Crinte, finally spotting Alaireia, maneuvered through the trees towards her. A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and yanked him back. Crinte turned to find himself face to face with Tincire. A stretch of silence passed between the two Crons as they eyed at each other, neither ready to admit their hand in the turn of events. Tincire crossed his arms gruffly. “You are leaving with your warriors,” his low voice rumbled, more of a statement than a question.
“What makes you think that?” Crinte replied defensively, crossing his arms as well, not giving an inch.
“My brother suspects you. You mean to break in the morning, leaving me no choice but to report you, and your comrades, missing after the battle. All five of you.”
“You don’t mean to try and stop us?” Crinte challenged.
Tincire’s rough voice grew even lower. “No, I think you should go, but before you leave, come back to the Fighting Camp with us. I know time is of the essence but you should not leave without the weapons I made for you and the other four.”
Crinte paused, reading Tincire for a moment, then nodded. “I do not want Ackhor to know we returned or to trap us in the Camp. Can you make it so?”
“Aye, there is a way out through the forge. No one will be the wiser.”
Crinte reached out his hand and Tincire shook it.
Alaireia cleaned her blades, keeping one eye on Starman and the other on the sharp edges of her daggers. She did not understand why he wanted to run off alone into the wide world. She was sure he would not survive, but he seemed determined to push her away. Maybe he could see she was simply using him for his skills with the sword, but it was more than that. Crinte walked up, shattering her muse. She could not read his face, but he leaned in and whispered, “Change of plans. I know where it is.
13
The Gifts Of Tincire
A day later, the Eka Fighting Camp saw forty-four warriors return successfully from their mission. They were welcomed back into the Camp and celebrated with a large meal and a break from training and war preparation while they entertained with tales of the battle by the sea. Their fearless leader, nowhere to be found, was reported to have returned to his forge, requesting to be left alone.
Meanwhile, Tincire led the five warriors through the tree foliage alongside the training grounds. “I have an entrance in the back but we have to hurry,” he told them. “Once Ackhor realizes I went to the forge instead of reporting to him, he will come find me. My workers will delay him momentarily, but we must move quickly.”
“I would rather Ackhor did not know how much or how little of a lead we have on him. A civil disruption is the very last thing we need right now,” Crinte said.
“Why are we acting like this?” Alaireia asked, annoyed with the sneaking about. “I told Ackhor I was leaving with you, Crinte, and he did not object. What makes you think he will try to stop us? Aren’t we all on the same side?”
Crinte looked back at her briefly. “I am relying on new information.” His eyes turned gold for a moment, speaking a silent warning.
Alaireia fell uncomfortably silent.
“Why are we going back for weapons?” Starman complained. “We have weapons. I don’t want another sword.”
“An excusable question,” Marklus answered excitedly. “You likely don’t know, but weapons made by Tincire contain a sort of mythical element. I don’t know how he does it but rumor has it he makes the best weapons in the land. A weapon handcrafted by Tincire is one of the highest honors a warrior could receive. We are lucky to have him on our side.”
“But I am not a warrior,” Starman protested.
“You'll see.” Marklus winked good-naturedly.
Tincire paused at a clearing in the woods and reached behind a large oak tree for a hidden door. He pulled a rusted black key from inside his tunic, twisted it in the lock, and yanked the door open. “Inside, and quickly,” he growled.
The five moved into what looked like a storage room which was immediately secured in darkness as Tincire shut and locked the door. He moved his hands over the floor by memory until he pulled open a trapdoor, leading down. “Follow me,” he called.
