by Rex Hazelton
Scoping the woods that encircled him like a giant green wall, Jeaf tried to locate his deliverer. Eventually, the sound of footsteps could be heard stomping through the trees. Following the noise with his gaze, Jeaf saw a short heavy-set man, with curly brown hair, a matching beard and dark green eyes, emerging from beneath the branches of the towering pines. A large leather pouch, a long bow and a guitar were slung across his back. A sword hung from his belt. With a face ruddy and full of life, the man walked with childlike enthusiasm as a brown cape, hanging over one shoulder, fluttered behind his large round shoulders like a banner blowing in a breeze.
“Greetings!” The stranger spoke with a beautiful baritone voice that brought the greenwood to life. “My name's Bacchanor. Can I give you a hand?”
“Did you shoot the monster?” Jeaf had to have this answered before anything else happened.
“Well, I guess those are my arrows,” Bacchanor replied as he knelt to check on the young Woodswane. Pulling out a water-skin, he offered Jeaf a drink after he wet a cloth that he used to clean his wounds. “Take a pull on this… and then rest a bit. I have some berries I picked yesterday. Their sweetness will help you regain your strength.”
Grateful for the stranger's aid, but unwilling to let his guard down, Jeaf quizzed his unexpected benefactor. “How did you come to be here this morning?”
“I've been following you for some time now.”
Noticing the guitar laying upon Bacchanor's back, Jeaf recalled the music he had heard after his battle with Laviathon, in the loathsome swamp, and then in Credylnor.
“So, you play the guitar?”
“Why yes!” Bacchanor looked like he was having fun. “Do you like music?”
“Yes, very much.” It's time to flush the birds out of the bush, he thought as he answered the stranger's question. “Lately, my favorite kind has been guitar music. I see that you happen to have one in your possession.” Jeaf took another swallow of water before he continued. “Have I ever had the privilege of hearing you play?”
“Of course!” Bacchanor whistled part of the tune Jeaf had heard in his times of need, and as had happened before, a gentle breeze arrived, bringing refreshment with it. “I've already shared my songs' magic with you.”
“But why?”
“Whistyme sent me to support you with the anointing of friendship that inhabits my music,” Bacchanor explained. Throwing a generous portion of wild berries into his mouth, he continued his now muffled reply. “He knew that the road you had to travel would be filled with loneliness and discouragement, so he asked me to befriend you. That's where my giftings lie. I'm a wizard who has specialized in the Magic of Friendship.”
Bacchanor could see that Jeaf wasn't very impressed with his choice of occupations. Ah, the wizard thought, no doubt he would rather my skill be in fire or ice seeing how much fighting he has had to endure. He thinks something like that would be more helpful.
“There are things in the warl that are mightier than the sword. The Magic of Friendship is one of these. Its power is unsurpassed in the realm of mystery and wisdom.” Bacchanor was determined to explain. “Let me put it this way, two friends armed only with stones are as formidable as a score of well-armed warriors. How can that be, you may ask? For one thing, the magic of friendship can dispel the power of discouragement and despair far better than a cold blade of steel ever could.”
“But wouldn't you rather be armed with a good sword than a fist full of stone?” Jeaf asked, feeling Bacchanor could be making light of his father's trade.
Laughing heartily as a rivulet of dark berry juice ran down the corner of his mouth, Jeaf's enigmatic deliverer added, “Would I rather have a sword than a fist full of stone? What do I look like a half-wit?” Bacchanor replied as he wiped away the sticky juice off his chin before licking his hand clean as if he were a large cat. Suddenly realizing what he must look like, the congenial stranger said, “Don't answer that question,” before he added, “Of course I'd rather have a sword than a stone. My point is that true friendship can make up for much that is lacking since friendship is a powerful resource itself. You see, if it's true that two friends armed only with rocks are as formidable as those armed with swords, how much stronger would they be if they had swords too. Eh? Do you see where I'm heading with this?”
