Vlad'War's Anvil

by Rex Hazelton

  A screeching, shredding noise was heard amidst the rumbling tumult as the crack shot quickly upwards toward the edifice’s apex. Students shouted. Flames danced wildly about on top of candles that refused to be thrown from their perches. Giant chandeliers swayed about like cowbells strapped to hungry bovine hurrying to a barn where an evening meal and milking awaited them. And Marta turned to Alynd and shouted, “It’s here! It’s here! Just like I said it would!”

  The bear skin the old woman wore, along with the shrillness of her cry, made it seem like the quake's violence had snapped her mind. The bruin's massive head, acting as a hood, did nothing to dispell this impression.

  A flash of blue light was emitted from Alynd’s eyes as he reached out to steady the old woman who nearly toppled to the ground as she waited for a response. But before the Elf-Man could reply, an explosion was heard as the earthquake forced its fingers into the crack and pulled the Hall of Meditation’s roof apart. So horrible was the sound that all who stood in the building felt their fate had been sealed.

  Raising their hands above their heads, the students got ready to meet the doom that would surely fall on them, a doom that came in the shape of huge, splintered timbers.

  Responding to the threat, the Candle Makers that were present quickly used their candles’ flames to spin shields above as many people as they could. Muriel, having summoned a nearby candle while keeping one arm wrapped around Jeaf, was busy using her resident power to erect a canopy of flame over their heads.

  But there weren’t enough Candle Makers to protect everyone, and many there would have been hurt if the shaking hadn't suddenly stopped once the massive crack was formed.

  All became quite in the quake's aftermath. Neither the sound of falling timbers, nor the noise that the twirling candles made as they worked their magic could be heard. But the silence didn't last long. For a single drawn out cry of pain filled the void of silence as the Hammer of Power lifted Jeaf up off his knees, onto his feet, and into the air as it jerked about like a fish trying to throw off a hook. Using both hands to keep hold of the talisman's wooden handle, Jeaf was pulled through Muriel’s shield of flame unscathed, and higher still, so high that he was in danger of being struck by the swaying chandelier that clung precariously to the lip of the rend overhead.

  But before that happened, the Hammer of Power freed itself by spinning about so quickly that it broke the hold its master once had on it. Separated from the talisman that had carried him aloft, Jeaf fell into Muriel’s canopy made of flame. Once again, it didn't burn him. Instead, it lowered him safely to the stone-covered floor as Vlad’War’s Child shot upward through the gapping rend, into the blue sky above, and out of sight.

  Without so much as a prompt, the griffin gave chase as they raced through the crack that was wide enough to accommodate their massive size.

  Striking the floor with his huge metal-studded club, Bear shouted, “NOOO!” Every flame in the great hall was extinguished by the magic filling the disconsolate giant's shout, including those the Candle Maker’s used to fashion their fiery shields.

  The light entering through the hall’s compromised roof took up where the candles left off, providing the illumination the stunned gathering needed to see. Now that the earthquake was over, and all the pieces that had broken off the hall's roof were resting on the floor, a hush settled on the gathering. Only the creaking noise the chandeliers made, as their swaying lost momentum, could be heard. Soon, they too were silent as they joined the students, teachers, and guests in waiting for the Hammer of Power to reappear.

  But it didn’t return. Time proved that. Neither did the griffin that chased after it.

  All were covered in soft shadow, save Jeaf and Muriel who were huddled together in a wide swath of sunlight that fell on them from the cloudless heavens above.

  Knowing he would be responsible for keeping order, Ahrnosyn looked up into the gapping hole that split the ceiling above and frowned over the memory of the Hammer of Power's exodus. After waiting for another long moment that he hoped would give Vlad'War's Child enough time to return to its master, the Chief Mentor turned his attention to the gathering. After taking inventory of those present in the hall, ascertaining if there were those who had been hurt in the recent melee, he was relieved to see that none of the gathering required urgent attention, since, amazingly enough, the only wounds inflicted by the horrendous shaking ended up being minor bruises and cuts.

  Rubbing a hand over his balding head, Ahrnosyn gathered his thoughts before addressing the audience before him. “Please everyone, be seated,” Ahrnosyn spoke with the authority his position and reputation gave him, "while the teachers go and assay the damage that has been done to the rest of the school.”

