The Complete Four Worlds Series

by Angela J. Ford

  Alaireia breathed deeply, gasping in air as she attempted to catch her breath. A Gim had chased her to the bridge; she was sure of it as she stepped out of the tunnel into wide archways over a pit. Placing a hand on the wall, she leaned over, spitting and breathing in and out. It felt good to be away from the marching Gaslinks and the chasing Gim. Knowing she should attempt to steal its Boleck, instead she had turned away, giving herself more time to plan. The Clyear would help her, yet she had grown wary of using its power, determined to fight with the strength of her body. As of late, her feats tended to surprise herself.

  When at last she felt able to breathe, she took a piece of mocholeach and chewed it thoughtfully while contemplating her next move. Calculating, she looked down at the bridge and back up at the ropes hanging from the ceiling. Moving closer to the pit, she studied the indentions she could see on the bridge. Cocking her head, she backed away until she was pressed against the unforgiving cold stone of the tunnels. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, bundling all her energy within herself. Calmly, she counted down, numbering her breaths before springing forward. She set off in a dead run across the short space, and when she reached the pit, hurled herself into the air above the bridge. Her hands shot upwards, snatching at the ropes until they caught and she dangled hundreds of feet up over the blackness. Not pausing to celebrate her first success, she kicked her feet out, stirring up momentum as she moved forward, making her way from one rope to the next across the open space.

  She was barely halfway when she heard something below her. Shifting, she moved faster, forcing herself not to look down but to listen instead. Something was below her on the bridge, stamping and leaping into the air, trying to catch one of her dangling feet. It made a jarring noise as its teeth ground back on each other, striking the air in a sickening rhythm. Alaireia shuddered as she moved, tempted to hop down from her precarious position and cleave some sense into the creature.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something four-legged leaping at her. A glimpse of white teeth told her enough. She increased her speed, swinging violently on the ropes as she neared the end of the ropes and the bridge. With one last heave, she caught the last rope. It swung out over the end of the bridge back onto solid ground. Alaireia let the rope go, tucking as she fell hard to the ground and rolled to a stop. Without stopped to examine her bruises, she leaped up and ran hard and fast, already hearing the pounding of hooves behind her.

  Starman recalled Crinte’s vision again as he snuck out of the quiet halls. The silence made him feel panicky, but each time he remembered the vision, it reminded him he was going the right way. In awe, he walked into the hall of arches and gazed around at their magnitude. It was unimaginable to him that the Sorns could have created such beauty out of mere rock and stone. Again, he was reminded of how little he knew of the world and how much his mind had been opened. As he stepped towards the rickety bridge, he wrinkled his nose at the smell of decay. Queasily, he took a step forward, holding his nose to keep from taking in too much of the smell and vomiting into the abyss. Here and there, he had to skip forward where pieces of the bridge were broken. It swayed gently as he walked, but he could see the other side before him, beckoning him to safer grounds, leading him away from the drop off. When he stepped off onto sure ground, he realized his heart was in this throat and he had been holding his breath. With a sigh of relief, he let go of the stress and walked forward, sure and steady, his head held high. Somewhere ahead, he thought he heard the echo of hooves striking pavement, but when he listened again, it was gone.

  Marklus stood in the shadows, listening. Far below, he could hear the muffled sound of pickaxes striking stone, but even closer, he could hear the heavy breathing. There seemed to be no attempt to mask its presence. He looked out, assuming it was on the other side of the dark pit that spread before him. Above, thick pillars and high archways threw themselves downwards while bravely holding up the face of the rock. He grasped the spear he’d stolen firmly in his hand. His solo journey had continued along the route where the Sorns worked. Often he heard voices or saw them marching past, yet one day, as his supply of arrows grew low, he happened upon another supply room. An entrance had been roughly cut into the path and flames lit up the opening, displaying the square room full of pickaxes, buckets, rope, short swords, spears, and daggers. Quickly he had grabbed a few daggers, tucked a short sword into his belt, and last of all took hold of one of the long, shiny spears. It felt light in his hands, and he had wanted to throw it immediately to test its speed. Moving out of the room, he had continued forward, using it as a walking stick.

