Eliesmore and the Green Stone

by Angela J. Ford

  “I believe we saw the spirits of the trees.” Optimistic scanned the area before moving forward toward a staircase. “I don’t understand, Eliesmore. They never come out. Never. Even the Iaen seldom have the pleasure of dancing with them. They are shy creatures called Trespirles. Spirles for short. I wonder if we can set them free.”

  “The spirit of the trees,” Eliesmore repeated. “I did not know they were alive.”

  “Eliesmore, everything is alive,” Optimistic responded. “One. There is the first door.”

  “Thirty-six right, forty-two left, thirty-six right, forty-two left,” Eliesmore repeated.

  They began to count, moving through the castle at a pace between a run and a walk. Around them, they could hear the sound of an army preparing for battle.

  “Thirty-six,” Optimistic panted. “We take a right here.”

  Eliesmore dashed around the corner and came to a stop. Five fully-armed Crons paused when they saw Eliesmore and Optimistic dash up. One raised his sword. “White steeds! Kill them!” he ordered.

  “We have to run for it,” Optimistic warned. He lifted his bow, and his first arrow drove through the shoulder of a Cron, pinning the Cron to the wall. Optimistic’s second shaft slide into a Cron’s leg, throwing him onto his back and knocking the wind out of him. Eliesmore unsheathed his sword and ran, slashing one Cron across the chest and hitting the other on the head. Optimistic’s arrow took out the last one.

  “Let’s go,” Optimistic encouraged, moving past Eliesmore and snatching an arrow from his quiver. “You have the Green Stone. More will come.”

  They dashed up a staircase, counting doors as they went. At last they came to vast hall. Eliesmore felt his eyes widen in alarm as he saw an army of Crons rise to meet them.

  “This is bad,” Optimistic whispered. “I will take as many as I can. Run, Eliesmore.

  Eliesmore paused, taking a deep breath as he raised his sword. He ran toward the roaring Crons as white-tipped arrows zinged past him. He saw a sea of angry faces; red mouths were wide open as they screamed at him to stop. He saw swords raised and archers drop their bows. He heard the clash of armor smacking the stone floor. As Crons fell, three more took their places. They were determined to reach him. A sword struck his cloak, knocking him over. He fumbled on his feet as he was pushed and jostled. He swung. Hair and sweat dripped into his eyes as he struggled. There were too many.

  He lifted his sword and cried out as he pushed against the mass. A silver voice burst through the air. It was the sound of a horn, calling. It sounded once. Twice. Thrice.

  78

  Zhane

  “Prepare for battle,” Zhane ordered as Eliesmore and Optimistic disappeared down the hill. His fingers itched in anticipation. He was ready to swing his sword. He was ready for blood. “We have the high ground. We will hold the hill until they overwhelm us. Then we will retreat to the castle. If all goes well, relief will come.”

  “If all goes well.” Yamier choked on a bitter laugh. “I wish I were a better sword fighter.”

  “Me, too.” Wekin raised his blade. “Seven of us versus an army of woísts and the Black Horse Lords. We are doomed.”

  “We take as many as we can down with us,” Visra spoke fiercely, waving her sword. “Make them pay.”

  “Dathiem and Glashar, stay to the back. You are our archers.” Zhane waved them behind the company.

  “Visra and I are skilled with the blade,” Ellagine told him. “I’ll take the left. Visra, take the right.”

  Zhane nodded. “Yamier. Wekin. Stay behind me. Try not to die.”

  He lifted his sword with the faux-jeweled hilt, wrapping his fingers around it. He was waiting to strike. The dark mass grew clearer as it raced toward them, and Zhane reeled in surprise when he saw the size of the army. He had expected hundreds of thousands of woísts like they had seen in the Holesmoles. The army that marched toward them was sizable, only about a hundred woísts, small enough to give them hope yet large enough to crush that hope into the ground. Zhane blew out his breath in frustration. His eyes searched the sky for a sign of the army from Mizine. He blinked and squinted. He was unsure whether he saw light from the sun or a dark mass moving toward Castle Range.

