The Five Warriors (The Four Worlds Series Book 1)

by Ford, Angela J.

  Marklus held out a hand, hushing Crinte as he listened. “There is an exit somewhere near here. I hear the air from outside filtering through.”

  “That could only mean one thing.” Crinte hustled forward again. “More creatures are coming.”

  But before they could walk much further, ten bowlegged Sorns marched past the five with pickaxes slung over their emaciated shoulders. Their clothing hung in tattered rags, but they did not seem to notice as they weaved their way onto the spiraling road leading downwards.

  “Aye!” one shouted to his comrades. “Need help down here?”

  “Aye,” another voice replied. “My passage goes all the way to Mizine. I need all the help I can get.”

  “Mine goes both ways,” a whining voice called out. “It hooks up with the main passage to the Great Water Hole and it connects to the main passage to Mizine.”

  “Why are you here?” a voice spat out rudely. “If you’ve run out of work you can begin your journey to the Great Water Hole, no need to put the rest of us out of work too.”

  “Nay,” a flicker of doubt crept into the voice of a fourth Sorn. “Stay and work with us, don’t become one of those ugly, transformed mutts.”

  A scattering of hissing laughter bounced through the bowels of the mountain. Crinte turned to his warriors and motioned for them to follow him as he moved to hide behind another column.

  “Have you heard the news?” a Sorn called out. “The hunt has begun.”

  “What hunt?” an ignorant Sorn chimed in.

  “The hunt for the Five Warriors of course!” a Sorn replied, indignant. “Don’t you know, they are coming to stop the Ruler. Remember Devine? That was his mission.”

  “They are here in the Tunnels?” a voice trembled out in both admiration and fear.

  “Aye, maybe they were the ones who disrupted my sleep a few days ago,” another added.

  The clamor of voices began to rise as the Sorns talked excited.

  “Wait, what’s the hunt for?”

  “I heard the warriors breathe fire when they fight.”

  “Are the Gims coming for them?”

  “I heard they have a light which can blast your body to pieces.”

  “Is that why the hunters of the deep awoke?”

  “I heard the ground quakes when they walk.”

  “Didn’t you hear that earthquake? That was them!”

  “I heard they leave no survivors, they look at you and your head falls off.”

  “They won’t survive the crossroads though, or the broken bridge.”

  “I heard their arrows are filled with poison; one touch and you fall to your death.”

  “But they are walking towards the trap, right?”

  “How are we supposed to work if they could be right above us, destroying our work even as we dig?”

  “I heard there is one who splits himself into five when he fights.”

  “I heard the immortals cursed them.”

  “Enough!” a voice roared, higher and louder than any of them. A whip cracked in the deep, silencing the voices. “No talking, back to work!”

  A painful wail was silenced as the whip cracked again and the Sorns grew quiet. The sound of the whip continued but the sounds of digging soon drowned it out.

  Crinte peeked out from behind a column and turned to face Marklus, Starman, Legone, and Alaireia. “The hunt has begun and this is only the beginning. But I have faith in each of you to overcome all odds. It’s time to run and whatever you do, do not look back.”

  THE CROSSROADS

  Time drifted slowly in the unending tunnels, stretching into days, if there were days. The five continued to travel at intervals, stopping to rest for a few hours in wide halls before pushing onward. The uncanny feeling they were being followed turned into very real, eerie sounds; heavy boots marching in the deep, and wailing voices answering the crack of stinging, bloodied whips. Anticipation hung heavy on their minds, like an animal caught in a trap, waiting to be devoured. Finally, fourteen days after they had first entered the Slutan Tunnels, they reached a crossroads. Three lit torches were mounted on the wall between the two tunnels, one leading south, the other pointing north. Crinte paused as he led his warriors forward, drawing his sword as they walked out into the open, heading towards the northern tunnel.

  “Crinte, according to your vision both paths will ultimately lead us to the same destination?” Alaireia asked.

  “Yes,” Crinte confirmed. “Although the southern route will take longer. We should choose the route with the least potential of meeting the transformed creatures, but my mind’s eye tells me nothing. Marklus, your ears?”

