by Rex Hazelton
Turning about on his hind legs, looking each of the sovereigns straight in the face, the mighty griffin let out a rumbling growl. With his wings spread wide, Grour Blood was trying to capture the kings' attention in an effort to give the Hammer Bearer, who sat on his back, the aura of authority he would need for the crucial negotiations that would soon ensue. In one last grand move, the winged-lion, still standing on his hind legs, let out another roar that conveyed strength and majesty.
Having done his best to set the table for Muriel and Jeaf to do what needed to be done, Grour Blood lowered himself to the ground, so the couple could dismount. Sitting on his haunches, the fierce griffin held the throng of men in his terrible gaze. Dismounting his steed, Prince Phelp came to stand beside the Prophetess and the Hammer Bearer. The remainder of the men remained steadfast in their saddles. The Eagle King sat grim-faced. Eyes, filled with the fires of madness, glared at Jeaf. Worse than this, the confusion the generals had displayed the previous day was now replaced with a resolve that decried the resolutions made in their overnight deliberations. The events that were about to unfold would not happen by accident. Each guard was poised with orders telling them exactly how to meet the variables that would arise. Only the fact the kings themselves had shown up for this parlay gave hope that the insanity, filling the air like the smell of a badly burned meal, could be assuaged and bloodshed averted.
Perusing the volatile warriors, gathered on the icy knoll, Jeaf could see the wispy evil spirits, those that clouded yesterday's meeting, were still present. The foul thing that strangled Cane's spinal cord was still up to its old tricks. Emboldened by yesterday's success, it was confidently darting in and out of the king's gapping mouth like it were a serpent's tongue tasting the bitter air.
The evil thing's self-assurance was a bad omen... Disconcerted by the spirit's blatant behavior, Jeaf looked out over the assembled armies trying to uncover the root of its certitude. And to his utter chagrin, he saw a sooty fog of evil persuasion dangling above the heads of the warrior throngs. The tension reflected in the soldiers' movements, the total alertness manifested in their eyes, the way they nervously handled their weapons forewarned of imminent disaster. Staring each other down, the hostile armies looked like a pack of hate-filled dogs whose instincts dictated that they must fight.
Realizing how badly the cards were stacked against him, Jeaf dove right into the fray. “Beware! There is an evil magic at work in this place, and…!”
“You don't have to tell us things we already know!” The Bull King, now covered in brilliant body armor from head to toe, spat out his words before the young Woodswane had time to finish his statement. “The only thing left for us to do is to locate where it's coming from.”
“Stop this!” Prince Phelp, who had also donned formidable battle armor, shouted out in a commanding voice that startled the kings. “The evil magic comes from Ar Warl! Ab'Don, the Sorcerer, is the fountain from which it springs. We must not let his strategy of undermining our faith in one another work.” Turning to look at each of the kings, the prince added, “Your enemy, does not stand before you today! No! He's straddling the Cragmar River where he mercilessly slaughtered the Shomeronians this past fall.”
“Ab'Don may be the source of the evil magic that is at work here today, just as you've said,” the Wolf King shouted out his reply, “but Koyer is not the only conduit of darkness found in Nyeg Warl. From what I and my counselors can detect, the foul stench of Ab'Don's allies pollutes our camp.” King Romome, who rode upon a silver stallion the match of his silver armor, looked bleakly at his peers. “It would be folly to march on Koyer's evil hordes before we ferret out the source of this stench!”
The Hammer Bearer studied the kings and their generals. All were arrayed in ornate battle armor. Even their mounts were shielded about their necks and foreheads. Skirts of cloth, reflecting the color of the realms they belonged to, covered the powerful horses' bodies. Thick padding, protecting their sides and flanks, sat beneath the cloth. With all the armor covering both beast and master, the two together had become a mini-fortress that could move through opposing foot soldiers as easily as a wolf moves through a herd of sheep.
The odious soot-colored fog, that hung over the armies standing on the frozen plain, thickened as it lowered itself closer to the warriors' heads. Seeing that it was ready to whip the well-armed throngs into a frenzy of murder and war, Jeaf went into action, hoping to avert disaster. Unsheathing the hammer and lifting it high above his head, he shouted, “Behold the Hammer of Power, Vlad'War's Child, the talisman the prophets foretold would arrive in Nyeg Warl's greatest hour of need!”