  Since the Hall of Meditation seemed stable enough, despite the crack working its way across the ceiling that arched high above the dais, Ahrnosyn wasn’t about to let the student’s go until the condition of the institution's other buildings could be determined. So, with a nod of his head, the teachers stood and headed for the hall’s doors.

  “NO!” The Marta was on her feet moving toward the Chief Mentor as she fixed the teachers with her penetrating gaze. “You mustn’t leave… not until you hear what I have to say.”

  Covered in the bearskin she wore, the old woman looked out of place in the grand hall like a cockroach looks out of place as it scurries across a clean table top. Pleasantly plump, in the way many women who know their way around a cooking fire are, Marta’s maternal appearance was replaced by a ferocious demeanor. Her normally placid face was contorted with anger that made Ahrnosyn take a step back as she approached. But before the old woman reached the Chief Mentor, certain she had gained his and everyone else's full attention, she abruptly turned and went to confront the Hammer Bearer.

  Standing over Jeaf, who was still held in Muriel's arms, Marta looked past the long teeth that protruded from the bruin's head she used as a hood and at the man she was about to reprimand. “See what you have done,” she scolded Jeaf in a voice loud enough for all to hear as she lifted her hand and pointed at the hall’s broken ceiling.

  “I’ve done nothing,” Jeaf protested when the anguish from being separated from the Hammer of Power was increased by the old woman’s incriminating tone.

  “That’s right... you’ve done nothing.” Marta let out a burst of unpleasant laughter as she spoke. “From new moon to new moon the warl’s foundations are being shaken while you do nothing. The Breach Sea that keeps us from Ab’Don’s cruel reach steadily shrinks in size and you do nothing.

  Taking hold of the bear skin that covered her, Marta hurled it to the floor. “You’re about as useful as the lifeless pelt I’ve been wearing. Where are your bones? Where are your muscles? Why do you lie about like some rug that has no mind of its own?”

  “My Lady,” the Hammer Bearer, flummoxed by the old woman’s surprisingly aggressive posture, stammered. “I’ve been busy getting Nyeg Warl ready to meet the Sorcerer once the warls collide.”

  If truth were told, Jeaf liked Marta who was Alynd’s constant companion and counselor ever since the days of the Battle of the Temple of the Oak Tree when the Elf-Man was crowned King of Otrodor. Even though the old woman was strange, as people often were who were touched by the Warl’s Magic and endowed with the Gift of Sight, Jeaf found Marta to be fascinating. He discovered this when it was her turn to teach him things she knew about the Mystical Arts, a task that all those in Nyeg Warl, who were reputed to be skilled in supernatural matters, took turns doing to prepare the Hammer Bearer for the day when he would have to face the Sorcerer once again.

  It was during this training that Jeaf came to value the old woman. Though Marta's isntruction was filled with enigmatic metaphors, Jeaf found that her apparent ramblings were replete with wisdom that could be gleaned if one was willing to look at things from a different perspective. In fact, he came to love Marta’s style of teaching and all the vagaries that came with it. That’s why the bearskin she wore that day hadn’t bot
hered him.

  The moment he saw Marta wrapped in the bruin's hide, as she entered the Hall of Meditation, he knew something prophetic was afoot. But he didn’t know it portended a tongue-lashing for things he was innocent of. After all, who had given more of themselves to bring about the mending of the Breach that separated the Nyeg from the Ar than him and his wife?

  Jeaf was no slacker, nor was Muriel. Nevertheless, he found himself being brought to task by a woman who had plenty of opportunity to do so before today. If he was falling short of his calling as the Hammer Bearer, why not tell him in private? He would have listened to her. But now he was being publicly scolded for things he thought were unwarranted. And what did this have to do with the Vlad’War’s Child’s disappearance anyway? How was he responsible for breaking the Hall of Meditation like it was an egg being cracked open to make breakfast? As far as he was concerned, Marta’s tirade was woefully missing the mark.

  “So you’ve been busy, you say?” Free of the bearskin she had robed herself in, Marta looked like a grandmother enraged over her grandchild’s misdeeds. Wearing a dark woolen skirt and a white blouse madefromf the same heavy material, wrapped in a shawl with rows of brown and green cloth intersecting with each other, the old woman used one hand to hold the shawl in place and the other to emphaize her words.

