Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2) Read Online Free Page A

writ in gore and steel.  
    As he slid towards ten o’clock—the man who had thrown the knife—the sharp smell of urine filled the air. Ko-Jin struck the guard with his pommel. The lad thunked down to his knees, blood arched up into the air and fell again like rain. Ten seconds.

    Hear the chime,
    Hear the chime,
    That marks the passing, passing time.

    Six o’clock charged, the last guard standing, and Ko-Jin stood resolute, his feet rooted amidst the bodies. The sound of cranking abruptly ceased. Six swung up mercilessly; Ko-Jin turned out of the way, hooked the guard below the elbow, and flipped him up upon his own shoulders like a rucksack.
    The thuds of the crossbow bolts hitting the guard’s chestpiece reverberated deep in Ko-Jin’s bones. He dropped the man—the last man—and breathed, feeling, still, the steady beat of his blood pumping through his veins.  

    Tick-tick-tock,
    Tick-tick-tock,
    We fall before, before the clock.

    Dueling desires to laugh and vomit surged through his core. He pushed loose hair from his face with a bloody hand and examined his fallen foe, verifying that all were, indeed, incapacitated.  
    A whimper from the dais drew his attention. Yarrow and Arlow fought, each of them doing rather a sloppy job of it—it seemed neither had much intention of hurting the other. Ko-Jin shook his head and crossed his arms before his chest. Have I taught the two of you nothing at all?  
    Vendra’s form lay inert on the steps, a sight which inspired little sympathy. He scanned the room for Bray.
    Her whereabouts became evident when the body of a crossbowman tumbled from his second-story perch and struck the gleaming floor with a thump. For a moment, Ko-Jin was unsure who to help. He could run up and aid Bray, but he suspected she’d be done with the lot of them before he’d mounted the stairs. If ever there was a woman who didn’t need saving.
    He discerned a second whimper, and this time his eyes locked onto the source. The queen, a bolt stuck through her calf, sprawled over the chest of her husband. The prince crouched at her side, with tear-streaked cheeks. “Come mother, we must take cover.” He tugged at her sleeve ineffectually, a distant, unfocused look in his eyes.
    Ko-Jin’s mood, having been elevated by adrenaline, abruptly crumpled. He thought of his own stepfather, dead nearly nine years. Some pains never really faded.
    He crossed the floor, rubbing bloody hands on his robes—not knowing what comfort he could offer, but meaning to try.

    Yarrow’s muscles burned. He was finding it increasingly difficult to stand, let alone fight.
    He stepped into Slow Lash . Arlow countered with Foreigner’s Negation .  
    Yarrow gritted his teeth as sweat stung his eyes. “Spirits blight you, Arlow.” He swung, and his brother evaded.  
    In the back of Yarrow’s consciousness, the ball of emotion that belonged to Arlow tolled with hurt. Arlow bared his teeth in the imitation of a smile. “Now, now. That isn’t terribly nice, old friend.”  
    Arlow kept his hands raised to defend his face, but didn’t swing. He hadn’t endeavored to land a single blow. It chafed—they both knew Arlow to be the stronger fighter, even when Yarrow wasn’t dead on his feet.  
    Arlow was toying with him, and the knowledge set his innards burning with anger. “Don’t call me friend.”
    Yarrow screwed his eyes shut and envisioned himself standing behind Arlow. The world went dark for an instant and then reappeared, having slid several spans to the west. He immediately shifted into the most aggressive move of the Ada Chae , Fist Through Sand. Arlow anticipated him and danced out of reach.  
    “It’s a pity about the popping sound, Yar. It gives you away.”  
    Unbidden, a memory leapt to the fore of Yarrow’s thoughts: Arlow and Ko-Jin, at the ages of sixteen, deciding it was the height of hilarity to call him ‘Yar’ and pronounce it like a pirate. “ Pass the rum, Yarrr.”
    Yarrow’s knees