“And the rest of you?” Optimistic’s face was laced with worry.
Ellagine glanced back the way they had come. “The woísts are coming.”
“We will distract the watching eyes and the guards,” Zhane explained. “If the Dark Servant has his eyes on us, perhaps he will not notice what is happening under his nose.”
Eliesmore took the Green Stone from Wekin. It was larger than he remembered. It had cracks running across the surface. Power vibrated through it, filling his soul with eager anticipation.
“After this, what will you do?” Eliesmore lifted his eyes, taking in his companions and his protectors.
“This is it.” Dathiem strung an arrow in his bow. “We came for the battle.”
Ellagine smiled at Eliesmore, but he noticed her eyes were sad.
“Remember the directions,” Zhane warned. “Actually, I would like both of you to repeat them to me.”
“Around the castle to the left, I think. Then over the wall into the dark entrance, left. Thirty-six right and forty-two left. Hall and door. Then I’ll keep guard,” Optimistic said.
“You go around to the right,” Zhane corrected and turned to Eliesmore.
“Right around the castle and climb the wall into the courtyard. From there, we go into the dark entrance and instantly left. Then count thirty-six doors on the right and another forty-two on the left. There will be a short hall with a door at the end,” Eliesmore recited. “Do we count all the doors on either side of the hall?”
“Yes,” answered Zhane. “They are few and scattered. Remember, go silently. Keep your weapons close at hand, and watch for the guards. They are stationed everywhere.”
Zhane made the two repeat the directions twice more before they said goodbye.
Eliesmore walked up to each of them, clasping their shoulders. A heavy weight lay on his heart as he thought he might never see them again.
“Thank you for leading the way,” he told Zhane, “and remaining faithful, regardless.”
Zhane nodded; his face was tense.
Eliesmore smiled as he walked up to Yamier and Wekin. “Thank you, my friends. Never lose your adventurous spirit.”
“Promise.” Wekin grinned. “Every time you eat bacon, remember us.”
Eliesmore laughed as he walked to Dathiem and Glashar. He wished them well.
Visra stuck out her tongue at him with her eyes glowing. He recoiled from touching her. “Thank you, Visra.”
She sniffed. “I just came for the battle.” She twirled her blade.
Eliesmore felt himself smile despite her words. He walked to Ellagine last. He looked up at the tall Lady of the Green.
“It is as I said. Here you find yourself. You are about to dissolve the Green Stone.” She smiled, but her eyes were guarded. “You know what to do next?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “Find the Phutal and destroy it.”
“Go to Daygone,” Ellagine countered. “Destroy it once and for all.” Reaching out a hand, she squeezed his shoulder before pushing him away.
He had more to say to her, but she was already drawing her sword.
She smiled. “Goidíler,” she said in Iaen. “Thrílílí ea shílí coímí tvú.”
Gray rock became visible as Eliesmore and Optimistic trudged up the hill, massive torrents stood in the sky, their peaks adorned with gray flags. The castle looked as if it had been built by giants. Slabs of stone stretched east and west. Eliesmore guessed it would take him the better part of a morning if he chose to walk around it. The castle had been built in layers; the outer layer rose about six feet high while the second layer stood at least twelve feet tall. Each layer of rock and towers doubled in height. Eliesmore guessed each flag represented a lookout post and imagined eyes were watching him and Optimistic.
Eliesmore felt his eyes grow wide in awe. “We should crawl,” he told Optimistic. His legs were trembling. “The grass is tall; it will hide us.”
“Agreed.” Optimistic knelt, and the two of them slithered down the hill.
The meadow was wide, and it took quite some time to crawl toward the courtyard walls. By the time they arrived, Eliesmore’s elbows and knees were sore, but he was confident they had not been seen. Eliesmore sat against the cold stones of the wall. He took a deep breath and nodded at Optimistic. “Ready?”
“Yes.” Optimistic crouched.
