Eliesmore and the Green Stone

by Angela J. Ford

  Too late, Eliesmore realized he was doing the exact opposite of what Optimistic suggested. He’d allowed his vexation with Visra to push away Yamier and Wekin.

  “If you don’t want to talk, we’ll find something else to do.” Wekin rolled his eyes.

  “Wait…” Eliesmore started, fully intent on repenting. He was already too late.

  Leaving Yamier to walk with Eliesmore, Wekin bounded ahead. He sniffed around the edges of a field before he snatched a plant out of the ground and came back shouting, “Look! Murthweeld! We’ll be rich!”

  At the same time, two ferocious barks drowned out the sound of Wekin’s celebration.

  Zhane grabbed Wekin’s arm and shouted to the rest, “Run!”

  Eliesmore dashed forward, wondering what Murthweeld was.

  Idrithar pointed north. “There’s an orchard up ahead. Scale the trees.”

  A howl echoed through the farmland, followed by sharp barks and a growl. Eliesmore’s vision spun; he couldn’t see the animals, yet it sounded like they were surrounded. The howls and barks continued, raising the hair on Eliesmore’s back. The golden fields blurred before him, changing from gold, to green, and finally to gray. The shapes clicked in his mind before his eyes saw them. Dogs. Wolves. Black and gray creatures raced through the fields, running low on four legs. Their slobbering, pink tongues hung out of their mouths. A lone wolf sat back on its haunches on a hill. It turned back its head and sent a chilling call sweeping across the fields.

  Idrithar was already at the orchard, swinging up into the trees in a spry way Eliesmore was surprised to see. Ellagine and Glashar were close behind him. Visra floated above the ground. She had a sword in her hand and a smirk on her face as she watched the creatures dash toward them.

  Optimistic snatched at the branch of a tree and scrambled upward. Eliesmore arrived at the base of the tree and reached. A hand grabbed his arm and hauled him to a branch, resting on his shoulder to steady him. Eliesmore looked up and found Arldrine crouched beside him, already reaching for Yamier. He moved back; he was surprised at her ability to lift the Crons. Wekin had his head down; his unruly curls hung in his eyes.

  By the time they had reached the lower tree branches, a pack of wolf dogs was at the base, howling and digging at the roots.

  “Look!” Yamier squeaked. “They’ll uproot the tree!”

  “No.” Zhane shook his head. “Nevertheless, we should move on.”

  “Move on?” Wekin perked up, grabbing at a tree branch to steady himself as he swayed. “Where?”

  “We go onward through the trees,” Idrithar explained. “The wolves are the least of our worries.” He pointed.

  Eliesmore could see figures in the distance. They were Crons or Tiders. They conferred together, pointing to the wolves, before taking out swords and walking downhill, toward the noise.

  “I thought we would go unnoticed!” Eliesmore objected, touching his cloak as if to confirm it.

  “There is nothing for it; they’ve seen us now,” Idrithar countered, muttering the last sentence under his breath. “The powers that keep us guarded are proving to be unreliable at times.”

  They climbed through the treetops like squirrels, springing from bough to bough.

  “I can kill them,” Visra shrieked to Idrithar; she waved her sword as she flew behind the company.

  “Leave them be,” Idrithar called. “We only fight if we must. There is no need to heedlessly and recklessly spill blood.”

  “I think there is,” Visra spun in midair. Her foot kicked out and collided with Glashar, who happened to be in her path.

  Glashar hissed; a string of curses in Iaen fell from her lips as she whirled. For a second, the Jesnidrain and Falidrain stared at each other, the heat of crushed orange floated around them before bleeding into red anger. Eliesmore paused as he watched them; he was reminded of Optimistic’s explanation of Visra’s past. Glashar must have had something to do with it.

  “Power-hungry tyrant.”

  “Murderous villain.”

  Words sharp as daggers coated the air.

  “Coili!” Ellagine ordered in Iaen, a green fire seeping over her skin.

  “Wekin,” Dathiem spoke up, diverting attention away from the smoldering Idrains. “Do you still have the plant?”

  “Murthweeld? Yes.” Wekin’s shoulders slumped. “I have no desire to carry the cause of trouble. Here.” He tossed the green leaf he carried to Dathiem, who deftly caught it and held it up, examining it from every angle.

