The stream of light vanished as the courtyard drew near, but Marklus could see white moonlight shining in, a sight that hurt his eyes, causing them to tear up as he ran towards the opening. The sound of running almost drowned out the whistle of arrows, and just as the escapees reached fresh, unfiltered air, they were met with a volley of black tipped and feathered shafts. The front row went down immediately, and the beauty of the moonlight turned taunting and harsh as the air filled with the shrieks of those pierced and the last death screams of those who would not rise again. Marklus threw himself to the ground and rolled towards the inside wall, hampered by the tangle of arms and legs above him. Desperation shifted to panic. Half of the prisoners moved forward, the other half moved backwards, still clinging to precious life.
Knowing he would be trampled to death if he did not make a move, Marklus frantically looked around for cover or an alternate escape route. To come this far only to be killed or captured again would crush all hope. He could not go back to waiting in his cell for the end of days. He rolled to the side out of the crush and struggled upwards only to bump into the shadow. For a moment there was enough light for him to stare into her face in bewilderment. A vague feeling of déjà vu flitted across his mind. “I know you…” he started to say, although he could not place the memory.
“Shh,” she snapped, quickly cutting him off.
She crouched there, blending into the darkness, yet Marklus thought he saw her cup her hands together. Her mouth moved down towards her fingers, and even though the shadows played tricks with his mind he saw a flash a light. The ground he stood on was no longer firm; the stability of the prison began to dissolve. Now the cries of pain were mixed with frightened shouts from the guards. Marklus moved forward as if in a dream, fighting to keep his balance as the gates around the courtyard began to fall.
The prisoners surged forward; hope renewed, escape a surety. Marklus among them fled through the moonlight into the surrounding forest as the stench of death faded. As he ran he could still hear the whistles of arrows slamming into tree trunks, occasionally taking out a nearby fugitive. Only two things stood out in his mind: firstly he had to find the shadow again, whoever she was, and secondly, he must answer his summons.
A TRAIL OF LIGHT
Stamen was lost. And it was his own fault. He had wandered too far off the farmland in search of an apple tree, lost his sense of direction, and in a panic tried to return home. What troubled him was that he knew better. His people group, the Trazames, maintained an unspoken law; one always stayed at home and did not interfere with the world at large. There were those who protected it and there were those who stayed at home and minded their own business. Particularly in the fragile state the Western World was in, it was imperative to only leave home long enough to tend to the fields and animals. Stamen sighed; he did not know what had gotten into him. It was highly unusual for him to wander this far, and normally his nose led him home. He had an uncanny gift—his sense of smell was useful in tracking anything down. Oftentimes, it led him straight and true, even though his people tended to make fun of him for his extraordinary talent. This time he was growing confused. There had been an odd flash of light back there in the pasture, and while he could taste the sensation of dirt in his mouth, he knew he was not yet close enough to find his way home.
He balked when he heard the gentle lapping of waves nearby. It was a large body of water, stretching unendingly east and west, which meant it had to be the Dejewla Sea. Stamen’s heart sank as he listened. Now he would never get back home. Crossing the Sea was not something one did. As a matter of fact, none of his kind had ever gone to even see the Sea since it took three to five days to travel to its banks. Nervously he walked out from behind the tall trees and the sparkling body of water appeared. Baby waves surged across the surface, gently playing with each other before slamming up against the muddy shoreline. He knew he should walk away but something intriguing held him there. Lifting his face to the warm sunlight he wondered. How many days had he walked along the edge of the forest? What had pulled him in deeper? He sniffed the air. The scent of home had faded as if it were no longer an option. Replacing it was a bitter, menacing taste. There was something going on he did not want to be a part of.
Stamen spooked when he saw two people climb out of the Sea. He moved back to hide behind a tree, peeking out to stare at the people. One was a male from the people group called Crons. Crons were the adventurous folk, overly curious, fond of the unknown and always ready to take action. They often found themselves in all sorts of trouble because of their inability to stay put and keep their nose out of others’ doings. However, the Cron walking out of the Sea looked defeated. His skin was a sickly pale, his curly, light brown hair long and unkempt while his body was gaunt and haggard. Stamen wanted to vomit. He’d only heard vague stories of those from the other side of the Sea, and this could not have a happy ending for him.
The male’s companion was of a people group Stamen could not quite place. Her eyes were intense, yet she was one of the most beautiful females Stamen had ever seen. Her skin was a nutmeg brown and her jet black hair hung, dripping wet, to her muscular shoulders. She also looked unnaturally skinny and there was a dark hollowness in both hers and the Cron’s eyes. The male immediately lay down by the Sea, his chest quickly rising and falling as he gasped for air. The female stood, surveying the area with suspicious eyes. She turned to her companion and said something. He nodded and stumbled to his feet, almost falling into a bush as he steadied himself.