  It was already too late. If the woísts were not coming to the Constel Heights, they must be enveloping the rest of the world in rivers of death. As the woísts drew nearer, Dathiem let his first arrow fly. Glashar followed his lead. Two woísts in the front of the pack fell dead.

  A harsh war cry went up as the woísts caught sight of the seven on the hill. Zhane felt every pulse as the creatures raced toward them. He could see their hideous faces and saw the battleaxs raised in their hands. He could see his path open before him. Running forward, he twirled his sword and sliced off the head of a woíst. Kicking out his foot, he knocked over another. He drove his sword into a third, and he turned back around to finish off the one he’d kicked. Behind him, he could hear Visra shrieking with a mad sort of glee. Ellagine wheeled in green, not allowing a woíst within arm’s reach.

  “One for the White Steeds!” Zhane heard Yamier and Wekin celebrate as they took down one woíst together. One less creature for him to fight.

  Arrows zipped past him, and Zhane found himself calling, “Retreat!” They were losing ground fast, and he noticed another army approaching from the east. He’d been wrong about the woísts; they were closing in on all sides. There was no time to glance at the sky as he backed up. They held a terrible position as the woísts pushed them down the hill onto the plain before the castle. It was all Zhane could do to keep his footing. He roared as he sliced through the woísts, knowing those in the castle would send backup to stomp the life out of him and his companions.

  He wheeled in time to see Dathiem and Glashar pressed up against the castle walls. Their arrows were meeting their marks. Several woísts had escaped the pack and were running down the hill toward them. The creatures scattered across the meadow. A battleax spun by Zhane’s head, and he ducked. Over the roar of the battle, he heard the thunder of galloping horses. Lifting a battleax from the ground, he hurled it at the woíst in front of him, cursing under his breath. The Black Horse Lords were coming.

  His head exploded with pain as a woíst dived on top of him. They both went down, clawing and scratching. Zhane managed to push his blade between the woíst’s ribs and shoved it off of him. While he was down there, he slashed at the legs of two more woísts, tripping them up as he rose. He brought his sword down, smashing it between their shoulder blades. Sweat and blood poured from his head.

  Yamier. Wekin. He could not see them anymore. Adrenaline rushed in as he found himself alone on the battlefield. Three woísts ran toward him, and he lifted his sword. If this were the end, it would be an end to remember. He ran toward them, and as he did, a horn sounded.

  He reeled backward as a silvery voice floated through the air, calling. Once. Twice. Thrice. His sword froze in the air as he raised his eyes. A flood of hope burst through him as the echoes from the horn faded. He knew what it was as he stood with his chest heaving. It was the Horn of Shilmi, created by the Green People and given to Legone the Swift. For some mysterious reason, it was brought to the South World. Zhane had last seen it in the hands of Idrithar. He took a deep breath and lifted his eyes.

  A dranagin flew over the top of the hill. A rider, on the dranagin’s back, was holding a horn to his lips. The dranagin perched on the hill and roared, creating a ball of fire to char the grass in the meadow. The rider leaped down and drew his sword. Zhane felt his heart stop as he gasped in astonishment.

  “Idrithar!” he heard Wekin cry.

  “Idrithar!” Yamier echoed.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see their fists pumping in the air as they shouted.

  Relief swept through Zhane as Idrithar ran down the hill toward them, and when Zhane lifted his eyes, he could see an army in the air above them. Great birds, Xctas, flew toward them. Each one had an armed Mermi on its back while a ripple of green mo
ved over the plain. Zhane lifted his sword with renewed hope. Help had come.

  79

  Glashar

  The air was filled with cries and howls as the Xctas, Mermis, and Zikes came. Crons marched out from the courtyard, flinging the gates wide, and forced Glashar away from Dathiem. Hundreds of woísts appeared from the east, and the battle raged. Glashar’s arrows were gone; her cloak was ripped and torn. She held her breath as she searched for him, telling herself not to panic. He would be okay. He was by the wall, searching for arrows.

