by Rex Hazelton
Picking their way over a path that was no more than a game trail scratched into the steep mountainside, the men moved ever southward. Looking over the track's dizzying edge, Jeaf reckoned that death could come as easily as a horse knocking a rock off the trail, a thing that intermittently happened. Bouncing among the tall pine trees, the dislodged stones looked like rabbits fleeing for their lives. Seldom used, only an occasional hunter or highwayman might be seen on the trail and no one else. The Tsadal had never come this way before, even though the Bjork realm was the closest kingdom to their own. The Bjork, a seafaring people whose business as traders carried them to the various port cities of Nyeg Warl, had no use for the track. The few efforts they made to establish a relationship with their neighbor had been discontinued long ago; the rude rejections the Bjork had to endure at the hands of the self-absorbed Tsadal brought these attempts to a chilly halt.
Goldan had never met a Bjork, even though he was one of the most traveled Tsadal in Credylnor. As a matter of fact, the only people he had met, other than his own, were those that he stumbled across in his military forays into the mountains surrounding the Valley of the Tsadal. These were usually brusque encounters where he handed out the warnings the elders directed him to give. On occasion, Goldan had to fight off persistent intruders. During one of these earlier battles, he gained renown for slaying a giant who was stealing Tsadal cattle. It was this fight that led to his quick ascent to leadership in the military, though he was only a handful of summers Jeaf's senior. Goldan had been a rising star in the Tsadal firmament until just five days earlier when he had given up his position and future to follow a young Woodswane in his quest.
Treacherous, the journey through the mountains was slow and arduous. The fickle trail changed elevations repeatedly as it struggled to parallel the Norstlyk River that cut ever deeper beneath them. Every now and again, the men wound their way through thick pine forests that grew like whiskers on the mountain's face. Other times, they inched their way along sheer cliffs that plummeted down to the distant river below. In situations like this, the Norstlyk looked to be no more than a thin silvery ribbon of water darting along the jagged canyon's floor. The company of weary travelers had spent most of the fifth day trying to conquer the indomitably steep slopes of the eastern reaches of the Alabaster Moutains when they spotted the mouth of a cave that lay close to the trail. After the Tsadal warriors discovered a chamber inside large enough to house all the company, Goldan decided to set up camp for the night, feeling the cave's walls would provide extra protection. So, the warriors dismounted.
Leading their horses inside, they removed the saddles from off their backs. Some of the men gathered water from a small stream that cut across the trail, near to where they were camping. Soon after, the horses were munching contentedly on feed bags filled with oats like they were children eating chunks of rock candy. Cool water would slake their thirst.
Lighting a fire, more for its illumination than a need for warmth, Jeaf spent the evening listening to the warriors sharing Credylnor's rich history. Despite his own horrible experience with the Tsadal, he found their culture was filled with many virtues that helped produce men like Goldan. As he listened to the passionate retelling of this legacy, the young Woodswane found himself hoping the Tsadal people would shake off the bonds of intransigence so that the grace they possessed might intermingle with the goodness found in other peoples of Nyeg Warl.
The cavern echoed with lively laughter coming in response to the humorous anecdotes and comic behavior the warriors delighted in performing. Jeaf, in a thousand summers, would never have guessed that the Tsadal loved to laugh as much as they did, especially in the light of Trycanor's dour personality. He found, if one were to break through their exteriors, those that had become encrusted with a reticence to open up to others different from themselves, one would discover surprisingly warm and engaging personalities hidden inside. This paradox filled the young Woodswane's thoughts as he and the others slipped into a well-deserved slumber. And as they did, the fire burned low as if it were trying to join them.
Later that night, when only a few coals still glowed in the darkened cave, sounds of horses snorting and stomping hooves woke the young Woodswane. Because of his recent harrowing escape from the clutches of the Grand Inquisitor, Jeaf, who had ever since been clothed in a general disposition of wariness, was instantly alert. His Woodswane faculties were quickly computing the things that he saw and heard as he studied the dim cavern.
