86
Wekin
“There they are!” Wekin shouted as the Xctas flew toward the storm. Purple lighting and violent thunder roared across the skies.
“Whoa, what are those things?” Yamier cried in fright.
“Look, I see Idrithar and the army, take us down,” Wekin instructed the Xctas.
“Hey,” Yamier waved. “Aye, we’re back, and we’re not too late!”
The Xctas swooped toward the ground, depositing Yamier and Wekin in front of Idrithar, Sir Regante, Mattio, Captain Elidar, Visra, Skip, Bruthen, Wyndler, and Trecon.
A cheer when up as the two shook the dust off their clothes and thrust their chest out.
“Yamier. Wekin,” Idrithar regarded them, tearing his gaze from the castle. “Where have you been?”
“We saw you fly over us,” Skip added eagerly.
“With the dranagins,” Bruthen nodded. “What happened to them?”
“We did it,” Wekin gave a sigh of relief. “We went to Daygone and left the dranagins there.”
“Now, no one will go there ever again. It’s what Eliesmore instructed us to do,” Yamier wrapped up.
“Indeed,” Idrithar nodded, narrowing his eyes for a moment. Then he stared at them. “It was a risky endeavor, but it paid off. Well done. You are in time to help us fight the Rain Warriors. There is a small army of woísts marching from the eastern end of the castle. Are you ready to fight?”
“Are we ever!” Wekin shouted. He drew his sword while the familiar bloodlust rushed threw him.
Yamier drew an arrow. “To war!” He hollered, and the two set forward in a dead run.
Wekin held the sword of Starman the Trazame in both hands as the woísts sprang for them, shouting their continuous chant.
Trouble. Trouble. Deep black evil.
Trouble. Trouble. Deep black evil.
Snatches of their hideous faces could be seen beyond their helmets while black armor covered their tough bodies. Wekin felt the sword in his very bones as it synced with his mind, and as he approached the first group of woísts, he swung. Blue tipped arrows soared past his ears, singing in glee as sharp points embedded themselves in the body of woísts as if the armor were no obstacle at all. A wave of woísts flew through the air as Wekin swung, falling backward on their comrades who collapsed in the mud, shoving bodies off of them so they could get up and fight.
Behind him, he heard shouts. “Wekin the Warrior. Wekin the Warrior!” The encouragement only pushed him forward as the next wave of woísts rose to meet him, swords raised high. Wekin spun, striking heads from bodies, arms from shoulders and feet from legs as the power swept through him. He felt empowered and unstoppable, and the flight on the dranagins and the power of his charm made him open his mouth and laugh.
“Watch out, archers!” Yamier shouted behind him. Arrow after arrow soared past Wekin as Yamier shot at the archers of the Black Steeds.
“I’ve got it,” Wekin uttered, leaping over bodies as he dashed toward the line of archers. The woísts parted like a river as he mowed through them with the sword while a line of archers took aim on a small hill. Before he reached them, they released a wave of arrows, some intended for him, others intended for the division of the army that Idrithar led. Wekin froze in place and raised the sword, allowing to take the impact of the arrows while golden light blasted above him. Words rose on his lips and even as the archers bent their knees and began to reload, he dashed toward them, a cry on his lips. “For the White Steeds!”
87
Arldrine
A horn sounded. Arldrine narrowed her eyes and turned east. Zhane’s hand came down on her shoulder, squeezing in comfort. “Look,” he pointed toward the skies. “It’s Idrithar, the Mermis and the rest of the army.”
A host of Xctas, Mermis, and the Silver Herd covered the air, their features displaying clearly amid the strikes of purple lightening. An army of woísts became visible, marching from the east as well.
“We have to stop the Rain Warriors,” Zhane pointed his blade toward the stone guardians.
“The Rain Warriors,” Arldrine mused to herself. “The Rain Warriors that guard the keep. Zhane! I’ve got it. They aren’t here to kill us. They guard the castle and respond to the guardians of the castle. We don’t need to destroy them. We need to talk to them. Come!” She put her bow away and turned to face the Tribe of Minas. “Take care of anything that comes out of the castle. We must take to the skies.”
