Back at the fortress Crinte and Marklus talked until the afternoon shadows lengthened and began to fade into dusk. They were brothers in a way, having grown up close to the borders of Cromomany. Crinte hailed from Norc, but his family moved to Zikeland when he was young. Marklus hailed from Zikeland, a flat, prairie town, named for the people in the grass, Zikes. At that time no one quite knew who or what the Zikes were since they had not been seen in those parts for decades. No one knew they often appeared as stocky blades of grass stinging with poison if touched. Their incredible camouflage abilities kept them hidden for the most part, and Marklus, on the fateful day he met Crinte, had managed to trick one into revealing its true identity.
Seeking Zikes was a game for children. No one had ever seen one, therefore the thrill of finding one and boasting about it encouraged exploration. Such was the way Marklus felt as he stumbled through tall rings of lime green grass higher than his waist. He carried a thick brown stick in hand, using it to push back grass as he searched for trouble. Stealthily he made his way through the grassy prairie and accidentally stumbled upon a barren path. Hidden in a grassy hollow was a green tunnel, funneling close to the ground but leading forward into the wild. That’s when he knew he had come upon on a secret. Only ten at the time, and more than willing for an adventure, he immediately wiggled down and started crawling his way through the circle of grass into a world only filtered sunlight could reach.
It was not five minutes later that he felt the first prick. Hot searing pain overwhelmed him, knocking the breath from his body, forcing him prostrate on the ground. Tears burst from his panicked blue eyes and rolled down his suntanned cheeks as he attempted to rise, but the sensations increased. Lying there as the blanket of grass held him against the ground, he cried out in pain yet through his tears saw it.
It would have been about his height, if he were standing tall, and wore a deep green cone on its head. The cone seemed to shift with the sunlight, either that or there was something electric dancing inside of it, keeping the cone pointed firmly at the sky. The Zike itself wore a sort of suit Marklus was unable to see clearly, but the eyes were what froze his tears. They were emerald green, round and wide, pulling him in, locking his gaze. He felt as if he were drowning as the pain and mesmerizing gaze paralyzed him on the ground. But the longer he stared the more the menace in those eyes faded, changing to panic and fear.
That’s when he heard it. A mirror of his own. Screams of pain in the distance. Marklus startled, and the slight movement was just enough to tear his eyes away from the false glare of the Zike. As he moved he could feel warmth spreading through his body, devouring the pain, removing the paralyses. His hands, as they lay against the ground, levitated just a bit and a blue light crackled between his fingertips and the dusty ground.
Distracted, Marklus glanced at his hands. When he looked back up the Zike had vanished but a faint whimper of agony continued. Finding himself in full control of his limbs again, Marklus cautiously continued forward, slithering through the tunnel of grass until he reached a small crossroads. One way led out back into the sunlit prairie, the other led him deeper into the secret entrance, where some creature was being tortured by the Zikes.
A few minutes later Marklus found him. It was a boy about his age, slightly taller and fairer. His long blond hair was covered in grass and mud, his dirty face bright red with streaks of tears running through the grime. He lay on his back, his muscles tense as his body convulsed against the unforgiving ground. His cries grew quieter as he submitted to the pain; the fight was fading away from his empty round blue eyes, staring yet not seeing the curtain of green.
Marklus crawled forward anxiously. Had the Zikes done this? Were they truly evil creatures of the prairie who sought to harm and kill small children? There in the shadows of the grass, hidden from the world, Marklus sat down beside the strange child to keep him company while his life expired. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I wish I could help.”
The strange child said nothing; his body shuddered against the ground once more. Marklus reached out to comfort him, laying a hand on his shoulder. The blue light ignited again, flowing from his hand into the boy’s shoulder. For a brief second it seemed as if the world froze. The boy went still. His eyes closed. His whimpers faded and he began to breathe.
Marklus snatched his hand away, starting first at the boy and then at his hand, but it appeared normal. When he glanced back at the strange boy he was sitting up and looking at him in awe. “You saved me.” His tongue stumbled across the words. “How did you save me?”
