by Rex Hazelton
Prince Phelp, who appeared pleased with this response, struck his fist against the tabletop. “Maybe I'm more Woodswane than Valamorian, for I share your opinion!”'
Lord Claymant, who was visibly bothered by the princess' words, blurted out. “My Lord, surely you don't mean that? The rumors that say Koyer takes his orders from Ab'Don are spurious and harmful, threatening the very structure of peace Nyeg Warl has known these past centuries.”
“Peace! What peace?” Prince Phelp frowned, increduously. “Is that why we maintain our armies?”
“Surely you know we must be able to protect ourselves against Ab'Don.” Lord Claymant was barely able to disguise his frustration with the prince. “Then there are the Cragmar Giants and the Wild Men. You haven't forgotten about the Wilderness War that ended no more than twenty summers ago, have you? Why your own father fought the savages who swept up from the southland. It was then that he killed Bulgar with Talon, the sword that gave this Woodswane's father the reputation he now possesses.”
“To protect us gainst Ab'Don, the Cragmar Giants and the Wild Men, is that what you think our armies are for?” Phelp rubbed his hands together as he was momentarily lost in thought. “Sometimes I think my father is more worried about Wyneskynd, Shomeron, or any of Nyeg Warl's other kingdoms than he is of Ar Warl. If he was as worried about Ab'Don as you claim he is, he'd be on guard against the Lord of Regret. More than that, he'd be preparing for war instead of maintaining a military that's just large enough to protect his interests against the other realms.” Sighing as one does who is wearied of trying to make a point, Phelp added, “Why can't you and my father see how Koyer's leash rests firmly in Ab'Don's hand... Koyer may be the master of his own lusts, but he is not the true master of the Isle of Regret... It's good that we have armies prepared to deal with Ab'Don, as you say. But if that is the case, then they should be concerned about Koyer too.”
“If I may take the liberty, My Lord, you do err for your judgment has been affected by the alarmists… like this Woodswane who sits here with us.”
Prince Phelp saw this as an opportunity to stir the pot a little more, so he asked, “Sir Woodswane, are you an alarmist?”
Again, weighing his words carefully, Jeaf replied, “Well, if I am, then I have not served my cause as well as some I've already met in your city.”
Catching the young Woodswane's meaning, Prince Phelp quipped, “Oh, I see. You've met the Society. Now there's a peace-loving bunch for you Lord Claymant.”
“My Prince,” Claymant cautiously replied. “I've no great love for the Soldiers of Truth.Nor do I agree with some of their methods. But I do agree when they say that the peace must be kept no matter what price has to be paid.”
“When they say such things, Lord Claymant, they mean peace must be kept no matter the price the other fellow has to pay.” Disdain saturated the prince's words. “I dare say, not one of them will risk a hair on their own head for peace sake.” Phelp went over and stood behind Vav, before continuing. “Can't you see? People only follow the Society because of the message of fear they spread! They're the alarmists we should be ignoring. Though most of them believe their own propaganda, I know there are others in the order who realize Koyer is dangerous. These think they can placate him with compliance, soothe the savage beast with pacifistic tunes, so to speak. But they're wrong! A wolf does not feast on a bear, rather, it dines on sheep.”
Clenching his fists, the prince paused a moment before speaking again. And when he finally did, his voice was resolute. “I stand with those who think Koyer has already lifted his leg on too many trees in Nyeg Warl... And if we don't do something about him, he'll defile the whole warl before his bladder's emptied.”
The passion the prince was now pouring into his words cued everyone to remain silent.
After an uneasy pause, he concluded, “If something isn't done soon, not another man of my family's line will celebrate his fiftieth summer as the Eagle King.”
Lowering his head, as if he were suddenly exhausted, Phelp added, “Now, my dear friends, please excuse me. I believe I need rest for tonight's festivities.” Bowing, the prince dismissed himself from the now somber room.
Passing by the young Woodswane, Phelp bent over and asked him to follow. Soon, the two men were rushing down long corridors with George and Vav taking up the rear. Hurrying along, as if they were late for an engagement, the men finally entered another of the castle's many rooms. Here the prince explained, “Jeaf, this will be your quarters during your stay.”
