by Rex Hazelton
“Being a part of a raid that strikes quickly at a target in the plains and then just as quickly retreats to the wildwood concerns me little. But having to make a stand in the grasslands while being constantly exposed to archers’ arrows and the horsemen’s lances is not to my liking. That’s why I would question any prophecy asking me to lead my kin into such folly.
“The Age of Star’s Blood that men recall with fondness and pride was never good to the Broyn’Dar, and Vlad’War was never our friend. In fact, our oral history is filled with stories where our fathers had to fight the wizards who lived during the age you revere so much. This makes me wonder if this Parm Warl you speak of will treat us any differently.
“So, if you want me to walk into the plains with you, help me understand the reasons for your thinking. But as you do, don’t doubt the Broyn’Dar’s desire to fight the Sorcerer who has afflicted us so. Just question what we’re willing to do to carry the fight to Ar Warl’s fire-blasted lord.”
Bacchanor considered Arga’Dyne before he spoke. “I’m saddened to realize that in your thinking the Broyn’Dar are forced to make an alliance with a lesser evil to cast off the chains a greater one has wrapped about you. Nyeg Warl’s history with the Bro’Noon has given me reason to hope for something better in our relationship.”
Ilya’Gar’s long, well-muscled arm waved dismissively. “Bacchanor, unless the Broyn’Dar quit eating chata, your hope is unfounded. As long as my cousins remain addicted to the drug that keeps them at odds with everyone, they will never be at peace with anyone, not even themselves.”
As old as Arga’Dyne was- something his skill as a warrior had achieved, for few drug-frenzied Broyn’Dar ever reached his age- chata’s ability to affect him had weakened. Thus, his mind was clearer than most of his kind. “Child,” addressing Ilya’Gar in this way, Arga’Dyne jabbed back at the condescending Bro’Noon, “we have talked about this before. I assure you, I have thought much on this matter since then and have taken note of how well you and your kin fight without chata’s help. But now is not the time to determine chata’s place in the Broyn’Dars’ future. So, I ask you to hold your peace for the time being. Let the wizard talk. My ears are still open.”
Risking adding to the chieftain’s offense, Bacchanor began by saying, “Being a Healer, I have magic that can help your clan stop feeding on the beans you depend on so much. Nyeg Warl’s Candle Makers have this power at their disposal as well.”
“So I’ve been told.” Arga’Dyne growled as much as he spoke. “But for now, I demand we quit talking about this. I have not come here to be lectured by those whose fathers hated my ancstors so much.”
Taking advantage of the chieftain’s words, Bacchanor added, “Your kin aren’t the only ones to be hated. The Neflin can make the same claim, as well as those who now call themselves Fane J’Shrym.”
This admission seemd to lessen Arga’Dyne’s anger as he considered those around him. Taking an extra moment to study Jeaf Oakenfel, the one the others said was the Hammer Bearer, seeing the look of pain that had not completely left his face after the five winters of torture he endured in Chylgroyd’s Keep, the chieftain pursed his lips together and nodded his head in acknowledgement of Bacchanor’s words.
“It seems we all have burdens to carry, though the weight of these may differ,” Arga’Dyne conceded before he asked a question Bacchanor’s words had brought to mind. “Speaking of Fane J’Shrym, why is so much importance placed on them? I must admit, except for the talismans the Oakenfels carry, I see nothing special in those who claim this name as their own.
“No offense Vlad’Aeroth, you and your kin look like the rest of the rabble that hide in the cracks riddling Ar Warl. Of course, this includes the Broyn’Dar too.”
“No offense taken,” Vlad’Aeroth replied. “I can’t disagree with your assessment. I think it’s best to let Baccahnor explain things I’m still trying to understand.”
Bacchanor took a deep breath as he acquiesced to the Wylder’s request. “A revelation of the Warl’s Magic is tied to the Fane J’Shrym’s fate. Through them and their return to importance, the inimitable power plans to show, once and for all, its good intentions towards mankind and others like them. It wants all to know, the gifts it bestows are not carelessly dispersed, and once given, are never revoked even when personal failure has curtailed the outworking of those blessings for a time.