Marklus shook his head, his eyes wide. “I don’t know…” His voice trailed away.
The strange child grinned, his teeth flashing white. He held out his hand as a token of thanks. “I am Crinte.”
The sun was beginning to descend when they emerged from the Zike’s tunnel of green back into the wide open spaces of the prairie. A gentle breeze was blowing, ruffling the light hair of the two, welcoming them back to life. Marklus could feel the thrill of adventure leaving him as he relaxed into the seemingly sympathetic arms of the wind. Although it may have been childish fancy, he sometimes thought he could see something of substance in the wind. It was only when Crinte grabbed his arm to still him that he realized they were not alone. Covering the meadow as far as the eye could see was an army of Zikes. They stood unabashedly in the sunlight, their cones pin pricks in the sky, hostile emerald eyes staring at the two children.
Marklus froze, his heart beat steadily increasing. He could hear Crinte’s shallow breathing beside him and knew they were in deeper trouble than they’d ever intended. The Zikes marched up to them, surrounding them in a wide circle that smelled of fresh cut grass. The wind died away as if it knew the moment had come and the two Crons were left to fend for themselves.
The incredible silence was the last thing Marklus remembered before the voice took over. For a moment it was inside of him and then he realized it was Crinte, his true voice, loud, powerful, and authoritative. “What do you want?” he demanded.
One of the Zikes stepped forward. It pointed a finger, if it could be called a finger, at Marklus. “We cannot harm you,” it said in an earthly voice which Marklus envisioned embodying the freedom of running outside, playing in the mud, living wild and free close to the earth. “We pledge our allegiance. When you need us. We are here.”
One moment the Zikes were bowing, their sharp cones pointing directly at Marklus and Crinte. The next moment the meadow was empty with only stalks of tall grass waving at the boys. The wind stood behind Marklus and Crinte as if to calm them, while they wondered if what they had seen was real.
AN UNEXPECTED DUEL
It was days before Marklus saw Alaireia again. During that time he met with Ackhor, the fearless leader of the Fighting Camp, to account for his whereabouts the last few months. Ackhor listened but did not have much to say. In the end he encouraged Marklus to take up training, lest he wander into enemy territory again, unprepared. Sensing the underhanded rebuke, Marklus once again took up the bow and arrow. Crinte refused to provide any more insight into exactly what was going on at the fortress, besides the obvious training of an army. He told Marklus they were leaving soon and he should recover his strength before their journey began.
One morning, as usual, Marklus selected a practice bow and sheath of arrows from the armory and followed a group of archers to the training grounds. The training grounds were wide open spaces hacked into the forest floor that lay just behind the fortress. Here and there low stone walls surrounded the terrain, with guards perched on top. They watched the forest for intruders and called out words of encouragement or critiqued the technique of the warriors practicing. Each weapon had its own station with instructors standing by to teach beginners, assist intermediates, and coach the more advanced warriors. Marklus saw a troop led off into the forest on an endurance run, while others were wrestling in the mud. At a further distance stout Crons were grappling with the mace, a large, unwieldy tool for those wh
o possessed great strength. Maces typically had sharp spikes on the ball at the end of the chain, but the practice ones were blunt. Even beyond them, Crons and Tiders threw blades and spears against stationary and moving targets. Out of sight were the practice targets for archers, a safe distance from the blade and spear throwers just in case of an accident. As Marklus followed the trail through the training camp he heard a clamor of excitement coming from the sword fighters. He left the path for a moment to glance downhill at the duelers.
Alaireia was surrounded by a ring of warriors ready to jump into action. They all held unsheathed swords whose blades glistened dangerously in the light. The Crons and Tiders, unable to refrain from vocal admiration, roared shouts of encouragement to the poor chap who was unfortunate enough to challenge Alaireia. She was in complete control of the duel; each warrior would step up to combat her and three strokes later had to stumble out of the ring, sword dragging and pride gone amidst the shouts of his fellow warriors. Curious to see her in action, Marklus drew nearer.
