“I will be yours.”
“And you will be mine.”
“This promise is sealed.”
“As long as the stars shall endure.”
“As long as our souls are entwined.”
“I will fight with you, honor you, love you and respect you.”
“We shall live and love for an eternity.”
“I will love you, now, forever, and always.”
“Zhane.”
“Arldrine.”
“I just saw it. When we kissed. I saw the future. It’s us.”
“Of course.”
“No, I mean, we are the future. We are the Rulers of the West.”
Zhane stepped back, gazing at her. “Are you sure?” he whispered.
“I saw it, that’s why we are here. To unite the tribes and clans of the mountains, to restore them to themselves.”
Zhane embraced her, holding her tight for long moments before leading her to a cave. He pulled a fur across the opening for privacy. They lay down their weapons together, and Zhane reclined on the rock which doubled as a bed, covered with furs. Arldrine wondered, briefly, what creature the furs had belonged to, for it seemed odd that such an animalistic tribe would use furs, their skin, as frequently as they did. Distracting her, Zhane took her hand and pulled her to his side. “I have a story to tell you, one I have not told before.” A brief shadow crossed over his eyes.
“I’m listening,” she encouraged him.
“This used to be home. Here is where I grew up. Stronghold, in the southern end of the mountains, was taken from the Therian before I was born. It’s a stone fortress, on the cusp of Itmether, where all the clans dwelt until they were betrayed.” He fell silent, his thumb running across the palm of Arldrine’s hand. She shivered under his touch, but the white motes that came out when they touched were silent. She felt the edges of power glistening around them with a new sensation of control.
“In my father’s clan the bloodline is sacred, but even more so is the ability to shift. To change. It is a tradition for the children of the Therian, male and female alike, to set out on our first hunt at ten years of age. Dathiem and I went out on our solo hunts around the same time, but we did not complete the quest because we could not shift. Instead of being Hunters we became the hunted. They liked to play with their prey, torment, and tease. Their attacks taught us how to fight. Until…” Zhane trailed off, looking away from Arldrine. He took a deep breath before facing her again. “I’ve seen nothing like it. Dathiem lost his self-control, and he slayed an entire clan. All of them. Young and old, male and female, the adults and children, all of them. I knew it was wrong…but how could they expect me to turn on him? The only one who was on my side? They pushed him into a corner, and he lashed out. Shortly after, everyone we knew was murdered, even my father, a clan leader, because he did not give me up. My bid to rule the clan was forfeit because I lack the ability to shift. Dathiem and I ran, and we tried to forget, and we succeeded. What we did was wrong, and I see the Therian and the Ezincks repeating the same thing. No one is on their side, they have been backed into a corner, and they lash out in any way possible. No one has shown them kindness which is why they turn on each other and violence abounds.”
“I see,” she squeezed his hand. “That’s why you want to regain Stronghold.”
“It is risky, we could all die, but it's better than this useless squabbling.”
“Zhane,” Arldrine wrapped her fingers around his hand, squeezing it before straddling him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned into his scent as his hand came up, sliding under her shirt. “I love you, but more so in this moment. Zhane, I can’t imagine what you gave up to come to me, and to rectify the situation with the Therian and the Tribe of Minas. I shouldn’t have come here without…”
“No,” he lifted her chin, drawing her closer until his scent swept over her. His hand rose underneath her shirt, creeping up her back. “No. I always run away from you. I’ve always let our decisions be made separately when we should be together. From now on, we work together.”
Arldrine gaze at him and a feeling rose inside of her. She touched his face, and the white motes danced around them.
“Zhane…”
“I love you,” he stroked her back, pulling her closing, crushing her mouth with his.
Closing her eyes, she took him in, drowning in his essence. Words. There were many words she wanted to use to tell him how much he meant to her, to whisper how much she loved him, not just for what he had done, but for who he was deep inside. He had seen the darkness and overcame it. He was worth leaving her people and choosing not to mate with them. It was okay for the line of Ezincks to fade for she had found something far more precious.
