The Complete Four Worlds Series

by Angela J. Ford

  Sarhorr laughed then, feeling the mirth bubble out of his body at the absurd question. “Find the Clyear of Power and bring it to me. I, in return, shall make you immortal, and spare the Green People from my poisonous death. The other people groups, well, they will not be as lucky.”

  “The Clyear of Power has been lost for decades; such a search is impossible.”

  Sarhorr shook his head like a disappointed teacher. “Excuses are for mortals. You shall have decades because you shall be immortal. Bring me the Clyear, and all other powerful beings you find along your journey. Do so, because you do not want me to do it my way; it will destroy your world.”

  The Tider gritted his teeth. “How do I know you will not destroy the world anyway, once you have the Clyear of Power?”

  “A fair question.” Sarhorr paused, a smug smile lighting his beautiful face. “I shall go to paradise. Now, be still.”

  Sarhorr reached out his hand to touch the Tider’s head. As his impartation passed, the Tider screamed in pain as if all of his bones had been broken at once.

  Now, Sarhorr still felt frustrated. The Five Warriors were coming, along with the Clyear of Power, but it wasn’t what he wanted anymore. Since then he had learned, from conversations with stars, of a more powerful gem, with ten times the potency of the Clyear of Power. Now he knew what he truly desired. The Green Stone.

  46

  A Taste Of Trouble

  “Starman, are you okay?” Marklus’ voice called out to him, and a hand touched his shoulder. It was comforting, but not healing. The pain from being thrown into the wall remained.

  “Yes,” Starman replied, standing up with Marklus’ help. “Is it dead?” The stinging numbness of pain receded as he squared his shoulders and picked up his sword.

  “Yes.” Marklus nodded as he reached for an arrow and gestured towards the wide expanse behind them. “But we have another problem.”

  Torchlight was unnecessary for what Starman turned to face. Alaireia stood with her sword held in one hand above her head. Its light glimmered and pushed against the darkness, driving it back to illuminate what it hid. Panthers hissed furiously, their crooked teeth bared, their red eyes blazing as they focused on Alaireia, and Crinte, who stood behind her. He had his hand out, as if mentally pushing them back, while his sword pointed towards them. Starman blinked as he looked at Crinte’s sword, for the first time seeing ripples dashing past it. Starman swallowed hard as he looked back to Marklus, seeing Legone on the other side of him, an arrow ready to fly, yet they waited. They all waited, listening for unheard instructions.

  “Go,” Alaireia commanded, her voice sure and unwavering. “I can hold them. Run.”

  “Alaireia.” There was a question in Crinte’s voice, but he did not take his eyes off the panthers. “At least let me stand with you.”

  “I’m faster,” Alaireia replied, knowing well what she was doing. “Go.” She looked at him. “Why did you ask me to come if you won’t let me do what I’m best at?”

  “Run!” Crinte bellowed back to Starman, Marklus and Legone. Dropping his stance, he turned and fled, sword still in hand, powering down on the three. “Now!” he ordered them.

  Seconds later, the ground began to rumble and quake, shaking under their feet as they ran, threatening to throw them off balance. Fissures began to open up, rippling across the stone ground.

  Marklus felt the uncanny sense of deja vu as he ran against the quaking ground, and he realized what Alaireia had done. The next moment, a blast of light, golden hot, drove itself into the ground, widening the rift between the warriors and the panthers. Uncanny howls of anger bounced off the narrowing tunnel walls, driving themselves with a stinging force into the hearts of the warriors. They could feel it then, a taste of what the transformed felt, the helpless terror, the overwhelming pain, and finally, the furious desire for revenge and death.

  The panthers leaped through the air, running across the uneven ground even as it crumbled under them. Reaching out with their claws, they pulled their bodies up, preventing themselves from falling completely into the void. Yet the ripples continued as Alaireia stood on the edge, the Clyear of Power in one hand, her sword in the other, a steady stream of light blazing from it. She lifted them together, her hands over her head, and brought them down in one, sweeping, final signal. A second bolt of white hot lightning shot across the ground the panthers lay on, scorching their fur and blasting bolts of fires into their midst. High pitched, whining cries could be heard as the panthers struggled, half of them retreating back into the darkness from whence they had come, the other half caught in the broken crumble of the heart of the mountain, scrambling to survive the fatal earthquake.

