The Complete Four Worlds Series

by Angela J. Ford

  If he were not a White Steed, would he automatically become a Black Steed? He wished to remain neutral, but it did not seem to be an option. As a Black Steed, he would be on the side of the Changers, helping them accomplish their goals, which he was confused about. Ellagine had said something about the balance of powers and Rededak. Eliesmore shuddered to think of what was hiding there. If he were not a Black Steed, then he would have to be a White Steed, which meant being the One and saving the world from the cruel hands of the Black Steeds. Being the One terrified him, each time he thought of the prophecy, he felt a sinking pit of horror in his belly. Besides having the Jeweled Sword and dissolving the Green Stone, he was not sure what was involved. As he thought, he supposed he could ask the Iaen to help him and other White Steeds, if there were other White Steeds.

  The day slipped by as slowly as water dripping into a bucket, drop by drop. As the evening darkened into night, Eliesmore found himself exhausted and slipped into an uneven sleep due to dehydration and lack of nourishment. His dreams were troubled and consumed with the White Steeds and Black Steeds. He could be a White Steed living in hiding, which meant returning home to his mother. He couldn’t be neutral. He did not want to be a Black Steed. He did not want to be a White Steed.

  In the morning Eliesmore woke in anger. His body ached from his flight, and his head pounded with a headache. Despite the pain, Eliesmore stumbled up and went on through the forest. Angry thoughts chased each other, making him wish there had never been a struggle between the Black and White Steeds in the first place. He wished he, of all people, had not been picked to be the One. He wished he had not been born in the South World and in this time of dire need. Finally, just as he saw the edge of the forest and found himself coming out into open land, he wished he had never been born.

  As Eliesmore gained the edge of Shimla, he almost stumbled over two badgers. As his vision cleared, he glared as the beasts regarded him with cold eyes. They were black with white stripes, and because of their drastic colors, Eliesmore could not tell whether they were Black Steeds or White Steeds. “I’m sorry,” Eliesmore began as the badgers measured him, calculating. “Do you have any food?”

  “Yes,” said one. "What will you give us in exchange?”

  “I do not have anything to trade,” Eliesmore said, unaccustomed to the ways of a world where nothing is free.

  “You could come with us.” A badger held out a clawed paw.

  “Where are you going?” Eliesmore asked.

  “Does it matter?” the badger replied.

  Eliesmore wanted to say it mattered very much, but the stance the badgers took seemed hostile. He gave a quick nod, hoping for food.

  The second badger held out a pouch. “This should be filling.”

  Eliesmore gulped down the liquid, forgetting to be cautious of the strange animals. As soon as he finished, he felt lightheaded and the world blurred before his eyes. He sank to the ground as strength left his body. “What was that?” he demanded. The last thing he saw before his eyes closed was the two badgers advancing on him.

  12

  Optimistic

  Optimistic sat in the glade with his back against a tree. Shimla was nothing like he had imagined. Ever since he’d left the fortress, he had traveled through a dying world. He was surprised at the dejected way the trees held down their stripped branches and the grass lay flat and yellow beneath his feet. The lands were scarce and bare as if even the plants were too fearful to grow. Optimistic shivered in the chill air, waiting until he saw a glimpse of green. Ellagine entered the glade; her face was a mask of twisted fury as she lay a sword in the grass beside Optimistic. “He ran!” She began as she sat down with him. “I told him the story of our world from the beginning of time. I tried to make him understand our need for him. But he ran. Optimistic, he is the One, and he doesn’t even believe in our cause. I don’t know what to do.” She sighed, staring into empty space for answers.

  “Ellagine.” Optimistic leaned forward, reaching out a hand just shy of touching her. “If he is the One, he will return. It is not your fault he ran.”

  Ellagine turned to face Optimistic. “It’s not his return I’m worried about,” she confirmed. “I know he will come back. I am worried about how alive he will be when he does. If the Black Steeds get him first, you know what will happen. And if they find out he is the One…” She trailed off. “I had to take this.” She put the sword in Optimistic’s hands.

