by Rex Hazelton
A cavalry of over thirty thousand horsemen spred out behind the White Guard. Seventy thousand footmen followed. Hundreds of wagons, carrying arms and provisions, could be seen in the distance. Those who were responsible for transporting the cargo they carried, along with the soldiers assigned to guard the wagons, were busy despoiling the slain that lay scattered across the ground like pods cast about by a gove of misqou trees.
Standing on the other side of an expanse three times as wide as an arrow could fly, five hundred Candle Makers faced Ab’Don and the dour wizard’s that surrounded him. A mix of men and woman, practiced in the Art of Candlecraft, stood on the hot plains. With the feat they were about to attempt calling for intense concentration to carry it out, they hid their faces inside hoods that were designed to look like flames sitting on top of the flowing white robes they wore as they reached out to lay hold of all the power they could find in the Realm of Magic.
Sequestered in the shadows cast by their brightly-colored hoods, focusing their Powers of Intuition at the threat that faced them, the Candle Maker's saw only the enemy. Only the sounds they made would be heard. Nothing else mattered. Soon the full might of the benevolent wizards' magic would be sent forth in an attempt to keep Ab'Don's hordes at bay while the kings of the Western Warl fled to the Verdant Mountains rising up behind the Candle Makers like it was a huge wall made of stone and trees. Once in the rocky heights, the sovereigns hoped to stem the flood that was threatening to overtake them. And if they weren’t able to do that, those that survived the slaughter would spend the rest of their days as outlaws, using the mountains’ rugged terrain to hide from those who had conquered them.
Moving in concert, the flames atop the Candle Makers’ waxy talismans became fiery tributaries that flowed together to form a river of flame that rushed at the enemy. Halfway across the expanse separating the foes, the river broke off to the right and to the left until it formed a wall of fire that spread across the plains. Pacifists by belief, the Candle Makers didn’t attack the Hag, or the one they served, even though, if by the slimmest of chances they were able to kill the Sorcerer, they could have ended the war. Instead, they built a wall they hoped would hold long enough to allow the western kings, and the people they ruled over, to escape.
Shaping the fire to look like a wall constructed with blocks as big as houses, the Candle Makers signaled their intentions. They had always been healers and protectors, and true to their nature, that’s what they would do today. The only thing that hinted at aggression was the battlements made of undulating flame that danced threateningly on top of the imposing wall they had made.
In response to the Candle Makers’ demonstration of power, the Hag sent their black candles spinning in front of them. And as each spun, they turned into incandescent wheels, that turned into glowing shields, that transformed into a menagerie of weird, fiery beasts that rushed off to challenge the wall’s strength: bears with antlers, boars with the lion-like paws filled with razor sharp claws, horses with the hind quarters of a hound, dogs with heads too big for their massive bodies, bulls with horns growing out of their shoulders as well as out of their bony skulls, wolves whose pelts were filled with dagger-like protrusions, huge vipers that sped along propelled on short legs that were moving too fast to count their numbers, and mammoth goat-headed scorpions. Sounding like ten thousand torches where thrown through the air at the same time, the massive beasts hurtled towards the wall. And when they struck the fiery structure, peels of thunder filled the air, causing those who were fleeing the field of battle to stop and turn to see what had made the deafening noise.
Still, with all the furious magic the Hag had thrown at the fiery wall, the barrier withstood the initial onslaught. But the beasts weren’t about to admit defeat since their work had just begun. At first clawing and biting, the raging monsters soon mutated into whirling balls of flame whose jagged surfaces dug at the Candle Makers' barrier. The sound a huge wave makes as it breaks against a storm wall accompanied the frantic digging, a wave that didn't retreat nor did the noise it made diminish. It was an unceasing sound that obliterated all other noise, a sound that continued until a portion of wall was dislodged and thrown into the air. This was the first of many pieces that followed until an unabated stream of debris flew behind the burrowing, jagged-edged balls of magic. And all the while, the defeaning noise continued, heralding that the Hag were winning, that the Candle Makers’ fiery wall would not long endure, that the fate of the west was sealed... for defeat was certain.
