Eliesmore and the Jeweled Sword

by Angela J. Ford

  A volley of disapproval rushed through Zhane’s mind, but he kept his mouth closed. One trait he’d learned from Idrithar was knowing when to speak and when to keep silent.

  “If I fight with you, will you honor my request?”

  “If you prove yourself,” the male determined.

  “He mentioned Stronghold,” Halbrin stepped forward. “He wants to help us reclaim Stronghold.”

  The male frowned. “That is a bold thought, and impossible.”

  “If I may,” Zhane reached behind his back. “I carry something which may sway your opinion.”

  The male gestured toward Zhane. “Proceed,” he snarled, his face darkening with doubt.

  Zhane gripped the blade of Crinte the Wise and pulled it free. He held it up high with one hand, letting the oracles dance in the bright lights of the mountains. A collected hush swept over the Therian as they stared.

  “Through my travels, I have been blessed to receive this gift, the sword of Crinte the Wise, one of the Five Warriors. Its legendary power still holds sway over all enemies I have battled since the Green Light appeared in the sky. I did not come to take control or rule, but if we are to take back Stronghold, we can do so with this sword.”

  The hardened expressions of the Therian did not change, although some glanced to the sky, nodding as they acknowledged the Green Light. Whispered words were uttered. It’s a sign. The fortune is with us. Perhaps we win. We should take back what is ours. The Therian will rise as mighty warriors.

  Noting the positive aura, Zhane pushed forward. “If I may suggest, perhaps instead attacking the Tribe of Minas, as a punishment, we should have them fight with us. They are warriors, nay? If they help us reclaim Stronghold, you can decide what to do with them later, but a strong force will be necessary.”

  The male held up a hand for Zhane to stop speaking and turned his back, addressing the Therian. “Now comes time for the vote! Those who would fight with this stranger, this outcast, one who forsook the ways of our people and brought shame to the clan of Therian, raise your weapons. Those who would deny his return, slay him, and slay the tribes of the lower lands, shift now and get ready to march to battle!”

  Zhane took a deep breath as the Therian opened their mouths and roared around him, casting their votes one by one.

  68

  Eliesmore

  “Do you see that?” Eliesmore pointed, planting his legs to keep his balance as the ship rocked back and forth in the choppy waves. Thus far the White Steeds enjoyed a fair journey through Oceantic, heading north once they reached the outlet where the Jaded Sea flowed into Oceantic. It was a voyage none of them had taken before, and it took the constant back and forth from the Xctas, Mermis and the Silver Herd to keep them on track. Eliesmore slept little and the relentless rocking of the ship made him antsy. He was frustrated with the slow speed of their voyage, and it was becoming more difficult to stop seeing red. He knew he was quiet, moody, and tended to lash out in anger. Each day the pulse of darkness grew within him, and he dreamed of his hands around the neck of the Dark Figure, choking the life out of her.

  Idrithar joined Eliesmore. “Describe it.”

  “A mass of darkness moves toward us,” Eliesmore explained, he often forgot his vision was better than others. “It might be one creature or perhaps a great many winged creatures, it’s too far away to tell, all the same, it is coming our way.”

  Idrithar stroked his beard. He’d wanted to pause their voyage and travel to Shimla to ask the Iaen for a word of Zhane, who’d disappeared back in January, after the first council meeting. Eliesmore encouraged him to send the Mermis instead, they had winged beasts and could travel to and fro much faster. Idrithar was disappointed, but he relented, knowing it was more imperative to defeat the Dark Figure rather than discover where Zhane went. The Mermis returned with no word, the forests of Shimla were silent and unwilling to let outsiders into its hidden paths. Now, mid-March, the White Steeds were nearing the shores of the west and early attacks were to be expected.

  “All hands on deck,” Idrithar shouted. “Archers at the ready!”

  The ship burst into a flurry. Someone called out to the Xctas that circled above them, passing the message from one ship to the other. The ships drifted quite a distance from each other, and in the morning fog, it was impossible to see the four massive vessels sailing through the enchanted waters toward the western shores.

