Eliesmore and the Green Stone

by Angela J. Ford

Wekin looked up to find a tall Cron standing over him. The tall Cron sat down beside him as a water skin was pushed into his hands. Wekin took a long swallow.

  “I am Lord Axle,” the Cron began. His brown eyes were shallow, constantly shifting back and forth as if he were unsure of himself. “I lead these Horse Lords, and I am in charge of your fate. If you help me, perhaps I can help you.”

  Wekin continued to guzzle water.

  “Your answers to these questions may determine whether we set you free or take you to the Torsilo Quarts. You are aware of what awaits you there?”

  Wekin choked and coughed again, recognizing the veiled threat.

  Lord Axle moved in front of Wekin and began, his voice cold and slow. “What were you doing with that company in the orchard?”

  “Running.” Wekin perked up, happy for an easy question.

  Lord Axle paused, his mouth hanging open a fraction, taken aback by the Wekin’s answer. He furrowed his brows. “Why were you running?”

  “You, the wolves, and dogs were chasing us.” Wekin shuddered.

  The Cron’s eyes darkened. “Why were we chasing you?”

  Wekin glanced up at the sky, searching for answers. “I suppose the farmers called you to fight their battle.”

  Lord Axle’s voice lowered. “Why did they call? Because your company was in the orchard. Tell me: what were you doing there?”

  Wekin shrugged. “It was my fault for picking Murthweeld.”

  Lord Axle glowered. “How many are in your company?”

  Wekin took another long drink, emptying the water skin. He tossed it away and fixed Lord Axle with a stare.

  “Why were you traveling this far north?” Lord Axle prodded.

  Wekin sat still in silence, biting his tongue to keep it from leaping out.

  “I know you are a White Steed. Answer me!” Lord Axle demanded.

  “No!” Wekin jerked away, leaping up. “I don’t care what you do. You won’t get any information from me!”

  “Sit down,” Lord Axle snapped. “If you don’t answer me, you’ll get what you deserve.”

  “If I do tell you, I will get the same thing,” Wekin muttered under his breath. Louder, he demanded, “Where are you taking me?”

  “To the castle in the Torsilo Quarts and maybe then to Daygone,” Lord Axle answered. “As the rule goes, torture—Torsilo Quart—first and then death—Daygone.”

  Wekin froze, the color draining from his face at the mention of Daygone.

  “Sleep.” Lord Axle laughed at Wekin’s expression. “When you are ready to talk, find me.”

  For the first time in his life, Wekin passed a sleepless night. He watched the stars and fidgeted with the rope as it bit into his skin. He could not help but feel the end was near; his time before he reached the Torsilo Quarts would be critical. He had to find a way to eat bacon one last time.

  The days trickled by as Wekin planned his escape, unwilling to endure the foul food the Horse Lords forced down his throat each night. His hands worked against the ropes, undoing the knots and releasing his sore wrists. The Horse Lords were slow to notice his freedom. When they set camp that evening, Wekin settled in the dust and picked up a stick, finding comfort in the familiar strokes. He sketched out the Eastern South World, also known as the Hill Countries. His fingers caressed the graceful swoops of the hill countries, the craggy mountains, and the vague circles of islands to the north of Daygone. As a signature, he marked the countries with their names in the common tongue. His eyes reluctantly followed his lonely journey toward the Torsilo Quarts, and he found himself wishing for the kind attentions of the Mermis in the fortress.

  “You are a mapmaker?” The voice made him jump. “Lord Axle, look at this,” a Tider called, pointing to Wekin’s map.

  Lord Axle strode over, pausing in surprise at Wekin’s artistic abilities. “Ah, you must be from the Eastern Hill Countries. Tell me: where did the company you traveled with originate from?”

  Wekin just stared at the map. “I can’t tell you,” he snapped when Lord Axle prodded him for answers.

  “Who taught you how to draw maps?” Lord Axle tried a different approach.

  Wekin sighed. “My father.”

  “Family business, I presume.” Lord Axle attempted to fill in gaps of knowledge. “He took you across the South World?”

  Wekin leaned back. How could he possibly have traveled the South World? The Horse Lord presumed too much. “Of course not,” he blurted out before he remembered he should not be talking.

  “Draw a map of the western South World,” Lord Axel instructed, crossing his arms.