As George and Vav entered, Phelp directed his page to close the door behind him. Once this was accomplished, he turned to his young guest, once again. “Tell Aryl war clouds are gathering on the horizon and that my father is sitting on his hands... He's too engrossed in fighting the battle raging in his own heart to seriously consider the warning signs that are coming out of the Mountains of Sorrow. While tales of Koyer's atrocities accumulate like snow falling on the ground, he hesitates to move into action for fear his own son's name will one day be included in these stories.”
“My Lord, what are you saying?” Jeaf inquired. “Is there cause for you to fear for your safety?”
“Indeed, there is, my good Woodswane. There is cause to fear for the safety of us all! But that is not my point. Rather, I'm speaking about my brother Hartshyll who is being held captive in G'Lude, Koyer's fortress.”
“How did this come to be?”
Prince Phelp furrowed his brow as he plunged into the story. “When the snows were melting under early spring's assault, Koyer's white messenger came knocking at our door. Acting as his master's tongue, he invited the king to send his eldest son to the Isle of Regret to attend, what he called, a Feast of Harmony. He said this meeting would serve the purpose of dismantling the wall of suspicion and fear that stands between our kingdoms.”
The prince spat out a mouth full of air before continuing. “Though my father has seer's blood running through his veins, his love for his people clouded his vision, replacing doubt with hope. But his hope has proven to be nothing more than a child whistling in the dark.”
So, my father was right. The young Woodswane watched the prince wrestle with the incredulity the retelling of this woeful tale stirred up in him. The Isle of Regret's lurid history has been dismissed, the danger it poses has been minimized.
“Hearing how the other kings had consented to send their eldest sons to attend the feast, my father, with much misgiving, finally acquiesced and sent his own beloved son.Then after Hartshyll and the others were detained beyond the ten days time they were to stay in G'Lude, it became apparent to all that Koyer was the only one feasting, and the political clout the hostages gave him was the food he dined on.”
The prince shook his head. “Each of Nyeg Warl's seven kings, enraged and confused by the Lord of Regret's audacity, rattled their swords, threatening reprisal if their sons were not returned post haste. But none of this made Koyer flinch in the least. Burn him with fire! You see, his resolve is greater than the kings, because the vision of what he wants is clearer.”
A proven warrior, for stories say the edge of his sword has been sharpened through numerous campaigns fought in Ar Warl while marching under Ab'Don's banner, Koyer is counting on our lack of battle experience to produce the same type of indecisiveness that has allowed him to detain the princes these many moons. Taking advantage of our sorry reticence, I fear he will soon order his army to move against Nyeg Warl.” Closing his eyes in an attempt to restrain his anger, the prince added, “His strategy is working! The kings are drowning in an ocean of confusion, a confusion that may incapacitate them until it is too late.”
Phelp snatched up the resplendent gift Jeaf was carrying. Discarding the leather wrapping protecting the great sword, he began swinging the razor-sharp blade back-and-forth with methodical precision, his movements displaying bands of muscles churning within his strong forearms. “I am Cane's son! I also have seer's blood in me! And I swear to you! Koyer is a torch whose fire threatens
to destroy Nyeg Warl's golden fields of peace. The kings are unwilling to admit this, even though the torch is already in flight, twirling out from the Isle of Regret... Worse than this, they mistakenly think, even if this were true, Koyer's devouring flame will be satiated with a few sacks of grain. They think a little land, maybe a little prestige, will put the beast to sleep like a baby whose stomach is full of its mother's milk. Tragically underestimating his lusts and the evil motives proceeding from them, they don't realize that he will gladly accept these appetizers while he is on his way to the main meal.”
Picking up the leather sheath, the prince rewrapped Aryl's masterpiece. “Jeaf, tell your father this. The Woodswane must not be unprepared, not like the kings are allowing themselves to be. Who knows, maybe fate has sent you here for this very purpose? If your brethren will heed this message, they might be able to stem the rising tide of darkness until the kings have awakened from their sleep. At least that's what the griffin told Vav.”
