by Rex Hazelton
After weathering the storm, Ay'Roan gathered his anger and began hacking at Aeroth like the Wylder was a tree he wanted to fell. Casting his training aside, the big man attacked like any good Bjork carrying a hammer would, though he carried a sword and not a seafarer's weapon. But that didn't matter since Vlad'War's Magic gave his blade the strength of a Bjorkian hammer.
Casting his long knife aside, Ay'Roan used both hands to swing his sword. As large as he was, the measure of Vlad'War's power that reinforced his strength made him an indomitable force to contend with. Not caring if he used the sophisticated moves favored by Nyeg Warl's swordmasters, or if he exhibited the exotic fluidity of the elves of Forest Deep, Ay'Roan pummeled his adversary with a savagery that the Ar Warlers didn't think the Nyeg Warlers possessed.
When Aeroth lifted his blades to block a blow that was accompanied by Ay'Roan's snarling shout, the heavily notched Death Blades finally succumbed to the relentless attack and shattered in the midst of an intense burst of blue light. And as the shards of steel flew through the air, Ay'Roan rushed forward and knocked the Wylder to the ground.
A moment later, the fight was over and Aeroth lay pinned beneath his foe's boot, while the sharp point of Ay'Roan's sword was pressed against the side of the Wylder's face.
"Yield," Ay'Roan bellowed as the long braids that fell down the side of his head swayed with the force of his command.
Holding two ruined swords in his hands that now looked like misshapen daggers, Aeroth leered at the large man who towered over him and spat out, "If I was where you now stand, I wouldn't give you an opportunity to yield."
"Well, I'm here and you're on the ground." Ay'Roan looked at the crowd trying to catch the Brie'Shens' mood. After exhaling the breath he had been holding, he said, "And I have no wish to kill another Fane J'Shrym."
"Boy," Aeroth's voice was filled with disdain in spite of the threatening sword tip that pressed against his face, "I'm a full blood. If my ciphering is correct, you're only a quarter Fane J'Shrym. We're not your people as you suppose. So kill me and leave us alone. We've suffered enough at the hands of your kind."
Not put off by Aeroth's caustic remarks, Ay'Roan replied, "My grandfather is from Clan Wyldstone, so is my father."
"The grandfather you're so proud of killed a Fane J'Shrym, why not you?" Aeroth's bitterness had to be vented.
"My grandfather only killed a Fane J'Shrym because he was compelled to do so, just like you forced me into this pointless duel. But that's not what he wanted. Nor I."
Ay'Roan looked around at the crowd again, and added, "I am Fane J'Shrym. So are my brothers."
Taking this as his cue, J'Aryl stepped out of the crowd, unsheathed his sword. Lifting it up, he proclaimed, "Hear me brothers, not only am I a Fane J'Shrym, I'm also the son of the Prophetess who learned to sing the Song of Breaking."
When this declaration was made, the sword J'Aryl held aloft came alive with radiant blue light that fell on a face that was a masculine version of the mother he spoke of. Hair as black as ravens' feathers and wavy as a lively ocean, framed an oval-shaped face whose skin was lightly bronzed. Wide set, dark brown-colored eyes that had a touch of red in them were positioned above a well-shaped nose and a mouth whose full lips were appealing to the young women who stood nearby.
Until that moment, Ay'Roan didn't realize how much his brother looked like their mother. Even his expression was like her's. The curls that lay upon J'Aryl's head, was the only difference that could be found.
"Aeroth, stop your foolishness and yield!" The light shining off of his up-raised sword gave J'Aryl the gravitas to speak the way he did to the Wylder without offending the Brie'Shen. "I grieve over your father's death, as well as my own grandfather's passing. My grief is deepened when I think that both untimely deaths could have been avoided. Let's learn from that mistake and stop the infighting. Let go of hatred. What does such a thing matter to a dead man? And indeed you are dead, buried beneath the sole of my brother's boot.
"Your old life is over with all of its sweetness and bitterness. A new life awaits that could change the course your people have taken. For like you, the Brie'Shen are dead and have been so for a long time now. Can't you see, the rocks you've used to build your village with are actually your grave stones, for Ab'Don's hatred has buried you here.