  Understanding and wonder dawned on Optimistic’s face as he held up the sword. The jewels still gleamed in what little light there was, and the two stared at it in awe.

  “Where did he get this from?” Optimistic breathed. “I know he is supposed to have it, but the last we heard was that King Pharengon of the Eastern World had it, and he still lives.”

  Ellagine shook her head. “I do not know; he lived a well-protected life.”

  Optimistic put the sword down. “That settles it. He knows almost nothing of the world, and the Black Steeds will hunt him down. I am going after him.”

  “You will know him; he is the only Cron with black hair. His name is Eliesmore.”

  “I will return.” Optimistic stood, grabbed his bow, and lit off through the wood.

  Ellagine stood to watch him as he disappeared into the thicket. “I know,” she whispered as an afterthought. “I know.”

  13

  Eliesmore

  Eliesmore woke with a splitting headache. He had not thought it possible, but the liquid the badgers had given him made him feel much worse. His limbs were stiff like they were held down with stones. His body was sore, and his eyes hurt. Although it was a cloudy day, it seemed as if the daylight threatened to blind him. Eliesmore closed his eyes, deciding more sleep would be the remedy for his condition. A foot slammed into his side, forcing him wide awake. “Get up!” one of the badgers snarled.

  Eliesmore sat up, blinking in distress as he held his throbbing side. On either side of him stood the two badges with their arms crossed and teeth bared. Eliesmore glanced past them at his surroundings, noting they were entirely different from the day before. He could not even tell in which direction the forest of Shimla lay. In front of him rose a castle made of black stone with wicked towers curving up like evil eyes already claiming a victory. As soon as he saw the castle, Eliesmore’s heart plunged. He was not certain where he was; he could be in Daygone, the headquarters of the Black Steeds. He had to get away before they tortured and killed him. Eliesmore began to tremble, convinced this was his punishment for turning his back on the Iaens and White Steeds.

  Sweating, Eliesmore clambered to his feet, his green eyes wide as he shook his head at the badgers. He put out a hand as if to ward them off. “No, no,” he pleaded. “I will not go there.”

  “Oh, you will,” sneered one of the badgers, likely the one who had kicked him. “We did you a favor, and now you will do us one.”

  As the badger finished, Eliesmore heard a high-pitched, shrill cry coming from one of the towers, as if someone, or very many someones, were being tormented beyond measure. Eliesmore spun around and dashed in the opposite direction. He hadn’t even gone a foot when he felt one of the furry badgers jump on his back. Claws penetrated his skin, and he was thrown to the ground. With a sickening tear, the claws came out of his arm, ripping skin as well as his shirt and tunic. “Try that again, and I will tear you to pieces,” the badger threatened, barring his teeth at Eliesmore. “Get up. We are going to the castle.”

  Eliesmore could not stop shaking as they covered the last few yards and reached the dark castle. All the while, shrieks of pain continued to pour out of it. Eliesmore knew his life was going to come to a bloody end. If only he had not run away. His arm stung and blood continued to pour out, soaking his clothes.

  The doors to the castle swung open, and Eliesmore lost sight of the badgers as a rough hand dragged him inside, jarring his torn arm as it hurled him against the wall. “What do we have here?” the voice belonging to the hand barked out.

>   “He has power,” one of the badgers piped up. Its tone was less of a growl as before; he was more anxious for praise. “We gave him the potion.”

  “Hummm….” The voice snorted. “I’ll be the judge. Now leave!”

  “We want what was promised us,” the other badger demanded.

  “Fine, you know where he is.” The voice sent them away.

  Eliesmore found himself standing face to face with a Tider who had a long, sharp nose. The Tider was dressed in black from head to toe, and his piercing black eyes seemed to see straight through Eliesmore. Behind him was a table piled with ink and paper. The Tider released Eliesmore, turned back to pick up his quill and perched on a stool behind the table. “Well?” the Tider barked. “Who are you? A Cron with dark looks like a Tider? Answer me?”