The air grew chilly and musty as they descended into the earth, yet Marklus could already hear ironworkers at the end of the passage, and Starman could smell the sharp sting of fire searing onto metal. They could all feel the coolness melting away into blasting heat as they stepped out of the wide passageway into the forge. Flames leaped from one side of the room while a small flurry of Crons constantly hovered around it, keeping the fire burning bright, taking pieces of metal in and out in such a quick fashion it was a wonder they did not burn themselves. Even as the golden yellow flames licked up every inch of fuel, ironworkers hammered bright orange pieces of metal on anvils, causing a beautiful shower of sparks that winked across the workspace as they brought their hammers down again and again. Each of the Crons had a similar build to Tincire, broad shoulders, and thick arms with hair pulled back from their flushed faces. The Crons did not even glance up when Tincire entered with the five. They continued to work tirelessly, their huge muscles bulging.
Tincire led them across the room to a wide wall rising ten feet above the ground and covered in long swords, short swords, small, thick, and curved daggers, bows and quivers full of arrows, and other strange, fearsome weapons. The steel glinted deviously from the wall, as if each weapon had a spirit of its own, birthed from the flames. A light gleamed in Tincire’s eyes as he stood in front of the wall, gazing at his handiwork.
“I have experimented long with these weapons, and now I know why.” He looked back at the five briefly. “The perfect combination has come together and I do not believe it is a coincidence.” He reached up and pulled a medium length sword from the wall. Its hilt shone silver in the light and as Tincire pulled it from its sheath, the blade appeared to leap and dance, as if begging for combat. Tincire held it dearly for a moment, like a father reluctant to let go of a child, then placed it back in its sheath. He turned.
“Starman, this is your sword. You will find it will serve you well on the battlefield and if, at times, it seems to lead the way, follow. This sword knows how to slay its enemies.”
Starman’s protests died on his lips. Despite himself, he found his arms reaching for the sword, welcoming it home with his very actions. As his hands touched it, he felt an odd calming sensation, as if the sword were whispering words of promise to him. He felt a new hope surge within him, and not waiting to unfasten his old sword, he pulled the new one from its sheath and gazed on the blade as light danced within it. “Thank you,” he said in an awed whisper, his eyes never leaving the shiny blade.
Tincire turned back to his intimidating wall, reached up, and took down a much longer sword. The hilt was simple but covered in silver like a jewel. As he pulled the naked blade from the sheath, a sharp gold line appeared, running vertically down the blade. Despite themselves, the five could not tear their eyes away from it. “Alaireia, your sword has a minor mesmerizing power if your enemies gaze too long at the gold light. It will also provide light in darkness. Soon, you will learn how to control it."
Alaireia stepped forward to receive her gift, speechless for a moment. “Tincire,” she breathed, “this is incredible…” She faltered. “I will use it well.” As she lay her hand on the silver hilt, the gold line on the sword flared for a moment but calmed as Alaireia slid the sword back into its sheath. She buckled it around her waist and stood tall, feeling she had earned a new power. Tincire’s intense face softened for a moment as he smiled fondly at her before returning to the wall.
He pulled down a medium sized bow carved of a dark wood, and a quiver full of blue tipped arrows. “Marklus, these are for you. The bow is newly made of wood from the Algrema Forest and carved with old symbols of our country, Mizine. The shaft of each arrow is dipped in blue instead of white, which symbolizes Mizine. Let them be a warning to all you come into contact with. Mizine will not lie idle while plots are formed against us. You cannot miss with th
ese arrows. They are light but will fly quickly and hit their mark strong and true every time.”
“Many thanks.” Marklus reached for his gift, gazing at the markings on the bow in admiration. As he placed the quiver of arrows on his back he thought he heard hushed voices. He pricked his ears for a moment but all was still within the quiver.
“Crinte, I give you the sword of a leader.” Tincire pulled a sword of great beauty from the wall. Its hilt was gold, but as he revealed the blade, strange markings winked into view before disappearing again. Tincire handed the sword to Crinte. “You will find it will serve you well.”
Crinte held up the sharp blade, testing the weight of the sword but it balanced perfectly in his hand. Even as he looked at the blade he saw images dash before his eyes in a blur.
