“Why do you ask?” Crinte questioned, although his ears perked up at the thought of news from the country to the west he was born in.
Marklus, sitting across from Crinte, looked curiously at the sloppy Cron, a name on the tip of his tongue.
The Cron dropped his voice and leaned in closer to Crinte, his round eyes bright, lively. “On account of your clothes. You have no symbol of authority on your cloak, the sign of fealty to a Ruler. Everyone knows the King of Norc supports the Rebels.”
Crinte looked at him evenly, offering no words, while Marklus turned his head sharply, his eyes peeling across the room. Alaireia and Starman conversed quietly while Legone sat at the end of the table, a grim look on his distrusting face. The Trazames and Crons in the Inn had left off staring at the five and were caught up in their own business once again.
The Cron guffawed at Marklus’ caution, slapping a hand over his bearded mouth as his eyes danced from Crinte to Marklus. “There are no soldiers here! Don’t you know, Trazame is a free, unruled country? What do they care here for rebel armies and political gain?” He lifted his tankard of ale and raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“What do they call you?" Crinte asked in response. “One who speaks so boldly must have a name? And if you know so much why haven’t you joined the Rebels?”
The Cron’s face widened and he stuck out a hand, causing long locks of hair to dance across his face. “They call me Simon the Brave.”
“Simon?” Marklus chimed in, sticking his head around to get a good look at the Cron’s face. “I know that name! You sold me a horse not long ago in Cromomany."
Simon the Brave gave a sly grin. “Oh, but it was long ago. How did that horse turn out?”
Marklus shook his head. “I would say I was swindled but you warned me well. Crinte, this fellow is harmless enough. Although, Simon, I am surprised you still have your head.”
Simon stroked his neck lovingly, his lively eyes lifted to the ceiling in mock gratefulness. “Yes, I have been in many a tight spot. If only my tongue would stop a-flapping, I might be able to live a peaceful life.”
Marklus shook his head, a boyish grin spreading across his face. “You and I both know that will never happen. Come, tell us what news you have of the world.”
Simon pulled his tankard closer and leaned in towards Crinte and Marklus. “Ah, but if you are with the Rebels you already know. We are doomed, scattered, leaderless, and those destructive creatures are coming to take over.”
“Everyone knows that,” Crinte interrupted. “The question is what are you going to do about it?”
“Well,” Simon the Brave said as he leaned back, shaking his tunic until he found a pouch of tobacco. He plopped it carelessly on the table and reached for his pipe. “What am I going to do? Stay here in the happiest place in the world, with food, drink, females.” He winked at Marklus. “What else am I supposed to do? Join the Rebels?” He laughed. “That’s what you would do!”
“Actually,” Crinte lowered his voice, “joining an army would be too boring for you. Wouldn’t it? No, for a Cron of your personality you’ll need more. You like to talk, wager, make rumors on the fly, and walk right into the lion’s den, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
Simon smirked as he struck a match, concentrating on lighting his pipe for a moment. He puffed for a second before turning his dark eyes on Crinte’s face, Marklus forgotten for the moment. “Normally, I would not let just any Cron talk to me the way you do. What do they call you? And what mission do you have for me? Because I just might be in the mood.”
“I have no mission for you,” Crinte countered. “No direction for a loyalty challenged Cron such as you. All I will say is that each of the ruled countries of Mizine has a Ruler with a harsh edict against joining the Rebels. Yet each Ruler has an army, but they force Mizine to remain, how did you say it? Leaderless. Scattered.” Crinte stood. “Only a fool would start a rumor, only a fool could trick the Rulers into combining forces.”
A band of fiddles and flute players struck up in a corner, drowning out conversation with their boisterous melodies. The lively crowd began clapping, some dancing, while Crinte and Marklus left the fool, Simon the Brave, to smoke thoughtfully into his mug of ale.
That night the five warriors washed away the travel stains and slept with full bellies on beds of straw. Contented and happy, it seemed the darkness spreading from Slutan was all but a dream.