  “The northern route,” Legone interrupted as Marklus stepped forward, turning his head to listen to the tales each tunnel told. “Speed should be our aim.”

  “Wait.” Marklus held up a hand, shushing Legone. “I hear heavy breathing on both the southern and northern routes.”

  “I can scout ahead,” Alaireia offered, glancing at Crinte.

  “No,” he said quickly. “Our separation is exactly what they would want. To the north!” He moved forward with Marklus and Starman at his heels.

  Alaireia froze as the torches flickered, disturbed by a breeze. As her eyes adjusted she realized she was not staring at torches but rather pitchforks materializing out of the shadows. Hot tongues of flames leaped around them, panting for more to burn. Black hands held them as not one but two hooded figures took form. One turned towards Starman, Marklus and Crinte, the other to Alaireia and Legone, effectively blocking them from each other.

  Crinte turned quickly, pushing Starman and Marklus behind him to shield them from the force of the Gims’ attack. The Gims moved between the north and south paths and in one motion dropped their pitchforks. They thudded to the ground with a snap and flames shot into the air between the two tunnels as the Gims reached for their wide blades.

  Alaireia blinked, her eyes darting to catch Starman’s. He looked back at her, wide eyed in frustration as the Gims stood between them. Even as her hands automatically reached for her sword, flashbacks of her attack on the Gim in the prairie overcame her memory. Before she could react she heard the sounds of marching as a stream of Gaslinks flowed into the crossroads. There were hundreds of them, widening the gap between the five warriors, swords drawn, ready to take them down. “Run!” Alaireia vaguely heard Crinte’s voice among the flames and smoke that shot into the air, turning into a thick fog that hid them from each other. A moment later she felt her body hurled roughly against the stone wall and Legone slammed into her back. His mouth was close to her ear as he whispered softly, “Lightfoot, I need a Boleck. An empty one. And I think you may be the only one who can retrieve one for me.”

  She pushed him away in anger, coughing slightly as the fog turned into smoke, filling her nostrils. “You tell me this now?” she questioned him skeptically.

  He grabbed her arm instead, pulling her towards the southern route. “I need to trap a spirit,” he replied cryptically as Gaslinks rushed towards them.

  Alaireia tried to look at him, but the smoke was thickening and she couldn’t see his face. His words whispered around her ears and she thought she saw a flash of blue as he dragged an arrow into his bow. “I need it by the time we reach the Great Water Hole. Don’t fail us, Lightfoot.”

  She reached for her sword as his whispered words drifted away like an afterthought, as if he was also speaking to someone invisible. Before she could reply a battle-axe whirled towards her shoulder, emerging out of the smoke like a taunting arm. Lifting her glowing sword she swung, her blade slamming into it with a shrieking clang. She knocked it away and moved forward, but her shining blade gave her a glimpse into hundreds of war-ready Gaslinks. They ran towards her, hands outstretched. In a split second Alaireia weighed her options. The others were lost in the smoke and while she could use the Clyear to clear the way, two Gims stood at the crossroads, and she wasn’t sure she had the strength to fight both of them. Realizing the difficult posit
ion she had been placed in, Alaireia sheathed her sword, turned and ran down the southern route into the darkness. Cold fingers of smoke reached for her, sliding through her hair, touching bare skin. She could almost hear icy words whispering through undead lips, “Run, run, and don’t come back.”

  Already the panic was mounting in her head. She knew what was happening. The intentional separation of the five warriors allowing them to be hunted down, one by one. Drawn in the arms of the beast, playing into the hands of the Ruler. She swallowed hard in the blinding darkness, she would find them, she would meet them again when the roads met back up. They were invincible. They would survive.

  But Alaireia was alone as she ran into the blinding smoke, as were the other warriors, stumbling, twisting, turning and losing themselves as they disappeared, alone, into the labyrinth of the Slutan Tunnels.