In one leap, their fingers caught the top of the stone, and they pulled themselves upward. Eliesmore listened to the thump of his heartbeat. Hurry. Hurry. Faster. Faster. He lay flat on top of the wall, holding his breath before springing down. Optimistic did not make a noise as they landed in the courtyard. As Zhane had warned them, guards paced back and forth. Eliesmore was surprised to see they were mere Crons dressed in silver mesh. They held helmets in their hands as they walked.
“Look!” One pointed a gloved hand to the south. “Up on the hill.”
“Alert the guards,” the second one called.
Optimistic signaled for them to move. As Eliesmore crouched, he took a sharp breath in surprise. Glass figures were rooted to the ground in front of him. They were white beings that were bent over and crooked. They dotted the courtyard, ranging in size. The figures bore a slight resemblance to mortals. While they did not have hands and feet, they had faces that were horrible, fierce, and wild. He felt a deep sorrow as he gazed at the beings. It was as if they had been taken against their wills and captured. They seemed both dead and alive. Optimistic’s face was horrified as he pushed Eliesmore forward. Remembering his legs, Eliesmore dashed into the dark entrance. He hurled himself to the left and bumped up against the wall. He stopped. “What were those beings?” He gasped.
“I believe we saw the spirits of the trees.” Optimistic scanned the area before moving forward toward a staircase. “I don’t understand, Eliesmore. They never come out. Never. Even the Iaen seldom have the pleasure of dancing with them. They are shy creatures called Trespirles. Spirles for short. I wonder if we can set them free.”
“The spirit of the trees,” Eliesmore repeated. “I did not know they were alive.”
“Eliesmore, everything is alive,” Optimistic responded. “One. There is the first door.”
“Thirty-six right, forty-two left, thirty-six right, forty-two left,” Eliesmore repeated.
They began to count, moving through the castle at a pace between a run and a walk. Around them, they could hear the sound of an army preparing for battle.
“Thirty-six,” Optimistic panted. “We take a right here.”
Eliesmore dashed around the corner and came to a stop. Five fully-armed Crons paused when they saw Eliesmore and Optimistic dash up. One raised his sword. “White steeds! Kill them!” he ordered.
“We have to run for it,” Optimistic warned. He lifted his bow, and his first arrow drove through the shoulder of a Cron, pinning the Cron to the wall. Optimistic’s second shaft slide into a Cron’s leg, throwing him onto his back and knocking the wind out of him. Eliesmore unsheathed his sword and ran, slashing one Cron across the chest and hitting the other on the head. Optimistic’s arrow took out the last one.
“Let’s go,” Optimistic encouraged, moving past Eliesmore and snatching an arrow from his quiver. “You have the Green Stone. More will come.”
They dashed up a staircase, counting doors as they went. At last they came to vast hall. Eliesmore felt his eyes widen in alarm as he saw an army of Crons rise to meet them.
“This is bad,” Optimistic whispered. “I will take as many as I can. Run, Eliesmore.
Eliesmore paused, taking a deep breath as he raised his sword. He ran toward the roaring Crons as white-tipped arrows zinged past him. He saw a sea of angry faces; red mouths were wide open as they screamed at him to stop. He saw swords raised and archers drop their bows. He heard the clash of armor smacking the stone floor. As Crons fell, three more took their places. They were determined to reach him. A sword struck his cloak, knocking him over. He fumbled on his feet as he was pushed and jostled. He swung. Ha
ir and sweat dripped into his eyes as he struggled. There were too many.
He lifted his sword and cried out as he pushed against the mass. A silver voice burst through the air. It was the sound of a horn, calling. It sounded once. Twice. Thrice.
78
Zhane
“Prepare for battle,” Zhane ordered as Eliesmore and Optimistic disappeared down the hill. His fingers itched in anticipation. He was ready to swing his sword. He was ready for blood. “We have the high ground. We will hold the hill until they overwhelm us. Then we will retreat to the castle. If all goes well, relief will come.”
“If all goes well.” Yamier choked on a bitter laugh. “I wish I were a better sword fighter.”
“Me, too.” Wekin raised his blade. “Seven of us versus an army of woísts and the Black Horse Lords. We are doomed.”
“We take as many as we can down with us,” Visra spoke fiercely, waving her sword. “Make them pay.”
