The Complete Four Worlds Series

by Angela J. Ford

  The male’s companion was of a people group Stamen could not quite place. Her eyes were intense, yet she was one of the most beautiful females Stamen had ever seen. Her skin was a nutmeg brown and her jet-black hair hung, dripping wet, to her muscular shoulders. She also looked unnaturally skinny, and there was a dark hollowness in both hers and the Cron’s eyes. The male immediately lay down by the sea, his chest quickly rising and falling as he gasped for air. The female stood, surveying the area with suspicious eyes. She turned to her companion and said something. He nodded and stumbled to his feet, almost falling into a bush as he steadied himself.

  Stamen wondered if they had been turned. Only transformed creatures came from the other side of the sea. He smelt the air once more, hoping for clarity of direction. Instead, he caught a faint whiff of the rotten smell of decay. Shuddering, he glanced back at the forest. He had to start moving to find his way home before he too ended up crawling out of the sea, looking like a lost soul from the world beyond. The two set off in the opposite direction from Stamen’s hiding place, disappearing quickly into the woods. Stamen mentally felt relieved, but only for a moment. He heard the splashing of water and turned back to the shining sea. More of the haggard Crons were swimming his way, their faces pale, dirty hair long and wild. Some of them were scarred and wounded, their bloodstained clothes hanging in rags. There were even more behind them, heads bobbing in the waves, struggling to stay afloat. Without hesitation, Stamen turned and fled into the forest, almost tripping over his own feet in dreadful haste.

  The newly resurrected were coming, swimming across the Dejewla Sea, bridging a gap between them and their former home. Prison. Some of them had been there over a year, others mere weeks or months. All of the escapees had something in common. They were all Crons with a spark of hope within, and they were feverishly following the light. Some of them were strong enough to swim the distance; others were weak and held onto floating tree branches or ill-made rafts to bridge the gap. The sea was quite narrow at that part, which helped their progress, but made the fear of being followed quite real.

  The night before, they had streamed out of the prison, taking down every guard they possibly could. Stumbling over the broken rubble of the gate, they made for the forest, following the light which led them straight and true. To where? No one questioned, but it was the reason for their escape, and it was enough to believe. All of them were sure in their convictions, but none of them were innocent. At one point or another, they had gone too far and had been caught. Innocent only by their own standards, they had disobeyed the law of that land. And for that, they must pay.

  Marklus collapsed on the ground, attempting to draw breath. His lungs felt as if they might burst. “Please,” he whispered to his companion, the shadow. “Please.”

  “It grows dark.” She stood above him, glancing warily around the forest. “We will be hidden by the cover of night. Although we have crossed the sea, they are still coming.”

  Marklus was silent, focusing on calming his heartbeat. He could taste the blood in his mouth from running too much. His throat was raw, his legs weak and painful. His companion could not have been in the prison long, or he underestimated her. Although too thin, she still looked as if she could continue on into the night. Only she wouldn’t. The only words exchanged between them the night before had been a confirmation of who he was and where he was going. Questions rose on his tongue, but there had been no time to voice them in the midst of the prison escape. They had run without hesitation through the forest towards the sea. The shadow had pushed hard, forcing them to swim across before taking a break. It certainly had taken its toll on Marklus.

  After a few minutes, she sat down, leaning against a tree trunk. The wary look never left her eyes. As the dusk deepened, Marklus turned his head towards her. “Who are you?” he whispered, unable to find his stronger voice yet.

  She looked at him, even as she blended into the darkness. “What is your mission?”

  “War,” he replied. “I want my world back.”

  “We all do. But how do you plan to accomplish that?”

  Marklus raised himself on one elbow and looked at the shadow. “If we band together, if we create a force that can take over instead of waiting for them to destroy us, we will have a much better chance. Now tell me; I know you. Who are you?”

  “You must not know me very well if you have to ask,” the shadow quipped. “I am Alaireia the Ezinck from Srinka in the Forests of the Ezinck.”