  CRINTE THE WISE

  Days later Crinte paused in the bleakness pressing around him. Ahead of him endless tunnels stretched onward, winding deeper into the mountainside. Each step forward began the descent and although his head told him he was on the right path, his gut told him downhill was not what he wanted. An escape, a way to find sunlit lands again was what he desired. Mentally he could feel the darkness growing on him, threatening to break his sanity. He wanted, nay, he needed to feel the warmth of the sunlight again and taste the breeze ruffling his long blond hairs. Again his thoughts flitted back to Legone’s accusation: “What have you possibly lost in all of this? You, our leader, who cannot relate to anything we have been through? What makes so you keen to save the world?” Those words had hit home but all the same, he had his reasoning for keeping quiet, for not explaining why he felt the desperation to save the Western World. The hollow memory of searing pain ripping his chest caused him to shudder, but even more so the deep memories he held close. The day Marklus had healed him in Zikeland, he had wanted to let the poison seep through his skin and take him to the other side.

  Thirty years ago he was born in Norc, a country deep in the west of Mizine, close to the coast. His mother and father were young and wild, loyal to no one and no country. Until he was five he recalled living in the woods, sometimes in a cave, other times in a hollow tree where the lightning bugs entered at night and graced the darkness with a magical light show. His father had no trade, so each day the three of them would leave to hunt and explore. Some days they would not return to their makeshift home and would build camps where they stood. But one year when the winter came, and the cold frost near Oceanic became too much, his father decided it was time to push on. His mother braided her long light hair and carried a basket full of supplies upon her back. When Crinte became too tired to walk, his father carried him on his broad shoulders, allowing him to use his slingshot to shoot at the birds they passed. Thus Crinte entered Cromomany and encountered the diverse people groups for the first time.

  They traveled to the intimidating city full of tall males with great weapons, traders with unique treasures, and scholars with large books tucked under their arms. Crinte began to understand the way of the world and he longed for the freedom of the woods, running and laughing with exhaustion from sunrise to sunset. His father grew distant, enthralled in books and the wonders of the world, and his mother grew quiet, no longer wild but calm. Instead of taking Crinte’s small hands and dragging him outside she would sit quietly by the fire, combing out her long hair and telling him stories of old. Confused at the change, he took to sneaking out and playing with the other children in the streets, causing dissension and disruption, upsetting his mother until his father decided to teach him how to ride. Young as he was he understood the powerful beasts champing at the bit, aching to be let free to run. He learned to gain their trust, to command them to walk and run, and when at last he thought he had found his place in the land, his father grew restless and moved them again.

  At ten years old Crinte was furious when he found himself perched in an unending prairie in a sea of green stalks. His father had bragged on the great purchase he had made, a house at the edge of Zikeland. Crinte could not understand why his father could not see that every move away from Norc took more life from his mother; she grew thin and pale, listlessly watering the flowers that grew outside their door. Obsessed with knowledge, his father studied and explored the land around them, welcoming his wife and son to come with him, but they refused. Crinte still remembered that warm day; it had smelled like fresh cut grass as he walked through the prairie, frustrated with his new home and afraid he was going to lose his mother. He had crawled his way through a tunnel in the grass, mildly curious as to where it led. When he found himself gasping for breath on the ground, the searing pain paralyzing his body, he thought it might not be so bad to discover what was on the other side of death. It wasn’t until the curly-headed boy with the blue aura touched him that he felt the beauty of life return. The air was fresh as he breathed it in, deep and pure. He felt as if he had been reborn. With his second chance he knew what he would do with the rest of his life.

  When the Zikes stood, bowing before Marklus, he realized what his father saw in his studies—the power of knowledge. From that day forward his vision was improved and he found Marklus had transferred a gift to him when he had healed him. He began to study with his father, finding a love for the pursuit of wisdom, and he took his mother hunting until she began to sing like a young wild bird again. He spent long days with Marklus until at last the land faded under the sway of the Zikes and again he found his life turned upside down. He continued east with his parents until his mother refused to travel again. She went back to Norc while Crinte and his father pushed on, exploring the deep and dark secrets of the Western World.

