Battle of Nyeg Warl

by Rex Hazelton

  “Sister!” Grour Blood's resonant voice implored, “Don't get off my back!”

  Muriel's resurfacing memories quickly ganged up on the griffin's complaint, subduing it beneath a deluge of pain.

  Seeing the young woman caught up in her tormenting recollections, the rotund beast smiled as he watched her stumble toward the pit of hissing water laying beside his odious throne. Acting with the uncanny timing predators are known to have, Schmar signaled for his minions to squeeze forward. This well orchestrated maneuver drew the others' attention away from Muriel, leaving her to stagger towards the hungry whirlpool, all alone.

  Jeaf and Alynd's grim faces locked onto the hunchmen. Bending lower, the growling brood was preparing to leap forward the moment Schmar loosed the leash of restraint from off them. Grour Blood, Bacchanor, and Bear turned to face the army of river-children and hunters who were now greedily pressing forward with the scent of imminent death filling their nostrils.

  Staggering along the cold stone floor, unaware of what the others were facing, Muriel fought her own fight, one, though internal, was no less dangerous. In one seminal moment, the plethora of excruciating memories were pushed away, like so many side dishes, allowing the bitter entree to be placed in the center of the morose banquet table that spread out across her mind. What's that? Muriel was overwhelmed by the painful sounds entering her ears. Who's making that noise? The sounds of a baby crying echoed through her brain, growing in volume until it became a deafening scream that Muriel recognized as her own.

  “Please don't hurt my baby!” The desperate words shot out of her mouth when the most odious memory of all burst upon the surface of the reservoir of forgetfulness, sitting in her mind.

  Adding insult to injury, Arachnamor's form forced its way into Muriel's recollections, flinging words imperiously into the air. “You're not supposed to have children of your own.” The woman's dark eyes narrowed. “If you do, how will you have time for me? I own you, you little tramp! The only reason why I've let you live, is so you can serve me and my husband's needs.” Sneering, she now spoke with decided satisfaction. “Since you're my property… this child is mine as well. That means, I can do with it what I want.”

  The picture of Arachnamor tapping her index finger on the side of her head, as if she needed to make up her mind, was the next thing to push its way into Muriel's memory. After a short deliberation, the cold-hearted woman concluded. “I don't think I want it to live, lest it takes your attention from me.”

  Without hesitating, the little rotund man stepped forward, snatching the infant off of the stone altar where it lay.

  In response to the child's incessant crying, hundreds of young people stepped out of the dark holes lining the huge cavern, their faces reflecting a mixture of pain, horror, apathy and pleasure. Mostly, they looked troubled.

  The baby shrieked in terror when Schmar lifted its helpless body high above his head. Excited by his movements, Arachnamor and some of the young people began pumping their fists, demanding that the rotund man complete his evil deed. Then another woman entered the memory, one who charged forward in an attempt to free the child. Muriel slumped and her breath rushed out of her lungs when she realized that the disheveled person was herself, two winters earlier. But before the woman could do anything, black creatures slipped out of the subterranean river flowing through the middle of the enormous cavern and restrained her. Powerless to help, the woman's screams intermingled with her child's, rising above the din of those who taunted the little fat man onward. As if on cue, all become deathly still. The silence that comes before a storm filled the room, overwhelming the slightest objection. Time itself seemed to be suspended. The only sound now heard was the incessant crying coming from the hapless baby girl.

  Gripped in horror, Muriel watched the frightened child reach out for her mother as the rotund beast extended his jaws, snakelike. Then, as if a blow delivered from the fist of the biggest giant that ever lived had struck her, a heart crushing sense of helplessness hit the Prophetess as she watched the little girl's panicked expression disappear behind Schmar's slobbering lips.

  The memory of her child's murder choked Muriel's mind, filling her with a despondency that stole away her sense of awareness, sending her reeling about in a stupor that led her to the edge of the whirlpool's gapping mouth, leaving her teetering on the brink of destruction.

