The Five Warriors
Angela J. Ford
The Five Warriors: The Four Worlds Series Book One
By Angela J. Ford
Copyright © 2015 Angela J. Ford
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
www.thefourworldsseries.com
ISBN: 1512163619
ISBN-13: 978-1512163612
DEDICATION
To my four hilarious sisters, Dorthea, Annie, Rebecca and Katrina, for being persistent enough to have an entire fantasy world created just for them.
DEDICATION
Prologue
The Escape
A Trail of Light
The Eka Fighting Camp
Zikes
An Unexpected Duel
News from the Other Side
Relationships of the Past
The Five Come Together
Words on Parchment
Transformation
The First of Many
Aftermath
The Gifts of Tincire
An Ancient Power
The Clyear
Zikeland
Starman’s Homecoming
A New Force
Starman’s Choice
Wiltieders
The Afrd Mounts
Srackt the Wise
A Report
Purple Eyes
Mermis
Mist and Feathers
An Audience with a King
The Dejewla Sea
The Fall of the Order of the Wise
The Other Side
Enemy Territory
Orders
The Tower
Ambushed
The Time Continuum
Into the Forest
Dreams of the Future
A Mistake
Shilmi
Where the Wind Blows
The Esife Peaks
The Slutan Tunnels
Into the Deep
Voices of the Night
Time
A Taste of Trouble
Where the Sorns Work
The Crossroads
Crinte the Wise
The Broken Bridge
The Horn of Shilmi
The Great Water Hole
Battle for the World
Sarhorr the Ruler
The Beginning of the End
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
“Are there beings with the ability to shift forms?” he asked.
She reached out a hand to caress his serious face and laughed lightly. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Tell me, would I know if I saw one?”
“You are serious.” She stood, letting the moonlight filter through the waves of her waist-length hair. “Changers are old beings from the beginning of time, the last scraps of the creator’s spark which formed this World. You would be unlikely to meet one, for they are above us; too distinguished to flirt with the people groups, and too haughty to lower themselves to live with the immortals.” Her long fingers rested on the balcony, gripping it tightly as she continued. “If you ever met one it would be unexplainable. They have two forms which makes them indestructible. One is physical and another is spirit.”
“Would you know if you met a Changer?” he pressed. “Are they dangerous?”
She laughed again, her voice rippling gently through the air like the tinkling of silver bells on a crisp night. “Dangerous? There are no creatures in the World more powerful or dangerous.”
“What if I met a Changer? What should I do?”
She turned back to him, bending to take his face in her hands. Her intense gaze met his questioning eyes. “Run as fast as you can and never stop.”
THE ESCAPE
A shadow moved in the unceasing midnight blackness. Marklus tensed then shifted on the grimy stone floor of his ghastly prison cell. Shivering from the bone wearing chill, he rubbed his hands over his thin shoulders and again recalled the hastily inked words that had started it all. The plan had never been to arrive at the northern side of the Sea, lost and naïve, stumbling straight into a trap cleverly laid out for him. When the armed guards ambushed him in the decaying, hazy forest of Slutan and dragged him, lively and struggling, to prison, he’d known interrogation and torture were next. Stripped of his weapons and thrown into the blinding darkness of a deep cell, his screams and cries were left woefully unanswered. It seemed there was no reason for his imprisonment, waiting for fear and hunger to drive him mad. If they ever came for him, and even that seemed a bleak wish, he would be broken, ready to give in to their demands. Anything was better than the endless monotony of drifting time while the lack of light and warmth and the stench of death threatened to strip his sanity from him piece by lowly piece.
Marklus, a displaced warrior from the countries of Mizine in the south, had been invited to join a reckless band of rebels building a secret army. Motivated by the passion of his fearless leader—who also happened to be his best friend—Marklus made it his task to travel north for covert information on the enemy’s plans. Unfortunately his mission had gone awry, but the worst part of being trapped in prison was the knowledge no one would come to his rescue. Since the band of rebels were not under official authorization by the various Rulers of the land, the repercussions for joining or further assisting the secret army were steep. The Western World was full of strife. The powers on both sides of the Dejewla Sea that separated the north and south were locked in a fierce struggle to rule the fate of the inhabitants of the Western World. The rebels of Mizine had grown suspicious when peculiar warriors began raiding their lands. Shouldering responsibility for the fate of the Western World, they took it upon themselves to discover what plans the north had for the south and how to put an end to their reign of terror.
Now the year-old words from the parchment were naught but faded memory. Marklus remembered the nervous excitement of having a secret mission with his childhood friend. Their paths had gone separate ways after the disaster that struck Zikeland, Marklus’ homeland. But it was the quest that brought them back together, reminding them how much stronger they were as a team.