  Eliesmore touched the hilt of the Jeweled Sword as bodies dashed around him. The Crons and Tiders wore silver armor and carried a green flag with a white horse rearing as their insignia. The Mermis gave each person a shield with the same symbol, and in addition to swords, each warrior carried a bow and a quiver of arrows. Their journey through Oceantic had been lax, aside from Idrithar demanding them to practice every single day of their journey.

  Eliesmore leaned over the railing, letting the wind blow back his unruly black hair, his jaw set in a grim line. The army was pathetic. They were not born fighters. They were not warriors, all they had were hearts, sore wounds and the ability to hold a weapon. Even as the nasty thoughts filtered through his mind, he recalled when he was much younger and had to learn how to fight. What a disappointment he must have been to the Green Company. They wanted a strong leader, a warrior, and they got a frightened child. Now, the roles were reversed, he looked down his nose at his army and doubt filled his mind. They would not stand a chance against the Rakhai and the Dark Figure. There was nothing left other than to seek revenge or die trying.

  The black cloud drifted forward as the archers lined up on the deck. Lifting their bows they fitted an arrow in them, attempting to hold steady against the rocking of the ship. “Take aim!” Idrithar shouted.

  Yamier strode in front of the archers, holding the bow of Marklus the Healer. He lifted a blue tipped arrow, stuck his tongue out and squinted. Optimistic strode among the archers, stopping to plant a hand on a shoulder or adjust a position. Eliesmore imagined Optimistic was sharing words of encouragement before the creatures were upon them.

  “They are diving,” Eliesmore called, drawing his sword.

  The black cloud swooped toward them, like a great Xctas three times the size of their ship. As the creatures dived, a motion attracted Eliesmore’s attention. His eyes were pulled downward as a ripple passed underneath them, a dark mass in the waters.

  Eliesmore calculated quickly, his eyes tearing back up to the skies and down to the waters below. What could be in the sea? He leaned over the railing to get a better look and caught a glimpse of tentacles. He leaped backward as Wekin strode up. “Aye, what are you doing? The battle is above, not below in the sea!” Wekin jested. Two Crons followed him. One was Bruthen and another blond-headed Cron who Eliesmore had briefly met in the fortress.

  “Wekin,” Eliesmore glanced at his energetic friend. “Bruthen and…”

  “Wyndler,” the blond Cron added. His voice was soft, and his white hair was almost pasted to his head.

  Eliesmore gave him a quick nod. “Stay with me, we need to go below, there’s something under the sea, stalking us.”

  “A monster,” Wekin announced, eyes glowing. He nodded knowingly at Bruthen and Wyndler.

  “An air attack and a sea attack,” Bruthen shook his head. “Dark forces are at work.”

  “Bruthen,” Eliesmore faced him. “You helped build this ship?”

  “Aye, Skip and I oversaw the building of the ships,” Bruthen smiled, a fire of passion crossing over his rather jolly face.

  Wekin laughed as he nudged him, “As much as you could with the eating and drinking.”

  “Hold steady!” Idrithar’s voice called as the dark cloud drew nearer. “On my command, you will release those arrows!”

  Shouts crossed the deck, and Eliesmore raised his voice to be heard. “Down on the second level, is there a way to exit the ship? Think, Bruthen, this is important!”

  “Aye, follow me,” Bruthen took off toward the stairs that led to the hold.

  They dashed down
the narrow stairs, feet slipping in the muck as they moved into dimmer light. Candles lit the floor and Bruthen led the way, dashing toward the streams of light coming from above. “We boarded up the windows to keep the water splashing in,” he explained. “We need to open them but be warned, if the waves are high we’ll need to bail out water.”

  “Just hurry,” Eliesmore waved, pausing as the ship lurched.

  A groan rang out across the vessel as it shuddered, the wood stretching as the ship divided, throwing the Crons forward onto the floor. Muffled shouts came from above as feet pounded the deck and the screech of a thousand birds screaming a high-pitched, eerie sound filled the air.

  Wyndler was the first to stand, eyes wide as he looked up. “What was that?” his voice shook.

