by Rex Hazelton
This change didn't go unnoticed by the fraethym. Sensing the magic that was responsible for this transformation, Bolkar gave an order. “Falkar! Go and see what's happening!”
“You go!” The foreboding power emanating from the brilliant canopy dimmed the fraethym's enthusiasm for the task Bolkar had given it.
Turning into raging, white hot flame, Bolkar shouted. “GO NOW, lest Ab'Don casts you back into our Master's realm, where you'll pay dearly for your cowardice.”
“Damn you Bolkar!” The knowledge of what waited in the nether region, the place where one more evil then Ab'Don dwelt, spurred the spirit to action. But the fraethym wouldn't depart until it cursed the one who sent it on the dangerous errand. For, indeed, it was dangerous.
Flying up towards the brilliant canopy spreading overhead, Falkar tried to make sense out of the things it saw. Transforming from flame, to smoke, to light, and then back to flame again, the fraethym sniffed at one of the fiery balls, one of thousands suspended in the brilliant canopy.
Holes, where its eyes should have been, enlarged. What must have been its mouth gaped open when the fraethym saw a powerfully built man, standing in the flame, reach out for him. Ducking the man's grasp, slipping off to its left, Falkar ran right into the arms of a women clothed in fire.
Releasing a pulse of magic, the fraethym knocked the woman backward. But two others, this time a different man and woman, grabbed the spirit from behind. Twisting in their grasp, Falkar looked into eyes that did not fear it, eyes that reflected a determination to remove its magic from off the field of battle, to end the fraethym's reign of terror.
Below, Bolkar scowled as he watched Falkar being torn to shreds. A hundred pair of hands that belonged to an increasing number of lights joining the fight, ripped at ever decreasing pieces of fraethym, breaking them into even smaller pieces, ensuring that the spirit could not regather its magic and remain among them. With its hold on the corporeal warl slipping away, the fraethym began its descent into the Warl of Darkness where its disappointed master waited.
“Damn you Bolkar!” Falkar's voice, sounding faint and far away, futilely spat out its last complaint before passing to the other side.
But the evil spirit didn't have to curse its comrade. Bolkar knew the score. It, too, was in danger of suffering Falkar's fate. So, along with the other fraethym, looking like dogs seeking safety at their master's feet, the evil spirit slipped over to the Hag and hide among their black robes.
Much was not known about the Warl's Magic. Where it came from, its relationship to the Singer, the limits of its power, its relationship to the warl and the sky above, all of these things were cloaked in uncertainty. The great wizards and orders like the Candle Makers knew more about these things than others. Those like Ab'Don and the Hag had figured out how to steal the Magic's power and turn it to their own device. Still, no one knew all that there was to know. And over the millennia, even this knowledge grew and waned depending on what each generation did with the things their fathers passed on to them.
One of the things those who had given themselves to studying the Warl's Magic did know for certain was the way its power decreased when used. Starting out strong, as time passed, the magic's virtue would diminish like flames in a hearth fade when the wood they're feeding on is used up.
The Candle Makers described this phenomenon in terms they understood. “Each time the Warl's Magic is summoned,” they would say, “is like a candle being lit. Once the flame embraces the wick, it will burn until the candle is consumed and no longer.”
Bacchanor explained it this way. “The Warl's Magic is like a keg of ale. When summoned, it pours its contents into the one who has called it forth, filling them up like they were a mug. Once they release the magic's power, discharging themselves of all they had received, they find themselves as they once were, empty, needing to be refilled.”
Though the Lord of Regret and the Hammer Bearer proved to be large receptacles, the magic they were employing in their struggle was, nevertheless, being used up. And unless they found respite, a time of rest in which the Warl's Magic could refill their depleted cups, they'd soon find themselves devoid of power.
Moving at a speed that a pair of young eyes could now follow, but, nevertheless, still amazingly fast, the bystanders saw that the two champions had sustained wounds.
