A shadow leaped up behind him and threw him to the ground, sending his sword flying through the underbrush. Starman went down with a cry, kicking and punching until he realized it was Alaireia. “Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded.
Starman threw his hands up. “Just let me go,” he wheezed, attempting to catch his breath. “This is horror. I wish to be no part of it!”
“Starman, why?” Alaireia pleaded. “At least come back with me. Stand with the victors and know you have aided in winning this battle. The first one is always the worst.”
Starman shook his head. “I would not go back there. I need to find my own way.”
“But you’ll only be lost again, adrift in the woods. More turned ones will continue to come over. Where will you stand without protection?” She stood and held out a hand to help him rise.
“I have my sword," Starman retorted, crawling over to hunt for it in the thicket.
“You will be alone,” Alaireia prompted, watching him. “Crinte said we will take you home, didn’t he? Wouldn’t you feel better traveling with us versus alone, not knowing where you are going?”
Starman sighed as his retrieved his weapon and sheathed it. “I’d rather not face the garrr-crats again.”
“The what?” Alaireia questioned, taken aback.
“Those creatures, you know, first they yell ‘garr’ and their clubs go crack and it’s all over.”
“Huh, the Garcrats,” Alaireia puzzled. “Will you come back with me?”
Starman walked up to her as the gentle glow of moonlight filtered through the trees casting an oblivious halo over the death and destruction occurring near the Sea. “Is the battle over?”
“Let’s find out.” Alaireia turned to head back to the scene of potential victory but Starman stood alone in the wood a moment longer. He could feel his heart rate slowing, his hands had stopped shaking, and the heaviness of sleep had drifted from his eyes. He could still smell death behind him, but for a moment the fear was gone and he felt as if he could walk straight home without incident.
Marklus raised an unbroken arrow in the air, threw back his head, and roared the battle cry of the victors. Around him each warrior lifted their weapons and followed his lead. As Marklus rejoiced he wished their enemies could hear their response. The warriors of Mizine were not going down without a fight. Even as the warriors quieted down Tincire was shouting out protocol for the battle aftermath. Slain bodies were tossed into the Sea while Marklus walked through the battle scene, seeking out the wounded and restoring them to full health.
When he’d first discovered he carried the power of life and death, his abilities seemed limitless; he could cure anything and anyone. But after the incident with his mother, he was always more careful. Holding sway between life and death seemed less of a power and more of a burden. Crinte passed him before pulling close. “Have you seen Alaireia and Starman?”
Marklus paused, glancing over the battlefield. “No, why?”
“Alaireia, I have news for her.”
“Did you see a vision?”
Crinte nodded. “It changes things slightly but keep to the plan.”
Crinte moved on, leaving Marklus to continue his healing duties.
Legone had not bothered to swing down from the tree after the battle ended. The loftiness was a reminder of the Afrd Mounts. His homesickness lessened as he relaxed on a branch, gazing up at the now calm night sky. Crinte’s warriors from the Fighting Camp seemed to be less affronted by his coldness during the battle. He considered telling them more but wasn’t sure if they would understand why critical details were withheld from them. Crinte alone he could trust and to solidify that trust the Horn of Shilmi had been exchanged. The thought of it made him shudder. The others, he wasn’t sure how clear their alliance to Crinte was. He would start with Alaireia the Ezinck. She clearly mistrusted him but he could feel the aura of power surrounding her, and it was exactly what he needed.
Crinte, finally spotting Alaireia, maneuvered through the trees towards her. A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and yanked him back. Crinte turned to find himself face to face with Tincire. A stretch of silence passed between the two Crons as they eyed at each other, neither ready to admit their hand in the turn of events. Tincire crossed his arms gruffly. “You are leaving with your warriors,” his low voice rumbled, more of a statement than a question.
“What makes you think that?” Crinte replied defensively, crossing his arms as well, not giving an inch.
“My brother suspects you. You mean to break in the morning, leaving me no choice but to report you, and your comrades, missing after the battle. All five of you.”
“You don’t mean to try and stop us?” Crinte challenged.
