by Rex Hazelton
“If that’s what you want… so be it.” Not flinching at the threat, Jeaf held the chieftain’s large, ghostly-gray eyes with his own amber-colored ones. With his hair held in place by a strip of leather tied about his head, the Hammer Bearer wore reddish-brown leather riding pants and a matching jerkin, for he had no need of armor since Vlad’War’s Child had graced him with its touch, making his skin harder to cut than an oak tree's bark. “Then you and I will die together," he added. "But I promise you this, after the fight is over, more of your people will journey with us to the Great Hall of Death than you can possibly imagine. When I’m done with your kind, hunchmen will be as few in number as the giants roaming the Clay Swamp and will be just as irrelevant. For I’ll not show mercy to those who have been merciless to others, unless…”
Though Way’Gar had ingested the chata beans his kind was addicted to, his great age gave the chieftain a level of tolerance for the stimulant that was well beyond his brethren. As a result, his lips didn't quiver; nor did his eyes possess the manic look the other hunchmen had. The only thing that revealed the chata he had eaten was the standing hair that ran down his head, neck, and between his powerful shoulder blades. “Unless what?” Way'Gar eyes blinked for the first time as he took the Hammer Bearer's bait.
Walking through the door the chieftain had opened, Jeaf said, “Unless you agree to the terms of surrender I have to offer.”
Shar Blood let a guttural growl escape from his clenched teeth as he heard the word that could bring the pot to a quick boil. Surrounded by a hundred chata-crazed beast-men, with hundreds more looking down from the gorge’s heights surrounding them, if a fight was going to break out, it would be now, since surrender was not a word that sat well with the hunchmen.
All went deathly silent.
Four heart beats later, a growling noise, mixed with harsh murmuring, rose up from the beast-men that stood in front of Shar Blood and Jeaf Oakenfel. Feet- some booted, some unshod allowing sharp claw-like toe nails to scrap along the barren ground- shuffled about. Jagged-edged swords were gripped with nervous excitement. Hands hanging low to the ground, spred out their clawed-tipped fingers in anticipation of what was to come. Then when the gathering momentum seemed to be unavoidably moving toward a fight, the chieftain spoke out. “What terms?” he asked with a voice loud enough for all to hear, one that held no resignation in it.
“NOOO!” A hunchman shouted as he stepped forward and raised his sword arm, threateningly. But before he had time to do anything with his weapon, Way’Gar’s jagged-edged blade flashed about in a wide arching blur that caught the protesting beast-man across the throat. As the hunchman fell to his knees, clutching his neck as he tried to stem the flow of blood that ran over his fingers, Way’Gar lowered his weapon and repeated his question.“What terms?”
The chieftain had not lived as long as he had, ten winters more than the next oldest hunchman, just because of his fighting skills and savage temperament. His cunning and shrewdness contributed equally to his longevity, the kind of pragmatic shrewdness that made the beast-men choose a nomadic way of life. Always outnumbered by humans, the hunchmen never stayed long in one place. With mayhem following them wherever they went, like an ill-tempered hound that dutifully followed its master, the beast-men couldn’t afford to let the humans descend on them to make them pay for the transgressions they were likely to commit. It was this same shrewdness that prompted Way’Gar to pose his question.
“You must give up eating chata beans, take off the strings of teeth you wear about your necks, and swear an oath of loyalty to Nyeg Warl.“ Jeaf’s right hand regripped the Hammer of Power as he spoke.
“Chata is our lifeblood!” Way’Gar growled as he shouted his reply. “You might as well take away the air we breathe.”
“It isn’t your lifeblood.” Jeaf's proclamation challenged the chieftain’s words. “You can live without it. For the spell chata casts over the hunchmen puts you at odds with your neighbors, it makes you dangerous to all that live. So say the Candle Makers.”
“Without chata,” Way’Gar tightened his hold on his blade’s handle as he spat out throaty, growling words, “we’ll die.”
“You know this to be true?” Jeaf's voice was controlled as he asked his question.