Zhane took her hand and raised it above his head as he addressed the Therian. “Those of you with wings, take to the skies.”
Xctas morphed and shifted, dancing through the air as if dodging the purple lightening was only a game.
“Gykin!” Zhane shouted, and a great winged beast alighted before them. Arldrine climbed on the front with Zhane behind her, keeping the skin to skin contact. Gykin gave a short jump and spread his wings, spinning into the air as rain drops fell like hail around them. “Head toward the Rain Warriors!”
The rain beat down on Arldrine’s head as she held Zhane’s hand. “Your sword has a song,” she called back to him over the booming thunder. “If the Rain Warriors hear what I hear, maybe they will listen and change their allegiance.”
Zhane held his sword higher while the oracles danced off of the blade, whisking through the raindrops, shouting with a high voice in the language of the Iaen. Music glided around them with silvery voices in a manner Arldrine imagined the voices of the stars would speak. Gykin flew toward one of the stone statues. The Rain Warrior reached up a stone hand and pulled an egg-shaped, white stone out of the clouds. It hurled it toward the marching army. They spread like ants, shouting as the Rain Warriors reached out, pulling more stone eggs out of the sky.
Gykin flew in the upward drafts of the wind, ducking from bolts of lightning that tore through the rent battlefield. The white faces of the Rain Warriors turned toward them.
“Listen!” Arldrine shouted. “Listen to us. The Ruler you serve is deceptive and evil. She is slaying the world with her wickedness. You don’t have to serve her any longer. You have a choice. You can be free.”
The lidless eyes of one of the Rain Warriors turned toward her. It raised its scythe, waving it in one hand as it lifted up the other and pulled a stone egg out of the clouds of thunder. It roared above the depths, shaking the foundations of the castle.
“Listen!” Arldrine cried once again, repeating her message.
“They are ignoring us,” Zhane squeezed her hands. “The thunder is too much. They can’t hear the music. We need a diversion.”
“What do you suggest?
“The trees,” Zhane pointed down to the courtyard. “We have to wake up the trees.”
The luminance of the spirits of the Trespirals waved before her while words hushed into her mind like chimes in a tree, blowing in the wind.
“Gykin, take us down,” Zhane called.
The rain drove down with them, while soft pellets fell from the sky. Idrithar’s army held off as the Rain Warriors stoned them while the Mermis flew above, the arrows ineffective against the chiseled rock.
By the time they landed in the courtyard, Arldrine’s clothes were soaked through to the bone. She slid off Gykin’s back, standing behind the walls for the first time. She was surprised that aside from the statues it was empty of mortals. The army of Black Steeds has all but disappeared, and she could not help but wonder if they were trying to prevent Eliesmore from reaching the Dark Figure again.
Letting go of Zhane, she walked among the statutes. Tears filling her eyes as she stared at their beautiful yet demented forms. They shone silver in the rain, the spirits suspended in something between death and life. She weaved between the spirits of the trees, pressing her hands against the solidness of their bodies. When she closed her eyes their pain and sorrow transferred to her, a haunted glimpse into their lives. They were deceived into giving up their freedom, drawn away into the false temptation of the Black Steeds. A heavy burden made her bow her head, a
nd she sank into their misery, kneeling at the foot of one of the trees.
“Arldrine,” Zhane’s hand fell to her shoulder. “Set them free.”
She allowed him to pull her to her feet and she lifted up her hands. “Tinitho. Tinitho. Irú alisthá tintho!”
Zhane repeated the words with her, lifting up his hands as he towered above her. “Tinitho. Tinitho. Irú alisthá tintho!”
A white light began to burn, casting a halo over each creature as they transformed. Instead of glass, their spirits changed. Color returned to each tree, shooting up from the roots until a blend of red-brown, cool white and deep black filled each spirit as they came alive. Their faces changed from an expression of fear and hatred to one of relief and peace. They lifted their branches, waving them in a healing breeze as words rustled around them, filtering through the air like the wind in the willows.
“Speak to the Rain Warriors,” Arldrine whispered, walking among them, placing her hand on each trunk, leaning into the hushed praise of life as the spirits breathed in her words. “Tell them who we are, tell them why we are here.”
