by Rex Hazelton
Not the least intimidated, the young Woodswane threw his magic at the cretchym. Catching him across his torso, the hammer's power tossed Koyer through the air and into the Hag that stood behind him.
Stunned, but otherwise unscathed, the Lord of Regret got back up while the black-robed sorcerers repositioned themselves.
Without turning to face his foe, Koyer threw his hand backward like he was discarding a piece of trash. Instantly, a glob of incandescent magic rushed at the Hammer Bearer. Picking him up, it spun him about before rudely tossing him to the ground.
Jeaf retaliated, hitting his opponent with a bolt of blue light.
Swinging his body sideways, Koyer intercepted the magic with his wing-draped arm and redirected it at the kings' men. To the young Woodswane's horror, three Vinelanders were crushed to death when the light crashed into them and shook them, literally, out of their boots.
Chuckling over his skillful move, the evil cretchym chided his adversary. “What else do you have up your sleeve… some flowers maybe?”
Remembering the incident at the Blue River the day his magic made the tree reach out into the water and search the depths for the lost hammer, Jeaf dropped to one knee and thrust his hand into the ground. Feeling the warl's strength coursing up his arm and into his body, he returned the favor, letting his mind reach out through the cold ground trying to discover something that he could use, something the Lord of Regret could not turn to his own device.
There it is, the young Woodswane surmised. Let's see what I can do with this.
A groaning sound rose up from the plain's rich soil, preceding a slithering noise that rustled just beneath the surface of the ground. Everywhere the sound went the dormant grass turned green and began rapidly growing. All around the beast the ground heaved, tossing up rows of earth like a host of gophers were cultivating the plain. But it wasn't gophers at all. It was roots, the vibrant spawn of one lone seed that had found its way past the forest, falling into the grasslands. It was the roots of an oak, one that burst skyward to challenge the Lord of Regret.
The tree grew as Jeaf's thoughts directed it too. Up-and-over the evil cretchym, it climbed, until its boughs, heavy with the warl's life, fell upon the monster. One-after-the-other, the great limbs beat on him, pummeling him to the ground while its roots continued growing past him. Then leaping out of the broken soil, they grabbed the Hag. Wrapping around the black-robed sorcerers, they tried to break their concentration, to dissuade them by force to withdraw their magic, to quite assisting Ab'Don's general.
So unexpected was this sight that the warriors, who were busily trying take each others' lives, stopped in their tracks. As if an uneasy truce had been struck, those close to the unfolding drama lowered their weapons. Watching the Hammer Bearer and the Lord of Regret fight, they realized the war would be determined more by what they saw then by what they did. Unless their champion won, their efforts would amount to nothing.
“Brosantaney!” Mystlkynd's children, excited by the oak tree's astonishing appearance, spoke the word that meant elf-friend. But more than that, it was the title they gave the Hammer Bearer, paying tribute to his calling.
Whether Alegramor's blessing, one that enabled Jeaf to perceive the natural warl in ways other humans' couldn't, gave him his ability to use the hammer's magic to affect the seed's miraculous growth, or it was something inherent in himself, there was one thing for certain, Vlad'War had never done anything like this. He had never made a tree grow or caused grass to bloom. This was something different, something unique from the other purveyors of magic. Only the elves had power to do such a thing, but not to this magnitude, not so suddenly.
Beyond the main event, the two armies continued their struggle. Seeing the tree miraculously rising above the battlefield, their vantage point didn't allow them to make sense of what they saw. So, on they fought: Tayn'waeh slashing at Malamor, Archan hacking at Hadram, griffin clawing at the malleable clay giants, Bjork crushing any Ar Warler that got in their way. In most places the dispute looked like a gigantic game of push and shove, something one might see a throng of children playing at harvest time out in a freshly shorn field of hay. But if this was a game, it was a dangerous one, one that killed the players. Each side took turns getting the upper hand. None established dominance.
On-and-on, the massive oak beat on the hapless cretchym. Smaller branches joined the fight. Those as slender as a man's arm, reached out for the Lord of Regret's throat. It was if the warl was retaliating against his offensive presence, getting revenge for all that he was and all he had done.