  Pointing a finger at Jeaf, Marta answered her own question. “Busy at what? Playing with swords? Learning to manipulate a candle’s flame? Talking to kings?” She spat out her words in disgust. “So much talking that a cloud of words has blinded you to your responsibilities.”

  “And what are my responsibilities?” Jeaf quietly asked as he and Muriel stood before the old woman who had his full attention.

  “The Hammer of Power knows,” the Marta smiled in a disconcerting way as she spoke. “That is... if you can ever find it again.”

  “And what will it say to me once I find it?” Jeaf was troubled by the if in Marta’s words. He had been told that he could never be separated from the Hammer of Power. But now the old woman had said if when speaking about retrieving Vlad’War’s Child.

  “How should I know?” Marta looked incredulous over the question that was posed to her. “I’m not the Hammer Bearer, nor am I a Fane J’Shrym as you and your sons are.”

  The seers foretold how a Fane J’Shrym would arise, gather a people who had been forced to hide from a warl that despised them, and lead them into battle against Ab’Don's might. They prophesied that this gathering would bring about the Sorcerer’s downfall if all did their part.

  Jeaf had always believed he would have a hand in this matter, though he didn’t know how. He had already gone to Ar Warl once before and met his brethren who were in hiding. But nothing good came from it. Jeaf found out he was the son of a man the other Fane J’Shrym accused of rape, a man, who, as far as he knew, was responsible for killing one of the outcasts’ leader[EH1]s: Garyth, father of Aeroth, one of the deadliest men Jeaf had ever met. How would the Fane J'shrym listen to him after all of this?

  “But what the Hammer of Power has to say is of little value, if you can’t find it.” Marta pointed at the bruin’s hide laying upon the floor between her and the man she spoke to. “For if you can bare what I have to say to you... you just might find it.”

  Not the least bit amused, though he was not surprised by Marta's antics, Jeaf shook his head in resignation as he accepted the prophetic play on words. “And what do you have to say to me?”

  “You must go alone.” Marta didn’t look pleased over what she had said. In fact, it looked like she was struggling to get her words out. “None can bare this burden with you, not Mystlnor,” blue light flashed out of the Elf-Man’s eyes when he heard his name, “nor your wife.”

  “Go where?” Jeaf was clearly troubled by what he had heard.

  “When the griffin return, they'll tell you all you need to know.”

  Chapter 3: Ay'Roan

  The King's Hall was filled with smoke from the cooking fires, the smell of savory food, and the sound of loud voices. Whole-hearted laughter marbled its way through the Bjorkian feastivities that celebrated the hunt that would take place the next day. Though at first glance the hall could be mistaken for being a squat structure, its vast dimensions belied the height the v-shaped ceiling reached. The King’s Hall's great length made it hard to recognize the structure's considerable width and how massive its over-all expanse really was, an expanse that could easily hold a thousand enthusiastic revelers.

  Lacking the stonework common to the great halls found in Nyeg Warl’s other kingdoms, the Bjork’s use of heavy timber made the building a formidable structure. It gave the place a feeling of substance, of resolute permanence, like it was an outcropping of stone that had always been a part of the Alabaster Mountains that stood watch over the G’Narly Cove’s green waters below. The skulls of the crocodon that lined the walls spoke of the determination the seafarers had to ensure that permanence.

  In truth, the building was a relative newcomer to the mountains’ environs. Three hundred summers old, it marked the place where the Bjork remnant had taken sanctuary in the days following their flight from Ar Warl, a flight that followed the slaughter that Ab’Don and the fierce crocodon had inflicted on the seafarer’s community when the Sorcerer attempted to eradicate the unruly Bjork from his dark realm.

  Driven from the comfort of their longhouses and into their trusted longboats by an unstoppable host set on their demise, the Bjork found themselves confronted by a vast swarm of sea serpents more ruthless than the Sorcerer’s evil throng that assailed them on dry land. With the fire breathing father of the crocodon, Laviathon, orchestrating the ambush to perfection, the Bjork longboats were ripped to pieces by hundreds of teeth-filled jaws big enough to swallow a horse if the sea serpents had time enough to break the animal's bones first. And what teeth didn’t shred, Laviathon’s fire consumed- wood and flesh alike. With the Nour Sea’s waters littered with thrashing men, women, and children, the evil reptiles’ attention was diverted to the feeding frenzy that ensued while a remnant of the once proud Bjork fleet grudgingly left the slaughter and made good their escape.