Trazamy City lay inland at the furthest point from the Sea, still, a journey to the Dejewla Sea from the city would take at least a week. The farmlands of Trazame were spread out, surrounding the city, some only as far away as a three day walk. There were those who dwelt closer to the Sea and others that lay closer to the east, towards Wiltieders and the Afrd Mounts. Starman and his family lived in the lowlands, a three day journey from the Sea. They had never ventured there and never expected to, but twice a year they made the trek to the city to feast and trade and celebrate.
“I see why you love it here.” Alaireia fell in step with Starman the next morning after they had eaten and reluctantly left the Ajke Inn. “The city is part of the world yet it seems untouched by the troubles of the world. You have strangers walk in and out of your midst, but their opinions do not hold sway here. I am impressed with the caring and generous attitude of your people. If I had known I would have come here sooner.”
Starman looked into her dark face, her eyes shone with sincerity and for a moment he wanted to embrace her. “You mean that?” His face lit up in a smile. “You should come back here, when it’s all over and the turned ones are no more.”
“I would, Starman,” she replied gently, “but where I am going there may not be a return.”
Starman’s face fell. “Do you think the enemy is truly stronger than us?”
“Only that he has the upper hand because he had been strategizing his takeover much longer and he has created the turned ones. Now that is an unnatural power. Starman.” She touched his shoulder, forcing him to stop and look at her. “He will not stop until he has vanquished all lands, even Trazamy City. Will you come with us and save your home from being destroyed?” Starman looked down but she went on. “I have seen my home claimed by the darkness and all I cared about wiped out. I would spare anyone from knowing what that grief feels like.”
Starman gently laid his hand on hers, looking into her earnest face. “I have never traveled. And I don’t know how or why my steps took me so far from home. But it is an adventure I do not regret. I have met you and learned much of this world. I have seen the Sea and the forests and the prairie. I have trained at the Fighting Camp, fought Garcrats, and run from invisible armies. I have met Crinte and Marklus and Swift, all great warriors you travel with. But that is enough for me. I am home now.”
At his words Alaireia sighed, but she thought of the Clyear and the deception she could wrought using its power. The thought briefly slipped through her head and her eyes glazed over for a moment, heady with the knowledge. As her vision cleared she shuddered and her eyes met Crinte’s. He was a ways ahead of her and Starman, but for some reason he looked back, directly at her, and she felt as if his eyes perceived her thoughts and disdained them.
The humble city of Trazamy disappeared from view as they entered the peaceful farmlands of Trazame. Starman knew almost all the farmers, and the first night they slept in a barn and in the morning enjoyed a bountiful meal from the generous farmer and his wife. The second night all was still and barren. The farmers had gone; even their animals were missing. A foreboding hung in the air making the five talk little and travel quickly. Even Starman, sure of his way, woke early on the third day, marching forward with an anxious determination. It was not until mid-afternoon that he spoke. “I can’t smell home,” Starman whispered. Standing still he lifted his face to the wind. “I smell…” His face grew pale and his words dropped away. A realization began to dawn and with a cry he began to run.
“Starman!” Alaireia cried, but Crinte held up his hand before she co
uld run after him. He walked forward a few steps and turned his far seeing gaze on the land before them. “Danger approaches. Marklus, what do you hear?”
Marklus pricked up his ears. Zikes. There was no response. “Nothing,” Marklus said after a moment. He put his ear to the ground and continued to listen, worried the Zikes were not answering him.
“I was afraid of that.” Crinte continued to look around. “Alaireia, go to him. We’ll sweep the land although it looks like the turned ones got here before us.”
Starman ran, not ready to believe what his nose told him. His feet pounded over the ground but already he could see the ruin of his family’s farmland. The farmhouse was flattened, the barn merely a pile of rubble. There was no one left, no people, no animals, nothing. “Nononononono!” he howled, pounding down the dusty path to where his home used to be. All that remained was the wall surrounding the land. When the farmers first heard of the turned ones, they had begun to build walls around their lands, better to secure themselves inside and wait out the raiders rather than actually take up arms. Obviously they had built too slowly. Walls had been mowed over, fire set to buildings, and the gray ash Starman ran his fingers through was still warm. Starman stood in the destruction, his black boots stained with the ash of ruinous destruction. He lifted a hand to wipe moisture from his face, leaving trails of soot on his cheeks. In disbelief he gazed about, searching for any clue of life. Falling to his knees as the truth sunk in, his threw his face to the wind, clenched his fists, and screamed in rage.
