by Rex Hazelton
In time, we came to a glen that was snuggled in the forest floor like a bird's nest skillfully hidden in the tall grasses growing on a plain. The moon's silvery light glistened atop breeze-driven ripples washing across a pond's surface that covered much of the glen's expanse. A humble cottage stood not far from the shoreline. The yellow light reaching out from a crack that ran beneath the dwelling's stout, wooden door bespoke of a fire that burned in a hearth sitting beneath the dwelling's stone chimney. Irregularities in the windows' closed shutters gave further avenues for the light to escape the woodland abode.
Steeping through the door that opened of its own accord, Whystime released my hand and went to face a pile of brilliantly glowing embers that filled the expected hearth. But instead of stoking the embers to flame, he lowered his head as if he was lost in thought. After a long moment, he turned and looked at me with a face that had cast off its youthful visage to become one that looked aged in the way the few human elders I've met looked, the kind of age that gave his words greater gravity.
"Do you know why I have brought you here," he asked me with a voice filled with paternal authority.
"No," I replied with a measure of timidity I was ashamed of displaying. "I haven't a clue."
Whystime smile assuaged my apprehension. "Well, I haven't brought you here to chasten you, if that's what you're worried about. Quite the opposite, you're here to make a decision in this place where choices are made, here before the witnesses that have gathered in the fireplace, these glowing colleagues of mine, Dream-Messengers all."
Starled by what he said, I quietly replied: "I'm shocked that any decision I would make could interest the Dream-Messengers so."
"You'd be surprised, Alysha. We've been watching you for quite awhile. And what we've seen has led us to give you the honor of making the decision I've informed you about. Now that the time is ripe, you have been escorted to the place where choices are made."
"What do you mean, 'the time is ripe'?"
"The Prophetess and the Hammer Bearer's wedding day is quickly approaching."
"Coming Together is always a joyful event, but what does this wedding mean to me?"
"Alysha," Whystime looked amused at my attempt to appear ignorant when he knew that I wasn't, "we've heard you speak of the Prophecy of the Mother of the Waterkynd before; we know that you've given it considerable thought; we’re aware of how much Jeaf Oakenfel intrigued you when Mystlynor first brought him to Mythoria.
"We saw you standing in the midst of the waterkynd cloud that transported Jeaf to his home on the night of the Lord of Regret's attack. We are cognizant of the profound effect the human had on you and your view of things."
"What profound effect are you referring to?"
"Touching the one destined to become the Hammer Bearer freed your from the Warl of the Waterkynd in the way a new possibility disrupts any routine. Ever since then, we've seen you look beyond all that you've previously known. The subsequently released Prophecy of the Mother of the Waterkynd proved to be the instrument that kept your new found interest alive. And now you've arrived at the moment of choice your interest has led you to."
Not ready to accept the implications of all that Whystime was speaking about, I laughed in disbelief over the direction my thoughts were taking me. "You're giving me the choice to be the waterkynd who dances before the Prophetess and the Hammer Bearer on the day they Come Together, aren't you?"
"Isn't that what you want?"
"As you've said, I’ve been intrigued by the idea. To be one of the Mother of the Waterkynd's progenitors would please me. To play a part in something that could increase the waterkynd's magic would be an honor. But such a thing is not a choice to be made; it’s a responsibility the seers will bestow on a waterkynd who will have no other option but to accept."
Nodding his head at Alysha's reply, Whystime added: "Before the night passes we’ll visit the Master Seer to inform him of your choice." The pile of embers gave off a patina of flames in response to the revelation of their approaching mission. "When he speaks to you on the morrow, if he speaks to you, his message will be one of confirmation, not one that assigns you a task."
"Why come to me? Why not come to the Master Seer first?"
"It would be easy to simply say, 'the choice is yours, not his,’ but the consequences that will occur because of the choice you make are not simple, nor are they easily endured. Be warned, your kind will not honor you for dancing before the Prophetess and the Hammer Bearer and the host of humans who attend their wedding.