“Thank you, Tincire, this gift is…” Words failed Crinte for the first time as he gazed at the blade.
Brushing Crinte’s words away, Tincire turned back to the wall for the final time. “Legone the Swift, these are for you.” He pulled down another set of bow and arrows. The bow was quite similar to Marklus’, made of dark wood and engraved with symbols of Mizine, although it, and the quiver, were slightly bigger. “The quiver was made to keep up with your swift and nimble way. It never runs out of arrows.”
Legone stepped forward with a brief nod and fitted the quiver onto his back. An odd sensation passed through his fingers as he did so, bringing back the long-forgotten memory of a darker power.
“Now you are truly prepared for your quest. You must go quickly before you are discovered here. Crinte, I have mapped out your way through Cromomany. Stop by the home of Oman the Farmer and tell him I sent you. He will prepare horses to speed you on your journey.”
“Tincire.” Crinte reached out his hand. “We cannot thank you enough. I feel much more confident in our success, knowing you have prepared us for battle. We will send word as we continue on. A time will come when we will join forces again and wipe out the abomination which has taken hold across the sea.”
Tincire shook Crinte’s hand and nodded briskly and gruffly. “Go now, and farewell.”
14
An Ancient Power
Legend told that in the beginning, gifts were bestowed upon the Four Worlds to remind its inhabitants they were not alone in the miraculous land they were given. These gifts hinted at a greater potential to those who found them and learned how to wield their powers. Seven such gifts were bestowed and they were called Clyears. Each one held a particular identity, which could be used in combination if one held the others. But there was one Clyear which superseded them all: the Great Clyear of Power. It was an ancient power source and only as powerful as its owner. Some said the Clyear of Power chose its holder; others claimed the holder chose it. Either way, it had been passed from generation to generation, fought over by kings and queens, divided brother and sister, brought together the most unlikely friends, and was used, misused, and abused, until it was finally lost for years. It had last been seen in the South World but now had appeared unexpectedly in the Western World. The hunt for the other six Clyears was only a story for curious children, the hope that there was still a quest for those who were not yet grown, that they might seek adventure throughout their years.
Those were not the tales Legone held in his mind as he walked stealthily through the halls of the Fighting Camp. Holding his new bow close to his lean, hard body, he brought up the vision Crinte had transferred to his memory. Again he saw the ceramic pot blending into its surroundings. He saw the hands that placed it on the shelf and moved several scrolls in front, hiding it from curious eyes. Legone stood still in the hall, shaking the vision from his eyes. All was quiet and he moved on. His eyes began to burn the closer he walked and he blinked them rapidly, not caring for the temporary power Crinte had lent him.
Early morning after battle, Crinte had pulled him aside. “Legone, I have a task for you. Will you accept it?”
Legone stood in the dewy darkness and nodded his bare head. “I will. What do you ask of me?”
“There is an object that lies back at the Fighting Camp. It was stolen from one of our own and I need you to retrieve it for us. I know where it rests, but risk drawing attention to myself. It would only cause another delay I wish to avoid.”
Legone simply listened. At this point, he was not one to question Crinte’s wishes, as long as his ultimate plan was coming to fruition.
“I can guide you with my mind,” Crinte went on. “Will you let me share my sight with you?”
Legone sighed. “As long as you don’t make this a habit.”
Crinte smiled slightly. “Just this once. Close your eyes and focus. Tell me what you see.”
“I am returning from the training grounds. They are empty but it is an hour when warriors should be training. I am entering the fortress. There is no one around. I am walking through passages and halls, climbing staircases, headed towards...Ackhor’s room...humm...it is empty. I see shelves and scrolls and behind those scrolls a ceramic pot. Now all goes black.”
“Good,” Crinte coached. “Now hold that vision in your mind and follow it. You will know when you have reached the end. Once we leave Tincire, head to the fortress. After you have stolen the ceramic pot, meet us back on the road that leads towards Cromomany. Give to Alaireia what you find.”