Marklus sighed in frustration as he recalled the plans they’d made to sneak north into Slutan and travel to the enemy’s base, an abyss called the Great Water Hole. In the far northwest corner, in a place long thought to have been abandoned, the still waters were rumored to move again. Legend told of the beauty of the Great Water Hole, a mysterious canyon with trails and springs leading to the source of its secrets if one were persistent enough. It was alleged that eventually the trail of water flowed into Oceantic on a current that led directly to the South World. Although those theories were as yet untested, there was something ominous about the enemy setting up base in the forsaken canyon.
The blackness of the merciless prison shifted as Marklus restlessly moved to the other side of his six-foot-long cell. Most days, if there were days anymore, a heavy footed guard, annoyed with his mundane task, would deliver the daily rations, rudely slung under the bars. The door had not been opened since that day he had been thrown in, and as the hours shifted, his meal was delivered then he was forgotten again. I
f only he had listened to Crinte who’d assured him he already had a scout willing to cross the Sea. But the information Marklus sought was too valuable to leave to just anyone. He recalled that day vividly.
Crinte was absolutely sure of himself. He marched around the room, gesturing passionately and arguing forcefully with Ackhor. Marklus, sitting across the table from Ackhor, couldn’t help but smirk privately to himself each time the two fought. Crinte and Marklus has been long-time childhood friends, but when it came time to choose who would lead the camp of rebel warriors, Crinte had chosen Ackhor, a friend he had met when traveling the Western World with his father. It was true that Ackhor had much more strategic fighting experience. He had led expeditions to hunt mystical creatures in the Algrema Forests, coordinated peace treaties between the smaller countries of Mizine, and led troops to calm civil uprisings. However, Crinte and Marklus actually had a better mindset for working together.
“I’m telling you,” Crinte announced incessantly, “there is more going on here than meets the eye. These raids, they are almost like distractions to keep our armies busy, keep them from seeing the truth.”
“How many times do I have to tell you,” interrupted Ackhor as if he were trying to appease a child. “They are sending scouts over to test our strength. It’s standard military strategy.”
“That’s what I’m saying!” Crinte insisted. “They come, they raid, they leave. There is no burning and pillaging. They aren’t trying to destroy our resources, they are trying to keep us blind! There is more going on than meets the eye, Ackhor.”
“Crinte.” Ackhor’s voice grew stern. “You have no proof, and I cannot authorize you to take a group of spies across the Sea to discover what mysteries our enemy is hiding. That is suicide, and you only have a thought. What if you’re wrong? We need our best warriors here, on the front lines, defending our lands.”
Best warriors—Ackhor had chosen his words well. What he actually referred to were the fighting elite, not only warriors who were exceptionally skilled in fighting, but also controlled an element of power. As far as Marklus knew, there were only two—and he was one of them. That knowledge made his cage seem all the smaller, and his folly lay heavy on his mind.
A footfall hesitantly landed on the prison floor and Marklus’ ears pricked up, his thin body rigid as the footsteps grew nearer. This was no ordinary prison guard. Normally their footfalls were heavy and loud, laden down with the emasculating tasking of feeding the prisoners. These footsteps were barely perceptible and paused every few seconds. Marklus stood in his cell, forcing his eyes to look into the dim light, his heart thumping as he waited with bated breath. It was mere minutes before a shadow drifted close. Marklus could barely perceive two hands gripping the bars that separated them.
“Are you alive?” the shadow whispered.
Thrown by the unexpected question, Marklus attempted to gather saliva in his parched mouth to respond, but the shadow did not wait. “We are leaving. Wait for my signal.”
“Who are you? What signal?” Marklus managed to croak out. But it was too late; the shadow was gone as if it had never been there.
Lowering himself to the disgusting prison floor, Marklus began to wonder if he was losing his mind. Closing his eyes for a brief moment, he let his sensory input take over. He pricked his ears, listening hard, but the footfalls had vanished. Escape seemed a cruel joke, but he had to break free of his jail cell. Ever since being captured a few months ago, his mind had been silently panicking because he was no closer to knowing the truth of what was happening on the northern side of the Sea. To take his mind off the situation, he let his thoughts drift back into the past and what had led him to make such a daring trip.
“Maybe our best warriors shouldn’t be hiding in the fighting camp training others,” Crinte had retorted that day. “Maybe our best warriors should be on the other side of the Sea, finding out what really is happening. It is naive on our part to turn a blind eye to the truth. It’s not mere battles that win a war. As warriors we not only need skill with a blade, we have to outthink and outsmart our enemy. Playing it safe on this side of the Sea does not cut it. If they can send troops over here to scout out our weaknesses, we can do the same. I’d rather invade their land than wait for them to bring ruin to this side of the Sea. Turn a blind eye if you wish, I will not stand for it!”
By the time Crinte finished speaking his face was red and mere inches away from Ackhor’s.
Ackhor stood firm, his arms crossed, glaring at Crinte as if daring him to speak further. “Do you think I don’t know this?” he growled. “Wars are won by skill and cunning, and if you dare waltz across the Sea into their hands, you will take all of that with you. You asked me to come here to talk strategy, you asked me to help you plan to win a war, not just one battle. Is that what you still want?”
