Vlad'War's Anvil

by Rex Hazelton

  "Why would the Evil One need more souls?" Ay'Roan pointed to the smaller, black replica of the Mountain of Song. "By the looks of it, he's already stockpiled enough of the dead to do anything he wants."

  "That's not quite true," Mar’Gul said. "The Nameless Evil can only use certain kinds of spirits to build the bridge he needs to cross over the chasm." Gulf Fix was the name the departed used when they spoke about the jagged barrier. "Only those who are endowed with magic will do."

  "You mean Hag, Candle Makers, and the like?" Ay'Roan pulled on one of the long, thin braids that fell down upon his powerful shoulders with the rest of his hair as he waited for an answer.

  "Those... and others," Mar’Gul explained. "For many are ignorant of the magic they possess. And those who might see it at work in themselves as they sway public opinion, help someone recuperate from an illness, recover a lost valuable, or the like explain it away. For example, they accept being called charismatic as they rally people to their cause, or they nod their head in agreement when others say they have a green thumb when it comes to growing things, all the while ignoring the fact that their success is so far beyond the norm and that another explanation is needed."

  "So true," Horbyn chimed in. "I've known Healers who can't recognize the Powers of Intuition they use to guide their practice because they agree with those who say they're brilliant. Their knowledge of herbs and powders clouds their ability to see the supernatural working in them."

  "Don't be misled by what we're saying." Bacchanor, who wasn't speaking to anyone in particular, used his words as a rhetorical device that gave him an opportunity to conclude the conversation. "The Nameless Evil wants every spirit he can get. Those with magic will be used both to build the bridge his invasion force will utilize to gain purchase of the grassy plain as it heads for the Mountain of Song, and to lead the host of invaders into battle when the black mountain disolves into a river of warriors that will inevitably flow across the chasm."

  A moment after Bacchanor spoke, the vessel they were Flying in began to rock back and forth as the shreds of flame-like light, that were chasing each other across the spherical transport's surface like clouds speeding across the sky, expanded until they came together and washed the vessel's skin with an intense, opaque luminousity. A sudden jolt and a dimming of the light that had momentarily enveloped the travelers signaled that the trip was over. What was left of the waning brightness was drawn into three ember-filled braziers situated in Mar’Gul's hut. Robust flames lept up in the braziers after they were fed the magical infusion.

  Larger than the one sitting in what was once the Warl of the Brie'Shen, this hut sat in the Warl of the Neflin and was the woman in black's primary domicile, though she spent most of her time wandering about the extreme eastern reaches of the Sorcerer's realm.

  As Horbyn and the Oakenfels were surveying their new surroundings that were packed with shelves filled with jars holding herbs, powders, bones, and small creatures dead and dried out like strips of jerky, the hut began to vibrate like the biggest wagon ever made was rolling by with a load of iron ore inside of it. The vibtating was soon joined by a jerking motion that pulled the hut and its inhabitants back and forth so violently that the mud used to plaster the rounded walls began falling to the ground in chunks. Cracks soon appeared that let shafts of sunlight into the room.

  Was the tumult one of Flying's side effects, Horbyn and the Oakenfel brothers wondered? Was the Warl of the Dead angry that they escaped its pull, and was, even now, trying to recitify its failure? Were they doomed to be sucked back into a place where none of them was ready to go? But if that was so, why the sunlight? For the Warl of the Living was becoming more substantial, not less. And the fierce shaking was clearly a part of that substance.

  "EARTHQUAKE!" Bacchanor shouted. "Brace yourselves!"

  While the men did just that, Mar’Gul stood and stretched out her arms. Then she widened her stance and pushed out with open palms. As she did, her eyes glowed like green fire, her jaw muscles churned, and her lips parted in a sneer as she exerted her powers to keep the hut intact and those inside of it alive.

  An up-and-down motion was added to the jerking. Still, Mar’Gul stood like she was a misquito refusing to leave a host it was feeding on, though the host swatted at the insect to chase it away. And as she stood her ground, screaming and shouting were heard coming from the Neflin village outside. Then the thunderous sound of falling trees joined in the chorus of groans and rumblings that rose out of the heaving ground as the tumult worsened.