  Marklus looked warily at her again. The people group of Ezincks were rarely seen in the Western World, since they tended to live hidden in forests amongst their tribes. Most Ezincks had dark skin, allowing them to blend naturally into hidden places of the forest, and they were known for their unmatched strength, agility, and beauty. They shied away from mixing with the other people groups and interfering with the political matters of the world.

  “I am Marklus the Cron of Zikeland,” he told her. “But tell me, why do I know you? We have met before?”

  Alaireia straightened. “Likely you had a piece of parchment in your hands, a message. Since it is easy for me to slip into secret places and hide myself from unwanted eyes, I became one of the messengers for the southern end of this land. Oft times I left the message in view where the intended would receive it. Sometimes I hid it on their own person. But with you, I actually delivered the message into your hands. I remember it was important, and I had to look into your face and ask your name to verify it was indeed you. That was long ago. What happened to you?”

  “What happens to us all? We fall into their hands, only to wrench ourselves free again. This must end, and I think I know where to start. Will you come with me? Will you stay?”

  Alaireia cocked her head and looked at him. Twilight had gathered and he could no longer see her. His eyes were closing in exhaustion. “That all depends,” she whispered, “on how good your plan is.”

  If he heard her, he gave no indication. Thus, nightfall overtook over the land, yet the trail of light glimmered faintly in the gloom, leading on those who followed.

  The night was too much for Stamen. He fled until the darkness stopped him, once again, another night lost in the woods. He did not understand why everything he tried to do ultimately failed. His only desire was to go back home, but it was as if his home had become an island, and he was trying to find it on a ship with no compass. Exhausted, he crawled into a bramble and finally gave in to sleep, hoping in the morning he could start afresh.

  Morning broke gently, aware of those struggling along the bank of the Dejewla Sea, fighting to follow the path. Stamen woke hungry and cognizant of a strange light in the forest. It threaded itself among the plants, moving south, a sure indication of the way out. He stood hastily, no question in his mind the path of light was sent to lead him home. If he hurried, he could arrive in time for the second meal.

  Legone stood on the barren mountain peak in the thin air. Lazy clouds passed below his black shod feet as he gazed at the wrecked beauty of the world. All was still and quiet. Not even a loose twig snapped the silence of his world. He raised his heavy head to breathe in deeply, the chill mountain air stinging his nostrils. He closed his eyes for a moment before looking back down at the shattering drop off the gray cliff he stood on.

  The greenery of the mountains was slowly fading, the glory of his terrain turning black and barren. A bleak pallor was spreading over the land, and he knew what he had to do. He knew where to go to stop it, yet part of him was still torn. It was his fault he was burdened with this knowledge.

  Long ago, when he was young, he’d left the Afrd Mounts and crossed the sea because his wanderlust would not leave him be. Paying no heed to words of warning, he lost himself—and more—on the northern side of the sea. Curiosity drew him in until he understood why he never should have left. What was happening now was his fault. When he returned, he refused to speak of what had taken place across the sea. He refused to think of Her. He had tried to forget, as if by hiding it fr
om his memory, the past could be erased.

  He despised moments of clarity when he knew what to do. Why must he be burdened with this knowledge? Why should he know what to do best? His mind knew, his heart knew, and yet his body was unwilling to go, to say goodbye to life and the possibility of ever living peacefully in the Afrd Mounts. To say goodbye to ever coming home again, welcomed with open arms by his people. If he left, it would be the end, and he did not know if he would make it back to see the sun rise over the mountains and burn off the fog. To see the hints of a crystal-clear rainbow spreading over the falls and the mountain peaks in all their majesty as the snow melted off them. He did not know if he would be back to feel the exhilaration of climbing up those peaks, the heady breeze at the top of those mounts and the feeling of being free. No one could hold him back up there. There were no laws, no destruction, no war, and if he could help it, there never would be.