“Dathiem and Glashar, stay to the back. You are our archers.” Zhane waved them behind the company.
“Visra and I are skilled with the blade,” Ellagine told him. “I’ll take the left. Visra, take the right.”
Zhane nodded. “Yamier. Wekin. Stay behind me. Try not to die.”
He lifted his sword with the faux-jeweled hilt, wrapping his fingers around it. He was waiting to strike. The dark mass grew clearer as it raced toward them, and Zhane reeled in surprise when he saw the size of the army. He had expected hundreds of thousands of woísts like they had seen in the Holesmoles. The army that marched toward them was sizable, only about a hundred woísts, small enough to give them hope yet large enough to crush that hope into the ground. Zhane blew out his breath in frustration. His eyes searched the sky for a sign of the army from Mizine. He blinked and squinted. He was unsure whether he saw light from the sun or a dark mass moving toward Castle Range.
It was already too late. If the woísts were not coming to the Constel Heights, they must be enveloping the rest of the world in rivers of death. As the woísts drew nearer, Dathiem let his first arrow fly. Glashar followed his lead. Two woísts in the front of the pack fell dead.
A harsh war cry went up as the woísts caught sight of the seven on the hill. Zhane felt every pulse as the creatures raced toward them. He could see their hideous faces and saw the battleaxs raised in their hands. He could see his path open before him. Running forward, he twirled his sword and sliced off the head of a woíst. Kicking out his foot, he knocked over another. He drove his sword into a third, and he turned back around to finish off the one he’d kicked. Behind him, he could hear Visra shrieking with a mad sort of glee. Ellagine wheeled in green, not allowing a woíst within arm’s reach.
“One for the White Steeds!” Zhane heard Yamier and Wekin celebrate as they took down one woíst together. One less creature for him to fight.
Arrows zipped past him, and Zhane found himself calling, “Retreat!” They were losing ground fast, and he noticed another army approaching from the east. He’d been wrong about the woísts; they were closing in on all sides. There was no time to glance at the sky as he backed up. They held a terrible position as the woísts pushed them down the hill onto the plain before the castle. It was all Zhane could do to keep his footing. He roared as he sliced through the woísts, knowing those in the castle would send backup to stomp the life out of him and his companions.
He wheeled in time to see Dathiem and Glashar pressed up against the castle walls. Their arrows were meeting their marks. Several woísts had escaped the pack and were running down the hill toward them. The creatures scattered across the meadow. A battleax spun by Zhane’s head, and he ducked. Over the roar of the battle, he heard the thunder of galloping horses. Lifting a battleax from the ground, he hurled it at the woíst in front of him, cursing under his breath. The Black Horse Lords were coming.
His head exploded with pain as a woíst dived on top of him. They both went down, clawing and scratching. Zhane managed to push his blade between the woíst’s ribs and shoved it off of him. While he was down there, he slashed at the legs of two more woísts, tripping them up as he rose. He brought his sword down, smashing it between their shoulder blades. Sweat and blood poured from his head.
Yamier. Wekin. He could not see them anymore. Adrenaline rushed in as he found himself alone on the battlefield. Three woísts ran toward him, and he lifted his sword. If this were the end, it would be an end to remember. He ran toward them, and as he did, a horn sounded.
He reeled backward as a silvery voice floated through the air, calling. Once. Twice. Thrice. His sword froze in the air as he raised his eyes. A flood of hope burst through him as the echoes from the horn faded. He knew what it was as he stood with his chest heaving. It was the Horn of Shilmi, created by the Green People and given to Legone the Swift. For some mysterious reason, it was brought to the South World. Zhane had last seen it in the hands of Idrithar. He took a deep breath and lifted his eyes.
A dranagin flew over the top of the hill. A rider, on the dranagin’s back, was holding a horn to his lips. The dranagin perched on the hill and roared, creating a ball of fire to char the grass in the meadow. The rider leaped down and drew his sword. Zhane felt his heart stop as he gasped in astonishment.
“Idrithar!” he heard Wekin cry.
“Idrithar!” Yamier echoed.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see their fists pumping in the air as they shouted.