Zhane mirrored her actions, weaving through the trees as he blessed them. “You are free now, let your souls be at peace. Look up to the Green Light and see the One has come, the prophecy has been fulfilled. You may come out and rejoice now.”
A thump shook the ground at the Rain Warriors moved toward the courtyard, their scythes striking the ground in an act of defiance. Arldrine lifted her head, turning it to their stony faces while speech forsook her as all twelve of the Rain Warriors gathered. Their stoic gray faces hovered over the courtyard as the heavy rain ceased. A gray cloud rolled over the Rain Warriors, and Arldrine felt Zhane come up beside her, water beading down his face as he started upward with her. She reached out a hand, grasping his, allowing the white light to linger around them as the spirits of the trees sang a hymn of freedom. Their deep, throated voices struck the air with determination.
One by one the Rain Warriors bowed their heads. Lifting their weapons they leaped as one, springing back into the rain clouds that hovered about. Flashes of white erupted as the Rain Warriors disappeared, taking the wind, rain, hail, and lightening with them. As they rolled away, traces of green light began to shine upon Castle Range while Arldrine ran with Zhane to the wall of the courtyard. Quickly they unbolted the locked and threw the gate open. “We take the castle,” Arldrine called, beckoning to the army of White Steeds, including the Therian, the Tribes of Minas, the Mermis, Xctas, and Idrithar’s army.
They raced forward with a cheer and when Arldrine turned back to the courtyard, she heard silvery voices lifted in song. A pang stuck her heart and, following Zhane she dashed inside, her focus turning to Eliesmore and the fate of Optimistic.
88
Eliesmore
He expected Crons to be guarding the entrance to the castle, yet there were none as he dashed across the courtyard, while the screams and cries of the battle took place. Guilt plagued him as he left the battle and plugged into the castle. Powers leaked from his body as he ran, heading toward the chamber where he dissolved the Green Stone.
The way was surprisingly clear as if the Dark Figure knew and wanted him to reach her so she could steal his powers. It was a moment he should have been expecting since Daygone, yet it still bound him in strings of surprise. This was not his battle, he was running to the salvation of a friend this time, with only his power left to save him. The Dark Figure had Optimistic. The Dark Figure had the Jeweled Sword. There was nothing but risk left for Eliesmore as he ran, counting the doors as he moved. Crons reared up their heads and faded when they saw him, moving out of the way, letting him run on to his devastation. Green flames burned his feet as he moved, his anger driving him on while the voices of darkness rose around him, fingers reaching to crush his soul and drag him down into the underworld. He saw the horns of Changers and the wicked faces of the Rakhai, as their red eyes gloated with victory. The only One who was brave enough, bold enough, and daring enough to stop them had become their puppet, doing what they wished, ready to turn over ultimate power to save a life.
Eliesmore reached the door and burst inside the chamber, one hand up to ward off expected blows. There were none forthcoming, and he let go of the doorknob and stepped inside. The door closed on its own accord, slamming shut with a boom that jarred the room. Eliesmore took a deep breath and stood tall as golden light surrounded him. The Idrain Fountain bubbled, a soothing sound in a room of death, although Eliesmore’s heartbeat quickened when he saw the statute of the Green Lady who held the basin. Visions of Shalidir flashed before him, and dark words swirled around his mind as he moved forward, his eye drawn to a golden altar. It rose as high as Eliesmore’s waist and on top of the flat slab of gold, Optimistic lay. His eyes were closed, and his face was pale while his hands were crossed over his heart. It was a manner Eliesmore had seen the dead laid out in before, and a pierce keening wailed through his heart as he rushed toward Optimistic.
Before he could reach him, to ensure he was alive, a gentle rustle arrested his attention, and he turned, noting the Dark Figure. She leaned against the curved walls, a finger on her ruby lips, her eyes framed with dark lashes while her long hair hung in black waves of death to her waist. Her voluptuous body was bound in a dress of black silk and lace, while strings wrapped around the bodice, pushing her chest upward and outward. When she moved, the dress fell around her, and Eliesmore saw silver rings on her fingers, adorning her neck and running up her bare arms. She held a black pitchfork in one hand while the Phutal hung about her neck, glowing with its inner beauty and glory.