73
Zhane
They climbed through stone ruins and villages forsaken after the rise of the Black Steeds, as they moved toward Stronghold. Zhane walked with Shawdi and Halbrin while the Therian scattered around them, some as beasts, others in their Tider forms. The Tribe of Minas marched in the middle, giving away no emotion. It took them the better part of the week to travel, and at night they made camp, passing food from one to another and whispering in low voices. A vibe of mistrust floated through the air as thick as the brooding gray clouds ahead. Zhane conveyed none of his feelings, although at times he wondered if the Therian would turn on the Tribe of Minas in battle and slaughter them all.
Midday on the seventh day, Zhane paused on a mountain slope, overlooking the rising towers of Stronghold. It was a maze of caves which had been built into the gray mountainside. Its towers peaked in sharp points toward the heavens and were covered in long icicles like an ice palace. When the sunlight hit it, it was beautiful.
“We attack at night,” Shawdi announced, holding his hand up.
“What strategy to you propose,” Dyinka lifted her chin, determined to protect her tribe even though she did not have a choice in the matter.
“We must be cautious the Watchers do not see us,” Zhane walked forward with Arldrine at his side. The Therian looked at him with disdain, but he ignored their hostile glares. “We do not want to put them on guard. It has been years since an attack. They have to believe it is safe and there is no need to keep watch. If they are caught off guard, it will be easier to capture the fortress.”
“What if we attack from the inside,” Arldrine spoke up, stepping forward. “A fortress is difficult to take over from the outside. But if members from the Tribe of Minas request permission to enter on the basis of seeking refuge, we could take over the guard and let the Therian inside.”
“We should not take advice from a mere female,” Halbrin snapped.
Shawdi held up his hand. “Perhaps, but she speaks sense. The reason Stronghold has never been retaken is because we have tried to do so with force.”
“Are you on their side?” Halbrin barked. “If you allow the Tribes of Minas to enter before us, how do you know they won’t turn on us.”
Dyinka stepped forward, twirling her golden ax, her voice low and bitter. “How do we know the Therian won’t turn on us once Stronghold is retaken?”
“We don’t know,” Arldrine spoke up again, unwilling to allow herself to be intimidated. Zhane eyed her with respect as she spoke her mind, regardless of the hostile threats surrounding her. “If we want this plan to work, we need to trust each other, and that trust will not come lightly. If we continue to be at each other’s throats, Stronghold will fall, as will the Therian and the Tribe of Minas. Is it worth it to slaughter each other before we can make progress?”
Shawdi grunted. “Those who will not agree to these terms can stay behind. I wager we trust each other enough to take over Stronghold, once that is done, we can discuss terms of surrender.”
Zhane nodded, thankful the Therian had the sense to stay the hand of massacre.
A horn bellowed. Deep vibrations wailing up as Zhane ran forward, swift-footed with members of the Therian. The Tribe of Minas had snuck inside, borne on the wings of t
he Xctas to ambush the enemy from the outside. Zhane could only hope it went well for them since there was no knowing what creatures dwelt in Stronghold. When he glanced up at the trembling icicles of Stronghold, he saw archers perched in the towers and black arrows zinged down at the Therian.
“Look out for archers,” someone shouted.
“Release the Xctas, let them take them down,” Shawdi called.
Zhane drew his twin blades as he reached the drawbridge where foot soldiers of the Black Steeds stood. As he drew nearer, he saw there were woísts and a wave of irritation swept over him. The armies of the Black Steeds even reached as far as Stronghold, which appeared like an ice palace built into the mountainside. A rushing river lay frozen off the edge of a cliff, leaving a drawbridge as the only entrance for Stronghold. The surprise attack caught the Black Steed off guard and Zhane assumed they did not have time to draw the bridge before the Therian and Tribe of Minas were upon them.