  Crinte understood what it was all people groups sought and he understood his purpose at last, to ensure the freedom of the Western World. With his unsettled childhood he knew they all were searching for some security to hold on to, a place to call home. Indeed he could only call the Western World his home, a land he loved and would fight for. He had seen the doorway to death before and knew the risk he took. After all it would be much safer to stay in the south and wait for the war to arrive at their doorstep. But Crinte could feel the momentum growing with each step he took, downwards into the darkness. He did not live for safety or love or power or peace. He lived for the risk, for the pursuit of purpose and the knowledge that he had done something honorable for the Western World with his second chance. He raised his head, and in that comfort he knew the others had to be alive. They were moving forward although he could not see them. He turned a corner and his path ended in a sharp drop off, and a vast bridge spread out before him.

  THE BROKEN BRIDGE

  High archways soared skyward, opening up the narrow halls to a wide expanse. All roads led there, their entrances set high and low, far and wide from each other. Light glinted off the red-brown archways, betraying a glimmer of gold within, gifting the hope of discoverable jewels hidden far below. The path cut off sharply into a crater within the tunnel. Downward there was naught but unending darkness, the path to the underworld should one seek to sink, never to rise again.

  Legone stood nervously in an archway looking ahead of him. Pulleys and strings hung over the pit, a complex system meant to usher one across to the other side. He could see where his path continued a hundred or more feet on the other side. There was only one route then, a wide path scurrying onward and away into the darkness. If he were to run and leap the darkness would suck him in, pulling him down below. Yet he hesitated, waiting, listening for signs of life, the telltale chipping of hammers, the marching of Gaslinks, or the hiss of a fiery pitchfork. Nothing discouraged his path forward. Nothing told him to continue to stand still, so he walked forward, one foot stealthily in front of the other, ready for combat, expecting a surprise.

  When he had lost the others he thought he would be alarmed. After all he was beginning to think of them like his family. They accepted him for who he was, cold and lonely, desperate and heartbroken. They listened to his opinions and
offered their advice; they admired his speed and fighting technique without jealousy. Most importantly, they had entered the realm of the Green People and had passed through unhindered without blame or judgment. Paleidir’s words had been a confirmation as she whispered to him when all the land was sound asleep. “Their hearts are pure, perhaps touched by betrayal but not enough to turn them. A sense of purpose surrounds your company. I see why you have returned, if only for retribution.” She peered into his soul and found nothing lacking, and with every touch power shifted through the atmosphere.

  Shadows moved as he walked towards the pit. Stretching over it he saw a bridge, flimsy and railless with broken bits of wood between. Briefly he considered whether it would hold his weight, but since there was no other choice he continued forward. Side stepping loose rock close to the bridge he tentatively placed a foot on a thick piece of wood. The bridge swayed slightly, accommodating itself to his presence, but otherwise held. Barely daring to breathe, he placed his other foot much like a dancer and nimbly moved over the bridge. He was almost halfway when he smelled it. A rotten stench like a long dead animal, unburied, pecked over, filled the air. His pace quickened as he smelled it, knowing it was ahead but turning back was no option at all. Keeping his movements fluid he reached for an arrow just in time to hear the thundering. The clattering of hooves striking wood filled the air and tumbling across the bridge towards him was a two headed boar. It stood three feet high and was covered with long, coarse, reddish brown hairs. Its back was shiny with a kind of fluid it seemed to secrete which had to be the cause of the terrible smell. Both heads had two ivory carved tusks, gleaming clearly in the darkness. What troubled Legone most were the size of its square teeth sticking out from its mouth. As it ran towards him pieces of wood floated off the bridge and it opened its mouth, chopping vigorously at the air in its excitement to eat him. Wasting no time Legone lifted his bow and let an arrow fly, confident in his aim. The beast lowered its head as the arrow flew towards it and in one motion shook its tusks, flinging the arrow out into space. Legone swallowed hard, there was no time to attempt another arrow. He flung his bow onto his back and ripped out his dagger, crouching, ready to take on the foul creature. It hurtled over the bridge, teeth chomping, determined to trample Legone to his death. At the moment of impact Legone lunged, leaping up over its head, attempting to reach the other side. The boar leaped as well, one of its heads striking Legone's airborne leg. It swung its head violently, knocking him to the left. Arms swinging wildly, attempting to catch hold of something, Legone managed to throw a dagger before the arms of the darkness reached out and swallowed him.