“Eliesmore,” she purred, her voice surprising him. It was gentle and kind, almost as if she were talking to an adored pet. “You came to save your friend. How courageous of you.” She nodded at Optimistic. “He lives, only he is in the dream state. You may wake him up if you wish.”
Eliesmore made a move toward Optimistic, yet the alluring voice compelled him to stop once again. “If you came here, you must know I require something in exchange for his life.”
Eliesmore’s fingers curled into fists and he lifted his chin, meeting her eyes. “What do you want?”
“It depends on what you want?” She smiled, mirth dripping from her lips.
“I require the life of Léthin the Optimistic and the Phutal,” Eliesmore tossed his words at her, a restlessness growing within. He did not desire to speak with a Changer again. His former conversation had been upsetting enough to condone his life to one of tortured darkness.
“A life, and the Phutal?” She lifted her thin eyebrows in mock surprise as she fingered the Phutal. Raising it on its chain, she brought it to her lips and kissed it as if it were a priceless jewel. “You know what I want.” She smiled at him.
“What do you want?” He asked anyway, giving into her game.
“The power of the Green Stone, the power of creation,” she took a step, her pitchfork clanging sharply against the stone. “You might seem surprised at this knowledge, what would I want with this world? It has nothing for me. You slay my brother in this very room, you killed my other brother, Sarhorr, the outcast, in Daygone. Now you come to kill me, but I am stronger than you. I shall take your power, a power much easier to draw from the soul of a mortal than the silent cold shell of stone. When I am done, all shall speak my name. Sarphimm. All shall know the Way of Phimm. I will leave to wreak havoc on all worlds until there is nothing but my name. This will be my redemption, my paradise, the love and worship of all things that live and breathe.”
“I cannot give you my power. I don’t know how,” he told her honestly.
“You can,” Sarphimm moved toward the altar, still holding her pitchfork. “You just need to let go.”
Her words moved around him like a cloak and a veiled silence permeated the air as she touched Optimistic’s shoulder. He opened his eyes and turned his head, his gaze directed at Eliesmore. There in his blue eyes were shadows of pain, and yet, Eliesmore saw the hope and encourage
ment as if Optimistic were standing beside him, whispering words in his ears. This is the final test, the last moment. You must do this. Let go. Just let go.
89
Eliesmore
The silence deepened until Eliesmore heard a vague ringing in his ears, a screaming at the intensity of the hour. The cries of war disappeared and the shrieks from the Xctas circling the tower faded. He watched in slow motion as Optimistic rolled off the altar, his body trembling as it plunged the few feet to the floor. It wasn’t a fall that would harm him, even though his arms stayed lax by his side, with no attempt to shield his body from smacking into the rough stone floor.
He rolled to her feet, and when he reached her robes his paralyzed body came alive, but it was too late. She lifted the pitchfork and plunged it into his heart so quickly Eliesmore did not have a chance to blink. Optimistic gave a gurgle and a cough, spewing blood across his body, the pitchfork, and the robes of the Dark Figure. She plucked it out of him, like picking a feather from a defenseless bird, while blood rushed from her face, turning it white as she faced Eliesmore, a grimace of horror coming over her face.
“Look what you made me do,” she gestured to the broken body and the blood splatter, spoiling the sacredness of the chamber.
Eliesmore opened his arms as the anger, pain, fear, and sorrow wailed up within him. “Take it.” His voice rang flat and distant in his ears. “It is too much.”
He let go, and the power surged out of him. Green and gold flames poured from every inch of his body, stretching out their wings to take flight. Sarphimm dropped her pitchfork. It thudded twice on the stones before lying still, the wicked edges pointing in a western direction. She opened her mouth, sucking in the power, inhaling as if it were her life force, but the power flow overwhelmed her, it was not enough. She opened her hands and spread her arms, mirroring Eliesmore’s stance, and the power poured into her. As it flowed, her body grew, stretching to take in her newfound abilities as light filled the room in a cyclone of swirls.
Eliesmore and the Jeweled Sword Page 35