“Ah, I am glad to hear that.” His words hung delicately in the air as if there were more to say. He paused before asking, “You say Marklus the Cron is essential. Do you know of his powers?”
“No.” Alaireia’s face turned thoughtful. “I only intended to return him here, safe and sound, before going my way. I never thought to ask…”
“Maybe you should,” Ackhor prompted. “It would not hurt to know more of the warriors here. After all, this is the Fighting Camp. We are supposed to be useful to each other, not going our separate ways.” He looked at her pointedly.
Alaireia bit her lip at the rebuke. “Yes, but large numbers are your expertise. I work much better solo. Besides, we should send more scouts to the other side to find out what is actually going on. I know you will say I sound like Crinte, but it is my plan to return there. The land is odd, and even those on this side know of the turned ones. What is even worse is that I heard that information from a mere Trazame.”
“A Trazame? I heard one came here, that same night you and Marklus appeared. I think the Clyear may have worked much better than you had hoped, for a small army of prisoners came as well.”
“No, that was intentional,” Alaireia interrupted.
“Tell me more about this Trazame then, the one they call Starman. I hear he bested you with the sword,” Ackhor teased.
“Argh!” Alaireia groaned in frustration and stood up, pacing back and forth. “He did not best me with the sword. He is my equal! A mere Trazame, and yet they praise him. There is no one better than I, and yet he will not tell me who he is. He swears he grew up in Trazame, the farmlands, but a farmer should not know how to wield a sword like that!”
Ackhor stood as well and began to speak, his voice calm but firm, packed with warning. “Keep him close. A time may come when you need him. Alaireia, hear me out. I know Crinte is overly concerned with what is happening on the other side of the sea, and yes, it is to our advantage to discover their secrets. I believe it is our highest priority to build an army that will defend our homeland. We are only rebels, and if the Rulers of Mizine find out what we are doing, they will want to use our armies for their own needs. We need to present a united front and it is not my wish to go against Crinte’s plan, but it is too dangerous to go across the sea into an unknown land looking for hidden motives. I don’t like the thought of you willfully running into certain death with him, no matter what kind of fearsome and powerful warriors Crinte attracts. If you do decide to go, against my wishes, at least tell me before you disappear into the night. You are the most skilled warrior I know, but you are also like a sister to me. At least do me the honor of letting me say goodbye.”
“Oh, Ackhor,” Alaireia replied in frustration. “Of course I will weigh the cost with you before I leave, but now is not the time to play it safe. Remember when the Wyvern attacked Srinka and you told me attempting to kill it would risk my own death? That the risk would be worth it compared to living in anxiety and fear, waiting for its next deadly attack? This is the same situation, only on a grander scale. It’s not my death that hangs in the balance; it is the death of our countries and life as we know it. If it is solely up to me, I will take that risk—again. Life lived in defense and fear is no life at all.”
Tincire was a weapons maker. When he was young, he began working with his father, the town blacksmith, creating unique tools out of lumps of iron and steel. He was fascinated with heat, the way it melted and distorted the strongest metals, contouring them into new shapes and forms. The flames spoke to him, their warm voices whispering, revealing secrets of the craft, influencing the outcome of the tools and weapons he designed. At the Fighting Camp, he studied the warriors and watched them train, learning their strengths and weaknesses. Every now and then, an idea would come to him and he’d scurry back to the furnaces with new designs to coax from the flames. Then, he would assemble the warriors who awed him most and present them new weapons, custom made for their skills. He would explain why he made the weapon and what made it special for that particular warrior. It was a rite of passage, and warriors knew they had achieved the highest honor when approached by one of Tincire’s messengers. Now, Tincire had his team working day and night to perfect weapons for a certain group of warriors. His gut told him time was of the essence, and his inklings were never wrong.