“And how will it do this?” Bacchanor asked the question he planned on answering himself. “By honoring the fathers’ aspirations for their children since the Warl’s Magic is bound to its own fraternal instincts. As such, it is filled with benevolent desires for those it considers its own offspring, namely magickers and wizards who call upon its power to help others in times of need.
“When did the Warl’s Magic decide to do such a thing? As the Age of Star’s Blood was ending, an age it created with the help of generous men, and an age it wants to have return with greater force through Parm Warl’s arrival.
“Who are the fathers? Shloman the Great who founded the Age of Star’s Blood, and Vlad’War the greatest wizard of this time. As it is known, both are Fane J’Shrym, whose faithfulness in trying to give good things to those under their care inspired the Warl’s Magic to display its own nature by making certain the gifts and callings they once possessed were bequethed to their own children in the fullness of time, a time the Hammer of Power’s advent has initiated. By doing this, the Magic that Made the Warl wants all to recognize that it is not capricious as evil powers would have them think; rather, its intentions are built on an immovable foundation of faithfulness.”
Weighed down by Bacchanor’s verbose explanation, Arga’Dyne summed up the wizard’s words. “So, you’re saying: As far as the Warl’s Magic is concerned, a family’s destiny is never truly lost, though its members may deviate from its path.”
“Aye,” Bacchanor replied. “If all the races comprising the intelligent beings living in the Warl understood this, there would be far less strife. The Warl’s Magic wants everyone to get a piece of the pie, so to speak, though those pieces may vary in size. But even the smallest slice is sweet to the taste. Simply stated, a humble life spent with those one loves is a treasure as great as any king could gather.
“You see, even the least among us can know the comfort a full belly brings, though simple bread and stew are eaten rather than the roasted pig royalty dines on. The intimacy a commoner can experience with his wife is just as great as that which can transpire between a monarch and his queen. Neither can a merchant or nobleman experience friendship more profoundly than a blacksmith, scullery maid, or anyone else for that matter.
“But this is where evil comes in: It is never satisfied, it always wants more, and the more it wants, invariably, belongs to others. That’s why men who fall under darkness’ influence are seldom satisfied with their wives alone. Lusting after their neighbors’ mates- or worse yet, their children- they think two is better than one, three is better than two, and so on. If they were a king, these would think all the women in their realm belonged to them. Take what happened to Dandayrll’s mother as an example.”
Looking to Dandayrll to see how he reacted to his words, Bacchanor continued once he saw the young man shrug as an unreadable smile crossed his face. “Since the Warl’s Magic was initially opposed to greed in all its forms. Those cloaking themselves in darkness had to devise ways to force mystical power to conform to their whims. In the process, they ended up creating a form of magic with a nature as dark as their own, the kind of supernatural might that feeds on others’ pain and loss and requires such sacrifices before it releases its twisted power to those who wish to conjure it up.
“Once dark hearts gain power, they buttress their position by stealing strength from others, strength found in one’s birthright and in the destiny that comes with it, strength flowing from one generation to another through the inheritances passing between them.
“This is the very thing Ab’Don has done to the Fane J’Shrym.
By claiming Shloman the Great’s flesh and blood children’s failure to keep the Age of Star’s Blood alive angered the Warl’s Magic so much that it separated them from their inheritance and the destiny that came with it, the Sorcerer went around proclaiming the name of Fane J’Shrym had been given to him and his followers, a name, he said, that no longer had ties to blood but was now a mystical title given to the worthy ones who followed him.
“That’s why Ab’Don hates Shloman the Great’s physical descendents so, and went to such lengths to try to wipe them off the face of the Warl. So long as they remain, his claims can be challenged, and that, he will not stand for.
“With prophecies about Parm Warl, an era the seers say will surpase the Age of Star’s Blood in its glory, being so widely accepted and with the same seers declaring the Fane J’Shrym will play a pivitol role in bringing Parm Warl forth, the Sorcerer had no other choice but to usurp the name he used to consolidate his authority with. By doing this, he wanted to make the public to think his rise to power was inevitable since it was, so to speak, written in prophetic stone.”
