by Rex Hazelton
Whether this was an act of frustration or a display of power, Jeaf did not know. But his wits, now returning, told him the giant reptile's final assault would be forthcoming. Turning to look at the steep embankment that prevented him from fleeing away from the river's edge, the young Woodswane realized he had no other choice but to fight. But instead of waiting for Laviathon to attack and then defend himself, he charged forward. When the reptile lowered his head, he swung his unsheathed sword with all his might, cutting into the surprised monster's scaly snout.
Roaring, the great lizard pulled himself up onto his hind legs while the horrible rolling motion in his neck returned. At last, satisfied he had enough lethal liquid gathered to overwhelm his puny prey, Laviathon turned to dispense his fire. But as he did, his eyes widened when he spied an arrow flying his way. The monster tried to dodge the projectile, but it was too late. Finding its mark, the arrow struck between two of the scales covering his long neck. Like a thorn releases blood from a finger it has punctured, Jeaf's arrow released a small spray of flammable liquid. A tiny geyser of fire appeared, for a few moments, until the crocodon's exceptional recuperative powers took over and closed the wound.
Laviathon blocked the next three arrows that arrived in rapid succession, using the span of his fore claws to do so.
Pulling the arrows out, as if they were no more than splinters, the crocodon bellowed out a curse. “Damn you, what do you think you're doing? I was going to be merciful and kill you quickly! But now, I'm going to carry you home to my children, alive! I'll let them play with your crushed and mangled body before snacking on your stinking burnt flesh!”
“That may well happen,” Jeaf replied as he grabbed the hammer with both hands. “But I'll never do your master's bidding, nor will I heed his advice!”
AAAAARGH! Laviathon moaned at the insult the young Woodswane had hurled at him. “You, silly child, he's not my master. I'm my own lord. I go where I choose and eat whom I like!”
Having said this, the great lizard snorted out a cloud of blinding smoke. Though the sun's light dimmed, the hot vapors increased the day's heat. Drenched in the sweat this torrid sauna produced, the young Woodswane heard the serpent's beguiling voice rolling through the smoke. He was hurling all the magic he could, right at Jeaf.
“You've been forsaken by all. There's no one to stand with you and protect you from my wrath. Don't you see… your pride has destroyed you! Even your precious hammer can't save you now. Look at it. See how plain it is. Surely you don't think it has enough power, if it has any at all, to stop me?”
“We'll see, you monster!”
“Monster you say? Why you, insolent pup!”
Laviathon, whose magical smoke did not impede his own eyesight, watched Jeaf lifting the hammer high above his head. Worried about the unknown power the young Woodswane might unleash, the evil lizard fired his final verbal volley. “Be careful with that thing, you little maggot. If you use it to save your own selfish skin, you'll ruin its magic. Weren't you given the Law of the Hammer? Then I'll have won. So, strike it if you dare, o' great and wise warrior!”
How does he know about the Law of the Hammer? Can he read my mind?
The magic dwelling in the lizard's words was regaining the upper hand, dropping the young Woodswane to his knees. Bowing his head in fearful indecision, the memory of Whistyme's words filled his mind, reminding him to not act unwisely lest the hammer's power is compromised and forever flawed.
Sensing Jeaf's inner struggles, Laviathon craftily added, “If you destroy the hammer's magic… who'll save your family?”
A picture of Aryl furiously swinging his sword, while Elamor thrashed the air with her candles, was projected on the reptile's hypnotic smoke. They were battling the same black creatures that attacked Jeaf and Alynd- Schmar's loathsome spawn the river-children.
A faint groaning sound, the young Woodswane had learned was the noise Laviathon made just before he spewed forth his infernal liquid, was heard. Then, as before, the cloud of vapor ignited. It was as if a star had exploded. Trying to intimidate his prey, without startling him into action, Laviathon, once again, lifted his head and sprayed his fire into the heavens. But his display of might did not have its desired effect. Nor did it cause the young Woodswane to pause any longer.
With searing light hitting his eyes, the young Woodswane dragged himself to his feet. Gathering his strength as best he could, Jeaf lifted the Hammer of Power over his head before slamming Vlad'War's Child against the ground. BAAAWOK! Thunder echoed down the river. The rock the hammer struck exploded, sending a thousand chunks of granite flying through the air.