All went silent. Every eye was fixed on the young Woodswane.
“Do not look upon your brothers with suspicion, look upon the hammer I hold up before you as a sign that victory can be ours if we will unite around its single purpose of delivering Nyeg Warl from Ab'Don's clutches. My Fathers… do not succumb to the cloud of deception that is descending upon you this very moment, trying to engulf you in the insanity of a pointless fight.”
Pointing at Muriel, the young Woodswane continued. “Behold the Prophetess who the griffin have brought to us! Now is not the time to mistrust each other, lest the Wise Ones' foretellings fall to the ground like so many birds shot down with arrows of fear and mistrust. Now is the time for us to clothe ourselves in courage and bravely advance, side by side, against our common foe.”
“That's a pretty speech.” The sinister serpentine vapor spoke out of the Eagle King's mouth. “But the things you present as tokens of ultimate victory over Koyer have been nothing more than the harbingers of death for me and my family.” Cane's face contorted as he continued speaking. “Was it not your hammer's deceptive beauty that misled Phelp into thinking he could save Hartshyll? Didn't the griffin carry my son to his doom in the courtyard at the Eyrie of the Eagle? And who's to say who this vagabond woman really is?” Rising in his star's blood-colored saddle, the Eagle King cried out with a voice filled with hypnotic power, a power not his own. “I'll tell you who you are! You are false hope at best and Koyer's agents at worst.”
“Koyer's agents? You're mad!” The Wolf King shouted out his incredulous reply. “These, who you are now accusing, saved my son's life from a fate worse than death, a terrible fate that would have come at the hands of the Evil One who you now say they serve!”
“So, Romome, your son lives and mine dies. Why is that?” A snarling sound came from Cane's throat as he lowered his head, looking like an animal preparing to attack. Jeaf felt the emotion of bitterness flowing out of the Eagle King. At the same time, the soot-colored fog descended to the ground, shrouding the armies in its evil influence.
Romome, incensed by what Cane was implying, responded angrily. “Will you now accuse me of being Koyer's secret ally!?”
“I don't have to.” Cane replied to the Wolf King's challenge. “All I have to declare is that of the three of us, I am not, and, of the three of us, I'm the only one who has lost a son!”
“Romome is right,” Wombur bellowed. “You're mad! You blame everyone else for your misfortune, but yourself.” The Bull King's fists clenched as he spoke. “The only one who tricked you was Koyer. But you are unwilling to admit that, lest you have to take responsibility for your own son's death. So, you have to find a scapegoat to blame.”
At last, the other kings had come to grips with the situation that had, by now, taken a life of its own. But it was too late to do anything about it, for the Eagle King had already set his terrible plan into motion. “We'll see who's mad, you traitor!” Cane shrieked in a weird strangled voice that reminded Jeaf of the eerie noises cats make when they square off to fight at night.
Suddenly! Four foot-soldiers, who had been standing amidst the horses, slipped out from beside the Eagle King and raced toward Jeaf. Having anticipated treachery, the young Woodswane quickly sheathed the hammer. Muriel, in a preplanned move, climbed onto Grour Blood's back and the great beast leapt into the air, carrying her to safety
.
Startled by his father's secret plans, Prince Phelp stood his ground alongside the Hammer Bearer, determined to help ward off the attack that he believed was aimed solely at his friend. Little did he know that his father, driven by madness, was seeking to take his life as well as payment for the part he played in Hartshyll's death.
Half of the generals that stood beside Cane retreated to join their soldiers in a quick strike at the other armies; the Eagle King and the rest of his entourage charged furiously forward into the other kings. In an instant, the thunder clap of war sounded over the plain and the flower of Nyeg Warl's youth fell to the snow-covered ground that would soon turn red with blood.
Jeaf unsheathed Inheritor, the great sword that Cane threw at him the day before and crouched to meet the assassins' charge. Sounds of steel striking steel filled the air as the armies melded into one confusing mass of destruction. Shouts, screams and the unceasing blowing of trumpets intermingled with the sound of clanging steel. Frustrated commanders tried in vain to keep their armies moving as a unit, but insanity had won out: brother began to fight brother; warriors, who were otherwise disciplined, swung their weapons at anything that moved. In time, the conscripts began dropping their weapons and fleeing in terrified confusion, leaving the field to the more experienced warriors.
