by Rex Hazelton
Last on the dais was Tsut’waeh, holding the garland made of living branches the Tayn’waeh used to crown Jeaf as the Willow King, and his father, Zhan, a Tayn’waeh cheiftain.
Three of those in the Company of the Hammer were missing from the dais: Fyreed, the fierce Bjork warrior, and Bear, the inexhaustible giant, stood in front of a door that faced the open space located between the dais and the audience. Grour Blood, who was flanked by Shar Blood and Nazar Blood, stood with them. Muriel had nic-named the two griffin, who accompanied Grour Blood, Mittens and Slim back when they were not much more than cubs.
Only Bacchanor was missing from the proceedings since the Brown Wizard had not returned to Nyeg Warl after he followed Jeaf on his quest to find Andara’s tears. Rumor had it that the shape-shifter had married Mar’Gul whose magic and wisdom was dispensed to both the Neflin and Brie’Shen alike.
Thrower, Far’Lynn, and Thor’Shom stood beside Fyreed, each with thin braids falling down in front of their ears and the long hair that was common to the Bjork. Blue tattoos were visible on the sides of their clean-shaven faces, each a replica of the one that the man who had adopted them as sons wore. From the day of the dreaded battle in the Cave of Forgetfulness, where Fyreed found the three when they were not much more than boys, the four were nearly inseparable. And like their father who stood beside them, they carried war hammers strapped to their hips in honor of their god, Wygean, who wielded a hammer of his own.
Fyreed, who felt more comfortable on the deck of a longboat than in the halls of the kings, stood where he did because he wanted to draw as little attention to himself as possible, given that Nyeg Warl’s sovereigns requested his presence here. For him, his reward for coming to the Day of Remembrance would be gained in the camaraderie he would share with the Company of the Hammer once the ceremony was over.
Bear, on the other hand, took up his position to get a better view of the magic Jeaf and Muriel would soon put on display. Nearly twice as tall as a normal man and five times as heavy, the indomitable giant couldn’t wait for the show. If he had a bowl of apples or bag of chestnuts to chomp on, things would be perfect. Still wearing an outfit made with long strips of leather, sewn together to form the material used to make both his shirt and pants, Bear pulled on one of the heavy braids that fell down from his head as he impatiently waited for things to begin.
Seeing Ahrnosyn rise and come to stand before a podium that had been set up for the occasion, the giant let go of his hair, dropped his hand on Thor’Shom’s head, and patted it like he was a child, though he was more than thirty summers old.
Knocking Bears hand away, Thor’Shom scrunched up his right eye in irritation. Mistaking what he had seen, Bear winked back at the man before turning his attention to the Chief Mentor.
The Hall of Meditation’s interior was covered with highly polished wood. Rising high overhead, the two main walls bowed towards each other until they meet at a ridge that ran the edifice’s full length. To those fortunate to visit the place, it looked like a great sea going vessel had been turned upside down. Sconces holding a thousand candles were affixed to the hardwood walls. Looking like wheels of glistening light, elogantly thin star's blood chandeliers hung from the building’s apex. A white marble floor, with row upon row of highly polished wooden benches positioned upon it, stretched out below.
Wearing a calf length tunic that matched those Jeaf and Muriel wore, including the image of the red hammer that adorned the garments' front, Ahrnosyn lifted his hands, palms facing out, and addressed the audience. “Greetings Dear Students and quests who have come to share the Day of Remembrance with us.”
The Chief Mentor spoke with his trademark smile in place. Tall and sedentary looking, Ahrnosyn had the appearance of a scholar rather than a warrior. In truth he was a capable fighter, though he was better at wielding words than the sword he was no stranger to. His bald pate and the wispy hair ringing the sides of his head added to the benign demeanor he exuded that made people feel safe in his presence. This was one of the reasons the kings, who didn't want the School of the Sword and Song to favor one realm over the other, had chosen him to be Steward and Chief Mentor in the school Vestylkynd housed. An impressive intellect, with wisdom to match, were the other reasons. This made his counsel a sought after commodity. The fact that he kept himself from owning lands or pursuing things that were self-serving added to his appeal.