“Alaireia?” Legone asked, dizzy for a moment as he recovered from the vision.
“Trust, Legone. If we don’t trust each other, how will we fight and win together?”
Legone stood outside Ackhor’s chambers. He felt every inch the intruder and hoped there would not be any unpleasant surprises waiting for him on the other side of that door. He turned the handle slowly but the door swung open without hindrance. Legone felt the gates to a different world had been opened to him. Strange and fantastical creatures danced on the wall, brought to life by the ink they were created by. Stacks of books and papers covered the room and light streamed in, highlighting the dust and dirt collecting in the corners. Legone shut the door gently behind him and turned in the great room, losing site of the vision for a moment as jagged memories flooded his mind. He remembered spending days sitting in sunlit halls reading books of old, opening age ridden scrolls to find what lay there, learning the language of the “wild things” and practicing it until it flowed as fluidly from his lips as the language of Mizine, called Miften. Legone reached out his hands and picked up a book. He flipped through its pages for a moment, watching the dust fly off it and dance in the sunlight before settling nearby on a pile of scrolls. Was he truly ready for the task laid before him? To lead the four warriors into a dark land, full of secrets, to discover its biggest one?
Frustrated, Legone closed his eyes, recalling the vision Crinte had given him. He walked forward, passing shelves until he reached one towards the back of the room. He opened his eyes and brushed aside a pile of scrolls. They scattered at his touch, rolling out of the way, some dropping into the floor like a gentle rebuke. Legone reached for the neutral, ceramic pot he found behind them. At first he was tempted to look inside, but realized if it was something Crinte wanted, he probably had no interest in it. Their desires did not often align. He held it for a moment, then reached around and slid it into his quiver. If anything did happen, it was likely the last place anyone would look. Quickly replacing the fallen scrolls, Legone decided it was time to return to freedom with the others. He was just replacing the last scroll when he heard voices on the other side of the door.
“How dare he return without coming to me first. Does he seek to undermine my authority in this place?”
“He asked to be left alone in his forge,” a calmer male voice replied. “But we can interrupt his solitude if you prefer.”
“I’m supposing Crinte and his band of rebels did not return?” Legone now realized the voice had to be Ackhor’s, and the second one belonged to Elam the Gatekeeper. He glanced around for a place to hide.
“If they did, they are with Tincire.”
There
was a pause as the handle jiggled, then, “I will speak with Tincire first.” The footsteps began to retreat. “Find me a locksmith. I want a lock put on my door immediately.”
Legone remained frozen for a few moments longer before opening the door and peering out. A glance both ways told him the halls were deserted once again. He quickly closed the door behind him and fled. The front entrance of the fortress was heavily guarded. All that remained was for him to sneak out to the training grounds and loop back around to the road that led towards Cromomany. Even as he rushed through the Fighting Camp, he could tell the celebration had dispersed and the warriors were returning to their daily training routines. Acting as one of them, he stood tall and joined a group of warriors as they walked to the training grounds. From there, he left them and ran east, his feet barely touching the ground.
Ackhor stood firmly in front of his younger brother, his arms crossed and face set. “Explain yourself!” he demanded as Tincire looked up from the flames.
Tincire lightly tapped a piece of metal with a hammer and sat it down, ushering Ackhor out of earshot of his workers. “What is your beef with Crinte?” he asked gruffly.
Ackhor tapped his foot impatiently against the warm stones. “Crinte’s actions are the problem. He has his mind set on crossing the sea to antagonize a monster. Does he not realize retaliation will be swift and strong, and destroy us all? We are only rebels; the armies of Mizine are not united. If war comes to the countries of Mizine, we will be thrown into irreversible chaos. Yet he turns a blind eye to this and persists with his own plans. If the leaders of the Fighting Camp cannot be united, what hope do we have to save Mizine?”
The Complete Four Worlds Series Page 10