The Complete Four Worlds Series

by Angela J. Ford

  Marklus’ face beamed with pride and satisfaction. “Crinte, the Zikes have surrendered. They are on our side now.”

  Relief flooded Crinte’s face. “Well done, Marklus! I knew you had it in you.”

  “Indeed.” Marklus crossed his arms. “I did not realize they needed a display of power to bring them under control. I should have known because it was healing you that made them take notice the first time.”

  Crinte placed an approving hand on his shoulder. “Marklus, when this is all over, if we survive this, your country will be waiting for you to make it home again. Not just how it once was, but a place where all the animals of the land will dwell in peace, and those who return will delight in the safe haven you create. For as long as you stand between life and death and hold control over the wellbeing of the beasts of the land and air, there will be peace in Zikeland.”

  Marklus felt thrills of power fluttering through him, but he could not help but feel those words were spoken twenty years too late.

  Legone woke with a jerk, finding himself uncharacteristically sleeping when he should have been keeping watch. He noticed the vibe of the countryside as he rose, quietly calling Alaireia’s name to wake her. She, in turn, reached over to shake Starman.

  They stood slowly, gazing unsteadily about. The grass was flattened in every direction as far as the eye could see, as if still bowing from the events of midnight.

  “We should make all haste,” Crinte called, gathering his supplies. “Marklus has sent the Zikes to guard the sea.”

  Legone picked up his bow. “I’ll scout ahead,” he volunteered.

  “As shall I,” Alaireia replied, pulling her pack onto her shoulder.

  Legone nodded at her and the two ran off, side by side.

  Marklus, watching them, shook his head. “They went the wrong way.”

  Crinte looked in the direction they had gone. “They will come back around,” he said. “Come, Starman, it is time for you to go home. If you still wish it.”

  Starman hastily gathered his things, “Good.” He shuddered. “This land is strange. And you say you used to live here?” He shook his head, already dreaming of a warm homecoming.

  They had not been running long when Legone dragged Alaireia to the ground. Breathless and surprised at his actions, she pushed him away from her. “Swift, what is it?” she asked, staying low and glancing at their whereabouts.

  Legone squatted beside her. “I wanted to be out of earshot and eyesight from Crinte and Marklus. I have a favor to ask of you.”

  Alaireia, annoyed at his actions, glared at him. “Why don’t you want the others to know?”

  Legone held her gaze. “I want to be sure of myself and I don’t want to answer to the one they call Starman.”

  Alaireia looked away from his piercing blue eyes. “Because he is leaving. I know.”

  “He is a coward,” Legone muttered.

  Alaireia punched his shoulder. “I am tempted to leave you without hearing this favor you ask. Crinte may trust you, but you’ve given me no cause to.”

  “The Clyear,” Legone said. “You said you found it in the lair of the Wyvern. What else did you find there?”

  “Why?”

  “I seek the truth. When I dwelt in Asspraineya much was hidden from me, but I learned there are portals between worlds. The Green People managed to close one, but a portal leaves remnants in its wake. I’m starting to believe portals have been opening across the Western World, and when they do, dark creatures come through them to terrorize the land. Here in Zikeland a glimmer of a portal remains; maybe one does in Srinka as well.”

  “What does it matter if it is true?” Alaireia demanded. “There is nothing we can do about portals.”

  “There, you are wrong. If we know how many portals have been opened in the past twenty years, we have an idea of how many creatures have come through and what we might deal with as we pass into Asspraineya.”

  Alaireia looked into his cold face and, sensing she had the leverage, asked, “Swift, what actually happened on the other side that made you this way?”

  Legone looked away.

  “Lightfoot,” he faltered, “I must borrow the vision of the Clyear to ensure we are on the right path, but I am afraid to look. When I left Asspraineya, I fled like a fugitive. You who have lost everything know what it feels like to stand on the edge and look down into the abyss. As long as I stayed in the mountains, I could forget. Now I must go back and right the wrong, but all the pieces have not come together yet. I need your help to make it so.”

  “Do you know what you must do?” Alaireia reached for the Clyear.

