by Rex Hazelton
And Parm Warl will make all things right.
Energized by the magic that Muriel's singing released, Goldan rallied his troops and dug in to rebuff Ar Warl's assault.
Brakor and eight other Cragmar giants, tromping past the slower Archan, led the charge, bellowing curses as they ran. Seeing his approach, Bear, accompanied by Brug and Brykle, two other giants who had been adopted by the Forset People like Bear, stepped forward to meet their cruel cousins' advance.
Stopping short of the mountains of muscle standing between him and the kings, Brakor began taunting his ragamuffin kinsman. “So Beryl, you've chosen to die at the hands of one of your own kind rather than be killed by one of these little warts.” Brakor turned and sneered contemptuously at the army of Archan that swept up behind him. “You're wise. For you've saved face by doing so.”
“I've got an idea!” the older giant playfully bantered. “Why waste your lives. Instead, you kids should join my gang and find out what it really means to be a giant.” Brakor called Bear, Brug and Brykle kids because, in giant terms, they were no more than adolescents.
“Never! I know what ya n'your masters does,” Bear spat out disdainfully.
“Master? Do you mean Koyer?” Brakor's voice rumbled out its annoyance. “We giants have no masters!”
“Then why d'ya serves ones who'd throw Nyeg Warl into pits of darknesses?”
“I do so because I choose to side with a true warrior… not with the mealy-mouthed people you call friends.”
“In those cases, I chooses ta stops you an tha masters who gives you orders.” Bear scorned Brakor's bravado. Having said this, the young giants charged into the midst of their older cousins, swinging their huge metal-studded clubs as they did. Taken by surprise, three of the mature giants crumpled to the ground, felled by the first of the young giants' blows. Brakor, who was feared by the other giants for his prowess in battle, retaliated and slammed his own club into the side of Brykle's head, sending him reeling into unconsciousness. But before he could step over and crush his skull, Bear swung his weapon into Brakor's thick breastplate, knocking him to the ground.
SCRAGGG! A glancing blow scrapped across Bear's back. But the measure of Vlad'War's Magic the young giant was blessed with protected him from harm, though it might not have been able to do so if the blow had been direct. Swinging his club from his heels, the young giant retaliated. Catching another of the older giants under the chin, he lifted him off his feet and knocked him to the ground.
One of the twins, who had helped Fyreed defeat the hunchmen during the fight in the Cave of Forgetfulness, leapt forward and drove his jagged-edged sword up under the toppled giant's arm pit, cutting deep into his soft flesh. A spasm of pain sent the behemoth's arm flying through the air, batting the young man back into the throng of Nyeg Warlers.
Free to deal with Brakor, who was quickly scrambling to his feet so that he wouldn't share in his brother's misfortune, Bear charged forward. The sound of the giants' heavy weapons striking against one another was joined by a larger tumultuous explosion of metal striking metal and of bone hitting against bone as the two armies met in a collision of epic proportions: Archan battle axes bit into Nyeg Warl flesh; Woodswane swords gashed gaping holes in the Archans' blood-red breastplates; a thick wall of Valamor, Plagean, and Vinelanders bent behind the savage assault; but they didn't break, not entirely.
In the midst of the maelstrom of pain and death, Brakor and Bear stood toe-to-toe exchanging blows. Metal studs, covering huge clubs, sent out long sparks that fell smoldering in the dormant grasses as the giants fought like enraged grizzlies. Brakor was stronger. Bear was faster. Faster won. The fight ended when Bear drove his club into the side of Brakor's knee, tearing the tendons holding him up.
Falling to the ground, Brakor lifted his head in time to see a hammer flying through the air, straight for his skull. THWAP! The fury of the blow stunned the giant. As he shook himself, a young man ran forward to pick up the weapon that had done the damage. It was another one of the twins, the one who had thrown the hammer in Fyreed's defense back in the Cave of Forgetfulness.
Because of the twin's valor, the Bjork had given the weapon to his unlikely savior, and a name with it. “That's what I'll call you.” Wygean's Child said, pleased at the name he had chosen. “My people have a legend that speaks of a man who threw his hammer farther than an arrow can fly,” Fyreed explained. “His name was Thrower.” Laughing, he added, “You may not be able to throw the hammer as far as your namesake, but by my reckoning I'd say that you can throw it far enough.” Fyreed looked down at the hunchman's motionless body, the one who had been cutting into his chest, glad that Thrower had the courage to pick up his hammer and hurl it at the beast-man.