“And what gave birth to his hatred? It was the inevitable conclusion to a decision the warl's people made a long time ago when they blamed the Fane J'Shrym for letting the Age of Star's Blood fail. Fueled by this blame, the kingdoms of men rendered judgement against the guilty ones and stripped their name away, along with all the prophecies that were ascribed to it."
J'Aryl's countenance was awash with the sword's blue light. "But let's not quibble over spilled milk," he said, emboldened by the presence of Vlad'War's Magic. "All of you here are as dead as your Wylder. You just don't know it.
"Still, death doesn't have to be your final portion. There is another choice: Resurrection.
"So choose life Aeroth and you will be raised out of the grave that the Brie'Shen have been consigned to. Cast off your surname, for Brie'Shen is a dead name for a dead people, and become a Fane J'Shrym like your forefathers once were. No longer cling to Aeroth Brie'Shen. Become Aeroth Fane J'Shrym instead, the first of your people to rise from the dead. If you do, the generations to follow will call you Vlad'Aeroth the Trail Blazer who brought the Fane J'Shrym back to life, a life the Sorcerer fears can chase away the darkness he so loves. All you have to do is yield and give up the bitter past that holds you captive.
"What say you Wylder?"
The torchlight bowed before Aryl's brilliant sword whose brightness illuminated the crowd's faces. Stunned by the boldness the young man spoke with, the people looked to Aeroth, hoping he would yield. For the words they heard burned as brightly within their souls as the sword's light did upon their faces. The son of the Prophetess, who had learned to sing the Song of Breaking, had spoken. His words had chased away their fear and shame, at least for this night and maybe only in this village. But if Aeroth would yield, if he chose to leave his old life behind, who knows... maybe the young man's magic would remain? Maybe it would flow out to the other Brie'Shen villages and sweep their fear and shame away too? Maybe?
The clatter of broken steel falling onto the rocky ground was heard as Aeroth let his weapons fall from his hands, for the Death Blades had died too. Then he spoke. As he did, Ay'Roan lifted his sword's tip a hand's width above Aeroth's face.
"As the Wylder, I'm oath bound to watch out for the Clans interests. That's what I thought I was doing when I callenged this man to a duel. But I wasn't. I know that now. Maybe the sword's strange light made me see this? Maybe, knowing I'm going to die has given me a new perspective on things? Nevertheless, the boy's words have made me reconsider things. So has the Big Man, who fought for his father as hard as I did for mine. I like that. Truly, he is no coward.
"The brothers say they want to be Fane J'Shrym. Well, let's let them. But unless more Fane J'Shrym appear, I fear they'll be standing alone when they confront the Sorcerer. And I ask you, how can five men, four brothers and their imprisoned father, complete what prophecy says the Fane J'Shrym will do? So, I yield, making the Fane J'Shrym six in number."
When the moment passed, Aeroth found that he felt at peace with his decision. Why not, he thought. I'm as good as dead with Ay'Roan's sword hanging over my head. Why not accept the offer? Then when I do die, and it will probably be sooner than later, I'll die a Fane J'Shrym. My father would like that. A wry smile crossed the Wylder's face as he thought about his irrepressible progenitor. Yes, Garyth would like that very much.
Casting aside his reverie, Aeroth spoke to the others. "Will you join me?" His voice was firm. "If you do, no one in this village will ever be called Brie'Shen again. Here, we will be called Fane'J'Shrym. And if the Sorcerer doesn't like it, he can be thrown into the Fires of Darkness. Besides, what other options are there? Mar’Gul says that a war will break out when the Nyeg an
d the Ar collide, a war that, if she is right, the Fane J'Shrym will play a part in. One way or another, we're going to have a fight on our hands."
All went silent. Only the gentle flapping sounds made by the the torches' flames were heard as each was lost in their thoughts, profound thoughts that tried to fathom the paradigm shift Aeroth's words had put into motion.
Then the Wylder's voice was heard again. "Big Man," he drolly said, "didn't you hear me? I yield. You can let me up now."
"Oh... right." Ay'Roan looked emabarrassed that he had forgotten to take his boot off of Aeroth's throat.
When Ay'Roan sheathed his sword and stepped back, Aeroth pushed himself up to a sitting position and grunted as he gingerly placed his hand on his bleeding chest.