  Wekin paused, considering how much trouble drawing a simple map would get him into. When he could not come up with a reason, he took up his stick and began. This time he drew quickly instead of relishing the art. The watching Horse Lord seemed to taint his enjoyment.

  “How do you know it is like that?” Hints of awe flickered in his tone.

  “My father taught me,” Wekin repeated.

  “And how does your father know? Because he traveled the world. He must be the leader of your company,” the Cron said more to himself than Wekin. He grabbed Wekin's shoulder. “Where is he now?” he hissed.

  Wekin pulled back. “He’s dead.”

  “Dead? Are you sure you aren’t lying?” Lord Axle asked.

  “If I were lying, I wouldn’t be here. I would be back…” Wekin trailed off at a loss for words.

  Lord Axle sat back on the ground and folded his arms. “You could do well as a Black Steed. There would be a place for you with the Horse Lords, and you could avoid this nasty business regarding being tortured in the Torsilo Quarts. There are few White Steeds in the South World. If you remain loyal to them, you doom yourself to a lifetime of misery. We will catch the One. Only time will tell. He is your leader, isn’t he? The One ‘Song’ is sung about?”

  Wekin burst into laughter; the combination of the Cron offering him a place with the Horse Lords while assuming Eliesmore was the leader of the Green Company was too much for him. “No.” He wiped his eyes.

  Lord Axle’s face grew dark. “Are you sure? He is a Blended One with black hair and jeweled eyes, green, like the Treasure Hunters. Are you certain?”

  Wekin was stunned. It was the first time someone had alluded to Eliesmore as a Treasure Hunter, a Jeweled One. He supposed it was true. Eliesmore had emerald green eyes. The Green Stone belonged to him, which meant…Wekin scrunched up his face as a thought possessed him. His brain began to hurt from thinking. The Blended Ones were scorned, according to the tales of Pharengon of the Jeweled Sword and his companions. The Blended Ones had a way of manipulating events to their advantage. Even in the Eastern World, the Treasure Hunters had searched for the Clyear of Power. However, it had come to a Blended One. Perhaps Eliesmore had the same devious nature. Wekin frowned. “I’m certain,” he told Lord Axle.

  “Who is your leader?” Lord Axle sat back thoughtfully, failing to notice Wekin tossing the rope into the fire. “Think about it.” He pressed Wekin. “Join my company of Horse Lords. Turn to the ways of the Black Steeds.”

  “Never.” Wekin glared at him. “I am a White Steed. It is the only serious choice I will ever make.”

  “We shall see about that when we reach the Torsilo Quarts.” Lord Axle rose, leaving Wekin to consider the consequences of his refusal.

  47

  Eliesmore

  Eliesmore led the way, his heart thudding behind his rib cage as they neared the black castle. Optimistic, Arldrine, and Yamier ran beside him. Yamier’s shoulders quaked from exhaustion. They had pushed themselves hard the past two weeks, hoping to reach the castle of the Black Steeds before Wekin was cast into torture. They knew it was likely that they were too slow.

  “There it is,” Yamier breathed in excitement as they approached the castle.

  It stood just as dark and intimidating as Eliesmore remembered. He shivered, reminding himself this time it was different. “How should we attack?” Eliesmore asked
Arldrine.

  “We either barge in the front door or creep around the back. That’s how real attacks go,” Yamier suggested.

  Somehow, Eliesmore doubted Yamier had ever been in a real attack.

  “We aren’t attacking; we are procuring Wekin,” Arldrine objected. “Besides, the Black Steeds aren’t used to White Steeds showing up. We can simply walk in the front door.”

  “Oh.” Yamier frowned.

  “The torture rooms are toward the front of the castle,” Eliesmore recalled. “That’s likely where he will be.”

  Optimistic hid his bow in the folds of his cloak. “Let’s go.”

  Arldrine took the lead and raised a fist, pounding on the heavy doors. They swung open. There were two guards on either side of the entrance. A Tider strode out. “Who are you and where do you come from?” he demanded.

  The Tider’s hand shot out. Arldrine spun, slapping away his hand and pinning him against the wall. “Where is the Cron?” she ordered.

  “There he is!” Yamier shouted.

  Two guards marched down the hall toward them, each holding one of Wekin’s arms. Wekin stared at them, his eyes giving off an odd glitter as he watched them. Arldrine turned, spinning the Tider with her, as the guards shouted.