“I ain't ever had a name before, least not one that wasn't a curse word.” The young man ran his hand through his wild-looking hair as he thought things over.
“Well, you have one now." Grateful for what the boy had done for him, Fyreed patted the child on his shoulder. "As for your brother… I think I'll call him Far'Lynn. In our ancient tongue this means stouthearted.”
Looking at the tiny fellow who had tried to tackle a hunchman, he continued. “As for you, I think that I'll call you...”
“Sir, I already got a name,” the pale youngster quipped. “The Mistress calls me Yoliddle Dweezle.”
Seeing the tiny fellow's countenance fall when he heard him laughing, Fyreed explained. “I'm not making fun of you. How could I when you risked your life to help me?” Rubbing the youngster's unruly head of hair, he added, “I think the Dark Lady was saying you were a little weasel. She wasn't calling you Yoliddle Dweezle.”
The boy stared blankly at the Bjork. For, of course, he didn't know what a weasel was. Having lived his entire life in a hole, he didn't know much of anything except how to keep from crying so that the blows he received on his back would be as few in number as possible. He knew this type of stuff and not whole lot more.
“No! We'll not call you by the name she gave you.” Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Fyreed concluded. “We'll call you Thor'Shom, Son of the Hammer. That's a good Bjork name. What do you think of that?”
Young Thor'Shom smiled weakly not really knowing what to think.
Even if Brakor had known about this story, it wouldn't have kept him from hurting the young man who had struck him. Grabbing him about the chest, the angry behemoth lifted the twin up in the air and then dashed him to the ground, knocking him unconscious. Rising to one knee, Brakor pushed his hand into Thrower's abdomen, hoping to burst his organs and then leave him to die in agony. But before the giant could fully lean on the twin, Bear's club swept through the air, crushing the giant's noise guard into his skull, killing the brute at the moment of impact.
Once their leader was vanquished, the other giants stole away in an attempt to escape the savagery and skill Bear displayed in dispatching Brakor. Their retreat didn't go unnoticed by the Archan who soon followed their example.
****
After a heated battle, one in which both sides lost many a warrior, Goldan was able to stem the dark army's assault and reset the lines of battle. In the break that followed, the courageous Tsadal, along with the kings, devised a counter attack.
“Grour Blood! We need you fly off to Wyneskynd once more.” Goldan's gaze was resolute as he spoke.
“For what purpose?” The griffin had been sitting like a house cat licking his tawny coat, wiping away the blood his ferocious fighting had spattered over his fur.
“We have a plan!”
Grour Blood's nose crinkled and a faint rumbling sound rose out of his throat as he listened to the words that followed. Lifting his upper lip, revealing his fangs, he snarled in excitement over what he was hearing. Not long afterward, he was soaring higher than an arrow can fly on his way to complete the errand entrusted to him.
Once the message was delivered and after a short time of preparation, trumpets sounded the attack, and the Nyeg Warlers who had been strengthened by the blue
light's magic charged into Ar'Warl's frothing sea of darkness. It was their turn to go on the offensive.
Chapter 45: In the Balance
Jeaf, no longer clothed in hammer's illumination, but still infused with Vlad'War's Magic, remounted Thunder and joined his father when the cavalry drove into the heart of the Archan and Malamor warriors. As fate would have it, the flow of the battle brought Goldan, Jeaf and Aryl together like three tributaries converging to create one mighty river of deadly steel that chewed its way through the wall of iron, flesh and bone that confronted it. The horses they rode, whose hooves carried shoes bearing spikes, maimed an equal number of Ar Warl's warriors. Better protected than the men they carried into the furnace of war, the valiant steeds moved about like mobile fortresses whose walls were almost impossible to breach.