  Alaireia brought the Clyear close to her mouth and whispered. The crystal horse lifted from her fingers and flew towards the path the warriors had disappeared down, a gentle light shooting through the air. Alaireia sheathed her sword, backing away from the edge. Summoning the last of her strength, she turned and ran—not a moment too soon as the ground crumbled beneath her fleet feet.

  “Up the stairs!” Crinte called to Legone, who was in the lead. “We need to seek higher ground!”

  The tunnels continued to crumble around them, but now the skull-crushing heaviness of the air had grown deeper and more intense. Each breath was a struggle, and the stale air burned their lungs as they breathed in. At first, Starman anxiously glanced around, hanging back, waiting for Alaireia to catch up even as Crinte urged him onward. Now, the struggle to breathe was final, causing him to focus on breathing alone. The deep rumbling of the tunnels continued as they threw themselves downwards in revolt, grief, and self-pity. The air closed around him, forbidding him further access to its putrid end, just as a hand on his back pushed him up the stairs. His feet obediently plodded up the wide, rail-less staircase, in reverse to what the black slide had done. Lights danced ahead of his eyes and he felt fresher air slide into his nostrils and the fog in his brain began to clear.

  Ahead, Legone ran up the staircase, back towards the shallow regions of the tunnels, none too thankful to slip away from the panthers of the deep. At the top he could see the tunnel opening again, higher above him, and flicking flames hung above the doorway, welcoming him. It took only a second for him to realize someone had actually lit those torches, and chances were, someone had to constantly keep them burning. Legone froze, not a moment too soon as the edge of a battle axe floated past him, clipping off a strand of swinging hair. Legone ducked down, sliding an arrow into his bow and sending it back towards the top of the staircase in response. A strangled cry replied and Legone moved again, faster if possible, skipping up the stairs as a volley of angry axes and black arrows poured down on him. Axes clanged loudly against the stone, adding to the wrath of the crumbling tunnels behind him. Arrows tipped off the edge, diving uselessly into the deep. He saw an armed creature aim at him and duck out of view again, but Legone moved too fast for the creature. Turning to look behind he saw his company moving up the stairs at a much slower pace. “Watch out for the Gaslinks!” he shouted to them. He thought he heard Starman groan but wasn’t sure as another axe hurled past his feet.

  Legone reached for his daggers. With a few leaps, he was at the top of the staircase. Reaching out a hand, he grasped the first Gaslink he came into contact with. It dropped its bow in a surprised squeak at Legone’s speed. Legone yanked it out of the niche it stood in and onto the staircase. “Leave my friends alone.” His voice was grim as he stared into the glittering eyes, wondering if his message would reach The Ruler who had started it all. The Gaslink had no time to react as it was bodily lifted off the staircase and thrown into the pit. Legone turned to find another thirty Gaslinks lined up, staring at him calmly. A brief moment of hesitation passed over their seemingly emotionless faces. As one, they lifted their battle-axes and advanced.

  Realizing his mistake, Legone momentarily cursed under his breath and threw his daggers into the necks of two of the approaching horde. They collapsed in a heap as he spun out o
f the way of two axes, backing down the staircase as he drew arrow after arrow. The Gaslinks advanced hungrily, boney fingers wrapped around their wicked weapons as they came onward, the pounding of their chainmail boots heavy against the stone. Legone felt like a gazelle being hunted as he backed away, on the defense. If he did not turn the tables soon, they would be on him like a lion devouring its prey, ripping him apart until there was nothing left but a bloody corpse. Legone stopped and whipped his long braid around his shoulder. He felt the air give way under his speed as he pushed all barriers aside. Bounding down the staircase, he picked up two battle-axes where they lay, unused. He twirled them lightly in his hands even though they felt off kilter and nothing like the way his bow nestled close to him, bending its strings to his will. His bow gave off comforting hushes of power, unlike the intense potion of the invincibility power of the Mermis or the electrifying waves the Clyear gave off. Something akin to love glowed in the heart of his bow and arrows, binding itself to his emotions, but the battle-axes he held were dead. Skill was what he needed in order to wield them, and in one move, further testing the invincibility potion, Legone leaped back up the stairs and dove into the midst of the Gaslinks.