Defending himself as best as he could, Koyer maniacally swung his incandescent sword at the relentless branches. Moving his arms as fast as a hummingbird flapping its busy wings, bough-after-bough was vaporized only to be replaced by others just as focused on his demise as their fallen predecessors were.
The evil cretchym was outmatched and he knew it. The tree would continue to grow as long as there was soil to feed upon. Something had to be done to stop the Hammer Bearer! Someone had to come to Koyer's aid!
Moving as one man, the remaining White Guard turned to their lord. He had summoned them! But they didn't attack as one might expect. No! After sitting high in their saddles, they began falling off their steeds. Like pods divested of their seeds, or sacks emptied of the grain they once held, the white-skinned assassins fell to the ground, empty and bereft of life. Unbeknownst to Jeaf, the evil cretchym's powers were now greatly magnified. Draining his guards, he glutted himself with the dark magic he used to cast his spell over them, a most formidable magic that could consume the souls of countless victims. As the guards' power was rudely extracted, thousands of blood-filled urns, sitting in a chamber hidden deep beneath G'Lude's foundations, fell along with the empty bodies and shattered on the cold stone floor.
Koyer was taking another gamble. But the stakes now laying on the table warranted the move. Nothing would be held back. So, the White Guard was summarily sacrificed, their numbers removed from the equation trying to be solved on the Crescent Plains. And why not? The outcome of the battle would be decided, here, today, before Wyneskynd's battered walls! Not tomorrow! Not somewhere else! Either the Lord of Regret or the Hammer Bearer would emerge as the victor. The other would end up dead, or worse.
Energized almost beyond the bounds of imagination, Koyer stabbed his glowing blade into the nearest branch. Instantly, the bough went rigid; its leaves turned brown and fell to the ground; other branches, nearby, followed suit; those farther away were next to succumb to the sorcerer's magic. Following this chain reaction, the freshly grown grass lost its blooms and withered.
In time, the great oak tree's leaves looked like brown snow falling from the skies. Still, the Lord of Regret was not done. His incandescent sword, like a baby sucking on its mother's breast, lapped up the arbor's sap, draining away all of its life. The roots, winding their way around the Hag, grew brittle and frail; but not those running out of Jeaf's hands; Koyer had another use for these, one that would tap into the hammer's power.
An excruciating pain hit the young Woodswane's chest; his blood began to flow out of his finger tips and into the roots; his skin paled; his eyes dulled; his magic was being stolen; his life was being taken away.
“NOOOOOOOOO!” Jeaf shrieked. Then as quickly as he had thrust his hand into the ground, he withdrew it. Stumbling backwards, he fell to the ground and lost consciousness.
A gentle hand, reaching out, touched his forehead. And as it did, the ring sitting on the hand glowed brightly. Stroking Jeaf's brow, Muriel hummed a tune that Bacchanor had taught her. The sweet melody's healing powers didn't delay in awakening Jeaf's mind. It didn't hesitate to open his eyes. Seeing the Prophetess' beautiful face looking down at him, Jeaf smiled and plunged his hand back into the ground, avoiding the roots as he did. Drawing on the warl's vitality, the young Woodswane was quick to replenish his strength and quicker to jump back to his feet. Once up, he saw that the great oak tree was ablaze, being reduced to ashes, a
nd the Hag were, once again, positioned to fight.
“Enough of this oneupmanship!” Koyer's huge wings stretched out to their full width as he shouted. “Let's get down to business.” Having said this, the evil cretchym leapt forward. Gliding over the short distance that separated the two warriors, Koyer swung his sword.
Inheritor, bathed in blue light, was ready to meet the blow, Aryl's training had seen to that. Sparks flew about the two warriors each time their swords met, filling the air with uneven shreds of magic.
Having tapped into the warl's forces, those that existed beyond the natural senses, the Lord of Regret and the Hammer Bearer's abilities were super-enhanced. Moving faster than the eye could see, the luminous blades appeared, disappeared, and reappeared in staccato-like fashion. As if they were in the throes of a seizure, the combatants jerked along with their weapons. At times, the speed at which they fought turned them into two blurry figures that looked more like shadow then solid substance, figures that danced about the plain separating the ever present Hag from the Company of the Hammer.