  Optimistic lifted his bow, sending a warning arrow, and then he punched the two guards at the door. Arldrine threw the Tider into the wall, letting her fists fly. The guards reached for Arldrine, but her dagger was faster, piercing one in the side while slicing through the other’s arms. She pulled Wekin toward her, cutting his binds at the same time.

  Yamier and Eliesmore stood back, mouths hanging open as they watched the quick retrieval.

  “More will come; let’s run!” Optimistic shouted, moving back toward the door with an arrow in his bow.

  There was a shout in the castle, and they turned.

  “Took you long enough.” Wekin laughed, tilting back his head. The odd glimmer in his eyes was gone.

  “Lord Axle!” Shouts came from the castle. “He is getting away!”

  “No time to talk! Run!” Arldrine hustled Wekin forward.

  They dashed across the plain as the guards burst through the castle door.

  “Leave them!” Lord Axle commanded. “The Rakhai are nearby; they will hunt them down. We have other matters to attend to.”

  “But they are White Steeds!” a voice countered.

  As the guards moved, a blue fire erupted in front of them, blocking their exit. There were shouts and screams from those who had been singed.

  Eliesmore continued to run, feeling the wind on his back. He saw a figure standing in front of the castle with a hand out, waiting for them. “Idrithar?” he called.

  The stern-faced Cron nodded and lifted his hand again, blue fire tingling from his fingertips.

  “Welcome back.” Idrithar nodded. “Come. We must rejoin the others.”

  Eliesmore bit back questions as they dashed over the plain. He saw Ellagine first; she was a blur of shimmering pale green. Glashar, Zhane, and Dathiem had arrows waiting. When they saw it was only their comrades, they lowered them.

  “Wekin.” They welcomed him, clasping hands on his back. Wekin grinned as if he’d defeated the Black Steeds single-handedly.

  “I am sorry for the trouble I caused.” He turned to each of them, although his expression did not indicate he was the least bit apologetic.

  “No need for that.” Idrithar brushed past. “It is over, and you are unscathed. In fact, you helped us get to the Torsilo Quarts faster. We are only ten days away from the shore.”

  “We should run,” Glashar interrupted. “We can talk later.”

  Before they took off, Eliesmore felt Ellagine approach him. Her eyes were hopeful, and she smiled as she leaned down. She whispered, “You have succeeded once. You can succeed again.”

  Eliesmore smiled up at her as if they shared a private secret.

  They ran, a company of green blending with the ground. Giant trees, with their boughs stretched wide, flashed past them, paving the road toward the sea. Thoughts swirled around Eliesmore’s head. One took priority. He was exhausted from running. For two weeks, he had fled with his companions, seeing nothing aside from blank sky and empty land. Once they had discovered a map that was covered in dust, Yamier was sure it was Wekin’s work. They’d run on, searching for their lost friend. Eliesmore wished they were already at sea. It was something he’d desired since he was young. He could almost hear the song of the waves, rocking him to sleep. He wanted to lie in a boat and forget about his quest, the Rakhai, and what would happen to the Green Company in the west. Although they would be far from Daygone, there were two Changers in the west. They were going into the heart of darkness.

  As if reading his thoughts, evening fell. It wasn’t until the shadows shifted that Idrithar called for a stop. They collapsed on the ground, forming a circle. Some learned against trees, catching their breath. Their faces were little more than thin shadows as they looked at each other. Wekin was half-asleep when Idrithar called him. “Wekin, tell us your tale.”

  Yawning as he sat up, he rubbed his eyes before he began his exaggerated tale. When he finished, he sat back with pride.

  Idrithar gave Wekin a nod of respect. “You did well Wekin, in spite of the dreadful things that were going to happen to you. You have proved yourself a true White Steed.”

  Wekin turned to Yamier, his eyes shining. “Did you hear that?”

  Zhane threw back his head and chuckled. “Oh, Wekin.”

  Idrithar lifted a hand. “About the Rakhai.”

  Eliesmore froze. He closed his eyes, and there it was: the cold shadow of fear sliding into his heart again. He dreaded the words Idrithar was about to speak, yet he needed to know.

  “The Rakhai left Daygone a week ago.”