  He was still standing when she saw him, but his expression told her everything was wrong. He dropped to his knees. He had one hand on his side where the crimson stain spread; it was determined to devour his body. His gaze went slack. He was caught in a fog of pain as his eyes met hers. “Find me,” he said, reaching out a hand. A small smile touched his lips as he pitched forward and collapsed.

  A piercing keening hurled through her ears, threatening to burst her eardrums. She stood in horror. She was unwilling to believe what she saw. Darkness shattered her vision, and when she became conscious, she found herself standing in the melee, screaming with all her heart.

  The battle continued to rage about her as she took a deep breath and raised her hands, making a fist. She waited for the golden fire to ignite. Nothing happened. Her eyes were wet as she ran to him. Turning him over, she cradled his head in her lap, leaning over him as she tried to regain her healing powers.

  She opened her hands, pleading for her lost powers to return. Sucking in air as hard as she could, she squeezed her eyes shut and searched for the flame of power.

  Please.

  It did not come.

  Please, don’t leave me.

  She tried again. Her fingernails bit into her palms, causing blood to flow.

  Please. Come back.

  It did not come.

  Again.

  Dathiem.

  Her nose began to bleed.

  Again.

  Dathiem.

  Pain smacked into her head as a blood vessel burst against her will.

  Dathiem. Please, don't leave me.

  Nothing.

  She opened her mouth. A terrible sound came from her lips, and she felt as if her soul were ripping and shredding into pieces.

  80

  Eliesmore

  As the notes of the horn died away, the Crons fled, leaving Eliesmore and Optimistic alone in the hall. Eliesmore found his feet turning to follow them when Optimistic grabbed his arms. “The horn! It’s a decoy; it’s not for us. We need to go!”

  “It calls.” Eliesmore pushed past Optimistic, pausing as the truth registered. “It calls for us to run. You’re right, Optimistic.”

  “Hurry, we have no time. More Crons will come,” Optimistic warned.

  They fled down the hall, counting as they went. The roar and clash of battle thundered around them as they rushed up staircases, around corners, and, at last, to a short hall with the final door. They slowed to a stop, staring breathlessly at it.

  “We’re here…” Eliesmore faltered. “There’s no guard. Do I simply walk inside? It seems too easy.”

  “Guards will return; the horn was a distraction. Go, Eliesmore. I’ll keep watch.”

  “Optimistic,” Eliesmore began.

  Optimistic pushed him toward the door. “It is time.”

  Eliesmore brushed the folds of his cloak aside as he walked down the hall, a nervousness rising within. To have come so far for this unattainable moment felt wondrous. He reached for the door, expecting it to be locked, but the handle turned, and he stepped inside.

  Eliesmore stood spellbound as the door shut behind him of its own accord. He stood in a circular tower with an opening shooting up to the skies. It seemed he was no longer in the castle. A golden fountain filled with bubbling waters was in the center of the room. The waters overflowed the basin. They flowed down to the rock floor where four crevices swelled with sparkling waters running north, south, east and west. The golden bowl was held upright by a stone statue of a Green Lady who, Eliesmore noticed, had similar features to Ellagine. They had the same nose and curve of the lips.

  A strange aura hung in the room. It was as if he’d stepped into a sacred place and must express reverence so not to anger those who created it. He took a step. He discerned that the room was a replica of the light of Shalidir. He could see a crown within the circle, and words glistened on the stone as he walked toward the fountain. They were in Iaen:

  Cast the stone into the water.

  Wait and watch as it dissolves.

  Toss it up in the sky

  So to be a light to all.

  The Green Stone.

  Only after he had read the words, did Eliesmore notice he was holding his breath. He let it out and drew the Green Stone from his tunic. He held it in the palm of his hands, feeling a great need to fall to his knees and bow his head. An extraordinary power surged through the room as he took another step toward the fountain. The stone vibrated, and he could see it had grown bigger, a ripple of cracks appearing on its surface. Forcing himself past his awe and fear, he kept walking toward the fountain. He swallowed hard when he reached it.