AAARRRR! The serpent roared in pain as the rocks punched at his scaly side.
On impact, the hammer's magic was released, transforming its iron head into silver. Like ice melting in the sunshine, the silver dripped over Jeaf's hands and ran down into the lattice work of grooves cut into the wooden handle, revealing its name.
The sound of thunder continued rolling up and down the Eyrie River while Laviathon gathered himself for another assault. Soon, his neck was churning. But when he looked down on the young Woodswane, he was greeted by a great ball of blue light that enveloped his opponent, hiding him from sight. Enraged by what he saw, or didn't see, Laviathon's head arched nearly to his back before he whipped it forward with such force his incendiaries burst forth in a furious blazing whirlwind. Sweeping down on the ball of light, the fiery tornado lifted it high into the air.
Encircled in the hammer's magic while riding on the raging flames swirling currents, Jeaf's body began mending itself: melted flesh was reshaped until it looked normal; singed hair regained its strength and length; clothes were fully restored; better than this, his mind was finally cleansed from Laviathon's evil influence. Buttressed by the hope the hammer's magic brought with it, the young Woodswane shouted, “You son of a blood worm, if I don't save myself, I won't be able to save anyone else!” Tucking the hammer into his belt, Jeaf pulled out his bow and fired more arrows. The broiling whirlwind faded, the ball of power fell back toward the shoreline, and still he fired away. Amazingly, the blue light hid the arrows emerging from its illumination. It was like sticking one's finger in a pudding, then removing it coated with the sweet stuff. Flying through the air, coated in the blue light's magic, the arrows struck the evil reptile, one after the other.
AAARRRRGGGGG! Bewildered, Laviathon screamed in terror as half a dozen missiles tore into his throat. Infused with the hammer's magic, the arrows slammed against his hide, penetrating his scaly armor. Unlike before, the crocodon's wounds were serious, those that could not be quickly healed, those that compromised his chances for success.
The sound of a mountain falling into the river flooded Jeaf's ears. An instant later, water rushed up about the Sphere of Power.
“Blast it,” the fleeing serpent roared out a curse, “this doesn't end things!” Sounding farther away, he added, “You haven't seen the last of me, you petulant child.”
In the quiet that followed, after the hammer's power had abated and Vlad'War's Child had returned to its former state, Jeaf slumped to the mud. Only the sound of the river's current could be heard accompanying his beating heart. He lay there a long time. And as he took his rest, the smoke was blown away by a refreshing breeze that carried the sound of a distant guitar and a soothing voice upon its wings.
****
The sun had long ago dropped towards the horizon when Jeaf began rummaging through the smoldering supplies had been washed overboard and onto a shallow sand bar. After a long search he was only able to find one water-soaked package, a blanket, and a skin of water.
In time, the young Woodswane returned to the shoreline. Examining the scale-marked mud, he marveled at the deep trough Laviathon's massive torso had dug. It's as wide as the loft I used to sleep in back home, he thought.
Melancholy gripped the young man's heart as he rehearsed all that had happened that day. The monster bested Alynd and he would have killed me too if it weren't for t
he hammer's magic.
Then to add to his misery, after Jeaf found his pouch laying in a nearby field of boulders, he lifted its leather flap and pulled out a blob of light blue wax that had once been Illumanor's candle. Clutching the paraffin between trembling hands, Jeaf probed the deformed candle with his Powers of Intuition, hoping to detect a residue of his mother's magic. But this was to no avail. The serpent's fire had purged the wax, severing the cord binding Elamor's mind to his.
He was truly alone, just as Laviathon had said he would be, alone, yet, still alive because of the hammer's power, alive and victorious. He had conquered the evil sea serpent, but there was no one to tell. He was alone... alone and mourning the death of his new-found friend, Alynd- the sweet bard of Nyeg Warl.
That night's sleep was filled with fitful dreams of armies and wars, of pillars of water and foreboding caverns, of songs and swords, of Laviathon and a beautiful, dark-haired woman. Through it all, Jeaf found himself ever running- faster and faster. But what was troubling him was, he couldn't tell whether he was running towards something or away from it.
