by Rex Hazelton
Forgetting the man, who had dropped a notch on his list of priorities, the scaly monster dove beneath the waves in an effort to get his assailant to relinquish its hold on him.
Threatening the unexpected enemy with drowning should have done the trick. But it didn’t. In fact, the crocodon heard a concussion in the sea's surface above as a second assailant dove into the green water and latched onto its neck. There the thing began biting at the scales that protected the spine that was found there.
With the second attacker tearing at the back of his neck, the crocodon recalled the story about Laviathon's fight with the griffin at the Battle of the Breach. Griffin, the crocodon thought, I never thought I would have to face griffin!
Though Laviathon had recounted the details of the struggle in a way that minimized the fact that the griffin and elves had driven him off of the field of battle, he told enough for his scaly offspring to guess how dangerous the winged-lions were. Living on the bounty the sea had to offer, the griffin were equally at home in water as on land.
How did my father get rid of them? The crocodon was trying to figure a way out of the predicament he was in when a pain shot through his side as the great cats tore wildly at his hide, a pain that came from the harpoon that was stuck there. Whipping his head about to see why the harpoon pulled so, the crocodon caught sight of the cord that ran from his side to the chum boat that was disappearing in the depths beneath him. But instead of fighting against the cord that pulled him downward, the sea serpent followed after the plummeting craft that sank as quickly as an anchor thrown over the side of a Bjorkian longboat.
This was its plan. The crocodon would swim into the sea’s depths until the water's pressure increased enough to force the smaller winged-lions to call off their assault. And the crocodon was right. The cats finally released the scaly monster at the point where the last traces of light failed, and complete darkness took over.
Free from his tormentors, enveloped in the depth's inky blackness, the crocodon located the cord that had aided its descent and cut it with a snap of its jaws. Then, angling away from the Bjork fleet above, the crocodon returned to the sea’s surface, choosing to flee rather than face the griffin again. But before the beast would allow himself to return to Ar Warl, he would sooth his wounded pride by finding a victim less capable of defending themselves.
****
Having been picked up by King Leyert’s longboat like Lowen had been, Ay'Roan went over to check on his friend.
“I’ll heal.” With his left arm tucked against his ribs, Lowen rose from a sitting position to his feet as he spoke. “I’ve broken a few ribs, and maybe my arm too. It's nothing that won’t mend.” Then Lowen joined the other Bjork who were searching the rolling, green waters for signs of the crocodon’s return.
Nodding his head in reply to Lowen, Ay'Roan withdrew his elf-blade from the belt were he had it tucked away. Having been told about how the griffin attacked the crocodon as it swam toward him, the young man was determined to make certain the valiant act wasn’t wasted. He was going to live even if he had to kill the sea serpent by himself. So he clenched his jaw muscles and adjusted his legs to the rising and falling of the passing swells as he waited for what would happen next.
Bjork, armed with bows and harpoons, stood beside him. Others held knives, swords, and war hammers in their hands. Carrying a long-handled, double-edged ax as he stood at the ship’s bow, King Leyert’s long, red hair, driven by a wind that blew against his back, flew erratically before his face as he searched the sea. The longboat’s red sail, embossed with the image of a golden hammer, spread out behind him, its rectangular cloth filled with the same buffeting wind.
No doubt, the other longboats’ sails, though still invisible, were filled as well, those reflecting a panoply of colors: white with a red griffin on it; several were black with a red star on them; many were stripped with every hue found on the color wheel; all were made for speed.
Like a pack of hunting dogs that had picked up the scent of a fox, the longboats were moving fast. Sleek bottomed and more mobile than any other type of ship built in Nyeg Warl, the Bjorkian vessels were well suited to move in tightly knit groups that could respond to tactical commands in a moment’s notice.
“How long can griffin stay under water?” Lowen winced as he asked his question. Unlike Ay'Roan, he had accepted the cloak that was offered to him.
