Vlad'War's Anvil

by Rex Hazelton

  On Bala flew, snaking her way through the dense collection of evergreens and deciduous trees, careful to keep the length of rope from being entangled in the passing branches. On came the frenzied predator, darting between the trees as adroitly as a bat chasing an insect. This way and that way he went, changing directions so quickly that one might think the image of the cave-dwelling creature wasn't a metaphor at all.

  Seeing her pursuer closing the gap between them, Bala wondered if it would be better to rise above the tree tops and rely on speed alone. After she was jolted off balance by the trailing rope as it barely escaped being entangled in a tree's leafy grasp, Bala turned her thoughts to devising a plan on how she would fight the winged-monster off once he did catch her, and the tug itself, that felt like it nearly crushed her windpipe, gave her an idea on how she would do this.

  The next painful tug Bala felt helped solidify the idea, turning it into a plan she was determined to implement, since the tug had come from the tall cretchym who momentarily got a hold of the rope.

  Grabbing the trailing tether as she flew, risking losing speed as she did, Bala reeled the enumbrance in and rolled it into a ball as she looked for the right tree to hatch her plan in.

  Carrying the rope as she was, holding it to her chest like it was a load of wash, the right tree needed to appear soon since her speed had noticeably decreased.

  Then Bala saw what she was looking for, an old oak tree whose array of branches would give her an advantage as her small frame wound through the serpentine appendages.

  Passing inside the reach of the old oak's countless gnarled fingers, Bala changed directions and began working her way up into the tree past the thicker branches and on to where their size diminished as their numbers increased.

  Landing with her back against one the branches that were strong enough to hold her steady, the petite cretchym took what little time she had left before her pursuer was upon her to wrangle her way out of the noose that squeezed about her neck.

  Watching the black-winged vermin land on the oak tree's larger, lower branches and then crawl upward, forcing his way past the smaller appendages that stood in his way, Bala steeled herself to carry out her risky plan.

  When the tall cretchym was positioned directly beneath Bala, instead of wrestling his way onto the same branch she was on, he reached up, grabbed her by the leg, and pulled her off her feet.

  Calculating that something like this was included in the variables that came wth her plan, Bala didn't resist being extracted from her perch. Rather, using the inertia that being yanked downward with such force generated, she threw herself at the monster's black, bony face.

  Catching her assailant off guard, the unexpected aggression dislodged Bala out of the cretchym's grasp as she pummeled him with her feet and flailing arms. Unbeknownst to the winged-monster, the flailing was a well orchestrated move and not the chaotic thrashings of a terrified victim, for in the midst of the frantic display, before the larger cretchym had time to assert his size advantage, Bala slipped the noose over his bony head and around his neck.

  Then, quicker than water pours out of a spout, she braced her feet on the assailant's chest and pulled the noose as tight as she could. An instant later, she used her legs to shove away from the cretchym, who was reaching for the rope that was throttling his throat, and leap to the branch she had been pulled from. Then she jumped to another branch that was higher up with the rope held in her hand. Letting it slide through her grasp in a proscribed manner, Bala was able to distance herself from her assailant while avoiding slack developing in the rope. The taut tether gave her a measure of control she needed to complete her daring manuever.

  Struggling to loosen the noose, tightened about his neck by the constant pressure Bala's pulling exerted, the tall cretchym finally gave up on the futile endeavor and set off after his prey with the thought that closing the distance between him and his prize would create slack in the rope. But no matter how hard he tried to force his way through the maze of branches that increased in number the higher he went, the black-winged fiend couldn't get close enough to the female to make a difference. Bala was too fast. So, he grabbed the rope and gave it a hard pull determined to yank the diminutive cretchym down into his waiting hands.

  Anticipating this, Bala had already looped the rope around a branch that absorbed the force of the violent tug. After bracing her feet on the branch the tether was wrapped around, she cinched the rope up like she was tightening the belly strap on a saddle and then reached up and tied the rope's frayed end around another branch she hoped didn't have too much give to it.