Tincire’s rough voice grew even lower. “No, I think you should go, but before you leave come back to the Fighting Camp with us. I know time is of the essence but you should not leave without the weapons I made for you and the other four.”
Crinte paused, reading Tincire for a moment, then nodded. “I do not want Ackhor to know we returned or to trap us in the Camp. Can you make it so?”
“Aye, there is a way out through the forge. No one will be the wiser.”
Crinte reached out his hand and Tincire shook it.
Alaireia cleaned her blades, keeping one eye on Starman and the other on the sharp edges of her daggers. She did not understand why he wanted to run off alone into the wide world. She was sure he would not survive but he seemed determined to push her away. Maybe he could see she was simply using him for his skills with the sword, but it was more than that. Crinte walked up, shattering her muse. She could not read his face, but he leaned in and whispered, “Change of plans. I know where it is.”
THE GIFTS OF TINCIRE
A day later the Eka Fighting Camp saw forty-four warriors return successfully from their mission. They were welcomed back into the Camp and celebrated with a large meal and a break from training and war preparation while they entertained with tales of the battle by the Sea. Their fearless leader, nowhere to be found, was reported to have returned to his forge, requesting to be left alone.
Meanwhile, Tincire led the five warriors through the tree foliage alongside the training grounds. “I have an entrance in the back but we have to hurry,” he told them. “Once Ackhor realizes I went to the forge instead of reporting to him, he will come find me. My workers will delay him momentarily, but we must move quickly.”
“I would rather Ackhor did not know how much or how little of a lead we have on him. A civil disruption is the very last thing we need right now,” Crinte said.
“Why are we acting like this?” Alaireia asked, annoyed with the sneaking about. “I told Ackhor I was leaving with you, Crinte, and he did not object. What makes you think he will try to stop us? Aren’t we all on the same side?”
Crinte looked back at her briefly. “I am relying on new information.” His eyes turned gold for a moment, speaking a silent warning.
Alaireia fell uncomfortably silent.
“Why are we going back for weapons?” Starman complained. “We have weapons. I don’t want another sword.”
“An excusable question,” Marklus answered excitedly. “You likely don’t know, but weapons made by Tincire contain a sort of mythical element. I don’t know how he does it but rumor has it he makes the best weapons in the land. A weapon handcrafted by Tincire is one of the highest honors a warrior could receive. We are lucky to have him on our side.”
“But I am not a warrior,” Starman protested.
“You'll see.” Marklus winked good-naturedly.
Tincire paused at a clearing in the woods and reached behind a large oak tree for a hidden door. He pulled a rusted black key from inside his tunic, twisted it in the lock, and yanked the door open. “Inside and quickly,” he growled.
The five moved into what looked like a storage room which was immediately secured in darkness as Tincire shut and locked the door. He moved his hands over the floor by memory until he
pulled open a trapdoor, leading down. “Follow me,” he called.
The air grew chilly and musty as they descended into the earth, yet Marklus could already hear ironworkers at the end of the passage and Starman could smell the sharp sting of fire searing onto metal. They could all feel the coolness melting away into blasting heat as they stepped out of the wide passageway into the forge. Flames leaped from one side of the room while a small flurry of Crons constantly hovered around it, keeping the fire burning bright, taking pieces of metal in and out in such a quick fashion it was a wonder they did not burn themselves. Even as the golden yellow flames licked up every inch of fuel, ironworkers hammered bright orange pieces of metal on anvils, causing a beautiful shower of sparks that winked across the workspace as they brought their hammers down again and again. Each of the Crons had a similar build to Tincire, broad shoulders, thick arms with hair pulled back from their flushed faces. The Crons did not even glance up when Tincire entered with the five. They continued to work tirelessly, their huge muscles bulging.
Tincire led them across the room to a wide wall rising ten feet above the ground and covered in long swords, short swords, small, thick, and curved daggers, bows and quivers full of arrows, and other strange, fearsome weapons. The steel glinted deviously from the wall, as if each weapon had a spirit of its own, birthed from the flames. A light gleamed in Tincire’s eyes as he stood in front of the wall, gazing at his handiwork.
