“I don’t think so,” he whispered, helping Marklus close the stone door. “Hurry, let’s go.”
Alaireia led the way, running down the path opening before her light, Starman and Legone at her heels. A moment later Crinte and Marklus fled after them, but it was too late, they heard light footsteps chasing them.
“Aye!” a high voice shouted from behind, as if unaware there were transformed creatures roaming the tunnels. “Who goes there! It’s not time for the shift change yet!”
Crinte slowed, turning his golden gaze on two scrappy Sorns. Their faces were dirty and smudged while their clothes hung in tatters. Unwashed, they stood arrogantly in the middle of the path, their eyes wide from staring into darkness.
“Aye!” a Sorn called again, but he couldn’t see far enough in the darkness.
Crinte watched them calmly as he slowly backed away. The shouting Sorn slapped the other one in the chest, pointing down the road and uttering words, just out of Crinte’s earshot. Marklus moved up behind Crinte, touching his shoulder. “We should go.”
“What are they saying?” Crinte asked. “They don’t seem as concerned or fearful as I would expect.”
Marklus gestured to the two Sorns. “He asked if they are here yet. I’m not sure what he means, but it doesn’t sound like he means any of the other Sorns.”
Marklus and Crinte looked at each other for a moment, knowing they were both thinking the same thing. “We knew what we were getting into,” Marklus said at last. “This is the worst part. We are so close to the end.”
Crinte nodded, squaring his shoulders. “I have no doubt, but I have a sneaking suspicion we are still missing something. Even the Green People did not give us the answers I expected.” Crinte raised a finger. “I need to think.”
Marklus pushed Crinte ahead of him, away from the vague shapes of the two talking Sorns. As they moved to catch up with Alaireia, Starman, and Legone, they found them standing at the top of a steep, downward incline. Alaireia turned as they walked up, her eyes questioning. “Crinte, can you see what lies at the bottom?”
Crinte leaned over, his golden eyes straining. The incline was black and slick, seemingly impossible to walk down. It stretched beyond what Crinte could see, turning sharply into more blackness. “No,” he replied. “But this is the way.”
“Well.” Alaireia turned calculatingly back to the dark slide. “Together?” Without waiting for another word to be uttered she placed her hands on her shoulders, crossing them on opposite sides, and stepped off the edge. Instantly she was sucked away into the darkness, vanishing from their sight.
Starman leaned forward in surprise. “Wait, no,” he blurted out, turning questioning eyes to Crinte. “Is there no other way?”
Crinte shook his head, but Legone had already moved forward. He stepped off the edge in one elegant move, his toes pointed as he shot away.
Starman shrugged unhappily as he moved forward. He stood uncertainly on the edge, attempting to calm his quickening heartbeat. “Here goes.” With one last sigh he gave himself over and tentatively stepped onto the incline. With a whoosh the road sucked him in, forcing him flat on his back as he shot downwards. He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth as the slippery slope curved around his body. It held onto him like a giant hand, guiding him down as if he were on a sleigh. A sharp bend threw him in the air, and for a second he almost cried out when he found himself spinning effortlessly through the air. Yet the road rose before him, gathering him into the funnel of its arms. Starman opened his eyes then, and wished he hadn’t. The absence of light was thick and intense, he could almost feel inky dark fingers reaching out for him, cold and unfeeling. The aura in the air had changed from the lighthearted gloom of the upper tunnels, to the innermost chambers of fear and obscurity. Invisible fingers of horror and death stretched around him, while his mind screamed for vision. He snapped his eyes shut again, swallowing hard against the awareness. Something evil stirred in the deep and he couldn’t shake the feeling he was plunging into the very heart of it.
