The Blended Ones (The Four Worlds Series Book 2)

by Ford, Angela J.

  She paused, sucking in air hard as she summoned her strength. With a gasp, she turned her head, and her eyes met Ilieus’s eyes. Phyllis recoiled in horror at the last words her mother spoke.

  ***

  Go see Grandmother.

  The dreams are real.

  The dreams are true.

  Go ask Grandmother.

  Grandmother.

  Dreams.

  Truth.

  Reality.

  Those words danced through Phyllis’ head like a headless chicken during the first five minutes of death. They circled with raving madness, as if by becoming more intense, they would resolve themselves into a phrase that made sense. Even as Phyllis stood in the graveyard, where the smell of freshly turned dirt and dung imbued the air, the words could not escape her. She saw them sliding off the rough-cut rock quarries and dancing above her sister’s head. Father stood alone, several paces from Phyllis and Ilieus, with his arms crossed and jaw set, a stance Phyllis knew well. Father was quiet, but when he was upset, a whirlwind storm built inside him until it exploded. Mother was often the eye of the storm, showing him the way to peace with a look or a touch.

  But the one thing both Mother and Father agreed upon was Grandmother. One did not speak to Grandmother. The last time she had come to visit was ten years ago when Phyllis and Ilieus were five years old. Foolish and curious, their ears had pricked when Mother announced sternly, “Not in front of the children” and dragged Grandmother into the bedroom. Although the heavy door was shut, they still crawled to it and pressed their small ears against the wood, listening with wide, round eyes, even though they did not understand.

  “Naya,” Grandmother’s voice reprimanded, “this is exactly why I told you not to marry that Tider! The blend between two people groups is too dangerous and look at what’s happening to my granddaughters.”

  “Mother!” The sharp voice was a cross between a warning and a growl. “You are not welcome in my house if you continue to spew hate against my husband and my children. I told you my choice long ago, and I am tired of having the same conversation over and over again. If you have simply come to remind me of my sins, I want you to leave.”

  “I came to bring healing and clarity.” Grandmother’s voice was cold, without a trace of apology. “But you won’t let me help, you want to block everything out and deny what is happening in your own household. If you ignore this, I won’t be able to help you.”

  “Help?” Astonishment dripped from Mother’s voice. “You walk into my house with your veiled threats and tell me you are helping? You couldn’t be happier if I left Antharn and returned to live in your hovel of a home. My life has been better since I left you, and he’s my husband. I love him, something I suppose you could never understand since you have never loved anyone but yourself!”

  Grandmother’s voice rose higher with every word. “You never should have married him; he’s not one of us, and now your daughters, my grandchildren, can never be like us. You aren’t listening; you don’t know the consequences of what you have done.”

  “There are no consequences,” Mother’s voice snapped. The hate and anger drifting from the room almost materialized. Fumes from it leaked under the door, and for the first time in her life, Phyllis was afraid of her own mother.

  “Let’s go play,” Ilieus whimpered, her eyes dark with fright.

  Phyllis nodded, reaching for her sister’s hand. As their skin came into contact, a spark flashed between the two and a picture swept in front of Phyllis’s eyes. She saw a horned shadow in a forest blurring into the trees. Its form was turned towards a house perched on a hill, watching the figure of a female sweeping the porch. The female’s lips moved in song, and the shadow lifted its head and howled. The vision only lasted a second, but Phyllis snatched her hand away, shaking as goosebumps rose on her arm, unsure of what she had just seen. Ilieus looked at her, confused, and continued to hold out her hand. The voices behind the door grew louder, snatches of phrases leaking out.

  “…Blended Ones…wrong…they will destroy…what have you done?”

  “You must leave…. go and never come back…

  “What have you done?”

  “You are no longer welcome here.”

  “What have you done?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Truth

  He ran in the gloom, bare feet fleeing over the ice fields. Despite the fear that drove him forward, he glanced back, his heart torn, desiring to return when he knew he should run. Any moment he expected to see a crown of leaves smash onto his head, but there was nothing but the eerie silence.