“I have experimented long with these weapons and now I know why.” He looked back at the five briefly. “The perfect combination has come together and I do not believe it is a coincidence.” He reached up and pulled a medium length sword from the wall. Its hilt shone silver in the light and as Tincire pulled it from its sheath the blade appeared to leap and dance, as if begging for combat. Tincire held it dearly for a moment, like a father reluctant to let go of a child, then placed it back in its sheath. He turned.
“Starman, this is your sword. You will find it will serve you well on the battlefield and if, at times, it seems to lead the way, follow. This sword knows how to slay its enemies.”
Starman’s protests died on his lips. Despite himself he found his arms reaching for the sword, welcoming it home with his very actions. As his hands touched it he felt an odd calming sensation, as if the sword were whispering words of promise to him. He felt a new hope surge within him, and not waiting to unfasten his old sword, he pulled the new one from its sheath and gazed on the blade as light danced within it. “Thank you,” he said in an awed whisper, his eyes never leaving the shiny blade.
Tincire turned back to his intimidating wall, reached up and took down a much longer sword. The hilt was simple but covered in silver like a jewel. As he pulled the naked blade from the sheath a sharp gold line appeared running vertically down the blade. Despite themselves the five could not tear their eyes away from it. “Alaireia, your sword has a minor mesmerizing power if your enemies gaze too long at the gold light. It also will provide light in darkness. Soon you will learn how to control it."
Alaireia stepped forward to receive her gift, speechless for a moment. “Tincire,” she breathed, “this is incredible…” She faltered. “I will use it well.” As she lay her hand on the silver hilt the gold line on the sword flared for a moment but calmed as Alaireia slid the sword back into its sheath. She buckled it around her waist and stood tall, feeling she had earned a new power. Tincire’s intense face softened for a moment as he smiled fondly at her before returning to the wall.
He pulled down a medium sized bow carved of a dark wood and a quiver full of blue tipped arrows. “Marklus, these are for you. The bow is newly made of wood from the Algrema Forest and carved with old symbols of our country, Mizine. The shaft of each arrow is dipped in blue instead of white, which symbolizes Mizine. Let them be a warning to all you come into contact with. Mizine will not lie idle while plots are formed against us. You cannot miss with these arrows. They are light but will fly quickly and hit their mark strong and true every time.”
“Many thanks.” Marklus reached for his gift, gazing at the markings on the bow in admiration. As he placed the quiver of arrows on his back he thought he heard hushed voices. He pricked his ears for a moment but all was still within the quiver.
“Crinte, I give you the sword of a leader.” Tincire pulled a sword of great beauty from the wall. Its hilt was gold, but as he revealed the blade strange markings winked into view before disappearing again. Tincire handed the sword to Crinte. “You will find it will serve you well.”
Crinte held up the sharp blade, testing the weight of the sword but it balanced perfectly in his hand. Even as he looked at the blade he saw images dash before his eyes in a blur.
“Thank you, Tincire, this gift is…” Words failed Crinte for the first time as he gazed at the blade.
Brushing Crinte’s words away, Tincire turned back to the wall for the final time. “Legone the Swift, these are for you.” He pulled down another set of bow and arrows. The bow was quite similar to Marklus’, made of dark wood and engraved with symbols of Mizine although it, and the quiver, were slightly bigger. “The quiver was made to keep up with your swift and nimble way. It never runs out of arrows.”
Legone stepped forward with a brief nod and fitted the quiver onto his back. An odd sensation passed through his fingers as he did so, bringing back the long forgotten memory of a darker power.
“Now you are truly prepared for your quest. You must go quickly before you are discovered here. Crinte, I have mapped out your way through Cromomany. Stop by the home of Oman the Farmer and tell him I sent you. He will prepare horses to speed you on your journey.”
“Tincire.” Crinte reached out his hand. “We cannot thank you enough, I feel much more confident in our success knowing you have prepared us for battle. We will send word as we continue on. A time will come when we will join forces again and wipe out the abomination which has taken hold across the Sea.”