  “I must go to the Green People and ask them how to break this dark force that now rises.”

  “Why must you break it? Do they not have power?”

  Legone gazed on the Clyear. “When you have family, it is hard to destroy them. Family knows you better than anyone else. They know what your actions might be before you take them. They know when weakness will strike you. It is better the blow come from the outside.”

  Alaireia paused. “I know your secret. I read the words of the scroll Crinte gave to Ackhor. I know that he was one of them until they forced him out. Have you met him? What is he like?”

  “Yes.” Legone’s voice was small and haunted. “There is nothing right about him, nothing redeeming. How could they think they could save him?”

  Alaireia opened her palm and a mist blew over Legone’s face. “Look, and see if your path is right.”

  He opened his eyes, and opened them again, and he looked, and he saw, and he knew. When he turned to Alaireia, there were tears in his blue eyes and she did not know what to do. “Swift?” But even as she said his name, behind him she saw a dark mass on the horizon, moving rapidly towards them.

  “Legone and Alaireia are catching up,” Marklus remarked as they plodded east.

  Crinte glanced behind and for a moment again, he thought he saw an Xctas flying and a gazelle bounding their way. “They are running, fast. Something is wrong.”

  Starman nervously followed Crinte’s eyes, but he saw nothing stirring in the grasslands. Marklus stopped walking. He lowered himself to the ground and pressed his ear to the earth. For a moment, he felt the awe and reverence of the soil as it stirred beneath him. Then, he heard the muted thud of a great many footsteps marching in sync across the ground. He leaped up, and searching his mind, called, Zikes.

  Eager voices chimed back in his head. O Marklus the Great, we hear, we obey.

  Slow them down.

  There was a rustling as a small troop of Zikes scattered throughout the grasslands. It wasn’t long after they were gone that Legone and Alaireia appeared. “They are coming!” Alaireia shouted. “We should run!”

  “What have you seen?” Crinte asked.

  “A dark mass speeding our way,” Alaireia gasped. “More of those foul creatures in this land.”

  “The Zikes have gone to distract them,” Marklus confirmed.

  “There are no hiding places in this land,” Crinte agreed. “Our best chance is speed. Come!” And he set off in a dead run across the plain.

  17

  Starman’s Homecoming

  Days later, weary travelers crossed the border of Zikeland into Trazamy City, an ever-growing trade point, farmland, and home of the peaceful Trazames. Trazamy City hummed with life as the five warriors entered, coming to well-manicured lands full of color and vibrant energy. Starman, exhausted and dirty from trying to keep up with the others as they raced through Zikeland, smiled and relaxed. He turned his grimy face on the city and raised a hand. “Welcome to my home!” he exclaimed jubilantly.

  In the distance, low lying buildings rose out of the ground. Waist high stone walls surrounded the structures and even gates had been constructed. It was not a rich city, and the poor attempts to make it look so made it seem even more a country town and less a magnificent city. As they walked towards it, a tanned shepherd led fluffy gray and white sheep out to pasture. Goats grazed her
e and there, keeping the stretch of green before the gates trim and neat.

  “I have never been here,” Alaireia remarked curiously as she strode beside Starman.

  “You are in for a treat,” Starman boasted excitedly. “The city is bursting with endless varieties of food and flavors, and the meats are a special cut, thick and juicy. The wines and ales will make you heady and happy. Best of all are the celebrations of a great harvest. We celebrate for days and everyone travels to the city to feast.”

  “A life spent eating and drinking,” Legone murmured under his breath.

  Starman took no notice of his stinging words. “I must check my orchard first,” he went on. “The goats will have missed me. I hope they haven’t destroyed too much…”

  “Starman,” Crinte interrupted, “how long until we reach your home.”

  “A few days. My family lives in the farmlands on the outskirts of the city. It’s peaceful out there; I feel like I can breathe.”

  “Well then.” Crinte smiled at the others. “It won’t hurt to stop at the nearest inn to rest and refresh.”

  “I know exactly where we should go,” Starman announced, and led the way into Trazamy City.

