The Complete Four Worlds Series

by Angela J. Ford

  Alaireia blinked rapidly as she turned to hear Crinte’s words. He looked at her, his face unreadable. “I see,” he said. “I can neither condemn nor affirm your actions. I had hoped your relationship with Ackhor would allow him to see our point of view, yet holding a token of power that should belong to him might alienate him further.” He sighed. “Nevertheless, in the morning, we will continue with all speed. My goal is to travel to the mountains to meet with Srackt the Wise. He will know how to unite the armies here while we are on the other side of the sea. I must also meet with the Mermis, for we are in dire need of their assistance. But first, we go to Zikeland.”

  Marklus, who had been gazing off into the trees, turned back to the company. “Zikeland will be dangerous,” he warned, and blue sparks momentarily sprung from his fingers.

  16

  Zikeland

  Days later, the scattered trees of the Sea Forests of Mizine ended abruptly, leaving the five standing before rich, green grasslands, stretching over unending rolling hills. Here and there, golden stalks of wheat lifted their buds to the warm, yellow sunlight. Sun rays danced over Marklus’ head as he took a tentative step into the green meadow, cautiously stepping through knee high grass.

  Ten years earlier, he had turned back for one last glimpse of Zikeland, taking in the ripples of carpeted green, relentlessly holding tight to the dark secrets of the land. His vision had been fuzzy and blurred with tears he’d hastily attempted to wipe away, lest his mother and father see signs of his weakness. Home was ingrained deeply within, his very soul united in the roots of the tender soil, and leaving was ripping him apart. His neighbors had left one by one after the Zikes awakened, scared off by the incidents. First, stiff, frozen animals appeared nightly. Then, people began vanishing, and finally, one day, the wind ceased to blow across the prairie, soothing and cooling many a weary traveler. Marklus could not forget the cold panic that rose like bile in his mouth the day his older brother, Locklen, never returned home. He had sat on the doorstep past midnight, watching the silver light gradually fade into rays of a blood orange sunrise. His ears pricked, attentive, listening to the silent vibrations left by the absence of the wind and loss of a beloved brother. Inside, he could hear his mother pacing as she watched and worried.

  He felt a pang of guilt each time he saw her in pain, knowing if he had not been so eager to use his gift of life, she would have passed from the world, never knowing another moment of sorrow. He wasn’t sure how it had happened; maybe the Zikes had poisoned her with a slow death. Maybe it was an illness, but she declined, slowly and surely. Yet as she ailed in her sickness, Marklus was surprised at how much peace and calm she felt. “It is my time,” she’d told him. “You have to let me go.” As the land declined as the people groups of Zikeland faded, so did she. Until Marklus, unsure of the strength of his powers, pulled her from the doorstep of death, back into the land of the living. As soon as he did it, he saw his mistake. He saw the look on his mother’s face when she awoke, and the hidden glimpse of disappointment when death forsook her. He did not understand it, how she had wanted to die, to pass from those lands. Her life had never been the same, though. She grew old and frail, and there was an unhappy pain behind her eyes. After that incident, everything that happened to his family took a turn for the worst. And every time he looked at her, he knew it was his fault, and cursed the power of life and death.

  Thus, that night, Marklus had waited, alone, until he knew what he must do. Since his father had not yet returned from his last trading trip to Trazamy City, which lay to the northeast, it was up to him to take action.

  Earlier that morning, when dawn snuck over the horizon, Locklen and Marklus had tumbled out of bed and torn out of the hut. With faces still smug with the telltale signs of a blissful night of sleep, they shoved each other playfully as they strode out, bows in hand, to check their traps. Locklen had been buoyant that day, his feet floating off the ground, unable to stay still. He was seventeen, three years Marklus’ senior and a tall, strapping Cron. His bronze face crinkled when he smiled and his curls danced over his head charmingly. He was always excited and optimistic in a coy way, his warming persona causing everyone he met to instantly love him. Even the animals of the prairie could not stay away from him, and he had names for them all. Often, when Marklus returned from another adventure with Crinte, he could hear his brother playing his flute over the grassy knolls, and oft times he danced with the wind. Marklus and Locklen were children of the land, loved by it, raised by it. Giving up and letting go was not a reality Marklus could forgive himself or his parents for. He was sure the Zikes had a hand in Locklen’s disappearance, even though they’d feigned innocence when confronted. It was only months after Locklen’s disappearance that his parents cowered before the unforgiving land and moved to Cromomany. Marklus, in bitter frustration, had not returned since.

