by Rex Hazelton
Still standing atop of the tables, the bard bent down and gave his lute to a young man who looked his twin, only slightly shorter. Showered with shouts of “MORE! MORE!” he took hold of a long woodwind and began playing a low haunting note, a note held out so long Jeaf wondered how the lithe man was able to retain so much breath; and as he walked among the tables, a sound like water makes as it breaks upon a rocky shoreline followed him; the scent of salty sea spray clung to the air.
Without missing a beat, after handing his instrument to his companion, who now became his accompanist, the bard began singing in a vocal range lower than the young Woodswane thought he was capable of. Throbbing with magic, the mournful voice pulled on Jeaf; once, twice, three times it tugged until it lifted him off his chair and sent him floating upwards towards the ceiling- up, up, up like a kite being carried on a gentle but persistent breeze.
Looking down on the revelers, Jeaf was surprised to see that none noticed his amazing feat. Then to his utter astonishment, he passed through the ceiling, as if it weren't there, and went soaring high above Nyeg Warl. Far below, he saw the Eyrie of the Eagle receding into the distance. Among the pool of tiny twinkling lights, located in the royal citadel, he saw one that was much brighter than the others. He knew this must be the Great Hall of the Eagle King. Amused at how insignificant such opulence appeared from his present vantage point, the young Woodswane was suddenly thrilled with expectation, the kind of expectation explorers feel as they embark on a great adventure.
The minstrel's song, once again, pushed up underneath him like wind filling wings spreading out from his shoulders. Overwhelmed by this sensation, Jeaf had to look to see if this were true or not. To his astonishment, indeed, wings -those whose combined span was more than three times his body's length- had sprouted from his back. I'm under some kind of spell! The young Woodswane was struggling to understand what was happening. Magic is at work here! Not sensing any evil, he decided to relax and see what might come next.
The song, pouring out into the night sky, exhorted him to enjoy his new-found ability.
Fly away, fly away, to Ar Warl go.
Fly away, fly away, the darkness I'll show.
Immediately, Jeaf set sail eastward. More quickly than an arrow cutting through the air, he flew past the vale and over the towering Cragmar Mountains until the lights of Plagea spread out like a field of luminous daffodils growing in a vast expanse of darkness. Quickly passing the Wolf King's realm, he continued on until he arched high over the Verdant Mountains that had raced up to meet him. Higher-and-higher he went, until the summit was crossed and the shimmering glory of Verdant Deep appeared far below. Continuing onward, he sped towards the Breach Sea. Racing along a spine of great rock, a ridge reaching outward like a bony finger pointing the way he should go, Jeaf swooped beyond the coastlands and out over the turbulent sea's utter blackness. In an amazingly short time, he had gone farther than a horseman could travel in a hard week's ride, and still the speed at which he was flying increased as each moment passed.
Shooting over the raging expanse of water, he blazed along until Ar Warl's dim shores appeared- Ab'Don's Ar Warl, the home of darkness and womb of despair. But instead of drawing back with fear and seeking to escape, the young Woodswane began looking over the land like an eagle eagerly searches the surface of a lake for signs of fish. Boldly, he flew along, now the hunter, not the prey.
Though it was night, he could distinguish the forests, rivers, and mountains he flew over. Muted lights, escaping from homes and villages quickly appearing and disappearing beneath him, only to be replaced by others, were scattered about like so much flotsam and jetsam stuck in a pool of thick oil.
The turgid wind, grating beneath his wings, moaned at his passing. Ar Warl's air was full of grit and residual smoke; its resistance made the young Woodswane shudder; its turbulence made him feel like he was riding a horse drawn cart over unproven ground. Soon, the moaning was joined, by what sounded like a throng of sobbing voices, voices that cut his heart to the quick, voices only his Powers of Intuition could hear. Tangible pain was boiling up around Jeaf, pain that caused him to weep over the agony he felt. Then, when he could take no more, the minstrel's song returned.
Come away, come away, to Nyeg Warl go.
Come away, come away, the secret I'll show.