****
The next morning an overcast sky greeted Jeaf, ushering him westward towards the Alabaster Mountains. Setting off on his overland trek to find the School of the Sword and the Song, he soon discovered a swamp stretching out in front of him. Having no other choice, the young Woodswane began to trudge through the knee-deep sludge. In time, laughing like one who had been caught in a practical joke, he realized Laviathon had chosen the perfect site for his ambush. But this was no joke! The evil crocodon knew Jeaf would have to cross this dangerous quicksand infested swamp, if he were able to escape his magic.
The combination of the continual drizzle, the watery wasteland and the lingering effects of Laviathon's hypnotic speech, following Jeaf like a swarm of persistent gnats, filled him with gloom. And worse than all of this, the memory of Alynd's death soured his disposition, draining him of whatever resilience he might possess.
I don't like this place, he thought. There's something evil lurking here... I can feel its oppressive presence reaching out to touch me. The memory of the specter Jeaf encountered in the tunnels, burrowing beneath the Eyrie of the Eagle, came to mind after he thought he heard muffled voices wafting on the swamp's dank breezes, breezes filled with the smell of rotting vegetation.
The young Woodswane drew out his sword, just in case.
Sporadic noises that could only be made by a large animal moving through the reeds and brush choking the dreadful swamp, were heard. Depleted of energy, he hoped it wasn't Laviathon or one of his children. Whenever the sounds came, pictures of his parents fighting Schmar's children came to mind, taxing more of his strength.
As night fell, Jeaf found a small island- covered with grass, scrub brush, and one tree- and settled down for the evening. Setting his bow and quiver of remaining arrows against the lone arbor inhabiting the minuscule island, he began looking through the small package of provisions Alynd had put together. After a moment's digging, the young Woodswane came across a Candle Maker's candle. This added to his feelings of sadness, for it reminded him of his mother's absence.
Gathering an arm full of dead twigs and branches, scattered across his tiny sanctuary, Jeaf set about arranging them into a campfire. Having done this, he spoke a Word of Power. Instantly, a flame burst forth, engulfing the candle's wick. Lowering the flame onto the pile of twigs and branches, he carried out his task with the solemnity of a king who was anointing one of his subjects with an important title or rank. Not missing the moment, Jeaf sighed as he said out loud. “I dub you Sir Fire, Lord of the Dark Swamp.”
Settling back against the island's lone tree, he began eating one of the few cakes he had been able to salvage as memory of Alynd's demise rehearsed itself in his mind. When the fire burned itself out, the dank breezes returned carrying the muffled voices with them. But try as he might, Jeaf could not decipher the words he was certain he heard. Feeling more alone than he ever had in his short life, he took out a blanket and tossed it over himself. Then a sweet gust of fresh air swept over him, chasing away the muted voices. Pleasantly spiced with the distant sound of a guitar playing, the breeze reminded Jeaf of the cool spiced water his mother made at home. Who is that, I wonder? It can't be Alynd. It feels different. Soon, Jeaf fell into a restful sleep where he dreamed about his parents and their home in the forest.
****
On the third day in the swamp, a hot summer's sun greeted Jeaf as he rose from his troubled slumber. To keep dry, he had spent the night sleeping on a fallen log. After a brief breakfast, one he hurried through because of his desire to escape the swamp, the young Woodswane stepped back into the boggy water and began trudging westward.
The cloudless day was drenched in stifling humidity. Huge flies, furiously flapping their wings in the moisture-laden air, battled Jeaf in a relentless assault on his face and neck. His arms moved continually, like a horse's tail does when it flicks away tiny intruders. If the young Woodswane ever wearied from doing this, the large red and blue flies would make him pay for his lack of vigilance by biting his flesh. In time, as the day lengthened, swarms of mosquitoes joined the flies in feasting on Jeaf's hide. Eventually, he had to break out the blanket to protect himself from the torturous pests.
Feeling like an old man whose body was bowed over by great age, Jeaf continued to plod through the muck and rancid water, head down, shoulders slumped. Though his muscles ached from his ordeal, he did not break for a noon meal. His mind was consumed with one thought, the thought of breaking free from this watery nightmare. And he would not stop until he had achieved this goal.