“In a moment, the Hall’s lights will be dimmed.” Ahrnosyn exuded the strength of an oak tree as he spoke. “Afterward the Prophetess and Hammer Bearer will come forward and use their magic to show us Nyeg Warl’s past, so that we, who are gathered here, will understand what needs to be done to secure her future and to usher in the long awaited Age of Parm Warl. Afterwards, those who are seated on the dais will answer your questions and tell you what they saw and experienced in the days of doubt that plagued us all. So please, refrain from talking until the candles' light is brought back up.”
With that said, Ahrnosyn turned to Jeaf’s mother. “My Lady, would you do us the honor?”
Elamor stood, clothed in white robes that the Candle Makers wore, those she put on the day she learned of Aryl’s death. Having rejoined the order of benevolent wizards, Elamor had cast aside any thought of remarrying.
Even though her hair now had equal portions of white and black in it, the Candle Maker was a woman men would fight over if she had wanted male companionship. Eyes, so dark brown that the pupils where hard to distinguish from the irises, reflected the candle light she was about to subdue. Looking to her son, Elamor smiled before turning back to the audience. With a wave of her hand as she spoke a Word of Power, Elamor took charge of the candles in the hall before directing them to dim their light. A moment later, twilight filled the building. A profound silence followed that didn’t allow anything to be heard other than the sounds the Prophetess and the Hammer Bearer made as they stood up and walked forward.
Looking at Ramskynd and Alegramor, who greeted his gaze with a gentle nod of their heads, Jeaf withdrew the Hammer of Power from its sheath. He did this to acknowledge the blessing the Elf-Queen bestowed on him in the days following the Hammer of Power’s discovery, a blessing that had fundamentally changed him, making Jeaf more aware of the warl he lived in and the things it held: seed and soil, root and stem, leaf and flower, rain and sunshine that made the greenwood grow. Then turning to face the audience, he lifted Vlad’War’s Child for all to see. And as he did, the hammer’s silver head began to melt like it was a chunk of ice exposed to a raging fire.
Soon rivulets of liquid metal flowed over the wooden handle, filling grooves that were etched there, those that spelled an ancient Name of Power. Sliding past the hand that held the hammer, the streams of silver wrapped around Jeaf’s forearm before sinking into his flesh. The hammer’s head, that had slipped over Jeaf’s fist like a glove made of molten metal, herded the wooden handle along as it went. In the end all that was left of Vlad’War’s Child was the silver cast seen on the skin covering Jeaf’s arm and the reddish hue showing on his knuckles where the rubies, that once adorned the silver head, had been absorbed.
Seeing the hammer was gone, feeling its magic coursing through his body, Jeaf stretched out his fingers and sent flecks of blue light shooting forth. Darting this way and that way, the brilliant specks flew off into the twilight-filled hall. The luminous fragments came so quickly that five streams of undulating magic coursed out of Jeaf’s finger tips. Reaching the peak of the high angled roof from every conceivable direction, the veins of mystical might wriggled about like they were living creatures searching for cracks they could use to make their escape.
“Muriel.” Jeaf encouraged his wife to do her part as he kept his focus on the power that surged out of him.
Chapter 2: The Song of Remembrance
The Prophetess, looking on the expectant faces, sighed. Many who had never heard her sing before looked on with eyes opened wide and jaws slack by reason of the sense of wonder they were feeling. Taking a deep
breath, aware things that once held her bound in shame would soon be put on display for all to see, Muriel lifted her head and began to sing the Song of Remembrance.
Days long past must now appear, so all that are here can see,
What brought about the things we fear, those things we want to flee.
But run we cannot, nor hide for long, from what may come to pass,
For yesterday has set our course for a tomorrow that will last.
So, pay attention to all you see, its lessons you must learn,
That wisdom may welcome you and folly can be spurned.