A horn bellowed again, and the ground began to shake. The Therian surged forward, a battle cry on their lips as they moved toward the woísts. The two battalions collided in a mist of growls, barks, cries, and the clang of weapons. Slivers of moonlight showed the fight to Zhane as he threw himself against the woísts, fighting to stand on the drawbridge without being hurled over the edge to an icy death in the river.
A bull rushed past him, hooves pounding over the drawbridge as it slid to a stop, lowering its head and swinging. The bull skewered two woísts and tossed them, shrieking, over the side of the bridge. An Xctas flew by, snatching up woísts by their shoulders and tossing them over while the wolves and bears leaped and swung with sharp teeth and claws. Zhane was not the only one who stayed in his Tider form. The Therian switched as necessary, one moment a wolf attacked, the next moment it was a Tider, snatching up a fallen weapon to fight his way through the woísts.
The archers disappeared, and cries rang out along with joyful shouts. Zhane assumed the shout meant the Tribe of Minas had found the archers and were taking over their positions in the watchtowers of Stronghold. Zhane pushed forward as the horn blew one final time, and he saw something move on the side of a cliff. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes as an avalanche let loose on the mountains, hurling toward the bridge. “Get down!” Zhane shouted as a white blur of snow and rock thundered down the mountainside toward the drawbridge.
74
Eliesmore
He heard them before he saw them. A chant echoed over the land, making Eliesmore’s blood freeze with the eeriness of it. The aura of his army was heavy, their spirits crushed by the foulness of darkness, seeping through the land.
Trouble. Trouble. Deep black evil.
Trouble. Trouble. Deep black evil.
Eliesmore held up a fist, the signal for everyone to pause.
Zikes, he called, waiting for the red ripple to appear. What do you see?
They march from the north in massive divisions. Numbers by the thousands.
Draw back and join the army and me.
Aye. Eliesmore the Great. We hear and obey.
The army came to a halt on a hill which swooped into a valley and rolled onwards to another slope where the great city of Sidell perched. It was elevated yet still a city that could be attacked on all sides. When Eliesmore squinted, he could see it in the distance.
“Line up,” he called, his voice carrying across the hill. “This is our territory now. We hold this hill, we can move forward, but we do not retreat, we do not give up this land. Archers, get ready. Optimistic is your leader. Follow his command. Those who wield the blade, follow me.”
Idrithar had returned to the ship and sailed north with the right flank of the army. They would make landfall in Sidell and march toward the front of the city. They were one thousand strong. If things went according to plan, the armies would converge, overwhelm the Black Steeds and breach the city on two sides. Two thousand against tens of thousands of woísts. The numbers spoke of failure, but as Eliesmore clenched the Jeweled Sword, he was confident in his power. He glanced sideways at the warriors surrounding him.
Optimistic dismounted and joined Eliesmore, gazing over the valley. “Eliesmore. This is it. Are you ready?”
“I suppose so. I never imagined it would come to this,” he sought Optimistic’s comforting gaze.
“No, but here we are. Eliesmore. The army looks to you. They would appreciate words of encouragement before the battle beings.”
“I don’t know that I have anything to say to them. The darkness has stolen my words. It is better that you say something.”
“Perhaps, but you are their leader now.”
Eliesmore paused, “But so are you Optimistic.”
Optimistic walked to the center of the hill, holding out a hand for a flag which he planted while calling out orders to the archers. His kind words of encouragement drifted through the air. Eliesmore watched how the archers responded, trust and respect shone out of their eyes.
Eliesmore lifted his face to the skies, closed his eyes and listened to the voice deep within him. Zikes. He called again.
In the distance, he heard the movement of the woísts and his fingers tingled with desire. Even though the Dark One who called the woísts forth from the Holesmoles was gone, Eliesmore felt as if their desire for battle and blood had been passed to him.
Eliesmore the Great, we hear and obey.
Eliesmore shook his head at the response. The Zikes did not have a wide vocabulary.
