The Complete Four Worlds Series

by Angela J. Ford

  “More are coming,” Crinte gasped. “We need to end this.”

  “Crinte, fall back to Marklus and Legone!” Alaireia ordered. “I’ve got this!”

  It was only when Crinte turned that Starman saw his side, damp with blood as he stumbled away, and he knew it was his fault. He did not have long to contemplate his folly as Alaireia called, “Starman, with me!”

  He raised his sword once more, feeling its desire for blood surge through him. With a cry, he plunged back into the fray, stabbing and slicing and swinging and slaying. Alaireia began to back away while Legone and Marklus’ arrows continued unabated. Alaireia held her sword before her and began to speak in an ancient tongue. As she did, the gold light on her sword began to glow. The creatures slowed, unable to look away. A paralysis came over their feet and they shook where they stood, staring at the light. Starman brought his sword down and followed their eyes to Alaireia’s sword. Her eyes were closed and her lips continued to move quickly. Silence quashed the sound of battle and the creatures dropped their weapons as they stared. The light continued to burn brighter, cleaving away from the sword until it burst into the air with a snap and fingers of light rushed out, reaching for creatures. Chaos ruled again. With a shout, the creatures tried to shield their eyes. Then, they turned and ran north, back towards the sea, back from whence they had come. As they fled, the fingers stretched larger and longer, reaching for them, chasing them down. Starman turned and saw Alaireia drop her sword in exhaustion. He saw Crinte, bent over, holding his sword, while Marklus leaped off the wall and ran towards him. He saw Legone standing alone, a force to reckon with, his bow still raised. He saw his farmland ruined with ash and smoke and the bodies of turned ones from the other side. He saw and he knew his home was truly gone.

  19

  Starman’s Choice

  Marklus reached Crinte just as he lowered himself to the ground. “They stabbed me deep,” Crinte grunted, gritting his teeth as he moved his hand away from the wound.

  “This might hurt,” Marklus advised as he peeled back the tunic to take a look. Blue light surged from his fingers and he placed his hand against Crinte’s skin. Crinte felt the pain intensify before his burning skin was soothed and the muscles and sinews began to pull together, quickly closing the wound. “Thank you,” Crinte breathed as he felt the pain subside.

  Alaireia lethargically limped up as Marklus gave Crinte a hand up. “That was amazing,” Marklus praised her.

  Alaireia spit blood into the mud as she bent over, breathing hard. “It took everything I had. I did not know it would require that much energy.”

  Crinte turned his farseeing gaze over the land. “They are still fleeing,” he said.

  Starman was last to join them, a hollowness in his chestnut eyes. “I am sorry,” he mumbled. “I did not know there were so many.”

  Crinte moved forward. “Starman, there will always be many. But if you are to come with us, you must fight and retreat only when I command it.” Starman bowed his head. “And Starman,” Crinte placed a hand on his shoulder, “a homecoming such as this should never happen to anyone. You fought well. I would be grateful if you came with us to the Great Water Hole to end this once and for all.”

  Starman blinked hard. “There is nothing left for me here except death.”

  “Then you are one of us now.” Legone’s voice was surprisingly warm as he lowered his bow and arrow. Walking up to Starman, he placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

  “It grows late. We should put distance between us and this battle before sunset,” Crinte announced.

  Marklus pressed a hand to Alaireia’s cheek. “It is merely a scratch,” he said as the wound closed.

  “Thank you.” Alaireia straightened.

  The five were solemn as they cleaned their weapons, gathered their supplies, and trudged forward. The comfort of Trazamy City was forgotten as they walked east towards Wiltieders. As night fell, they set up camp in an empty pasture and Crinte pulled out his maps to study their path. “From here, we go to the edge of the Afrd Mounts,” he informed them, “to the hidden home near the slopes.”

  Starman passed out quickly that night, flinging himself to the ground and falling into a deep sleep with the potential of pleasant dreams of days past. Alaireia sat calmly beside him, cleaning her swords and daggers repetitively, her thoughts elsewhere. Occasionally, she glanced at Starman and watched his chest rise and fall, hating the world for stealing his innocence. Now, she understood why she liked him. He was unspoiled, untouched by the deep cares of the Western World. He was simple, but happy in his own way, caring for what was most important, a full life spent the way he wished it. Grand adventures were for others; earning recognition from Rulers and standing in favor of their power was not something he cared for. He was much different from most males she had met, Ackhor the Cron and Crinte the Wise included. She watched, afraid for him to wake and see the empty look in his eyes again.

  Marklus lay back with his eyes closed, listening to the aura of the world around them. He could hear the nocturnal creatures whispering to each other as they woke and eased out of their lairs to hunt through the night. To his relief, the Zikes were speaking again in his mind. Marklus the Great, they flee before us! they called in glee.

  Let none escape, he commanded them.

