Phyllis looked at her sister, realizing she had to be the one to make a decision. It was up to her to be the voice of reason. She walked over to Ilieus’s hammock and knelt down beside it, leaning her head against Ilieus’s shoulder. “Okay. Ilieus, you’re not alone. I may not see the dreams in my mind, but I’m just as frightened. We’re alone and far from home. Father left us, and we aren’t sure whom to trust, but we can figure this out as long as we stick together. Okay? We are going to Wind Fresh; please at least stay hopeful until Tharmaren the Wise can help us.”
“You think he can help us?”
“He has to.”
“Phyllis,” Ilieus mumbled, her voice sounding drowsy. “You’re a good sister.” She turned her head to kiss the top of Phyllis‘s head. “It grows late; you should get some sleep.”
“You too,” Phyllis agreed, “and no dreams tonight.”
Phyllis rose, but Ilieus had already closed her eyes in exhaustion. Phyllis exhaled and gave a sigh of relief. She thought her head would burst with the amount of information she’d learned that day. She opened the tent flap to step out as the last orange lights of the sunrise faded from the sky.
The encampment of colored tents continued before her; their colors shimmering as they bathed in the glory of the night sky. The Dezzi were slowing down, the children were in bed, their fires burned lower, and all was calm. Phyllis crossed her arms, tears springing to her eyes, and she stood alone and confused, watching the life around her shimmer. A chill wind whipped up, causing her to rub her arms together. A streak of light to the northwest lit up the sky. At first it was a beautiful beacon, plunging toward the middle of the encampment, but as it grew larger, Phyllis saw what it was. An arrow on fire was heading toward the middle of the Dezzi camp. There was only a split second between the moment Phyllis saw what it was and the impact.
The restful atmosphere disappeared in the space of one heartbeat. A shriek ripped through the night air, and instantly the sky lit up with fiery arrows. “Attack!” someone was shouting. “We’re under attack!”
23
Attack
Screams ripped through the air, children cried at being woken, and animals broke free of their fences and ran. The fire exploded across the lower tents close to the temple, and Phyllis watched, wide-eyed in horror as the Dezzi ran; their tents ripping and burning as the arrows streaked down around them. Shapes moved in the darkness; the painted ones mounted their horses, shouting to each other. “Aiiiyyyooooo!” they called. Curved blades raised high in the air, they galloped off toward the source of those arrows. Flames continued to leap and burn everything in their tracks, but before Phyllis could move, she felt someone grab her by the shoulder. She leapt away with a scream, striking out blindly.
“Phyllis!” Cuthan’s voice cut through the air. “We have to go now! Where is Ilieus?”
Phyllis spun around, hurling herself back toward the tent and ripping open the flap. Ilieus was already up, eyes wide as she struggled to pull on her shoes. She had taken the time to wrap her flowing cloak around her dress, and her face was hidden in the folds of the hood. “Take this!” she flung a cloak at Phyllis and turned toward the opening.
As they exited, two of the painted guards came running toward them. “To the horses!” they called just as a splintering crash splattered through the crackles and screams. The fire was growing, although they were too high up for the fiery arrows to reach them. A horn sounded in the distance as the charred smell of burnt cloth wafted through the air.
“This way!” One of the guards had Phyllis by the arm and was dragging her uphill where their horses were picketed. In a blur, Phyllis glanced around for Ilieus and saw one of the other guards helping her onto a horse and mounting up behind her.
“Where are we going?” Phyllis asked as the guard tossed her onto the back of a brown and white spotted mare.
“Wind Fresh,” hissed the guard, but her voice was high and feminine as she mounted up behind Phyllis. She slapped the horse’s rear, and they took off, stumbling upward as the horse searched for sure footing on the uneven slope.
Phyllis whipped around to see Cuthan behind, riding solo. Ahead, Ilieus and the guard had already reached the crest, and the horse was galloping west across the rocky land. Phyllis couldn’t help but watch as the fires continued below and the Dezzi scurried away from the madness.
