Vlad'War's Anvil

by Rex Hazelton

  Seeing that Aeroth was sincere, and was not wanting to be contrary just for the sake of his wounded pride, Bacchanor replied, "Please Vlad'Aeroth, feel free to ask."

  "Do all prophecies come to pass?" Frowning as he gathered his thoughts, the Wylder went on to explain. "I know that not all the prophecies are true. We have seen false prophets and heard the things their active imaginations have come up with. Whether their fabrications were attempts to gain attention, influence, wealth, or who knows what, I can't say. But my question is not aimed at things false. It's aimed at those things that are believed to be true."

  Frowning once again, but this time over the pain he felt coming from his wounds, Vlad’Aeroth paused before adding, "Do real prophecies ever fail to come to pass?"

  Running his fingers through his thick, curly beard, Bacchanor pondered his response aware that it would profoundly impact the listeners. But the Brown Wizard wasn't a mother trying to coax her children into swallowing the medicine she had poured into a spoon, he was a warrior trying to rally others to come fight a fight that many would not survive. In times like these Bacchanor had learned that using the undiluted truth was the best way to do this.

  "Yes." Bacchanor replied. "Prophecy is never uniquivocally guaranteed. Rather it is an invitation given to those who who are called to fulfill its pronouncements. It's meant to encourage those who would never dream things as great as the prophecies portend, to take the risks that are needed for the utterances to come to pass.

  "The prophecies, that tell us how the Fane J'Shrym will bring an end to the Sorcerer's rule, are certainly true, if all who are given the invitation accept it. Let's say, the Hammer Bearer were to shirk his duty, another may not be found in time to take his place. In like fashion, the Fane J'Shrym are the only ones who can fufill their role in the prophetic scheme of things. That's why Ab'Don has attacked you so.

  "But keep in mind, the prophetic possibilities come with powerful signs. And there are more than a few of these for us to consider. The Hammer of Power has revealed itself; the Prophetess has learned to sing the Song of Breaking; the living have journeyed to the Warl of the Dead and returned alive; the Four Winds have come to Ar Warl to gather the Fane J'Shrym, carrying talisman’s filled with Vlad’War and Andara’s maigc; the Ar and the Nyeg march steadily towards one another as the unending earthquakes attest to; and, as we all know, the Brie'Shen now call themselves Fane J'Shrym."

  "Only one village does." Weariness filled Vlad’Aeroth's words.

  "One village, one rain drop, one word... others will follow."

  "But doesn't the Sorcerer have prophets too?" The Wylder wanted to thoroughly examine the subject.

  "Yes," Bacchanor replied. "But their words are as twisted as the souls they carry inside them. Still, their utterances will come to pass if no other options are offered. So what say you Vlad'Aeroth? Will you offer an option?"

  "I must admit," a wry smile accompanied the Wylder's reply, "I'm moved by your words. But one thing is lacking."

  "What's that?"

  "Those who claim to be Fane J'Shrym, and because of that claim are asking my people to follow them, the ones you say are the Four Winds, are far removed from the trunk they say they have come from. They're not even a branch on a branch that is rooted in the trunk. They are removed one generation further. And that will not do if they wish to gather the Fane J'Srym, as prophecy says they will, and lead them into battle. They must be seen as Fane J'Shrym entirely."

  Knowing the Fane J'Shrym way of thinking, Mar’Gul asked a question as loaded as a bow with an arrow nocked to its taut string, a bow that Vlad’Aeroth held firmly in his hand. "What do you propose?"

  "Why, a wedding of course!" Vlad’Aeroth's wry smile broadened. "If the Fane J'Shrym are being asked to join ourselves to the Oakenfels' fate, shouldn't the Oakenfels be asked to do the same? As the Wylder, I promise that I will march on Chylgroyd's Keep to free Jeaf Oakenfel, but I will only do this if Ay'Roan agrees to accept one of our daughters’ hand in marriage. Then, and only then, can he and his bothers call themselves Fane J'Shrym without offending the trunk their grandfather sprung from."

  Smiling a smile that had more than a touch of satisfaction in it, for Vlad’Aeroth was turning the tables on the one who had defeated him in battle, the Wylder asked his question with the same degree of exuberance Bacchanor earlier displayed when he posed a query to him. "What say you Ay'Roan?"