As the Prophetess sang, the hammer’s blue light rose out of Jeaf’s body and enveloped the couple, making them one. Soon a radiant tree trunk was seen where Jeaf and Muriel once stood, and the five writhing veins of mystical energy that come out of the Hammer Bearer’s fingers quickly took on the shapes of great branches that sent out shoots that became lesser branches. From these sprang even smaller appendages that erupted with a host of luminous leaves. This provided the canopy upon which scenes from days gone by were shown.
A hundred smaller branches revealed an equal number of unfolding dramas as blue mist rose out of the leaves and took on the shapes of men, elves, giants, beasts, mountains, seas, castles, caves, and whatever else the Prophetess and Hammer Bearer’s magic needed to tell its tale.
As the scenes continued to play out, the shape of the Prophetess’face appeared in the luminous tree trunk’s bark as she sang the song’s chorus.
Yesterday come and give us light that we may discern what’s wrong from right.
Yesterday come and show us your face, your countenance will help us run the race.
Yesterday come and reveal men’s hearts, so we will endure when doing our part.
Yesterday come speak into our ears that we may learn how to defeat our fears.
The elf-queen’s green eyes sparkled as they reflected the tree’s light. A smile crossed her face. After taking a deep breath to savor the moment, Alegramor spoke the name that meant Elf-Friend. “Brosantanney," she whispered as she thoughtfully considered the one Mystlkynd’s Children had given this title to- Jeaf Oakenfel, the son of the Fane J’Shrym, Willow King, Bjorkkin, and Hammer Bearer.
She was delighted that the Hammer’s Magic chose to tap into the Elf-Blessing she had bestowed on Jeaf, and use it to form the luminous tree it was showing Nyeg Warl’s history on. No one in recent memory had synchronized human and elven magic as well as the Hammer Bearer did. Not even the Elf-Man. The proof for this is seen in the tree Jeaf created to fight Koyer with at the Battle of Decision, the way he accessed the warl’s life to keep himself from being consumed by Ab’Don’s fire at the Battle at the Temple of the Oak Tree, and now fashioning a luminous arbor that looked eerily similar to Shar’Ot, the mother of all oak trees found in Mystlkynd, to use for his display. All of these things were works of magic that surpassed anything Alynd had conjured up.
In time, one of the five main branches lost its definition and turned into a cloud of incandescent mist that swallowed up a multitude of scenes that were played out on its lesser appendages. The image of a ruined city, with a gargantuan, dark spire of stone rising at its center, soon appeared on the vast vaporous canvas. Everything was a monochromatic blue that was in keeping with the color that accompanied Vlad'War's Magic.
Like a flock of birds was descending on the ruins, the audience's attention was drawn to one particular section of the time-ravaged city as it grew in size to dominate the picture, and then to one cobblestone-covered street, nearly blanketed beneath the dirt that had gathered there for more winters than written history accurately recorded, came to prominance. Here, a solitary figure was seen. Hunched over, using one hand to brace himself against a dilapidated wall, the man's long beard fell down upon the robe he wore.
Lifting his head, taking note of the audience who was looking at him, the man cried out, “Behold my sorrow!”
With those words said, scene after scene of horrifying acts were shown where the street once stood, all committed by heavily-armed men that must have been a part of a larger larger host of cruel warriors: bodies were indiscriminately violated, torture was carried out for pleasure’s sake only, pillaging that was driven on by greed, and unimaginable slaughter with no quarter given. It was as if the marauders were a raging fire that consumed everything in its path.
“And all of this was done to satisfy this his appetite.” The stranger's voice was heard above the cries that accompanied the ensuing mayhem before the scene changed to show a man standing before a troupe of foul, black-robed wizards that called themselves Hag. These were busy using magic, they controlled with the black candles they carried, to maim a group of villagers who were being punished for not submitting to their master's will quickly enough.
Looking like eagle feathers- long, blond, matted hair sprang from a head lifted high above those he had conquered. This was Ab’Don, Ar Warl's Lord, and everyone in the hall knew it. Without close inspection, he might be considered to be a handsome man. But with the requisite evaluation, one could see that his raptor-yellow eyes sat above an aquiline nose that was oddly askew. And in keeping with the perversion of symmetry, one eye was slightly higher than the other. His petulant mouth followed the bend in his nose. His chin was off center.
