THE EKA FIGHTING CAMP
Dusk was gently falling as Marklus and Alaireia approached the massive building. It looked as if it had sprung unbidden from the forest, made of gray stone and covered in crawling dark ivy. The building was stoically silent, divulging no lights, no sounds, or guards, or anything at all that indicated life. Pinpricks of uncertainty began to grow inside of Marklus’ mind. Had he been gone too long? Had the Eka Fighting Camp been overrun and emptied out shortly after his imprisonment? He glanced apprehensively at Alaireia but no emotion displayed on her watchful face. She turned to follow his lead as they reached the three wide, rough steps leading to the doorway. Marklus walked up them alone and paused to listen, but the stone sealed out all noise from even his keen ears. Two imposing double doors stood at least ten feet tall, glaring down unwelcomingly at the dirty intruders. A small iron knocker rested in the middle of the right-hand door, a weak link to the stone, looking as if any use would render it ineffective.
Too exhausted to try, Marklus looked to Alaireia. She nodded, reached up to grasp the handle, and knocked twice. A dull thud echoed from within, more for the benefit of those outside than those inside. There was a pause then a window in the door slid open, an inquisitive nose poked out followed by a pair of sharp green eyes, and finally the full face of a male Cron. For an instant, his face registered surprise and brief recognition as he looked down at Marklus and Alaireia. In a hurry to cover his consternation he barked out, “What brings you here?”
Alaireia stepped back, leaving Marklus in the spotlight of the demanding eyes. “I am Marklus the Cron and this is Alaireia the Ezinck. We have come to see Crinte the Wise.”
The Cron abruptly withdrew his face and the window snapped shut and locked with a clang. The right-hand door gave a whining groan as it reluctantly began to open. Pools of flickering yellow light streamed out, briefly illuminating the forest. The Cron stood in the middle of the doorway dressed in armor from head to toe with five curious guards peering over his shoulder. “Welcome to the Eka Fighting Camp,” he announced grumpily and ushered the two guests inside.
The entrance opened into a wide hall with torches casting light off each wall. Several passageways streamed off from the hall, their openings guarded by more flickering torches. A host of armored Crons filled the entryway, weapons by their sides. Some sat on wooden stools, chewing bits of bread dipped in steaming bowls of gruel. Others paced the stone floor, their footfalls ringing across it as they talked quietly and heatedly to each other. The Crons glanced up curiously and eagerly at Marklus and Alaireia as they entered. The Cron who had bid them enter turned to the five guards behind him. “Please find Crinte and let him know he is requested at the mess hall.” He turned back to Marklus and Alaireia. “Come, you look as if you could use a meal.”
Surprised but relieved at the lack of questions and the promise of a warm meal, Marklus followed the Cron down a hallway. Alaireia tread warily behind, wondering if she would need to escape before the night ended.
The mess hall was buzzing with conversation. Rows of tables covered the hall with Crons crammed around each one, boisterously eating and loudly discussing. A few Tiders were sprinkled in here and there, calmly assessing the situation. The Tiders were an introverted folk who enjoyed dwelling at high elevations. Many of them called the Afrd Mounts in Wiltieders home. Although they liked to explore the ranges of the land and did not mind interacting with the other people groups, because they were of few words most people were unsure and confused about their mortality. Many theories were put forth regarding the Tiders and although many a Cron had taken to the Mounts to investigate, none had returned with a satisfactory answer, if at all. The fact there were Tiders at the Eka Fighting Camp was not a surprise; the fact that they were getting along well with the Crons was.
Strength regained after partaking of the last meal, Marklus and Alaireia had nothing left to do but wait for Crinte to appear. The Cron sat with them, unable to hold his tongue. “I am Elam the Gatekeeper,” he said finally. “A Cron from Norc. Where are you coming from?”
Alaireia interrupted. “We should wait for Crinte. Besides, if you are the Gatekeeper more will come.”