  Looking to his aunt for help, Ay'Roan's eyes grew large as Mar’Gul nodded her head acknowledging her cousin's request. This was a reasonable demand that history gave precedent to.

  Then he turned to Bacchanor, who looked like he was stifling a desire to laugh out loud, turned his palms up and shrugged his shoulders, knowing he was asking for help that wasn't going to be given. Ay'Roan's defenseless look was too much for the Brown Wizard to handle. Laughter soon erupted, first from Bacchanor, then from Vlad'Aeroth, then from the delighted audience. Only J'Aryl remained quiet, hoping his presence would remain unnoticed since he had no desire to get married anytime soon.

  Before long, seeing the humor in his predicament, Ay'Roan joined in with those who were laughing, even though he recognized the proposed wedding was a serious matter he wouldn't be able to avoid. And in the moment he laughed, Ay'Roan became a Fane J'Shrym indeed, for his heart was being knit to the people his mind had already accepted.

  Burn it to ashes, Ay'Roan said to himself as he quickly calculatd the cost of his sacrifice. And the first thing that came to mind was the thought of how much fun Lowen would have with all of this. It was certain that Ay'Roan would become the brunt of many a seafarer's joke.

  Swallowing his pride, that was trying to rise up to protest the advantage that was being handed to his Bjorkian friend, Ay'Roan stopped laughing long enough to say, "Ah Vlad'Aeroth, it seems that doubt has been cast on who really won our fight, since it's clear that I'm not the one dictating the terms of surrender."

  "You're wrong boy," Vlad'Aeroth replied with an ease that mirrored the calmness he felt. "You're the victor, but I'm the Wylder. As such, I say the marriage is necessary if an alliance is to be forged and the past forgotten."

  "Sir, your logic doesn't escape me." Ay'Roan stepped over to take Vlad'Aeroth's hand as he added, "Therefore, I agree to the marriage, though I ask to have a say in who I'm required to wed."

  "That's a battle you'll not win," Mar’Gul told Ay'Roan as she went and helped her cousin sit back down, proud of the way he was conducting himself in such a delicate situation. He could have easily chosen to spite her nephew and force the young man to kill him at the end of the fight. If that had happened, Aroeth would have won the duel more decisvely than if he had skewered Ay'Roan with one of his Death Blades. "We have traditions that must be followed. And when alliances are made, an Elder's daughter must be sacrificed, though I hope you prove to be the kind of husband that will inspire the maiden to not think of her wedding as a sacrifice. And since you are my nephew, I will take it as personal affront if you fail to inspire your wife."

  Ay'Roan wondered whether it was Black Pearl or Mar’Gul who was speaking to him. In the end, with all he had learned about both his aunt's former life as a sell sword and the history of how Mar’Guls harshly chastised those who crossed them, he figured it didn't matter.

  The next morning, when the mists were their heaviest, Vlad'Aeroth approached Ay'Roan, who was seated with a handful of Neflin, his brother, his aunt, and Bacchanor around a cooking fire they were using to warm themselves. "The choice has been made," the Wylder quietly said as he turned and called the maiden forward with an out-stretched arm. The Healing J'Aryl had adminstered with his sword the previous night had worked wonders. Vlad'Aeroth's wounds had mended to the point that much of his flexibility had already been regained.

  First, a man as big as Ay'Roan stepped out of the fog and looked at him with an unsettling gaze. This was Elder Davyn, who was obviously destined to become the young man's father-in-law, and as propsective fathers-in-law are wont to do, he was app
raising his future son-in-law with a critical eye that warned the young man he better be careful how he treated his precious daughter. He was a rudy man, with a mane of unruly red hair, a beard to match, and eyes as green as Mar’Gul's. As big as he was, he could, no doubt, back up the threat that his penetrating gaze conveyed.

  Staring into the vaporous ground cover, Ay'Roan struggled to see the maiden that was following the man. But no one was there. Still Vlad'Aeroth and Davyn didn't move. The approaching bride was apparently in no a hurry to meet her husband to be. This gave Ay'Roan a fool's hope that the wedding might be averted if the maiden was too distraught to comply with the clans' demand. Maybe the wedding could be postponed until later, and later could make all the difference.

