by Rex Hazelton
“Call the Candle Makers!” Not wearing a helmet, Barden's shock of black curly hair flew about as he shouted his command to those standing on the fortress wall.
But before the antidote needed to counteract the spell the Hag had woven could arrive, a mountain of water, followed by a smoke-filled fog bank, charged along the mote's sweeping course. Portable bridges rattled, once again, telling all that the sea serpent had returned.
Laviathon's deep-throated laugh rushed out of his horrible, tooth-filled mouth as his massive head rose high above the king and his desperate men. Looking down on those who were being held at bay by the incandescent hand, a ball of flammable liquid rumbled up the reptile's elongated neck. Spewing out into the air, it ignited as it rolled over the drawbridge. Fifty proud knights were instantly scorched to a crisp. A second volley of flame burned another twenty-five and sent the rest fleeing off into the fortress depths. Sadly, Barden was not with them.
The Hag's candle was spent, and the woman- slumping in exhaustion over having expended so much magic- was ushered to the rear by others belonging to her infamous order.
Nyeg Warl had not felt the bite of the Hag's magic since the days of the Battle of the Breach. The descendants of the Candle Makers who had fought against this dark order in that harrowing war looked on, too late to save their sovereign, remembering the stories that told them about the Hag's might and their merciless savagery. In sullen realization of what they had just witnessed, the Candle Makers filtered back into the fortress seeking out those not yet dead, those who would need their healing magic. But if they were forced to- for their order placed healing over warfare- they'd fight like they'd not had to in more than five-hundred summers. And that moment was quickly approaching. Still, there were too few of them to stem the flood that now swept over the city, drowning out hope, staving off help.
The fighting went on for most of the day. When the Malamor and White Guard joined the fray, the battle was unalterably turned in Koyer's favor. In due course, with the Shomeronian forces decimated, the Warriors of Regret were relegated to destroying pockets of resistance that valiantly tried to put off their inevitable doom. But in the end, it was all in vain. Koyer's army had taken full control of the fortress city and begun the loathsome job of killing every adult male they came upon, those who would not vow allegiance to their dark lord. And just as their father had said, the crocodon did not go unfed that day. The Cragmar River ran red with the blood of the Shomeronians who tried to swim across its expanse in a bid for freedom. Even so, many were able to get away.
The Lord of Regret followed Brakor into the city, along with the company of clay giants and hunchmen that traveled with him. Koyer gloated over his success while the hulking clay giants began smashing down any door or wall the White Guard suspected Shomeronians were hiding behind. After the doors were shattered, snarling hunchmen were sent in to ferret out those who sought refuge in the castle's maze-like corridors.
The hunchmen were also given the job of going into the secret passageways the members of the White Guard, who had served in the Society of Truth, led them to. They would clean these out as well, catching those who had not been able to escape, adding human teeth to the necklaces hanging from their mane-covered necks.
One of the Society's goals was to develop comprehensive maps of every tunnel, hallway, egress and ingress found in Nyeg Warl's various castles and fortresses. The rationale they gave for this practice was based on their stated desire to protect their cities from would-be assassins. This was how Queen Celeste and her ladies in waiting were found, as well as many other Shomeronian lords and ladies.
Inevitably, the dreaded black carts rolled through Shomeron's bloodstained streets. As before, they came to pick up a pitiful cargo of women and children that would be carried back to G'Lude's dark holes.
Two nights later, Koyer stood before a blazing funeral pyre that held the bodies of over three thousand Archan, From, Malamor, and Cassian warriors, those who were slain in battle. Over fifteen thousand Shomeronian men, women and children were included. The glow cast by this macabre fire, rising higher than the tallest pinnacle on the castle heights, could be seen as far away as Plagea, Vineland and the Eyrie of the Eagle. For days to follow, its smoke would pollute the skies covering Nyeg Warl's northern reaches, carrying with it the scent of impending doom, covering the land in the ashes of destruction.