“We have to move faster than this!” Crinte exclaimed. “We have been at this for months and where has it gotten us?”
“Recruits,” Ackhor quipped. “We have recruits, we are training warriors and the more the better and don’t you forget it.”
Crinte turned around and shook his head. “Fine,” he exhaled as if giving up. “We will finish this another time. I am going to the training grounds.” He looked to Marklus questioningly.
Later that afternoon at the shooting range Marklus brought up the argument again. “What are you going to do? Ackhor is not going to change his mind.”
“I know.” Crinte pulled a white arrow tight in his bow and paused for a beat. As he released, the arrow zinged through the air but missed its mark. “We can’t wait for him to take his time to decide, we have to find out what is going on across the Sea now. I have a scout I can send but one will not be enough. We need information. Over here we are sitting blind! This hiding and waiting will be the death of us.”
Crinte lifted his bow once again. This time his arrow hit the mark, dead on.
That night, Marklus packed a bag of supplies. Before dawn his trail through the Sea Forests of Mizine had grown cold.
Sometime later a faint thud jerked Marklus from his insubstantial slumber. He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly to accustom them to the unsettling shades of blackness, but the shield of night hovered like a velvety blanket over the prison. Lifting his heavy head from the pillow of his crooked arm he pricked his ears. This time the sound drifted clearly, a combination of muffled footsteps and iron. Reaching for the rusted bars of his cell Marklus pulled himself to his feet as a clang echoed off the metalwork of the prison. His heart began to race in anticipation, thumping loudly in his chest as he strained to see something, anything, in that midnight hour. But just as quickly the sounds of the night died away into an irksome silence. Marklus remained frozen, holding on to threads of delusional hope. There was a time when the darkness of the prison had stolen his optimism, and he’d dared not dream beyond his cell. It was true, he longed for freedom without fear of starvation in darkness and the chance to vindicate his homeland. Now he held to the whispered words of the shadow, the desire for escape pounding so thickly through his veins he thought he would choke.
A sharp grating sliced through the silence, interrupting his thoughts, the scraping stinging his sensitive ears. Marklus loosened his hold on the bars of his cell as he felt them moving, lifting up and away, no longer holding him captive. Excitement turned to pain as he made a step towards freedom only to find himself crouching in his cell, his tender ears crippled by the high pitched screeching of the bars. The prison continued to groan and finally to shake with the weight of what was being asked of it, its wails droning on, mixed with the cries of what could be other prisoners or even guards.
Finally it stopped. The only reality now was the pain in Marklus’ ears and a silence so loud he could hear it humming in the distance. He stood on shaky legs and reached for the bars, which were no longer there. A brief thrill shot through his body as he stepped out of his cell for the first time since being deposited there.
The shadow rose out of the darknes
s, her scheme was now in motion and it was up to the prisoners themselves to finish it. She had been strategizing a mass exodus for weeks, studying the guards, their habits and ways in and out of the prison. She’d watched as they captured those astray in the woods and locked them up, one by one, until their wills were lost and strength forgotten. Free as she was, the prison was still a fortress, the routes unknown to her, the ins and outs patrolled much too carefully by too many sentinels. Escape had always been the plan, causing a riot was only a diversion.
She’d had to act sooner than intended. Unfortunate orders had arrived, and she knew it was time to flee before the web of delusion had been cast. Some of the prisoners were already too far gone to notice, no more than bags of bones in their cells. But many would run and die rather than lie down and give in. It was those hardy souls she was counting on.
Lifting her palms she blew across the item held there. A wavering fog appeared for a moment before streaking off through the dark halls, lighting a path before her. The shadow ran through the path of light, calling.
Marklus paused in the hall, unsure of which way to turn. The blackness stretched unending before him, and at first there were no clues pointing him back to the land of the living. He pricked up his ears again to listen for the telltale signs he’d heard earlier. Sure enough a stirring weaved through the air, but as he cocked his head to listen he realized it wasn’t the sound of footsteps or moaning prisoners. Someone was calling him.
A dim light began to illuminate the floor, streaking past him and guiding the way out. Marklus stared at it, unsure whether he was dreaming or not. Behind that light a stampede of escapees streamed towards him, seeking the light, dashing towards the dream before it ended. The leader was no more than a blur of shadow, gliding past him in order to catch the light. Those behind the leader were exhausted jail breakers, the stench of death surrounding them. Pale skin hung off thin bodies; bony feet slapped the hard stones, causing an eerie echo throughout the prison. Most of them wore dirty rags, the remnants of what used to be proper clothing. Their eyes were bloodshot from looking through darkness, and desperation was written all over their gaunt faces. These were the ones willing to escape, a force of prisoners sweeping through like a river, with the absolute but simplistic goal of overwhelming the guards by sheer numbers and reclaiming life itself. Marklus turned towards the light, joined their company, and ran.
The Five Warriors (The Four Worlds Series Book 1) Page 1