Alaireia felt herself hurled out of the air, free floating. She pulled herself into a ball, minimizing the impact as she rolled onto the stone floor, tumbling aimlessly as she flung out her arms, attempting to stop. The momentum left her as quickly as it had come. Alaireia untucked herself and stood up slowly. The air hung thick and musty over her, stale from sitting, un-breathed in its prison. She drew her sword, watching the golden light flicker into being, illuminating the sweeping hall she stood in. Uncarved square columns rose above her, as if the architecture had been crudely hacked into place. Open space stretched further than her light could illuminate, and she turned as Legone came flying out of space, landing a few feet away from her. He sprung to his feet, as quick as a cat and pulled an arrow into his bow, glancing around in the stream of light from Alaireia’s sword. Seconds later Starman rolled to a stop with a grunt, lying prone on the floor, catching his breath for a few seconds. “Are you okay?” Alaireia asked him. She turned in circles as her light shone brighter.
Starman rose to his knees, shaking his head. “That was terrible.” His voice faded into the mustiness as he coughed.
“Do you hear that?” Legone asked in hushed tones as Marklus joined them.
“You hear it now?” Marklus noted as he stood gingerly, brushing himself off.
Alaireia held up a hand for silence as she listened. “I hear it too,” she agreed.
Crinte landed with an audible thump, the air knocked out of him. He grimaced as he stood and joined the circle. “Where are we?” Starman asked.
Crinte looked up at the wide expansion they stood in. “Deep within the Esife Peaks. Come, let’s rest and discover these mysteries another time.”
Their footsteps were muffled as they walked forward, and now all of them could hear the sounds in the distance. Reminding them they were not alone.
VOICES OF THE NIGHT
Marklus jerked awake and sat up, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. Days they had been sneaking through the tunnels, and his eyes were becoming used to the lack of light. His tunic was stuck to his back from where he had sweated uncomfortably in now forgotten nightmares. He pricked his ears, still hearing the endless chipping of pickaxes against stone, the sound they could all hear now, surrounding them in the wide halls. As luck would have it, they found alcoves and shallow rooms to rest in when their bodies grew weary of being dragged through the night. And the restless, adventurous, determined spirits of the warriors were beginning to wane. Marklus dared not think of how much time remained, long, endless, miserable blackness with hints of panic darting through his mind. There was no telling what was around each corner. Even though Crinte hid them from groups of Sorns marching towards their shifts, they all felt the apprehension, knowing something else was watching for them in the shadows.
Marklus stood and crept to the opening of the alcove where Legone the Swift stood, still as stone, staring into nothingness. “Listen,” Marklus whispered as he joined Legone in the doorway.
“What is it?” Legone lifted his bow in preparation.
Marklus listened, the sounds drifting to him through the shadows, and he realized they were voices of the night. They spoke to each other, long, dark moans of seething anger and vengeance. A message was exchanged, one to another, and as it was passed more voices joined the howling, intensifying the moans. The hair on Marklus’ arms began to rise, standing up straight as he listened to the raw emotions thunder into his eardrums. He stepped back as if pushed aside by the storm of feelings. “It sounds like wolves,” he told Legone, almost disbelieving the words coming from his mouth. “Wolves with voices. They have been told to hunt, to seek, and kill. We should go.” He turned urgently. “Crinte!”
But Crinte was already awake and moved to wake Alaireia and Starman.
“Time for my watch?” Starman yawned and stretched as he stood.
“No,” Crinte replied. “Marklus hears wolves. We should put some distance between them and us.”
“Wolves?” Alaireia questioned in surprise. She snatched up her pack and moved to the doorway.
“Turned wolves?” Starman asked. “Is that possible?”
“Anything is possible down here,” Crinte replied, his voice sure yet questioning.
“We should run,” Marklus voice was edgy.
Crinte stepped out of the alcove and began to walk, his night vision lighting the way. “Light the torches. It is a risk we have to take. Torch light will be a sure indicator of where we are, but wolves are known to fear fire.”
Marklus hurried after Crinte, leaving Legone, Alaireia, and Starman to light the torches. “Crinte, something feels, off about all of this.”
“Yes,” Crinte agreed. “There are many mysteries we don’t understand and as we grow closer to the source they attempt to destroy us.”
Marklus grew quiet as the chilling howls erupted again. “They are coming.” His words sound finite as they floated into the darkness.