  With nothing else left to do, Bala scurried up through the tree's outer canopy of leaves and took to the air. If she was lucky, the tall cretchym would have a difficult time dislodging himself from the branches her clever plan had entangled him in, giving her the time she needed to escape. With this thought in mind, Bala decided to use speed rather than stealth. So she raced over the tree tops and off towards Gore's Gap and the Lorn Forest that lay on the other side of the treeless expanse.

  As Bala approached the edge of Mishal Forest's outer edge, and Gore's Gap's grasslands began to fill the horizon, a loud THUMP was heard that sounded like a drum as big as a mountain had been struck just one time. Turning to look for the sound's source, Bala was startled to see a massive bubble of blue light rising above the forest like a blister had suddenly appeared on Sky Master's slopes.

  Bacchanor, her mind cried out, what have you done?

  For indeed the wizard was responsible for the brilliant explosion that Bala was afraid had consumed her friend right along with the Hag and cretchym he had been fighting. But not all of the cretchym were destroyed. A dozen black flecks were seen hurtling over the top of Mishal Forest, heading in her direction. She guessed the swarm was after her again, and no doubt, the tall cretchym had joined their ranks.

  When the blister of blue light faded, and then disappeared, the radiant backdrop that made the cretchym visible from a distance went with it. Well before this happened, while the explosion of light still remained, Bala was already speeding off towards Gore's Gap once again.

  Upon reaching the gently rolling expanse, Bala dropped down to the plain’s surface and skimmed along the top of the grass that grew there. Green upon green, with a smattering of black thrown in, the petite cretchym reckoned it would be nearly impossible to see her here. Still, she turned eastward so she could enter the Lorn Forest at a place her assailants wouldn’t expect, hoping to reach the Warl of the Neflin before fatigue caught up with her and her former captors reclaimed her.

  ****

  Bala had been correct in assuming Bacchanor was responsible for the outrageous release of power she had witnessed.

  All alone, confronted by a host of Hag and cretchym, the Brown Wizard, now in the form of a winged-lion, fought as fiercely as any griffin would. Buttresed by the measure of Vlad'War's Magic that Jeaf Oakenfel had bestowed upon him as he shared the Hammer of Power's might at the Battle of the Cave of Forgetfulness, Bacchanor endured the cretchym's razor-sharp blades without sustaining a mortal wound. Still, he had lost blood and strength with it. It was only a matter of time before he would become vulnerable to the Hag and the huge, fiery hands they sent flying his way with the intention of pulverizing him.

  Standing on the very spot where the flat-faced cretchym planned on ravaging Bala, Bacchanor rose up on his hind legs, roaring as he did, and swatted the winged-demon's weapons away as best he could. Paws as big as plates, armed with claws as long as a large man's fingers and as sharp as daggers, provided a defense that was hard to breach. Only the sheer number of cretchym enabled them to inflict the noisome wounds. But these came at a great price, and soon a third of the swarm lay dead on the ground or rent so badly they were no longer able to fight.

  When the cretchym finally fell back, the Hag magic advanced in waves of huge, fiery hands that tried to obliterate the shape-shifting wizard. By twos and threes they came, wanting to pummel the savage griffin.
One after another, the winged-lion's sharp claws shredded the fiery fields of magic into pieces in a blur of motion only cats were capable of achieving. But he didn't intercept them all, not quickly enough to keep from being knocked into the ruined city's walls. Twice he was blasted through the decaying walls that, fortunately, gave way much easier than they would have when they were newly made.

  It was after one of these pummelings that Bacchanor turned and fled from the Hag's relentless onslaught. But he wasn't leaving the battle. This wasn't possible with the fiery canopy that half of the Hag had erected overhead. Unable to fly away, the shape-shifting wizard was forced to fight a fight that he would lose given time. So Bacchanor bounded off with great leaps, intermixed with gliding whenever the opportunity presented itself, as the fiery hands reached out to take hold of him. He was going to take the fight to the only place that would give him a chance to surive, the place where Vlad'War's Anvil was found.