Arga’Dyne scowled as he wrestled with the strange concepts of destiny and magic. “Is this why he claims to be the Hammer Bearer? The little I know about the prophecies so many believe in, tells me that the Hammer Bearer is supposed to usher in this Parm Warl.”
The Broyn’Dar chieftain huffed after admitting his knowledge of prophetic matters was limited before he said, “Do you know why I know so little about divination? It’s because such prognostications have never treated my kind well. If there is such thing as destiny, the Broyn’Dar are fated to live lives continually struggling to cut out a place for ourselves in the Warl. A piece of the pie has never been offered to us. And as for magic, it’s loathe to respond to our conjurings. That’s why we love chata so. It’s the only power we can trust to keep life’s chaos from overwhelming us.
“Where you see the Warl’s Magic as the faithful agent ensuring hope for your future, the Broyn’Dar see chata in this role. You think the beans are driving us mad. I tell you, chata is the only thing keeping us sane. Without it, we would be left all but powerless in a land filled with those who hate us.
“Magic has been of little use to us, save when the Hag come and use their candles’ power to locate the best places for us to raid, places unprepared for our coming because too many of the village’s men are away at the time or because complacency has taken root since the very Hag who are guiding us told the people they had nothing to fear from the Broyn’Dar. But in time, the Hag’s black candles turned against us and were used to breed abominations drawn from our own flesh.
“Magic!” Arga’Dyne huffed again. “It’s a false hope for the Broyn’Dar, a tease that’s hurt us more than helped. Even the Healers who were brave enough to bring their skills into our villages asked more from us for their services than they deserved,” The chieftain’s eyes narrowed with suspicion as he continued looking at Bacchanor. “Draining us of the wealth we risked our lives to gather, they left us hardly better off than we were before going on the raids where the injuries they were hired to heal had been incurred. Every piece of gold and silver we had was used to pay their exorbitant fees. If they could have gotten away with it, they would have taken our food and iron too.
“In the end, the Hag asked for far more than the greedy Healers ever did. Lives were required to pay for the magic used to help us locate those we looted and to evade the hunters who followed us afterwards. To our shame, we met their demands by surrendering Broyn’Dar who had fallen into disfavor with the clan and the elderly who lacked families to care for them. Little did we know that the Lord of the Hag had perfected the magic needed to make an army of mutant hunchmen that owed their allegiance to the man who used his essence to father them. We were mistaken to think we had only sold our kin into bondage.”
Lowering his eyes to not offend Arga’Dyne, J’Aryl asked, “You don’t have any wizards of your own?” Being the son of the Prophetess and Hammer Bearer where magic was a staple of life, he found it inconceivable to think such a thing could be.
“No, we don’t,” Arga’Dyne quietly admitted. “Magic and the Broyn’Dar mix little better than oil and water. A few of us, who have skill in herb lore, can call on a measure of magic that is drawn to the powder and salves used to help the ill among us. With the help of animal sacrifices, there are those who can cast curses on their client’s enemies, though knives and swords are the preferred way to settle a disagreement. Broyn’Dar who have this ability are few in number, since those they curse have no reluctance to kill them for what they’ve done when the opportunity presents itself.”
Unlike Travyn, Ilya’Gar didn’t lower his eyes as he spoke. “You compare the Broyn’Dar’s relationship with magic to oil and water and use this explanation to justify your dependence on chata. Have you ever considered that it’s chata and magic that don’t mix? Is it possible, the frenzied state the drug produces impedes your ability to conjure up the Warl’s Magic? Have you forgotten that I told you more than a few Bro’Noon have been accepted into the Order of the Candle Makers, and that none of these use chata, but all have become proficient in the Magical Arts?