Now it was Jeaf's turn to study the man who stood alongside the prince's faithful page. The gray streaking through his otherwise black hair, like shafts of sunlight forcing their way through a storm cloud, made the young Woodswane guess he was not much older than his father.
Since the prince had allowed Vav to remain with him behind closed doors, the young Woodswane felt his actions endorsed the warrior's integrity. So, he asked him the question that was trying to gush forth ever since he heard Phelp speak of the winged-lions. “You say you've seen a griffin?” The very mention of the potent name conjured up pictures of magic, power, legend and lore.
“I have not only seen one, but I have talked with one,” Vav matter-of-factly explained.
“My father tells me the griffin have not been seen in Nyeg Warl for more than a century's time. And you say you've not only seen one, but you've spoken to one as well?'
“Listen.” The seasoned warrior casually shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he spoke, his athleticism revealed in each fluid movement, movements that told Jeaf he was not one to be trifled with. “I'm not in the habit of repeating myself, and I'm sure not going to start now.”
Prince Phelp, stepping over to Vav, put his arm on his shoulder as he addressed the young Woodswane's unbelief. “He wasn't the only one who saw the griffin. The whole village of Barm saw the winged-lion as well.” Smiling as he slapped the warrior's back, the prince explained. “It seems the griffin jumped in to help Vav fight off a gang of river-children that slipped out of the Fyne River to attack him and his family... As he tells it, they were after his niece Muriel.”
“Yes.” Vav spoke in a matter of fact tone that showed he didn't expect anyone to refute his words. “My niece, who had been missing for the past fifteen summers, suddenly showed up in Barm carrying strange stories that told how she had been held prisoner in a kingdom buried deep beneath the warl's surface ” Not given to long explanations, the warrior cut to the chase. “Have you heard of Schmar?”
“Yes, I have. But until lately, I thought he was just someone who mothers had made up to scare their children into obeying them. You know, 'If you don't do your chores, Schmar will get you.' But now...” Jeaf shook his head, looking very much like someone who was trying to make up their mind.
Not one given to flights of imagination, Vav nodded his own head. “I know what you mean. Until I met Muriel, I thought the same thing, but no more. I have no doubt the river-children, who attacked my family, were acting in Schmar's behalf, and Muriel was the prize they were after. But they did not reckon on dealing with a griffin. Grour Blood's his name. He's been my niece's guardian ever since she escaped.”
Leaning forward until his hot breath could be felt on the young Woodswane's face, Vav added, “The griffin told the people of Barm that she's the Prophetess, the one who will help usher in Parm Warl... He also warned us about a great tidal wave of evil that is about to sweep out of the Isle of Regret, a tidal wave that will soon fall upon Nyeg Warl.”
Silence followed as Vav and Jeaf continued studying each other.
He's a good man. I can feel it. The young Woodswane nodded his head in acknowledgment of his intuitive assessment.
The seasoned warrior remained stoic, his facial expressions refusing to betray his thoughts.
“There you have it Jeaf, son of the Master Swordsmith!” Prince Phelp concluded their conversation. “We live in a day when legends are coming to life and Nyeg Warl is about to face its gravest test. Now we'll take our leave and give you time to ponder our words.”
Jeaf, stretching out his arm to Prince Phelp, intoned, “I think the fire that burns in you holds as much hope for Nyeg Warl as the hope you see in the Woodswane... I will ponder your words. But I doubt the Woodswane will meet the approaching darkness alone, not as long as the kings have sons like yourself.”
Phelp accepted Jeaf's hand. “For Nyeg Warl!” The prince smiled at the young Woodswane and embraced him as a fellow warrior.
As the prince and Vav left the room, George delayed. “Sir, if you have need of anything just ring the bell and help will come.”
Left alone, Jeaf thought he should get what rest he could. It was as if something were warning him to gather his strength for what lay ahead. The sense of urgency he felt made the young Woodswane wonder if he could relax enough to fall asleep. But he needn't have worried, for no sooner had his body hit the sturdy bed's plush mattress than he quickly slipped into a dreamless sleep.
Sometime later, he awoke.