  “What is Murthweeld?” Eliesmore asked as he climbed, grateful for the diversion.

  “It is known for its mythical properties. It generally gives those who ingest unnatural strength and longevity. It was originally farmed by the Idrains,” Zhane explained.

  “This is a fated discovery, Wekin,” Idrithar admonished him. “Perhaps all of your spontaneous urges are not wrong.”

  Wekin hung his head, misunderstanding Idrithar’s words. “I did not mean to bring trouble raining down on our heads.”

  “You are a young Cron still,” Idrithar added dryly.

  “They are coming,” Dathiem pointed north.

  Eliesmore peered through the greenery, watching as a few Crons stood on the edges of the orchard. They gazed at the trees. They spoke to each other, shrugging their shoulders and holding their hands up. One reached to the ground, lifted up something that looked like a rock, and hurled it at the trees.

  “They think we are birds, eating the blossoms,” Zhane reasoned.

  “We will move faster on the ground,” Ellagine pointed out. “If they see us, they see us.”

  Idrithar grunted as Visra flew down, alighting on the ground and waiting for the wolves to leap toward her. A gray spotted wolf, almost as large as she was, leaped. She swiped at it with her sword, laughing as it sprang away at the last moment. Pushing off with her muscular legs, she left the ground, floating just out of reach as the wolf snarled and leaped again.

  “I’ll help distract them,” Arldrine offered, sliding out of the tree. She swung on a branch before landing on her feet a few feet away from Visra. Lifting her bow, she nocked an arrow in it and let it fly.

  “The rest of you, climb down on the other side of the orchard,” Idrithar instructed. “I’ll help keep the wolves distracted while you run.”

  “If only Fastshed and company had stayed with us.” Wekin sighed, lifting his eyes to the sky. “We could have ridden out of this mess.”

  “You must learn to live without horses to provide a hasty escape from trouble,” Idrithar reprimanded him.

  Wekin pursed his lips, giving Idrithar a mixed glare of sorrow and disbelief.

  As Eliesmore turned to follow Optimistic back to solid ground, a rock slammed into his head. Jagged pain took his vision for mere seconds, causing his eyes to water. He lost his grip on the tree and felt himself pitch forward, only to be caught by strong hands. One slipped over his head, and a gentle voice whispered, “Hítherald.”

  The darkness rolled away, and the pain faded as if chased from his memory by beads of light. Eliesmore opened his eyes to find Dathiem beside him. The Tider removed his hand without offering an explanation and moved on.

  “Mocteo, Eliesmore, with me,” Ellagine called.

  Eliesmore nodded, glancing at Dathiem before climbing down the tree beside Ellagine. On the other side of the orchard, the wolves had begun to whine and growl, running in circles away from Visra and Arldrine. They strained as if an invisible fence had been built around them, keeping them from the Green Company.

  Ellagine squeezed Eliesmore’s shoulder as their feet hit the soft ground. “They are coming,” she whispered. “Run.”

  Zhane and Yamier were not far behind them as they set off across the farmland, all pretense of secrecy gone. As he ran, Eliesmore reminded himself this predicament was far better than being chased by the Rakhai. He glanced behind to see how the others were faring and if the wolves were chasing them. As he looked, he saw a black cloud moving toward them. A
s it neared, Eliesmore could hear the thunder of horse hooves pounding across the farmland, and in a split second, he thought he saw the white-black faces of the Monrages. When he looked again, he saw a company of Crons and Tiders rushing toward them.

  “Avoid bloodshed if possible,” Idrithar ordered.

  Somehow Eliesmore saw Idrithar had moved to the front of the company along with Arldrine and Glashar. Visra was behind, buzzing as she watched the horses and waving her sword in anticipation. Eliesmore saw a glint of blood; he doubted Visra would heed Idrithar’s words. From all accounts, she seemed set on bloodshed.

  “It’s the Black Horse Lords,” Zhane shouted. “We need to avoid them.”

  Eliesmore felt his pace slow as a cloud of dust enveloped him. He turned, trying to keep his head and stay with the company.

  “Spread out,” Idrithar called.