  Marklus, who was shoving a groggy Starman up the stairs ahead of him, looked up in time to see Legone the Swift moving in a blur into a swarm of Gaslinks. “Swift is overwhelmed, we have to fight!” he shouted. Dropping to his knees to get a better angle, Marklus reached for his arrows and took aim.

  Starman drew his sword and took a deep breath. The clearer air washed through the windows of his brain and he ran. Blue tipped arrows slid past, almost as if they avoided him on their way to plunge into the skeletal bodies of the Gaslinks. The higher Starman climbed, the better his clarity became, until he was there with Legone. He raised his sword and roared as he dived into their midst, feeling the momentum of his blade as he swung. The amount of power behind him frightened him as he moved, and suddenly he was Starman the Warrior, flattening everything in his wake. He must have blacked out, for when he came to, panting, Legone, Marklus, Crinte, and Alaireia were all there, standing around him, and the Gaslinks were all dead.

  47

  Where The Sorns Work

  “They call it berserk,” Alaireia told him later. “When a warrior becomes so enraged with bloodlust they kill everything in their wake. You seem to have more control over it though.”

  “I think it’s the sword,” Starman replied uncertainly. “I feel…different…when I hold it. Like I can defeat anything.”

  “You’ll need it for whatever is ahead,” Alaireia encouraged. She reached out and gently touched his shoulder.

  They walked behind Crinte, Marklus and Legone, down the winding tunnels which appeared normal again, much like when they had first entered. Except now the warriors were even more guarded, expecting Sorns or Gaslinks around every twisted corner. The devilish panthers of the deep they attempted to forget, blocking the tormented howls from their memory. Hundreds of feet below them, amidst rock and stone, the incessant chipping of blade against rock continued.

  Ahead, Crinte paused in front of the outline of a crudely carved door in the wall. “Mayhap we can rest here,” Crinte suggested, reaching for the latch. “Marklus, what do you hear?”

  Marklus leaned his ear against the door, scrunching up his face as he listened. “Nothing.” He stepped away, confused. “The sound is muffled, or there is nothing to hear.”

  Crinte pushed down on the latch. “Ready?” He nodded at Legone’s bow.

  “Must we always open mysterious doors in the dark?” Legone muttered.

  “It’s that or sleeping on the road,” Alaireia retorted.

  The door swung open with an ear-splitting creak, bouncing uncertainty on unsteady, rusted hinges. The room was already lit up, as if someone had been there before them and forgot to turn the lights out. The five entered wide-eyed, staring up at the nine-foot-high ceiling, but the mountains of supplies were what threw them off. A narrow passageway snaked through the room, but on either side were mud-grey rocks and boulders. A pile of dirty shovels with splintered handles was tossed haphazardly on a slanting pile that looked as if it might crash if touched. Hundreds of blunted pickaxes had been tossed near a wide, round sharpening stone that lay on its side. Alaireia walked gingerly over to it, pulling out her daggers to test their sharpness. Starman gave her a disapproving look. “We shouldn’t touch anything,” he whispered.

  “I know,” she whispered back. “Better to have a sharp blade though.”

  Unfinished swords lay dull, propped up against the walls, their hilts more likely to wound the sword-bearer than the enemy. Shields, breastplates, helmets, mail, chains, and bows and arrows made of what looked like iron covered the floor, and had begun mixing with each other. It was clear that whoever had been responsible for keeping the inventory of weapons, armor, and tools had dumped them, sloppily, and left in an anxious rush.

  “A supply room,” Crinte said, understanding dawning on him as he stood in the middle of the room with Marklus, supplies rising as high as his waist. “This means the Sorns have to be nearby. This means the Tunnels are their base of some sort.”

  “Listen.” Marklus held up his hand.

