Page 148 of Fate's Wicked Oath

Maiden Morta Killer

Mariana

My Oath tattoo tingled with a sudden change, a shift in the magic, a slackening.

I knew immediately what it meant—the partial victory. I knew the meaning of Lord Haron’s agonized scream, too, and the abrupt halting of his vocal cords. Sweating and overwhelmed, I thought the Morta would cease this brutal fight upon Lord Haron’s fall, but the opposite occurred. Something about the severing of the Lord’s sovereignty, his death, snapped the Morta’s mental control.

Itroared—so loud that one of my ears popped painfully, followed by a wet gush.

Sound became lopsided as I continued my fight, my other ear ringing as I refocused on the Morta’s weak places, slicing at its inner elbows and the backs of its knees. It wailed and slashed, catching my breastplate with an awful squeal of claws against metal, sparks zipping off me as if I were flint. My skin crawled with the reverberation.

This Morta was more cogent than those of the Western Wood—more precise—and without the Lord, its aggression was unmatched. It came at me in a vicious assault, faster and stronger and more terrifying than anything I’d fought before. But I was the Maiden Morta Killer. I knew what I was doing. And so long as Heris lived, this fight—this mission—was still only half over.

In defiance of my basest instincts, I got in closer, thrusting upward, severing one of the spidery limbs of the Morta’s torso. It swiveled, reaching for me as I ducked under its legs and slashed along its flank, sending a waterfall of black blood onto the marble.

Somewhere behind me—through the close sounds of my own breathing and sword-flame, and the Morta’s frustrated screeching—I heard the muffled chatter of the ledgermasters arguing. I fought the desperate urge to find Faren in the chaos, to confirm that he was alright, a tender sort of angst whirling in my heart as I imagined him setting his sights on Heris.

But I had to trust that Faren could handle his own. To be distracted now would put myself and countless others in danger, and this time, Irefusedto mess up.

Evading another swipe of the Morta’s claws, I jumped back, reorienting myself in what felt like an endless fight. Smoke stung my eyes. My muscles shook with exhaustion. The Morta wove from side to side, swaying with readiness. In a move I’d done a thousand times, I charged left, faking a thrust at its leg, only to pivot and stab upward instead. Windthorn’s blade sank into the Morta’s side, the Oath magic meeting the poison of the monster’s blood with a sizzling stench.

I allowed my momentum to carry me forward, yanking on Windthorn to bring it with me, already planning my next attack—but the Morta did something unexpected.Smart. Rather than recoiling like a frightened animal, it moved with me like atrained and lucid knight, keeping my blade deep in its side. The resistance on the handle pulled me off balance, and I lost my footing on the blood-slicked floor. Windthorn’s hilt twisted out of my grip, putting me in perfect alignment with the monster.

The Morta opened its palm and struck me square in the breastplate—hard.

The air punched out of my lungs in a violent gasp. Even with the repellent magic of my armor, the hit—the Morta’s shocking strength—sent me airborne. My shoulder clipped one of the marble columns, spinning me in midair before the back of my head smacked against the marble. My vision went starry, then black. From somewhere faraway, I heard Faren shout.

As I blinked away the daze, the Morta’s ghastly shape materialized, looming over me with my sword still protruding from its pale flesh.

I kicked my feet, trying to scramble away, but without any air in my lungs, my legs were weak, and my stunned body wouldn’t cooperate. The dented metal of my breastplate pressed against my sternum, I heaved helplessly, desperate for oxygen; a small trickle came in, aching—and as the shock faded, a wave of pain overpowered my senses, my magic throbbing ruthlessly in my ribs, my ears, my head.

The Morta crept closer, raising a claw-tipped arm. It was still bleeding and rained rancid blood onto my cheeks. I struggled backward, my shoulder bumping into something plush. With a grunt, I reached for it, my fingers meeting satin. The Morta stretched taller, preparing for a killing blow. When the sinew of its arm twitched, I tossed the pillow up.

The Morta slashed downward, claws shredding through my meager distraction. White feathers and black blood exploded across my vision, and I knew what came next.

53

Broken

Faren

With Lord Haron defeated, Heris wasted no time in heading for the ledgermasters.

In the chaos of the fight, Faren had strayed farther afield, and now Warner alone stood between the Valiant onslaught and the future of Fenrir. The backs of his legs had nearly met the toppled throne, but Warner refused to fall back, fending off two knights and one former Morta with wild, brutal cleaves of his sword. His nose was broken. His armor was splattered with blood. His teeth were bared with fury and exertion. This wasn’t the Warner the Faren had sparred with every week for the past ten years, playful and relaxed; this was someone holding on for dear life.

Faren broke into a sprint, racing to rejoin the melee and assist his friend. But before he reached the battle, a roar thundered through the Great Hall, so loud it made his armorvibrate.

Faren’s steps faltered, and he wheeled around in time to watch—helplessly—as the Morta slammed Mariana in the breastplate. She was thrown violently backward, her body smacking into a pillar before flopping limply on the floor.

Faren felt the impact in his own body; it stopped his heart. For three savage seconds—four—five—she did not stir.

Terror ripped from his throat. “Mariana!”

The Morta advanced. Her head rolled to one side as she came-to. Faren started toward her—then one of the ledgermasters yelped, and his Oath tattoo tingled with warning, and he stopped short.

Castor and Brom had seized Warner by the arms. A former Morta held the ledgermasters at sword point. Heris was kneeling in front of them with a maniacal grin, cradling the Ledger of the Sovereign in his bloodied hands. And from somewhere far behind Faren, Oderin was screaming for him to intervene.

Faren looked between Mariana and the stolen Ledger, weighing his choice.