  Now Marklus held the spear at eye level as he walked toward the broken bridge. It was hard to believe he was the only person in the hall of archways, but as he stepped cautiously onto the bridge, he heard the heavy breathing turn to short snorts. Marklus paused on the swinging bridge; the likelihood of fighting and falling to his death was far too risky out there. He backed away slowly and stood still. At the same time, the heavy breathing slowed again and he distinctly heard the sound of hooves as it relaxed.

  Zikes, Marklus called.

  O Marklus the Great, we hear, we obey.

  How far away from me are you?

  Three days from you and seven from the Great Water Hole.

  Meet me where the tunnels end.

  The Zikes scurried onwards and Marklus sighed with relief; they were only mere days away. He turned back to the task at hand, raised his spear and stepped boldly across the bridge. It wasn’t until he was halfway across and there was no turning back that he heard violent pounding as the lumbering creature thudded across the bridge. A cloud of foulness hung dense in the air above him, and Marklus hesitated. A hairy creature leaped into view, almost as tall as himself had it been standing up on its hind legs. Four curved tusks were aimed at Marklus’ chest. He planted one foot securely in front of him and the other behind, holding his weight. Lifting his arm, he attacked first, ripping his spear through one of the boar’s large ears. The boar squealed and leaped, teeth chomping at Marklus. He stepped back and paused while the boar glared at him, dark eyes bulging out of its hairy head. One ear had started to droop and rivers of blood flowed out of it. Marklus took aim and jabbed again, this time taking out the right ear. The spear stuck in the creature’s ear and it swung its head maddeningly. Furious at the onslaught, it drove forward again, stampeding towards Marklus in such a way he barely had time to draw his last arrow. The creature was inches from him as he aimed. There was a deafening roar as he loosened his arrow at the same time the creature bit down hard on his foot. Marklus roared, snatching his torn foot back even as he felt the bones snapping in half. Numbing pain rushed to his head and the world turned upside down. He could see the boar standing on the bridge, one head roaring, the other hanging lifeless with just the tail end of his arrow hanging from its throat. It took a moment before he realized the reason everything appeared upside down, but it was too late. His weightless body continued over the edge, down into the darkness.

  Legone opened his eyes slowly, unsure of how long he had been passed out. Blinking in the shadows as his memory slowly came back to him, he sat up, touching his tender, aching head. A bump had swelled up to a pulsing knot from where he had struck his head during his fall. Miraculously, he had landed on a shelf in the rock, sticking out underneath the bridge. He looked up cautiously but could not tell whether or not the monstrous boar still lay in wait. He stood gingerly, walking forward in the darkness towards the cliff wall, shivering as he went. Placing a cold hand on the face of the cliff, he felt for a foothold and sure enough found one cut into the perfect shape and height for a Sorn. He reached for his dagger but recalled both of them were gone now; his trusty bow was all he had left to ward off the boar. Taking a deep breath, he began to climb.

  Crinte was distracted as he walked forward. If his calculations were correct, the invincibility potion the Mermis had cast on him and his warriors would end in seven days. As of late. his visions were dark and he could
not see beyond the tunnels anymore. Deep down, he knew the path led out, but the vagueness concerned him. He was no longer sure if his companions were on the right road. When he shut his eyes, he could see their shapes, but they were always the same, one hand on the wall walking slowly towards the light. The weight of the mountain was crushing down on his head, and he knew there was one option left he had not dared to consider previously. Crinte walked onto the broken bridge, watching his step as he moved from one slat of wood to the next, skipping over the stops where the bridge had been broken. It swayed gently under his body weight and he held his hands straight out for balance. Using the Horn for mind control was not his aim, yet it seemed necessary. He could not tell if the armies were marching as he hoped, or if his warriors would be with him at the end. Even as he stepped off the edge of the bridge, he felt uncertainty creeping in. A movement caught his eyes and he turned. A two-headed creature lay a few feet away from him, slumbering with a blue tipped arrow stuck out of one head. Crinte drew his sword and walked forward slowly.