  Clear and distinct, the echoes of metal rang through the supply room, and with each echo, each item in the room shifted a hair. Yet a second sound was added to it, one which made them freeze and listen, fingertips straying to their weapons, as if they could fight the intangible. Voices floated to them, lifted in song. They were thin and reedy, voices of the lost, vulnerable and hopeless in the depths. The rhythm of the song matched the consistent tones of digging but the words were muffled. Unconsciously, the five shifted closer, curious.

  “They aren’t afraid of who might hear them.” Legone spoke questioningly. “If they know the turned creatures are in the tunnels, they are either in league with them, or…” he trailed off.

  “They are following orders,” Crinte replied as he walked towards the other end of the supply room. “After all, it’s what we all do. Follow orders. Hastening the end. Even though we try to think for ourselves, there is always someone else two steps ahead of us.” He turned for a moment, catching Legone’s eyes.

  Legone returned his gaze, level and calm, wondering how much Crinte the Wise knew. Legone knew it was time to set the plan in motion. It was time to talk to Alaireia. The mountains of supplies shivered, as if sensing his thoughts.

  Alaireia stepped away from the sharpening stone, the wind in her movements upsetting the axes that lay near. One slid away from the pile and clattered near her feet, striking the ground in a deep, hollow clang. Sensing the fall of their leader, the rest of the axes gave way like a slow-motion waterfall, flowing off the pile to separation, each one clinging to the floor, blocking the way back. The balance in the room was thrown off as the swords dropped from where they had been propped against the wall, and one by one the weapons and tools and armor scattered and tumbled from their stations.

  Crinte spun around, a perturbed look on his face as his hands flew to his sword hilt. “Hurry, this way!” he called to his warriors, running through the avalanche of supplies as they surged across the room like waves dancing in a current for the very first time. The hard face of the wall loomed before them, seemingly cutting off all exits from the room, but as Crinte looked down, he discovered a hole in the wall, lying a few feet off the ground. Hunkering down, he eased his way inside with Marklus right behind him. Crawling forward, he slid downwards for a moment. It was a roughly hewn tunnel, covered in dirt and grit, not likely made for travel back and forth. Crinte shook his head in frustration. The Slutan Tunnels were not at all what he was expecting, although he should not have been surprised. A quiet, underground tunnel that led directly to the Great Water Hole had to be teeming with life. At first, he’d thought the Sorns were hiding there. It seemed a brilliant way to escape from the Garcrats and Gaslinks who were constantly rounding up people groups and sending them to the Great Water Hole. But now, as
he considered the story of Devine the Sorn, it seemed much more likely they were in service to Sarhorr the Ruler himself. Maybe warriors were needed to cross the sea and intimidate Mizine, but servants were needed to fulfill a purpose. After that, the mortals would be out of time. Crinte briefly recounted the days since the Mermis had given them the invincibility potion, The sixty-day warning; was that when the potion would end? Or when the purpose would be fulfilled? Either way, they were running out of time.

  The voices of the Sorns rang out clearer as Crinte continued following closer. Words drifted to his ears. Dig. Dig. Forever we must. Dig as long as we live. Morning to evening. Evening to morning. Never stopping to rest. The sound droned on, words twisted inside out and repeated. It was a haunting song after all, the fear of running out of work lest they be dragged, kicking and screaming, to the Great Water Hole for transformation. The frantic dread could be heard beneath each strike of blade against stone. Crinte could almost see them, hunkered over their work stations, bulging eyes, round and large from staring into darkness. Fingers bloated, blackened, and stained from burrowing into the Esife Peaks. Their joints cried out in pain from the constant back-breaking work, but it was all that was left of them, their only revolt against transformation. Digging.

  Crinte tumbled out of the rough tunnel, shaking sherds of dirt and rock off his tunic. Thick columns rose before him and he hid behind one as he took in his surroundings. He stood under a high archway and the road opened in front of, leading down into a wide cavern. Looking down into the basin, he could see an endless, vast expanse of stone. Torchlight twinkled below, spots of brightness in the darkness. He could see them clearly; dirty, scraggly Sorns. Some dug closer to the top, some further down below, while a spiraling road continued into the pit. Surrounding the cavern were other archways and passages, leading deeper into the Slutan Tunnels.