Tincire shook Crinte’s hand and nodded briskly and gruffly. “Go now, and farewell.”
AN ANCIENT POWER
Legend told that in the beginning gifts were bestowed upon the Four Worlds to remind its inhabitants they were not alone in the miraculous land they were given. These gifts hinted at a greater potential to those who found them and learned how to wield their powers. Seven such gifts were bestowed and they were called Clyears. Each one held a particular identity, which could be used in combination if one held the others. But there was one Clyear which superseded them all: the Great Clyear of Power. It was an ancient power source and only as powerful as its owner. Some said the Clyear of Power chose its holder, others claimed the holder chose it. Either way, it had been passed from generation to generation, fought over by kings and queens, divided brother and sister, brought together the most unlikely friends and was used, misused, and abused until it was finally lost for years. It had last been seen in the South World but now had appeared unexpectedly in the Western World. The hunt for the other six Clyears was only a story for curious children, the hope that there was still a quest for those who were not yet grown, that they might seek adventure throughout their years.
Those were not the tales Legone held in his mind as he walked stealthily through the halls of the Fighting Camp. Holding his new bow close to his lean, hard body, he brought up the vision Crinte had transferred to his memory. Again he saw the ceramic pot blending into its surroundings. He saw the hands that placed it on the shelf and moved several scrolls in front, hiding it from curious eyes. Legone stood still in the hall, shaking the vision from his eyes. All was quiet and he moved on. His eyes began to burn the closer he walked and he blinked them rapidly, not caring for the temporary power Crinte had lent him.
Early morning after battle Crinte had pulled him aside. “Legone, I have a task for you. Will you accept it?”
Legone stood in the dewy darkness and nodded his bare head. “I will. What do you ask of me?”
“There is an object that lies back at the Fighting Camp. It was s
tolen from one of our own and I need you to retrieve it for us. I know where it rests, but risk drawing attention to myself. It would only cause another delay I wish to avoid.”
Legone simply listened. At this point he was not one to question Crinte’s wishes, as long as his ultimate plan was coming to fruition.
“I can guide you with my mind,” Crinte went on. “Will you let me share my sight with you?”
Legone sighed. “As long as you don’t make this a habit.”
Crinte smiled slightly. “Just this once. Close your eyes and focus. Tell me what you see.”
“I am returning from the training grounds, they are empty but it is an hour when warriors should be training. I am entering the fortress, there is no one around. I am walking through passages and halls, climbing staircases, headed towards...Ackhor’s room...humm...it is empty. I see shelves and scrolls and behind those scrolls a ceramic pot. Now all goes black.”
“Good,” Crinte coached. “Now hold that vision in your mind and follow it. You will know when you have reached the end. Once we leave Tincire, head to the fortress. After you have stolen the ceramic pot meet us back on the road that leads towards Cromomany. Give to Alaireia what you find.”
“Alaireia?” Legone asked, dizzy for a moment as he recovered from the vision.
“Trust, Legone. If we don’t trust each other how will we fight and win together?”
Legone stood outside Ackhor’s chambers. He felt every inch the intruder and hoped there would not be any unpleasant surprises waiting for him on the other side of that door. He turned the handle slowly but the door swung open without hindrance. Legone felt the gates to a different world had been opened to him. Strange and fantastical creatures danced on the wall, brought to life by the ink they were created by. Stacks of books and papers covered the room and light streamed in, highlighting the dust and dirt collecting in the corners. Legone shut the door gently behind him and turned in the great room, losing site of the vision for a moment as jagged memories flooded his mind. He remembered spending days sitting in sunlit halls reading books of old, opening age ridden scrolls to find what lay there, learning the language of the “wild things” and practicing it until it flowed as fluidly from his lips as the language of Mizine, called Miften. Legone reached out his hands and picked up a book. He flipped through its pages for a moment, watching the dust fly off it and dance in the sunlight before settling nearby on a pile of scrolls. Was he truly ready for the task laid before him? To lead the four warriors into a dark land, full of secrets to discover its biggest one?
The Five Warriors (The Four Worlds Series Book 1) Page 9