Schmar's stench filled the Hammer Bearer's nostrils when memories of Muriel's words flooded his mind. “But you don't know all that has happened to me,” the griffin-woman had said on Shiprock Island's narrow strip of beach. “Even I don't know all that has happened to me... and those things I do recall are horrible.” The sense of helplessness he felt when he heard such things had always turned to anger, later when he was alone, anger that grew whenever he envisioned the Lord of Forgetfulness' filthy bulk hovering over Muriel, anger that now drove him to destroy those who were allied to Schmar's cause. Anointed with Vlad'War's Magic, Jeaf's sword cut through Archan axes like they were made out of paper; Ar Warl armor put up as much resistance as apple skins trying to repel a razor-sharp paring knife. On-and-on the young Woodswane continued slaughtering the enemy until the growing rage welling up within frightened him.
Unexpectedly, Jeaf's Powers of Intuition took a step back to observe his actions, dispassionately, from the vantage point of detached reason. Looking down on himself, he saw his face twisted with an anger that knew no bounds. Lust flashed from his eyes, lust for revenge, lust to deal out more pain than he had received. So terrifying was his visage that he took pause to discern the difference between himself and the Ar Warlers he fought. That's when fear struck, fear of what he might become! Unable to identify a distinguishable dissimilarity, the look on his face and on the faces of those he struggled with was the same. And no wonder. Each was enraged! Each was glutted with hatred! Each longed to annihilate, to extinguish the other's life and all those who were like them!
What's happening? Am I becoming like the very thing I hate? Jeaf thought. When the war is over, will my heart be as poisoned as theirs? What will motivate my life once the fighting passes? Will it be the same as today? Will it be a need for revenge, a desire to kill, a longing to destroy and conquer?
He had only fought men once before and that out of self-defense, long ago on the road leading from Eagle's Vale. The rest of his fighting had been against monsters like hunchmen, river-children, cretchym and the White Guard. Now he fought against men once again (Though most didn't consider the Archan to be such.) not out of self-defense as before, not in the pure sense of the word. No! He pursued those he fought, wanting to cross swords with them, to take their lives. And if they were lucky enough to escape, he would hunt them down.
The recognition that he was now killing men, gladly, made him fearful, but only for a moment. Burn it to ashes, Jeaf's mind shouted in protest, didn't the Singer tell me to strike the Hammer of Power? Why!? To destroy the destroyer and for no other reason! No other reason! Not here on the blood-soaked plains!
An instant later, when the moment of fear had passed, the young Woodswane spit in disgust before he sent his sword crashing down on another Archan helmet. Now was not the time to debate the virtues of war! Now was the time to fight and let things sort themselves out later! If the enemy was a blazing fire, Jeaf would be the sun. If they were ruthless, he would be unrelenting. Vengeance would be his and more if he had his way.
Nearby, Alynd administered a lethal mix of weapons to those who challenged him. Striking out with the elven leaf-blade he held in one hand, while using N'Rah to deal crushing blows with the other, the Elf-Man became a holy terror. Beside him Fyreed's light blue tattooing was smattered with blood and bits of flesh from the hapless victims he eagerly dispatched. Grour Blood and the wizard Bacchanor, who had resumed griffin form, fought on the other side of the three invincible swordsmen, their lion's claws cutting through flesh and steel like five bladed plows tilling their enemies' weaknesses.
Though each was a capable warrior in their own right, the Company of the Hammer's abilities was enhanced by Vlad'War's touch. This was not the case for the rest of the Nyeg Warlers. But they were not left without gifts. The hammer's blue light had given them a resolve that comes from having a clear mind and a clear understanding of what needed to be done. The gift of hope, that remained alive even in the face of overwhelmingly odds, sharpened their resolve. The presence of the Prophetess and the Hammer Bearer steeled their hearts. Ever aware of Muriel's position, Grour Blood, who was busy fending off any would-be threats to her safety, was surprised when Lightning pushed up beside him. The Prophetess had come to exact retribution against the foul Ar Warlers who stood before them. Eyes full of magic incapacitated any man who looked upon her, and once they succumbed to the Spell of Stupor that she cast over them, her razor-sharp blade fell upon their unguarded necks.
While the Woodswane, Forest People and the armies of the three kings pushed in a northwesterly direction towards Wyneskynd, a combined force of Tayn'waeh, Bjork, Hadram and Vinelanders charged out from the fortress gates. This was risky a move. Only a fourth of their numbers were left to defend the city. But risks had to be taken if the Nyeg Warlers wanted to stem Ar Warl's flood.
