Free The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two by Gail Z. Martin Page B

dead. This warwill influence succession. But there was something else, something strange. The rune for ‘son’ lay connected to the rune for ‘darkness.’
Son of darkness
. It was clear that the runes went together, but I have no idea what they meant, but whatever it is, it influences the rune of fate. The fate of the war depends on the son of darkness.”

Chapter Four
     
    J onmarc Vahanian, Dark Haven’s brigand lord, swung into a high Eastmark kick. His opponent blocked the kick, and then pivoted, lashing out with his other foot and nearly catching Jonmarc on the jaw. Jonmarc smiled. His next move was low, taking out his opponent at the ankles. Down but not out, his opponent bucked to his feet in one fluid movement, swinging hard with his sword.
    Seconds before the sword struck flesh, Jonmarc parried, driving the other man back. Their swords gleamed in the light, as the daggers they held made silver slashes, looking for an opening. Jonmarc’s opponent opened a gash on his forearm. Jonmarc’s sword slashed into the other’s shoulder. Jonmarc’s mouth was set in a hard line, all traces of a smile gone. His opponent wore a look of grim concentration. Kick. Block. Jonmarc dove and rolled, nicking the other man on the back of the right leg, a flesh wound right over the hamstring. The other man let out a string of curses in Markian, whirling seconds too late to catch Jonmarc with his sword before the other was on his feet, mounting another press.
    Summoning a burst of energy, Jonmarc drew on his year of training with a
vayash moru
weapons master. His reflexes and responses, already honed enough to make him a legendary swordsman, showed an expertise that enabled him to hold his own against the undead. His very human opponent took another gash, this one to the shoulder.
    “I yield!”
    Smiling again, Jonmarc lowered his sword once his opponent dropped the weapons he held. “Not bad. Not bad at all,” he said, sheathing his weapons and walking forward to shake the other’s hand.
    Jonmarc’s opponent was a young man of nineteen summers. Long black hair, shoulder length, was caught back in a mussed queue. A complex tattoo, even darker than his skin, curled down the left side of his face from his eye to his chin. Emotions played across his ebony features: pride, disappointment, vexation. He noticed that Jonmarc was looking at him, or more specifically, at his tattoo.
    “Why are you staring?” Prince Gethin of Eastmark’s voice was colored with a mixture of teenage angst and royal pique.
    Jonmarc shrugged. “Because the last man I saw with that marking ordered my execution.”
    To Jonmarc’s surprise, Gethin made a show of spitting to the side and grinding his spittle under his heel in a gesture of contempt, a gesture accompanied by a rather vile curse in Markian. Jonmarc’s Markian was rusty, but he had to admit that he remembered the curses pretty well.
    “
Uncle
Alcion was a traitor,” Gethin said, contempt thick on the family relationship. “He wanted to supplant my grandfather, King Radomar. Your defiance stopped him. The mark means that I’m third in line to the throne,as it did for Alcion. It relates me to my father, not to that worthless traitor scum.”
    “I know. But… let’s just say that Alcion made a lasting impression on me.” Jonmarc’s tone was wry, but as they stood in the salle at Lienholt Palace in Principality, the memories of that other time more than a decade before seemed very near. Shirtless for their fight, Jonmarc knew that Gethin could see the array of scars that covered his chest and back. Most people noticed four: a long scar that ran from behind one ear down under his collar, the faint parallel scars left from a Nargi fight slave collar, the puckered skin of a bad burn across his back, and twin pink bite marks on his shoulder, from a renegade
vayash moru
.
    But there were more, many more. Raised welts covered his back, a “souvenir” from a flogging in Nargi. A thin white