It was a rending sound of heartbreak that ripped through the land, and Alaireia, walking hesitantly towards Starman, understood it all too well. She remembered years ago, when she had run, heart in her throat, back home, only to find the beast had beat her there. She recalled standing outside the charred ruins of the glade her family called home, knowing they hadn’t even had time to escape. Cursing and screaming she’d vowed revenge until her anger turned into panicked wailing and she had collapsed in grief. Now she walked towards Starman, his face was red, his muscles contouring as the grief blindsided him. He looked at her and she saw the bloodlust behind his eyes. “Whoever did this, I will kill them all. I will make them pay.” His voice was a low growl.
“Starman?” Alaireia questioned hesitantly, reaching out a hand. But the look in his eyes frightened her.
A NEW FORCE
The morning Starman had strayed from home had been fair, just as beautiful as the day before. The generous sun blazed over the earth, warming the turned dirt with its light. Even before he opened his eyes he could smell fresh bread and bacon, and hear his younger brother and sister chasing each other round the kitchen. His mother was still scolding by the time he tumbled out of the loft, pulled on his tunic and pants, and found his way to the table. His two older brothers had already left for the fields as they always did at sunup, while his older sister fried more thick slices of sizzling bacon and affectionately refilled his plate. “Going fishing today?” she asked him. “I could use another huge catfish.”
“So you shall have many!” Starman announced. He snatched one last mouthwatering bite, grabbed his fishing rod, and jaunted out into the sunlight. Intoxicated by the beauty of the day he strode unhurriedly through the farmland as he made his way to the watering hole. It was tucked away, a calm, secluded pond the neighboring farms shared. Mayhap there was a magical hue to the waters, for fish from that pond averaged three feet long and provided one of the most heavenly meals in Trazame. Which was saying a lot, since the food and drink of Trazamy City was legendary. Starman planted his line deep in the muddy water and settled down, hidden by the tall bulrushes, to wait. Bug-eyed dragonflies hummed lullabies as they passed overhead, their silver wings almost invisible in the sunlight. Frogs hopped through the mud, freezing in camouflage for a moment, croaking out warnings as shadows flew overhead. Eventually, Starman woke from a nap and checked his line to find it, surprisingly, empty. Hungry, he got up to search for food, remembering he had passed an apple tree on his way. He meandered along, humming a tune to himself, and did not realize when a flash of light appeared. Oblivious, he tripped over the remnants of a portal and landed in the Sea Forests of Mizine. From there his life had taken an unexpected turn and four weeks later, when he finally arrived home, he could not understand why he’d escaped their fate.
A sound made Alaireia turn to the north where the road to the Sea led. Indeed a dark mass was coming, traveling quickly in a southeast direction. “Starman, we have to run.”
His hands went to his sword and even as he closed his fingertips around the hilt, the blade sang. “No.” He stepped forward, his voice quivering with emotion. “I will kill them all.”
A distance away from Starman and Alaireia, Crinte and Legone watched while Marklus lay with his ear to the ground. “Something is wrong,” he said. “Either I have lost control of the Zikes or…” His voice trailed off. “I hear something coming. It is a large group and they travel swiftly.”
“I see them,” Crinte replied. “Starman is angry and hurting and seeking revenge. He is going to fight them.”
Marklus leaped up. “Not good,” he began but the voices of the Zikes interrupted him. Marklus the Great. Run! We cannot hold them all!
Legone drew a blue arrow from his quiver and fitted it into his bow. “I need higher ground. Marklus, are you coming?”
Surprised at the offer, Marklus nodded as adrenaline began to course through his veins. “Crinte, we are doing this?”
“Yes, we can only run for so long. If we don’t fight it will be the death of Starman. The broken walls may be the highest ground you can find, even though it is not ideal. I will go down to Alaireia and Starman. If we use the ruins as shelter we may have a chance.”