“For a very long time,” Ay'Roan responded without diverting his gaze from the sea. As Muriel Oakenfel’s son, he was accepted as a member of the Community of Blood as the griffin referred to themselves. He and his family, because of the history his mother had with the griffin, were the only humans to have ever been extended such an honor. And with the honor came the privilege of visiting Stromane whenever he wanted to and for as long as he desired. It was during one of these stays that Ay'Roan now referred to
“I’ve seen griffin travel farther than a horse can run full speed under water before needing to rise for air. Using their wings and broad paws to swim with, the big guys move through water like they fly through the air, and when they're in the air, they're fast.”
“Have these two been down for too long?” Lowen was entertaining the thought that the crocodon may have gotten the best of the griffin.
“No,” Ay'Roan detected the concern in his friend’s voice, “I don’t think so.” Considering what might be taking place in the depths below, he added, “Even if the crocodon is able to shake them off, I doubt it could catch them both before they had time to surface.”
As if to mock Ay'Roan's words, a large shadow rose up beneath King Leyert’s longboat. Had the sea serpent returned, the Bjork sailors wondered as their eyes grew along with the approaching shadow. But to their relief, the huge, dark splotch divided into two a moment before an explosion of water heralded the griffin’s return.
Shooting upward like arrows loosed from a bow, the winged-lions spread out their huge pinions and gained purchase in the sky once they cleared the water. Soaring overhead, the griffin bellowed out, “The crocodon has fled.”
Aware that Bjork longboats were located somewhere beneath them cloaked in Fields of Invisibility, they continued to call out until a red sail with the insignia of a golden hammer sitting at its center appeared.
Landing on the deck of king’s longboat, in front of the Leyert himself, the griffin looked up at his companion who stayed aloft to keep watch just encase the crocodon’s leaving was a faint.
Following the winged-lion’s gaze, Leyert watched the soaring griffin for a short time before he asked, “What business has brought you this way?” The Bjorkian king crossed his arms on top of the double-bladed battle axe he carried. Its lengthy handle was braced against the longboat’s heaving deck as he waited for an answer.
“My Lord, my name is Lylos Blood.” The big cat’s voice sounded like distant thunder was rolling across the longboat’s deck. The color of yellow gold, the griffin’s eyes blinked lazily as he spoke, while his dark brown mane was tossed about in the buffeting wind that blew that day. Lylos Blood's head was level with the king's, though he stood on four sturdy legs. Broad bands of muscles rippled beneath his damp, tawny hide when he shifted his weight. Long fangs, white as milk, showed whenever he spoke. “Muriel Blood sent me to bring Ay'Roan Blood home. She says she needs to speak to him.”
Hearing the news, Ay'Roan chimed in. “Couldn’t she just send a message with you?” After relenting and finally putting on the cloak that was offered to him a second time, Ay'Roan went over and gave Lylos Blood’s heavy mane a tug. “Good to see you, Old Friend.”
“Your mother did send a message.” The huge cat nudged Ay'Roan with his muzzle and said, “Come home.” With a smile crossing his face, Lylos Blood continued. “And I’m the one she's charged with making sure you do.” With a chuckle he added, “And it’s a good thing Muriel Blood sent me, or you’d be laying in the crocodon’s gut right now with more to complain about than your mother’s summons.”
“Don’t give you
rself too much credit.” Running a hand through his hair, Ay'Roan flashed a playful smile. “I’m a faster swimmer than you think.”
“Right,” Lylos Blood snorted out his reply. "A sea urchin could swim faster than you."
“OK,” Ay'Roan conceded. “There’s a chance the crocodon may have caught up with me.” Sighing, the young man added, “So... thanks.”
Then he shook his head and let a smile that looked like the breaking of day burst across his face. “Ashes, you saved my life! Of course thanks!”
After giving Lylos Blood's mane another tug, he asked, “Do you think Mother knew I’d need rescuing when she sent you?”
Ay'Roan was referring to his mother’s prophetic gift. Though he loved her more than words could express, and he was glad Muriel Oakenfel was his mother, it wasn’t easy being raised by the Prophetess as people were wont to call her. For it was nearly impossible to get away with anything. Maybe that’s why Ay'Roan had become so strong-willed. He had to be, to keep from being overwhelmed by his mother’s intuitive abilities.