Try to fit in. Those were the words of Crinte the Cron after their lengthy conversation. Try to fit in. That was days ago. Legone shook back his long hair and raised his curved bow to his mouth; he took aim at a practice mark and hit it so hard it vibrated for minutes afterwards. He had never been good at fitting in; everyone wanted to fall into a similar routine, but he was always doing things differently. Chores were lost on him. Why chop wood when he could explore the forest and discover the secrets of the trees? Why save for winter when he could ask the beasts of the air and earth, and they would share with him? He pulled another white tipped arrow out of his sheath and calmly fit it between his fingers. There were other Crons and Tiders surrounding him on the practice ground. He could hear the thud of their arrows striking home, but he felt alone. He let the arrow fly, long and free like his heart, until it smashed through the mark, its point shattered from force. Try to fit in. Crinte had said they were leaving soon and asked if Legone would serve as a guide since he had been to the other side. Legone had not said it then, but there was a stop they would have to make along the way, and he could not tell Crinte without raising suspicion. Already at times he felt he had said too much, and exposed himself and them. Anger boiled up again as he pulled another arrow, and a voice beside him asked, “Are you Legone the Tider?”
He turned his head cautiously, but it was only a Cron he did not recognize. Curly brown hair danced over his forehead and he, too, carried a bow and arrow. “I’m sorry to interrupt your concentration,” he said, “but Crinte said I might find you here.” The Cron lifted his bow and arrow and aimed; it was a poor aim, Legone noted. “Tonight, after the last meal, come to Crinte’s room.”
The Cron let the arrow fly. He missed. Legone wanted to laugh. “Try to fit in,” Legone told the Cron, and turned back to his target.
Marklus only stayed at the shooting grounds a few more moments after he had passed the message to Legone the Tider, who was just as fearsome and as cold as Crinte had described. But then, all the warriors Crinte selected were tough. Even his attempts to get past Alaireia’s walls of silence proved futile. Now he had to find her. As of late, he noticed she had been keeping company with the solo Trazame, the one everyone called Starman, after his unbelievable duel with Alaireia. Even as Marklus stood still in the trees, he could hear the clang of steel on steel and the roar of warriors watching. He shook his head. At this rate, the turned ones would likely hear all the clamor and come racing to overtake the Fighting Camp before the warriors were truly trained. Marklus turned and pointed his feet towards the sound.
Crinte was torn. The object Legone the Tider had left with him was dangerous, unethical, and in Crinte’s mind, wrong. It was a power that should remain hidden and unused, yet he found it hard to believe the creatures of the wood had entrusted Legone with such a rare gift. Crinte knew it could be their salvation—it was the missing piece he was looking for, a way to bind the wills of all people groups to himself, a way to remove the choice that stayed their hands, a way to force a great army to overtake the northern side of the Western World. It was a power he was sure had a small aura of darkness around it. He wanted to destroy it yet he knew that would be impossible. But was their salvation worth it?
8
The Five Come Together
They came stealthily, hiding in the shadows of the fortress, as if they themselves were rebels within a rebel camp. Marklus was the first, slipping into Crinte’s room before the last meal had even ended. Next was Legone the Tider, his cool presence quieting the air. Alaireia was last, and with her, she brought the Trazame.
“Thank you for coming this evening,” Crinte began as they gathered around the table, waiti
ng expectantly. “You may not all know each other but I find each of you essential to the future of this world. Marklus the Healer is my childhood friend; he saved my life a time ago. Alaireia the Lightfoot has recently escaped from the other side of the sea with Marklus. Legone the Swift has traveled from the Afrd Mounts with dire news from the other side; his knowledge is imperative to our mission. Stamen the Starman has lost his way, only to find it here with us and discover his talent with the sword.”