Elam the Gatekeeper looked perplexed by her ambiguity. He gave her a cold, sour look before standing to meet the guards as they returned, escorting a tall, blond Cron. He appeared as the epitome of strength and wisdom from his waves of blond hair dancing near his shoulders to his chiseled jaw. His strength was obvious from the muscles that stood out on his shoulders to the surety in his face as he marched towards the two. His expression changed as he approached. “Marklus!” he exclaimed and reached to grasp his friend’s shoulder. “I thought…” he began, words failing him.
Marklus smiled for the first time, his weariness slipping away at last. “I was delayed, er, detained,” he explained, “and Alaireia here helped me escape.”
Crinte moved to Alaireia and welcomed her by clasping her shoulder as well. “There will be plenty of time to talk tomorrow, for now both of you could use a wash and a good night’s sleep.” He turned back to the guards. “Please, provide them with our best and bring them to my chambers in the morning.”
“She said more are coming,” announced Elam the Gatekeeper in an accusing tone.
Crinte paused to glance Alaireia for a moment. “I see,” he said. “Take care of them, we shall question them in the morning.”
Elam the Gatekeeper motioned to his guards. Curiosity unsatisfied, he brushed past the others to return to his post. Meanwhile the guards escorted Marklus and Alaireia to wash away the grime from their time spent in prison.
One by one each of the lost souls knocked and were admitted into the stronghold of the Eka Fighting Camp. Each of them were lightly questioned, fed, bathed, and sent to sleep before the thorough investigation in the morning. Guards paced by their doors, conscious of their weakness, yet still aware of the need to protect their stronghold from the inside, if necessary. Of those who were admitted that night most were Crons, but one stranger was a Trazame who finally got the courage to ask for help.
Marklus woke to light, instead of darkness, on a soft warm bed, instead of a cold, grimy prison cell. He sat up slowly, drinking in the feeling of freedom as he stretched his aching muscles. A relieved smile covered his face as he quickly dressed in clean clothes, buttoning his green tunic and belting his brown pants. Refreshed, he opened the door to find two guards waiting. They straightened quickly and fell in on either side of him, escorting him to Crinte’s chambers. He found it unnerving to have guards surrounding him again, and his initial reaction was to lash out and flee. Already he missed the Sea Forests of Mizine and the fresh scent of nature surrounding him. He was not meant to be cooped up indoors and if he could have his way, would never be again. Even when he had joined the rebels he had rarely set foot inside the stone fortress and most parts of it were new to him.
As they walked through the stronghold Marklus saw eerie inscriptions and drawings on the walls. Some depicted battle scenes with monstrous creatures, others displayed elaborate drawings of the southern side of the Western World, from the Afrd Mounts in the southwest to the Forests of the Ezinck in the southeastern end. The stronghold had been built long ago and in place much longer than many lives of Crons. It seemed odd to Marklus that such a stronghold had stood empty until it had been taken over and set up as a training camp for those about to go to war.
Finally Marklus was ushered into a chamber. Filtered sunlight streamed in from a high, barred window, reminding him of prison once again. At a table in the middle of the room sat two Crons; one was Crinte, the other had a long scroll of dried paper and a jar of black ink. He twirled his elaborate quill while waiting for the interrogation to begin. Alaireia sat calmly at one end of the table, facing Crinte, watching everything out of her dark eyes. She ate the first meal slowly, chewing thoughtfully. Marklus sat down beside her while the guards took up residence on either side of the room. Invisible, yet there, watching in case of danger.
“Please, sit down and eat,” Crinte said apologetically. “I am trying to keep this as informal as possible, however there are certain laws I must follow here. You know the enemy is becoming too clever and we cannot be too careful.”
Markus stole a glance at Alaireia before reaching for the steaming bowl before him. As much as he wanted to get the interrogation over with and hear Alaireia’s side of the story, the prospect of having more than one meal a day was entirely too tempting.
“Tell me,” Crinte began evenly, “what happened? Start at the beginning and think it through. Carefully.”