The warriors wore breastplates to ward off blows yet the rules of the duel were unclear. Swordplay, tripping, physical fighting, and other unexpected methods to down the other duelist seemed to be included. Alaireia did not blink or hesitate for one moment; her strokes were sure, her blocks were clear, and when her opponent fell he never saw it coming. As Marklus watched her he began to wonder if he and Crinte truly were the best warriors in the land. Crinte had a knack for attracting power, and now, as Marklus watched Alaireia, it was clear to him her skills were not completely natural. He had not done much besides thank her for the role she played in releasing him from confinement, but if she held such power he certainly wanted to earn her trust.
Marklus walked downhill, closer to the circle of warriors for an upfront view. As he moved forward he saw someone he did not expect to see and a vague recollection clouded his memory. The male was no Cron. He was no Tider either. Yet he stood sword in hand, waiting for his chance to combat Alaireia. His face was pale and his hands were shaking. Fear. The cold sweat of it was written all over his body. Pausing, Marklus almost walked up to him, but it was too late. Alaireia’s last opponent stumbled out of the ring and a lively Cron shoved the fearful male inside.
The male raised his sword in both hands, then dropped one and swung at Alaireia. She ducked and brought her sword up to parry his blow but she was too late. The male had already shifted positions to throw a foot under Alaireia’s and the two of them toppled to the ground. Alaireia quickly recovered from the surprise move and leaped up. Feet apart and sword lifted, she posed for the next attack. The male was a bit slower but seemed to understand the need to quickly gain higher ground. There was a momentary pause as he stood, straightened his shoulders, and calmly slid one foot in front of the other before launching into an aggressive attack. Alaireia, thrown off by his speed and surety, was unable to as quickly disarm him as she had the others. She met his sword, blow for blow, parrying and thrusting but the onslaught continued.
The shouts from the warriors hushed to an awed silence. Some sheathed their swords, others leaned forward to examine the technique, and others started chanting under their breaths. It was an old chant from the Miften language, a term not common among the people groups. It was a name for an expert, a champion of the land, the best of the best. Slowly the chant grew as the duel continued and Alaireia’s calculations about the male’s next move were proved wrong again and again.
“Starman. Starman. Starman,” they chanted over and over again.
Marklus could see hints of anger in Alaireia’s movements, the sword slashed too quickly. She was getting sloppy but his precision was perfect. Although his brow was wet with sweat and his face still pale, his hands no longer shook. He was sure in his movements. He was the superior with the sword. Marklus, standing apart, remembered the Trazame from the woods, the nervous aura he’d given off when he stumbled into Alaireia and fled as soon as he sensed outwardly power. Marklus hesitated. He wanted to watch the end of the duel but instead he turned around and ran.
“Crinte!” Marklus burst into Crinte’s chambers, not even hesitating to knock in his excitement. “The best warriors in the land, that’s what you’re looking for!”
Crinte looked up from the maps he was studying. “At least shut the door,” he complained.
“Come with me,” said Marklus. “You have got to see this!”
Crinte opened his mouth but Marklus grabbed his arm and dragged him out the door. The two raced back to the training grounds where the size of the crowd had doubled. Alaireia and the Trazame were still locked in a duel. Now the Trazame was on the defense, backing away from Alaireia but still meeting her every blow. Marklus could not tell if he was determined to win the fight or too frightened to give up.
“The Trazame,” Crinte said in awe beside him. “I did not know he could fight.”
“I did not know he was here,” Marklus added.
“He came with the rest of the escaped prisoners,” Crinte explained. “But I have not spoken with him.”
Marklus shook his head even though Crinte’s eyes never left the duel. “No, he was not in prison with us. He was already in the woods on this side of the Sea. I’m not sure how he ended up here unless he followed us. Alaireia and I ran into him on our way here.”