Keeping their eyes locked on the brilliant canopy of threatening lights, the fraethym had refused to leave the protection the Hag's robes provided them. But this was about to change. Sensing that their guardians' magic was waning right along with Koyer's, a thing that told them they would be open for attack unless they did something soon, Bolkar led a desperate charge for the Hammer Bearer, hoping the fraethym could enter one of his wounds before the blazing lights had time to stop them. So out they came, looking like flaming arrows that the Hag shot at the young Woodswane.
Anticipating this move, a finger of lights reaching out of the brilliant canopy and raced to intercept the fraethym. If the evil spirits looked like flaming arrows, the finger looked like a bolt of lightning that struck the fraethym just before they reached their target. And in the instance it struck, the evil spirits where sucked up into the vortex of a developing whirlwind that threw the fraethym high into the air before the huge twister caught them and shredded them into pieces so small the evil spirits would not be able to reclaim their substance in time to keep from being reabsorbed into the dark realm their odious master lived in.
All the while this was happening the Hammer Bearer's magic was drastically slipping away. Expending immense power in his fight against the cretchym's might, Jeaf was quickly approaching a dire predicament that could mean defeat. Though he was gifted with Vlad'War's might, he was still one against a troop of ruthless wizards that moved in tandem, allowing a handful of their order to regain power while the others continued the fight. Once they were renewed, at least in part, these would step to the front lines and let the others gain a moment of respite. In this way, they were able to slow the loss of their power and outlast the Hammer Bearer.
But Jeaf was not without friends. Seeing the speed that Koyer and the young Woodswane were now fighting was visibly diminishing, the elves saw a door of opportunity open, one which they leapt through to mount an attack against the weakened Hag. Leaf-blades and short swords were soon engaged in a furious fight.
Seeing the ensuing battle, the whirlwind of lights dropped out from the brilliant canopy. Diving into the fray, it sucked both Hag and elves up into the air. Around-and-around they went, cutting and slashing all the while.
Not wanting to rob the elves of their prize, but knowing they would be needed below, the lights quickly separated the foes. Tossing the elves into the air, Mystlkynd's children landed on the backs of a troupe of griffin that had flown up to retrieve them. Later the winged-lions would say that they did this because voices sounding like wind chimes told them to.
Separated from the elves, the hapless Hag were now left to the brilliant whirlwind's mercy, a mercy that would not be shown. Like the fraethym before them, the Hag were soon torn asunder and their bodies thrown out into plains, far beyond the war raging below. Though most were killed, four of the sorcerers survived the rending. Using what magic they had left to absorb the shock of their fall, they landed safely on their feet and fled. This went unnoticed by those whose attention was riveted on the Hammer Bearer.
ARRRGGGG! Koyer shouted in anger as he watched his incandescent sword break apart and fall to the ground in a pile of used up candles that were as black as pitch and half the size they were when the battle began. Not missing a beat, the evil cretchym withdrew his own jagged blade and renewed the fight. Having lost the Hag's help, Koyer moved slower still. Only his own supply of magic and the dwindling power of the Spell of the White Hand enabled him to keep up with the Hammer Bearer.
But Jeaf was no better off, he had expended more magic than any single person had since the days of the Battle of the Breach. And it showed! It was getting to the point where Aryl's insuperable t
raining was the only thing that separated him from defeat.This became all too apparent when Vlad'War's Child began to rise up out of his skin like it was sweat. Not long afterwards, the silvery name of power could be seen wrapped around Jeaf's forearm; the hammer's head covered his fist; its red rubies adorned his knuckles.
Having foreseen this event, the young Woodswane had already shifted his sword to his left hand. And it was good he did, once the transformation was complete, the Hammer of Power lay in his right, looking like it did the day he found it.
Like all predators, Koyer saw his opportunity to strike a fatal blow that would give his hordes the upper hand in the ongoing struggle, one that would take the Hammer Bearer's life. Defiantly snarling, the evil cretchym's upper lip lifted revealing his formidable fangs; his wings spread wide and he leapt into the air. Pausing in flight, he threw his hands out, dispatching the black flecks of magic that would protect him from the elves' sparkling thread arrows. Then releasing a screeching sound whose higher notes not even elven ears could hear, the evil cretchym dove at the young Woodswane
Moved by intuition's prompting, the Prophetess, who Grour Blood had wisely herded away from the dual, shouted, “Jeaf, use the hammer!”