Poroth came and knelt by his father. Mar’Gul followed.
"Vlad'Aeroth," Bacchanor offered the Wylder a hand up, "if you will?"
When the two men's hands clasped, the light on J'Aryl's sword went out and the people pressed in to pat Vlad'Aeroth on his shoulders, but not on his back or chest that were in need of healing.
Chapter 25: Prelude to a Wedding
The duel didn't put an end to the gathering. On the contrary, it heightened the people's interest in the proceedings. Soon, they were asking Mar’Gul to speak. They needed to know what had happened. What did it mean to be called Fane J'Shrym and no longer Brie'Shen? They wanted to hear more about Vlad'War and the Hammer of Power. They wanted to know more about J'Aryl and Ay'Roan and the man they wanted to set free.
It was the most attentive audience that Mar’Gul had ever addressed. Taking advantage of the receptive atmosphere, the great lady spoke as she had never done before, not during the annual Rites of Passage where she gave prophecies pertaining to the immediate future, nor after the days that Ab'Don had attempted to drown the Brie'Shen in a sea of blood.
"When the Hammer is found,
The eagle will soar, the lion roar,
And grapes will grow on the vine.
When the Hammer sounds,
The breach will mend, the darkness bend,
And the children will run to the sign."
The Mar'Gul recited a part of the Prophecy of the Hammer Bearer that her predecessor had taught her in the cave where Pearl was unknowingly being groomed to take the old woman's place.
Using this verse as a platform, Mar’Gul launched her story like it was a stone being catapaulted over a fortress wall. Withholding nothing, she told the tale of how she met Jeaf Oakenfel beneath the Guardians' watchful gaze- the twin peaks that rose up in the Black Mountains' heights east of the remote village of Skarabasta. Mar’Gul shared all she had learned about the man she accompanied to the haunted city of Cara Lorn, and then to the Warl of the Dead where she met Vlad'War in person. Shloman the Great, who ruled as the Age of Star's Blood reached its zentih, was there too. Both men were numbered among the most famous Fane J'Shrym to have ever lived.
Mar’Gul was mindful to explain the painful history that led Aeroth to challenge Ay'Roan to a duel. She told about her mother's love for Jeaf's father, though Aryl only thought of Sari as his best friend until the night of their, from his perspective, inexplicable intimacy. She told the people about Sari's pregnancy, how her mother died while giving birth to her, and about the fued that erupted between the Wyldwise and Wyldstone clans because of the misconception that her mother had been raped, a misconception that Sari's death kept her from rectifying. Neither could Aryl correct the record since he was both ignorant of Sari's pregnancy and was living in far off Nyeg Warl.
It was important that Mar’Gul remove the last vistages of rancor that the Fane J'Shrym might still harbor against Aryl Oakenfel. After all, he was the father of the Hammer Bearer, the one that prophecy said would lead the reviled people into battle against Ab'Don and his merciless hordes. The foolishness had to end, so the great woman told the audience about the reunion she had with her parents after entering the Warl of the Dead. Mar’Gul explained all that Sari and Aryl had told her, including the belief that Jeaf Oakenfel and the Fane J'Shrym had to unite for there to be any hope that the Sorcerer could be defeated.
Included in the narrative, was the story of how her meeting with the wizard Andara in Cara Lorn had led to her to becoming the newest Mar'Gul. Now was not the time to be secretive, not when the people she addressed were being asked to risk their lives to free Jeaf Oakenfel from the prison Ab'Don had consigned him to. They needed to hear a full acount of all that had transpired if they were going to build up the courage they would need to face the darkness they were being asked to enter. For the Fane J'Shrym who had survived the Sorcerer's murderous intentions were few in number; a fact that could cause them to doubt their importance in the unfolding drama.
"These that sit in your midst are the sons of the Prophetess who has learned to sing the Song of Breaking." Mar’Gul spoke about her nephews and the part they had to fulfill in the desperate days the Fane J'Shrym found themselves living in. "She is the Storm that has given birth to the Four Winds who will go forth and gather the Fane J'Shrym and lead them into battle against the Sorcerer.
"And why are we scattered? Because the people the Warl's Magic has asked us to wrestle out of the Ab'Don's grasp have cast us aside. More than that, they have disdained our very existence, confident that their rejection was based on sound reasoning since history says we were the ones who let the Age of Star's Blood fail.