Pulling on his mount’s reins, forcing it to rear up on its hind legs, Ab'Don stabbed at the air in front of him as he shouted out orders that sent his hordes surging foreward.
Looking like a seething field of lava cascading down a volcano's steep sides, the Sorcerer’s army surged forward confident that the Candle Makers’ barrier would soon be dismantled. But before the eager warriors could take advantage of the openings that were rent in the wall, a rumbling noise was heard. Growing exponentially in volume as each moment passed, the rumbling soon eclipsed the ruckus the whirling, jagged-edged balls of fire continued to make.
In time, the rumbling, that was so loud one might think the Warl itself was roaring out in pain, was joined by a vibration that rose up from the Great Plain’s sun-scorched ground. Then the vibration became a shaking that jerked the plain about like it was the bed of a runaway wagon that was speeding over a rocky, rut-filled road. An up and down motion was added to the mix as swells rolled over the plains and the battling hosts who were thrown to the roiling ground.
Horses screamed and men shouted out with fear, though their cries couldn’t be heard above the incessant rumbling, roar that filled the panicked sky overhead. Then, to everyone’s surprise, a louder noise still was heard- a cracking sound that raced out of the north. It was like the Warl’s heart had been broken at the sight of its people slaughtering each other. And as the noise swept over the field of battle, a crack appeared in the plain in front of the fiery barrier. Running the length of the wall, it quickly became a fissure that separated the Hag and Candle Makers’ magic. And as the fissure became a chasm, the jagged-edged balls of fire began falling into its gapping maw.
Unlike the Hag’s magic that was swallowed up by the chasm that was quicly evolving into a gorge, the Candle Makers’ wall was reduced to five hundred tiny flames that dutifully returned to the candles from whence they came and to those who were struggling to stay on their feet as the plain moved about like the deck of a ship caught in a violent squall.
Offering a different perspective of the unprecedented event, the scene shown on the incandescent cloud changed to a view one would have standing on top of the Verdant Mountains’ tallest peaks. From this vantage point, the students saw the gorge expand both in length and breadth to become a canyon that filled up with water flowing into it from the Nour Sea in the north and from the Largryk Sea in the south. Given time, this would become the Breach Sea, once the days of the earthquake were over, whose broad expanse foiled the Sorcerer's plans to subdue the western warl.
When the final moments of the Battle of the Breach had been shown, for the great rend put an abrupt end to the fighting, the luminous branch returned to its former position in the tree and another took its place.
As the third luminous cloud emerged, a more intimate scene appeared, one that lacked the epic quality of the Battle of the Breach but was no less important. A lovely home built out of wood and stone, covered almost entirely with ivy, was situated perfectly in the towering greenwood that surrounded it. The only fly in the ointment was the score of river children that surrounded the forest dwelling.
Man-like creatures, the river children's black skin was as smooth as glass and as slimy as a slug's hide. Large eyes, as black as their moist flesh, sat in flat faces whose mouths, as round as saucers, were filled with needle sharp teeth as numerous as bristles on a hair brush. Dressed in sparse garments made of fish skins, for the river children spent more time in the water than they did on dry ground, a han
dful of the human-like monsters huddled over a pile of kindling they were using to start a fire against the woodland-home’s stout walls. Soon smoke rose above the creatures’ hairless heads as their efforts were rewarded with success. And as the fire grew into an inferno, the river children stood watch over the besieged domicile's windows and door, expecting to snare those who would be flushed out as the hungry flames advanced.
But unbeknownst to the river children, a man and women, with their young daughter in tow, passed through a secret door that was built into a woodbox sitting aginst the side of the woodland home and raced off into the fog-shrouded forest.
Though the audience gathered in the Hall of Meditation was relieved that Muriel and her parents had escaped the trap that was being sprung, for the luminous tree was now telling the Prophetess’ story, the sense of relief was tempered by what they all knew would happen next, things that historians had long ago chronicled. And true to their expectations, a new scene emerged.