"At first, they will stoically accept your actions. Later, they will try to remove the debasing episode from meaningful memory without relegating themselves to mocking something they know should not be treated so. You and your family will be put at arm's length to make certain the prophecy's words are adequately muted. But you must bear this if you wish to grace the waterkynd with the magic whose possibilities have so enraptured you.
"Be warned again: You must resist telling the others about our meeting until the fullness of time comes; and that time won't come until you reach a point of breaking. If our meeting is revealed too soon, it will be effectively disregarded with the rest of Prophecy of the Mother of the Waterkynd."
"What if this meeting is just a dream and nothing more, a fabrication of my mind that rose from the longings you say I possess?"
"That type of thinking is what the others will use when they chose to silence your voice. Not even the Master Seer's testimony will change this. That’s why you've both must keep quiet until you no longer can."
Whystime turned to look at the pile of radiant embers before he added, "What say you... will you dance?"
Unexpectedly growing dim, like they didn't want to influence my decision, the embers became as static as a painting before I answered: "I will do whatever it takes to lay hold of the magic the Prophecy of the Mother of the Waterkynd promises to give Mythoria. I choose to dance."
As soon as I made my announcement, the pile of embers exploded with a fury that swept the cottage and all that was near it away. Fortunately, the wave of wind that accompanied the eruption did not assail me personally. Only my sight was lost as the brilliant wave rushed past me. And when it returned, I found that Whystime and I were standing on a vast plain filled with tall, dew-covered grass. A verdant mountain of unimaginable proportions stood before us. A crown of billowing clouds overflowing with bursts of varied-colored light hid the mountain's peaks.
"Where are we," I asked my escort who had regained his former youthful visage.
"We are in a place that men have named the Warl of the Dead but the Dream-Messengers know as Eth'Rynyn. The mountain that stands before us is called Eth'Rynynnor, the home of the Singer and the source of all the magic you have known. The humans call it the Mountain of Song.
"Alysha, this is the womb from which the waterkynd were birthed. It is the place that the Mother of the Waterkynd will grant the waterkynd access to and what lies beyond."
Unable to see past the mountain whose expanse nearly eclipsed the horizon we were facing, I asked, "What lies beyond?"
"More than you and the warls' prophets know: realms innumerable; places with magic that exceed the paradigms the waterkynd are bound to; warls where the indescribable can happen; dimensions with power that could pose a threat to Mythoria's peace if left unchecked. Where do you think Goars come from?"
Troubled by the last part of what I was told, I continued to probe. "Can't the Singer protect us from such things?"
Smiling like he was enjoying the conversation, Whystime replied: "That's why The Singer placed Eth'Rynynnor where he did: to act as a barrier that protects your warl from being unduly exposed to the dangers that lie beyond; while at the same time giving those who are worthy to explore the wonders found there an avenue of ingress. If fate's plans are not subverted, the Mother of the Waterkynd will be numbered among the worthy."
Feeling a tug on my shoulder, I turned to see a glowing ember flitting before me like a bee hovering
over a flower it had just disembarked from a moment before it shot off into the blue sky and disappeared. Once it was gone, I lowered my head and discovered I was looking upon another mountain that was a sad replica of Eth'Rynynnor, sad in that it was so much smaller and black as burnt wood. The cloud of resplendent light that crowned the Mountain of Song was lacking, so too the bursts of varied color that unceasingly pulsed in the cloud's broad expanse.
"What is that?" A chill made frost appear on the edges of my misty form as I asked my question.
"That is Shaiym'Dor, the creation of the Evil One who rules over the darkness that assails Eth'Rynyn; the creauture who will seek to destroy the Mother of the Waterkynd once she is birthed; the Usurper who would depose the Singer and replace his music with dour compositions of its own.
"On the day that happens, if it can happen, the lights that flash atop Eth'Rynynnor would be extinguished in a cloud of engulfing darkness that would descend from the mountain top and sweep over the realms that lay beyond if it has its way. But before this can happen, the Mother of the Waterkynd must be destroyed lest she ventures into dimensions not yet explored by the Warl's inhabitants and returns with magic that will empower the waterkynd to keep this from occurring.