“Taking advantage of the void our rejection created, Ab’Don and his followers rose up and declared themselves to be the embodiment of the ideals that the Fane J'Shrym, like Vlad'War, once espoused, though their interpretation of those ideals is skewed to match their own avaricious natures. As such, they proclaimed that they were the true Fane J'Shrym who would usher in the glorious age of Parm Warl that prophecy said would one day appear."
"I don't get it." Poroth ran a hand through a black head of hair as he spoke. "We're supposed to fight for people who despise us so much that they have separated us from our own fathers and the prophecies they uttered. I'd say the Warl's Magic has a strange sense of humor."
The lone braid that hung down Mar’Gul's back swung about as she scanned the audience. Dressed in black leathers, she still looked much as she did when she made a living as a sword for hire, back when people called her Black Pearl. Except for the faint scarring that the dark sorcerer, Drak, was responsible for putting on her face on the day she entered the haunted city of Cara Lorn, the great lady was lovely to behold. Auburn-colored hair framed an oval-shaped face that held eyes as green emeralds in place. A pronounced nose, that gave her an air of authority, sat above a mouth that retained the fullness of youth. If war was about to erupt, Mar’Gul looked like she could handle anything it had to offer. That's why the people listened to her as intently as they did.
"The Warl's Magic is not a trickster as you suggest," Mar’Gul said in repsonse to Poroth's words. "It wants all to know that it is faithful to those it chooses."
"I still don't understand." Though intelligent, Poroth was a man of action and not a philosopher.
Being a person of action herself, the woman who was once called Pearl smiled over the irony that she would be the one to explain things to Poroth. Still as Mar’Gul, she had inherited the memories of all of her predecessors and bits of their personalities too. That's why she could don the mantle of philosopher and teacher so easily.
"Simply stated," Mar’Gul continued to smile over the irony of her situation, "the Warl's Magic plans to use the Fane J'Shrym's plight to prove its gifts are irrivocably given. When it restores the Fane J'Shrym to a place of prophetic importance before the eyes of those who thought we had been permanently removed from such, due to our past failures, all will learn that the potential each is born with is ever available to them in spite of the mistakes they have made or the hardships they've had to endure.
"Therefore, if we can rise out of the barrow that rejection has buried us in," Mar’Gul was no longer smiling, "and live the lives the Warl's Magic has always wante
d us to, then others can be resurrected out of their unhappy estate too."
"That's why Vlad'War made the Hammer of Power," Bacchanor interjected with the robust demeanor he was known for. Broad of shoulder, with a full head of brown, curly hair and a beard to match, the wizard exuded the kind of rock solid strength that castles were built on. As firm a foundation as could be found in the warl, he was the perfect compliment to Mar’Gul's striking personality. If she were royalty, he was the throne she sat upon.
"As a wizard of great renown, and a prophet who had few peers, Vlad'War foresaw the fall of the Fane J'Shrym and the coming darkness that would rush in to fill the void they left behind, a void that he believed only his descendents could refill if the darkness was to be displaced.
"He also saw all what the fall would do to the Fane J'Shrym, how it would threaten to utterly destroy them. So, he gave birth to a Child, made of silver and wood that was filled with his accumulated power, in hopes that his magic could help his weakened people rise above the malaise of hopelessnes that the darkness heaped on them and regain their former glory."
"So," Poroth correctly concluded, "you're saying the Hammer of Power has been given to one of our own because we have become the least of all the people?"
"Precisely," Bacchanor smiled broadly over the astute reply, "Vlad'War knew how insignificant the Fane J'Shrym would become, how our numbers would dwindle, and our strength wane. But he also knew the good intentions the Warl's Magic had for us because of the relationship it once had with our forefathers, how it wanted to make the inconsequential matter, to raise the lowly up so that all the oppressed would take hope from the miracle they beheld."
Aeroth groaned as he leaned on those he had asked to help him stand. "It seems that I now like all that I'm hearing." The Wylder looked naked without the twin hilts of the Death Blades rising above his shoulders. "Still, not wanting to be more of a problem than I've already been this evening, I would like to venture a question."