Jeaf banked his great wings against the rough air and raced westward, glad to flee the warl of sorrow he had plunged into. Soon, the blackness of the Breach Sea was below him until it, at last, gave way to Nyeg Warl's welcomed shoreline. Continuing onward, he began circling over the vast expanse of forests, mountains, and fields that spread out to an uncertain horizon. The air was different from Ar Warl's. It was clean, with hardly any turbulence, and seasoned with a sense of joy. But even here, the sorrow that polluted Ar Warl wound its way through the atmosphere like a thread of rot, producing tiny pockets of instability that sent tremors through the young Woodswane, whenever he encountered them. Nevertheless, Nyeg Warl's cities sparkled like jewels set against a delicate black cloth night had spread across the surface of the land. Jeaf was surprised to see so many lights glowing in areas where he thought only dense forest grew. He made a mental note of this: There's more in Nyeg Warl than I've thought.
Turning to the northeast, Jeaf eventually came upon a large, dark island he knew must be the Isle of Regret. It looked like a black hole boring its way into the fringes of the dark Breach Sea. Fighting a desire to flee, he flew closer hoping to get a good look at the place that threatened Nyeg Warl's well-being, wanting to catch sight of G'Lude's cruel walls. Suddenly the air, that had kept him aloft, was drawn downward like a river plunging over a precipice. And as it fell, he fell with it! Plummeting toward the hole, his wings were now of no use. Descending into the abyss, a noise, sounding like the voices of crying children, rose up to greet him. Buffeted by this clamor, the young Woodswane was sent tumbling; the wind clawed at him, dragging him unwillingly into the foreboding darkness. Falling in a twisted mass of feathers and flesh, he was about to be lost in the evil blackness when the bard's words were heard, once again.
Up and away, up and away, to the heart you'll go,
Up and away, up and away, the hammer I'll show.
The magic filling these words caught Jeaf and mercifully threw him back over the mainland. Then, before he could reckon what had happened, he was again soaring over the Eyrie of the Eagle. The banquet lights below shone like beacons marking the entrance to a harbor, one protected from the great swells and crashing surf that foul storms conjure up.
Unexpectedly, the silhouette of the mighty Thangmor Mountains, rising above the city, was suddenly illuminated by a flash of light that burst out of the craggy heights. FLASH! Jeaf was nearly blinded by the second burst.
What was that? No sooner had he asked himself this question then the mountain groaned and began to part. Fire shot out from a crevice that appeared near the light's source. Molten rocked followed, dripping over the huge cut's lip.
Inexplicably drawn to the jagged fissure, the Young Woodswane swooped up the steep mountainside until he was circling above the massive rend. Peering into its depths, he spied a brightly glowing object resting deep inside the super-heated crack that knifed its way past the mountain's heart, down into the womb of its origin, an object more brilliant than the fires enveloping it.
Instinctively, Jeaf dove down, down, down into the inferno. With the flames singing his wings and the heat biting his flesh, still, he dove downward heedless of the danger he was in. And the deeper he dove, the hotter the fires became. But he would not be deterred, for he had spied the prize! It was a hammer, one not unlike those his father used in his trade as a blacksmith. Though ordinary in appearance, it lay on an anvil glowing more brightly than a star, so bright Jeaf had to put his hand above his eyes to protect them from its light. Closer-and-closer he flew, obsessed to lay hold of this simple looking treasure, a treasure rippling with magic that mesmerized the young Woodswane's Powers of Intuition. And as he dr
ew near to the prize, he saw fires swimming helplessly across the surface of a great invisible ball of protection, one the anvil had conjured up, fires that wanted to possess the hammer for its own.
Doing what the flames couldn't, not caring they might burn him as he passed by, Jeaf pierced though the anvil's protective power and came to a fluttering stop a mere arms length away from the hammer... Reaching out, he took hold of the prize.
The fire roared its disapproval, but it could do little else. Helplessly, the frustrated inferno watched the hammer being transformed by the young Woodswane's touch. The iron head turned into pure silver; red rubies appeared on its surface. Then the silver began to melt like ice does when it is exposed to the hot sun. Dripping over his hand, slender rivulets of shiny metal poured down into intricately designed grooves cut into the hammer's wooden handle, filling an ancient inscription that revealed the hammer's name written in a language few still knew.