Prodded by the prophetic force of Muriel's words, Jeaf wound up and threw Vlad'War's Child at the incoming demon.
Startled by this seemingly irrational maneuver, using his jagged blade to protect himself, Koyer frantically tried to block the bolt of light made of silver and wood. But what was left of the hammer's magic made it leap around the sword and smash into the evil cretchym's gruesome head, cracking his skull in the process.
Stunned by the tremendous blow, the beast fell upon the plain where he flailed about trying to maintain consciousness. But a worse fate awaited him, a fate carried in a woman's hands, one who was no longer a victim but now a warrior, whose eyes were filled with the Warl's Magic. Racing forward, Muriel, with a yell befitting a Blood, plunged the great sword Talon through Koyer's crimson breastplate and into his heart.
The cruel cretchym shrieked out an agonizing cry that sent a shock wave of sound over the Plains of Decision, sweeping all other noise away as it passed by, and in the vacuum of silence that followed his shrieking cry, childlike voices were heard coming out of Koyer's gaping wound once Muriel withdrew her blade.
As the cretchym's head fell to the ground, his stomach distended like a balloon filling up with air. Larger-and-larger it grew until it exploded, sending thousands of lights bursting forth from his abdomen, just like they had burst forth from Schmar's.
Voices of children accompanied the firestorm of tiny lights that fled the Lord of Regret's body. Swirling around Koyer, after taking a moment to relish their new-found freedom, they lifted his dying body up into the air, rudely, like it was a broken toy they were throwing into the trash. Up, up they went, high above the plain, in full view of the warring armies. Every eye turned to see the spectacle; every weapon was lowered in that decisive moment. Ar Warl's hordes stood breathlessly watching. Not one of them blinked as they saw their champion's body being mercilessly cast to the cold ground, their hope of victory falling with him.
Racing after the horrid form, the swarm of lights pushed the cretchym towards the warl faster than gravity could pull, making the Lord of Regret look like he was a star burning up in the atmosphere. In the end, massive leathery wings slapped hard against the plains, accompanied by a horrible thudding sound.
The lights that had come out of Schmar, those that had help defeat both the fraethym and Hag, soon joined the ones freed from Koyer's internal prison. Once greetings were exchanged, the burgeoning whirlwind bent its might to pull a huge stone out of the ground it was buried in and high up into the air. Once in position, the brilliant storm dropped the monstrous rock onto the cretchym, smashing his vile remains beneath its massive bulk.
Chapter 47: The Battle's End
With their leader gone, the hunchmen and giants defeated, the Hag bested, the cretchym chased off, and the White Guard fallen, the Ar Warlers fled. Only sporadic fighting took place whenever the Nyeg Warlers tried to intercept their retreat. But mostly, the kings were satisfied to let them seek out each other's protection.
Surrounded and facing magic they had no answer for, the Ar Warlers who had been forced into a single mass of warriors were heard arguing and cursing one another in frustration over their predicament they found themselves in. An occasional skirmish broke out in the midst of brooding remnants of Koyer's once seemingly invincible army. Other than this, the throng stood facing their foe, preparing to defend themselves as best they could.
Earlier that evening, before the moon had risen, Nyeg Warl's kings gave the foul host an ultimatum. “If you'll lay down your arms, you may use the remains of your fleet to return home across the Breach Sea.” Goldan, who acted as the rulers' spokesman, shouted the proposition in a voice loud enough for all to hear. “But if you don't, we'll be forced to attack. And if we do, we'll not stop until the last of you are dead. You have until sunrise to decide.”
“Blast it, the ships are burned,” a tall Malamor replied, his light blue eyes revealing his concern.
“The Bjork have examined the vessels. Many of them are salvageable and could be used to make the voyage. The Bjork have also agreed to lend you what little sail they can spare. The rest you'll have to patch together yourselves.” The Tsadal commander explained the kings' generous offer. “You'll also have the ships' oars. Given your situation, I suggest you accept the proposal.”