  Now an eerie whisper of silence blanketed the land. Birds did not fly overhead, small woodland animals did not roam, gathering food for their young or storing up for the winter ahead. “Home,” Marklus whispered, lifting his pale face to the light and drinking in the unfiltered air. Perking up his sensitive ears, he waited for the familiar voices of home to fill his senses, welcoming him back and begging him to stay. Disappointment was swift as a deep hum of undercurrent tension met his eardrums. Otherwise the land appeared empty and stale. Swallowing hard, he turned to the four standing behind him, unable to hide the keen pain creeping into his eyes. “Come on.” His voice sounded dead as he beckoned them.

  Alaireia fell alongside him, glancing anxiously at his face. “What happened here?”

  “Do not ask me that.” Marklus shook his head at the insignificant question. “Much has happened here in the last twenty that years words cannot explain. I have asked myself again and again; what powers allowed these Zikes to enter my land and turn it into a barren one?”

  Starman crept nervously behind Marklus and Alaireia, his brown eyes wide as his gaze darted quickly across the still prairie. “What are Zikes?”

  “Creatures of the grass,” Marklus replied bitterly, cautiously placing one foot in front of the other. “They are often invisible, maintaining a green camouflage unless tricked into revealing their true form.”

  Starman shivered. “Why are we here?”

  “This is the quickest route to Trazamy City,” Crinte offered. “And we are in dire need of armies we can control. The Zikes offered their help if we should ever need it. We return to claim that offer.”

  Starman turned his frightened gaze on Crinte, a turmoil of questions rushing through his overtaxed brain. “But they are a menace!” he sputtered.

  “That is true,” Marklus agreed angrily as he spat his next words out. “They draw their fiendish ability from a deadly poison, but if we could persuade them to use it against our enemies, we can claim the upper hand.”

  “Poison?” The word fell from Legone’s lips like a dagger, and he mechanically reached for an arrow. “Twenty years ago, you say? Alaireia, when did the Wyvern appear in Srinka?”

  She glanced back at him, her eyebrow lifted in consternation. “Ten years ago. Why do you ask?”

  “The portals…” Legone’s sky colored eyes glazed over, staring into nothing as thoughts flittered through his brain. Distressing memories of forbidden words spoken in hushed corners of the forest rekindled the clarity he was seeking.

  “Legone?” Crinte’s voice called him out of the void, snapping him back to the present moment.

  “It is nothing,” Legone lied, shaking his head warningly at Crinte.

  As the five walked through Zikeland, they saw the wrathful wildness the empty land had become. The blades of grass mirrored each other, bravely holding their faces to the sunlight in the windless prairie. Marklus guided them through the grasslands which sometimes stood as tall as their heads and stung their fingers when touched. But Marklus refused to let them cut the grass out of their way. Lost in their own thoughts and cowed by the intoxicating ambience of secrecy, their he
avy words lay unspoken. It wasn’t until sunset that Marklus finally halted and turned to the others. “I hear stirrings beneath our feet. They know we are here.”

  “I don’t like this place,” Starman said uneasily, looking at the ground and glancing over his shoulder.

  “That is the very reason no one lives here anymore,” Marklus told him.

  Crinte turned his farseeing eyes over the land, walking slowly in a circle as he looked north, south, east, and west. “All is clear, as far as I can see,” he announced. “We should camp here for the night, but keep watch.”

  Alaireia was the first to put down her pack and sit on the overgrown hillock. Hungrily, she pulled a bite to eat out of her pack while the others followed her lead. “Marklus, is there much game to hunt out here?” she asked, reaching for her bow.