“Where will they go?” she found herself asking, her voice shaking from the sudden fury. Cuthan was right; the war was real. Who had the audacity to attack the Dezzi in plain sight? They seemed an odd but peaceful people. What enemies did they have?
In reply, she heard nothing more than the night wind screaming around her ears and the muted thump of horse hooves against the ground.
24
The Jeweled Sword
Minutes danced away as Pharengon stared at the Jeweled Sword. He made a move to fasten it around his waist, but Renlages the Trazame held out his hand. “Ho now, fair is fair,” he rumbled. “You’ve seen the sword; now take the horses and bring your Crons. Then you may keep the sword.”
Pharengon paused, reluctant to turn the treasure back over to its keeper. He reached for the box, memorizing the way the jewels sparkled on the sword. As he did so, he realized his heart was beating just as hard as if he’d been in a scrimmage, practicing his skills with one of the Horse Lords. “How did you come by this treasure?” he asked as he placed the sword back in its plain box and covered it.
Renlages took the box from him and placed it in its hiding place, a trick of the eye Pharengon was still trying to figure out. He turned to Thangone and gave him a short nod, confirming they were of the same mind in their mission. Pharengon cursed the fact he hadn’t thought to bring a small detachment of Crons with him. His Horse Lords would be quite a distance away by now, and there was no telling how long it would take to find them, put together a group of volunteers, and return to Nungus Des-Lista. No. He scoffed the heel of his boot against the yellowed straw on the barn floor. It would take far too long. Time was wasting with this mindless chore. Half of him was tempted to take it from Renlages by force, but that was no way to gain a valuable ally.
“The sword?” Renlages reappeared again and reached for the lantern, which Thangone handed over without delay. “I did not find it. That discovery I owe to my Father. It was not his choice.” Renlages stroked his beard as he led the way out of the barn, back into the mysteries of the night. “It all started with a Cron.” He sighed. “As all tales do.”
“Finn, the father of Renlages, was, of course, a Trazame. But not a very well-off one. He was no more than eighteen when he married the beautiful girl of the neighboring farm, and they headed south to secure their lands and build their life together. When his wife was large with their first child, disaster struck. A storm came, bringing such rain and wind and hail as had not been seen in centuries. The land flooded, the crops drowned, the animals died, and, thus, the first harvest was ruined. In short, Finn and his wife lost everything.
“There was nothing for it. Finn was forced to beg and travel up and down the lands of Nungus Des-Lista, seeking food and work so he could start his lands afresh. The first child was born, frail and sick, and soon died. But his wife loved him very much despite their misfortunes and did not blame him. They worked hard the next year to secure a tiny harvest, and Finn was quick to go to town and trade, hoping for better seed in the years to come. But everyone else had fared the same, and the great celebrations of the turning of the seasons had all but dwindled to complaints dosed with weak pints of ale. The Trazames of Nungus Des-Lista were suffering, and for the first time, a terrible thought entered Finn’s head. Would he have to take his wife and search for their fortunes elsewhere?
“It was one morning, right before Winter’s Orison, that the Cron appeared. She was a lone female, riding a great white stallion over the bleak land. He remembered her well, although she was not the first Cron he had seen. Crons were often at the trading posts, searching for supplies for their next adventure,
curiosity gleaming out of their bright eyes. Nay, it was the treasure she wore on her head, a circular amulet with four prongs sticking out with a stone in the center, holding it all together. She came saying she offered a gift in exchange for food and shelter. Now, food and shelter being scarce, he was tempted to tell her to try her luck in town, but his wife laid a hand on his arm and nodded. Thus, they came to host the Cron for the rest of the winter. At first, she was wary and did not say much, and oft times she would take long walks through the frost fields. Although they barely had enough to feed themselves, it seemed the longer the Cron stayed, the more food they had.