  Blinking, he ducked from invisible branches, his frantic heartbeat reminding him the past weeks weren’t fragments of his scattered mind. He clung to truth as a hungry child clings to the last crust of bread, fiercely, ready to destroy anyone who would take such a treasure away. He stumbled on uneven shards of ice and flung his hands out, attempting to keep his precious face from hitting the ice. He went down hard; his chest exploded in pain as he struggled to suck breath back into his failing body. At least one rib was broken, but there was the possibility his wounds extended much deeper than that. Warm blood dripped out of his mouth as he rose to all fours, his bony fingers searching for traction in the ice.

  Surely he would freeze without clothing, food, and shelter. He took a rasping breath, and his vision blurred in exhaustion as he remembered the words of the creatures of the forest. He could hear their odd voices, hollow and terrible, as they stared at him out of lidless eyes. The chant they spoke echoed in his mind, confirming his worst suspicions.

  “The world is ending.

  The sky is fading into brighter shades of blue.

  The night is deeper, blacker than before.

  The ground is fading, falling into the sea, and only the islands are safe from being eaten by the waves—those greedy waves, crunching away at the landmass, which used to grow forever green. The sands have turned white, and the harvest grows sparse.

  “Every year, fewer and fewer children are born. Families struggle for one, maybe two, and the population decreases. Fear is a tight bandage worn around everyone’s throats. The people groups sense it, but they don’t know what to do, unaware of how to stop the end of all things.

  “A darkness has taken over the north. It grows and seeps underground, yet no one is aware, except for perhaps the Watchers. The Horse Lords have been tasked with finding the source and halting the end of the world, but they are at a loss as they gallop heedless across the landmass, frantically searching for answers, yet finding none.

  “The people groups have started to fray; they cling to one leader who swears he will heal the land and restore the world. Nay, he lies. No mortal can restore the world. It fades, and there is one who is overlooked. One who sits forgotten, his speech lost to the world, and none think to pry open his loose memories and use his knowledge to save the world. Thus, the scroll says. Thus, the people call to each other in uncertainty, and one by one they turn against each other, divided and leaderless, desperate only to save themselves. The song they should sing, the song lost on their tongues, is ‘Who will save us?’

  “The Horse Lord walks forward, well aware of the lifelessness creeping across the land and the desperate hopelessness. It has been happening his entire life. If he does not do something, the Eastern World will perish into Oceantic, and there will not be enough islands to save them all. The land is shrinking, and no one knows why, but the Horse Lords charge themselves with finding the answer. We give you the answer; we give you the name of the one who will save the world.

  “This is a truth that must not be spoken. Once you hear it, you must run, for we will be forced to slay you. Such is the power that binds us; such is the treaty we swore to. We break it only for you; if you must know, this truth is your death sentence.”

  The words they spoke dazzled his mind. Although he was not dead yet, the forest had tried its best. Lifting his head, he squinted as he thought he saw his salvation. Light danced before him, a
warm, yellow light, unlike the cold, dead white light of the forest. He stood, shaking, with his limbs crying out against movement. Even though he knew it was not possible, he glanced behind, but this time the trees weren’t following. His body told him to lie down, but his mind screamed for him to run away as fast as he could to spread the truth of what he knows. When he turned back to face the light, he saw them.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Winter’s Orison