Torchlight floated eerily, wanly illuminating the faces of Legone, Alaireia, and Starman as they jogged up to Marklus and Crinte. A flame flickered wearily, showing Starman’s pale face. “I smell them.” His words were bitten away by the darkness. “They smell of blood and wrath, fear and anger.”
“Then you smell what I hear,” Marklus said grimly. “They have lost something and believe our deaths can bring it back.”
“Waste not your words,” Legone said in frustration as they jogged together. “The air is not strong here. I fear we will not be able to breathe unless we begin to ascend.”
A forced combination of stale air and rough, uncut stone, clinging to its mother, the body of the mountain, muffled their footsteps as they ran. The howling call of the gathering became muted in the distance which was even more terrifying than the dripping, furious voices themselves. Marklus pricked his ears, listening for the bounding of padded, clawed feet, scratching against the ungiving ground. He listened for the hot, heavy panting, coming hard and fast through sharp fanged teeth. Yet further sounds were drowned out as he began to hear the labored breathing of his companions.
Minutes, nay, hours later, the wide walls of the tunnels began to narrow, reaching like brothers forgiving each other after a long war. They returned to each other like lost lovers, their high arches swooping closer to the ground. Instead of a spacious drop of hundreds of feet, the tunnels closed in until the warriors could see the carved walls in the torchlight, standing only twenty feet away from each other. The air became thicker, a close denseness that forced the light from Starman’s torch to snuff out, leaving nothing but a smoking, extinguished end.
“Re-light me,” Starman called to Alaireia, who was not as far ahead as Legone. She turned, slowing her pace as she reached out her torch. The solid end clanged oddly against Starman’s, and as the two flames combined Starman saw her beautiful face, lit up for a moment. Her eyes were surprisingly bright and unclouded, yet wide open as she stared past Starman into the shadows. In one swift moment she drew her sword, pointing it at whatever apparition hung behind, reaching to snatch the precious strings of life from him.
“Starman.” Her voice sounded a mile away, even though she moved closer to him. “Draw your sword.”
A guttural, deep-throated snarl cut through the air behind Starman. He involuntarily twitched in surprise as Alaireia moved past him, her sword ready to bite. Starman spun as his fingers closed firmly around the silver hilt of his sword. It rang out as he drew it, syncing with his will, the desire to protect his friends at all costs. As he held his light up he saw it.
A catlike creature hunched on all fours, its hind legs gathered in readiness to pounce. Squinty red eyes glared out of the darkness on the face of a giant panther. Matted, black fur blended into the shadows while tufts of abused fur stood out in the light. The panther hissed angrily at the sudden light in its eyes and reached out a paw to swipe at the torches, five-inch, razor sharp claws swinging close to Alaireia’s relatively calm face. She swiped back with her sword, flashing it in front of the panther’s face and taking a step forward, showing it she was willing to take on a fight if necessary. Snarling, the panther shot forward in a blur, its mouth open far enough for Starman to clearly see its lolling, pink tongue and jagged teeth. They were not the teeth of a normal predator of the sunlit lands; each one was a different shape, misshapen, as if the creature had gnawed on something it should not have. Starman was still reeling in surprise when he felt the furry tail of the creature around his neck, wrapping around twice before Starman could bring up his sword. Dropping his torch he choked, and in a panic reached a hand up to loose himself. It was already too late. The creature threw him, hauled him towards the wall, losing its hold as soon as Starman’s body smacked into the stone and dropped to the ground, his sword clattering unhappily on the ground. Unable to catch his breath, Starman’s weak cry fell, unheard. But Alaireia’s sword was gleaming brighter and she launched himself towards the panther that was already poised, ready to pounce again. It lunged towards her without hesitation, powerful claws reaching until it was upon her, and the two went down, biting, clawing, ripping. The light from Alaireia’s sword danced bravely, fighting back against the aggressive, almost rabid creature of the night. It was anyone’s battle until the light from Alaireia’s blade disappeared, drowned out under the weight of the panther.