  Marklus came to in a panic, sitting up and reaching for his shattered foot. Bleak darkness surrounded him, yet as he reached for his foot, he realized he could no longer feel the pain. He wiggled his toes, surprised when the movement did not hurt him. Excitedly, he stared at his hands, waiting for the blue light to appear. A glimmer shot out, illuminating the ledge he lay on, warming his face as he gazed down. Placing his hands on his cheeks, he felt the warm glow surge through his body, healing every bone it touched. He stood at last, looking about the ledge he stood on. His bow lay beside him but the spear had disappeared. He bent to pick it up, noticing a pile of blue tipped arrows scattered nearby. “Swift!” he whispered as he picked them up, tucking them into his quiver until it was full. He turned towards the cliff wall, clenching and unclenching his fists. His companions were nearby; the Great Water Hole was seven days away. It was time to finish this once and for all.

  The climb to the top of the cliff and back to the road was effortless. Marklus stood upright with his bow and arrow in hand, remembering the words of Tincire the Cron. You cannot miss with these arrows; they are light, but will fly quickly and hit their mark strong and true every time. The smell of decay grew overwhelming as he moved forward and he saw in front of him the boar’s headless body. Someone had already slain it.

  51

  The Horn Of Shilmi

  Power pulsed beneath his tunic, calling him, begging him to use it. Reminding him, if he did not use every means necessary to save the Western World when he could, he was unworthy of his quest. He touched it warily but it was clear the decision was no longer in his hands. Slowly, he opened the hidden pocket in his tunic and gently lifted out the Horn of Shilmi. He could see the power undulating under the surface of the bone, begging to be used, asking to be set free. He watched it slowly, letting it soothe his conflicted thoughts. There was a time when he thought blowing the Horn went against everything he believed in; free choice, the will to choose one’s own destiny. Yet, as he looked at the Horn, he realized the fate of the world ultimately lay in his hands. He had chosen to take the fight to the Great Water Hole. He had selected four powerful warriors. He had started the Eka Fighting Camp to raise his army. The army he needed to complete his mission. Lost on the dark road with no warriors in sight, the signal of the Horn was precisely what he needed to complete his quest. He watched it, wondering if it was overcoming his mind with its power, if he was being held sway to what it desired. He wondered if the Horn wanted him to blow it; but of course it did. The hard bone was begging to be of use, begging him not to let its owner’s death be in vain.

  Crinte closed his eyes for a brief second and saw with his mind’s eye the tough choices a leader had to make; the death of few to ensure the lives of many. He opened his eyes and glared at the Horn. It lay lightly in the palm of his hand, the bronze glinting slightly in the darkness. He drew his sword with one hand and held it out, as if to smash the Horn, watching the oracles slither through the blade, coming to rest as their powers glided near the Horn. There was a reason it had come to him. There was a reason all this was happening. Crinte opened his mouth and brought the Horn to his dry lips. He breathed in deeply, then blew with all his might. Air rushed from the base of the Horn to the opening, and a silvery twinkle began to sound. At first, it was small in the darkness, muted by the shadows, yet it continued to grow even as he stopped blowing. The silvery sound echoed through the shadows, growing larger and louder. He could hear the voices calling, beckoning, reaching out, persuading, changing minds. Small beings shot out of the air, almost quicker than he could see, shooting out in all directions, teleporting through the walls of the tunnels. They blew into the faces of those who were sleeping, waking them, pointing to the Great Water Hole. Crinte could hear those faint of heart become strong. They stood up everywhere and took up their weapons, marching forward with a song of triumph on their lips. They were coming from all over the Western World. The people of Mizine were rising up, the Zikes were coming, the Xctas were flying, the Sorns were marching with pickaxes on their backs, the Crons and Tiders with Ackhor’s army. They were coming, the dam had broken lose, the river of warriors was on its way, and by dawn, the Great Water Hole would be swarming with them. Moved by the whirl of magic the Horn released, Crinte looked down at it. He no longer saw a Horn that gave him the power of mind control; he saw a Horn that allowed him to encourage those who heard it to be the best version of themselves. To march forward for a cause that would ultimately save their World. He felt a river of emotion overwhelm him, and Crinte sheathed his sword, tucked away the Horn, and began to run.