Jeaf thrust the first assassin through the shoulder before disarming him with a quick whirling motion his father had taught them in their long afternoons of practice. The second assailant was dispatched when Inheritor slashed him grievously across his chest. Another was knocked to the ground with a wave of the young Woodswane's hand, once he was able to focus his N'Rah. As it turned out, Jeaf spared the prince from having to use deadly force against his brothers.
As this was happening, Cane ran his horse into Wombur's mount, knocking the two of them to the ground. Regaining their feet, the kings quickly engaged each other in a fight to the death. Romome, seeing this tragic conflict unfold, commanded his trumpeters to sound the retreat. But the chaos was so great that he had difficulty unsnarling his warriors from the bizarre fight.
Looking on, from the sanctuary that N'Rah's magic and Aryl's training had built for he and Prince Phelp, Jeaf's heart sank as he witnessed the needless slaughter.
Horrified by the tragic sight, the prince yelled, “Stop fighting”, over-and-over again. But it was to no avail. Madness, conquering reason, had turned the warriors into wild-eyed animals that savagely fought, ignorant of the insanity fueling them.
Infused with the dark power of his folly, the Eagle King charged Wombur, who was a much larger man than he, knocking him backwards when his shoulder rammed into the Bull King's breastplate. While trying to regain his balance, the Eagle King's hungry sword knocked Wombur's helmet off his head. Stunned and reeling, the heavily muscled Bull King dug his heels into the snow-encrusted ground and swung his longsword in retaliation. The screeching sound of steel rending steel told how Wombur's blade had cut through Cane's breastplate. Soon, blood ran out from the gash, attesting to the Bull King's strength, besmearing the Eagle King's shining armor.
After reaching down to touch the rent in the metal protecting his stomach, Cane drew his hand up to see it covered with dark red fluid. Enraged by his wound, the Eagle King pulled his sword down across Wombur's breastplate, leaving an elongated dent to mark its passing. The Bull King lifted his blade just in time to meet Cain's return blow.
No general or warrior was brave enough to interfere with the sovereigns' battle. The war that raged around the kings withdrew from them, in an ever-widening circle, as they battered each other with an incessant volley of blows. On-and-on the Bull and Eagle fought, until Cane began to weary from losing all the blood that ran down his leggings.
Seeing his father's condition worsening, Phelp looked imploringly to Jeaf. “Isn't there something you can do?” Running to his father's aid, the prince was forced to engage Wombur whose blind rage drove him to try and take the Eagle King's life.
Horrified to see such good friends forced to fight, something snapped inside the young Woodswane and he reached for the Vlad'War's Child, hoping it could help. In one swift motion, he flung the Hammer of Power high over his head and, drawing on all his might, struck the snow-covered ground as hard as he could. Instantly, an explosion, louder than anything a hundred bolts of lightning could produce if they were to flash in the sky at the exact same moment, shook the air over the field of battle; the ground began shifting; an earthquake rumbled across the plains; horses stumbled and fell; tents collapsed; men stopped fighting as cracks in the warl zig-zagged beneath their feet.
Instantly, blue light leapt forth and engulfed Jeaf. The hammer's silver head liquefied and poured over the wooden handle and the hand that held it, flowing into grooves that spelled out a name of power. But unlike before, the silver did not stop there. Sliding off the hammer's handle, the name of power wound its way around the young Woodswane's forearm, holding him tightly. Then to Jeaf's astonishment, the hammer's head slipped over his hand, turning his fist silver; red rubies sat upon his knuckles; the strength of star's blood flowed into his bones; hand and hammer became one.
Flushed with Vlad'War's Magic, the Hammer Bearer lifted his transformed arm and shouted, “Stop this insanity!” The magic in his voice smashed into the combatants. Many who still stood stumbled to the ground. At first, the deafening cry only added to the warriors' confusion, causing them to stop in their tracks, leaving them bewildered, uncertain of what to do. Afterwards, the power, filling the Hammer Bearer's voice, rebounded upon the armies as it made its return trip to the one who sent it forth. Bursting on them like a bucket of water thrown on a grime-covered face, it washed the vile soot-colored fog away. Scales, like discarded snake skins, were stripped from the warriors' eyes; moth-shaped vapors fluttered out of their ears.