Half of you head toward Idrithar’s division of the army and keep the woísts from reaching the sea.
Eliesmore the Great, we hear and obey.
A quiet mummer of chatter reached his ears, like the wind blowing through grasslands, as the Zikes rushed off on their mission.
Eliesmore turned back toward his division of the army and began to shout out orders.
“Wekin,” Eliesmore nodded toward his eager friend. “Take five hundred with you and stay to the right. Your goal is to meet with Idrithar’s division of the army at the gates of Sidell. If you can get that far.”
Wekin swallowed hard and nodded so quickly he almost bit his tongue. “I will get that far,” he patted his sword.
“Archers, at the ready,” Eliesmore lifted the Jeweled Sword straight up in the air. Within, he felt the pulse of power spreading through him, begging to be let out, determined to be released whether he wished it or not. “Sword fighters, retaliation will be swift, keep your shields up. Protect the archers.”
He fell silent, turning back, in readiness for the battle to begin. Now he could see the city clearly in the distance, and he wondered if any people lived there, or if they had all been sacrificed to the Dark Figure.
Lythe panted, trotting up and down in front of the line of white horses. An Xctas flew out of the sky, calling a warning. Eliesmore sat up on Flywinger’s back and then he saw them. The woísts were coming, marching past the city as they moved into the valley and headed toward the hill where the White Steeds’ flag flew.
“I see them,” Eliesmore called.
“Begin the countdown,” Optimistic suggested.
“Five!” Eliesmore shouted.
“Four!” The archers rejoined.
“Three!”
“Two!”
“One!”
“Release!”
White-tipped arrows thrummed through the air, silent in flight as they moved in an arch over Eliesmore’s head. He watched them sink into the fog, unseen. The army paused, waiting with bated breath. There was a beat of dread, and then the silence exploded into horrific screams as arrows sank deep into flesh. A few seconds later a volley of black arrows covered the skies and Eliesmore, without thinking, lifted his hands and shouted. Green fire surged across the skies, meeting the arrows in mid-flight and disintegrating them.
“Again!” He ordered. “Keep those shields up.”
Their second volley was returned and out of the mist the woísts appeared, riding great beasts with tan and black skins and saber long teeth. They lea
ped toward the army of White Steeds. They reached the red river of Zikes first, who jumped and leaped, scrambling up the woísts like an army of ants, sticking their poisonous pointers in the most effective place for instant death. Woísts shrieked in surprise, fighting off the invisible beasts as they fell, foaming at the mouth as the poison took effect. A few moments later, the woísts, paralyzed on the battleground, were stomped to death in the frantic panic, unable to move as the poison seeped through their bodies, chilling them into an icy death.
The Xctas flew across the darkened sky and dived, their curved, sharp beaks ripping while their deadly claws shredded the chainmail and helmets of the woísts, before tearing through vulnerable flesh.
A flash of brown attracted Eliesmore’s attention as Duríment and Company dashed down the hill, pulling out blades, thin as needles. They leaped with nimbleness over fallen bodies, tails twitching as they made their way deeper into the battle.
“Lythe, stay with the archers,” Eliesmore ordered. ‘I don’t want you getting hurt in the crush of hooves.”
“I can fight,” Lythe whined.
“I know you can,” Eliesmore’s tone grew gentle. “I want to see you safe, after this battle.” He leaned low over Flywinger, adrenaline rushing through his body. “Ready Flywinger?”
Flywinger whinnied, rose up on his hind legs and came down running. The warriors on horseback surged down the hill, weapons forward, shields high as they collided with the woísts. Eliesmore drove his sword in and out of woísts, knocking heads from bodies, ripping open throats and shattering amour with the strength of his blows. Shouts and cries ripped out around him, roars of victory, cries of terror. Woísts dropped dead around Eliesmore as he mowed through them like they were wheat, ripples of fire pouring off the Jeweled Sword.
Eliesmore and the Jeweled Sword Page 30