  Mar’Gul's stance deepened to a crouch as she battled the earthquake. When a cracking sound, so loud it hurt the ears of those who heard it, filled the air, the woman in black fell to one knee as one of the Lorn Forest's immense trees hit the field of magic she had erected and slid off to one side.

  More shouting and screaming followed.

  Then, all at once, the ground stopped moving like it was a great beast that had finally succumbed to the spear that was thrust into its side and died.

  A sound like retreating thunder accompanied the earthquake as it continued its eastward journey. Having started in the Nyeg, the tremblers rolled across the Ar until they reached the Stone Desert where they died.

  Mar’Gul rose from her knee and inhaled deeply like the air was too heavy to breath with less effort. Then she exhaled, he cheeks puffing out as she did, before saying, "Bala, check out the area to see how much damage was done."

  A muffled buzzing sound was heard moving off into the sky as the others stepped out of the hut. Horbyn kept his eyes on Bala as she flew about, considering the cretchym who was an obvious friend of Mar’Gul's. How can this be? He wondered as he thought about the others of her kind that he had met. All were fanatically devoted to Ab'Don their creator and father, and none could be trusted if left to their own devices.

  Weeping joined the moans that came from the wounded and dying in a morbid chorus that swirled through the grim air laying over the Neflin village. Quicker than humans, many of the nimble elves had escaped harm when the trees fell, but not all of them.

  The Lorn Firs were much larger than the oaks and pine that grew among them in the Great Thrall Mountains' lower slopes. Four of these behemoths, burdened with age and immense mass that their old roots could no longer bear, had lost the battle to remain upright as the merciless earthquake shook them. Any oak or pine that had the misfortune to stand in the way of the giant arbors' descent were torn down, or rent so badly they looked like massive swords had hacked away great swaths of their branches, though they remained standing in spite of the shock of their mutilation.

  Few of the elves living in the doomed trees, or walking in the shadow of the falling Lorn Firs, were left unscathed. More than a few had been crushed to death. Others were wounded. Some so badly that they were now fighting for their lives. These were the ones that Mar’Gul, and those she had brought along with her as she Flew through the place where the Warl of the Living and the Warl of the Dead met, went to help first.

  "Horbyn," Mar’Gul said as she took control of the situation, "take the tear the Okenfels say you have and use it to magnify your Healing Power."

  Seeing the wizard's hesitation, she gave Horbyn a quick tutorial on how to use Andara's Magic. "Hold the tear in the palm of your hand, breathe over its surface, step into the amber light it emits, and use your skills to mend those who've been hurt."

  Three Neflin, armed to the teeth, rose to stop Horbyn as he approached their fallen comrade. Darker skinned than the elves of Forest Deep, their long hair was uniformly black, as black as the irises found in their large, almond-shaped eyes. Long ears, looking like curved daggers, poked out of their straight head hair. Beardless jaws churned as the elves stepped towards the stranger clothed in faded Hag robes. Thin lips pressed tightly together as the three Neflin resigned themselfs to confronting one who wielded magic they were sure would add to their comrade's suffering. Nostrils flared on long, slender noses.

  With a long knife in each hand, the N
eflin moved with the ease of liquid rolling downhill when a voice brought them up short.

  "Don't resist him," Mar’Gul's tone told the elves that she expected to be obeyed. "He's a Healer who will help your friend if you're wise enough to let him."

  "Step aside now," she added with a touch of irritation "for many are dying and there are few here with experience in using the Healing Arts."

  Having lived in the Hag Community for as long as he had, Horbyn knew better than to show fear before anyone in Ar Warl. Raised in the Thrall Mountains, he was aware of the value the Neflin placed on bravery. So, without the slightest hesitation, he stepped past the elves who had stood in the way and went to give aid to the Neflin whose arm was awkwardly twisted behind his back as he lay on the ground struggling to breathe.

  "Draw your swords." Bacchanor ordered the Oakenfel brothers to unsheathe the blades that were once broken but now were restored with the use of Andara's power. "Let's see what kind of magic is in them."