Fearing this was a trick, once the moon had risen high in the sky, the Ar Warlers mounted an attack. Lead by a contingency of Archan, the Warriors of Regret tried to break out of the ring of Nyeg Warlers encircling them and flee into the forests resting on the banks of the nearby Wyne River. Once under the protection of the trees' mighty eaves, they hoped to fight their way back to the Isle of Regret.
This began a horrible battle where the Ar Warlers fought for their lives as ferociously as a cornered bear swats at the hunting dogs that surrounded it. The Forest People, standing between the Ar Warlers and the greenwood, absorbed the brunt of the attack. Many who didn't need to die if the kings' offer had been accepted now fell cut down by Archan axes.
This can't happen! Light, blue as a cloudless sky, flashed out from beneath a wide-brimmed hat, mirroring the Elf-Man's thoughts, revealing his determination. Moved by the sight of the needless deaths, Alynd was stirred to do that which he had done only one time before. Drawing out one of the few remaining golden spheres, he readied himself to use Andara's power, against its nature. Not to heal... now it would be used to kill!
Calling on Grour Blood and the rest of the griffin, he flew off to help the Forest People. Once there, the winged-lions pressed to the front of the battle, trying to separate the Archan and the Forest People as best they could. But this could not be cleanly done, not entirely. So Alynd had to step out into the seething throng of Archan, risking his life as he did. Then lifting up his hand, he shouted an ancient elven war cry, sending it across the golden sphere. Instantly, the sound of a great explosion, accompanied by a flash of blinding light, resounded over the plains, knocking both friend and foe to the ground. A huge ball of earth, fire, flesh and wind rose to the stars. In the time that it takes for one to snap their fingers together, the explosion of magic wiped five-hundred Archan off the face of the warl. Sadly, twenty Forest People and one griffin went with them. A pit, reaching down to the bedrock, marked where they had once stood, a pit as wide as a man could shoot an arrow.
“BACK OFF!” the Elf-Man shouted as he reached for another precious sphere.
Though only three were left, he was determined to use them all if he had to. The battle's won, he thought. I'll be burned up in the Fires of Darkness if I'll allow any more Nyeg Warlers to die, not needlessly, not when I have enough magic left to do something about it!
The terrified Archan, needing no other persuasive argument, lowered their weapons and slunk back to stand among their Malamor cousins and
the rest of Ar Warl's startled warriors. As they did, a weeping was heard wafting on the hot winds swirling over the plains, a weeping that cut to the bone, sending those who heard it into tears.
It was Andara's voice they heard weeping that night, he who used his powers to heal and not destroy. Griffin wept for griffin, man for man, and elf for elf. Even some of the Ar Warlers were seen weeping for their fallen comrades. None escaped feeling remorse over so many valiant ones having to die for Ab'Don's ambitions.
Though Andara's Magic was meant to heal and not destroy, and by its use many had died, Alynd's decision put an abrupt end to the war. His desperate act saved thousands of Nyeg Warl lives. Still the Elf-Man wept. But not because Andara's Magic compelled him to do so. He wept over the memory of the griffin and the Forest People he had seen fighting the Archan before him, those that his decision to use Andara's Magic had obliterated, those whose faces would be forever etched in his mind.
****
During the course of the long night that followed, the Nyeg Warlers could see the Ar Warlers fighting one another in an internal struggle that sprung up in the rival factions. The cohesiveness of Koyer's army, and for that matter any army that followed Ab'Don, was built on either fear or greed. Once the lynch pin of Koyer's evil magic was removed, the army unraveled into feuding gangs.
Looking at the shadowy figures jostling about in Ar Warl's camp, Jeaf asked Alynd, “Why are they fighting each other?”
“I'm not certain,” the Elf-Man's eyes cast out blue light as he spoke, “but I believe morning's light will reveal that evil is at work.”
****
All that night the balls of light streaked about the sky looking like a flock of tiny comets diving and swirling about in avian synchronization. The sound of wind chimes followed them. Occasionally a single ball of light dropped down and orbited around a particular warrior, for a measure of time. One particular light kept coming over to Muriel, ruffling up her hair before racing back to join the luminous flock. The Prophetess, who never seemed to be bothered by the playful thing, just smiled and reached up to touch the illusive little comet.