As the day crawled along, dry tufts of land began to appear. The young Woodswane hoped this meant the swamp was coming to an end. Invigorated by the imminent possibility of escape, he picked up his pace. Finally, standing on one of the larger pieces of dry land, Jeaf could see the end of the swamp on the far side of a wide shallow pool of water, a pool with a stand of bulrushes separating it from the welcomed forest.
Exhausted and not willing to take the time needed to skirt the pool, Jeaf plunged in and began wading across. Strangely, his mouth began watering as he neared the farthest edge of the waist deep pool, though he hadn't any appetite for food. It made him think, man hungers for more things than bread. Freedom from this inferno swamp would be meat enough.
When Jeaf was only a few strides away from the bulrushes, he heard horses and the sounds of men speaking. Instinctively, he lowered himself into the water and quietly swam into the foliage. Hidden among the reeds, he waited for the horsemen. Soon, a dozen bluish-gray-robed men, riding on the backs of dappled gray horses, came into view. Anger rose up in the young Woodswane when he saw Grog was numbered among the milky, white-faced men.
“So, the White Guard branch of the Society of Truth is gathering for a meeting,” Jeaf facetiously murmured to himself.
“Stay alert men!” Grog's sinister voice growled as his cataract-covered eyes perused the swamp's vast expanse. “He'll be coming out at any time. Even now, I can smell his stench polluting the swamp. He's near… very near.”
Realizing Grog was talking about him, Jeaf began to thank the flies and mosquitoes for not allowing him to take a break to eat. If he had, he would not have discovered the trap Grog was setting for him, not until it was too late.
Hunkering down in the bulrushes, the young Woodswane waited for the cover of night to arrive. At the same time, the horsemen spread out and began patrolling the swamp's outer reaches.
As evening shadows spread over the pond, Jeaf caught sight of a large creature slithering through the water, moving directly at him. As fate would have it, at that precise moment, one of the horsemen was passing by, on the other side of the bulrushes. Carefully drawing out his sword, to meet the creature gliding towards him, he lifted the point of his weapon above the water's surface as he got ready to defend himself. Quickly emulating his movements, the creature lifted its triangular shaped head high into the air. At first Jeaf
thought he might be facing a young crocodon, but on further inspection his Woodswane training told him he was facing a large and venomous watersnake.
This placed him between a rock and a hard place. If he moved to defend himself from the deadly strike that would surely come from the aggressive serpent, the horseman would no doubt spot him and call for help. But before he had time to decide what to do, an arrow struck the serpent, sending it to the bottom of the pool. Ironically, Jeaf's would-be captor had unwittingly saved him.
The horseman soon went on his way pleased he had been able to kill something that day. The young Woodswane could just imagine the man smiling before a campfire, bragging about his skill with the bow.
****
Night had finally got a firm hold on the warl when Jeaf began cutting his way through the bulrushes. Moving tentatively towards the woods, he slipped under the bough of a large oak tree. As he did, the young Woodswane, once again, heard the sound horses make. Leaping up into the gnarled branches, hanging overhead, he quickly scrambled up the tree's trunk just before four riders converged on one another. Dismounting, the members of the Society of Truth sat down on their haunches and began talking beneath a nearby tree. Letting their horses feed at their own leisure, they lit up the pipes they were carrying.
“Is our master sure the Fane J'Shrym is coming this way?” one of the soldiers asked as he began puffing on his pipe.
“Yes, you flee bitten dog,” another, with an obviously higher ranking, snapped back. “Laviathon spotted him... He said he would have killed the little beggar if the coward wasn't so quick to flee.”
A third soldier chimed in. “With the wounds I hear the crocodon sustained, I doubt the Fane J'Shrym fled all that fast. Anyway, I'm not certain where Laviathon's loyalties lie. Our master may think he reports to him, but I think its Ab'Don's ear he really runs to. I'd wager he's the one who sent the crocodon looking for the hammer the Fane J'Shrym's carrying, not Koyer.” His white face glowed momentarily in his pipe's light as he paused to smoke a bit before continuing. “I'm not certain he wants our master to get his hands on the hammer. Ab'Don fears him, I tell you. Didn't he send the fraethym to help track down the boy?”