  Something woke him. Perhaps a sound. Maybe a pebble falling in the endless enormity below. Likely a mouse, lost, looking for the light. Like him. Starman stirred slightly in his camouflage. The hole he had curled up in to sleep seemed like it might become his eternal shelter. When he closed his eyes, there was blackness. When he opened his eyes, there are more darkness, inky, pressing against him, hurting his head, crushing his heart, burying his soul. Day and night were no more, dreams of a distant life. He no longer remembered the faces of his friends or the feeling of wind on his face, or the sound of crickets humming him to sleep on a warm summer night. He could no longer taste the colorful foods of Trazamy City, nor remember the heady feeling the nutty ale gave him. He felt exhausted, as though each sleep drained more energy from him. He opened his eyes again and wondered why he should bother. His shoulders burned as he moved his neck, feeling the strain from the awkward position he’d lain in all night. It was the only reason he should rise, to stretch his muscles again, feed his hungry belly with mocholeach, and walk onward. Instead, he rested his head against the warm stone and blinked slowly.

  That was when he heard it. He froze and sat up as best he could. There. He heard it again. The most delicate voice barely out of earshot. It was undeniable; the voice was meant for him, telling him something. He moved one foot, scooting forward towards the entrance of the hole. Pinpricks shot through his numb legs from where he had slept on them, but he ignored them. Again, he heard the voice calling him. It did not say his name, and it spoke no language he understood, but all the same, it was calling. He tumbled out of the hole, taking a moment to shake his legs out before moving towards the sound. The silvery voice filled his mind, reminding him of who he was. It assured him all was not lost. It was not the end after all. Starman felt the clouds of confusion swept from his mind, and although it was dark and the tunnels stretched onward, cold and bleak, he lifted his feet and began to run. The voices streamed around him, praising him, urging him on, faster and faster until he thought he could actually fly.

  Where are you going? thoughts whispered in his head, attempting to dissuade him from his path. Why do you think you will succeed when others more powerful than you have failed? Legone ignored them as he strode uphill, one hand on the hard, cold wall. The light was dim now, allowing him to see a few paces ahead; all the same, he was reluctant to fall again. The incessant humming
of the voices told him he was too close. The Ruler, alerted to his presence, would be preparing. It had been apparent to him from their first meeting that their minds were at odds. Sarhorr, tall and irksomely handsome, was fierce and fast. His voice was smooth, compelling, intoxicating. A gentle spell lilted from his mouth, drifting through the ears of those who listened. The Green People had been rapt at his appearance, his words, his gifts. Those of a lesser order worshipped his very being. He walked among them un-forcefully, listening, suggesting, worming his way into their hearts. But Legone could see the shadow that followed him, and at first, he assumed it was his aura, just as the Green People gave off a pale light when they became emotional. One evening on his way to rendezvous with Paleidir, Lady of the Green People, he saw a dark form. Staying close to the castle walls, it snuck its way down the winding path leading to where the wind blows. Surprised, Legone watched it, barely making out the features of a diabolical being, dark and ancient. That evening, he climbed the intertwined vines of ivy to her hidden balcony where she rested on a chaise lounge. Waiting. She opened her arms to him as he lifted his legs over the ledge and sat down beside her. “Are there beings with the ability to shift forms?” he had asked, concerned, forgetting to even greet her.