Shadows were stealthily moving among the sleeping. Occasional muffled gurgling noises, wafting up into the orange glow of the dying fire, followed them.
Reaching for his sword, Jeaf jumped to his feet to face the mysterious intruders who were silently moving among the slumbering Tsadal warriors. The evil shadow nearest him snarled and snapped as it leapt across the dying embers. Spreading his stance to repulse the dark invader's attack, the young Woodswane thrust his sword forward into the shadow even before it had time to land on the ground. Immediately, a yelping inhuman cry filled the cavern. Now, the others, who were awakened by the yell, began scrambling to their feet. The dangerous shadows, realizing the advantage of surprise had slipped away, lept snarling and growling upon their prey, and the din of battle echoed through the cavern.
Goldan's sword flashed through the fading light like a phantom on a rampage, as he shouted, “Hunchmen are upon us! Fight for your lives!”
Another malevolent shadow appeared in front of the young Woodswane just as he extracted his sword from the fallen hunchman. But as the blood-soaked weapon lashed out at the new intruder, it cut through nothing but air. A thrashing sound of wings, shooting up to the cavern's ceiling, explained why this had happened.
There's more than hunchmen in the cave, Jeaf reasoned. But what that could be, he didn't know.
Lifting his head to follow the frantic sound of flight, Jeaf felt searing pain shoot up his right leg. Screaming in agony, the young Woodswane looked down and saw that the jaws of the savage hunchman, the one he thought he had killed, were now locked on his calf. Though the creature's bowels lay on cold stone beside it, the thing had managed to claw its way over to plunge its fangs into his leg.
The dying hunchman reached for Jeaf's other leg with one of its hands, wanting to tackle him to the floor so that it could sink its sharp teeth into his vital parts. At the same time, using its other hand, the thing scoured the ground, searching for its jagged sword. But the creature's stubborn attack was not quick enough.
In an instant, the young Woodswane grasped the hilt of his weapon. Using both hands, he lifted the blade high above his head. “ARRRRGH!” he shouted as he slammed it downward into the shock of hair protecting the hunchmen's sinewy neck. Slicing through the mane, the sharp steel severed the creature's vertebrate and the spinal cord held within.
Still, the crisp crunching sound of bone splintering and cartilage being cut didn't loosen the obstinate thing's lifeless jaws from their grip. Shackled to the hunchman's corpse, Jeaf was put in a precarious position. The mysterious enemy, hovering threateningly above him, could attack at any moment while the weight he now drug about, like a huge ball and chain, would hinder his ability to defend himself. Dropping to one knee, he took his sword and thrust it into the corner of the foul creature's jaws in an effort to pry its mouth open. The sound of breaking teeth could be heard when he shoved his sword deep into the thing's mouth, heedless that he was cutting into his own flesh. But his adrenaline dulled the pain the sharp steel produced, enough so he could continue cutting at the malignant thing that stubbornly clung to him.
A deafening clatter, dropping towards him, announced the renewed attack. Wrenching his sword as hard as he could, the young Woodswane was only able to move the vile jaws terrifyingly little and not enough to free himself. In desperation, he reached for his hammer. But before he could extract it from its sheath, Goldan stepped over to meet the deadly aerial assault. Without hesitating, the young Woodswane returned to the job of liberating his leg, leavi
ng the Tsadal warrior to defend him from above. Wrenching his sword, over-and-over again, as the horrible clamor of battle rung in his ears, Jeaf finally loosened the odious jaws enough so he could tear his bleeding leg away.
When the young Woodswane stood to help Goldan, he was suddenly jerked off his feet and out towards the mouth of the cave. Racing over the battle, as the winged-assailant whisked him along, Jeaf saw a score of blue-clad warriors encircling three repugnant hunchmen, those whose unnaturally long arms brandished razor-sharp swords. The corpses of other hunchmen lay among the slain and wounded Tsadal. Sounds of more wings furiously beating in pitches differing from Jeaf's captor's, marked the presence of other flying assassins that accompanied his abductor in its attempt to escape.