  “How do you know?” Eliesmore gasped.

  “At first we felt it,” Zhane explained. “There was a cloud of darkness following us.”

  “They have new horses.” Glashar shuddered. “Giant stallions. They won’t be easy to kill.”

  Arldrine crossed her arms; her brow was furrowed.

  “If our suspicions are correct, they will reach the Torsilo Quarts today,” Idrithar concluded.

  “No.” Eliesmore groaned, closing his eyes.

  “Eliesmore.” Optimistic touched his arm. “Are you okay?”

  Eliesmore opened his eyes as if waking from a nightmare. “I will be.” He addressed his next question to Idrithar. “Should we run on now?”

  “No.” Idrithar shook his head. “We are exhausted. A good night’s sleep will do everyone a lot of good. Rest and regain your strength. We have seven days of running ahead of us.”

  Eliesmore lay back and put his head down, even as he heard Idrithar calling for the night watchers. He closed his eyes, and everything faded.

  48

  Arldrine

  Arldrine rose as the company settled down to sleep. Yamier and Wekin were already unconscious. They were back to back; likely dreaming of bacon.

  “Arldrine,” Ellagine whispered her name. She reached out a hand, motioning to an empty place by her side.

  “One moment,” Arldrine called to her. She and Ellagine were close like Zhane and Dathiem. They met years ago when Ellagine entered the woods of Truemonix for the first time. They had been quite young: Ellagine was only seventeen, and Arldrine was eighteen. “Idrithar, a word in a private?” She brushed the fog of gloom from her mind.

  “Zhane.” Idrithar beckoned. “Join us.”

  They moved through the trees, just out of earshot of the company. Arldrine took a deep breath, reminding herself to listen before making assumptions. There was a logical reason for each action Idrithar took. “You set Wekin up,” she snapped, her voice cold. “Why did you let him get captured?”

  If Idrithar was surprised at her accusation, he did not show it. “I did not set him up; you could see how far he was from us. It would have been folly to risk a battle with the Horse Lords. However, it did g
ive us an opportunity.” He moved closer to Arldrine, dropping his voice. “Zhane and I have been in consternation over the actions of the Rakhai, and Wekin’s capture gave us a chance to test our suspicious. Tell me: did you hear wind of the Rakhai as you ran with Eliesmore and Optimistic? Think.”

  “No.” Arldrine shifted her eyes from Zhane to Idrithar. “It was peaceful. It was silent, almost dull.”

  “It is because they aren’t chasing them; they are chasing us.” Idrithar spread his hands, gesturing toward their sleeping companions. “We are their target, not Eliesmore. Not Optimistic.”

  Arldrine crossed her arms, and her eyes darkened. “That cannot be right,” she argued. “When Ellagine, Eliesmore, Optimistic, and I traveled to the fortress, they hunted us. They attacked us and wounded Eliesmore. They are coming for him.” She nodded, trying to believe her words, although she knew Idrithar was right.

  “Perhaps.” Idrithar held up a finger, as he always did when proving a point. “Perhaps they mean for him to complete this quest and dissolve the Green Stone. A game is afoot. Zhane, have you told her what Dathiem conveyed to you?”

  Zhane stepped forward; his eyes were guarded. “Dathiem believes the Iaens are attempting to brainwash Eliesmore. Once he dissolves the Green Stone, they want to use him for their own desires.”

  “You believe this?” Arldrine glared at him, angry with him for thinking ill of the Iaen and annoyed at him for ignoring her.

  “No,” Zhane disagreed, holding up a hand. “No. Ellagine, Glashar, and Visra are our friends. We will do them no harm. Dathiem does have a valid argument. When Eliesmore dissolves the Green Stone, we must be on guard; it is the moment when the Changers will strike us hard. We must be ready.”

  Arldrine gave Idrithar and Zhane a steely look. “We will be ready.” Her tone was cold. “We will have Eliesmore. We will win.”

  “At what cost?” Idrithar’s words prevented her from walking away. “You know this. You have seen the balance that sways in the deep. If Eliesmore dissolves the Green Stone, he will be like the immortals. A choice will rise before him, and he will have to choose whose desires he will answer to: those of the mortals or the immortals. It has always been this way: mortals versus immortals. You know the rumors about the Blended Ones. Beware. Lest they drive us into folly and death. Beware.”