"So, you see, your dancing will affect more than the Warl of the Waterkynd; it will ensure that realities beyond comprehension are left to their own devices and are not subjugated to the evil that wants to consume the Warl of Man. It’s not an accident that Mythoria is found where it is. Two warls intertwined into one, though neither thinks the other matters… such foolishness."
Whystime's smile disappeared in radiant light that rose out of his skin. His form began to shrink within the increasing glow as he spoke. "Alysha, when you dance... Eth'Rynynnor will be watching."
Continuing to fold in on himself until he turned into a fiery ember that absorbed the light's expanse, Whystime flew off into the blue sky like the Dream-Messenger before him.
Transfixed by his departure, I was surprised to see Mythoria spreading out before me when I lowered my gaze to look at Eth'Rynyn's vastness. My dream had ended and I found myself laying on the pool of water where I had taken my repose earlier that night before.”
"A vivid dream indeed," Spoush said with measured tones when he realized Alysha had finished her tale. "But it's not vivid enough to make me ask the waterkynd to help your daughter, not until the seers can dissect your vision and determine what, if any, meaning it may have."
"Could it be that the breadth of my dream is too wide?" Alysha stood her ground before the skeptical Mythorian elder. "Does it bother you that it was given to one such as me and not one of the seers? And if it had been given to just one seer, would that have been enough to move you to action? Do you need more proof? If so, consider: Lylah is carrying Kaylan's child inside of her."
"That's impossible!" Spoush was aghast at what he heard. "Now I know your're lying for sure."
"A waterkynd lying?" Loryn laughed at the thought. "And what if she's not? What if the an engima has been conceived and the conception was not the metaphorical construct you expect it to be?"
Spoush's voice sounded like a flash flood was sweeping over Mythoria's cliffs as he shouted, "That's impossible!"
Chapter 11: A Broken Man
Standing on a stone that looked strangely like the one Schmar's victims had used to crush Koyer's body with at the end of the Battle of Decision, the Hammer Bearer surveyed the field of battle that surrounded him. Lighting the pitch-black night, the rhythmic pulse of illumination that an approaching storm's electrical display cast through the air presented the slaughter in staccato flashes that were more vivid than anything the sun could've revealed.
The Fane J'Shrym that surrounded Jeaf Oakenfel were the last remnant of the rebel force that had thrown their might against the Sorcerer like the sea throwing a wave against a cliff-face made of hard stone. But a single, mammoth wave was not enough to topple the insolent wall of rock. And now the only thing left of the wave was the frothing foam that broiled at the edge of the retreating sea. And if the rebels had been the sea, they could have retreated. But they weren't. Instead of falling back to regather their strength to send another wave against the obstinate wall, the Sorcerer's hordes forced the rebels into a circular mass of warriors that was constantly tightening as its outer edge was sliced away like the peel on a piece of fruit. And the Hammer Bearer and his sons stood at the dwindling circle's center.
I've failed everyone, Jeaf bemoaned his inability to summon the Hammer of Power's magic. A dozen times he had brought the talisman's silvery head down upon the blood-soaked ground with all the energy he could muster put into each blow. But each time he did, nothing happened. The hammer's silver head didn't melt and send rivulets of liquid metal to fill the grooves cut into its handle, grooves that spelled out a Name of Power in a language now forgotten by all. Neither did the liquid silver reach out past the handle, and the hand that held it, to embrace the arm of the one who wielded its might. Nor was the metal absorbed into the Hammer Bearer's flesh.
Without this happening, Vlad'War's Child was as deaf and mute and worthless as any who were caught in the throes of a stupor-like sleep. But, whereas, the Hammer of Power slumbered, the Hammer Bearer did not. Instead, wide awake, Jeaf was forced to watch Nyeg Warl's armies be annihilated by a foe they expected his hammer's magic to deal with.