  When Bacchanor heard the story of what happened in Mishal Parm- how the brothers copied their father's attempt to meld Andara's Healing Magic and Vlad'War's power together- he wasn't surprised at what Jeaf had tried to do. A Healer with few equals, the Brown Wizard was also a fierce warrior. To him, healing and combat weren't incompatible as the Candle Makers believed since both were used to get rid of either diseases that threatened to destroy man's flesh or enemies that threatened to obliterate the communities they lived in. To Bacchanor all that mattered was that health and peace were restored so that people of good will could partake of their bounty.

  Again Mar’Gul had to intervene when the elves, responding to four strangers drawing swords in the Neflin village of Lan'Fon, swarmed to meet the perceived threat. All looked angry. All had long knives in their ready hands.

  "You've nothing to fear." The revered woman freely shared things the Oakenfel's had told her as they journeyed to the Lorn Forest. "These men are the Hammer Bearer's sons. The swords they carry are blessed with Andara's Magic."

  Trusting Mar’Gul as they did, the Neflin lowered their weapons as they moved closer. Some turned back to the wounded loved ones they had been tending before the strangers drew out their swords. Most sheathed their blades. All looked on in wonder as they bore witness to the miracles that stood before them: Nyeg Warlers had come to the Ar, those they knew were Fane J'Shrym, if Jeaf was their father, the same Fane J'Shrym that the prophets said would prove to be the Sorcerer's undoing.

  Now that potential problems were averted, Ay'Roan acknowledged the Neflin with a nod of his head before turning to Bacchanor and lifting his sword with a quizzical look on his face. Not knowing what else to do, Ay'Roan decided to let go of his weapon’s handle and take hold of the blade itself, close to where Andara’s Tear was placed at the time it was melded into the broken steel. His brothers quickly followed suite, assuming the benign posture that was consistant with Mar’Gul's explanation of their intentions.

  "See what Horbyn's doing?" Bacchanor asked as he squinted in thought. "Blowing across the tear, he's releasing Andara's Healing Magic. Do the same with your swords."

  Seeing the erst-while Hag breathing across the sphere he caressed in his open palm, Ay'Roan witnessed the breath disseminate a field of misty, amber light that wafted over the Neflin Horbyn knelt beside.

  Lifting his sword to exam its form, Ay'Roan dismissed the idea of trying to balance the blade on his open plam. Instead, he simply breathed on the hand that gripped the naked steel extending past the weapon's hand guard. Instantly, amber-colored mist seeped out from between his fingers like tendrils of pipe smoke escaping the nostrils of a tranquil smoker. Winding their way outward, the streams of mist soon converged and became a cloud of amber-colored light.

  Seeing what had happened, Ay'Roan's brothers copied his actions and went to work healing any Neflin that was not beyond help. Having seen their father use Andara's Tears to mend broken bones and drive out fevers, the brothers had an idea of what to do with the magic they had unexpectedly been given.

  Five clouds of amber-colored mist were seen moving through Lan'Fon's tree-covered expanse as the men labored to help those in need. In time, a sixth luminous cloud appeared, announcing that Kolosha had returned home, the Neflin who had accompanied the Hammer Bearer into Cara Lorn on his quest to find Andara's Tears, the same Lorn Elf who entered the haunted city as a warrior but exited the dark place as a Healer. An encounter with the dead wizard whose weeping had long ago created the tears had seen to that.

  Unlike other Neflin, Kolosha didn't carry a weapon, nor was he given to the violent tempers that plagued his kind. His passage through the deadly Lorn Fast Swamp and Cara-Lorn's wraith-riddled environs had changed him. Seeing his brother sucked to his death within the maw of a giant sloprap had set the table for the change in both his disposition and occupation. Being gripped by the evil that saturated the haunted city moved the process forward. Seeing Bala's body crushed beneath the old stone wall that had fallen on her, helpless to do anything about the little cretchym he never dreamed would become a friend, had pushed Kolosha in the direction fate was determined to take him. When Andara's spirit finally came to him, the impossible task of turning a violent Neflin into a compasionate Healer was nearly completed. All that was required to seal the deal that would result in Kolosha being given a magical tear was for him to agree to the wizard's stipulation that he set aside his weapons and the attitude that would predispose him to use them.

