Marklus, a displaced warrior from the countries of Mizine in the south, had been invited to join a reckless band of rebels building a secret army. Motivated by the passion of his fearless leader—who also happened to be his best friend—Marklus made it his task to travel north for covert information on the enemy’s plans. Unfortunately, his mission had gone awry, but the worst part of being trapped in prison was the knowledge that no one would come to his rescue. Since the band of rebels was not under official authorization by the various Rulers of the land, the repercussions for joining or further assisting the secret army were steep. The Western World was full of strife. The powers on both sides of the Dejewla Sea that separated the north and south were locked in a fierce struggle to rule the fate of the inhabitants of the Western World. The rebels of Mizine had grown suspicious when peculiar warriors began raiding their lands. Shouldering responsibility for the fate of the Western World, they took it upon themselves to discover what plans the north had for the south, and how to put an end to their reign of terror.
Now the year-old words from the parchment were naught but faded memory. Marklus remembered the nervous excitement of having a secret mission with his childhood friend. Their paths had gone separate ways after the disaster that struck Zikeland, Marklus’ homeland. But it was the quest that brought them back together, reminding them how much stronger they were as a team.
Marklus sighed in frustration as he recalled the plans they’d made to sneak north into Slutan and travel to the enemy’s base, an abyss called the Great Water Hole. In the far northwest corner, in a place long thought to have been abandoned, the still waters were rumored to move again. Legend told of the beauty of the Great Water Hole, a mysterious canyon with trails and springs leading to the source of its secrets if one were persistent enough. It was alleged that eventually the trail of water flowed into Oceantic on a current that led directly to the South World. Although those theories were as yet untested, there was something ominous about the enemy setting up base in the forsaken canyon.
The blackness of the merciless prison shifted as Marklus restlessly moved to the other side of his six-foot-long cell. Most days, if there were days anymore, a heavy-footed guard, annoyed with his mundane task, would deliver the daily rations, rudely slung under the bars. The door had not been opened since that day he had been thrown in, and as the hours shifted, his meal was delivered and he was forgotten again. If only he had listened to Crinte, who’d assured him he already had a scout willing to cross the sea. But the information Marklus sought was too valuable to leave to just anyone. He recalled that day vividly.
Crinte was absolutely sure of himself. He marched around the room, gesturing passionately and arguing forcefully with Ackhor. Marklus, sitting across the table from Ackhor, couldn’t help but smirk privately to himself each time the
two fought. Crinte and Marklus has been long-time childhood friends, but when it came time to choose who would lead the camp of rebel warriors, Crinte had chosen Ackhor, a friend he had met when traveling the Western World with his father. It was true that Ackhor had much more strategic fighting experience. He had led expeditions to hunt mystical creatures in the Algrema Forests, coordinated peace treaties between the smaller countries of Mizine, and led troops to calm civil uprisings. However, Crinte and Marklus actually had a better mindset for working together.
“I’m telling you,” Crinte announced incessantly, “there is more going on here than meets the eye. These raids, they are almost like distractions to keep our armies busy, keep them from seeing the truth.”
“How many times do I have to tell you,” interrupted Ackhor, as if he were trying to appease a child. “They are sending scouts over to test our strength. It’s standard military strategy.”
“That’s what I’m saying!” Crinte insisted. “They come, they raid, they leave. There is no burning and pillaging. They aren’t trying to destroy our resources, they are trying to keep us blind! There is more going on than meets the eye, Ackhor.”
“Crinte.” Ackhor’s voice grew stern. “You have no proof, and I cannot authorize you to take a group of spies across the sea to discover what mysteries our enemy is hiding. That is suicide, and you only have a thought. What if you’re wrong? We need our best warriors here, on the front lines, defending our lands.”
Best warriors—Ackhor had chosen his words well. What he actually referred to were the fighting elite, not only warriors who were exceptionally skilled in fighting, but also controlled an element of power. As far as Marklus knew, there were only two—and he was one of them. That knowledge made his cage seem all the smaller, and his folly lay heavy on his mind.