  Intricately designed leaves intertwined with fruit and vegetables covered the city gate. Someone had clearly taken great care to create an archway that welcomed visitors to the land of plenty, yet the gate was made of wood instead of iron, and the bolts that held it shut were wide open. The archway was decorated with carved grapes and goblets, depicting the drink Trazames loved most, the fruit of their labor. The city opened to a wide, cobblestone road of green, with persistent weeds growing over the stones. Around the homes, built in a tight row, grass grew and danced around slabs of gray steps that led upwards. Here and there, gaps in the rows displayed even more stained brown buildings with thatched straw roofs and sky painted doors. Despite the unique conditions, each building had a smoking chimney out of which delicious aromas flowed, making mouths water in anticipation.

  At last, there was life and sound again, mothers warning their little ones as they dashed through the street in bare feet and loose hair, eager to gather as much sunlight as possible. Children shouted and laughed as they played, ducking around the traders and animals that blocked their path. Goats and sheep bleated contentedly as they grazed from feeding troughs and pockets of green weeds. Chickens pecked here and there, left unattended to fend for themselves. One squawked angrily as a Trazame tripped over a nest of eggs it had laid in the middle of the road. The roar of Trazames and Crons bartering and trading filled the air, doors opened and slammed, and people yelled out sales, bargains and discounts from their booths. It was a beautiful, chaotic city, sizzling with energy.

  “They are too close to the sea to be this unprepared,” Crinte whispered urgently to Marklus. “If a raid swept this city, it would be gone in the blink of an eye.”

  “I am surprised Ackhor does not have troops stationed here,” Marklus replied. “I thought that was his goal.”

  “It is, or it was. There are those who think little of the Trazames, but they deserve protection as well.”

  “I can have the Zikes send a message.”

  “Please do. Tell them to let Ackhor know the cities by the sea are unprotected and we sense more of the turned creatures.”

  Zikes. Marklus summoned them in his head and sent them off.

  “Aha!” Starman gestured at the building they halted in front of. “We have arrived at the Ajke Inn, where the traders from near and far stay.” Indeed, a large brown building rose out of the ground, almost leaning over onto the street with the weight of the tales it carried. Its door flapped uneasily on broken hinges and above it a crooked sign was nailed into the wooden door frame which read: Ajke Inn: Home of the Nutty Ale. “At last, good food, good drink, and a warm bed!” Starman opened the door and blissfully sailed through it.

  Marklus, Legone, and Alaireia turned questioning eyes to Crinte. “As he said, good food and warm beds.” He looked at them warningly. “And mind you avoid the heedless talkers.”

  The heavy smell of meat and garlic drifted past their noses and rough voices assaulted their ears. The entry hall opened into a wide, windowless room, dimly lit although lanterns hung from the four corners of the chamber. Low, round and square wooden tables were scattered in a haphazard way across the floor with chairs and benches pulled up to them. A tall white candle burned in the middle of each table, but it was hard to see, for the room was already crowded with mostly Trazames and a few Crons scattered here and there. A haze of smoke from a combination of steaming food and tobacco pipes hung over the air. The aroma of fresh bread tangled with roasted potatoes, the sharp tang of onions, sautéed squash, and cuts of lamb and mutton roasted to such perfection the meat merely slipped from the bone.

  Starman had already climbed behind a table and was dipping his face into an enormous mug. He waved them over enthusiastically. “I already ordered a meal for us, the very best, and the innkeeper is preparing rooms. Come, sit and enjoy!”

  The boisterous roar of voices and laughter dropped, and curious eyes turned on Crinte, Marklus, Alaireia, and Legone as they weaved between tables towards Starman. A low hum began across the room as Trazames and Crons alike gossiped, pointing at the five. Starman, noticing the change, shook it off. “They probably want to know what you have come to trade, and we haven’t seen an Ezinck in these parts…well…ever.”

  “We should eat and leave. I don’t like this place,” Legone murmured.

  “These are goodhearted people,” Crinte rebuked him. “They mean us no harm.”