Not wanting to avoid the topic, Arga’Dyne snapped out, “That may be.” Then clenching his teeth, he added, “I’ve told you before: Now isn’t the time to talk about chata. But even if it was, that doesn’t answer the question of how the Fane J’Shrym’s fate impacts the Broyn’Dar. Other than sharing a common enemy with the Fane J’Shrym, what does it matter what happens to Ay’Roan, Vlad’Areoth and those who share their blood? If they usher in the Age of Parm Warl as you hope, how will this keep the Broyn’Dar from being considered the vermin humans think we are?”
Rings of amber light erupted out of the shadows gathered beneath the wide brim on Travyn’s hat as he spoke. “If I’m fortunate enough to survive the war we are about to fight, that won’t happen. I swear this on my mother’s name and the friendship I have with Ilya’Gar who is like a brother to me. All here bear witness: I pledge myself and the magic my sword possesses to see the Broyn’Dar are treated fairly after the war is over.
“As my father entered the Treaty of Gar’Dor with the Bro’Noon, and all of Nyeg Warl followed his lead, I will do the same with you Arga’Dyne.”
“Does it come back to chata then?” The chieftain looked weary as he spoke.
“Unfortunatley it does.” Travyn added. “You and your kin will have to choose. Chata or peace. Chata or a place of honor with humans, elves, and giants alike. Chata or a kingdom of your own that none can take from you without the Oakenfels and their friends coming to stop them; and all of Nyeg Warl is numbered among those we call friends.”
“And the Fane J’Shrym is your family.” Vlad’Aroeth’s voice was unwavering as he spoke to Travyn. “We will stand with you, your father, and your brothers.”
“My Neflin kin will stand with me, my mate, and Mar’Gul who’s his aunt.” After looking to Onorok for the sign of agreement that he gave her, Lamarik smiled and continued. “When the treaty is made, Arga’Dyne, you might end up with more friends then you’ll know what to do with.”
“And will the Warl’s Magic be one of these friends? If not… why not?” Arga’Dyne’s inquiry was a sincere one. “From the way you all talk, it makes me wonder if everyone thinks the Warl’s Magic is some sort of person.”
“That may be, though I doubt it.” Mar’Gul, using a voice that sounded like it was coming from far away, interjected. “Magic is more than a force of nature that can be manipulated like fire or wind, even though wizards and their ilk seem to do this very thing. On the other hand, it’s not a being with a well-defined identity, though the way magic acts at times seems to contradict this. It’s something else, something not bound to either the Warl of the Living or the Warl of the Dead, wouldn’t you say Lylah?”
Surprised to be drawn into the conversation, the waterkynd’s face took on a shy aspect that her vaporous form couldn’t hide. Seeing Mar’Gul
was indeed waiting for an answer, Lylah looked to Kaylan for guidance. After he nodded his head and smiled, the waterknd’s expression returned to its normal placid state as she said, “Magic is not a person, if that is what you’re asking me, though there are parts of it that may be mistaken for such. It is vast, this I know. It inhabits realms that exist beyond your own. Its nature is pure in that it seeks to do no undue harm, though there are constant attempts- by those who loathe the idea of living in harmony with the objects of the Magic’s affection- to make it do otherwise.
“The Sorcerer thinks it’s beneath him to accept the limitations creation wisely imposed on all of its works. He’s one of those who believe life’s paradigms should be theirs to design, those who would redefine harmony to mean that everyone and everything must bow to their will.”
“Lylah.” All were surprised to hear Jeaf speak, since he avoided addressing gatherings of any kind after his time spent in captivity. Now days, the Hammer Bearer only spoke in more intimate settings with those he felt most comfortable with. The exceptions to this were the times he gave instructions to the emerging Candle Wielders that were technical in nature.
True affection filled Jeaf’s voice as he spoke to the female Kaylan had taken to be his mate. “I’ve seen the part of the Warl’s Magic you spoke of that seems to be a being its own right. He called himself, Whistyme. I say himself because that’s the form magic took at the time it came to me. Whistyme called himself a Dream Messenger and said there were many more like him. Coming to me in my sleep while I was camped on the banks of the Eyrie River along with Alynd the Elf-Man, it was then that the Dream Messenger offered to give me the Hammer of Power.”