“In the spring, their mare had twin foals, sired from the white stallion. Their crops thrived, and the harvest was plentiful for the first time since the storm. Finn’s wife grew with child, and this time a healthy son was born. They named him Renlages. Two years passed, and, at last, the Cron, whom they had come to see as a member of their own family, said she must move on.
“She pulled Finn aside and told him she had something for him to keep safe. It was too dangerous to take with her, but her enemies would never seek it in the peaceful farmlands of the Trazames. Finn was loath to take it because all Trazames knew to run at the slightest hint of peril. Yet she reminded him of his wealth, for his flocks were bountiful, and he’d had to hire Trazames to help manage the land. At last, he agreed, and she gave him the box, telling him one day the golden-eyed one would come for it, and he would be the King of the Horse Lords and would need it to hold sway over the people groups. Until then, it was to remain hidden.
“Shortly after, she said goodbye and set out with naught but a walking stick and a long cloak, her shining amulet hidden in her deep hood. Every winter Finn and his family remembered, with reverence, the day she came, and on the anniversary, they held a feast and told their child of the Cron who saved their lives and blessed their farm. Alas, the years passed and though they kept watch, they never saw the Cron again until her name became a distant memory in their household. A name Renlages could only faintly recall. Odella the Tall.”
25
Beware
The forest will tell you truth.
The trees will give you knowledge.
In exchange for one terrible price,
They will tell you all you wish to know.
Why the world fades.
Why the end is near.
There’s something you can do
If only you can escape.
Beware. Be warned.
The price you pay is death.
Odella the Tall heard the words echoing through her mind long before they came. She knew why they were there. It was time to pay the price, the one she’d been avoiding for years. She had been the first to escape with the knowledge, and she dearly hoped she wouldn’t be the last. Her grandchildren’s journey would eventually lead them to the forest where they would find the answers to all they sought and more. The only question was: would they be able to outsmart the forest as she had? Now they came for her in the darkness, invisible until they were upon her. The last things she saw were their dark shapes and red eyes while their voices whispered the chant in her ears.
Beware. Be warned.
The price you pay is death.
She heard rather than saw the knife. And then they slit her throat.
26
Blended Ones
They rode hard through the night as if the fiery arrows were licking their heels. The horses galloped across the rough terrain, and although the stars had gone out and the moon was hidden from view, they kept their pace in the blinding darkness. Almost, Phyllis thought to herself, as if they could see in the dark. Worries tumbled through her mind as they fled. They hadn’t had time to prepare; what would they do for food? Surely they were nowhere near the Westiles Sea.
As the hours passed, her mind calmed, and she found the panic from the attack fading into a dull memory, leaving her cold and sore from sitting in one position for so long. She slumped against the guard behind her, wondering if she should find her tongue and ask to stop. From what she knew of the Dezzi, they seemed impersonal. After all, they let a horse kick her in the head. She frowned at the reminder and touched her head; it was still sore.
At some point, she must have nodded off, because when she opened her eyes next, it was much brighter. The guard clicked her tongue, slowing the horse to an unsettling trot. Phyllis could see Ilieus’s guard to the right doing the same. Cuthan was still riding alone, a few paces behind them. A hint of red shimmered in the east; a brief warning that inched its way across the black sky. Phyllis’s vision blurred as she watched it, hoping they were caught in one of Ilieus’s nightmares. Maybe they would wake, safe and sound in Haitiar, and laugh over how foolish they had been.
The guard behind her sprung off the horse, the sudden movement causing Phyllis to reach for the horse’s mane for balance, twining the colorful ribbons between her fingers. The guard ran ahead; her red tartan flying behind her as she drew her sword. The horse did not slow, although Phyllis yanked on the ribbons, unsure of what danger the guard might be running into.
A moment later the guard gave a shrill whistle, and Ilieus’s guard leaped off his mount. Gathering the colorful ribbons in his hands, he led them toward a clump of stout bushes and sapling trees to hide them from peering eyes. Phyllis, too tired to ask questions, slide from the horse to the ground, cradled her head in the crook of her arm, and passed out from exhaustion.