  Wekin grinned, his eyes sparkling with an odd glow. “It's time to fight,” he whispered, shaking dust off his clothes and weaving through the barrels of food and drink. Cases of weapons and supplies for their voyage were stored on one side of the hold. Other ships carried the white horses who, although reluctant to take to the waters, had agreed to fight with the White Steeds, and thus, had been talked into the stables. The green and red Zikes disappeared, although when Eliesmore reached out with his mind, he heard them scurrying around the bottom of the ships. Lythe had a high disregard for the sea and spent most of the time either sleeping or trotting behind Eliesmore.

  The screaming grew louder, and shouts filtered to their ears.

  “Fire!”

  “Archers reload!”

  “Soldiers, draw your swords!”

  The rest of the conversation was lost as Eliesmore reached out to steady himself on a support beam. “Bruthen, the windows, we need to open them. I need to be on the outside of the ship.”

  “Why so low down?” Wyndler asked.

  Eliesmore ignored him as Bruthen raced across the ship, tripping over his own feet as he came to a window. “There are five on either side, unlatch them and pull. We made them wide in case we need to escape.”

  “Good thinking,” Eliesmore dashed to a window. “We each take a window and whatever comes at us, we need to kill it. I don’t know much about sea monsters, but even one could take one of our ships down, and I don’t intend to lose anyone before we reach the western shore.”

  “Eliesmore,” Wekin yanked the window up and peered out. “So vicious, what if the monster just wants to be friends?” He laughed and pulled his body up to crouch in the three and a half foot tall opening. “There’s not much room for fighting here,” he called over his shoulder.

  “It wasn’t meant for fighting,” Bruthen pulled a curved knife from his belt. His shaved head had grown over the last few months, and his face had rounded out, giving him a pleasant, jolly sort of look. His brown eyes tended to twinkle for nightmares of the past seemed all but forgotten, leaving him with nothing but determination. And with the fine meals served at the fortress, he was turning into a bit of a stout Cron.

  Wyndler’s lower lip trembled, and he pulled out a weapon which appeared like a cross between a blade and an ax. “What is out there?” he whispered, more like an afterthought than a question.

  A second later, a brown tentacle shot into the window, knocking Wekin down before curling around his neck. Suction cups moved over his body, pulling him toward the window, intending to drag him into a watery gravy.

  Wyndler screamed.

  “Chop it off, chop it off!” Bruthen shouted.

  Eliesmore spun to help, but he was already too late. Wekin lifted his sword and cut through the tentacle in one swooping motion. The pressure around his neck released, and he jumped to his feet, his clothing covered with brown stains as he moved toward his vacated window. “Phew, the beast stinks! I think some of it got into my mouth.” He bent over, spitting as he eyed the twisting pieces of tentacle in disdain.

  “It’s coming back, ready?” Eliesmore shouted.

  The ship lurched again as the beast struck it, smashing into the side with such force, all four Crons were knocked from their perches. Eliesmore struggled to gain his footing as he slid across the floor. Candles dropped their light into darkness as he gained the window and swung the Jeweled Sword, slicing through a moist substance that squelched and squealed into his ears. A putrid odor filled the air, like a net of fish left out on the shore to bake in the sunlight.

  Wyndler gagged as he swung his blade and Bruthen hollered, laying blows all about him. Wekin leaped out of the window with his sword in hand as he shouted. “Wekin, come back,” Eliesmore yelled.

  A tentacle wrapped around his waist and pulled. Using two hands, he brought down the Jeweled Sword hard. Black blood spurted up from the creature and another squeal rent the air. The tentacles hesitated and began to withdraw.

  Unwilling to let the beast that threatened their passage escape, Eliesmore followed it, leaning out the window. His fingers closed in on a knob of wood, a foothold left over from construction. A wave slammed over his head. Eliesmore coughed up water and wiped at his streaming eyes with his wet sleeve, squinting to catch sight of Wekin.

  As he watched, the beast rose in front of him, dwarfing the ship with the mere enormity of it. A round face with liquid black eyes gazed at Eliesmore. A mass of tentacles waved around it like arms, reaching for the ship, pulling it closer. It opened a gaping mouth, layered with rows of knife-like teeth and roared.

  The sound was defeating, but the smell of rot and decay was much worse. Eliesmore’s eyes watered, and he leaned over, retching up liquids as he wondered whether a bolt of fire would kill the creature. He hadn’t used the power of the Green Stone since Daygone, and he was loath to awake the power resting inside him for it seemed unstable.