“Hmmmm,” Lylos Blood scrunched his right eye in thought. “Maybe, but I don’t think so. Still, the magic she uses is not limited to just the Gift of Foresight. Time has shown she is blessed with the Gift of Chance too.”
“You mean luck, don’t you?”
“No.” Lylos Blood held Ay'Roan’s amber-colored eyes with his own as he spoke. “With the horrible childhood she had, I wouldn’t say she’s lucky. But the earlier suffering did give her the chance to rise above it and become the extraordinary person she is today. And her sending me to find you when she did gave me the chance to save your life, though there were still those who were hurt by the crocodon’s attack.” Lylos nodded at Lowen who was bent over to guard his broken ribs and damaged arm.
“Well, if you’re right, maybe the urgency I sense in my mother’s message- she’s not the only one blessed with Power's of Intuition in our family you know- will lead to the kind of chance you’re talking about. For it feels like something important is afoot." After looking at Lowen, Ay'Roan added, "Though I wish to continue the hunt for the crocodon, I’ll be ready to go whenever you say.”
“As for the hunt,” Lylos Blood said after looking up at his companion who continued soaring along on the persistent winds that blew that day, “I think it’s over. But there’s no need to depart today. You can return to Thundyrkynd with the fleet while Tay Blood and I make certain the crocodon has fled from these waters. We’ll leave on the morrow.”
Chapter 5: Travyn
Every so often the moon looks to be much larger than it normally is when it first appears in the nocturnal sky. People call this a Bandit Moon, saying the bright orb gained its size by stealing light from the rest of the stars that accompany it on its passage across the night sky and greedily gorges itself on their luminous glory.
Eventually the greedy moon has to give the light back and diminish in size if it wishes to climb higher into the heavens, for it's unable to ascend to the heights weighted down by the starlight it has pilfered.
But that time had not yet come. Not this evening.
Still glutted with the light it had taken from its celestial companions, the Bandit Moon peered over the cliff-wall and down on a solitary figure standing in a cave's jagged mouth found at the end of a box canyon. Though only two-thirds of its bulk was visible above the rock wall, the shadowy mask the Bandit Moon wore- turned down at the edges as it was- made the lunar orb appear to be troubled over the sight of the man who wore a wide-brimmed, flat-topped hat.
Intently staring at the ramshackle collection of buildings that lay on the canyon floor below, the man was seething with rage over the tragedy that brought him to this godforsaken place. The Valemorians called it The Cut, maybe because it was found in a narrow box canyon that sliced its way into the Thangmor Mountains, or maybe because it was as dangerous a place as any that existed in Nyeg Warl, as dangerous, as say, the sharp edge of a knife or sword. The stranger carried both.
The hat the man wore was an expensive one. Few of its kind existed. Made of shredded dark brown wool, mixed with a sticky concoction consisting of tree sap and powders whose identity the hatmaker kept secret to maintain a hold on the market, the hat had an uncanny ability to keep its shape. Once baked in an oven that was specially constructed to dry out the newly formed head wear, the hat kept its shape permanently. Even when rained on. And if it was ever crushed, all the owner had to do was soak the hat in water and coax it along as it worked its way back into its original shape.
Eyes, that reflected a unique combination of both of his parents, looked out from under the hat’s wide brim. The inner irises were a rich, dark brown. This he inherited from his mother, along with an olive complexion that was a shade darker than hers. A ring of amber color encircled the irises like light dancing on the edges of a solar eclipse. This he inherited from his father, along with his height.
The brown jerkin he wore was tailored perfectly to fit his lean, muscular build. Brass buttons, molded to look like bits of flame, ran down one edge of the open coat. A shirt made of gold-colored silk lay beneath. Brass coins lined the broad, black belt that was strapped over pants made out of the same material as the jerkin was, each with molded images of flames sitting at their centers. An elven leaf-blade hung from the belt in a sheath made of equal parts of leather and brass. An ivory-handled dagger was tucked into the belt opposite the leaf-blade. Four flame-shaped pieces of brass lined the sides of the knee high, black leather boots the man’s pants were tucked into.
“What do you think?” A voice growled from deeper inside the cave.