  “Have you been here before?” Starman asked.

  Crinte nodded. “I have been most everywhere this side of the Western World. I feel a pull within my spirit and must follow where it leads.”

  A plump maid with sunflower braided hair and cheeks smudged with flour brought them piping hot bowls of soup, topped with a crusty round of bread. She smiled shyly at Crinte before rushing away beyond their sight. A moment later, she reappeared with tankards of nutty brown ale to refresh their palates. Starman almost slurped gravy out of his bowl in his haste to enjoy the legendary food of Trazamy City. Even Legone’s features brightened as he bit into the warm bread and felt its buttery crust melt in his mouth. Marklus’ first taste reminded him of winter in Zikeland, when his mother would make a thick stew out of carrots, onions, potatoes, and the best cuts of meat from deer, rabbit, or lamb. Alaireia could almost name the flavors; a lick of salt, a sprig of parsley, a hint of lavender, and some other rare herbs. Crinte felt the warmth fill his body and he was thankful he could give his warriors a brief reprieve.

  No sooner had they drained their bowls of the last delicious drop of stew than an unruly Cron at a nearby table leaned over, his unkempt wild hair spilling into his face. Stroking his dark beard conspiringly, he looked at Crinte. “You seem familiar,” he said curiously. “An armed Cron, stomping in here like this with representatives from each of the people groups. Are you from Norc?”

  “Why do you ask?” Crinte questioned, although his ears perked up at the thought of news from the country to the west he was born in.

  Marklus, sitting across from Crinte, looked curiously at the sloppy Cron, a name on the tip of his tongue.

  The Cron dropped his voice and leaned in closer to Crinte, his round eyes bright, lively. “On account of your clothes. You have no symbol of authority on your cloak, the sign of fealty to a Ruler. Everyone knows the King of Norc supports the Rebels.”

  Crinte looked at him evenly, offering no words, while Marklus turned his head sharply, his eyes peeling across the room. Alaireia and Starman conversed quietly while Legone sat at the end of the table, a grim look on his distrusting face. The Trazames and Crons in the Inn had left off staring at the five and were caught up in their own business once again.

  The Cron guffawed at Marklus’ caution, slapping a hand over his bearded mouth as his eyes danced from Crinte to Marklus. “There are no soldiers here! Don’t you
know, Trazame is a free, unruled country? What do they care here for rebel armies and political gain?” He lifted his tankard of ale and raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “What do they call you?" Crinte asked in response. “One who speaks so boldly must have a name? And if you know so much, why haven’t you joined the Rebels?”

  The Cron’s face widened and he stuck out a hand, causing long locks of hair to dance across his face. “They call me Simon the Brave.”

  “Simon?” Marklus chimed in, sticking his head around to get a good look at the Cron’s face. “I know that name! You sold me a horse not long ago in Cromomany."

  Simon the Brave gave a sly grin. “Oh, but it was long ago. How did that horse turn out?”

  Marklus shook his head. “I would say I was swindled but you warned me well. Crinte, this fellow is harmless enough. Although, Simon, I am surprised you still have your head.”

  Simon stroked his neck lovingly, his lively eyes lifted to the ceiling in mock gratefulness. “Yes, I have been in many a tight spot. If only my tongue would stop a-flapping, I might be able to live a peaceful life.”

  Marklus shook his head, a boyish grin spreading across his face. “You and I both know that will never happen. Come, tell us what news you have of the world.”

  Simon pulled his tankard closer and leaned in towards Crinte and Marklus. “Ah, but if you are with the Rebels, you already know. We are doomed, scattered, leaderless, and those destructive creatures are coming to take over.”

  “Everyone knows that,” Crinte interrupted. “The question is what are you going to do about it?”

  “Well,” Simon the Brave said as he leaned back, shaking his tunic until he found a pouch of tobacco. He plopped it carelessly on the table and reached for his pipe. “What am I going to do? Stay here in the happiest place in the world, with food, drink, and females.” He winked at Marklus. “What else am I supposed to do? Join the Rebels?” He laughed. “That’s what you would do!”