  Pharengon blinked as white flakes of snow lazily floated from the darkening sky, kissing his upturned face. In the fading light, he thought he saw something moving on the northern horizon, which was odd but not completely unreasonable. Raising a hand, he used his long fingers to shield his eyes, squinting as he peered across the barren landscape. Frost had frozen the long prairie grasses into silver icicles that bowed their heavy heads in slumber towards the white-dusted ground. The last lights of the day flickered playfully over them, dazzling the land with spots of bright colors. The turning of the sky signaled the changing seasons, and Pharengon sensed the strange phenomena that only occurred in the northern regions of the Eastern World. The shift in the sky as it turned from autumn blue to winter silver, a night called Winter’s Orison, was celebrated far and wide by the people of the north. Pharengon shrugged his furs tighter around his shoulders. He wasn’t sure if there were any people in the northern regions at all; the people groups were beginning to grow scarce, and the reason terrified him. He glanced back at the warm encampment where the Horse Lords milled about, setting up a temporary camp for the night or the next few days, depending on whether the snow would turn into a full-blown storm. He could hear their muffled shouts as they worked quickly and expertly, as they always did.

  “Do you see that?” Thangone’s deep voice startled Pharengon out of his reprieve. Thangone stood a few paces from Pharengon, a hood pulled over his long blond hair, as he pointed across the crystallized field. “I thought I saw something moving out there.”

  “Aye.” Pharengon nodded, returning his hawk-like gaze to the land that lay before them. “It comes nearer.”

  The two lapsed into silence again, watching the thing move towards them. At first it was simply a vague shape, but as it grew closer, the two could see it was a lone male, running across the ice field. Icicles crunched under his fleeing feet as he stumbled over them, yet he kept turning his bare, dark head as if he were being followed. Pharengon and Thangone exchanged brief glances; each was thinking the same thing. As far as they could tell, there was nothing chasing the frantic male, but perhaps they could gain some information that would help their quest.

  Pharengon briefly dropped his fingers to the hilt of his sword, expecting trouble. His tribe of Horse Lords was scouting the northern countries of the Eastern World because, rumor had it, a secret army was forming. The source of those rumors was one who hailed from the people group called Trazames. As tempting as it was to ignore those warnings, the word of a Trazame was often the plain and simple truth. Trazames, unlike Crons, were homebodies. They preferred a world where unexpected adventures did not interfere with farming, eating, drinking, and overall being merry.

  If, indeed, a sizable army was forming in the northwest, there would be signs of them. An army needed supplies, and there was nowhere on the landmass for them to be completely self-sufficient without attracting attention. Even the Horse Lords in their nomadic pursuits frequently returned to Nungus Des-Lista to trade with the Trazames. Yet, so far, Pharengon and his Horse Lords had found no traces of a secret army, but they had not gone as far as to search the North Forests. Pharengon doubted an army would take cover there. The forests were known for being ruthless; none went beneath those boughs if they intended to return to the mainland. Besides, the horrific truth was that there was something wrong with the Eastern World.

  “Shall we?” Pharengon jerked his head towards the figure who had seen them and slowed down.

  Thangone’s hood moved up and down in assent as the two strode forward; their booted feet flattened the ice into surrender.

  Pharengon and Thangone were of the people group called Crons, characterized by their short stature, fair appearance, and inability to say no to the slightest chance of adventure. However, both of them were tall Crons, standing well over six feet tall instead the more common five and a half feet. The two of them had grown up in the Rolling Hills of Phillondorn, part of the great nation of Horse Lords who traversed the western end of the Eastern World. While Phillondorn was their base, they were nomads, who rode and traveled as whim took them. Their homelessness was also the reason why the Horse Lords traveled with their families and set up roaming camps everywhere they went. If there were battles to be fought, a division of the Horse Lords stayed behind to guard the camps or move them to a secure location, while the fighting sector went ahead.

  The lone male stopped walking as Pharengon and

  Thangone approached and stared at them tentatively. He looked like a carved statue come to life with deep, hollows for his eyes and high but fine cheekbones. His clothing was torn and dirty, and he was much too thin; he was gaunt, as if he hadn’t had a good meal in days. Dark hair fell in waves almost down to his waist, reminding Pharengon of the people group called Tiders who often wore their hair long. But what disturbed Pharengon was how blue the male’s eyes were. Even in the growing darkness, they sparkled with their own inner light. They were as dark and crystal clear as a brightly shined sapphire. Disconcerted, Pharengon looked away.