A footfall hesitantly landed on the prison floor and Marklus’ ears pricked up, his thin body rigid as the footsteps grew nearer. This was no ordinary prison guard. Normally, their footfalls were heavy and loud, laden down with the emasculating tasking of feeding the prisoners. These footsteps were barely perceptible and paused every few seconds. Marklus stood in his cell, forcing his eyes to look into the dim light, his heart thumping as he waited with bated breath. It was mere minutes before a shadow drifted close. Marklus could barely perceive two hands gripping the bars that separated them.
“Are you alive?” the shadow whispered.
Thrown by the unexpected question, Marklus attempted to gather saliva in his parched mouth to respond, but the shadow did not wait. “We are leaving. Wait for my signal.”
“Who are you? What signal?” Marklus managed to croak out. But it was too late; the shadow was gone, as if it had never been there.
Lowering himself to the disgusting prison floor, Marklus began to wonder if he was losing his mind. Closing his eyes for a brief moment, he let his sensory input take over. He pricked his ears, listening hard, but the footfalls had vanished. Escape seemed a cruel joke, but he had to break free of his jail cell. Ever since being captured a few months ago, his mind had been silently panicking because he was no closer to knowing the truth of what was happening on the northern side of the sea. To take his mind off the situation, he let his thoughts drift back into the past and what had led him to make such a daring trip.
“Maybe our best warriors shouldn’t be hiding in the fighting camp training others,” Crinte had retorted that day. “Maybe our best warriors should be on the other side of the sea, finding out what really is happening. It is naive on our part to turn a blind eye to the truth. It’s not mere battles that win a war. As warriors, we not only need skill with a blade, we have to outthink and outsmart our enemy. Playing it safe on this side of the sea does not cut it. If they can send troops over here to scout out our weaknesses, we can do the same. I’d rather invade their land than wait for them to bring ruin to this side of the sea. Turn a blind eye if you wish—I will not stand for it!”
By the time Crinte finished speaking, his face was red and mere inches away from Ackhor’s.
Ackhor stood firm, his arms crossed, glaring at Crinte as if daring him to speak further. “Do you think I don’t know this?” he growled. “Wars are won by skill and cunning, and if you dare waltz across the sea into their hands, you will take all that with you. You asked me to come here to talk strategy, you asked me to help you plan to win a war, not just one battle. Is that what you still want?”
“We have to move faster than this!” Crinte exclaimed. “We have been at this for months, and where has it gotten us?”
“Recruits,” Ackhor quipped. “We have recruits. We are training warriors, and the more the better—and don’t you forget it.”
Crinte turned around and shook his head. “Fine,” he exhaled, as if giving up. “We will finish this another time. I am going to the training grounds.” He looked to Marklus questioningly.
Later that afternoon at the shooting range, Marklus brought up the argument again. “What are you going to do? Ackhor is not going to change his mind.”
“I know.” Crinte pulled a white arrow tight in his bow and paused for a beat. As he released, the arrow zinged through the air but mis
sed its mark. “We can’t wait for him to take his time to decide; we have to find out what is going on across the sea now. I have a scout I can send, but one will not be enough. We need information. Over here we are sitting blind! This hiding and waiting will be the death of us.”
Crinte lifted his bow once again. This time his arrow hit the mark, dead on.
That night, Marklus packed a bag of supplies. Before dawn, his trail through the Sea Forests of Mizine had grown cold.