  Before he could place the stone in the water, the basin began to shimmer, and three white beings arose from the water, climbing out of the fountain. Their eyes were colorless and lidless. Lights weaved through their bodies. They held out their hands, and Eliesmore stepped back in surprise.

  He wasn't sure if he should be afraid. There were three, but they did not seem to be Changers. All the same, it was best to ask. “Who are you?”

  “We are the Truth Tellers. We come to you with a message from the King of the Land. The Creator.”

  The Truth Tellers. He had heard of them once in the tales from the Eastern World. They spoke a chant. It was a riddle they gave the Treasure Hunters. They always demanded death in exchange for their knowledge.

  “What are you doing here?” Eliesmore exclaimed.

  “We go where we are needed. We dwell in the Between. Do not do this. Do not dissolve the Green Stone. It is a great power and with that power comes a curse and a price. A curse will doom this world, and the price will be the weight of knowledge you must bear. Do not dissolve the stone. It is a trap. It is what the Changers want."

  “But there is the prophecy. This is what I am supposed to do. I am the One who will save this world. My friends are out there dying; a great army races toward them. I must dissolve the stone.” He felt flustered. He had come all this way only for some strange beings to tell him he was wrong. He searched his heart, yet his will remained firm. He had to dissolve the Green Stone; there was no other path.

  “If you do this, you accept the responsibility of what will happen next. You can only save the world for a time. Evil will run its course and eventually return. When it does, there will be no hope, and this world will end.” The three beings continued to speak in unison, swaying back and forth as they delivered their fearsome words.

  “Yes. When the end of time comes. I understand this is only temporary, but if it lasts for thousands of years, my quest will not be in vain.”

  “No. There will be hidden impacts. There will be a ripple that will begin the end of time. Do not dissolve the stone.”

  “What would you have me do instead? The world is fallen. We cannot live in the terror and evil.”

  “Let the world fall now as it is. Now is a relief versus what is to come. The Creator will return and show you a way out.”

  “When? When will this happen? The world has been crying out for a hundred years with no hope. I cannot listen to your words. I cannot believe what you say. Be gone from here, and stop distracting me from my quest.”

  “You were warned.” The three beings turned, disappearing back into the waters from whence they had come.

  Heart pounding, Eliesmore waited. He wanted to forget the strange words; there was no place for them in his mind.

  Finally, he allowed himself to move.

  Holdin
g the Green Stone in both hands, he lowered it into the basin. His hands chilled against the icy touch of the water. He watched, expecting something to happen.

  There was nothing.

  His breath caught. Was he wrong?

  Eliesmore waited, yet nothing happened.

  Leaving the stone in the water, he backed away to read the words in Iaen, taking the time to translate them again. The Green Stone had to be dissolved. It had to be broken open; it had to disintegrate. He paced for a moment. He was frightened of bringing violence to the sacred aura of the tower. An idea came to him as he returned to the basin. The stone had sunk to the bottom where the water marred its reflection. Lifting his sword over the fountain, he brought the tip down hard on top of the Green Stone. As the Jeweled Sword struck the Green Stone, Eliesmore was hurled backward. The babbling of the foundation ceased, and motes of green light began to rise, floating in sparks above the waters.

  Eliesmore clamored to his feet, gasping as the Green Stone rose out of the water. It was bigger and misshapen as it began to burst. Streaks of green split it open while the light blues of the shimmering water flowed off of it. The stone continued to expand as a humming vibration sounded. A note, high and pure, rent the air, and then the stone exploded.

  A hurricane of green light blasted through the room, wailing as it shot across the chamber. The water turned to green fire as the power ricocheted off the walls, rising to a sharp point before it plunged into Eliesmore. A flash struck his vision. He took a breath as light and power filled him. Just when he thought he was brimming over, it persisted, flooding into him. He lifted his hands, struggling for breath as the power continued to pour in. Opening his mouth, he allowed a silent scream to take over his body.