  “I don’t want any trouble!” the male blurted out as they approached, raising his hands to show them he was unarmed. His mouth was red with blood, and his fingertips were slightly blue from the cold. Pharengon realized he was quite young.

  “What makes you think we want trouble?” Pharengon asked.

  “Clearly,” the male pointed with one finger to the encampment of Horse Lords, “you have me outnumbered. If you wish to capture me, there’s nothing I can do.”

  Pharengon cocked his head, noticing the band of a ring around one of the male’s fingers. “This is a free land, and we are free Crons; there is no need to capture you.”

  The male looked slightly disappointed as he peered wistfully at the warmth of the camp. He shivered visibility, and, for a moment, Pharengon almost thought he saw something else behind those odd eyes. “I hate to impose on you, but…” The male’s eyes shifted. “I’ve fallen on a streak of bad luck and could do with a hot meal. I’d be willing to trade.”

  “Trade?” Thangone bit back a laugh. “What do you propose to trade? The clothes from your back?”

  The male frowned at Thangone and turned his intense gaze back to Pharengon. “You are Horse Lords, are you not?”

  “Yes, what of it?” Pharengon demanded, finding it hard to ignore those eyes.

  “If you are who I think you are, then I have information.” The male held his hands up and began to twist the ring on his finger.

  Pharengon’s eyes followed those nimble fingers as they turned. The ring was a sapphire stone, the same color as the male’s eyes. “You are a Treasure Hunter,” Pharengon exclaimed in surprise. He’d heard of the line of Crons who were searchers; they spent their lives looking for lost, hidden, and often powerful treasure. Even tales of old spoke of their deeds, which often lead to major disasters, including death, feuds, war, and the division of all.

  “Yes, what of it?” The male shrugged, a grin crossing his face like a bolt of lightning as he dropped his hands.

  Pharengon ripped his gaze away from the male’s. “What kind of information do you have to trade?”

  The male went still as if he had turned into an ice sculpture. His voice dropped to a hush as he spoke. “I know why the world is ending and how to stop it.”

  Pharengon angled his body towards Thangone. “Take him to the Keeper.”

  ***

  Thangone and Pharengon flanked either side of the Treasure Hunter as they strode back to camp. Each step brought them closer to the hungry heat of the fire and the spiced burn of r
oasted meat. As the last lights of the day faded in the deep night sky, they entered. Pharengon made a fist and lifted it as they entered the camp. Life teemed around them. The night watch was finishing their meal and moving to the outskirts to keep watch; they lifted their fists in salute as they passed Pharengon. Children ran to their parents’ tents, looking like miniature bears in their furs. Horses stood roped next to tents; their noses were in bags of food with troughs of shimmering water beside them. Farther in, the fires blazed high while giant slabs of meat rotated above the flames; their juices dripped and sizzled, causing sparks to leap out.

  They weaved through the tents, an extra precaution against the weather, winding their way farther into the camp. Typically, the Horse Lords were unconcerned with the elements, spending their time at one with nature. But the impending storm forced them to resort to unusual ways. Pharengon was sure they all wished they had homes made of wood and stone and were safe under those shelters while the wind howled.

  “Miri!” Thangone shouted as they stood in a hall of tents. He spun around, waiting for her to appear, yet he was unsure of what direction she would come from.

  A tent flap lifted and out padded a girl of about sixteen or seventeen. She wore a long white fur coat. Her bouncing curls peeked out from her fur-lined hood. Her face was round, and her eyes were inquisitive. She said nothing; she just looked at the three Crons standing before her. A few seconds later, a large, white tiger, standing as tall as her waist, padded out beside her. It growled as its eyes fell on the strange male. Sharp, white teeth began to appear from the tiger’s unmuzzled mouth, and Pharengon smiled, waiting for the Cron’s reaction. The Treasure Hunter merely glanced from Miri to her tiger; a slow grin lifted his lips, and he collapsed.