After gathering in an undulating flock, the winged-vapors flew off toward Shomeron. But most of them didn't get far; flecks of blue light, shooting out from Jeaf's silver finger tips, ran the swarm down. Tracking the moths' erratic movements, the sparkling specks caught their prey. One-by-one, they slammed into the dusky figures, making them explode like they were no more than pockets of black flour.
By the time Jeaf lowered his outstretched hand, three-fourths of the swarm had perished. The rest of the dusky moths darted off towards the Cragmar River. These were the remnants of Ab'Don's magical speech, a discharge of his putrid evil.
Sanity was restored. Vlad'War's Magic had seen to that.
The Nyeg Warler's arms, growing limp from horror over what they had done, let their weapons fall out of hands to weak to hold them. Thousands of swords, axes and spears dropped to the cold ground, looking like autumn leaves blown out of a forest of human trees. With their minds finally cleared of evil's influence, the mass of warriors turned to locate the source of the command. In quick order, they spotted the young Woodswane holding his arm high above his head. And to their amazement, they saw that his hand and the Hammer of Power had become one.
His fist glowed like silver drawn from a forge as he exhorted the undone men. “Brothers! Now is not the time for recriminations. The dark magic is gone.” Remembering how Bacchanor assuaged the guilty of heart after the battle fought on the road to Thundyrkynd, he added, “Let us now ask for one another's forgiveness and give forgiveness to those that ask, so that we might bend our efforts to help the wounded and gather the dead.”
Wombur and Romome crossed the blood-soaked ground and knelt before each other to ask for forgiveness. The officers did the same. Only the Eagle King and Prince Phelp missed the time of reconciliation. Leaning on each other, they slumped to their knees while they said words to each other that no one else could hear.
So great was the hammer's magic that men who only a few moments before were trying to maim and kill one another, were now helping each other carry their wounded and dead back to their respective camps. So great was the sorrow that tears of remorse were seen flowing down the cheeks of the most somber-faced warriors, many
who had never cried a day in their lives.
“My Father got what he wanted.” Prince Phelp wept as he held the king's lifeless body against his own. “He's free from his shame and can now go meet Hartshyll in the great Hall of Death. But what he'll say to all those who travel to that place with him, I dare not guess. Maybe he'll seek forgiveness from those who journey with him like the living are doing now. And if he's fortunate, they'll grant him his request.”
The Prince lifted his blood-smeared face to look upon the Hammer Bearer, now revealed for all to see, as he added, “How horrible is the harvest that springs from the seeds of shame!” And when he had finished his complaint he saw the light of the hammer go out, leaving Jeaf as he once was. No longer were the hammer and hand one. The metamorphosis was quick.
After sheathing his magical weapon, the young Woodswane went over to his friend and comforted him the best he could.
That night, three huge funeral pyres burned in the southern reaches of the Crescent Plains whose flames consumed the bodies of over five-hundred slain warriors. And on top of one of these great pyres lay the body of the Eagle King, whose guilt-ridden insanity had needlessly caused the deaths of so many good men.
Dirges were sung that night, lamentations uttered in memory of those who had once walked in the warl but now were on their way to the Great Hall of Death. The glow from the funeral pyres that could be seen throughout all the warring realms, began a season of mourning that would not end with this battle. These were only the birth pangs of the sorrow to follow since those who died here were the first to be slain in what was, in time, called the Battle of Decision.
The next day Alynd and Fyreed arrived riding on Tor Blood's back, Goldan and Truamor rode upon Seym Blood, and Bacchanor arrived in the shape of the great white-faced owl that he was fond of assuming. As was their habit, Bacchanor and Alynd went straight to work using their magic to help the Candle Makers, who were weary from laboring through the night, heal the wounded. But this time they were not alone, another joined them in their work. In the midst of the mystical amber light Alynd's golden orbs emitted, intermingling with Bacchanor's healing music, a woman's voice was heard, one filled with virtue and power. The songs the Prophetess sang magnified Alynd and Bacchanor's considerable magic and filled men's dreams with visions of Parm Warl.