  He knew what he had to do; he just did not want to close the door on possibilities for himself, on possibilities of seeing Her again. He called it selfish, his desire to live his dear, precious life free in the mounts. This would be his sacrifice for his silence, this would be his redemption. He reached for his bow and aimed a white arrow at the highest snowcapped peak. He would never see it again.

  Marklus traveled with Alaireia through the Sea Forests of Mizine. It was a damp rain forest and every hour or so, a brief shower would soak them through. Despite the miserable dampness, Marklus felt much better with the light meal Alaireia had foraged for them and knowing they had not been caught yet. They were late setting out, but as they walked, Marklus could not help but glance behind as an eerie twinkle lit up his path. “What is following us?” he asked after a while.

  “What do you mean?” Alaireia feigned ignorance.

  “The light,” Marklus explained. “I only just noticed it, yet it follows.”

  “Ah.” Alaireia did not even give it a glance. “The others are following us; it would not be kind to leave them without a guide. After all, I did help them escape.”

  “How?” Marklus felt his suspicions growing.

  “Marklus, you ask too much sometimes. The less you know, the better.”

  “I don’t think that is necessarily true. Besides, I know you read my message. You read all of them. You already know enough. What powers do you hold? You caused the earthquake at the prison, and now a path of light I suspect only prisoners can see and follow. What else can you do?”

  Alaireia had just opened her mouth to answer when she was bowled over by a male running through the woods. He uttered a shout and tried to leap away from her. Marklus stared as Alaireia and the stranger struggled on the forest floor. “What do you think you’re doing?” she exclaimed.

  “Please don’t hurt me!” he cried.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Alaireia replied. “Next time, just watch where you are going.”

  But the stranger was already distressed. “It’s gone!” he whimpered. “Where did it go?”

  “Where did what go?” Alaireia held up her hands and backed away from him.

  He looked distraught and turned around, gazing unhappily at the forest floor. “The light. It was leading me home.”

  Marklus turned to look at Alaireia with a pointed expression, curious to hear what she had to say for herself.

  Alaireia just sighed and crossed her arms. “If you’re lost in the forest, you shouldn’t follow random lights. They don’t lead home.”

  The male stopped and stared at them, as if seeing them for the first time. His eyes widened and he turned and ran off into the forest.

  “What did you do to him?” asked Marklus.

  “Nothing,” Alaireia hissed. “Let’s just keep going.”

  “Did you notice?” Marklus started moving forward again. “He was a Trazame.” The people group called Trazames lived by an unspoken rule—home was the safest place, and curiosity only led to death. They were peace-loving homebodies who rarely moved beyond the boundaries of their land. Farming and feasting were their main reasons for living. Trazames tended to have tanned skin and sun-kissed hair; their lazy accents and muscular bodies sculpted by farm work gave them away immediately. “Strange things are happening if the Trazames are coming out.”

  Alaireia nodded distantly. “We have been in prison too many months. We need information.”

  Stamen watched shakily from the forest floor as the Cron and his odd companion moved on through the woods. After they disappeared from view, he noted the trail of light was there once more. Confused, he tried to come up with a reason for the reappearance of the light. It had to be a kind of evil spell in the forest. He shouldn’t follow it anymore. Yet he needed to get back home—or at least out of the forest and back into civilization where he could ask for directions. Weighing the pros and cons was not his strong point; there was little else to do besides follow the light. Nightmares from last night shook his memory. Those people crawling out of the sea…What if they were following the light as well?

  3

  The Eka Fighting Camp

  Dusk was gently falling as Marklus and Alaireia approached the massive building. It looked as if it had sprung unbidden from the forest, made of gray stone and covered in crawling dark ivy. The building was stoically silent, divulging no lights, no sounds, or guards, or anything at all that indicated life. Pinpricks of uncertainty began to grow inside Marklus’ mind. Had he been gone too long? Had the Eka Fighting Camp been overrun and emptied out shortly after his imprisonment? He glanced apprehensively at Alaireia, but no emotion displayed on her watchful face. She turned to follow his lead as they reached the three wide, rough steps leading to the doorway. Marklus walked up them alone and paused to listen, but the stone sealed out all noise from even his keen ears. Two imposing double doors stood at least ten feet tall, glaring down unwelcomingly at the dirty intruders. A small iron knocker rested in the middle of the right-hand door, a weak link to the stone, looking as if any use would render it ineffective.