  Legone paced uneasily around the camp while the stars of auld began to twinkle in the clear night sky above them. Crinte touched his side gingerly where the skeletal creature had stabbed him, but the rips in his flesh were nothing more than a painful memory. He watched his warriors as they lay silent in the darkness and wondered what pure evil he was leading them into. He shook back his head at the blue blackness of the moonless night, and when he surveyed the land again, his eyes shone gold. He could see single blades of grass waving in the light wind the night brought. A distance away towards the south, he saw the flicker of a flame from a campfire. So they were not alone in the farmlands after all. A shadow moved past him and he saw Legone continue to pace. Crinte closed his eyes again, turning off the night vision. “What distresses you, Legone?”

  Legone did not pause his gait as words tumbled out of his mouth. “My visions of late. My family is dying. Time is running out. The portals are closed but their remnants remain. The turned ones are growing stronger. We need a power stronger than us all to turn the tide once and for all.”

  “What is it you seek?”

  “An immortal being who holds sway to take notice and lead us into battle.”

  “You know that will not happen.”

  “No. It will not. We are on our own.”

  “But not alone. If the free peoples of Mizine will fight with us, if the Mermis will come down from their Kingdom in the clouds, if the Zikes of the field and the Xctas of the air join forces. If the captive ones are set free, we have a chance.”

  “Not if he knows we are coming. As sure as we set our feet across the sea, we shall be overwhelmed with his forces, and they will hunt us down and destroy us.”

  “I have already taken that into consideration with my strategy, only I must seek counsel with one who has lived much longer than I.”

  “Crinte, my faith in what must be done does not fade, but I fear what might become of us on the other side.”

  Crinte turned his golden gaze on Legone the Swift and gazed into his eyes for a long moment. “You have looked into the Clyear of Alaireia and your hope has been stolen. Tell me, what did you see?”

  Legone paused and looked directly at Crinte, his voice hard. “My family is dying.”

  Starman jerked awake in the darkness, unsure of where he was for a moment. The familiar traces of home surrounded him but seconds later, the nightmarish day came crashing back into his memory. He clasped a hand over his mouth at the shocking horror and rocked gently back and forth on the ground. He swallowed hard, but the tears of rage and sorrow refused to come. All he could feel was bitter anger, seething within, blackening his soul. Cautiously he rose, glancing at the two Crons, the Tider
and the Ezinck. Dawn was approaching, yet Crinte sat in the tall grass, his eyes golden, watching. Starman wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw Crinte’s head bob, as if confirming he could leave—or perhaps he was scratching his chin. Unsure, Starman turned around and began walking hurriedly, away from the purpose bound warriors, away from certainty of death, back towards home.

  The air was chilly as he walked, and when he breathed out, curls of musky air clouded his sight. He walked steadily, no destination in mind, no goal on the horizon. Life as a Trazame was assumed and set. No choices had to be made; life just unfolded as it should, simple as that. The land was farmed, the animals taken care of, and the land and animals, in exchange, provided bountiful food. Eventually, during one harvest celebration, he would dance with a female from a neighboring farm, and they would have children to toil the soil, graze the animals, fish from the pond, and celebrate the harvest with. It was the cycle of life, unchanging, unending. But now, homeless, family-less, his place in the ritual of life had been snatched from him. It was true, he could return to Trazamy City and find work at a trade post or at the inn, and re-join his brethren. They would feel sorry for him, for a time, and already he grew annoyed at the thought of anxious, nervous faces, farm wives reaching to pat his cheek while slipping food into his pockets. As if food could cure all. It was the one comfort in disappointment and sorrow, a belly full of food washed down with a stout ale. He had seen the drunkards before, laying down pint after pint until they were tossed out with the pigs, no decency left. It was his only option, yet a pinprick of doubt played on his mind. Suddenly cold, he rubbed his hands over his arms and shuddered. There was just one small problem. What would happen to Trazamy City if the turned ones returned?

  It was hours later, when the shadows began to fade into fuzzy pink hues, that he found himself sitting in the dew damp grass, his eyes red and wet, his throat dry, his head buzzing. His breath came fast and panicked, and in all the wild, wide world, he realized he was truly alone. Family was most important. They had always been there for him, his best friends, playmates, and challengers. Everything. He remembered when his little sister was born. It had been a tough nine months. Mother had almost not pulled through, but when she did, and when a second little girl entered the household, they had shouted and celebrated, laughing and crying with hope and happiness. Now, it had all been for naught.

  A wordless shadow glided near on the edges of the vision. Too miserable to acknowledge her, he remained frozen while Alaireia sat down, a few feet from him. She said nothing, did not even glance at him, but he could feel her caring aura reaching out for him. She would never patronize him, or stare at him with sorry eyes while passing him sweet, stuff pastries for comfort. She would never bore him with stories of how kind and gentle his parents were—he knew—or what potential his brothers and sisters had—he knew that, too. She would never tell stories at the great harvest of his family and what they meant to Trazamy City; nothing, but more food. She would do more for him than anyone in Trazamy City would. At that moment, the only action he could take to honor his family, the action they would want him to take—and if he had thought about it more, he would have realized he was wrong—was to avenge their deaths.

  The sun was high in the sky when he stood at last, turning around to look at Alaireia, who stood up as well. She had braided her dark, black hair back, but it hung loose at the ends and brushed against her shoulders. She was almost his height, but slimmer, even though at times he could see her powerful muscles rippling beneath her dark skin. Her eyes were clear, shining with strength, gleaming with power. She looked at him, and her gaze was not one of pity, but of understanding. “Where to, Starman?”