Huge black wings spread out before the hungry flames as Koyer exulted in the slaughter. His toothy smile widened as if he were going to take a bite out of the night. Pleased with the results the battle had produced, the loss of one-tenth of the army he had led into battle was acceptable. After all, reinforcements were arriving daily from Ar Warl. It was time to secure the territories Koyer had acquired in the summer of war and replenish his strength over the course of the approaching winter.
Within a handful of days, Clyntor and his agents were, once again, on their way to tell their version of what had transpired. Clyntor didn't relish another encounter with the Valamorian's bothersome prince, but he knew they needed to keep the unrelenting flow of lies coming if they were to steal more time from Nyeg Warl's kings. Being the predators they were, they wanted every advantage possible, advantages that would help them subdue their prey with as little effort as possible when spring arrived.
Chapter 23: Forest Deep
Jeaf didn't leave his hiding place for fear the Soldiers of Truth, those who had been waiting for him at the swamp's edge, were setting a trap for him. But when he could wait no longer, he began a slow descent out of the gnarled old oak. Dropping to the ground, his body throbbed in pain. Sitting motionlessly for so long while his pursuers enjoyed their pipes had taken its toll. But, he didn't have time to care for himself, he had to get as far away from the swamp as he could, before daylight returned. Moving deeper into the dark greenwood, he heard horses somewhere behind him, sounds that dimmed the deeper he moved into the surrounding forest.
Silently, Jeaf slipped through the darkness, all the time fearing that Grog would catch his scent at the place where he had emerged from the wetlands. Then, just when the young Woodswane thought, At least I haven't seen any sign of hunchmen, a twig snapping nearby sent him running faster through the night. But neither the sounds of snarling or growling, nor the thumping of hooves beating in pursuit, were heard.
Jeaf had slipped the trap.
With the sky taking on pale blue and violet hues, those that announced the presence of the approaching day, the solitary figure finally sought shelter where he could safely rest. Discovering a patch of scrub oak that would meet his needs, Jeaf used a narrow animal trail to slip into the thick brush. Collapsing on a pile of dead leaves, he promptly fell into dreamless sleep, the kind of shallow slumber laying just below wakefulness.
When he finally awoke, later that morning, he found he was not fully rested. His mind was held in a vice of dullness that stress and exhaustion created. Reaching for his provisions, fingers stumbling as they delved into the package he carried, the young Woodswane willed every move his muscles made. Discouragement bore more deeply into his emotions when he discovered that nearly all his supplies had been ruined by the swamp's rancid water when he was forced to submerge himself hiding from the Soldiers of Truth. After eating the pitiful handful of damp crumbs he was able to salvage and drinking the last of his water, Jeaf slipped back into shallow sleep.
Tchnn. Tchnn. Tchnn.The young Woodswane was startled from slumber by a rustling sound coming from the very scrub oak that he had sought refuge beneath.
What was that? The sharp edge of fear cut at him as he strained to listen for sounds of his pursuers. Reaching for his sword before rising to one knee, Jeaf frightened a passing deer who saw a heap of dead leaves transform into a man. Fleeing, the animal plunged down the trail that ran through the scrub oak, disappearing into the shadows of another approaching night.
As the deer left, a disquieting noise wafted out of the trees arching overhead. WHOOO! Jeaf reached for his sword's hilt, once again
. Looking up, he spied a white-faced owl looking quizzically back at him. “You're not one of the White Guard, are you?”
A wry smile crossed the young man's face when the owl's head began moving from side-to-side, as if it were answering him.
“No? I didn't think so.”
Realizing he was truly alone, Jeaf stood to his feet. Heaving the leather pouch he had been using for a pillow over his shoulder, he reached for his bow and arrows. After checking to see that his sword and hammer were secured, the young Woodswane followed the deer, moving down the game trail until he passed through the patch of scrub oak. Out in the open, he headed westward.
The little energy the past morning's meager meal had generated was soon depleted once he scrambled down and up the sides of a series of ravines that were blocking his way.
Put to the test in this unfamiliar forest, Jeaf found his Woodswane skills served him well. Though tired and in need of food, he was still able to slip through the forest as well as most woodland animals could, melding into the dark shadows as if he were one himself. An ordinary person, like the towns folk he saw in Eagle's Vale, would not detect his passing. They would have thought that he was only the sound of wind moving through the trees, or the noise of a pine cone falling to the rich forest floor.