Looking through a window, whose glass was held together by a lattice work of star's blood, Jeaf saw night had already fallen. Candles were glowing in his room. Handsome garments made of silk and finely woven wool lay on a stool at the foot of his bed, those George had brought in while he slept.
Sliding out of bed, Jeaf cleansed himself with cool water filling a deep basin that had also been brought into his room. No sooner had he tried on the new clothes, those he discovered were a perfect fit, then George rapped on the door and stuck his head in. “Sir Woodswane, the feast waits!”
Snatching up the leather-bound sword, Jeaf strode out of the room, following George to the Great Hall of the Eagle King.
Entering the vast chamber, the young Woodswane felt like he had been transported into another more splendid warl: a huge vaulted ceiling, inlayed in pure star's blood, reflected a rosy light throughout the room; shining shields, splendid swords and long spears decorated the walls; brilliantly-colored tapestries, displaying the history of the line of the Eagle Kings, were dispersed among the armor; a picture of a giant eagle, perched atop a tall spire of stone, was carved into the wall rising high above the dais where Cane, the Eagle King, and his wife Lisanor sat; star's blood was everywhere, revealing the Valamors' great wealth.
Tantalizing music filled every corner of the Great Hall, while the mouth watering aroma of baked breads and roasted meat saturated the air. To Jeaf, the son of a humble Woodswane, this, along with the names of all the lords and ladies George introduced him to, created a sensory overload. He was glad when Leoyn tugged on his sleeve, directing him to take a seat. Slapping Jeaf on the back, the king's knight bellowed his greeting. “Welcome, son of the Master Swordsmith!”
The kindness Leoyn displayed helped relieve the pressure the young Woodswane felt. But it wasn't until after Prince Phelp stood and gave a toast to his father that Jeaf was able to regain some sense of equilibrium. Soon, a whole string of toasts, given in the king's honor, followed. Luckily, this allowed the young Woodswane the luxury of focusing his attention on one thing at a time until the Great Hall and its guests came into proper focus.
But no sooner had one problem passed, then another took its place. The effects of the wine Jeaf was consuming, during the multitude of toasts that had been given, began to make him feel like the room was swaying. He was thankful when the last homage to the Eagle King was given and a lone minstrel stood to entertain the crowd. Leoyn turned to the young Woodswane and good-naturedly explained, “You'll like this fellow. He's not only
one of the most famous bards in Nyeg Warl, he's also a Woodswane like yourself.”
Turning to look at the singer, Jeaf guessed he was no more than a young man.
Woodswane? I've never seen or heard of such a bard being numbered among the Woodswane. Jeaf carefully analyzed the minstrel. He was wearing forest green clothes with sparkling threads woven into the hem of both his coat and trousers. A wide-brimmed hat, sweeping downward, nearly covering the bard's almond-shaped eyes, was a style Jeaf had never seen before. He does have the feel of the woods about him. But I doubt he's a Woodswane.
As the minstrel played his lute, the notes seemed to float into the air with the effervescence of a sparkling wine whose bubbles, lightly bursting, inundated the audience in sweet sound. His lilting voice was enchanting, making Jeaf feel he would never forget its sound though a thousand summers were to pass until he had the privilege of hearing it again.
Leaping effortlessly onto one of the banqueting tables, the minstrel began a rhythmic dance that enhanced the overall affect of the song he was singing. Waves of delightful laughter washed across the room, ebbing-and-flowing like the motion of the sea, moving in sync with the bard's music. Visions of children running down forest pathways began dancing in the heads of the enthralled throng, and the longer the song lasted, the more the scent of pine and fern filled the room. In keeping with this, the stony walls, surrounding the people, took on the look of mature fir trees and great oaks. Magically, the vaulted roof disappeared, revealing the night sky ablaze in all its glory. The young Woodswane, who mistakenly believed the wine was responsible for the room's transformation, thought the stars had never looked so bright, or so close.
Then as the song wound down, the room returned to its former state, leaving its splendor somehow diminished by the enchanting melody the minstrel had played. Yet, Jeaf surmised, the grandeur of the Great Hall had not been lessened by the song's magic as much as it had been placed into proper perspective with the warl in which it stood.