“Well Sir, or Wizard, or whatever you are called, I'm grateful for your timely arrival.” Jeaf, whose strength was indeed being replenished by the berries' sweetness, added, “I also want to thank you for your Songs of Friendship and the magic they bring. They gave me hope in times when I most needed it.”
After shooting a stream of water into his mouth out of Bacchanor's water-skin, Jeaf asked the wizard another question. “If Whistyme sent you to befriend me, why didn't you show yourself sooner?”
“Ah! That's because Whistyme would not allow me to interfere. I was only permitted to grant you the magic found in my songs until I was told otherwise. And last night I was warned that you would need my bow.”
“How do you know Whistyme?”
“Why, My Boy, I'm a dreamer of dreams just as you yourself are, and dreams is where Whistyme lives.”
****
It was late morning before Jeaf and Bacchanor reached the mouth of the cave. On the way they passed the corpses of five hunchmen. These were strewn along the steep slope, dropping from the trail to the river below. Bacchanor laid his hand on the bodies of three dead horses that lay scattered among them and recited some unintelligible words. Slipping on loose pine needles, the young Woodswane, trying to keep his balance, put his hand down on top of one of the hunchmen's heads, a head whose mouth was full of broken teeth. The stench of its quickly decaying body was unbearable. So, the two men hurried past the distorted shape.
Groaning sounds greeted the two men as they entered the cave and what they saw was dismaying. In one corner lay the bodies of seven slain Tsadal all neatly lined up in blue uniforms, their weapons laying at their feet. Ten wounded warriors were being attended to on the other side of the chamber. Jeaf was disturbed by the angry looks several of the warriors gave him.
“You're alive!” Relieved to see his friend, Goldan stepped over to greet the young Woodswane. “I feared you had perished, or worse, had been carried away to Koyer's lair.”
“It might have turned out that way if not for this man's help.” Jeaf introduced Goldan to his new-found companion before explaining how he came to meet Bacchanor.
The Tsadal warrior's eyebrows lifted when he heard that the man was a wizard, for such as he were not allowed entrance into the Tsadal valley. Fighting his natural revulsion to someone of Bacchanor's occupation, Goldan finally stepped forward and shook the bemused wizard's hand.
Laughing nervously, Goldan replied, “You say that you've devoted yourself to studying the Magic of Friendship? Well, your skill in the art must be great, for it's a miracle to have a Tsadal shaking hands with the likes of you.” Gazing down at the hand that touched the wizard, Goldan added, “The winds of change are most certainly blowing across Nyeg Warl just as my fathers said they would... but I never thought we Tsadal would be the ones doing the changing.”
Though few of the others would greet Bacchanor, they did allow him to sing his songs of friendship whose magic soothed the pain of the wounded and dying, as well as relieved some of the consternation and confusion that those who had survived the brutal struggle now wrestled with.
The company of warriors spent the rest of the day recuperating from the horrifying battle of the night before. In due course, darkness, once again, sealed the mouth of the cave with the black cork of night.
Goldan decided to remain in the protective confines of the cavern, rather than expose themselves to an attack that could come from any direction if they had to camp out on the treacherous mountain trail. The strategy was to have half of the warriors stand guard while the others tried to sleep, and later change places. In the morning the warriors would return home, carrying the bodies of their dead and wounded with them.
Only Goldan, Bacchanor and Jeaf would continue on to Thundyrkynd. Without Jeaf along, the others felt the return trip would be safe enough.
****
That night two more Tsadal warriors succumbed to their wounds and died while the others sat around a fire they were using to roast the game they had shot during a hunting foray the past noon. Acting as a catalyst, the deaths broke the dam holding back a young Tsadal's grief.
Watching the young man weep openly over his best friend's lifeless body, Jeaf sat horror stricken by the thought that all these men had given their lives to protect him. The smell of sulfur wafted into the young Woodswane's nostrils as the fangs of depression sank deep into his mind. Succumbing to its bite, he looked down at the hammer in disgust. He felt repulsed at the deaths it had caused and was gripped with fear for those who would die on its behalf in the coming days.