Passing over the bridges that crossed the Wyne River, the fearsome force drove east and south. Yet not all of Wyneskynd's defenders made it across the river. The father of the crocodon saw to that. Rising up on his haunches, the foul sea serpent's long neck rose high above the startled Nyeg Warlers. Flames erupted! Horses screamed! Footmen jumped off of the bridges to escape the scorching heat! Crocodon thrashed about in the cold water as they fed on the unsuspecting men!
This was the start of a most unusual game, not unlike one where a gamesman places a pea under one of three shells. Then, moving the shells about in a mesmerizing haze of motion, he asks the person making a bet where they thought the pea was hidden. Unfortunately, Wyneskynd's warriors, trying to predict which of the three bridges Laviathon would attack, were wagering more than the few coins usually tossed on the table, close to where the shells lay. Today, their lives were being at stake. Though many of the warriors made it across, too many guessed wrong and met their deaths looking into the grinning sea serpent's grotesque face.
“Zhan beware,” Tsan'Thwaeyn warned. “A Hag is moving against us!”
The Tayn'waeh chieftain was leading a swarm of warriors across one of the bridges when he spied the black-robed wizard positioning himself on the opposite side of the river. The black candle used to work his magic was already spinning in the air, just beyond the Hag's gyrating hands that deftly manipulated the candle's movements. Round-and-round it went, faster-and-faster until it took on the shape of a luminous shield. Then the shield morphed into the shape of a huge hand, one as big as a wall, one that pushed at the Tayn'waeh, hoping to trap them on the bridge long enough for sea serpent to come and burn them with his fire.
Frantically searching the river, Zhan looked for Laviathon.
Fire washing over the southernmost bridge revealed the reptile's whereabouts. Watching the huge triangular-shaped head bobbing and weaving as it did its work, Zhan was relieved to know he was not near, that is, until he saw the serpent's head suddenly stop and lift higher where the smoke was less dense.
He's spotted the Hag and knows that we're trapped, the Tayn'waeh quickly surmised. Blast it! It won't be long before he comes us.
What do we do?” Tsan'Thwaeyn's voice was filled with panic.
“Candle Maker! Step forward!” Reckoning that they didn't have time to make it back to the fortress (especially si
nce a multitude, unaware of what was happening, kept emptying out through Wyneskynd's portcullis, pressing upon those who had gone before them) Zhan knew something had to be done. So he called on the young women who had charged out onto the bridge with sword in hand, just as he had done. This was such an unusual thing to happen. For the Candle Makers were pacifists by philosophy and had never taken up weapons before, even at the Battle of the Breach. Their hope was found in the candles they used to tap into the Warl's Magic, not in weapons that only cut and slashed. The power they wielded was not meant to be used to hurt others, it was meant to heal the sick and give strength to the weak. But here was a Candle Maker of another ilk, one who would not hesitate to shed blood to secure the peace.
“Sir?” The woman's flame-colored hood hid her face in shadow.
“Can you deal with him?” Zhan pointed at the black-robed Hag who was moving toward them, manipulating the fiery, incandescent hand before him.
Nodding, the woman pulled the hood off of her head and tossed it onto her back, revealing her long brown hair and how truly young she was.
“Hurry!” Zhan pointed at the mountain of water pushing its way downstream towards them. “Laviathon is coming!”
Nodding once more, the young Candle Maker sprinted toward the Hag with a sword in one hand and a candle in the other. Shouting a Word of Power, her candle burst into flame that not only covered the wick but also inundated the candle's entire form and the hand that held it. Without giving thought to her safety, the Candle Maker ran up to the Hag and thrust the throbbing fire into the giant shimmering palm. The magical hand jerked. Its fingers wrapped around the young woman. But before they could crush her, the fingers flung apart, their shape distorting, their light dimming until the hand dissipated into nothingness and two candles were flung to the ground- one black, one white.
Divested of her candle, the young woman did not hesitate to charge the larger black-robed man. With one swift motion, she thrust her sword into his side. He returned the favor by unsheathing his own short-sword and thrusting it into her shoulder. After falling to her knees, the black-robed man struck her with his fist, knocking her to the ground. But he was unable to finish her off. Zhan was on him. Having lost his candle, the conduit of his power, the Hag was no match for the enraged chieftain. Soon he lost his life too.
