earth that stood out like a hole
in a sea of snow. A twisted lump of metal lay in the middle of it. He kicked it
over.

Swords.

“She was here,” he said to the crowd of soldiers around him. He pointed
to the nearest cluster of men. “Scour the woods. Look for any sign of where she
might have gone. Move!”

They hurried to obey.

He’d been close, then. So close to catching her. He stalked over to where
his guards held the surviving villagers. At the front of the herd, an old man
knelt in the snow. They’d found him lying just a few yards from the carnage,
clinging to his wounded arm. His face was pale from blood loss and his eyes
were glazed in pain.

Titus knew he would be dead in a few hours. “What is your name, subject?”

“Roland,” he muttered, his lips swollen through the blood.

“Tell me, Roland — which way did she go?”

His eyes sharpened, then hardened. “I don’t know who you’re talking
about.”

Titus fought the urge to knock the beard off Roland’s chin. “Tell me
where she went, and I promise you’ll be rewarded. She’s dangerous, subject. She
threatens the Kingdom’s peace.”

“What peace?” Roland spat. He jerked his head in the direction of the
smoldering village. “If this is the Kingdom’s peace … then I’m glad someone’s
fighting it.”

“We found a couple more, Your Earlship!” someone shouted, just in time to
save Roland’s life. “Caught them hiding up in the trees.”

Soldiers dragged two men on a lead behind them. They were young, hardly
old enough to be men at all. The one with hair on his chin whimpered and
clutched a bloody hand. The other one had a long braid — and a lump the
size of an egg on his forehead.

In two strides, Titus drew even with them. He smacked the bearded man’s
face with the back of his hand. “Where is she, maggot? Where’s the Dragongirl?”
He opened his mouth, and Titus hit him again. “I’ll make you bleed, maggot!
I’ll dress the trees with your innards, beat you to death with your own severed
arm. I’ll —”

“No, don’t! I’ll tell you anything,” the bearded man gasped, falling on
his knees.

Titus wrenched the man’s head back by his beard and forced him to look
into his eyes. “Tell me where the Dragongirl is.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name, I swear it!”

Titus could tell by the panic in his sputter that he was telling the
truth. He shoved the bearded man down and pointed at the one with the braid.
“You. Have you seen her?”

He shook his head.

Titus fought to hide his frustration. He knew it’d been a small chance:
these people, stuck high on this miserable pile of rocks, wouldn’t have heard
of her. They wouldn’t have even known to look for her. It was most unfortunate.

“You’ve deeply disappointed me, both of you,” he said. “There’s nothing I
hate more than feeling disappointed. I should kill you for it.”

The bearded man whimpered from his place in the snow while the one with
the braid took a defensive step backwards. But Titus had no intention of
killing them. He’d lost a good number of men to the perils of the mountains and
could use an able-bodied tracker — someone who knew the trails well
enough to keep his march alive.

So at his signal, the soldiers forced the two men to kneel. With another
wave of his hand, they threw Roland into the snow between them. He gave the
cowards a sword each.

“Kill or be killed, gentlemen. That is how I run my army — it’s the
price of entry. Slay your kinsman and I’ll make you a soldier of the Earl. Or
you can be brave … and try not to scream when we split you open and leave you
for the crows. I believe in choices.” Titus raised his hand. “You may begin.”

The one with the braid leapt up.

“You don’t have to do this, Laemoth,” Roland said as he advanced. “I know
it’s hard, but be brave. Trust it’ll work out.”

The one called Laemoth sneered through his bruises. “Keep your trust, old
man. I make my own fate.” He turned to the bearded one. “On your feet, Marc.
We’ve got a chance to live and I’m going to take it.”

Marc needed a little encouragement. The soldiers beat him with the flats
of their blades until he stood.

“Put it on his chest,” Laemoth said, sticking his sword to Roland’s back.
“We’ll gut him at the same time.”