  Before Eliesmore could regain his balance, he felt two other people, guards, he assumed, come up behind him and take his arms. “I’m a C-c-cron,” he managed to stammer out.

  “A Cron?” The Tider sneered. “I don’t believe you. What is your name?”

  “Ha-half Cron, h-half Tider,” Eliesmore replied, his mouth dry.

  “A Blended One! Where is your home?” the Tider went on in a fury.

  “I don’t know," Eliesmore squeaked, unsure why the Tider was so angry with him.

  “Don’t know!” the Tider mocked. “Surely you come from some place?”

  “Please,” Eliesmore begged, sinking to his knees as the guards held his arms. “Please don’t torment me! Don’t torment me!”

  “Stop whining,” the Tider shouted back at him, aiming a kick and missing, which seemed to irritate him more. “All weapons come to me. Guards, pass me his sword!”

  Eliesmore’s heart stopped, and suddenly the world seemed to move in slow motion. He was the finder of the Jeweled Sword. He was the One. They would know him by his sword and kill him instantly. His world crashed around him, and he stared down in terror as the guards reached for his sword hilt. They yanked the leather belt with the scabbard from his waist, frowning in confusion. Eliesmore gasped in surprise when he saw it was empty. His flight from Ellagine came back to him. She had snatched his sword from his sheath while he had run on, consumed with his selfish thoughts. She had been protecting him, and yet here he stood in the clutches of the Black Steeds. He was about to die because he had chosen not to listen or respond to the duty that had been meant for him.

  A tormented cry echoed in the castle, and the Tider was standing over him again. “No sword? Enough of this! Guards, take him to the torture rooms.”

  “No, no,” Eliesmore screamed as the guards dragged him up. “Please, no, don’t, no.”

  But it was too late. A guard raised a sword and clouted Eliesmore over the head. He collapsed into darkness.

  He woke. His cheek lay in a sticky substance that trickled down his face, creating a puddle by his lips. A sharp pain buzzed through his head as if a giant were gripping both of his ears and squeezing his brains. Wiggling, he tried to lift a hand, only to find they were tied behind his back, the rope cutting into his wrists. Groaning, he lifted his head and noticed the liquid beside his face was his own blood. Shuddering in revulsion, he glanced up to see a Cron watching him. The Cron sniffed and rapped his knuckles on the iron grating of the room, calling, “He’s awake.”

  Gasping in fear, Eliesmore rolled over, attempting to escape. He saw he was in a stone cell covered with the iron grating. Heavy footsteps echoed as another male entered. Eliesmore could see nothing but boots. “You let him bleed.” The newcomer grunted. “They prefer the ones with power bruised, not broken.”

  “My apologies Captain Elidar,” the guard growled without an ounce of regret in his voice.

  “Take him through the torture chambers,” the one called Captain Elidar ordered. “From there, we will see if he will talk.”

  The boots turned away, allowing Eliesmore a glimpse of a black cloak as he lay, trembling in his own filth.

  “Bruised, not broken,” the guard snorted as he approached, aiming a sharp kick that landed squarely in Eliesmore’s gut.

  Eliesmore groaned as he felt the air leave his body. An intense pain radiated from his core, causing his eyes to tear up.

  “Stop sniffling and get up.” The guard dragged him up by his bound hands. He grabbed a fistful of Eliesmore’s hair and yanked his head back. “Walk.”

  Eliesmore’s limbs trembled from fear, exhaustion, and lack of food. His vision swam as the guard forced him through the castle. Shadows flickered in the gloom, tongues of flames offering a glimpse into the horrors of the dungeons, sights Eliesmore wished he could unsee. A putrid blend of rot, blood, and mangled flesh hung in the air.

  “If you don’t talk, this is what will happen to you,” the guard said, forcing him to look.