Crinte looked at the four standing before him. “There is only one way to do this.” His voice rang clear with clarity and dogged determinedness. “There is only one way to end this for good. If we want to give the people of Mizine a fighting chance, if we want the Western World to rise victorious and see glorious days ahead for our country, we have to put an end to this! The enemy is much stronger than us. They are conniving and moving into our territory. I will not see our people transformed; I will not see our country fall to its knees, worthless slaves unable to have a mind of our own. We must stop this before it goes too far! There’s only one way to kill a beast—find its weak spot and destroy it from the inside out. We are going to do this, and I will lead this group. We have to be fast, we have to be strong, and we have to give this our all. We have to do the unexpected and outsmart our enemy. We have to have a plan and we have to attack. Our goal is to go to the Great Water Hole, and destroy this new power by exposing its weak spot so our army stands a fighting chance at defeating him. This is our mission. Who’s with me?”
Silence claimed the room for a few moments as questions filtered through the heads of the warriors. It was finally Starman who spoke up. “Not to…er…disrupt your plans, but would you mind leaving me at home before you cross the sea? I’m not comfortable joining this army and my people aren’t warriors. You don’t need me for this.”
Alaireia scowled at Starman but did not voice her opinion. It was Crinte who broke the awkward silence. “Starman, you have only been here a couple of weeks and yet you display a great courage we have seen in no other Trazame. Although you think light of your talents, there will come a day when your power will be essential to the fate of the land. Don’t throw it away because you don’t believe you are worthy enough.”
Starman nodded, his face red. It looked as if he would have liked to argue further, but Crinte’s compelling voice silenced all resistance.
“Crinte,” Marklus objected. “You mentioned our enemy as being a ‘him,’ but this is the first I have heard of this information.”
“Yes, we have Legone to thank for that. He has brought some revelations about what we are up against, which is why I have a plan.” Crinte unrolled a large map of the Western World and spread it over the table. Despite themselves, the four eagerly leaned in. Crinte pointed to the Sea Forests of Mizine. “A scout has spotted a troop of turned ones crossing the sea. In retaliation, the Fighting Camp is sending a group of warriors to face them tomorrow morning. We will be a part of that group, but it is only a starting point. After the battle, we will push on east. Each of you have armies you can call to our aid; you will need to tell them to be ready when you call.”
“Excuse me,” Starman interrupted. “I don’t have an army.”
This time, Crinte, Marklus, Alaireia and Legone all glared at him. “Excepting Starman,” Crinte added. “I must call in some favors, which means we must venture near the Mounts before crossing to the other side of the sea. From there, Legone will be our guide, as he has been there before. It will not be an easy journey. The turned ones have taken over the lands to the north, and we will be aliens in a foreign land. We must be cunning and fast, but I have chosen each of you because together we can be an unstoppable force. I need you to be sure, because once we start, there is no turning back.”
Crinte pulled Alaireia aside after dismissing the others. Picking up a thick scroll, he pressed it into her hands. “Give this to Ackhor. I want him to understand why we are doing this.”
Alaireia was not used to questioning the messages Crinte gave her to pass along, but now she looked searchingly into his eyes. “What is this, Crinte? What have you withheld from us?”
“I thought it might be easier if you did not know all. Legone brought dark tales from the other side. I will let Ackhor decide how much the Fighting Camp should know. It is his responsibility now.”
Alaireia nodded, turned, and faded into the night, unrolling the scroll as she went. She was only halfway through the parchment when someone called her name. “Alaireia,” a voice said from the shadows, “where are you going?”
She could just make out Marklus’ curious face in the dim halls. “To call my army. Come with me,” she replied, quickly tucking the parchment into her tunic before he could see it.
Marklus fell in step beside her. “So you are coming with us then?”
She nodded. “I will do what I can, but tell me, did Crinte tell you the whole story?”
“What do you mean?” he asked, perturbed.
“Did he tell you what Legone the Tider told him?”
“I’m not sure what your question is. I believe we hold the same knowledge. Alaireia,” he paused and put a hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him, “is there something else?”
“Marklus, you should know the truth before you run headlong into danger again. There is a dark power beyond what we can control that stirs in this world. All this could have been avoided if Legone the Tider had come forward sooner.”