Marc stood like a man caught in a bog, as if any sudden move would sink
him faster. Time dragged on and Titus grew impatient. “If neither of you are
going to accept my offer, then I suppose there’s no point in waiting. Archers!”

Having a dozen arrows trained on his chest seemed to help Marc reach a
decision. He held his sword to Roland’s other side and watched with wide eyes
as Laemoth began the count.

“One —”

“I’ve got to, Roland. I’m sorry, but they’ll kill me if I don’t. I’ve got
no other choice.” Marc’s voice was pleading.

“— two —”

Roland held his chin up. “You’ve always got another choice. It may not be
what’s easiest, but it’s always there.”

Marc took a step back. The hand that held the sword trembled.

“— three!”

With a cry, both men lunged forward. Their swords went straight through
Roland and out his tattered jerkin. Laemoth ripped his blade free, but Marc’s
slipped through his fingers as Roland fell.

He died without a struggle: just a soft breath, and then his body lay
still.

Marc fell to his knees. “I’m so sorry,” he choked.

“Never apologize for surviving, boy. It makes you look like a whelp,”
Titus said, and reiterated his point with a kick to Marc’s rump that sent him
sprawling face-first into the snow. “Do we have tunics for these men?”

The soldier responsible for the armory gave him a smirk. “Sorry, Your
Earlship — we’ve only got one.”

“Oh, what a pity. It seems that I won’t be able to take the two of you
on, after all.”

Laemoth snarled. “There’s one, isn’t there?”

Titus pretended to think about it. “Yes, but two men can’t share one
tunic. That’s the problem.”

Laemoth figured it out first.

He charged at Marc, sword raised, and the poor fellow barely had time to
dodge before the blade cut the air above his head. Laemoth swung again and in
his scramble to get away, Marc tripped over a snow-covered log. He fell hard on
his elbow. Laemoth was on him in a second.

Marc rolled to the side and the sword got lodged in the skin of the log.
Laemoth tore it free with a roar, stumbling backwards as the blade came loose.
He was off balance for half a second, nothing more. But when Marc lashed out
and caught Laemoth’s knee with the side of his boot, it was enough to send him
to the ground.

He fell hard. A mixture of pain and shock creased his face as the sword
tore through the front of his shirt and out his back.

Titus never grew tired of the fights. When the King sent him to raise the
Five’s armies, he’d set friend on friend, kin against kin — it was the
only way to ensure absolute loyalty to the crown. He promised the victor life,
and the loser death. It was amazing how much blood a man was willing to shed to
save his own.

But survival came at a price.

When the fight was over, the victor would stare down at the broken body
of his opponent and lose a part of himself. He would lose his fear, his
compassion. Every weakness of his soul would be driven out: purged by the work
of his own bloodstained hands. And when it came time to fight, he would fight.
He would kill without remorse and bathe in the gore of battle. There wouldn’t
be enough ale in the Kingdom to drown his nightmares, but he would have nowhere
else to turn. His people would scorn him as a bloodtraitor.

Battle would be his only relief.

As Laemoth died, Titus kept his eyes on Marc. Those anguished lines
around his mouth would eventually harden and freeze in a mask of hate. The many
long nights that lay ahead would drive out his mercy. Titus knew he was
witnessing the birth of a warrior — and it was a glorious thing.

“Never run with your sword facing up,” he said, throwing the spare tunic
at Marc’s feet. “Or you might end up like this poor fool.” He kicked Laemoth’s
body aside, hauled Marc up by the hood of his coat and shoved him away.
“Congratulations, maggot — you’ve earned your place in the Earl’s army.”

While his soldiers made camp, Titus walked among the surviving villagers,
asking for their skills. Those with valuable talents he added to his forces …
the rest he disposed of.

Most of the villagers fled when his army attacked, melting into the cover
of the woods like the mountain rats they were. The only ones left were those
too old to run — or too stupid to hide. He was about to give the order to
kill them all and be done with it when an old crow caught his attention.