  Schmar, who's brand of lascivious wickedness usually cared little for prophecy, had taken note of Jeaf's hammer and the magic he felt exuding from it. Searching the ancient hallways that ran through his perverse brain, the rotund beast dredged up recollections of the prophecies that talked about the Hammer Bearer and the Prophetess who would accompany him. Mulling this over, using his dark powers of reasoning, the beast had come to the conclusion that Muriel posed a danger to him. So, fully aware of the memories that were pummeling her, he lifted his rasping voice to taunt the beautiful black-haired woman, hoping his words would push her over the edge.

  “Of all the children I've had the privilege to dine on,” a huge sardonic smile swept across the rotund beast's plump cheeks, “your daughter tasted the sweetest of all.”

  Schmar's voice drew Jeaf's concentration away from the hunchmen and towards the object of its attention. To his utter horror, he saw Muriel lose her balance. The beast's words had hit her with a battering ram of remorse, and without so much as a scream, she fell limply into the deadly whirlpool's hissing water.

  NOOOOO! The Hammer Bearer's shout intermingled with Schmar's triumphant laughter. Without a moment's hesitation, turning away from the threatening hunchmen who were warily positioning themselves for the fight's start, Jeaf ran for the dangerous whirlpool's dark mouth.

  Schmar, seeing the desperate move, gathered himself up and lept into the air displaying the agility of a cat. Spewing more of his bile over the young Woodswane, the beast cast Jeaf into the swooning arms of forgetfulness. But like Laz, Jeaf's love for Muriel didn't permit him to succumb, easily, to the evil magic seeking to possess his mind. Falling to his knees, the young Woodswane shook his head trying to recapture his sense of awareness before his memory of Muriel's plight faded in the encroaching fog of forgetfulness.

  After another dose of bile slapped against his face, the young Woodswane frantically reached for Vlad'War's Hammer. But Schmar was right on top of him.

  Before he knew what had happened, the surprisingly agile ball of fat clutched Jeaf's arm, keeping him from completing his task. Ironically the bile that covered the young Woodswane prevented the beast from getting a good enough grip to continue stopping him. As the inertia of Schmar's incredible speed made him slide past his prey's slippery body, Jeaf withdrew the Hammer of Power for the third time and struck it against the stone floor.

  Chapter 40: The Third Blow

  THWAAAACK! The sound that thunder makes, when it arrives the same moment a bolt of lightning strikes, exploded throughout the huge chamber, announcing that Vlad'Wars magic had arrived. The sonic waves, unable to dissipate in the cavern's confines, were greatly magnified, knocking the hunchmen, hunters, and river-children into the air, scattering them like dice thrown in a game of chance, killing nearly a fourth of their number, wounding as many more.

  Under the Hammer Bearer's influence, the deadly waves had targeted Jeaf's enemies and no one else. The captives remained untouched.

  Speeding past the devastated army, a remnant of the hammer's magic rushed down the corridors running out of Schmar's throne room. Moving faster than sound, it raced off towards the outer warl, pushing the river's water before it, carrying many of Schmar's followers along as if they were no more than twisted pieces of driftwood borne by a flood. In time, the torrent shot out of the cave and burst into the air, looking like the mountain had sneezed, littering the gorge that fronted the cave's entrance with mangled and broken corpses, those scavengers would soon feast on.

  When the hammer erupted, blue light engulfed Jeaf. Tendrils of illumination, reaching out to his companions, clothed them in the same
radiance that surrounded the Hammer Bearer.

  Though the violent explosion decimated Schmar's warriors, the surviving minions quickly mounted an assault in response to their foul lord's shrieking command. “Gather yourselves together and attack! I will have my victory! I will have their lives!” The absolute terror they felt towards their master drove them forward over bodies that lay scattered about in the blast's aftermath and into the blue light radiating around Jeaf and the others.

  As happened the first two times Jeaf struck the magical weapon, the hammer's silver, looking like water pouring off melting ice, ran over the young Woodswane's hand and into the intricate grooves cutting their way across the wooden handle, grooves that spelled out a name of power. And as before, the silvery name, once it was revealed, slid securely over Jeaf's forearm; the hammer's head dropping downward, engulfed his fist; red rubies settled on his knuckles. But unlike the previous time, the young Woodswane absorbed the hammer into his arm like it was water swallowed up by thirsty soil.