“It’s quite simple.” Alaireia shrugged, lifting her face to meet Crinte’s questioning eyes. “We wandered too far into enemy territory, looking for answers, and were captured by the Slutans. A few days ago there was a prison riot and we escaped.”
Crinte sighed, slightly bemused and frustrated all at the same time by Alaireia’s brief explanation. Lifting a hand he ran his long fingers through his blond hair and turned his intense gaze on the guards. “That will be all.”
There was an uncomfortable moment of hesitation before the guards reluctantly moved towards the door. The record keeper looked at Crinte for guidance and at the barest nod quickly gathered up his paper and ink and stalked from the room, muttering under his breath. The door slammed shut, leaving the three alone at last.
“Alaireia,” Crinte complained, “you are going to get me into trouble.”
“What was that about?” Marklus interrupted.
Pushing the first meal aside, Alaireia scooted her chair closer to Marklus and leaned over the table. “Crinte, you’ve said it yourself. We can’t be too careful. What I have to say should stay between us here and Ackhor, since he first employed my services. You are raising a secret army, but we don’t even know what we are fighting. Have you heard that the Great Water Hole is now the Slutans’ base? They are concocting a transformation potion which empowers those who go through it to become better warriors. They are unstoppable, with less emotion. They are out for blood and won’t quit anytime soon. I started the prison riot because the transformation formula has been perfected and the Slutans were getting ready to send all the prisoners to the Great Water Hole. After you go through it you become just a shell of a living being with one purpose only: to serve and obey. This is what we are up against. Is this what your army is training for? To go up against the most indestructible warriors? We have to take a stand, but you must have some other plan.”
Eyes flashing, Alaireia shut her mouth and leaned back, giving her words time to sink in. Marklus recalled earlier discussions he’d had with Crinte before he left to cross the Dejewla Sea into Slutan. He had been aware of the Great Water Hole, but the words tumbling out of Alaireia’s mouth had a new severity to them. The words on parchment had confirmed Crinte’s plan to raise a secret army and take it into the very nest of the enemy to destroy them. Marklus knew the ultimate goal was to take a stand against the Slutans, but now with the information becoming common knowledge Crinte’s plan had to be much more complex.
If the news intimidated Crinte he did not show it. Instead he prompted Alaireia further. “What else did you learn while you were imprisoned?”
“We knew that out of the two countries across the Sea, Slutan was completely overrun. But now Asspraineya has sworn allegiance with the Slutans and their land is turning into a stronghold. The Slutans and Assprainites combined means our forces are already at a disadvantage, even with Asspraineya being a desert land and having a smaller population. We have to keep in mind that when we do send our force across the Sea there will be no rest. We don’t even have eyes over there, no spies, nothing. It was while I was trying to get a sense of the lay of the land and complete the other task you sent me on, I was captured. I should have started in Asspraineya, which is where I will go next time I get a chance. There is rumor of a route or invisible road they are building to help them travel quickly and in secrecy. We need to find that path and destroy it. It is leading towards us. They will be here at our very doorsteps before we know it.”
Crinte shook his head and although his face was impassive, Marklus could tell he was quickly thinking through scenarios. “They have already started testing that invisible road; groups of the transformed started appearing in Mizine some time ago. We send out troops of warriors to scour the land and keep our countries safe, but we never know where they will strike next.”
Alaireia sat back and crossed her arms, a scowl of frustration on her face. “Tell Ackhor that if he wants me to continue as a messenger and spy I will, but I am taking more than just a dagger with me this time. I need a sword. And tell him if he does not act soon we will all perish here.” She stood rather too quickly sending her chair clattering to the floor.
“I thought you had a sword,” Crinte said, perturbed and standing as well. “I will personally escort you to the armory and arrange your meeting with Ackhor. But please do not leave us yet.”
“I have to practice,” Alaireia retorted. “I have not used the sword in a while, besides you don’t need me to catch up with Marklus. I will find you when it is time.” With that last statement Alaireia slipped from the room before another word could be uttered.