He had tangled gray hair and sharp brown eyes. Maybe it was the stiff set
of his jaw or his practiced, concentrated stare. But for whatever reason, Titus
liked the look of him. He ordered the man on his feet. “And what’s your name?”

“Amos,” he said.

There was no fear in his voice. Titus could hardly keep the smirk off his
face. “Any skills?”

“I’m a healer.”

His instincts were right: at long last, Fate smiled upon Titus. He’d lost
his healer to a rockslide several miles back, and knew he would lose a good
portion of his men to their wounds without one. But he kept his face stern. “A
healer, eh? Well I suggest you get to work, healer. Prove to me that you’re
worth your meals and I’ll let you live.”

With a slight bow, Amos left to tend the wounded.

Titus cut his thumb across his chest, signaling his men to begin the
slaughter. Screams pierced the air of the snow-silenced night, and he had to
raise his voice to be heard over the strangled cries for mercy:

“Rest well, my wolves. For with the dawn comes glory and fresh blood!”

“Amos! Amos!”

Fire burst through the cracks in
the wall, raced across the floor and swallowed their beds. A corner of the roof
caved in, a wave of heat and embers flew out from the rubble and burned Kael’s
cheeks.

He was standing in the doorway, reaching in
as far as he dared. He stretched his hands till his fingers hurt. He could see
Amos standing by the hearth.

“Amos!” he said again
.
“Take my hand!”

But he didn’t move. Sparks showered down as
the ceiling buckled in the heat. He shouted as loud as he could, he begged Amos
to move. The ground shook and the roof sank further. The red-hot end of one
plank nearly brushed the top of Amos’s head.

Though his throat burned, he shouted with
all of his might … but Amos simply couldn’t hear him. Then the roof collapsed
in a wave of blistering heat and ash — and Kael went flying backwards.

*******

He jerked out of
his sleep and the back of his head smacked against the floor. When he opened
his eyes, Kael saw he was surrounded by rock: it made up the walls, the
ceiling, even the floor he slept on. Gray, uncut stone stained with the black
lines from a fire.

Fire. He smelled
smoke.

The cold panic
left over from his dream welled up and he jumped to his feet. His skull
connected with the low ceiling and the pain sent him promptly back to his
knees.

“Oh good, you’re
awake.”

He blinked
several times before the blurry shape ahead of him turned into Kyleigh. She was
sitting cross-legged in front of a large hole in the wall. Behind her, he thought
he could see snow and white clouds. He realized they must be in some sort of
cave.

“I’ve got your
breakfast ready, and I’ve cooked it just the way you like it,” she said,
nodding to the small fire beside her.

Dangling from a
spit in the middle of the flames was what might once have been a leg of meat.
But now it was so charred beyond recovery that he doubted if even the flies
would eat it.

“I’m not
hungry,” he said, and it was the truth. From the moment he woke he’d been
grasping at his foggy memories of the night before, piecing them together. Much
of it had been lost in the darkness of sleep, and the rest …

He grasped at
pictures as they swam by, but couldn’t get a hold of them. It was as if he
stared through a filthy window into his memory: he could see the shapes moving
outside, had some wisp of their meaning, but couldn’t quite tie them together.

After many long
and frustrating attempts, he saw something — a wolf’s head, rising out of
the darkness. He tied it to the armor, tied the armor to the man, and very
suddenly remembered that Tinnark had been under attack. But by whom?

And then he
remembered that the wolf’s head was the symbol of the Earl of the Unforgivable
Mountains.

“Why now?” he
said, more to himself than anybody. “Why would Hubert suddenly decide to come
after us when he’s left us alone all this time?”

“Because it
wasn’t Hubert — it was Titus,” Kyleigh said. She pulled the ruined meat
off the spit and chucked it outside. He heard it hiss when it hit the snow.

“Titus … but I
thought he was Midlan’s warlord,” Kael said. “How do you know it was him?”

“I could smell
him from a mile off. That man reeks of death. I also saw him when I went back
to retrieve my boots.” She pointed to her clad feet. Then she bent and began
digging through the rucksack, looking for something.