As soon as the prize was in Jeaf's grasp, the anvil's light began to grow dim and the circle of power began to recede. Seeing its chance, the fire renewed its efforts to penetrate the fading boundaries, desiring to burn the one who had taken hold of the hammer. Realizing what was happening, the young Woodswane spread out his wings and flew as fast as he could, aiming for the fissure he had entered through, an opening the inferno was trying to close. Pumping as hard as he could, until his shoulders ached from the desperate exertion, he folded his wings against his body and shot through the flames quickly tightening around his escape route. Upward he raced as the mountain groaned to close the crack and keep the hammer from getting away.
Smoke, streaming from burning feathers, streaked behind the young Woodswane; the scent of sulfur filled his nostrils; searing pain flooded his senses. The fire was winning; the mountain would have its meal; flames engulfed the fissure. ...Then Jeaf remembered the hammer!
Not knowing what else to do, he lifted his prize over his head, hoping somehow the magic he felt would be released. And as he did, an invisible shield of power spread out before him, pushing the inferno aside.
Ramming his way through the receding fissure, the young Woodswane burst out into the night sky. His speed was so great, he wasn't able to stop himself until he felt he could almost touch the moon. Then holding the prize aloft, Jeaf laughed as the hammer's magic rippled over his flesh, rushed into his pores, and reverberated against the very bones of his body. But before the hammer's magic had satiated his desire for its touch, an explosion of light, appearing on the distant horizon, caught his attention. Turning toward Ar Warl, he saw a ball of fire racing over the Breach Sea towards him, as large as a barn and as fast as a shooting star.
With wings so badly burned he was barely able to stay aloft, the young Woodswane was unable to dodge the fireball. As it struck, with the force of a herd of charging bulls, it knocked the hammer from his hand driving it into the depths of outer space. Looking like a red comet, it shot towards the nearby moon.
Toppling over-and-over, Jeaf struggled to right himself as he twirled after the hammer. Eventually, like a stone thrown into the air, the blow's inertia dissipated and he began drifting helplessly downward on wings too badly burned to maintain flight. Smoldering from the flame's bite, he tumbled through the air, slow enough to watch, in fascination, the moon catch the hammer and carry it back to Nyeg Warl. Passing the young Woodswane, the lunar sphere settled into the forest like it were a hen cozying into its nest, south of the Thangmor Mountains, beyond where the young Woodswane knew his parents' home stood, somewhere near the Eyrie River.
After depositing its burden, the moon floated over and stood before Jeaf, shimmering as it came. Then, like the surface of a pool of water sheds its ripples to reveal a mirrored face, the face of the bard appeared… The vision had come to an end.
The minstrel was on the table above the young Woodwane, looking down at him with the bluest eyes he had ever seen. The two stared at each other for so long Jeaf began feeling self-conscious. Sensing this, the bard bent down and picked up a cup. Holding the drink aloft, he quoted a verse taken from the Prophecy of the Hammer Bearer.
When the Hammer is found,
The eagle will soar, the lion roar
And the 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.
Then the bard gave a toast. “May the Eagle King live to see Parm Warl!”
While the crowd roared its approval, the minstrel lept down from the table and, with a wink of his eye, took up a flute and began a raucous tune the other musicians soon joined in playing. This sent the lords and ladies onto their feet. Joining hands, the celebrants wound their way through the tables, dancing. Having the appearance of a multicolored necklace, they adorned the Great Hall's floor. On they danced, laughing as they went, on and on until they were exhausted. All the while Jeaf was absorbed in rehearsing his prophetic experience, trying to unravel its meaning. I wish my mother were here, so she could help me understand what has happened, he thought.
“Please! Lords, Ladies, friends all, I have an announcement to make.” It was Prince Phelp who spoke, and when he did, all returned to their seats and the young Woodswane forsook his musings, at least for the time being.
The prince rubbed his hands together as he turned to address his father. “Aryl, the Master Swordsmith, has a gift he'd like to present to you in celebration of your fiftieth summer, a gift his son Jeaf was sent to deliver.”
The mention of Aryl's name who was renowned for having fashioned the great sword Talon sent a murmur of delight-filled anticipation coursing through the revelers.
Sensing the mounting excitement, Cane, the Eagle King, declared, “Jeaf, son of Aryl Oakenfel the Master Swordsmith, you may approach the royal dais.”