Though he was a tall man, the Sorcerer was built for speed. If men were compared to blades, he would be a rapier and not a broadsword. And to go along with his elegant form, Ab’Don wore intricately designed, golden armor that was besmeared with the same oily filth that matted his hair, filth that was a side affect of the particular form of dark magic he was addicted to using, and a continual source of frustration for someone who aspired to look as magnificent as he deemd himself to be. Still, he would accept the side effects that came with the darkness he lived in, so long as it gave him the things he desired: unassailable power to do what he wanted to do, to whomever he wanted to do it to, without fear of reprisals for the things he had done. More than this, the foul magic he wallowed in like a pig squirming about in mud promised to give him unending life so that he would have the time needed to do all that was in his mind.
Turning his gaze from the Hag, who continued to meet out punishment on the villagers, Ab’Don looked out into the Hall of Meditation, unsettling the students seated there. All wondered if his magic was strong enough to enable him to see them, though the scene they were looking at was only a memory and the Sorcerer they saw was just an image of the man they feared. Or was it? But before the question could be answered, the pictue changed again and the disconsolate stranger was once again seen.
Sliding down the wall he was leaning against, using his hand to slow his descent, the man dropped to his knees and wept radiant, amber-colored tears that fell down his cheeks and to the ground below.
“Andara!” The name of the great wizard who lived in the days of Ab’Don’s conquest filled the hall in echoing redundancy as the stranger’s identity became apparent to all. When the magical tears- that contained the destillation of all of his power- struck the dirt, their inner light increased until they swallowed up the wizard’s image. A moment later, the radiance decreased to show that the leafy branch had returned as it drew back to its former place in the luminous tree.
Though the branch withdrew, the amber light remained in two places: deep inside the massive tree trunk and from a place on the dais behind its impressive circumference. Those clever enough to figure it out knew that both places aligned with the pouches that Jeaf and Alynd carried, those that held the wizard’s tears they gathered when they went on quests that braved the haunted city Cara Lorn, the ruined city the receding tree’s branch had just shown them. In time, the amber light emanating from the pouches, and the tears they held, faded away.
A second branch reached out from the tree. As before, it lost its definition in a luminous cloud that contained a picture of two massive armies facing each other on the Warl’s Central Plains. One of these was in full retreat. A large rear guard was
positioned to slow the advancing mass of warriors that was posed to attack those who were trying disengaging from the fighting.
With Ab’Don at their head, riding a stallion whose white coat was dulled by the same oily grime that covered his armor and hair, the seething throng was arranging themselves for a final assault that would put the rest of the Warl into the ambitious Sorcerer’s greedy grasp. With the entire east under Ab’Don’s control, this battle would determine the west’s fate. And as the endless swath of corpses left in the Sorcerer’s wake attested to, the west was doomed.
One thousand black-robed Hag stood behind the Sorcerer’s spirited mount, whose sharp hooves dug into the plain’s dry soil as it pranced nervously about in front of the wizard horde, each with a black candle in hand. One thousand flames filled with raging, dark magic flickered maniacally atop the paraffin talismans.
Ten thousand white-skinned fiends, seated on ten thousand horses driven mad by the Spell of the White hand that enslaved their riders, spread out behind the Hag. These were members of Ab’Don’s White Guard, his mindless servants. With their blood drained, and now held in urns gathered in dungeons that wormed their way far below the Hall of Voyd, these monsters were animated by the Sorcerer’s magic that now did the work their blood once did.
Unnatural in appearance, they could not be easily destroyed. Neither sword, nor arrow, or pike posed any threat to them. No matter how many times they were stabbed or speared, the white-skins, as some were now calling them, would keep on fighting. Even with their bloodless flesh cut so badly they looked like a ship’s sail rent by violent winds, the fiends wouldn’t stop fighting. Only three things could end their fetid existence: a beheading, a thorough dismemberment, or being crushed beyond repair.