Loosening the hammer, Jeaf pulled it from its sheath. Turning it over-and-over in his trembling hands, a thought came to mind. I'll throw it in the fire and be done with it.
The young Woodswane wanted to rid himself of the sense of responsibility that felt like the weight of a mountain was crushing down on him. He longed for his remorse to melt away in the redhot coals, along with the star's blood that Vlad'War had used to forge the hammer.
With the sounds of arguing reverberating off the cavern's walls, the young grief-stricken man stood to confront Jeaf, his face twisted in anger as he did. “Is that thing worth it?” he shouted.
Jeaf was startled by the young warrior's rage filled words. “Is what worth it? I don't know what you're saying?”
Tears began running down the young man's cheeks as he shouted again. “Is that fire-blasted hammer worth the life of the best friend I've ever had?”
“I don't really know,” Jeaf replied, dejected and confused. “I'm sorry about your friend's death.”
“Burn it to ashes! Sorry doesn't cut it!” The young Tsadal warrior kicked a loose rock at Jeaf as he shouted out his grief. “How are you going to use that thing to save Nyeg Warl anyway? You're not a king! You don't have an army! You're no older than I am!”
“I don't know.” Jeaf's head sank into his hands. “I have my own doubts and no answers for you.”
Goldan stood after another rock hit the young Woodswane. “That's enough soldier! Branam died in the line of duty, just like any of the rest of us would have.”
The Tsadal commander's golden hair reflected the campfire's light as he paused before softening his voice to comfort the sobbing warrior. “I know what it's like to lose a loved one in battle. The pain is almost unbearable... but in time it will pass.”
“No, it won't!” the young Tsadal warrior screamed as the aroma of rotting trash entered the cavern and a shadow crossed his face.
Then, shaking his head like he had swallowed something unpleasant, he added, “Who are you to be speaking to me anyway. Haven't you abandoned the Tsadal for this stranger, this worthless piece of trash? I'll not listen to you! You have no authority over me, not anymore!”
“That's right!” Another young Tsadal warrior chimed in, one who was stoutly built. “Commander, you've abandoned us for this stranger! Don't you care for us?”
“Yes! I care for you more than life itself. That's why I've given up my position and rank,” Goldan reasoned. “What I'm doing, I'm doing for the Tsadal community. I'm not abandoning you. I'm doing what I think will most help our people to face the coming horror now threatening Nyeg Warl.”
A pungent fragrance settled on the burly warrior. Rising to his feet, he came and stood nose-to-nose with Goldan and shouted, “You traitor! You led us into a trap that has killed nine of our men. It's you and this Woodswane that deserve to die, not those over there.” The young warrior's face contorted, his eyes darkened, and he drew his sword.
In response, Goldan unsheathed his own weapon and pushed the burly youth away with his free arm as he growled out a terse warning. “Beware soldier!”
The grief-stricken man, who had been standing over Jeaf, drew out his weapon and stepped beside his burly friend.
The foul stench that the warriors thought was coming from the decaying hunchmen corpses laying outside, passed through the mouth of the cave and inundated the chamber. The rest of the Tsadal stood to their feet and unsheathed their swords worried about what might happen. Muscles tightened. Eyes narrowed. Those who just a few moments before had been brothers were now ready to spill each other's blood for varying reasons they felt were infinitely just and had suddenly grown to monumental proportions, reasons that, if given a different setting, would have been hard to explain.
Not everyone stood against Goldan. Some were ready to defend him. Others wanted to get revenge for things done to them in the past, things they thought they had already forgiven: one warrior had a renewed interest in making a comrade pay for breaking off an engagement with his sister; another stewed over a bad report one of the others had given to his superiors, a report that delayed his promotion.
Jeaf's self-loathing grew as he saw what he thought he was responsible for. Standing to his feet, he shouted as loudly as he could. “Stop this insanity!” When the warriors turned on him, looking like a pack of snarling dogs that had spied a cat, Jeaf lifted his hammer and said. “Do not harm yourselves. I will remove the offensive thing from our midst!”