  Despite the unique weapons gifted by Tincire, the five continued to carry other daggers, blades, bows, arrows, and any other weapons they could tuck away without becoming too laden down.

  Marklus shook his head. “There used to be. Herds of antelope hiding in the tall grass, foxes and cougars slinking through to chase them. We had the birds of the air and the animals of the land, larks, ravens, rabbits, badgers, snakes. They were all here, from the horned monsters dominating the grasslands, to the moles underground. But the animals have left as well. I do not know what Zikes hunt, but when we began to find stiff, poisoned animals, it became clear what we ate was not safe anymore.”

  Starman lay his portion of the last meal down, his appetite suddenly gone. “We are next,” he mumbled, dropping his hand to his sword hilt. A shock vibrated through his body as his fingers brushed the sword, as if it were begging to be used.

  Alaireia sighed and looked over at him, suddenly curious at the strange Trazame. “Starman, did not you have to walk through Zikeland in order to reach the Sea Forests of Mizine? It would have taken you weeks to go around.”

  Starman wrinkled his face at her, confused. “What do you mean? I was in the fields of Trazame one moment, and the next I was lost in the forest.”

  Alaireia narrowed her eyes. “That’s not possible.”

  “Everything is possible these days.” Crinte’s gentle voice wafted over the prairie.

  Starman hung his head, miserable at his circumstances. “I wish I were home.”

  Alaireia, feeling bad for snarling at him, stood. “I’ll take the first watch.”

  “I will take the second,” Legone offered. “But it’s doubtful we shall sleep in these lands.”

  “It’s the silence,” Crinte told them as he sat, chewing methodically and watching. “Back in the days I dwelt here, the wind was always whistling nearby. Sometimes I thought I could see it, brushing through the grass as if it were combing its hair.”

  “I remember.” Marklus’ voice spoke of longing. “I could hear it whispering, speaking a strange tongue to the growing plants and creatures.”

  “If the wind should return,” Crinte added thoughtfully, “I think the others might begin to. Wind made this place home.”

  “If I could persuade the Zikes to leave, I would be the first to claim this land again,” Marklus lamented.

  Legone moved closer to Crinte and Marklus, his voice hushed. “You might not have to persuade the Zikes to leave. Crinte, you still have the Horn of Shilmi?”

  Crinte’s face contorted as if Legone repulsed him. “We should not use that here,” he warned.

  “You can use it to drive the Zikes out and send them where you wish.”

  “What is this you speak of?” Marklus looked curiously from Crinte to Legone. “Is there another ancient power source?”

  “It is dangerous,” Crinte objected. “We do not truly know how to use it, and there will be repercussions for abuse of power.”

  Unhappy with Crinte’s answer, Marklus turned to Legone. “What is this Horn of Shilmi?”

  Legone opened his mouth but realized Starman and Alaireia were now listening intently. “I discovered it during my time on the other side of the sea in Asspraineya.”

  “And what is its purpose?” Marklus demanded.

  “If you use it, you may align the minds of those you think of, to help you achieve your purpose until you release them,” Legone explained.

  “It is mind control,” Crinte interrupted disapprovingly. “It is no better than the transformed.”

  “But what of dark creatures, like the Zikes?” Marklus protested. “Is it wrong to use mind control on them?”

  “It must be our last resort.” Crinte’s voice was distant.

  “Crinte,” Alaireia spoke earnestly. “Sometimes I feel as though I know what you know and we are of one mind with our quest. Times like these, you seem to know much more than you are revealing. Why?”

  A full moon began to hover on the edges of the transitioning sky as Crinte spoke. “I want each of you to know what I know, but knowledge is daunting. Sometimes it is better to walk blindly for a time. As we continue, there is little I can do to shield you, but at least until Starman is home, let us continue. When we reach the house of Srackt the Wise, I will tell you all that I know.”