Overhead, the griffin, who were watching the incredible fight, roared out a warning.
Looking eastward, Muriel saw flames of undulating fire sweeping through the air towards them. The fraethym were coming, Ab'Don's unwarly messengers and assassins. Not your garden variety type of evil spirits, they possessed greater power then those who drove Cane mad and manipulated the kings into fighting one another. No! These were special. Not long ago, Koyer tasted their power and the taste was bitter. Now it was Jeaf's turn.
Unable to stop the ragged flames, the winged-lions watched the fraethym dive into the fray. They had come to help Koyer defeat the Hammer Bearer.
Though they were not evenly matched in their ability to use the magic at their disposal, for the cretchym had the greater experience, the fact Jeaf had more power at his disposal equaled things out. Still, inevitably, wounds would be inflicted on both. And it was not long before Koyer's incandescent sword cut a swath in the magic shielding the young Woodswane's body. Though most of the blade's power was spent on the hammer's protective covering, part of it touched flesh, drawing blood.
Evil had breached the hammer's power and cut into Jeaf's skin.
Like any other germ, one of the fraethym slipped into the wound before Vlad'War's Magic had time to flow into the gap to close the compromising hole.
In reflex, Jeaf retaliated. His blade cut its way through the incandescent force that shielded the cretchym's thigh, sending darkish-red blood flowing down Koyer's black leather pants. But none of the fraethym moved. They held their position in the air above the combatants, their forms changing from smoke, then into a mass of light, and back again to flame. The Hammer Bearer was their target, not the Lord of Regret, at least not today.
Snarling, Koyer stepped away from the battle for two reasons: first, to give the Hag's magic time to mend itself and reinforce its armor-like presence that covered him; second, he was waiting for the fraethym to do its work.
Unchallenged by the hammer's magic that spent itself energizing Jeaf's muscles and functioning as his armor, the foul spirit attacked the young Woodswane's mind. Privy to the things Schmar had done to Muriel, the evil spirit overloaded Jeaf's brain with memories so horrible they sent the Hammer Bearer grimacing to his knees.
Dirty orange light assaulted his eyes. Suspended in air, Jeaf was stuck in webbing that stubbornly refused to let him move. Only his face remained unfettered, allowing him to open his eyes, breath through his nose, and open his mouth. Looking to his left, the young Woodswane saw dozens of cocooned bodies in various stages of decomposition. To his right he saw a collection of bones wrapped up in the same webbing he was entangled in, those that seemed familiar to him. Looking down, he saw Schmar squirming on the stone ground. His chest tightened when he saw a hand sticking out from under the beast, a hand that he had come to know well, one whose touch was dear to him.
“NOOOOOO! You foul maggot! NOOOOOO!” Jeaf shouted. But there was nothing he could do. With all that he possessed- youth, strength, skill as a warrior, his mother's Candle Maker powers, the blessing of the elves, and Vlad'Wars Magic- all he could do was watch… and yell… and later… weep.
Koyer's fangs glistened, reflecting his sword's incandescent might. No stranger to the fraethym's torments, he knew the Hammer Bearer was incapacitated with pain and sorrow. So, he went for the kill.
Swinging his blade, the evil cretchym cut at the Hammer Bearer. Moving so quickly that he looked like haze hovering over Jeaf's crumpled body, Koyer slashed away. Time-and-again, he struck the hammer's protective covering, rending it as he did, drawing blood from a host of cuts that the rest of the fraetheym slipped into. Among these were Bolkar and Falkar.
Joining their powers together, the spirits renewed their assault. This time, not only was Jeaf forced to watch his love being defiled by the inhuman monster, he now felt all that she did: the smell of sweat, reeking like old garbage filled his nostrils, sweat that fell from the beast, dripping on his exposed flesh; suffocating weight pressed down on him; over-and-over again it hit his chest and abdomen, driving his breath out of him, not allowing his lungs to replenish themselves; fear, more terrifying then anything he had ever known, stabbed at his heart; shame assailed his mind.