  Once the hammer disappeared, the blue illumination surrounding the others began fading, not quickly, but like the waning light of a large ember laying beyond a fireplace's reach.

  Opening and closing his fist in astonishment over what had happened, Jeaf saw white light seeping out of his hand. Gathering above his open palm, it looked like early morning steam floating above a woodland pond's glassy surface until it began swirling about as if an unseen spoon was stirring it. Round-and-round it flew, faster-and-faster, until it turned into a ball of crystal clear illumination. Once formed, a man with hair as black and curly as a sinagar goat appeared in the center of the ball, standing over the Hammer of Power that lay on a stone table in front of him. Cloud Master's snow-covered heights rose in the distance; a wide belt, holding a broadsword, wrapped around the man's ruby-colored tunic; a breastplate made of star's blood covered his powerful chest. Staring at the hammer, the man lifted his hands, looking like he was hoisting up a heavy boulder. But instead of stone, a ball of crystal clear light was suspended between his strong fingers, one that was a twin to the ball Jeaf now held, only much larger. After bowing his head and closing his eyes, the man carefully lowered the glowing sphere onto the hammer that, acting like a sponge sopping up spilled wine, drank in the light.

  Once the illumination disappeared, the man in the red robe opened his eyes. Then lifting his head and turning, he looked straight at Jeaf. “My power now passes on to you. Good luck Fane J'Shrym.”

  “Vlad'War,” Jeaf exclaimed. As he spoke, the vision faded and the ball of light retreated into his palm.

  The magic, bathing the Hammer Bearer, washed away the amnesia that invaded his senses. Clothed, once again, in his right mind, Jeaf dove into the hissing whirlpool hoping that the hammer's power would help him reach Muriel before she was lost in the water's depths.

  Pulling with his arms and kicking as hard as he could with his legs, the Hammer Bearer was tossed wildly about. The current was strong beyond belief. Before he knew what happened, he was slammed into the side of the pit and what air he had in his lungs was expelled.

  Schmar's raspy voice transformed into a deafening roar of rage as he sped toward the ominous black hole the Hammer Bearer had just disappeared into in his attempt to snatch Muriel out of death's jaws. But before the beast could reach the whirlpool's hissing waters, the hammer's light, reaching out like ragged fingers, tore at his body like it was wet clay and sculpted his form into a huge leech-like monster that stood at least twice as tall as the little rotund man had. By the time the black thing slid into the pit housing the watery vortex, the monster had taken on the look of a creature that was entering its home environment.

  Arachnamor shrieked in horror when the hammer's sonic blast ripped away the cloud of deception that surrounded her, unmasking her hideous insect form for all to see.

  The anguish that truth dropped upon the spider drove her wild with rage, sending her into a murderous frenzy. Carelessly leaping among the hunchmen, she stung four of them, leaving them writhing in venom riddled pain. What did she care about those she attacked as long as she could kill something or everything, if possible.

  The unwitting river-children were her next targets. Soon, a half dozen of the loathsome creatures were gripped in seizures that accompanied her poison.

  Without missing a beat, Arachnamor set her sights on the hunters. Tearing through the hapless men, she cut a swath of death through Schmar's dark army as she continued toward her true goal, the target that she would ultimately allow her insane rage to feed on. If she were truly not a mother, as Schmar's evil magic had led her to believe, then Arachnamor would rid herself of all the children who unwillingly helped him pull the wool over her bulbous, unblinking eyes.

  The children froze in terror when they saw the huge spider rushing toward them. In all the winters they had lived in Schmar's lair, they were not allowed to retreat from Arachnamor's advances. Though she lacked her former appearance, the children were not fooled. Nor were they surprised. They knew who the monster was. This foul training, robbing them of the knowledge that options existed, would have meant their deaths if it had not been for the fading ball of blue light following close behind the ugly black widow.