Now alone, for the child's parents had hidden her in an old hollowed out tree so they could lead the raiders away from their daughter, Muriel was left with an admonition to remain quiet until Laz and Mara returned. With Laz’s prophetic abilities telling him that his daughter was the prize the monsters were after, he risked his and Mara's safety to keep her secure. Though he didn't know she was destined to become the Prophetess the seers said could prove to be Ab’Don’s undoing, nor did he know that the Sorcerer was behind the abduction attempt that was set into motion to see that this didn't happen, he wasn’t surprised that Muriel was the focus of attention after the Night Wind had spoken to him about his child even before she was born.
Those sitting in the Hall of Meditation swallowed hard as they watched Muriel leave the safety of her hollowed out haven to find her parents. After spending most of the day hiding, who could blame her for doing this? After all, Muriel was just a little girl, at the time, whose patience was limited by her age and the fear she felt in being separated from her parents.
It was this quest that brought her to the pond whose surface erupted as a river child lept upon the shore and grabbed her hand. Slipping from the monster’s grasp, the terrified girl turned to watch a blinding flash of light engulf the creature’s hand. The magic found in a ring the river child had inadvertently pulled off of her finger in the struggle was responsible for the radiant burst and the accompanying pain the monster felt. Muriel's father had given the ring to her on the day she was born.
Exerting its power to escape the creature’s grasp, the magic ring fell into the water where it lay enveloped in a threatening glow that kept the rest of the approaching river children from risking harm to pick it up.
But this was all in the past.
Once again seated on Muriel's finger, moved by what the Hammer of Power chose to show the students, the delicate talisman, topped with the inimitable crystal it held, sent out a burst of white light from the heart of the luminous tree trunk where the Prophetess stood. Feeling her father’s presence as the ring gently vibrated on her finger, Muriel stopped singing and smiled, but only for a moment, least the tree lost its intensity. With this thought in mind, the Prophetess took up the Song of Remembrance once more.
As the recounting of the story continued, young Muriel- who laid like a sack of grain on a horse the leader of the river children rode- was spirited off to the Cave of forgetfulness and to the monsters waiting for her there- Schmar and Arachnamor.
The next scene swept the last of Muriel's fading smile from a face that could be seen outlined in the tree's luminous bark. A look of pain, mirroring the feelings of turmoil wagging war against the Prophetess' ability to continue singing, took its place.
In a cave filled with dirty orange light that was only other color to be shown by the Tree of Remembrance besides the Hammer’s blue radiance, an older Muriel stood before a little, rotund man who sat on a throne made of stone. In his hands he held another child, a baby girl Muriel had conceived in the nightmare warl she had been forced to live in.
A tall woman, wearing a dress as black as the eyes that gazed impassively at her, stood beside the throne, unmoved by Muriel's desperate pleas. A moment later, the dangerous little man- who was not really a man at all, nor as small as he chose to appear- lifted the child overhead as his jaws unlocked so he could swallow her whole.
Dressed in rags, her hair disheveled because she wasn't allowed to own a brush in the dark subterannean warl where she spent the days of her cruel captivity, the older version of Muriel screamed as she watched her child being consumed. And the moment she cried out, the incandescent tree blinked out of existence, revealing the Prophetess, now held in her husband’s arms in the place where the trunk once stood, as she wept. Three heart beats later, the luminous trunk reappeared. Wrapping itself around the grieving couples’ legs, it soon swept up over them and quickly reassembled the branches that swiftly rose up to the Hall of Meditation’s vaulted ceiling.
Without so much as a moment’s pause, once it had regained its fulness, the arbor sent another branch reaching out toward the mesmerized audience.
A loud roar accompanied the luminous cloud that appeared where the branch now stood. Fire lept out over the heads of those who watched as a creature of monstrous proportions come into focus. Laying on the shoreline of a river it had just slid out of, the beast looked like a bloated snake that was longer than eight large wagons placed end to end. Its torso was as thick as three wagons standing abreast of one another. Its long neck and huge, triangularly-shaped head arched back like a waterfowl that was ready to spear a passing fish. But it wasn't a fish that was being targeted, it was a man who frantically pulled on a blacksmith's anvil ensnared in the exposed roots of an old oak tree that stood on top of the steep embankment fronting the waterway.
A rolling motion moved up the monster’s long neck that rose high above its bulbous aquatic form. Clawed feet dug into the mud and gravel to provide a foundation the beast would launch its attack from. A moment later, the monster threw its triangularly-shaped head forward and sent a stream of fire racing out toward the man who worked to dislodge the anvil from the wall made of dirt, stone, and roots that faced him.