Crinte dropped his tense stance as he retook his seat. His tight shoulders began to relax and a genuine smile covered his handsome face at last. “Marklus.”
“How do you know Alaireia?” Marklus jumped in curiously, his brain bursting with numerous questions for Crinte.
“Where do you want me to start?” Crinte began. “Long has it been since I last saw you, and the truth is, much has happened within that time. Some of it too quickly, which means we must be conniving and fast if we have any hope of crushing this new terror before it completely takes over the Western World. Alaireia came to us because she is strong and invisible. She also carries an ancient power we can leverage. I think she knows people could use it to their advantage, which is why she is quite tightlipped about her abilities. She is loyal, and while I’m not at liberty to share where she came from and why, if you get close enough to her and gain her trust, she may tell you herself.”
“This wasn’t a coincidence at all.” Marklus paused with a furrow in his brow. “The prison break was something she did on purpose to save the prisoners from transformation. But it felt as if she were trying to save just me, to bring me back.”
Crinte nodded. “That is entirely possible. Sometimes I’m not sure of her motives, but she knew I needed you if our plan is going to work. To be honest, after you disappeared months ago, I asked her to see if she could find trace of you.”
Marklus leaned forward towards Crinte. “Thank you for that. So your plan must have changed. Was any of Alaireia’s information new to you at all?”
“I wouldn’t be second in command here if I didn’t already know those things.” Crinte’s voice dropped and took on a new edge. “Yes, I do have a plan but we should discuss later. Dark times fall upon us and I need a force I can trust to follow me blindly into the night.”
“Second in command? What happened after I left to seek answers?”
“Ah, that is part of the plan as well. Ackhor has to think he is in charge in order for my plan to fall into place, and now that you are back we can get to work. But come, tell me how you stumbled into Slutan.”
Alaireia became a shadow again, slipping into the lightless cold passageways of the Eka Fighting Development Camp. The further she drifted the mustier the air grew, reminding her of the smell of the dead. Brushing those dank memories away and focusing on the plan, she followed the trail until it ended and she found them. The lost souls had drifted together into one square shaped room, cut off from the warriors in the Fighting Camp. Some walked, testing out their sore muscles from their flight. Others ate, hastily and greedily, as if unsure when their next meal would come. Another group sat dazed on mats, their eyes vacant and staring into nothing. Some slept, waking frequently from nightmares only to reali
ze they were safe from prison. Alaireia walked into the room and those that were awake looked at her. The path of light ended at her feet and they recognized their savior from torment and death. She planted her feet, her hands on her hips. “I need you.” Her voice rang clear. “Will you fight with me?” The thunder of voices shook the room. If they had not had strength and a voice before, they did now. Fists raised high, they shouted. There was only one who turned his face and refused to answer the summons.
ZIKES
There was time before violence began to spread in the land, when the crackle of power was potent across the mountains. There was a time when the immortal “wild things” were not simply whispered tales of old, hushed into stories told to babes in their cradles. Tales that were once true stories only to become forgotten and hidden in mystery. That was the time Legone thought of as he ran through the Algrema Forest, keeping to the southern curve of the wildwood. He was aware of the shift in the air; of the change in the way the plants grew, the way the people of the forest hid from him. Their eyes watched him even as he moved silently through their territory, unable to hide from them yet a blur stained in their memories all the same. Legone did not know how he knew where to go; it seemed a hidden path was guiding his footfalls. A name stood out in his mind. One who had seen the world. One who had a formidable plan. One willing to risk it all for the safety and peace of future generations. This leader, Legone had met long before, in a time and place not shrouded in mist. He remembered the persuasive strength of him. He was from the Order of the Wise, one who could not fail. Legone doubted he would be remembered but that was not the point. Leaping over obstacles, he continued as dusk fell. There would be no rest from here on out.
The Five Warriors (The Four Worlds Series Book 1) Page 3