  Eliesmore saw the white pelt of a fox lying on the ground next to the furless body. Bloods and chunks of flesh covered the floor, yet the fox’s body rose and fell, unconscious, not yet dead. In another cell, hanging by his hands, was what used to be a male, rivers of blood flowing from wounds where the skin had been flayed from his back. In places, white bone showed through tattered flesh. Eliesmore could not tell whether he was alive or dead. In the next cell, two Crons took turns punching black eyes into a male who turned wide, blue eyes on Eliesmore, his lips trembling. Help me. They walked past more cells until they blended in horror, and Eliesmore leaned over, retching onto the stone steps and receiving another sharp kick in response.

  The guard dragged him to another room where great barrels of stale water sat. Flies and all matter of dark water creatures laid their eggs in the stinking rot. Without ceremony, the guard ducked Eliesmore’s head into a barrel and held him down. Eliesmore kicked and thrashed until his lungs burned, gasping for air. When none was forthcoming, he lost consciousness again.

  14

  Sarhorr

  Year 772 (171 years ago).

  He awoke knowing this was the last time. He was forgiven. They’d tortured him for ten years. For ten years, they’d kept him in the hole, turning his life into pure misery. Now they let him out. Weak. Obedient. Spineless. It would take time for his body to heal and even more time for his powers to be restored. For now, he would do the only thing he could, gather information and plan his rise. When they came for him, he knew what to do. He kissed their hands, even though he seethed inside. He loathed being forced to play their game, but there was nothing else to do as long as they were alive, as long as they had him.

  “Are you ready to pay your debt?” his sister demanded, her eyes deep and malicious. Torture was her vice; she enjoyed every second, savoring the motions as if it were an art.

  “I am ready.” He bowed his head in submission.

  “Come,” his brother ordered.

  He limped, his feet still raw from when they flayed the skin all the way down to the bone. Shifting his form would have saved him from torture, except he was too weak.

  They led him to the highest tower, where they could see the countryside of the Constel Heights spread before them. He waited, taking in the distance, curious how long it would take them to grab him if he jumped.

  “What do you know of the Green Stone?” his sister asked. She did not look at him; she only struck a pose, letting her long hair fly free in the breeze as she leaned on her pitchfork.

  Hesitation would not please her. “Very little. I heard a rumor from the stars that it carries the power of creation, the ability to become like the Creator.”

  “Have you found it?” his sister went on.

  Nothing had changed. When they interacted, it was usually his sister who spoke, while his brother waited, a tool she used to do her dirty work. There had been a time when Sarhorr thought he could persuade his brother to revolt against the iron fist of their sister, but his brother and sister were fiercely loyal to each other. He had to result to trickery to flee to the Western World where he’d assumed he was safe. He cursed as he thought of how he’d allowed himself to become distracted first by the Gree
n People and then with the idea of becoming a lesser creator. His transformed creatures, birthed from flesh and blood of mortals, had been a mighty accomplishment, yet, in the end, they had all perished. If he had the power of the Green Stone, there was much more he could do. The question his sister asked almost made him smile; it told him she did not know where to begin. She needed him. “No,” he told her.

  Her expression never faltered. “Good. We begin our quest for the Green Stone. We will do this together.” Her eyes bored into his, warning him of what would happen if he resisted. “All three of us.”

  He wanted to ask her what would happen when they found the Green Stone. Would they duel for the power? Would she be content to split it three ways? He doubted it. No, he had to find the Green Stone first and absorb its power before he could fight his brother and sister. It was unfair how much stronger than him they were. He needed an ally, someone he could trust.

  “Where do we begin?” his brother spoke up.

  The Green People. If they had survived, they would know. Although he’d consumed the power from the Queen of the Green People before his banishment, he was still unable to see the future as they did. He cursed again. The Five Warriors. The Great Clyear of Power. They had all slipped through his fingers because he was alone. Never again would he attempt to take over the world alone. Once he found the Green Stone and consumed its power, he could leave the Four Worlds in the hands of the mortals or turn it into a paradise for the immortals. He would force his brother and sister to bow and inflict on them 100 years of pain. As fierce hatred surged inside him, he almost missed his sister's next words: “We are going to the Holesmoles.”