“It’s as true as the threat your hammer poses to the Bro’Noon. For I have seen what happens when my brethren are deprived of chata.” Way’Gar’s nose, sitting atop his muzzle like mouth, wrinkled in disgust as he spat out his words. “They nearly die in the throes of unspeakable pain.”
“Nearly, you say,” Jeaf spoke loud enough for all to hear, “but they don’t die.”
“Of course not,” Way’Gar eyed Jeaf suspiciously as he replied. “We give them chata before that happens. But they would die if the pain wasn’t stopped.”
“I disagree,” Jeaf said in a matter-of-fact way.
“But some have died.”
“Only those that took their lives to end the pain," Jeaf pressed the point. "And from what I’ve been told, all who lose hope of finding chata do so.”
“Of course they end their lives with their own hand,” Way’Gar’s coarse hair rose higher on his neck as his anger was getting the best of him. “They have no choice but to do so, for the pain is too great. If you weren’t an ignorant human, you would know this.”
“And what if the pain wasn’t too great? What you say if I told you, the pain would eventually end if enough time passed.”
Laughing over the foolishness he was hearing, the chieftain snorted through his nose before saying, “How can that be?”
“The Candle Makers can lessen the suffering the lack of chata beans brings with it. They can help your people escape its clutches, to get past the pain, and become who you once were before chata’s spell was cast over your kind.”
“But chata makes us strong.”
“Chata fills you with rage. It takes away your ability to reason, driving you to extremes that make people rightly fear you.”
“We want to be feared.”
“Why,” Jeaf looked about himself as he spoke, “so your children will be hunted down like they’re a pack of rabid dogs? Can’t you see that’s what’s happening now? That’s why the griffin fill the skies overhead and why an army of elves and men are sweeping over the Verdant Mountains determined to break the Bro’Noon’s power forever. Chata's affects makes you susceptible to evil's persuasion. Lose your addiction to the beans or lose your lives.
"And who is forcing this choice on you? Who has the strength to do such a thing? Those who don’t eat chata? Those who have become a great people without the fire-blasted bean's help? Those you think are inferior because their bodies can't tolerate chata?”
Pausing for affect, Jeaf finally made the offer he had come to make. “Give up your drug, join us, and become more than you’ve ever been before, far more than chata has allowed you to become."
The Hammer of Power infused Jeaf’s speech like it did his body in times of battle, enabling his words to break through the cloud of agitation the chata beans cast over Way’Gar and touch his savage mind, bestowing a measure of reason as they did. Still, in hunchman fashion, the cheiftain needed to know the path he was asked to take led to a profitable end. So, he challenged the Hammer Bearer to prove his point before he would accept the terms of surrender Jeaf offered him. And before the next full moon had risen, a handful of Candle Makers were camped out in Gor’Dar nursing three hunchmen through the pains of withdrawal.
For fifteen days the benevolent wizards kept watch over their erstwhile enemies as they herded the beast-men back to health, soothing them with the magic that dwelt in their candles’ gently flickering flames, calming the hunchmen's fears with words seasoned with wisdom. And in the end, the pain subsided and a new day dawned for the Bro’Noon, a day that saw a host of Candle Makers bring their healing magic to the hunchmen stronghold to free the beast-men from their age-long addiction. That’s why the stranger in the wide-brimmed hat and the hunchman were together
this night, and why the beast-man was advocating for reason while the human fixated on the one he had hunted down.
One of the stipulations of the Gor’Dar Treaty- named for the steep gorge where Jeaf Oakenfel confronted Way’Gar- stated that an exchange of cultures would take place where youths from both the human and hunchman communities were sent to live with those who were once their enemies. This was done to foster understanding. The cynical referred to this practice as an exchange of hostages. But Jeaf was not one of these. When his second son reached his twelfth summer of life, he was sent to live with Way’Gar’s son, Loda’Gar. That’s how the two in the cave met each other, for the hunchman’s father was Loda’Gar. From the day Travyn Oakenfel and Ilya’Gar met, if you don’t count a handful of scuffles and one all out fight, the two had been best friends. In time, they became as close as brothers.