The winged-monster, holding Jeaf in its spiny arms, shot out of the cave like an arrow springing off a bow string. Shooting high into the air, two other winged-creatures flew alongside, carrying the flailing bodies of doomed Tsadal warriors they soon dropped screaming to their deaths upon the rocks below.
Once this gruesome task was accomplished, they flew over to examine the young Woodswane. “AZZKIRLLOLLT!” they squealed in triumph when they saw Vlad'War's Child fastened to his belt.
They want the hammer! Jeaf rightly guessed.
Realizing they wouldn't drop him lest they lose the hammer in the fall. Jeaf prepared himself to exact whatever punishment he could when they came to steal the hammer away. One of the winged-creatures that flew up to Jeaf had not reckoned that he still held a sword in his hands. Its bulbous eyes, segmented like pieces of pomegranate, looked hungrily at the Hammer of Power as it closed in on the prize with its pincer-like hands. But before it could accomplish its mission, riveting pain sent it heaving away, dripping a yellow creamy substance out of the wound it had sustained.
The other flying vermin, learning from its brother's mistake, drew out its sword. It planned to kill Jeaf before it would attempt to divest him of the hammer. Not long afterwards, a most peculiar battle broke out in the dizzying heights above the Norstlyk River. To an onlooker, it would have seemed like the two evil things were fighting each other: one, using only a sword in the duel; the other, armed with a puppet swordsman it used as its own bizarre weapon. The clanging of swords, ringing out through the early morning air, drew the attention of the nocturnal creatures that were taking advantage of the last vestiges of night. Puzzled and frightened, they searched the graying sky for the source of the mysterious sound.
Since Jeaf's abductor held him at arm's length and from behind, to protect itself from an errant thrust, the young Woodswane found himself at a distinct disadvantage in this strange battle. Besides this, he was saddled with two other handicaps: the first was his inability to use his legs as a foundation he could use to deal a fatal blow to his winged-adversary, a thing that looked strangely like a cross between a human and a praying mantis; the second was the way Jeaf's captor jerked him about as if he were a rag doll, throwing off the accuracy of the blows that he was trying to deliver.
Most men would have despaired in his predicament, but the training Aryl had given him didn't permit that option. The Master Swordsmith hammered his teachings into his son like he hammered beautiful lines into his renowned blades. In his lessons, he repeatedly taught Jeaf to use his disadvantages to his advantage, whenever possible. It was this thought, coming as naturally to the young Woodswane as breathing air that prompted him to throw his weight into the momentum of one of the creature's jerks, trying to destabilize the thing's flight long enough for him to wreak some havoc.
Waiting for his opportunity, the young Woodswane implemented his plan just as his adversary was diving in for another assault. Feigning to swing his sword, his captor retaliated as before, tugging him sideways. But this time, Jeaf threw all his weight in the direction that he had been pulled, causing his captor to bob-and-weave as it flew. Though its erratic movements only lasted a moment, it was long enough to hurtle it into its comrade's oncoming attack. Instantly, the evil things crashed into one another and were stung by the young Woodswane's ready sword.
SKRREEEL! Screams of pain filled the air.
The maneuver was more successful than Jeaf had expected since he had crippled the wings of both of the creatures in the moment they were entangled.
Jeaf's captor had taken the worst of his attack. No longer able to fly as well as it had before it sustained its wound, it floundered in the graying sky. Part of its right wing flopped about as it struggled to fly. Black fluid, that must have been its blood, splattered into the air. Fluttering in a wide circular pattern, like a vulture dropping down on a potential meal, the foul creature made a slow descent toward the river's surface far below. As it fell, it pulled Jeaf's body close and tried to choke him. Saving its life had become more important than retrieving the hammer. But alas, the creature's rage had clouded its reasoning, for it could have easily killed the young Woodswane if it had only tossed him to the rocks jutting up from below. Its lust for adding a more personal touch to its revenge was its undoing.
Gasping for air, Jeaf could not retaliate yet, lest he totally incapacitate his capture and plummet to his death along with it. So, he had to wait until he was close enough to the river to make sure that, if he were to fall, he wouldn't hit the rocks.