  But Eliesmore could not see him anymore. For a brief moment, he was alone in the cloud, smelling the foul stench of dung and unwashed bodies as the Black Horse Lords swept through the midst of the Green Company. Faces flickered in and out of his eyesight. Beaked noses. Thick beards. Shallow eyes. Bushy eyebrows. Armor glinted in the light. For mere moments, it seemed as if he saw a raven picking at a stump of dead flesh, blood black as ink spreading across the ground. Poison and rot were taking root, and there was nothing he could do.

  Eliesmore heard a voice scream in panic: “Help! Help me!”

  He choked on a cloud of dust and found himself standing still. The Black Horse Lords were gone as quickly as they had come, galloping north. The dust began to settle, and Eliesmore brushed it off his shoulders. His hands fell to his sword as he turned to rejoin the company.

  Yamier’s eyes bulged out of his head as he pointed in the direction the Black Horse Lords had gone. “They took him!” he shouted. “We have to go after them. We have to save him!”

  Eliesmore counted. He closed his eyes and found himself in the cloud of darkness again. This time, he saw it. Dark blue eyes in the midst of swirling dust, begging for help. He opened his eyes and counted his companions. Wekin was missing.

  “Those who are lost, are lost,” Idrithar spoke with no emotion in his voice.

  “No,” Yamier shouted, his face turning red in a fury. “We have to save him. You know they will take him to the Torsilo Quarts. It will be torture and then death. You can’t let that happen to Wekin!”

  Idrithar bowed his head, making no move to address Yamier’s cries. The rest of the company stared aghast, looking from Idrithar to Yamier in confusion.

  Eliesmore stepped forward, remembering when he was taken to the Torsilo Quarts. As troublesome as Wekin was, he was also a White Steed. Wasn’t that why Eliesmore was the One? To save the White Steeds from the Black Steeds? To save the world from the Changers? Letting Wekin fall to his doom would be counterproductive. Besides, if they tortured Wekin, eventually he would give up the details of the Green Company. How could Idrithar let that happen?

  “Please?” Yamier was begging; his hands were clasped in front of him as he beseeched Idrithar. “Please.”

  Eliesmore looked at the stunned faces surrounding him. They were waiting for a decision. Waiting for Idrithar.

  “I’m going then.” Yamier crossed his arms. “I’m going to get Wekin.”

  “I’ll come with you.” Eliesmore stepped toward Yamier, his heart thudding in his chest as his fingers gripped the Jeweled Sword.

  Yamier stared at him in disbelief. “But you can’t. You’re the One.”

  “I’m going,” Eliesmore affirmed, his voice quiet.

  “Those who would go with Eliesmore and Yamier may go.” Idrithar lifted his head.

  “Idrithar,” Zhane spoke suddenly. “Are you sure?”

  Idrithar’s gaze was cold as he looked at Zhane. “Those who would go with Eliesmore and Yamier may go,” he repeated, his words driving into Zhane like a sword.

  Zhane stood taller, folding his arms.

  “I have been to the castle in the Torsilo Quarts,” Eliesmore spoke again. “I know what they will do to him.”

  “You must travel with all speed,” Idrithar told him. “They have horses, and you are only on foot. You must do whatever it takes.”

  “I will go,” Optimistic volunteered, moving to stand with Eliesmore and Yamier.

  “I know the way.” Arldrine touched her bow as she joined them. “I will lead.”

  “We will split, but not for long,” Idrithar said. “You four will go off after Wekin. The rest of us will hurry across the Sandg Sizge Hills in another direction to further confuse the Rakhai should they start following us.”

  Remembering the Rakhai, Eliesmore felt disconcerted as he realized the power fighters would not be coming with him. He looked at Idrithar and then at Ellagine.

  “Don’t worry,” Ellagine encouraged, her blue eyes smiling at him. “You can do this. It is a far less dangerous task than the Green Stone.”

  Eliesmore felt a warm stream of peace flow through him as he met her eyes.

  “We will meet you again in the Torsilo Quarts when you find Wekin,” Idrithar told Eliesmore.

  “I’m ready,” Eliesmore answered.

  “Then I suggest you go with all speed. The Black Horse Lords are almost out of sight,” Idrithar said. He paused as he stroked his beard. “Eliesmore, let no one see your sword.”

  Eliesmore took one last look at his companions. He looked at Ellagine, the beautiful Green Person. She nodded at him. “Run.”