  But this wasn't going to happen. The reticence the maiden felt over her predicament wasn't great enough to keep her from stepping forward. After an intolerably long pause, as far as Ay'Roan was concerned, a figure appeared in the fog, moving forward with gracefully resolute steps. A tall figure that kept its head held high. And with a swirl of vapors that parted for the apporaching maiden, Ay'Roan's bride appeared.

  As tall as Dolfin was, the Candle Maker whose fighting skills had earned her the job of protecting the Prophetess, the maiden looked no less imposing than Muriel's warrior-companion was. With hair as red and thick as her father's, but lacking the level of unruliness his had, her skin was the color of star's blood- golden with a hint of crimson- and her eyes were as pale blue as a sun-drenched sky. A darker shade of gold, the sprinkling of tiny freckles that spred across her cheeks accented her eyes. The contrast between the dark red hair and the pale blue eyes was striking and added to the weight of the appraisng gaze she used to size Ay'Roan up like she was thinking of challenging him to a duel. If that were to happen, her lean, muscular build suggested she would fair well in the contest.

  Wearing a green tunic, with dark brown boots and leggings, she exuded an ambiance similar to the one Mar’Gul possessed. A typical female she was not, though her shapely hips and well-formed breasts would suggest otherwise. She was something else, and to Ay'Roan's surprise that something else had piqued his interest.

  Having settled on the idea that he would be harnessed to the kind of woman who was comfortable around a cooking fire, one who would be good with children, which was a delightful propsect in itself, Ay'Roan was pleasantly surprised to see someone who could stand shoulder to shoulder with his mother and grandmother step forward.

  "If you recall," the maiden's father spoke in firm tones, "My name is Davyn. We met last night." A look of pride filled the big man's eyes as he called the young woman forward. "And this is my daughter, Deyvara. She'll be your wife. But before I allow you to speak to her, I am duty bound to warn you. I don't care how tough your hide is," Davyn was refering to the Death Blades difficulty in cutting Ay'Roan's flesh, "I will skin you alive if your mistreat her. So, I suggest you familairize yourself with the list of things I'll not abide."

  "Sir," Ay'Roan turned his eyes to Davyn though his thoughts remained with Deyvara, "if I mistreat your daughter, I would have to answer to my mother, and I assure you, I'd rather face Ab'Don himself than disappoint the woman who raised me. If there is one thing my brothers and I learned from her, it is to give respect to all women, especially to our wives. She wouldn't tolerate anything less.

  "Well then, Davyn rubbed his unruly beard in thought, "the Prophetess is blessed with more than magic, I see. She's blessed with wisdom too."

  "Wisdom forged in the Cave of Forgetfulness' merciless fires," Bacchanor said to no one in particular.

  Taking Deyvara by the hand, Davyn passed her on to Ay'Roan along with the following instructions, "You may take her for a walk, but you must stay in sight of her mother who will be accompanying you from a distance. Spend the whole morning together if you like, for it won’t do for you to be complete strangers when you exchange marriage vows tonight."

  Taking Deyvara's hand in his own, Ay'Roan bent and kissed it gently like he had seen noblemen do when greeting a woman they had taken an interest in. Then he let it drop, figuring a woman like Deyvara wouldn't want to be coddled. And he was right. The only man Deyvara had ever held hands with was her father, and that hadn't happened for a long time now.

  Clasping their hands behind their backs, the two young people set off in the direction their whim chose. In time, they were talking about hunting trips each had frequented and laughing over the humorous stories such endeavors gave rise to. Like the time Ay'Roan and Lowen had followed what they thought was a boar through the thick brush growing between the trees that surrounded the Bjorkian city of Thundyrkynd when it turned out to be a large dog that eventually came up to them wagging its tail, hoping they would feed him since its search for rabbits had proven fruitless.

  The pathway Ay'Roan and Deyvara chose to get to know one another was paved with a mix of humility and courage. Though both were fiercely proud, each wisely decided, due to the haste with which they were being thrown together, that they better clue each other into some of their weaknesses. This was done sparringly at first, with just enough disclosure to encourage the other to let their guard down and reveal more. After doing this for a while, the two balanced their confessions out with some light-hearted boasting that soon turned into a game of oneupmanship that escalated to a point that was so ridiculous that the two burst out laughing over the extent they had gone to in trying to best the other.