The problem with this plan was that the creature's descent was too slow. Already, its strong spiny arms had completely cut off his air supply. Looking below, he saw that the river, though much closer now, still had the appearance of a watery ribbon. Recognizing he would soon pass out if he didn't do something, the young Woodswane stabbed at the creature's body.
Since the hold restricted his movements, Jeaf's thrusts couldn't penetrate deeply enough to kill the beast. Nevertheless, he hoped his attack would quicken the creature's descent. Shrilly crying out, as its soft underbelly was lacerated by the sharp edge of the ever-probing steel, the thing lurched with each stab. Its black blood ran down the young Woodswane's body. Then, all at once, the odious creature loosened its grip and let him fall to, what it hoped was, his death.
Anticipating this ahead of time, Jeaf dropped his sword and grabbed hold of the creature's legs. Looking up into the evil thing's grotesque face that contorted with the effort it exerted to slow its fall, he hoped his hands wouldn't lose their grip on the creature's slippery exoskeleton.
Then to Jeaf's surprise, the thing spoke. “Let go you foul pile of bull-splatter!” The insect-man's voice continually changed pitches as it spat out its words through lips that were hidden behind underdeveloped mandibles.
Not wanting to humor his enemy, Jeaf did not reply as the two fell downward like a kite with its tail wrapped about itself.
The young Woodswane held on even though the creature's acrid blood burned his flesh. Longing to drop into the water, wanting to wash the tormenting liquid off of himself, the young Woodswane had to resist the urge to let go too early. But before he was ready, the creature began to drift away from the river and he instinctively loosened his grip. Dropping towards an uncertain landing, he hoped the water was still deep enough to cushion his fall.
The river rushed up to meet him at a terrifying speed. Plunging beneath its silvery surface, Jeaf was far too close to the river bank. A moment after he hit the water, his feet crushed into the shallow stony river bottom. His body, folding up under the impact, lurched sideways into the water's current.
Stunned by the crash, Jeaf limply floated beneath the river's surface while the blackness of unconsciousness vied for control of his mind. But before he succumbed, the current turned him over until he was facing skyward. Looking through the dimpled water, he thought he saw Trycanor smirking at him just as darkness was about to engulf him. The vision of his hated adversary jolted Jeaf with a dose of stubbornness that wouldn't let him easily fade away. Slowly, methodically his arms and legs began to clumsily churn through the water and he gently rose. Once he broke through to the air, he turned toward the shore and mechanically swam. Still, the current swept him down river making his pr
ogress almost negligible.
Then, as if out of nowhere, a tiny flash of light appeared before him and pulled him, like a ship in tow, towards the river's bank. Though it never touched him, the light's magic steadily dragged him along. Once he draped his arms around a gray boulder that rose above the river's surface, the little light darted off toward the mountain tops.
Jeaf's chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath. Holding onto the rock's cool surface, like it was his best friend, he rested for a time.
Later, after dragging himself out of the water, the young Woodswane was picking his way through the field of boulders that lay between the river's edge and the outskirts of the nearby forest. Entering a copse of massive pines, his injured leg throbbed and oozed blood each time he put weight on it as he labored up the steep mountain slope.
Reaching a clearing in the trees, Jeaf bent over to examine his wound.
BAM! Something that felt like a large tree branch falling on his back, knocked him to the ground. The thunderous sound of wings furiously beating the air told him that his original assumption was wrong. Regaining his feet, Jeaf lifted his head to see the third and last creature hovering nearby. If he hadn't bent over at the precise moment he did, he would now be aloft, held in this winged-demon's pincer like hands.
Though one of its six wings had been clipped by Jeaf's sword, the evil thing was still able to fly well enough to pose a deadly threat. Exhausted by his ordeal, the young Woodswane reached for the Hammer of Power as the thing swooped down upon him determined not to miss its mark. But before he could lose Vlad'War's Child, an arrow hit the odious creature in its back. THWUMP! THWUMP! THWUMP! Two, three, four more followed until the thing fell to the ground in a lifeless green heap.