  Feeling the magical mass of iron pulling on him, for the talisman could sense the portion of its master's power residing in the wizard, Bacchanor raced to the place he was drawn to. Never having seen the anvil before, ignorant of its location, he, nevertheless, knew Vlad'War's Anvil was calling out to him. All that the Oakenfels and Horbyn had told him about the remaking of the brothers' swords led him to this conclusion. And once he saw the partial dome-shaped structure that had been constructed to shield the Oakenfels from sight as they melded Andara's and Vlad'War's Magic together, he picked up his pace even as the walls that flanked him crumbled before the Hag sorcery that pursued him.

  Once inside the make-shift dome, Bacchanor lept on the top of the inmovable stone the anvil was affixed to and turned to face the Hag. This is where he would make his last stand. Better or for worse, the battle would end here. And if that were to happen, as the wizard intended it to, Bacchanor was determined to make the ending memorable, one that Bala, if she had escaped, would piece together so the bards had ample grist for the millstones of creativity they used to grind out tales worthy of the wizard's sacrifice.

  Keeping the giant fiery hands they wielded in check, the Hag carefully advanced on the entrenched griffin. Moving in an orderly fashion, the dark wizards surrounded the make-shift dome whose top had never been completed. The radiant canopy of Hag magic made up for this lack, as it took on its own dome shape that covered the black-robbed assailants and the defiant griffin alike.

  The cretchym wisely chose to stay outside of the fiery arena.

  In unison, the Hag sent the huge, fiery hands rushing at the griffin. Coming from every conceivable direction, Bacchanor wouldn't be able to deal with them all. Once one made it through his defenses, he would be violently thrown up against another that wouldn't crumble like the ruined city's walls had. This one, in turn, would forcefully drive Bacchanor back into the trailing hand and catch him in a press that would eventually, in spite of the help that the remnant of Vlad'War's Magic was giving him, crush the life out of him. And even if Bacchanor was able to survive being smashed to death, he would be immobilized until his strength was drained by resisting the press and the torturing began.

  But the shape-shifting wizard wasn't about to let his body become a scource of deparved entertainment. So he timed what he was about to do to coincide with the fiery hands arrival. Recalling how Jeaf struck the Hammer of Power against the ground to activate its resident magic, Bacchanor lifted a powerful paw and slammed it against Vlad'War's Anvil with all the force he could gather; roaring like it was the last sound he'd ever make as he did.

  When the Hag's sorcery collided with the magic that Vlad'War had poured into the instrument he used to conjure up the supernatural might he had learned to master, an ear-shattering explosion was heard as light overcame the darkness. Here, in the place where one of the greatest wizard's to have ever lived in the Age of Star's Blood plied his trade, how could it have been otherwise? For the anvil was the heart that refused to let hope die. And the moment that that hope was accosted, Vlad'War's fury was released at the behest of a griffin's mighty paw, and an erruption of power ensued that obliterated the Hag and swept the remaining cretchym out of Mishal Parm.

  As it turned out, the winged-demons weren't after Bala at all. Stunned into submission, they were simply fleeing from an explosion of might that had tossed them away like discarded pieces of trash. Glad to be alive, not certain they would remain so, the remaining swarm flew off with no other thought in mind than to make good their escape from the griffin's wrath.

  Chapter 24: Four Days Earlier

  The vapors that rose up out of the Lorn Fast Swamp fed the mists that perenially covered the Great Ral Mountains heights. It was as if the swamp was a campfire that had been doused with water, sending steam overhead. Refusing to succumb to one deluge, the stubborn swamp required continual dousings to keep its heat in check. Thus, it was a source of unending vapor that made the mountain range, due to its close proximity and the prevailing winds, the fog's inevitable recipient.

  As far north as the raiders were, the mists were still heavy. Even though the sun burned away as much of the fog as it could over the course of a passing day, the following night quickly replaced the mist that was lost. It was at the end of one of these nights, just before the sun rose, that J'Aryl, Ay'Roan, and those that traveled with them entered the Brie'Shen village of Shtytl, Poroth's home and the home of his father, Aeroth, the Brie'Shen Wylder.

  When they entered the village, they were clueless to the drama that was about to unfold, since Aeroth had a bone to pick with the sons of Jeaf Oakenfel. A man who carried swords people called Death Blades, because of the wielder's acumen in using them in fights he always won, Aeroth was not someone you wanted to be at odds with. Unbeknownst to the Oakenfel brothers, they were in that very predicament.