Unlike other nights he had spent in the woods, the darkness pressed in on Jeaf more heavily then Laviathon's spell-enhanced smoke, bringing the memory of the terrible lizard's words boiling to the surface of his consciousness, words that accused others of having abandoned him. As time passed by, and the memory of Laviathon's words still nipping at his mind, Jeaf's sense of being alone became stifling. The residual magic left by the evil sea serpent's speech infested his soul like a noisome infection.
His sense of isolation made him long for the assurance his parents' presence brought with it. In time, the longing increased until, in the grip of exhaustion, the young Woodswane thought he heard the sounds his parents made whenever they went walking together: Aryl's habit of dragging his feet when he was in thought, the swishing noise Elamor's dress made as she moved, the way his father blew air out of his mouth whenever he was ready to say something important.
Aware they weren't really there, Jeaf still let the illusion comfort him. But even this didn't last, for the evil serpent's gruesome visage rose out of the mists of recollection, rudely interrupting his pleasant reminiscing.
The foreboding image of Laviathon's head, hypnotically bobbing and weaving in a cloud of superheated smoke, made Jeaf's heart to beat faster. His breathing became labored. He felt that he would have fainted, if it weren't for a cool breeze that swept through one of the ravines and splashed up against his face. The melodious sound of a guitar, and the mysterious voice of a distant singer, clothed the young Woodswane with a calm that rekindled a spark of hope within him. Convinced the music was also a hallucination, something that tumbled out of the chaos swimming in his head, Jeaf, nevertheless, welcomed the gift of rejuvenation it brought with it.
To add to all of this, the young Woodswane thought he saw a swarm of flickering fireflies, somewhere out in front of him, the likes of which he had not seen before. Enthralled by the glittering display, Jeaf was drawn forward. When he got closer, he realized the lights were getting too bright to be generated by insects. Voices that were heard floating on the night air only crystallized his conclusion.
Who's that? Reaching out with his Powers of Intuition, Jeaf attempted to determine if he were in trouble, or not. Though I feel no malice, I feel something... something new.
Like a moth drawn to a flame's glory, the young Woodswane was compelled to move towards the lights.
Torches!
Jeaf was not unnerved by this discovery. Seeing the torches sitting on the tops of poles encircling a bonfire, around which shadowy figures could be seen moving about, he reckoned that this wasn't a search party. Enticing sounds of music and laughter, filtering through the greenwood, only confirmed his suspicions.
Amazed at his audacity, Jeaf approached those gathered beneath the torches' light. Whether hunger for food, the need for companionship, or some enchantment drew him forward, the young Woodswane could not tell. But for good or evil, his course was set.
Peering through the trees, Jeaf's eyes widened as he saw what he had only heard about in stories that were told after dinner, or before bed times. There, in an opening in the dense greenwood, stood more than a score of elves, the mystical folk that graced the sweet dreams of innocent children, those that suspicious adults reviled. Thin in build, they were about a head shorter than the young Woodswane. Each was garbed in green forestall clothes: flowers and garlands- made of pine, oak, and laurel- adorned their heads; wide leather belts- dyed brown, yellow, gold or pale orange- holding sheaths filled with long shining knives made of star's blood, hung at their sides. Casually standing around tables covered with fruit, vegetables, cakes, steaming pies, flasks of fruit juice, wine and water, Jeaf thought they looked as if they were waiting for more guests to arrive before the feast would begin.
Only temporarily interested in the pointed ears and almond shape eyes, things that were characteristic of woodland elves, Jeaf's attention was soon fixed solely on the opulent victuals adorning the tables. While engrossed in guessing what the contents of one of the pies might be, music began playing. Looking at the elves, Jeaf saw that everyone had turned toward the source of the enchanting melody. So, he followed their lead.