It was Crinte who reach Alaireia and the panther in the darkness, his night vision lighting the way for him as he drove his sword into the side of the panther and pushed it over. Seconds later Alaireia struggled out from underneath the panther, pulling her glowing sword out of its stomach. The panther shuddered once more in death and Alaireia placed her foot on its side as she wiped the murky blood from her sword. “Crinte,” she said. Her voice shook, but she quickly regained control. “They are silent in this darkness. We did not know this one was here until it was almost too late.”
Crinte turned his eyes on the path behind them. “It is too late,” he replied.
Alaireia lifted her sword, turning to see what Crinte could already see with his waking vision. Behind her a sea of blackness stretched as far as her sword could show her. Sneaking towards her and Crinte were hundreds of black panthers, their eyes red, their jagged teeth poking out from their mouths. They moved stealthily and determinedly towards the five warriors, ready to pounce at any moment.
TIME
Sarhorr crossed his arms in frustration. Time used to be on his side, yet now it seemed his enemy. The Five Warriors had succeeded in avoiding his Gims, even going so far as to kill one of them. But he had expected as much; they would not be the Five Warriors if they were not, at least, able to fight their way out of different scenarios. He knew they had, at last, entered the Slutan Tunnels, as he desired. The Tunnels, where they would be trapped, lost and disheartened, wandering in the dark. He was curious if they had run into his welcoming committee yet, and how they were faring. Fear. Terror. Those were all emotions the people groups responded to. Emotions which were foreign to himself. The fear was based on death and pain, two things which would never happen to him. His brother and sister were the only two who could, potentially, cause him fear and terror. But the fear of pain was all he would experience; life without death was what he had, and a life he would need to build for himself, now that he was free from the wishes of his siblings.
His time with the Green People danced before his endless memory. And the Tider, someone he did not expect. The Tider was different from all the other people groups and immortals. He had an uncaring, selfish attitude, and Sarhorr had assumed he could use it to his advantage. Yet, the Tider seemed to oppose him. In the last conversation they’d had, right before the banishment, the Tider had finally accused him outright, fear flickering behind his stubborn eyes, the color of a lake a midday.
“You are like me,” he’d told the Tider as he walked around him. “You have the same desires I do.”
“And what do you claim are your desires?” The Tider had been cold then, even behind his fear.<
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“To live and love forever. Aren’t those all the desires of the peoples of the world? Life without loss. Love without regret. Passion without consequence. Only I have the ability to live a life such as the one you wish, but you have something I do not. Do you want to know what it is?”
“I’m listening.” The Tider’s words were clipped and hard.
“You have your people. The four people groups of The Four Worlds. You know them, and among them there is the desire for power, conquest, life, love, and passion. As one of them, you know this. But your time is short, riddled with death. Your minds are not equipped to live longer than a hundred years, your bodies fail and fade into the ground. You do not have time to fulfill your dreams of life. Time is what I have. Time is what I can give you, if you will do something for me.” Sarhorr paused to look at the Tider. Behind his blue eyes a window of curiosity was open. His mind had been pricked. Sarhorr almost laughed with how easy it was. People groups were expendable. If he could not find one person willing to do his bidding, he could find another. Yet his similarities with this Tider made it devilishly fun. He wrapped his fingers around each other, clasping and unclasping them in glee. “I need power, beyond what you have. Beyond what I have taken. And you can find it for me.”
The confession of knowledge had come then. He could hear the anxiety behind the words that were spoken. The Tider was fighting with his mind, knowing attempts to flee would be futile. “You are a Changer, an all-powerful being. What could you possibly want that I have?”
Sarhorr laughed then, feeling the mirth bubble out of his body at the absurd question. “Find the Clyear of Power and bring it to me. I, in return, shall make you immortal, and spare the Green People from my poisonous death. The other people groups, well, they will not be as lucky.”
“The Clyear of Power has been lost for decades; such a search is impossible.”
Sarhorr shook his head like a disappointed teacher. “Excuses are for mortals. You shall have decades because you shall be immortal. Bring me the Clyear, and all other powerful beings you find along your journey. Do so, because you do not want me to do it my way; it will destroy your world.”
The Five Warriors (The Four Worlds Series Book 1) Page 28
