Read on for a sneak preview of Book Two in the Marked series: The Dark Knife …
There’s an ambush ahead. Fabithe knows that, but he’s going to walk into it all the same.
It’s not as if he has much choice. He’s heard and seen enough signs behind him to know that turning back would have exactly the same result. Better to keep pressing forward, even though that’s what the pursuing soldiers want. Even though they’re driving him in this direction. Because to do otherwise would be to admit –
Failure, the darkness inside him whispers. You failed once, and you’ll fail again.
Suppressing a shiver, he rubs his arms. His clothes are still wet from the river. The boat he took from beneath the Castle Retreat yesterday afternoon might have been the best way to escape in a hurry, but it was only a temporary solution. He had to steer it in to shore before darkness fell; it was that or be carried on through the night to the river’s abrupt end in a waterfall over the cliffs. And, in fact, the boat did meet that fate. It struck a clump of submerged detritus, spinning out of control, and he was forced to bail.
Him … and the three other people he is now responsible for.
He can hear them talking in low voices, behind him. Luthan, the girl who can use the power in her blood to perform magic. Toralé, the boy who survived torture that would have broken most people. And Oriana.
Oriana.
The girl who heals with a touch. The girl who saved his life.
Fabithe doesn’t have anything like their miraculous talents, but he does know violence. How to deal it, and how it’s dealt. And in a situation like this, with soldiers behind them and soldiers in front, that makes him responsible whether he wants it or not. The only trouble is …
You’re broken. A blade without an edge.
… he doesn’t believe he can do it. Not any more.
There was the boat. He got that wrong. Didn’t notice the obstacle in his path, left it too late to change course for the riverbank. Luthan had to spend blood lifting their belongings to safety, while he and Oriana guided Toralé through the water. By then it was evening. And everyone knows you don’t travel the Duskmire at night: one carelessly placed foot in the dark and you’d be drowning in a swamp before you could call for help. So he made them camp for the night. No fire, though: the ground was too wet for a firepit, and an open fire would have been as good as a beacon to any northern searchers. But maybe that was the wrong decision. Maybe they’d have been better off getting dry, even if it made them visible, than weakening themselves by shivering through the night in wet clothes. Or maybe they should have kept walking, dangerous terrain or no, to put as much distance between themselves and the Retreat as possible …
Two days ago, all this would have been second nature to him. He’d have made his choices and that would be that. But now, nothing is clear. All he knows is that since they set out this morning, at first light, there have been men on their tail. And he’s no longer equipped to deal with it.
A twig cracks behind him and he spins round, one hand reaching for a knife. But it’s just Oriana. At the sight of her swollen lip, a combination of rage and guilt surges so fiercely in him that he has to turn back away. Memories tumble through his head. The desperate gasping for breath. The inability to move so much as a single muscle. The helplessness as Ifor’s hand connected with her face –
You let her down. And you’re about to do it again.
He shakes it off. But the darkness lingers, a shadow underlying every step, every heartbeat. It’s a darkness he thought he banished years ago. It pulls him back in time, back to the night he lost everything. Perhaps he never escaped it. Perhaps he has always been there, in that cell. Seeing himself taken apart, piece by piece. No matter how he tries to tell himself that Ifor is gone for good, he can’t truly believe it. Not when the shadow remains inside him, deep in his bones.
“Is something wrong?” Oriana asks softly. “You have pushed us hard all day, and I know there must be a reason for it.”
Fabithe can’t answer straight away. Fear is surging in his blood; he doesn’t want her to hear it in his voice or read it from his eyes. And still the darkness keeps whispering. What hope do you have of beating them? Five years waiting for your chance, and he crushed you like an insect.
“Northerners,” he manages finally. Still he doesn’t look at her. “Ahead and behind. We’re walking into a trap.”
“How do you know?”
“Behind … I heard them coming. Saw the smoke from their fires. They’re not trying to be subtle about it. They want us to know they’re here. Because ahead …”
“Ahead what?”
“Ahead is the Arc. It’s a bridge, of a kind. The sole crossing point between north and south Duskmire. They’re driving us towards it, and that can only mean one thing.”
“They got there first?”
“Right. It’s what I’d do, if I were their commanding officer. Half the troop straight to the other side of the Arc. The other half behind us. The jaws of the trap.”
“But surely,” Oriana says. “Surely, if Ifor is … dead, then – ”
Fabithe shrugs. It’s the last thing he feels like doing, but he does it anyway. “They’ll want revenge.”