A wailing tune played in the distance, the low sad notes of a flute calling thrice. It could have been the call of a bird, but there was something too deep and intense about it. Flecks of sunlight peered through the leafy shades of the hedge, forcing Phyllis to forsake the land of sleep. She sat up, glad of the warmth of her cloak as a sudden chill touched her face like an icy finger. Ilieus was only a few feet away, still asleep as usual. Phyllis rose, her slippered feet rustling the corners of a bed of dead leaves, who scattered away, mumbling hasty apologies. She tilted her head in astonishment, listening again for the voice of the leaves. “Did you hear that?” Her voice tumbled out of her mouth before she realized she had a listener.
“Hear what?” Cuthan crept into view with a hand on his sword hilt. His pale hair was slicked back from his face, still wet from the morning dew.
Phyllis prodded a leaf with her foot. “I thought I heard a voice.” She shook her head when silence met her ears. Even the lone flute had ceased. She walked toward Cuthan. “What’s going on? Do you know who attacked us last night?”
Cuthan shrugged, propping his magnificent self up against a fallen log. “It was most likely the Riders. Phyllis…” He paused, considering how to phrase his next words. “You do know why the Dezzi wear so many colors and paint their faces when they ride? Don’t you?”
“No.” Phyllis watched the treetops shaking. One thick tree waved its branches overhead, scattering more dead leaves on top of her head.
Cuthan peered around the hedge to see where the Dezzi guards were. “It’s because they are blended,” he replied, satisfied that he could not see them.
Phyllis’s head jerked down so fast she pulled a muscle in her neck. She froze as the pain shot down her spine; her eyes bored into Cuthan’s jaw line as he continued.
“A time ago, the pure people groups began to persecute the Blended Ones, hunting them down, killing them, and displaying them as an abomination. They claimed the words of old scrolls demanded the people groups stay unblended because certain powers arise out of those pure, untampered bloodlines. In the days of the Five Warriors, unique powers were common among the people groups. They lived longer, could see further, run faster, and, above all, actually fight against the immortals and win. They were a better, nay, higher people group than what we have fallen to…”
“Cuthan.” Phyllis swallowed hard. Her Grandmother’s dark words were buzzing in her head. Balling her hands into fists, she stepped forward, willing him to stop. “Why are you telling me this?” she snapped.
“Because.” Cuthan
lifted a finger to pause any action she might take. His face was emotionless, hard. The carefree attitude from the day before had disappeared with the night. “Because you are one of the Blended Ones, and I want you to be careful now that we are away from the safety of the encampment. Most of the Riders know the Dezzi are of both pure and blended bloodlines, but they harbor and protect those who are blended. The Dezzi believe the blending of two people groups can bring back those powers from days of old, and I think…” His eyes darted to where Ilieus still slept. “I think they believe Ilieus is the beginning.”
“What do I do about that?” Phyllis snapped, bending over to shake Ilieus awake. “Hide?”
“Phyllis.” Cuthan reached out a hand almost in concern. “I’m telling you this so you are aware. Just in case anything happens to us, you know why.”
The dreams are real. The phrase rushed through Phyllis’s thoughts as she stood over Ilieus, a poor attempt to protect her sister from the world. “Why didn’t you bring this up yesterday?”
“Yesterday,” Cuthan whispered, “no one was attacking us. I did not know the Riders had come this far east.”
Ilieus sat up, stretched, and yawned, glancing from Phyllis to Cuthan. They could see the events from the past night come back to her, and the sleepy innocence turned to fright. “Are we safe?” she begged; her fingers untangled her hair as she braided it.
Cuthan reminded silent while Phyllis filled her in, finishing with: “Cuthan is trying to warn us.” She met her sister’s eyes and held them, unsure how much of their past they should revel to Cuthan.
The Complete Four Worlds Series Page 46