  In truth, Kolosha had become more like what the Lorn Elves once were before the Sorcerer came to power, a woodland people who reveled in the good things that life brought with it, gentle in disposition, dangerous to only those with evil in their hearts, magical, far-sighted, and guardians of all things that grew in the wild. As a result, instead of allowing him to be viewed as an anomally, Mar’Gul pointed to him as an example of what the Neflin could, once again, become. She proclaimed that he was a sign that Ab'Don, and his twisted ways, would not subjugate the Ar forever.

  The Oakenfel's did much good in Lan'Fon that day, even though youthful inexperience limited their knowledge of the Healing Arts. This was not surprising seeing the Prophetess was their mother and that their grandmother, Elamor, was a renowned Candle Maker. Blessed with the Powers of Intuition that rivaled the most gifted, powers that were instilled in the Oakenfel bloodline by the women Aryl and Jeaf had married, the brothers instinctively knew when to speak a word into an ear, or apply a touch of a hand to a specific part of the body, to affect a person's recovery. Their Powers of Intuition also enabled them to perfectly mimic Horbyn, Kolosha, Bacchanor, and Mar’Gul as they went about dispensing their Healing Magic, so that at the end of the day their skill in the Healing Arts had grown immensely.

  When twilight arrived only three Neflin had died from the wounds the terrible earthquake inflicted on the village of Lan'Fon. A fourth was in the process of succumbing to their wounds, an elderly female who had been pierced through the chest by a lance-sized splinter thrown out as one of the giant Lorn Firs crashed to the ground.

  When the largest of the firs struck the ground, it did so with such force that many of its branches shattered on impact, sending shards of wood flying like they were spears thrown in battle. Of all the Neflin who were struck by the deadly debris, the old woman was the only one to be mortally wounded. And as the sun finished setting, her life went with it.

  Still Horbyn, who was drawn to the female because she reminded him of his own mother who was slain by an assassin's blow to the chest, didn't quit working on her. Instead of disuading him from his task, the females's passing became a challenge he willingly accepted. And why not? He had to conquer death sometime if he was ever going to see his mother brought back to life. With Andara's Tear in hand, and with the sons of the Prophetess, who had brought the deceased back to life after the Battle of the Oak Tree, present, victory might be had.

  Bathing the woman in an unending stream of amber-colored cloud’like light his frantic breath sent her way, Horbyn
uttered one Word of Power after another as he exhausted his magical vocabulary. The pulsating illumination, bursting forth in the deepending twilight, drew the Neflin to the ensuing struggle like moths drawn to a flame. And as the Lorn Elves watched, they were surprised at the passion the Healer displayed as he stubbornly tried to save one of their ill-regarded kind. When the Oakenfels, having tended to the last of the wounded, joined Horbyn in his struggle, their surprise turned into amazement that quickly knit the Neflin's hearts to the men that a short time before had been strangers.

  "He fights for his mother," Travyn whispered to Kaylan before drew out his sword.

  "He's trying to do for the old Neflin what he wasn't able to do for her." A resolute expression showed on Kaylan's face as he stepped into the battle. Inspired by Horbyn's dogged determination, he wasn't about to let the wizard fight on by himself even if the struggle was a practice in futility.

  "And he'll fail again." Travyn, who hated the inequities fickle fate conjured up, looked as grim-faced as his brother as lifted his sword and followed Kaylan.

  Horbyn turned towards the twins like he was about to scold them for their unbelief. But instead of arguing the point of what he was doing, he barked out a terse command. "Use your swords!" He shouted out as he looked past Kaylan and Travyn to Ay'Roan and J'Aryl who had their weapons sheathed.

  Once Bacchanor said, "Go on boys... do as the man says," the brothers pulled out their blades and went over to Horbyn who directed them to point the tips of their swords at the old woman's corpse.

  "Release your breath together," he ordered. And when the Oakenfels did, the combined light cast from the amber-colored clouds they sent forth lit the crowd's faces up like the forest was on fire.