In an instant, the young Woodswane tossed the hammer into the heart of the blazing campfire and declared, “There… that ends that.”
But it didn't put an end to the animosity. The snowball was already careening downhill and was growing larger with each passing moment. The warrior's eyes held a look that Jeaf had not seen before in the Tsadal people, one that worried him. It was as if he were looking at an entirely different company of men than those he had laughed with on the previous night. So, he drew out the sword he had been given to replace the one dropped in the river. Readying himself, for an attack that could come from anyone of those standing before him, he considered the position he was in. Only Goldan, whose eyes remained as clear as before, and Bacchanor, who frowned disapprovingly at what he saw, did not appear to be a threat.
Tension grew like a bubble whose exterior was stretched beyond its ability to remain intact. Now, only a miracle could stop the situation from exploding. Remembering Bacchanor claimed to be a wizard, Jeaf turned to him. “What's happening?”
“You've caught a bug,” the brown-clad wizard explained as his fingers methodically taped the back of his guitar.
“What do you mean, I've caught a bug?”
“Did you smell a scent of sulfur a while back?
“Yes, I did. But what does that mean?”
“That's when you caught a bug.”
“What's a bug?” Jeaf asked, fearing that a fight would begin at the next hint of provocation.
“It's an evil spirit.” Bacchanor seemed puzzled that Jeaf didn't already know this. “Koyer's attack has begun again, but not like last night. Tonight, it has come in a different form. He's sent evil spirits to influence whatever minds are open to their persuasion. He hopes to prey on the Tsadal fear over what he knows must be things that are radically new to them. The one you caught entered through the doorway of your sorrow and regret over others having died to protect you and the hammer. The young man over there caught one when he allowed his grief to turn into bitterness and accusation. Others have entered through the doorway of confusion.”
“Is that why my Powers of Intuition have failed me? I can't read a thing- not a thought or an emotion!”
“Certainly! With Elamor as your mentor, I know she must have taught you that one can't clearly see others, if they're not willing to see themselves.” Bacchanor lifted his eyebrows as he looked past Jeaf's eyes to gaze at what sat behind them. “Are you willing to see yourself as you really are?”
“Yes! Please help me! I feel so badly over all of this I think I could die.”
“Very well,” Bacchanor replied as he aimed the palm of his hand at the young Woodswane and said, “If you are
willing, see!”
Emboldened by the wizard's magic, Jeaf examined himself and finally caught sight of the vaporous serpent winding itself around his body. Knowing that it could no longer hide, the thing began rubbing the young Woodswane's back with its supple tail, cajoling him with its thoughts. It's not fair that so many expect so much from you.
Self-pity! The spirit is trying to fill me with self-pity! Jeaf surmised. “How can I break the spell?”
“Be thankful for who you are and what you've been asked to do! Cast off regret and pick up your hammer!”
“But I threw it in the fire!”
“Well, these types of things do need a little bit of faith to work.” A most peculiar expression crossed the wizard's face, one with equal parts of amusement and concern mixed into it. “Go on now. Go pick it up.”
Putting his sword away, Jeaf bent down and picked up a stick so he could use to push the hammer out of the fire.
The unusual move caught the Tsadal warriors' attention who watched him walk over to the campfire that was now charring their evening meal.
“Don't use a stick, use your hand!” Bacchanor ordered.
“But I won't be able to reach it!”
“Then go into the fire and get it!”
Jeaf looked back at the wizard for reassurance as he slowly walked toward the hot coals that were decorated with delicate dancing flames. Bacchanor, looking like a parent who was sending a child off to school, prompted the young Woodswane forward, using the back of his hand like he was sweeping him into the fire.
What a summer! Jeaf thought to himself. I've been chased by hunchmen and river-children, Laviathon tried to eat me, I was nearly drowned and executed in public, a winged-monster carried me off into the sky and dropped me into a raging river, and now, I've been commanded to walk into fire. Jeaf shook his head in disbelief as he abandoned himself to his fate.