Sometime later, a faint thud jerked Marklus from his insubstantial slumber. He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly to accustom them to the unsettling shades of blackness, but the shield of night hovered like a velvety blanket over the prison. Lifting his heavy head from the pillow of his crooked arm, he pricked his ears. This time, the sound drifted clearly, a combination of muffled footsteps and iron. Reaching for the rusted bars of his cell, Marklus pulled himself to his feet as a clang echoed off the metalwork of the prison. His heart began to race in anticipation, thumping loudly in his chest as he strained to see something, anything, in that midnight hour. But just as quickly, the sounds of the night died away into an irksome silence. Marklus remained frozen, holding on to threads of delusional hope. There was a time when the darkness of the prison had stolen his optimism, and he’d dared not dream beyond his cell. It was true, he longed for freedom without fear of starvation in darkness and the chance to vindicate his homeland. Now, he held to the whispered words of the shadow, the desire for escape pounding so thickly through his veins he thought he would choke.
A sharp grating sliced through the silence, interrupting his thoughts, the scraping stinging his sensitive ears. Marklus loosened his hold on the bars of his cell as he felt them moving, lifting up and away, no longer holding him captive. Excitement turned to pain as he made a step towards freedom, only to find himself crouching in his cell, his tender ears crippled by the high-pitched screeching of the bars. The prison continued to groan and finally to shake with the weight of what was being asked of it, its wails droning on, mixed with the cries of what could be other prisoners, or even guards.
Finally, it stopped. The only reality now was the pain in Marklus’ ears and a silence so loud he could hear it humming in the distance. He stood on shaky legs and reached for the bars, which were no longer there. A brief thrill shot through his body as he stepped out of his cell for the first time since being deposited there.
The shadow rose out of the darkness. Her scheme was now in motion, and it was up to the prisoners themselves to finish it. She had been strategizing a mass exodus for weeks, studying the guards, their habits, and ways in and out of the prison. She’d watched as they captured those astray in the woods and locked them up, one by one, until their wills were lost and strength forgotten. Free as she was, the prison was still a fortress, the routes unknown to her, the ins and outs patrolled much too carefully by too many sentinels. Escape had always been the plan; causing a riot was only a diversion.
She’d had to act sooner than intended. Unfortunate orders had arrived, and she knew it was time to flee before the web of delusion had been cast. Some of the prisoners were already too far gone to notice, no more than bags of bones in their cells, but many would run and die rather than lie down and give in. It was those hardy souls she was counting on.
Lifting her palms, she blew across the item held there. A wavering fog appeared for a moment before streaking off through the dark halls, lighting a path before her. The shadow ran through the path of light, calling.
Marklus paused in the hall, unsure of which way to turn. The blackness stretched unending before him, and at first there were no clues pointing him back to the land of the living. He pricked up his ears again to listen for the telltale signs he’d heard earlier. Sure enough, a stirring weaved through the air, but as he cocked his head to listen, he realized it wasn’t the sound of footsteps or moaning prisoners. Someone was calling him.
A dim light began to illuminate the floor, streaking past him and guiding the way out. Marklus stared at it, unsure whether he was dreaming or not. Behind that light a stampede of escapees streamed towards him, seeking the light, dashing towards the dream before it ended. The leader was no more than a blur of shadow, gliding past him in order to catch the light. Those behind the leader were exhausted jail breakers, the stench of death surrounding them. Pale skin hung off thin bodies; bony feet slapped the hard stones, causing an eerie echo throughout the prison. Most of them wore dirty rags, the remnants of what used to be proper clothing. Their eyes were bloodshot from looking through darkness, and desperation was written all over their gaunt faces. These were the ones willing to escape, a force of prisoners sweeping through like a river, with the absolute but simplistic goal of overwhelming the guards by sheer numbers and reclaiming life itself. Marklus turned towards the light, joined their company, and ran.
The stream of light vanished as the courtyard drew near, but Marklus could see white moonlight shining in, a sight that hurt his eyes, causing them to tear up as he ran towards the opening. The sound of running almost drowned out the whistle of arrows, and just as the escapees reached fresh, unfiltered air, they were met with a volley of black tipped and feathered shafts. The front row went down immediately, and the beauty of the moonlight turned taunting and harsh as the air filled with the shrieks of those pierced, and the last death screams of those who would not rise again. Marklus threw himself to the ground and rolled towards the inside wall, hampered by the tangle of arms and legs above him. Desperation shifted to panic. Half of the prisoners moved forward. The other half moved backwards, still clinging to precious life.