  Confused, he furrowed his brow. “What do you mean? Don’t you have to catch up with Crinte and the others?”

  At the sound of his dry voice, she passed him a water skin, moving closer. His hands brushed hers as, relieved, he took the water skin and drank greedily. He wiped his mouth clumsily and held out the water skin, looking at her expectantly.

  “Starman,” she said earnestly, “I can catch up with them later. You’re the one who is important right now. So I’m here. What do you need? Where do you need to go?”

  He stared at her in surprise. “Why?”

  She bit her lower lip, looking down for a moment. “I guess I know what it is like to be alone in this world. And you, Starman, are surprising and more courageous than you know. I like what I see in you, and so, I want to help you. Not for any greater purpose. Just you.”

  “Oh.” He looked at her for a long moment before holding out his grubby hand. “I’m coming with you then. Where you go, I go.”

  She closed her hand around his and held on, tight.

  20

  Wiltieders

  Elam the Gatekeeper could not stop quaking in his boots at the earthly thing that stood before him. He could have been imagining it, but the thing appeared to be impatiently tapping its foot, although it had no feet that he could see. Its hypnotic emerald eyes stared, bored, at him, and Elam felt it would consume him. He wished Ackhor the Cron would hurry up. The thing on the doorstop of the Fighting Camp refused to explain anything until Ackhor appeared. What was more unsettling was that five what he assumed were bodyguards stood a few paces from the impatient leader, green points crackling on their heads. Although, he wasn’t sure he was looking at a head at all. This was why Crinte had deserted, with the best warriors of course. At least, that was the story circulating around the Fighting Camp. But everyone knew better. Everyone knew Crinte and his warriors were going to do what everyone wished they were brave enough to do—go to the source and destroy it. They were proud, nay, jealous of Crinte’s wisdom and commitment to righting a great wrong. But Crinte had made it clear that Ackhor was in charge at the Fighting Camp, and they were to obey him. Now, Elam wasn’t sure whether the creature on the stairs was one of the transformed or not, and he shuddered to think what message it carried from the other side.

  Ackhor took his time, not pleased with the demanding intrusion. Yet the gate was heavily armed with archers and sword fighters, so he made his way down to confront the demon from the other side. Elam the Gatekeeper made way for Ackhor as he marched up to the gates, which were thrown open with curious Crons peering from every side. When he saw the thing, his heart grew cold. Just like in his adventures, something unexpected was always turning up, but the four-foot green thing with terrible eyes, he could not place.

  “Are you Ackhor the Cron?” it demanded in a dead, gravelly voice.

  “Yes,” he said with a nod, attempting to retain his firm voice of authority.

  The thing bowed, hauntingly and mockingly. “My Master, Marklus the Great, sends his greetings.”

  “Marklus?” Ackhor could not hide his surprise.

  The thing twitched disdainfully at the interruption. “My Master, Marklus the Great, sends his greetings.” It repeated mechanically. “He requests troops for Trazamy City which is being raided by creatures from the other side. My kind have been sent to guard the sea, but we cannot hold them all.” The thing turned around, as if to walk away.

  “That’s all?” Ackhor called. “He does not want a response?”

  The thing gave what appeared to be a noncommittal shrug. “I only serve those who stand between life and death.” Then, slowly, it and its guards faded from view.

  Astonished into silence, Elam the Gatekeeper was the first to recover. “Marklus the Great, eh?” He shook his blond head. “I have many questions for him the next time I see him.”

  “As will we all,” Ackhor confirmed. In one swift motion, he turned back to the Crons, regaining his leadership. “I need volunteers to go to Trazamy City!”

  The air turned crisp as the five warriors, reunited, continued their journey. The manicured fields and pastures of Trazame faded away into the wild meadows of Wiltieders. The greenery changed and wild flowers of purple, blue, and yellow hues sprang out of the grass, shooting their colorful petals into the wind only to turn to
seed and grow again once returned to earth. Large orange fruit on stubby bushes were scattered across the countryside, and at the encouragement of Crinte, the warriors collected and ate them, sticky juice dripping from their chins. Rabbits occasionally hopped out of burrows, noses twitching, to curiously watch the intruders in their terrain. Tan cats as tall as a Cron’s waist chased butterflies through the flowers and pounced each time they almost caught a rabbit, hedgehog, or squirrel. When they drifted too close to the five, they could see razor sharp teeth glinting behind their padded mouths. Mammoth oak trees sprung up here and there but at a distance from each other, as if cautious of intruding on each other’s spheres of influence. Great roots rippled across the glade, providing shelter to the flightless creatures. Their trunks were so thick, three people could stand on one side and not be seen from the other. Their branches were mighty and the birds of the air built nests and dwelt within their sanctuary. The ravens inhabited one treetop, calling rudely to each other and fighting needlessly over each nook and hollow. Golden hummingbirds flittered by, feasting on sweet nectar from the flowers with the flying petals. When they whizzed past, the five could see miniature golden crowns sparkling upon their heads.