Though the relationship between the humans and the Bro’Noon had become tolerable and, at times, even amicable since the day the Treaty of Gor’Dar was instituted, few men numbered the hunchmen among their friends and none, save Travyn, considered one to be a brother. Even without chata to stir them up, the Bro’Noon were quick to anger.
Still most hunchmen had settled into conventional ways of making a living: some were now fur traders; others herdsmen; many had signed on to cut down timber for the logging enterprises found in Verdant Deep; an equal number chose to enlist as soldiers in one or another of the king’s armies; more than a few had become swords for hire who kept guard over the merchant caravans that wound their way through Nyeg Warl; some tried their hand at farming; and a score of promising Bro’Noon had been invited to study at the School of the Candle where they found a place among the Candle Makers if their fledgling gifts could be coaxed into maturity.
Nevertheless, with all of the contact the hunchmen were having with humans, the beast-men were still feared and rightly so. To offend a hunchmen usually led to bodily harm. To cheat one could lead to an untimely death. With the Candle Makers given the responsibility of judging disputes between the Bro’Noon and humans, the hunchmen could defend themselves if wronged without fear of formal reprisal.
None of this fazed Travyn in the least, not the threat of violence that always accompanied the hunchmen, nor the inherent danger that came with their volatile nature. In fact, Travyn flourished while living with the beast-men since his temperament wasn’t significantly different from their own. In fact, many in Nyeg Warl were bothered by how easily Travyn fit in with the Bro-Noon, even those that thought highly of Jeaf and Muriel Oakenfel.
“There’s something not right about that boy,” they would say. “He’s not like his folks or his brothers," they added. "And did you see the fire in his eyes? It’s a fire that bodes no good, I tell you.”
Some would go as far as to say, “It’s because Ab’Don did something horrible to the Prophetess in the Temple of the Oak Tree, to her and the babies she carried in her belly.”
“The Prophetess seems fine to me,” others would reply. “More than fine, I would say. And Kaylan seems to be a good young man, though he's a bit stand-offish.” Kaylan was Travyn's fraternal twin and one of the two children Muriel gave birth to during that stormy night on top of the Eyrie of the Eagle so long ago.
“Well that may be,” was the usual response that followed this particular remark. “But just because the fox is chased from the hen house doesn’t mean it didn’t kill a chicken or two on its way out.” Meaning, that just because Muriel seemed to be unscathed by her encounter with the dangerous Sorcerer, didn’t prove Travyn was all right.
“But the Prophetess and the Hammer Bearer have powerful magic of their own,” those who wished to defend Travyn would say, “strong enough to dispel anything Ab’Don might try to do to them and their’s.”
“Is that what you think?” Those who were critical of Travyn would say. “Then why did the Warl’s Magic have to create the Breach Sea? To keep Nyeg Warl safe from Ab'Don, I say, from him and his dark sorcery because it’s more powerful than all of the Candle Makers put together, even if you add the Prophetess and Hammer Bearer to the mix.”
So the argument would go until people tired of it and went back to their chores if it was daytime, or back to their cups if it was night, each carrying nagging doubts about Jeaf and Muriel’s son in the back of their mind as they did. Adding fuel to the regrettable debate, it had become public knowledge that Travyn had asked to live with the hunchmen. After all, he wasn’t Jeaf Oakenfel’s oldest son. He was the second born, though only by the slimmest of margins. And the Treaty of Gor’Dar stipulated that the Hammer Bearer’s eldest son was to be sent to live with the Bro’Noon, not the second born.
Why would the boy want this? People wondered. What would make a human choose to do such a thing?
As it so happened, Travyn had become intrigued with the snarling beast-men when he accompanied his father on his trips to see Way’Gar as he made his rounds of the Bro’Noon villages. He was pleased that none of the hunchmen looked at him with the same suspicion that the humans did. Travyn also liked the Bro’Noon way of dealing with things where an eye was taken for an eye and a tooth for a tooth without a court of law or the judgement of king or nobleman being required to receive pemission to do so. As a point of fact, that was why Travyn had come to The Cut. A wrong had been done, and in good Bro’Noon fashion, he was going to settle a score.