Stamen wondered if they had been turned. Only transformed creatures came from the other side of the Sea. He smelt the air once more, hoping for clarity of direction. Instead, he caught a faint whiff of the rotten smell of decay. Shuddering, he glanced back at the forest. He had to start moving, to find his way home before he too ended up crawling out of the Sea, looking like a lost soul from the world beyond. The two set off in the opposite direction from Stamen’s hiding place, disappearing quickly into the woods. Stamen mentally felt relieved but only for a moment. He heard the splashing of water and turned back to the shining Sea. More of the haggard Crons were swimming his way, their faces pale, dirty hair long and wild. Some of them were scared and wounded, their bloodstained clothes hanging in rags. There were even more behind them, heads bobbing in the waves, struggling to stay afloat. Without hesitation Stamen turned and fled into the forest, almost tripping over his own feet in dreadful haste.
The newly resurrected were coming, swimming across the Dejewla Sea, bridging a gap between them and their former home. Prison. Some of them had been there over a year, others mere weeks or months. All of the escapees had something in common. They were all Crons with a spark of hope within and they were feverishly following the light. Some of them were strong enough to swim the distance; others were weak and held onto floating tree branches or ill-made rafts to bridge the gap. The Sea was quite narrow at that part, which helped their progress, but made the fear of being followed quite real.
The night before they had streamed out of the prison, taking down every guard they possibly could. Stumbling over the broken rubble of the gate they made for the forest, following the light which led them straight and true. To where? No one questioned, but it was the reason for their escape and it was enough to believe. All of them were sure in their convictions, but none of them were innocent. At one point or another they had gone too far and had been caught. Innocent only by their own standards, they had disobeyed the law of that land. And for that they must pay.
Marklus collapsed on the ground, attempting to draw breath. His lungs felt as if they might burst. “Please,” he whispered to his companion, the shadow. “Please.”
“It grows dark.” She stood above him, glancing warily around the forest. “We will be hidden by the cover of night. Although we have crossed the Sea, they are still coming.”
Marklus was silent, focusing on calming his heartbeat. He could taste the blood in his mouth from running too much. His throat was raw, his legs
weak and painful. His companion could not have been in the prison long, or he underestimated her. Although too thin, she still looked as if she could continue on into the night. Only she wouldn’t. The only words exchanged between them the night before had been a confirmation of who he was and where he was going. Questions rose on his tongue, but there had been no time to voice them in the midst of the prison escape. They had run without hesitation through the forest towards the Sea. The shadow had pushed hard, forcing them to swim across before taking a break. It certainly had taken its toll on Marklus.
After a few minutes she sat down, leaning against a tree trunk. The wary look never left her eyes. As the dusk deepened Marklus turned his head towards her. “Who are you?” he whispered, unable to find his stronger voice yet.
She looked at him, even as she blended into the darkness. “What is your mission?”
“War,” he replied. “I want my world back.”
“We all do. But how do you plan to accomplish that?”
Marklus raised himself on one elbow and looked at the shadow. “If we band together, if we create a force that can take over instead of waiting for them to destroy us, we will have a much better chance. Now tell me, I know you, who are you?”
“You must not know me very well if you have to ask,” the shadow quipped. “I am Alaireia the Ezinck from Srinka in the Forests of the Ezinck.”
Marklus looked warily at her again. The people group of Ezincks were rarely seen in the Western World since they tended to live hidden in forests amongst their tribes. Most Ezincks had dark skin, allowing them to blend naturally into hidden places of the forest, and they were known for their unmatched strength, agility, and beauty. They shied away from mixing with the other people groups and interfering with the political matters of the world.
“I am Marklus the Cron of Zikeland,” he told her. “But tell me, why do I know you? We have met before?”
Alaireia straightened. “Likely you had a piece of parchment in your hands, a message. Since it is easy for me to slip into secret places and hide myself from unwanted eyes, I became one of the messengers for the southern end of this land. Oft times I left the message in view where the intended would receive it, sometimes I hid it on their own person, but with you I actually delivered the message into your hands. I remember it was important, and I had to look into your face and ask your name to verify it was, indeed, you. That was long ago. What happened to you?”
“What happens to us all? We fall into their hands only to wrench ourselves free again. This must end, and I think I know where to start. Will you come with me? Will you stay?”
Alaireia cocked her head and looked at him. Twilight had gathered and he could no longer see her. His eyes were closing in exhaustion. “That all depends,” she whispered, “on how good your plan is.”
If he heard her he gave no indication. Thus nightfall overtook over the land, yet the trail of light glimmered faintly in the gloom, leading on those who followed.
The night was too much for Stamen. He fled until the darkness stopped him, once again, another night lost in the woods. He did not understand why everything he tried to do ultimately failed. His only desire was to go back home but it was as if his home had become an island, and he was trying to find it on a ship with no compass. Exhausted, he crawled into a bramble and finally gave in to sleep, hoping in the morning he could start afresh.
Morning broke gently, aware of those struggling along the bank of the Dejewla Sea, fighting to follow the path. Stamen woke hungry and cognizant of a strange light in the forest. It threaded itself among the plants moving south, a sure indication of the way out. He stood hastily, no question in his mind the path of light was sent to lead him home. If he hurried he could arrive in time for the second meal.