Though he couldn't see the singer, there was something about his voice that drew him like a magnet. The music so thoroughly piqued the young Woodswane's interest that he inadvertently moved out from the tree he was hiding behind. Jeaf had to know who the singer was! Realizing what he had done, Jeaf quickly looked about. Seeing that none of the elves noticed his clumsy maneuver, the relieved Woodswane slipped behind another tree and renewed his search. His efforts were not in vain. He soon found what he was looking for.
Focusing his gaze on the musician, who stood on a fallen tree trunk as he played, Jeaf thought there was something strangely familiar about this fellow and the song he was singing. His mouth fell open when he heard the refrain.
Fly away, fly away, to Arl Warl go.
Fly away, fly away, the darkness I'll show.
Tears filled his eyes as the song continued.
Come away, come away, to Nyeg Warl go.
Come away, come away, the secret I'll show.
It can't be! Jeaf's head felt like it would explode. Alynd? But it was! The minstrel known as the Bard of Nyeg Warl was standing in the midst of the elves.
While Jeaf was trying to digest this information, Alynd lept off the log and onto a table, winding his way through the bottles, bowls, and plates toward the young Woodswane. Then before Jeaf knew what was happening, all the elves were looking at him.
Landing on the ground, near his friend, Alynd shouted, “Behold! The Hammer Bearer has arrived!”
Shouting, laughter and clapping erupted while an ensemble of elven musicians struck up a lively tune. The sanguine melody caught the throng up into its swirling rhythms and sent the elves sweeping towards Jeaf- skipping and twirling as they went. And when they arrived, the young Woodswane was caught up in the exuberant dance. Handsome males and beautiful females escorted him about, hand-in-hand. When it finally dawned on him that he was the one they had been waiting for so that the feast could begin, the young Woodswane laughed out loud.
Dancing around the bonfire, for a very long time, Jeaf was buoyed by the strength that comes from being in the company of new found friends. On-and-on he danced until the excitement of the moment waned and his fatigue returned. The elves, who could tell that his energies were depleted, sat him down and started serving him the delicious woodland fare they had prepared. Laughing, after watching him dive into his meal, all but two of them returned to the dance. These remained behind, to serve him.
Exhausted, Jeaf thought he would break down crying over the sense of relief he felt, realizing that his struggles were temporarily over.
It seemed like the lion's share of the night had passed, and still the young Woodswane didn't relent from eating. The whole time, the elves continued dancing. The wine, that tasted as sweet as nectar, flowed over his lips, feeling as cool as a mountain stream, and, when it slid down his throat, it fell warm as hot broth. After draining cup after cup of the delicious drink, Jeaf was overcome with sleep and lay his head down on the table. The rich elven rhythms filling the air sent him into a dreamscape filled with bright colors, rich aromas, and ever-present music.
****
Jeaf blinked as a green and purple humming bird darted about in front of his eyes. This way and that way it flew, trying to steal the remnants of sweet wine still clinging to his lips. Waving the tiny bird away, he looked about himself. Thinking he was, once again, alone, the Young Woodswane felt his heart sink. It was daytime and the tables were gone. Only the bonfire's ashes remained.
Examining the bed he had been sleeping on, Jeaf saw that it was made of thin, freshly cut pine branches loosely braided to form a springy mattress. Sitting up, the young Woodswane noticed that he wasn't alone after all; two elves were standing guard near him; three wild looking ponies, untethered and free, nibbled on tufts of grass growing in a nearby sunlit clearing.
The two guards stepped forward to introduce themselves, and as they approached, they brought renewed hope with them.
“Hello, Hammer Bearer. My name is Silvamor and this is Shalamor.” The elf's voice sounded more like a musical instrument than a human's voice. “We must be leaving soon. The forces of darkness have not yet given up hope of finding you... Yet, do not fear. As long as you are with us, they will surely fail... Come. Eat. Then we'll go to Mystlkynd, the home of the elves.”
Silvamor and Shalamor, after giving Jeaf a flask of water and a bread roll filled with blackberry jam, joined the young Woodswane in breakfasting. Not long afterwards, the three were astride the ponies, riding without the aid of either saddle or rein. The elves rode with their hands resting on their thighs; the young Woodswane held a handful of mane, to keep his balance.