  Marklus woke on the hard ground, shivering in the cold. The moon hung pale and wan in the starless sky. His companions lay in an enchanted, deathlike sleep, and he felt his heart pounding as he rose in the darkness. Moonlight flooded the prairie, showing him quite clearly exactly what he expected to see. The Zikes surrounded him, their numbers blending into the shadows of the night. They stood patiently, just as he remembered them. Hundreds of round, emerald eyes stared at him from expressionless faces, if they had faces. Their four-foot-long bodies were hidden by blades of grass, but the green cones of their heads hummed in unison, binding them together. Marklus waited, fighting to calm his racing heartbeat.

  “Why have you returned?” the Zikes demanded, their voices raised in unison. “These are our lands now.”

  The overwhelming smell of fresh cut grass began to infiltrate the air, and as the voices resounded, Marklus was reminded of the rich earth, allowed to grow freely without a multitude of Crons thwarting it. For a moment, he saw the land as the Zikes saw it, and he understood why. “I am Marklus the Healer, one you cannot harm. Twenty years ago, I awoke you from your slumber, and you took these lands as your own. Unasked. Unwelcome. Now, a new force has taken over the northern side of the Western World, and I need you to fight with me.”

  The Zikes laughed as Marklus spoke, a horrible, haunting laugh that rippled through the prairie, giving Marklus goosebumps as he stood, waiting. “What is in it for us?”

  Marklus kept his voice stern. “You will leave these lands and never return. Otherwise, this new force will take over what you claim as home.”

  “Never.” The Zikes continued to laugh. “We are invincible.”

  Marklus stepped forward, years of pent up rage overwhelming him at last. “You are not invincible,” he declared, his voice becoming louder as he continued. “Your power belongs to me. You will not poison this land or the people who dwell here unless I say so. Your day has come. Your tricks have ended. The time of the Zikes is over, unless you fight with me!” When he ceased speaking, blue waves crackled on his fingertips. The laughter of the Zikes had died away and Marklus could feel their fury sparking in their green cones. He moved closer. “I am invincible.” For the first time, he reached out and touched the green cone of the closest Zike.

  A bang popped his eardrums and Marklus felt his body forcefully hurled backwards. He hit the ground with a jolt, the air knocked out of him. Spots of green light danced before his eyes as he opened them, unseeing for a moment. When he put a hand to his ears to stop the ringing, his fingers came away glistening wet with blood. Slowly, his vision began to clear and Marklus struggled to rise. The white moonlight shone across the grassland and Marklus saw the prairie had been flattened and the Zikes lay prostrate before him. Even before he opened his mouth, he could hear their voices in his head.

  O Marklus the Great Healer, we will fight for you, you own
these great lands and you are invincible. Your will is our command.

  Marklus could feel the oppression of the Zikes lifting as he again stood before them. “Rise,” he commanded. “Go to the Dejewla Sea and protect our borders. You shall harm no one except for the turned creatures that come from the other side. Slay them all. A troop of you shall follow me at all times. I am going to the Great Water Hole. When I call, you will come, and we will fight together. Then, and only then, you will return to your slumber underground, and never wake until you are needed once more.”

  O Marklus the Great, the Zikes murmured, we hear and we obey.

  Slowly, they began to shrink back into their camouflage as blades of grass. As Marklus watched, he saw them scurrying through the grass, and even as they left he could hear their now high-pitched voices ringing in his ears. Hurry. This way. To the sea.

  He turned back to look at his companions, who continued their enchanted sleep. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, he waited and watched as the moonlight faded and the sunrise began to spread over the horizon. At last, the heaviness on his heart began to lift.

  Crinte sat up in confusion, his mind hazy, his tongue thick. He blinked his eyes slowly, forcing them to accustom to the morning light. He felt sore and stiff, as if his body had been forced against his will. He rose hastily, reaching for his pack and noting Legone, Alaireia, and Starman nearby, still sprawled out uncomfortably in a haphazard slumber. Marklus stood a few feet off on a hilltop, the sunrise bathing his silhouette in light. His shoulders were up and back, his head held high. He looked much stronger and taller. “Marklus, what happened?” Crinte slowly climbed to stand beside him. “I don’t remember much from last night but the air feels…” He toyed with words for a moment before settling on one. “Different.”