Legone stood on the barren mountain peak in the thin air. Lazy clouds passed below his black shod feet as he gazed at the wrecked beauty of the world. All was still and quiet, not even a loose twig snapped the silence of his world. He raised his heavy head to breathe in deeply, the chill mountain air stinging his nostrils. He closed his eyes for a moment before looking back down at the shattering drop off the gray cliff he stood on.
The greenery of the mountains was slowly fading, the glory of his lands was turning black and barren. A bleak pallor was spreading over the land and he knew what he had to do. He knew where to go to stop it, yet part of him was still torn. It was his fault he was burdened with this knowledge.
Long ago, when he was young, he’d left the Afrd Mounts and crossed the Sea because his wanderlust would not leave him be. Paying no heed to words of warning, he lost himself—and more—on the northern side of the Sea. Curiosity drew him in until he understood why he never should have left. What was happening now was his fault. When he returned he refused to speak of what had taken place across the Sea. He refused to think of Her. He had tried to forget, as if by hiding it from his memory the past could be erased.
He despised moments of clarity when he knew what to do. Why must he be burdened with this knowledge? Why should he know what to do best? His mind knew, his heart knew, and yet his body was unwilling to go, to say goodbye to life and the possibility of ever living peacefully in the Afrd Mounts. To say goodbye to ever coming home again, welcomed with open arms by his people. If he left it would be the end, and he did not know if he would make it back to see the sun rise over the mountains and burn off the fog. To see the hints of a crystal clear rainbow spreading over the falls and the mountain peaks in all their majesty as the snow melted off of them. He did not know if he would be back to feel the exhilaration of climbing up those peaks, the heady breeze at the top of those mounts and the feeling of being free. No one could hold him back up there. There were no laws, no destruction, no war, and if he could help it, there never would be.
He knew what he had to do; he just did not want to close to the door on possibilities for himself, on possibilities of seeing Her again. He called it selfish, his desire to live his dear, precious life free in the mounts. This would be his sacrifice for his silence, this would be his redemption. He reached for his bow and aimed a white arrow at the highest snowcapped peak. He would never see it again.
Marklus traveled with Alaireia through the Sea Forests of Mizine. It was a damp rain forest and every hour or so a brief shower would soak them through. Despite the miserable dampness Marklus felt much better with the light meal Alaireia had foraged for them and knowing they had not been caught yet. They were late setting out but as they walked Marklus could not help but glance behind as an eerie twinkle lit up his path. “What is following us?” he asked after a while.
“What do you mean?” Alaireia feigned ignorance.
“The light,” Marklus explained. “I only just noticed it but yet it follows.”
“Ah.” Alaireia did not even give it a glance. “The others are following us; it would not be kind to leave them without a guide. After all, I did help them escape.”
“How?” Marklus felt his suspicions growing.
“Marklus, you ask too much sometimes. The less you know the better.”
“I don’t think that is necessarily true. Besides, I know you read my message, you read all of them. You already know enough. What powers do you hold? You caused the earthquake at the prison and now a path of light I suspect only prisoners can see and follow. What else can you do?”
Alaireia had just opened her mouth to answer when she was bowled over by a male, running through the woods. He uttered a shout and tried to leap away from her. Marklus stared as Alaireia and the stranger struggled on the forest floor. “What do you think you’re doing?” she exclaimed.
“Please don’t hurt me!” he cried.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Alaireia replied. “Next time just watch where you are going.”
But the stranger was already distressed. “It’s gone!” he whimpered. “Where did it go?”
“Where did what go?” Alaireia held up her hands and backed away from him.
He looked distr
aught and turned around, gazing unhappily at the forest floor. “The light, it was leading me home.”
Marklus turned to look at Alaireia with a pointed expression, curious to hear what she had to say for herself.
Alaireia just sighed and crossed her arms. “If you’re lost in the forest you shouldn’t follow random lights. They don’t lead home.”
The male stopped and stared at them, as if seeing them for the first time. His eyes widened and he turned and ran off into the forest.
“What did you do to him?” asked Marklus.
“Nothing,” Alaireia hissed. “Let’s just keep going.”
“Did you notice?” Marklus started moving forward again. “He was a Trazame.” The people group called Trazames lived by an unspoken rule—home was the safest place and curiosity only led to death. They were peace-loving homebodies who rarely moved beyond the boundaries of their land. Farming and feasting were their main reasons for living. Trazames tended to have tanned skin and sun-kissed hair; their lazy accents and muscular bodies sculpted by farm work gave them away immediately. “Strange things are happening if the Trazames are coming out.”
Alaireia nodded distantly. “We have been in prison too many months, we need information.”
Stamen watched shakily from the forest floor as the Cron and his odd companion moved on through the woods. After they disappeared from view he noted the trail of light was there once more. Confused, he tried to come up with a reason for the reappearance of the light. It had to be a kind of evil spell in the forest, he shouldn’t follow it anymore. Yet he needed to get back home or at least out of the forest and back into civilization where he could ask for directions. Weighing the pros and cons was not his strong point; there was little else to do besides follow the light. Nightmares from last night shook his memory. Those people crawling out of the Sea, what if they were following the light as well?
The Five Warriors (The Four Worlds Series Book 1) Page 2