Wombur the Bull King had died early on. Shortly after that Phelp the Eagle King was felled by a Thrall Giant's metal-studded club. Cretchym had carried Ahrnosyn off to meet a fate he didn't deserve. The griffin were slaughtered by Roy'Dohk's monsterous brothers. Alegramor and Ramskynd had led the Elves of Forest Deep into a trap the Malamor set for them. When the Candle Makers came to help the woodland folk, they found that the elves’ deaths was bait used to draw the benevolent wizards into the true snare that sprung upon them. Next to succumb to the evolving trap was Alynd the Elf-Man, King of Otrodor, who lead his people in a doomed charge that failed to save anyone who came near the well-devised ambush.
Bear's hulking form lay motionless just within the edge of the shrinking circle of Fane J'Shrym. It wouldn't be long before his flesh was being consumed by the cretchym that iwove their way through the black and white mass that pressed towards the Hammer Bearer.
Who would have guessed that there were so many, Jeaf shook his head in disbelief at the size of the enemy the Nyeg Warlers and rebels faced. Human-like creatures that were black as ink, swept over the bodies of the slain Nyeg Warlers like ants swarming across a field filled with dead grasshoppers. In contrast, countless numbers of bloodless warriors, who had succumbed to the Spell of the White Hand, added their milky-white color to the mix, segmenting the swarm of black creatures into arching spokes of death dealing warriors.
The memory of Tsut’waeh's screams, as the fire Laviathon had vomitted on him and the Tayn’waeh host he led burned him, was nearly lost in the multitude of horrifying cries the Fane J'Shrym were adding to his dour mental library. From what scouts had reported, the Bjork didn't fair any better against the sea serpent's conflagration than the Tayn’waeh had. The last Jeaf had heard, after Fyreed had been consumed by a ball of flame, King Leyert had lead his decimated fleet back to the Largryk Sea where Ar Warl's armada met them in pitched battle and cut them to pieces as they tried to escape from the newly formed Breach River's constraints. Bottled up as they were, the Cloak of Invisibility did little to hide them from their wary adversaries. The dismal defeat brought into question whether the seafarers could avoid being cruelly subsumed into the Sorcerer's expanding empire for a second time.
Helplessly watching his parents die as a shower of Hag magic fell on them was the worst memory of all. Rank upon rank of black-robed wizards withstood the Candle Warriors who fought valiantly in spite of the overwhelming odds that were set against them. Fighting off the wraiths and cretchym that rushed at them like lunatics bent on destruction- cretchym that looked oddly like Ab'Don had used hunchman to whip up this seething batch of mutants- an
d combating the Hag's relentless outpouring of lethal magic proved too much. In the end, after his parents determined that Jeaf could not rouse the Hammer of Power out of the coma it had fallen into, Elamor and Aryl embraced each other as they stoically accepted their fate. No longer pleading for Jeaf's help, they looked at him with emotionless eyes that disappeared beneath the wall of magic that collapsed on them.
Wrapped up in chains of brutal anguish, nothing made sense to Jeaf anymore. Hadn't his father already died? How had he come back to life? And why did the Hammer of Power feel like a dead fish in his hands?
Fire-blasted Chylgroyd's Keep, he thought. The Hag are responsible for all of this. Their Black Magic severed the tie that bound Vlad'War's Child to me. It’s taken away my courage and will to fight. All I want to do is sleep, sweet sleep that I can pull over my head like a child's blanket I can hide under. But sleep escapes me, though my mind feels heavy like slumber is already sweeping over it. How strange to feel so encpacitated and so alert at the same time. I'd swear my feet have sunken into the rock I'm standing on if that weren't impossible.
Before Jeaf had time to look down, the last of the Fane J'Shrym were cut down like a deranged gardener had feverishly hacked down a hedge he had been hired to trim. At the moment the last of the Fane J'Shrym was felled, Ar Warl's masses lowered their swords and stood at attention before they parted to let Ab'Don pass through the impossibly long corridor that appeared. On and on he came. But he wasn't alone. A woman walked beside him, one whose form Jeaf recognized. And when the two got close enough, Jeaf heard his sons trembling voices say, "Mother?"
"Muriel!" Jeaf's voice was as tremulous as his sons'. Seeing that the Sorcerer had rammed the slender, iron branch called Crooked Finger back into her chest should have enraged him, instead, it only deepened his despair.