George, Prince Phelp's page, came and escorted the young Woodswane forward.
Bowing courteously, Jeaf handed the leather clad gift to Prince Phelp who in turn handed it to his father. Quickly untying his present, Cane withdrew the magnificent sword. Those nearby gasped at its beauty, perfection unsheathed. The king's guests cheered in jubilant approval when he rose from his seat, lifting the august blade high overhead. Laying his gift on the table before him, satisfied all had seen the masterpiece made of steel and star's blood, the pleased monarch said, “Son of Oakenfel, what would you ask in reward for delivering this great sword?”
Jeaf replied, “My king, I seek nothing more than to know you are satisfied with the fruit of my father's labors, those he bore for you out of the love and respect he has for you.” Pausing to let this declaration work its full effect, the young Woodswane added, “If it pleases my king, would you accept my father's letter. He suggests you should read it later, when you are alone.” Jeaf handed Aryl's scroll over to Prince Phelp who, as with the sword, passed it onto his father.
Having drank a little too much wine, and overwhelmed by the wondrous gift laying before him, the king shouted. “Why wait for later? Let us read it now.” Whereupon, the Eagle King handed the scroll back to Prince Phelp, indicating- with a gesture of his hand- that he should read it aloud.
Clearing his throat, Prince Phelp began.
Greetings my beloved King and dear friend. I've sent two of the greatest gifts I own to honor you at the celebration of your fiftieth summer- my son Jeaf and the sword you now have in your possession. As my most excellent creation, the sword is meant to be a portrait of you. Beautiful to look upon, it represents the glory of your kingdom. But its value is not limited to its aesthetics, it was made for more than this. It comes sharpened ready for battle, as you must be.
Your Servant Forever,
Aryl Oakenfel
The king's face turned red when Prince Phelp read the letter's last lines. Bracing himself on the table before him, he shouted, “Will the Woodswane now determine when I should fight? Have I no honor in my own house? Can I not choose my own way? Or, will nurses soon be spoon feeding me my porridge?
”
Looking down at Jeaf, the king spoke threateningly. “Young Oakenfel, your father has put you in the precarious position of having to answer for him... Well, what have you to say?”
Unaware of how much Koyer's foul magic had infected the monarch, Jeaf scrambled to gather his wits before replying. “My King, it was not my father's intention for you to read his correspondence in public. I know he would never seek to embarrass you, nor impugn your sovereignty. His words are as you have read them. No guile can be found there... I would dare say, my father's letter is no more than his pledge to serve you in a war he believes will inevitably come, even, if by so doing, he was to lose his life in the process.” Bowing his head, he added, “If he has been too forward in expressing his assumptions, then please forgive him. Exact what retribution you would on me, not on my father, since I didn't protest the public reading of his letter.”
Prince Phelp looked at Jeaf and smiled as he thought, a Woodswane with intelligence and a tongue to match. I must reevaluate my view of these simple forest folk.
The Eagle King's muscles relaxed, for the wise reply had abated much of his anger. Then, after a moment of reflection, he asked the young Woodswane a question that was troubling him. “Are you your father's eldest son?”
“My King, I am his only son.”
Jeaf's words further softened the sovereign's countenance.
“You have spoken well in your father's stead, young Oakenfel.” The king slumped as he spoke. “I don't know if you are aware that my eldest son, Hartshyll, is not here to celebrate this night with me.” Lifting himself up after his chest expelled a large breath of air, he added, “I wish he were. But since he is not, you, young Oakenfel, shall take his place. I am glad the eldest and only son of the Master Swordsmith is here tonight... I shall take your presence here as a sign that my own son will soon be returning home.”
Picking up the magnificent weapon, an idea sparked in his eyes. “Thank your father for his fine gift and tell him I have named it 'Inheritor', in your and my eldest son's honor.” Then with a wave of his hand, he exhorted the Young Woodswane, “Now off with you. Go enjoy the banquet.” Having reclaimed his festive heart, the Eagle King gave a command. “Let's have music and more wine.” Then lifting his cup in one hand, and the sword in the other, he cried out, “Inheritor!” and downed his drink.