  As it turned out, Deyvara was chosen to be Ay'Roan's wife because she was a skilled huntress. Able to whip up a meal that could satisfy a hunting party, when it was her turn to cook, none of her offerings would do as a feast day's fare. But Vlad'Aeroth and the other elders didn't think that this was as important as her expertise with the bow and arrow. They predicated their thinking on the things Bacchanor told them about Muriel Oakenfel's mother, Mara. Hearing that she was a huntress of renown who died protecting her husband, Laz, while emptying her quiver as she tried to fight off a host of man-like creatures called river children, they were struck by how similar Deyvara was to Ay'Roan's honored ancestor. Taking into account that the threat of war was looming over them all, the similarieties prompted them to select Deyvara to be the Son of the Storm's wife.

  Who better to ride along with the Wind that was destined to blow across the Warl of the Brie'Shen than a woman whose fighting abilities had few peers among the clanswomen?

  Ay'Roan was surprised at how level-headed Deyvara was. She was pleased to hear that Muriel had raised her sons to treat their wives as equals. Deyvara was further pleased to learn that Ay'Roan's father modeled the behavior that Muriel espoused. Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing to be included in the Oakenfel family, even though they were Wyldstones?

  After the noon meal, the two stood talking as they waited for the village women to come and take Deyvara away to get her ready for the wedding. As the women approached, Deyvara reached out and gently took hold of Ay'Roan's hand. Once she was ushered off, Ay'Roan went to meet the elders who would verse him on Fane J'Shrym family life and the duties they expected a husband to fulfill. With all that was said, as the elders mentored him, Ay'Roan was struck most by the thought that the wedding was not complete until the union was consumated in the bedroom.

  As large as he was, with all of his charming bravado and the courage that backed this up, Ay'Roan had never seen a female completely disrobed. Sure, there were plenty of women who had thrown themselves at him. Many of these made certain he saw their ample cleavage and little too much of their legs, but he had never taken the bait, nor had he tried to impose himself on some beauty. But now, the hook had been set and Ay’Roan was being pulled ashore. And in a single day's time, he had moved from courtship, to being engaged, to exchanging wedding vows, and then being thrown into a bedroom with a woman he hardly knew while the whole village, who expected him to carry out his husbandly obligation, waited outside for confirmation that the deed had been done.

  The thought of being with Deyvara was both thrilling and frightening. Did
he really know what to do? After all, the seafarer's jokes weren't really all that helpful on the matter. Fortunately, Bacchanor came to the rescue when Ay'Roan and J'Aryl were finally left alone. Taking Jeaf's place, he told the boys things Ay'Roan needed to know so he could please his wife during the tender moment when the two would become one.

  The brothers listened to the shape-shifting wizard with rapt attention, each thinking there was as much magic in what they were now being told than anything they had learned at the School of the Candle.

  ****

  Due to time constraints, the wedding was a simple one. Deyvara's mother, Grayce, unpacked the canopy she and Davyn stood beneath on their wedding day. One of the taller women lent Deyvara her wedding dress. Lengthening the hem with a ribbon four fingers wide was all that was needed to make the garment fit. A garland of flowers was woven for the bride. Their yellow exuberance went well with the green dress.

  Ay'Roan wore Davyn's wedding tunic that fit him like a glove. Thankfully his father-in-law was leaner when he was young. Cream-colored, it was adorned with the same golden stars that decorated the wedding canopy's blue expanse. Wedding slippers were provided by others in the village, though Ay'Roan's were uncomfortably snug.

  Deyvara's long, red hair was placed into a large, loose braid. A single thin braid, falling in front of her right ear, was set in place to honor her husband who wore similar braids on either side of his head. Her pale blue eyes were lined with green that matched her dress in coloring.

  Ay'Roan had the star's blood ring he wore on his little finger, as a reminder of the vow he gave his mother that he would save himself for his wife, resized for Deyvara. In turn, he would receive a ring made of cleverly braided leather that a villager spent the whole day making, whistling as he did.

  The ceremony was conducted in the middle of the village's lone street. Other avenues that led to people's homes were no more than footpaths. A dais was hastily erected with slabs of loose rock, wide enough to accommodate the canopy that was erected above the stone platform.