  Once the mysterious blue sphere caught up with the horrible spider, a sword flashed out and cut off the end of one of the creature's long, thin, black legs just as she was reaching out for her first victim. The searing pain forced out a tremulous scream. In all her life she had never been hurt, not until that moment. The confusion that the gigantic spider's predicament produced prevented her from feeding on the children's flesh. Instead, she wheeled about to defend herself. But to her surprise, no one stood near enough to have dealt her the grievous blow. Unnerved by this fact and frightened by the blue light pressing in upon her, the great spider lept over the mass of children and lit upon the nearby cavern wall. Scurrying upwards, she disappeared into the darkness pressed against the ceiling's indeterminable heights.

  Though saved from the spider's sting, the fear of the unknown kept the prisoners from rejoicing. Having learned to expect evil at every turn, the children awaited their new tormentor, one made of blue light.

  But that was not to be. In time, a man covered in tattoos appeared inside the glowing sphere. It was Fyreed. Using the Magic of Invisibility his Wisdor Stone gave him, the courageous Bjork warrior had followed Arachnamor in her rampage that, he correctly guessed, would take her to the young ones.

  “Do not be afraid.” Fyreed's voice consoled the throng. “I'll die before I let men or beasts touch you. Make sure you stand behind the light that surrounds me and you'll be safe.”

  Having said this, Fyreed disappeared when he separated the Wisdor Stones. The ball of light vigilantly stood between the children and the ensuing battle raging across the cavern's wide expanse, a battle as savage as anything Nyeg Warl had ever seen. The children stood transfixed by the comforting glow, knowing their savior stood within its parameters. Many of them wept.

  In time, the fading light could no longer be seen and Fyreed reappeared to assure the children that he was still there.

  Disconcerted by the blue sphere's presence and by the fact the sphere had chased Arachnamor away, Schmar's army refused to challenge its magic. But now that the light had faded and Fyreed, not wanting the children to be worried, had revealed himself, a group of hunchmen turned their attention to what they thought would be an easy target, a lone warrior isolated from his companions.

  Four hunchmen charged the courageous Bjork who wielded both the sword and a hammer his kind were fond of using in a fight. In a flash, a jagged blade shot towards his throat. Slamming his sword against the intruding weapon, knocking it from its intended path, Fyreed was able to follow his defensive maneuver with an offensive counter move, one that brought the weight of his hammer down on his hapless enemy's head, crushing its skull, mashing the brains that lay within.

  Running on all fours, in a deceptively quick loping motion, a second hunchman tackled Fyreed to
the ground, knocking both the hammer and sword out of his hands. Two hunchmen that followed pinned his arms down.

  Having splayed out their intended victim in a fashion used for dispensing torture, the hunchmen went to work. Sitting atop of Fyreed, one of them began cutting at him, wanting to extract strips of flesh they would eat before their victim's eyes, hoping to add to the horror he already felt. But this was no easy task. Buttressed by the hammer's magic, Fyreed's skin was made as tough as tree bark. Unbeknownst to the hunchmen, the light wasn't gone, it had simply chosen to fill the vessel that it once surrounded.

  Lips quivering with anger, fueled by the chata bean's intense affects, the hunchman used all his might to press the tip of his jagged blade directly into Fyreed's chest like he was trying to puncture a block of ice. And in time, the hunchman's efforts paid off. Slowly, the Bjork's skin parted and his blood began trickling out of the cut.

  “Wygean,” Fyreed cried out in pain, “help me!”

  Gritting his teeth as the jagged blade methodically passed through his muscles and stabbed into his ribs, Wygean's servant saw a hammer flying overhead, the one he had used to crush the first hunchman's skull. Where it came from, he didn't know. And then his right arm was free.

  A yell of utter rage that didn't come from the hunchmen, and a responding piercing yelp that did, filled the air a moment before his left arm joined the right in its freedom. Without taking time to figure out what had happened Fyreed seized the moment and, with the help of a good shove, bucked the startled hunchman off his chest.

  Whirling around on all fours, the Bjork turned to face his enemy who was scrambling to his feet. To his right, an older child, who looked very much like a young man, was stooping to pick up the hammer that lay next to a stunned hunchman. Grabbing the weapon with both hands, the lad crudely swung the hammer down upon the beast's head, sending it slumping to the ground. A second young man, the twin of the first, was struggling to pull Fyreed's sword out of another hunchman who looked as dead as a holiday ham.