  A gold gleam caught his eyes, and he noticed what he’d failed to see before. Wekin stood on top of the creature’s head, his eyes blazing as he lifted his sword and drove it into the creature’s skull. The creature spun, screaming in fury as its tentacles rose to its head, determined to bring down the intruder. Wekin danced across its head, sheathed his sword and dived toward the waves. White shafted arrows flew past Wekin’s falling body and sunk into the body of the creature as it sank, sending a wall of water toward the ship.

  Eliesmore stared after the vortex where it disappeared, his mouth open as he looked for Wekin. When he turned back toward the hold, he saw Bruthen and Wyndler, white-faced in shock. Bruthen pointed. “Wow,” he whispered. “Wekin the Warrior.”

  “On deck!” Eliesmore shouted at them. He jumped off the window and turned toward the stairs. “We have to make sure Wekin gets back on this ship.”

  They stood frozen as Eliesmore dashed to the deck which was covered in black features. Blood and arrows were everywhere, and the White Steeds stood stunned. Eliesmore breathed with relief as he saw Wekin being hauled back on board, dripping wet.

  “Eliesmore,” Optimistic called, beckoning to him. Concern swept over his usually calm face.

  Eliesmore swallowed hard and hastened toward the group of Crons. Slime covered warriors moved out of his way, nodding with solemn faces. When Eliesmore reached the circle of Crons, he almost drew back at the object huddled on the ship floor. It was winged and covered in clumps of dried blood and filth. Arms and legs curled around it, but when the creature lifted its head, jeweled eyes met Eliesmore’s. Eliesmore stepped back, taking a deep breath. “Visra?”

  69

  Eliesmore

  “Visra?” Eliesmore repeated, searching for the gleam of mischief that usually hid in her round eyes.

  She met his gaze, blinking her lids like a lizard before her eyes slid away and she coughed. A clump of blood rolled out of her mouth, and she spit, barely missing her bare feet. A mixture of blood, guts, dirt and other extremes covered her body. It took a moment before Eliesmore realized she was naked. She hunched over, rocking back and forth as her eyes grew cloudy. Sea foam sprayed around them as she spoke. “I tried to stop them.” Her voice came out wooden. “There were so many of them. Like rivers that flow and one cannot tell where the s
ource is… where do the endless waters come from? Where do the endless woísts come from? I tried. They come. Marching with drums. Why the drums drums drums? They have everything. We have nothing. We never should have tried. Why did we ever try? We should have followed the warning.” She lifted a hand, turning it back and forth as she stared at it as if she’d never seen it before. “Run,” she whispered. “Run. As fast as you can. Never stop.”

  Eliesmore stepped back as if she’d plunged a sharp shard of glass into his knee. He reached out, gripping Optimistic’s shoulder, opening his mouth to speak, yet words falling flat.

  A Cron jogged up to them and thrust a blanket toward Optimistic, eyes bulging as he gaped at the bloody horror. Optimistic dropped to his knees and wrapped the blanket around Visra.

  “How long have you been out here?” Eliesmore found his tongue.

  “Too long,” Visra shivered. “After Shimla. After the Truth Tellers. After the parting. I come here. I wanted to kill. I wanted to fight. But we should run…”

  “Visra?” Optimistic waved away the onlookers. “Give her space. She needs a moment, she’s not in her right mind.”

  Visra gave a harsh laugh. “This is the first time I’ve been in my right mind.” She glared at the Crons in turn, her eyes shining with an odd halo as she met Eliesmore’s eyes. Her lips curled. “Run.”

  Optimistic lifted her in his arms, an apologetic look on his face. “Eliesmore, come with me. Let’s clean her up.” He twisted his head around. “Where’s Idrithar?”

  Eliesmore surveyed the ship, it listed in the water, the deck covered with features and blood, while particles of the sea monster remained. Wekin coughed, limping forward. His eyes grew wide as he stared at Eliesmore, Optimistic, and a bloody Visra. Yamier stood with Skip, their bows pointing downwards. Eliesmore felt their horror as they stared in befuddlement. They were waiting for someone to give them orders. They weren’t used to taking initiative. They’d been trained to follow, trained to obey, trained to wait for orders.