“You can’t know that,” a cold voice interrupted. Marklus and Alaireia turned, only to come face to face with Legone himself. “You don’t know what it was like over there. Don’t presume to judge me with your limitations.”
“I was not judging,” Alaireia protested. “Only, if you had come forward as soon as you had found out, things would be much different now. The south would never have allowed such an evil to grow.”
“Wouldn’t they?” Legone questioned as he glared at her. “The south has a way of turning its ears away from bad news. They never would have believed my tale. And the north, for all their powers, unleashed it. Since you know so much of the world, tell me, do you believe my tale? Would you have believed it unless the turned ones began to appear in your lands?”
Marklus, seeing the look in their eyes, quickly stepped between the two. “It does not matter now. We are all in this together and should not talk of what might have been. There is no going back. Legone, walk with us. We might as well learn how to get along.”
Alaireia looked at the tall Tider. “There is only one thing that matters now.” She stared up into his sky-blue eyes. “Are you with us?”
Legone defensively stared right back at her. “That is a question you should not even have to ask,” he replied tightly as he turned and walked away.
“Alaireia,” Marklus groaned, “you have insulted him.”
Alaireia huffed. “There is something about him I cannot put my finger on. He is hiding something.”
Marklus looked thoughtfully at her as they reached a flight of stairs, descending deeper into the fortress. “Crinte said the same thing to me,” he whispered, “which is why we have to keep him close. He may be our guide, but if there is more to the story, he will need our trust, something I fear he has not known. Alaireia, there are secrets you have not told me, because I do not have your trust yet.”
“I know. Since we are leaving together, it is time you knew.”
As they stepped off the stairs, into gloomy, torch lit halls, Alaireia reached into her tunic and pulled out an object. She held it in the palm of her hands and lifted it up so that the flickering torchlight fell on it.
“It cannot be!” Marklus exclaimed, staring at it in wonder. “How did you come to find it?”
A genuine smile lit up Alaireia’s face. “I know, isn’t it beautiful?”
“Alaireia.” Marklus stared at her, noticing again how lovely she looked as the yellow light spilled over her hands, highlighting her cheekbones and shades of dark hair. “Do you know what we can do with
it?”
“I do.” She never took her eyes off it. “How do you think we escaped prison?”
“Oh.” All the pieces came together now. “Your army, the prisoners.”
“Yes, you see now. They followed the trail we left them, which led here, all except for Starman. He should not have seen it.”
Marklus shook his head in wonder. “We are stronger than I thought,” he said finally.
Alaireia turned questioningly towards him as she put the object away. “What powers do you hold?”
“Nothing I can show you.” Marklus shivered. “I stand between life and death; I am a healer.”
Alaireia reached out and took his hand, then looked up at him in surprise. “You are not a healer; you are The Healer. I can feel it, even now.”
“Have you met healers before?” Marklus asked in confusion.
“Yes, some of my kind, but their auras were not like yours.”
“Then you think there is hope?” Marklus could not help but ask.
“Hope.” Alaireia turned the words over on her tongue. “I don’t know about that.” Then, she turned abruptly and led him down to the depths, where her small army slept, waiting.
Crinte had barely closed his eyes when he heard the door to his chambers swing open. Sighing inwardly at the interruption, he reached for his sword, which never left his side, even in slumber. “It’s just me, Marklus,” a voice hissed out of the darkness.
Crinte sat up. “Oh, Marklus?” He fumbled around for a light. “What brings you here at this late hour?”
Marklus sat cross-legged on the cold, stone floor. His feet were bare and the dancing flame highlighted his curious eyes. “I was with Alaireia. You did not tell me she has the Clyear.”
“It was not mine to share.”
“Then, will you share with me what Legone the Tider told you? He trusts you and no other. Alaireia hinted at darker forebodings than I imagined.”
The Complete Four Worlds Series Page 7