  Though Aeroth never spoke about it, he carried unremitting resentment toward the Oakenfel family over the death of his father, Garyth, who had been slain by the brothers' grandfather, Aryl, during a ritual duel the Brie'Shen called Crul Nocht. Though he never spoke of this to his cousin, who was now Mar’Gul, he had allowed it to put a chill on their relationship. After all, Pearl was Aryl Oakenfel's daughter and the reason why Garyth had challenged him to the duel that led to his death. As such, wasn't she an Oakenfel too? The chill remained in spite of the fact that Pearl was directly responsible for Aryl's death as she sat astride the mount whose hooves had mortally wounded the man she mistakenly thought was responsible for raping her mother.

  Becoming the Brie'Shen Warlord, or Wylder by title, gave Aeroth the perfect excuse to treat Mar’Gul in a perfunctory manner. The formal roles each played in the Brie'Shen community helped Mar’Gul explain away the apparent chill she felt between her and Aeroth.

  Bacchanor wasn’t fooled by this in the least. He never heard Aeroth call Pearl by her childhood name, nor did he hear him call her Cousin, for Pearl's mother was Garyth's sister, let alone Sister as he had done throughout their earlier lives.

  On the way to Shtytl, Mar’Gul had been mindful to discuss her history with her nephews. She did this because she thought it was important to inform them about the feud her birth had created between two of the Brie'Shen clans: the Wyldwises, her mother's clan, and the Wyldestones, her father's clan. Though the feud was a thing of the past now, not everyone was good at letting things go. She also brought this up to see how their father, Jeaf Oakenfel, had dealt with the subject once he returned to Nyeg Warl. Since Mar’Gul had not seen her half-brother since the day they entered the Warl of the Dead together, she didn't know. And curiousity had gotten the best of her.

  She was pleased when her nephews said their father had explained things to them in detail, and that they had always thought of her as their aunt. She wasn't pleased when they related the exchange Aeroth had with Jeaf at the time of their parting that included Aeroth threatening Jeaf with retaliation if his father died from the wounds Aryl had inflicted on him.

  As fate would have it, Garyth ended up dying and Aeoth turned his feelings inward. Now th
e Okenfels had returned to a warl that had a long memory and wasn't prone to forgive past transgressions, the Warl of the Brie'Shen, where the axiom an eye for an eye was taken seriously, especially if you were the Wylder.

  It had taken the company of raiders more than a day's ride to wind their way up into the canyon where Shtytl was found. Forced to spend the night on a trail that climbed up the side of the canyon's steep wall, worried another earthquake would come and throw them into the abyss that lay below, the company rose while it was still dark and continued their journey with little sleep tucked under their belts.

  As they entered the Brie'Shen village, draped in mist as they were, J'Aryl and Ay'Roan missed Aeroth's icy stare as he watched the brothers from the shadows. Outriders had already reported that they were on the way.

  A Wyldwise elder stepped out to greet the mixed company of Neflin, Brie'Shen, and Nyeg Warlers that had ridden into the village.

  The rest of the day was spent explaining the group's plans to village elders and catching up on lost sleep. The following night would be much different, for Aeroth had not spoken yet. Sitting quietly, listening to all that was said, he bided his time waiting for the right moment to do what he had promised Jeaf Oakenfel he would do. To him, there was no difference between the father and his sons, as there was no difference between him and Garyth. Besides, the bothers had reached manhood, no matter if it was only a few summers before, and they would have to answer for their father's actions as men were required to do.

  The village of Shtytl was comprised of a collection of low-roofed dwellings whose walls were made of large slabs of stone piled on top of one another. Branches as thick as a man's leg were used to form the roofs substructure. Thinner ones were placed cross ways on top of these. Finally, recangularly-shaped plates of stone were arranged above. Strips of leather were used to hold strategic stones in place by tying them to the branches they laid up against. These kept the rest of the plate-like slabs from sliding to the ground. But with all the earthquakes that were now a daily occurance, many of the stone slabs had broken free, leaving gaping holes in the roofs. Some of the walls had fallen down, necessitating that the lion share of each days work was spent on rebuilding the dwellings.