  Too exhausted to try, Marklus looked to Alaireia. She nodded, reached up to grasp the handle, and knocked twice. A dull thud echoed from within, more for the benefit of those outside than those inside. There was a pause; then, a window in the door slid open and an inquisitive nose poked out, followed by a pair of sharp green eyes, and finally the full face of a male Cron. For an instant, his face registered surprise and brief recognition as he looked down at Marklus and Alaireia. In a hurry to cover his consternation, he barked out, “What brings you here?”

  Alaireia stepped back, leaving Marklus in the spotlight of the demanding eyes. “I am Marklus the Cron and this is Alaireia the Ezinck. We have come to see Crinte the Wise.”

  The Cron abruptly withdrew his face and the window snapped shut and locked with a clang. The right-hand door gave a whining groan as it reluctantly began to open. Pools of flickering yellow light streamed out, briefly illuminating the forest. The Cron stood in the middle of the doorway, dressed in armor from head to toe with five curious guards peering over his shoulder. “Welcome to the Eka Fighting Camp,” he announced grumpily, and ushered the two guests inside.

  The entrance opened into a wide hall with torches casting light off each wall. Several passageways streamed off from the it, their openings guarded by more flickering torches. A host of armored Crons filled the entryway, weapons by their sides. Some sat on wooden stools, chewing bits of bread dipped in steaming bowls of gruel. Others paced the stone floor, their footfalls ringing across it as they talked quietly and heatedly to each other. The Crons glanced up curiously and eagerly at Marklus and Alaireia as they entered. The Cron who had bid them enter turned to the five guards behind him. “Please find Crinte and let him know he is requested at the mess hall.” He turned back to Marklus and Alaireia. “Come, you look as if you could use a meal.”

  Surprised but relieved at the lack of questions and the promise of a warm meal, Marklus followed the Cron down a hallway. Alaireia treaded warily behind, wondering if she would need to escape be
fore the night ended.

  The mess hall was buzzing with conversation. Rows of tables covered the hall with Crons crammed around each one, boisterously eating and loudly discussing. A few Tiders were sprinkled in here and there, calmly assessing the situation. The Tiders were an introverted folk who enjoyed dwelling at high elevations. Many of them called the Afrd Mounts in Wiltieders home. Although they liked to explore the ranges of the land and did not mind interacting with the other people groups, because they were of few words, most people were unsure and confused about their mortality. Many theories were put forth regarding the Tiders, and although many a Cron had taken to the Mounts to investigate, none had returned with a satisfactory answer, if at all. The fact that there were Tiders at the Eka Fighting Camp was not a surprise; the fact that they were getting along well with the Crons was.

  Strength regained after partaking of the last meal, Marklus and Alaireia had nothing left to do but wait for Crinte to appear. The Cron sat with them, unable to hold his tongue. “I am Elam the Gatekeeper,” he said finally. “A Cron from Norc. Where are you coming from?”

  Alaireia interrupted. “We should wait for Crinte. Besides, if you are the Gatekeeper, more will come.”

  Elam the Gatekeeper looked perplexed by her ambiguity. He gave her a cold, sour look before standing to meet the guards as they returned, escorting a tall, blond Cron. He appeared the epitome of strength and wisdom from his waves of blond hair dancing near his shoulders to his chiseled jaw. His strength was obvious from the muscles that stood out on his shoulders to the surety in his face as he marched towards the two. His expression changed as he approached. “Marklus!” he exclaimed and reached to grasp his friend’s shoulder. “I thought…” he began, words failing him.