  46

  Wekin

  Wekin rode on one of the black horses in the iron grip of a Cron. When he’d first found himself snatched away from his companions, he had been frightened. The grip of the Cron who held him had not slackened. Wekin considered squirming and demanding the Cron loosen his grip. After a few minutes of warring with his two choices, he concluded it served him right for stealing Murthweeld and getting into trouble in the first place. Recognizing his punishment, he turned his attention to his surroundings.

  The Horse Lords galloped through lush farmlands, dotted with trees and the swell of hills. Boring. Wekin took a deep breath and let out an inaudible sigh. Thus far, his adventures with the Green Company had been utterly boring. Life at the fortress had been utterly boring. Perhaps the Horse Lords would provide some excitement to his dull life. Tilting his head as best he could, he examined his captors.

  The Crons and Tiders were much bigger than him in both height and muscular thickness. They were dressed in black from head to toe. They had polished helmets to protect their heads yet there was an opening to reveal their faces. Wekin wanted to ask what they wanted with him. It was clear he was a White Steed, which meant they would take him to one of two places for further questioning and perhaps torture: Daygone or the Torsilo Quarts.

  For the first time, he began to wonder if the Green Company would come after him. Were they angry at his foolishness? Would they leave him to his doom? Before the overwhelming thoughts of loneliness and torture settled in his mind, he reprimanded himself because Idrithar was not there to do it. It was too dangerous for the Green Company to come after him. After all, their quest was to dissolve the Green Stone. While that task alone seemed impossible, it would be foolhardy for them to come after him. He was a nobody. Worthless. He closed his eyes, willing the thoughts to go away. Worry was not for him. He had to focus on the present.

  As the wings of night moved across the countryside, the Black Horse Lords reined in their mounts and dismounted one by one. Wekin was pulled off the horse and dumped on the ground like a sack of Murthweeld. Before he could take a step, hands came down on his shoulders. “Pass me rope,” the Cron muttered.

  “Aye.” Another Cron nodded, holding out rope as he moved toward them.

  “Hey,” Wekin protested as the Cron reached for him. “I don’t need to be tied up.”

  The Cron raised his hand and slapped Wekin’s face, causing his head to jerk back. “You’ll do as you’re told,” the Cron grunted.

  Wekin narrowed his
eyes at the bully before holding out his wrists. The Cron tied the rope around his hands, pulling the knots tighter than necessary at the end. Using the rest of the rope as a leash, he jerked Wekin to the middle of the encampment.

  The Black Horse Lords allowed their horses to graze in a circle around them. In the midst of the circle, a fire was built, and presently Wekin detected the scent of something foul. He sniffed. They didn’t know how to cook. The spices in the air were wrong, and whatever it was they were cooking was likely dead too long. Wekin stuck out his lower lip, wishing for Yamier’s comforting cooking.

  The foul substance was soon warmed, and a Cron walked around, handing out cups of the inedible slush to each Horse Lord. Wekin accepted his without a word, holding it gingerly in his bound hands as he speculated why the Horse Lords had wooden cups instead of leaves, which were easier to carry.

  The Cron who had captured Wekin examined him and bellowed out, “Eat!”

  “No.” Wekin stuck his nose in the air. “It is foul food. Your horses could cook a better meal if you’d let them.” He grinned, proud of his statement, but the murderous look on the Cron’s face wipe away his gloating.

  “Eat,” the Cron commanded, lumbering over to Wekin. He grabbed a fistful of Wekin’s hair, yanking his head back.

  “Stop it,” Wekin complained. “You don’t have to get so upset; I was merely stating a fact.”

  Ignoring him, the Cron clamped a hand around Wekin’s jaw, forcing his mouth open, and dumped the entire contents of the cup into Wekin’s mouth.

  Wekin gagged and choked, attempting to spew out the bitter meal. The angle his head was at prevented the food from spilling, and he managed to swallow some, coughing and his eyes streaming as it burned his mouth and throat.

  “Water,” Wekin choked out when the Cron let go of him. He felt the warm liquid dripping down his chin onto his tunic.

  The Cron gaffed, causing a spurt of laughter from the other Horse Lords.

  “Give him water,” a stern voice ordered.