The unfolding scene was a replay of the Hammer Bearer’s battle with Laviathon, the infamous sea serpent and Ab’Don’s ally, a battle that became the seminal event that thrust the young Woodswane into the Warl of Magic. In fact, it was during this fight that Vlad'War's greatest wizarding achievement, the creation of the Hammer of Power, was revealed to Jeaf. But before this happened, he was nearly burned to death since the massive head that hurtled towards him was about to dispense the sea serpent’s incendiary might. A mouth as big as large table top opened to reveal teeth as sharp and long as swords an instance before liquid, that burst into flame once it touched the surrounding air, was spewed forth.
A second time in the ongoing battle, the reptile’s fire washed over the young man since Ab’Don had sent Laviathon to keep Jeaf from apprehending the Hammer of Power. Aware of the prophecies concerning the one who would recover Vlad’War’s Child, and apprised of the circumstances involved in Jeaf’s appearance at the Eyrie of the Eagle, the Sorcerer had sent his scaly servant to intercept the young man he knew was traveling down the Eyrie River. But instead of keeping Jeaf from finding the Hammer of Power, as prophecy said one of the Fane J’Shrym would do, Laviathon inadvertently aided him in his quest. For unbeknownst to the monster, in the midst of the melee, his thrashing tail had crashed violently into the embankment fronting the river and unearthed the anvil Jeaf was trying to dislodge from the tree roots that were wrapped around it.
Undeterred that his first volley of flame did not consume the troublesome youth- not taking time to figure out why this was so- the sea serpent sent a second torrent of fire forth. This time the flames did a better job of burning Jeaf. For the remaining virtue released by the magical sphere Alynd used to heal wounds the river children had inflicted on the young Woodswane in an earlier fight on the river was being exhausted b
y the second dosage of flames. The scorching Jeaf’s skin took this time was grievous. The fading magic was failing to keep his clothes intact. The hair covering his head was reduced to frizzy crisps.
Yet, Jeaf was not the only thing that was being burned. So was the oak tree, including the roots that held the anvil firmly in place. Lacking the protection the remnant of Andara’s Magic had given Jeaf- for that was the power Alynd had conjured up to effect the young man' s healing- the roots, along with the tree they sprung from, quickly succumbed to the fire’s fury.
No longer held in the roots’ grasp, the anvil fell out of the steep embankment where it lay and onto the gravel-filled shoreline below. And as it fell, it revealed the blacksmith’s hammer that was hidden behind it. A moment later, looking like a huge torch had been thrown to the ground, the burning oak tree toppled on top of Jeaf.
Laviathon's massive head bobbed and weaved about as he tried to get a glimpse of what was transpiring behind the burning tree. But he didn’t have to wait long to find out what was happening since the young Woodswane stepped out through the shield of flames and faced the sea serpent with the Hammer of Power in hand.
Then the scene changed before the fight’s well-known conclusion was shown. It was Mystlkynd’s Great Hall that now appeared. Able to seat more than a thousand elves, the hall was built high above the ground in Shar’Ot’s broad expanse, a tree the forest folk believed was the mother of all oaks. As the audience watched Alegramor laying her hands on Jeaf Oakenfel’s head to impart her blessing, while the elven throng- who had thrown their festive garlands at the Hammer Bearer’s feet- glowed with the magic that filled Forest Deep, the scene changed again, and an old man was seen standing on a platform of stone.
Wood was heaped up around an iron pole that rose out of the thick slab of stone the man stood on. The students knew Jeaf was once tied to this pole and that the wood was fuel meant to feed the fire that was supposed to burn his defiling presence out of the Tsadal Community. The man's name was Torqanor, the Tsadal Elder and Grand Inquisitor. The Hammer of Power was now in his uplifted hand as he shouted to the crowd seated in the outdoor theater that surrounded him. Then with a triumphant smile on his face, the old man bent down to his knee and struck the hammer against the stone platform he stood on. A moment later his victory was turned to defeat as blue flames leapt out of Vlad’War’s Child and consumed him entirely.