Relief swept through Zhane as Idrithar ran down the hill toward them, and when Zhane lifted his eyes, he could see an army in the air above them. Great birds, Xctas, flew toward them. Each one had an armed Mermi on its back while a ripple of green moved over the plain. Zhane lifted his sword with renewed hope. Help had come.
79
Glashar
The air was filled with cries and howls as the Xctas, Mermis, and Zikes came. Crons marched out from the courtyard, flinging the gates wide, and forced Glashar away from Dathiem. Hundreds of woísts appeared from the east, and the battle raged. Glashar’s arrows were gone; her cloak was ripped and torn. She held her breath as she searched for him, telling herself not to panic. He would be okay. He was by the wall, searching for arrows.
He was still standing when she saw him, but his expression told her everything was wrong. He dropped to his knees. He had one hand on his side where the crimson stain spread; it was determined to devour his body. His gaze went slack. He was caught in a fog of pain as his eyes met hers. “Find me,” he said, reaching out a hand. A small smile touched his lips as he pitched forward and collapsed.
A piercing keening hurled through her ears, threatening to burst her eardrums. She stood in horror. She was unwilling to believe what she saw. Darkness shattered her vision, and when she became conscious, she found herself standing in the melee, screaming with all her heart.
The battle continued to rage about her as she took a deep breath and raised her hands, making a fist. She waited for the golden fire to ignite. Nothing happened. Her eyes were wet as she ran to him. Turning him over, she cradled his head in her lap, leaning over him as she tried to regain her healing powers.
She opened her hands, pleading for her lost powers to return. Sucking in air as hard as she could, she squeezed her eyes shut and searched for the flame of power.
Please.
It did not come.
Please, don’t leave me.
She tried again. Her fingernails bit into her palms, causing blood to flow.
Please. Come back.
It did not come.
Again.
Dathiem.
Her nose began to bleed.
Again.
Dathiem.
Pain smacked into her head as a blood vessel burst against her will.
Dathiem. Please, don't leave me.
Nothing.
She opened her mouth. A terrible sound came from her lips, and she felt as if her soul were ripping and shredding into pieces.
80
Eliesmore
A
s the notes of the horn died away, the Crons fled, leaving Eliesmore and Optimistic alone in the hall. Eliesmore found his feet turning to follow them when Optimistic grabbed his arms. “The horn! It’s a decoy; it’s not for us. We need to go!”
“It calls.” Eliesmore pushed past Optimistic, pausing as the truth registered. “It calls for us to run. You’re right, Optimistic.”
“Hurry, we have no time. More Crons will come,” Optimistic warned.
They fled down the hall, counting as they went. The roar and clash of battle thundered around them as they rushed up staircases, around corners, and, at last, to a short hall with the final door. They slowed to a stop, staring breathlessly at it.
“We’re here…” Eliesmore faltered. “There’s no guard. Do I simply walk inside? It seems too easy.”
“Guards will return; the horn was a distraction. Go, Eliesmore. I’ll keep watch.”
“Optimistic,” Eliesmore began.
Optimistic pushed him toward the door. “It is time.”
Eliesmore brushed the folds of his cloak aside as he walked down the hall, a nervousness rising within. To have come so far for this unattainable moment felt wondrous. He reached for the door, expecting it to be locked, but the handle turned, and he stepped inside.
Eliesmore stood spellbound as the door shut behind him of its own accord. He stood in a circular tower with an opening shooting up to the skies. It seemed he was no longer in the castle. A golden fountain filled with bubbling waters was in the center of the room. The waters overflowed the basin. They flowed down to the rock floor where four crevices swelled with sparkling waters running north, south, east and west. The golden bowl was held upright by a stone statue of a Green Lady who, Eliesmore noticed, had similar features to Ellagine. They had the same nose and curve of the lips.
A strange aura hung in the room. It was as if he’d stepped into a sacred place and must express reverence so not to anger those who created it. He took a step. He discerned that the room was a replica of the light of Shalidir. He could see a crown within the circle, and words glistened on the stone as he walked toward the fountain. They were in Iaen:
The Complete Four Worlds Series Page 103