“STOP! PLEASE STOP! YOU UGLY SLUG!” Jeaf shouted helplessly from high above. “My god! STOOOOP!”
****
Though Koyer was moving faster than the human eye could successfully follow, the elves were able see what was happening, not clearly, but clear enough to know what to do. Soon, they were moving to help the young Woodswane. But not all of them. It was too risky! Only Ramskynd and Mystlnor stepped forward. The elf-king moved against Koyer; the Elf-Man went to help his friend, hoping he was not too late.
Ramskynd, using a leaf-blade blessed with Mystlkynd's magic, did what he could. Not a king by chance, he was an Elf-Brottanyss, one who was filled with the Warl's Magic. But with all of the powers he possessed, his speed could not match the cretchym's, and, soon, he too was wounded and grievously so.
As other elves leapt forward to carry their king off of the field of battle, five Candle Makers stepped forward to help. Launching their candles through the air, they hit Koyer like fiery spears, driving him backward, keeping him off of Jeaf's back long enough for the Elf-Man to unleash the amber mist that swept off of one of his golden spheres. And as the mist flew out of Andara's tear, it went fraethym hunting.
Pouring into Jeaf's cuts, the golden vapor swept into his heart and mind, searching for the trespassers that were tormenting the young Woodswane. Finding its prey, it quickly wrapped around the evil spirits. And as it did, a voice was heard. “No you don't! Not this time!”
It was Andara who spoke, that part of him that still dwelt in his tears.
Having been imprisoned in Cara'Lorn's foul swamps, forced to watch Ab'Don ruthlessly ravage the people of the Warl, unable to do a thing to stop it, he was not going to stand idly by while another went through the same torment, even though it was only a piece of him that could act.
Freed by the Elf-Man's touch, Andara's Magic enveloped the fraethym and carried them up to the very cuts they had entered. Instantly, the wounds took on an infected look. Heaping up, they filled up with rotten fraethym essence until they exploded, casting the spirits out as if they more no more than puss being purged from a sore. Once they were gone, the mist set about healing the Hammer Bearer's wounds and restoring his mind.
Yet, the stubborn spirits would not flee. Floating overhead, changing into bright lights, then into flames and then into smoke, the fraethym waited for Koyer to open other cuts that they could enter.
Following the Lord of Regret's commands, the hunchmen that remained alive attacked the Elf-Man, keeping him busy so that he couldn't continue aiding Jeaf. Once this was done, Koyer flew at the young Woodswane and the battle renewed.
Energized by the amber mist's virtue, Jeaf was able to repulse the evil cretchym's initial assault. Soon, the
y were caught up in the same blurry staccato-like dance that characterized the first part of the battle. But it would be only a matter of time before wounds would again be sustained. And then the door would be opened for the fraethym to do their work.
This time, if Mystlnor was delayed in giving help, something that the hunchmen were trying to keep from happening, Koyer would be given the time he needed to slay the Hammer Bearer.
Moved by Jeaf's plight, Muriel lifted her voice and sent her magic to his aid. Seeing what the fraethym had done, she had no other choice. She had to act! So letting her heart lead, Muriel sang!
Do not rejoice over me my enemy,
You who look at innocence with your eye,
Do not rejoice or take pleasure when I fall,
For I will arise!
As she sang the wind blew over the plain, carrying the sound of wind chimes on its wings. Accompanying the sound, a whirlwind of lights descended out of the darkening sky, out from the place where it had been waiting for the prophetess' call, lights that soon spread over the airborne griffin and the dual that raged below, creating a brilliant dome-like canopy that blotted out the rest of the battle, lights that joined the Prophetess as she sang, those whose voices sounded like children singing in a choir.
Do not rejoice over me my enemy,
You who look at innocence with your eye,
Do not rejoice or take pleasure when I fall,
For I will arise!
And arise they did! In that decisive moment, when the Song of Breaking was sung amidst the harrowing conflict, the throng of lights that were splashed across the brilliant canopy grew in size. No longer did they all look like tiny comets. Many of them enlarged into balls of flaming fire, and as they did, the children's voices were joined by others that sounded more mature, like those that came from young adults. Others sounded older.