Even though having to deal with the misgivings that some had about him, being the son of the Prophetess and the Hammer Bearer still came with benefits. Access to Nyeg Warl’s finest circles was one of these. Every door- be it a nobleman’s, a merchant’s, or magistrate’s- was open to him. Both the School of the Sword and Song and the School of the Candle welcomed him. The griffin and elves accepted him as family. Similarly, the Bro’Noon extended him every courtesy, at least those things hunchmen thought were courtesies. Even the Cragmor Giants, who were nearly as contrary as the beast-men in nature, allowed him safe passage through their savage realm whenever he wanted it.
The Prophetess’ sons, four in all, were famous well before they took their first step or spoke their fist word. But their notoriety didn’t come from their parentage alone. The prophecies that accompanied their births were responsible for much of this. They were called the Sons of the Storm, the Four Winds that were destined to topple kingdoms and rebuild the warl. Those with the Gift of Foresight believed they and their parents were the keys that could open the door of victory to Nyeg Warl in the approaching war with Ar Warl; a war that would begin when the two continents inevitably came back together and the Breach Sea was no longer.
Such expectations, and the special treatment that came along with them, could have spoiled the boys by over inflating their egos. After all, history records how many a prince and princess were ruined by the degree of expectation and privilege that was given to them. It was easy for those who were born with such large silver spoons in their mouths to think they were not subject to the same rules as others, that they were above the laws that made civilization possible, that the blood that flowed in their veins was a different color from the commoners, blue instead of red as some mistakenly thought.
Though this could have happened to their sons, Jeaf and Muriel were determined to make certain it never did. Refusing offers of land and wealth as payment for saving Nyeg Warl from Koyer, the Lord of the Isle of Regret and Ab’Don’s general, at the Battle of Decision, the Prophetess and Hammer Bearer had chosen to live a simple life: first, as students at the School of the Sword and the Song, and later as teachers who taught there. Though they moved freely throughout Nyeg Warl, enjoying the friendship the various realms offered them, and keeping in touch with those they were destined to join in fighting the Sorcerer who ruled over Ar Warl, teaching took up the lion share of their time. The only property they owned was the place where Muriel’s childhood home had once stood and the surrounding forest.
In the days following the Battle of Decision, a grateful Nyeg Warl helped restore Muriel's childhood home the
river children had burned to the ground the day they abducted her so long ago. In fact, at Muriel’s request, they built a compound where those who spent time as prisoners in the Cave of Forgetfulness could live if they so chose. In time, a village grew up around the compound that was located near the Wyne River, in a place that was midway between the Thangmor Mountains, where the waters originated, and the great city of Wyneskynd. In honor of Muriel’s valiant mother, the village was named Mara.
If Jeaf and Muriel were going to live a simple life, so would their sons. Not allowing their boys to exploit the fame their birth gave them, the brothers were made to learn the value of a hard day’s work, to show deference to their elders, and respect to others. In the end, the only difference between them and other young men who did choirs on farms, in fields, and or in family businesses was the scope of the work they were made to do. Trained as blacksmiths to honor their grandfather, Aryl Oakenfel, they were also given instruction in letters, in the art of fighting, and in the use of magic. All were things they took to, easily. They were also required to serve apprenticeships in various kingdoms: Ay'Roan in Thundyrkynd where the indomitable Bjork resided; Kaylan in Mystlkynd the home of the Elves of Forest Deep; J'Aryl in Ranah a Tayn’waeh village where Tsut’waeh was now chief, and Travyn whose training was entrusted to Loda’Gar, son of Way'Gar the Bro’Noon chieftain.
As a part of the apprenticeship, Loda’Gar thought it wise to send Travyn and his son, Ilya'Gar, to attend the School of the Candle where they would receive training in the use of the candle’s magic and so Ilya'Gar could get to know Travyn’s parents. Though they spent most of their time receiving instruction at the venerable school that was esconced in the Eyrie of the Eagle, the two friends found time to visit Eagle’s Vale, the city that spread out from the base of the massive spire of stone the Eyrie was built on.