Knowing he would be trampled to death if he did not make a move, Marklus frantically looked around for cover or an alternate escape route. To come this far only to be killed or captured again would crush all hope. He could not go back to waiting in his cell for the end of days. He rolled to the side out of the crush and struggled upwards, only to bump into the shadow. For a moment, there was enough light for him to stare into her face in bewilderment. A vague feeling of déjà vu flitted across his mind. “I know you…” he started to say, although he could not place the memory.
“Shh,” she snapped, quickly cutting him off.
She crouched there, blending into the darkness, yet Marklus thought he saw her cup her hands together. Her mouth moved down towards her fingers, and even though the shadows played tricks with his mind, he saw a flash of light. The ground he stood on was no longer firm; the stability of the prison began to dissolve. Now, the cries of pain were mixed with frightened shouts from the guards. Marklus moved forward as if in a dream, fighting to keep his balance as the gates around the courtyard began to fall.
The prisoners surged forward, hope renewed, escape a surety. Marklus among them fled through the moonlight into the surrounding forest as the stench of death faded. As he ran, he could still hear the whistles of arrows slamming into tree trunks, occasionally taking out a nearby fugitive. Only two things stood out in his mind: firstly, he had to find the shadow again, whoever she was, and secondly, he must answer his summons.
2
A Trail Of Light
Stamen was lost. And it was his own fault. He had wandered too far off the farmland in search of an apple tree, lost his sense of direction, and in a panic tried to return home. What troubled him was that he knew better. His people group, the Trazames, maintained an unspoken law; one always stayed at home and did not interfere with the world at large. There were those who protected it, and there were those who stayed at home and minded their own business. Particularly in the fragile state the Western World was in, it was imperative to only leave home long enough to tend to the fields and animals. Stamen sighed; he did not know what had gotten into him. It was highly unusual for him to wander this far, and normally his nose led him home. He had an uncanny gift—his sense of smell was useful in tracking anything down. Oftentimes, it led him straight and true, even though his people tended to make fun of him for his extraordinary talent. This time, he was growi
ng confused. There had been an odd flash of light back there in the pasture, and while he could taste the sensation of dirt in his mouth, he knew he was not yet close enough to find his way home.
He balked when he heard the gentle lapping of waves nearby. It was a large body of water, stretching unendingly east and west, which meant it had to be the Dejewla Sea. Stamen’s heart sank as he listened. Now, he would never get back home. Crossing the sea was not something one did. As a matter of fact, none of his kind had ever gone to even see the sea, since it took three to five days to travel to its banks. Nervously, he walked out from behind the tall trees, and the sparkling body of water appeared. Baby waves surged across the surface, gently playing with each other before slamming up against the muddy shoreline. He knew he should walk away, but something intriguing held him there. Lifting his face to the warm sunlight, he wondered how many days he had walked along the edge of the forest. What had pulled him in deeper? He sniffed the air. The scent of home had faded as if it were no longer an option. Replacing it was a bitter, menacing taste. There was something going on he did not want to be a part of.
Stamen spooked when he saw two people climb out of the sea. He moved back to hide behind a tree, peeking out to stare at the people. One was a male from the people group called Crons. Crons were the adventurous folk, overly curious, fond of the unknown and always ready to take action. They often found themselves in all sorts of trouble because of their inability to stay put and keep their nose out of others’ doings. However, the Cron walking out of the sea looked defeated. His skin was a sickly pale, his curly, light brown hair long and unkempt while his body was gaunt and haggard. Stamen wanted to vomit. He’d only heard vague stories of those from the other side of the sea, and this could not have a happy ending for him.
The Complete Four Worlds Series Page 2