Crinte walked over to where Alaireia and Starman had been standing earlier, only now Starman continued to walk towards the dark mass, sword in hand, his eyes black with anger. Alaireia followed closely behind him, drawing her sword and looking worriedly from Starman to the encroaching mass. She was not concerned about the actual battle, but she knew, firsthand, the false strength grief presented. The Starman she knew had run from the last battle, in fear of the turned ones. Now, there was no telling how long his bout of fury would last. When at last he came to his senses would he run again? She thought about using the power of the Clyear to keep them safe. But the thought passed fleetingly as vibrations tingled through her fingers as they grasped her sword. The gifting words danced through her memory: Your sword has a minor mesmerizing power if your enemies gaze too long at the gold light.
Alaireia raised her sword above her head as the turned ones drew nearer and the sharp gold line blazed bright in the sunlight. Starman was running now, his mouth open in a cry of rage as he raced to meet the Garcrats who drove forward eagerly, roaring and waving their clubs. There was a brief pause as their eyes were involuntarily drawn to Alaireia’s sword, slowing their momentum. Starman, taking advantage of the moment, ferociously drove into their midst, gritting his teeth and slashing his sword at the first Garcrat he reached. It raised its club slowly but he chopped off its arm, whirled around and sliced his sword through the guts of the creature behind him. Five lay dead behind him before Alaireia even came into contact with the first Garcrat.
Crinte broke into a run as soon as he saw Starman reach the creatures, reeling in astonishment as he saw Starman quickly gain the upper hand. Alaireia joined him and as the hideous creatures fell before them, Crinte realized the true gift of Tincire’s weapons that matched not only their combat style but synced with their wills. He drew his sword and visions danced before his eyes as he strode forward purposefully, but the creatures that ran towards him were not Garcrats.
Legone leaped up onto the crumbling wall which shuddered, almost unwilling to hold his weight. He paused, allowing his feet to regain balance before lifting his bow once more. Marklus joined him, dragging a blue tipped arrow out of his quiver. “Your aim is poor,” Legone stated. “When you loose your arrow your bow comes up, forci
ng you to miss your mark. Line up your arrow with your mind’s eye, and do not move until it flies.”
“You have seen me shoot before,” Marklus said, “but you have never said anything until now?”
Legone shrugged, keeping his eyes on his target. “Practice is over. I need your arrows to fly true and straight every time.”
Marklus took aim and let his arrow fly. It whistled past Crinte and struck one of the creatures racing towards him in the head. It fell backwards with a cry and disappeared beneath the others. “Like that?” Marklus asked proudly.
Despite himself, Legone felt one of the corners of his mouth tug upwards in a slight smile. “Yes, like that.”
As Marklus bent back his elbow to reach for another arrow, he heard what sounded like a cheer rush through the air. He was almost positive it came from his quiver. As his second arrow took down its mark, he heard it again. He glanced at Legone to see if he noticed, but Legone had a concentrated look on his face. “These are not the same creatures we slayed by the Sea.”
Gangly creatures moved quickly, skillfully, towards them like a mass of ants descending on their fallen prey. Perhaps they had once been people; Tiders, Crons, Ezincks, or Trazames. Now, they were monsters, stripped of flesh and left with sickening bone, recovered with blistered and burned skin, stretched taut over skeletal bodies. Each had an abnormally large head. Perhaps it was the lack of hair and flesh that made it appear large and misshapen. Maybe it was the unsettling, enormous black eyes that stared out of sunken skulls, dead and emotionless. Shirts of chainmail reached almost to their knees, keeping blows from reaching their chest and torso. Around their waists a black, belt-like contraption held multiple weapons which included swords, knives, and axes. They were nimble and surprisingly strong as they hurled themselves across the battlefield.
Arrows sang as they whistled past Crinte’s ears, serving one purpose only—Death. Alaireia and Starman were too far away, surrounded by Garcrats, and he could not warn them he saw more coming out of the east. With a cry he raised his sword to meet the new force and struck a high blow to the head, knocking a creature to the ground. The next one swung at Crinte’s neck but he ducked and sliced low at its legs. He heard snapping sounds as its legs collapsed. Arrows threw back two creatures who were about to advance. An axe landed in the ground beside him, seconds after he had moved his foot, and even as the speed of arrows from Marklus and Legone continued, Crinte knew he was grossly outnumbered.
The Five Warriors (The Four Worlds Series Book 1) Page 13