“He’s down there.” The man, wearing the broad-brimmed hat, fingered the leaf-blade’s handle as he spoke. Though youthful in timber, the man’s voice had an edge to it, making it clear that he had bad feelings for person he spoke about. In fact, the man had been tracking the person for some time now and had a score to settle with him. And what better place to do that than in The Cut: the lawless, run down village that sat in the Eagle King’s realm like a blotch of mold clinging to a wheel of cheese.
“The fire-blasted bastard is down there alright.” The man turned to look at the large, watery eyes glowing out from the darkness that was driven back by the silvery moonlight filling the cave's mouth. “We’ll get him tonight.”
"Are you sure you want to do this?" A snarl accompanied the rough, breathy reply as a man-like creature stepped out of the shadows, a creature the Nyeg Warlers called a hunchman.
As fierce looking as any of his disreputable kind, the hunchman appeared to be trying to talk the man out of doing something that, from his viewpoint, was both rash and dangerous. This was unexpected, for the beast-men were renowned for their love of violence. And an act of murder was never beyond them. In fact, in the days before the Battle of Decision was fought, hunchmen wore dangling necklaces filled with teeth taken as trophies from their kills. Few of these grisly collections lacked a human tooth or two. Most included the hunchmen's pronounced canine.
Today, this savage practice had all but vanished as a result of a treaty the Hammer Bearer brokered between the hunchmen and the rest of Nyeg Warl, following his fight with Ab’Don at the Battle of the Temple of the Oak Tree. Having bested the Dark Sorcerer, Jeaf Oakenfel led an army of elves and men into the Verdant Mountains’ southern reaches that bordered the re-established Kingdom of Otrodor, formerly known as the Wilderness, set on punishing the beast-men for the help they gave Ar Warl’s Lord when the Sorcerer tried to cast an evil spell over his wife, Muriel, and the unborn children she carried inside her.
The continuing threat the hunchmen posed to Nyeg Warl’s peace, for the beast-men seemed determined to side with those bent on her destruction, had to end. So, with the griffin patrolling the skies overhead and elves and men sweeping over the mountain slopes below, the Hammer Bearer’s army relentlessly pursued the hunchmen. In time, the beast-men, who had not fallen before the pursuers' swords, were driven into the last of the hunchman strongholds fo
und in the mountains’ rocky heights, their women and children with them.
After an initial violent battle that saw too many hunchmen, humans, and elves perish, Jeaf Oakenfel mounted Shar Blood’s back and flew to Gor’Dar with the Hammer of Power held in his hand. All alone, save the griffin who carried him into the steep gorge that sat below the Verdant Mountains’ tallest peak, Jeaf confronted an angry host of hunchmen who emerged from the caves and holes that pock-marked the rocky heights.
“Way’Gar,” the Hammer Bearer shouted the name of the hunchman chieftain. “I’ve come to put an end to our fighting.”
“No doubt,” a husky voice growled from atop a nearby rock outcropping, “by killing us all with your hammer’s magic… so you think.”
Using his short, powerful legs and long, well-muscled arms to absorb the shock of his descent, Way’Gar leapt down from the rock outcropping’s steep face in three great bounds that brought him face-to-face with the dangerous trespasser and the massive griffin that stood beside him. Older than any hunchmen Jeaf had ever seen, for his mane-like head of hair was more white than grey, Way’Gar was a sight to behold. Covered with scars that showed through the hair covering his chest, left visible beneath an open leather vest and the loops of tooth-filled necklaces that hung there, the chieftain was no stranger to fighting. The stripes of red and blue paint running the length of his muzzle-like mouth signaled that that was his present intention. But he wouldn’t fight alone, not when his brethren were quickly amassing behind him with jagged-edged swords drawn and ready for battle, each with the same red and blue paint smeared down their faces.
“But that won’t get you out of here alive.” The chieftain’s upper lip lifted to show that one of his canine teeth had the top third of it broken off. “You may kill me and many of those who stand behind me, but my brothers,” dour necklaces clacked together as the chieftain’s long, well-muscled arm lifted to point to the craggy heights that surrounded them and the host of hunchmen who stood there, “will eventually get your teeth and the griffin’s too.”