Now the Trazame was gaining ground and the shouts of the spectators became louder. He was gaining on Alaireia and now it was her turn to back away, seeking an error in the onslaught of his sure and steady blows. He slashed towards her waist only to be cut off; the next blow dove for her heart but was struck away. He reached higher, aiming for her neck but her sword met his again and again, blocking as she backed away.
“I have dueled Alaireia,” Crinte said. “It is no easy feat. How this Trazame still has his sword is amazing.” He paused for a beat, then placed his hand on Marklus’ shoulder and said in a low voice, “We may need him.”
“I know.”
Crinte continued, his voice dropping lower as the cheers of the crowd grew louder. “Then you know my last conversation with Ackhor did not go well. He knows how to raise an army but we need to be two steps ahead of the enemy. As I told you, I need scouts to go to the Great Water Hole with me, discover what their true plan is and put a stop to it. But I need a great force to come behind us, I need the armies of the Mizine to rise and follow us, wiping out this unnecessary uprising before it can take over our lands. This time you cannot go running straight into their hands again. You will need the best of the best with you, because it will not be easy. I want warriors who are not afraid to stare death in the face and keep going. I want warriors who can think on their feet, who are passionate about saving our lands and who can rage in battle. If this Trazame can do so, we may require his services.”
Marklus smiled, his blood boiling at the words Crinte spoke. “When do we leave then?”
“Two weeks.”
Feeling satisfied with their decision, the two turned one hundred percent of their focus back to the duel. Alaireia was backed into a corner. She had nothing left to do but surrender her weapon. There was a brief second of indecision before Alaireia threw down her sword in frustration. She was breathing hard and furious that a mere Trazame could best her strength and skill. Glaring at him with hostile eyes, she waited. He hesitated, glancing questioningly at her sword then back at her intense eyes. The noise from the onlookers hushed as they watched the conclusion of the most exciting duel they’d seen from the two most unique warriors at the Eka Fighting Camp.
Alaireia reached out her hand, signaling a draw. The Trazame paused for a beat, either unwilling to give up or unsure of Alaireia. He sheathed his sword slowly and took her outstretched hand. The spectators roared and raised their swords in the air chanting for their hero. “Starman! Starman! Starman!”
Alaireia grasped the Trazame’s hand. “I have never met anyone who could fight evenly with me. From now on, we train together.”
Although Alaireia’s words were serious and solemn as
she refused to humble herself, the Trazame lost his shy look as the witnesses shouted. “You think so? I am glad of it, I haven’t had much practice with the sword.” He smiled a bit uneasily and despite herself Alaireia felt her hardened heart lift just a tiny bit.
After the two escaped from the many admiring and congratulatory warriors they found themselves awkwardly walking through the training grounds.
“We have met before,” Alaireia said finally, gauging the Trazame’s face for a reaction. He stiffened immediately. “Ah, so you do remember.”
“What were you doing out there?” He could not look at her. “I saw you crawl out of the Sea with the others. Are you one of the turned ones?”
“Turned?” Alaireia scoffed, but she noticed the Trazame was visibly shaking with fear and he very much looked as if he would like to flee. “How do you know about the turned ones?”
“Everyone knows.” He shrugged. “Ever since they started appearing on this side of the Sea.”
“No,” Alaireia corrected. “When I left only a few knew there were turned ones and now, if everyone knows we don’t have much time left.” She momentarily forgot about the mysterious Trazame as thoughts flew through her head. She had been gone much longer than expected and now it seemed maybe Crinte’s plan was the only hope. She had considered going off on her own again, but given what had happened on the other side of the Sea in Slutan, strength seemed to be in numbers. She knew Crinte was going to take action, but he had not informed her of his strategy or his timeline. All she knew was that his plan would be more actionable than Ackhor’s. Then again, she owed everything to Ackhor and did not want to hurt his feelings. She felt a twinge of guilt as she realized she still had not been to greet him after her safe return from the other side. But part of her shied away from what she had to say to him.
“Are you one of them?” the Trazame pressed.
The Five Warriors (The Four Worlds Series Book 1) Page 4