  From that day until this one, the seafarers have been set on exacting revenge for the horror that befell their kin. This was the reason for the feasting and for the hunt that would follow it. Crocodon had been sighted in the Largryk Sea, near G’Nyrly Cove where the Bjork had made their new home in Nyeg Warl. The indomitable seafarers were giving thanks to their hammer wielding god, Wygean, for providing them with the opportunity to display their courage in the coming battle that was sure to accompany the hunt. And what better way to give thanks than eating, drinking, and enjoying a time of camaraderie with those who would risk their lives together? After all, Wygean was always pleased when his people took pleasure in one another since they were the timbers used to make the temple he lived in.

  A host of long, wooden tables- worn smooth by celebrations too numerous to recount- were placed in a diamond-shaped formation around a large fire pit situated at the center of the King’s Hall. The smoke hole above, having all it could handle to let the pit’s cloudy offing escape out into the dark, star-filled sky, was unable to accommodate the smoke that rose from hundred's of pipes the seafarer's sucked on. The Bjork loved their pipes as much as they loved their cups that were as large as the hands that held them.

  Men who had gained distinction in battle or while sailing the seas’ unpredictable expanse, sat nearest the fire pit. Many of these had risen to positions of leadership in the Bjork community because of the deeds they had done. Here royal bloodlines did not determine rank, merit did.

  In the Bjork view of things, actions spoke louder than words. Though a family’s history, its record of valor, was maintained through oral recitations that were handed down from one generation to the next, the children were not afforded honor apart from doing the same works their fathers did. Neither was a man admired for amassing wealth: lands, buildings, and such. Fame came from sacrifice, from putting
family before self and community before personal gain. As a result, those who best displayed these virtues rose into positions of leadership. Even the king himself gained the throne he sat on as a result of this rule of measure, by meeting the dual requirements of courage and sacrifice. His children would have to follow his example if they wanted to inherit his seat, to walk in his footsteps so to speak. And if they were successful in doing this, the Council of Families would confirm their place with a vote.

  King Leyert, Son of Baryk, who sat in the ring of honor, had done this very thing. The valor he displayed in the Battle of Decision, in numerous battles with the Bjork’s ancient enemy- the crocodon, and in leading raids against Ar Warl’s seaports and merchant fleets were steps he used to ascend to the seafarer's throne. This happened after Baryk’s longboat was lost in a storm that scoured the Largryk Sea’s surface, stripping away all those that had the misfortune of sailing on its tempestuous waters like they were residue scrubbed out of a cast iron skillet.

  ****

  “If you have to stay home and help your mother do the dishes, I'll understand. Cleanliness can never be over-rated.” The amused young man lifted an eyebrow as he waited to see if Lowen, Leyert's son, would take the bait. With four slender braids falling past his temples, two on each side of his head, and down upon his chest along with the rest of his long, chestnut-colored hair, the man doing the taunting looked every inch a Bjork. His impressive height and the tattoo sitting on his neck only added to this impression. But he wasn’t a seafarer at all, though he was as comfortable in the sailors’ presence as he was with his own kin, a fact that spending more time with the Bjork than with his own family was responsible for.

  Yet the amount of time spent with the seafarers couldn't account for the ease that the young man displayed when interacting with them. One had to figure in the skill he exhibited in the contests of strength and fighting the Bjork loved so much to understand this. Proving to be a force to be reckoned with during the games that took place during Thundyrkynd’s Harvest Celebrations, Ay'Roan was only bested by Odenmuir, who was a head taller and forty pounds heavier than the average Bjork. Undefeated over the prvious five Fall Feasts, some wondered if Wygean himself could defeat the Bjork champion. Still, Ay'Roan had given Odenmuir a run for his money. And in the end, the story of their bout found a place in the seafarer's accumulated lore. This, above all else, was the reason for the young man's ease.