by Rex Hazelton
At that precise moment, the fawn caught the lion's scent. Trembling, her ancient instincts, inherited from a thousand prior generations struggling for survival, made her aware of what was about to take place.
Dropping deeper into its crouch, the cat was just about to launch itself forward when a sharp sound of steel-striking-against-steel filled the air. Cling! Clang! Cling!
Startled, the mountain lion pushed back on its haunches. Confused and nervous, it lifted its head high trying to pick up a scent that could tell it what had made the noise.
Again, the sound repeated itself, shattering the silence enveloping the surrounding forest. This time, one clanging sound followed another, stringing together a necklace of sharp noise that terrified the big cat.
Having endured enough, the puzzled mountain lion wheeled about and leapt off into the undergrowth, moving away from the threatening clamor
No longer a target, the fawn sprang off in the opposite direction, angling away from the sound that had chased the big cat away.
“Jeaf,” a husky voice bellowed. “Stay low son! Keep your center of gravity.”
The voice came out from the woods on the other side of the brook, not far from where the fawn had almost met its demise. There, a father was instructing his son in the art of swordsmanship. Heavily muscled, dressed in brown leather boots and pants, with a rose-colored shirt covering his thick upper body, the man's shoulder length hair was disheveled by the contest he was engaged in.
This was Aryl Oakenfel. The one he sparred with was his son, Jeaf. Strands of white hair, competing for space in his chestnut-colored beard, gave the only indication of Aryl's true age. Forty summers old, he still felt like he was in the midst of his prime, and today he was determined to prove it to his son.
Aryl was a blacksmith by trade. Yet, he was no ordinary one, he was known as Nyeg Warl's Master Swordsmith. He was the one who had forged the Eagle King's legendary sword, Talon. Razor-sharp, the king used its blade to cut off the head of Bulgar, champion of the giants who live in the Cragmar Mountains
Also recognized as an artisan who fashioned metals into prized works of art, at times, Aryl's reputation as a sculptor overshadowed his ability to fashion weaponry. Though he loved things beautiful- his taking the lovely Elamor to be his bride was proof of this- he, nevertheless, was a warrior to the core of his being he would not rest until his son was one too. He knew this was necessary if they were to survive the shadow of doubt sweeping over the warl.
With this thought in mind, Aryl arched his sword towards his son. It fell in a silvery blur. Just as quickly, Jeaf's own sword flashed up to meet the swift blade and the sound of steel echoed, once more, through the surrounding forest.
Smiling, Jeaf knew that his strong young legs had been properly set to absorb the blow.
“Ha! I see my cub is proud of himself,” the elder Oakenfel snorted out. “Let's see what you can do with this!”
Like a wasp attacking an intruder, Ayrl's sword went to work. Time-and-again it lashed out. But Jeaf's blade was there to turn back each assault.
Standing in the doorway of a cottage, resting at the edge of the yard where the two men fought, Elamor, the Candle Maker, watched the two men fight. To her, the struggle looked like a carefully choreographed dance, one that twirled about at a dizzying pace.
How Jeaf has grown. Elamor's heart swelled with pride as she watched her son keep step with her husband, a feat she knew few could hope to accomplish.
Could he be the one? The Candle Maker asked herself the question that occupied her thoughts ever since her dream. It came the night before Jeaf's birth. In it, she saw herself holding her son in one arm and a blacksmith's hammer in the other. A name of power, inlaid in star's blood, was etched on the handle, a name written in the ancient language of the Fane J'Shrym.
Could he be the one? Could he be the Hammer Bearer? Her thoughts searched her heart, tapping into her Powers of Intuition.
Shaking herself out of her reverie, Elamor remembered why she had stepped to the door. Calling out with a voice as clear as a woodwind, she said, “Get cleaned up, lunch will be ready soon.”
Hearing her welcome call, the two men fell into each other's arms, laughing and exhausted.
“Father, I love you!” Pulling on Aryl's beard, Jeaf's eyes glowed with admiration.
“I love you too, Jeaf.” Still laughing, the elder Oakenfel mussed up his son's hair. “But I won't love you so much, if you keep making me feel so old. You know you need to humor your teacher and let him win once in a while.”
Exhausted by their fight, Aryl bent over and placed his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Lifting his head, he watched his son casually walking towards the water trough. He's breathing so easily, he thought to himself. He's fast and strong and has his mother's wits... If he's not the one, then he'll still be a warrior that Koyer- burn him to ashes- will fear.
Spitting on the ground in disgust over having that bitter name enter his mind, Aryl stepped over to the trough where his son was shaking water from his shoulder length hair.
Though nearly as tall as his father, Jeaf was thinner; yet, if he had been older, the two could have passed for twins. “Come on! Let's see who can hold their breath the longest.”
Laughing as only free men know how, Aryl took the challenge. “One! Two! Three!” he shouted before plunging his head into the water trough in what he already knew was a lost cause. Then standing upright, while Jeaf's head remained immersed, he chuckled over the little trick he was about to play on his son. Grabbing Jeaf's legs, he threw his hapless son's entire body into the drink.
Sputtering in protest, the younger Oakenfel cried out his objection as he pulled himself out of the trough. “That's not fair!”
“Remember son,” Aryl replied. “Old age and guile will always beat youthful zeal.” Smiling as he repeated the proverb to himself, Aryl threw his son a cloth to use as a towel.
“Father,” Jeaf spoke while pouring water out of his boots, “I'm going up on the roof to dry out before lunch.”
Having said this, the younger Oakenfel strode around the house.
Climbing the hill, the cottage had been built into, he sat down on the grassy loam covering the roof and studied the vast forest surrounding him. The breathtaking Thangmor Mountains, rising majestically to the north, was the most notable feature to be seen. Though it was now midsummer, snow still covered the higher peaks. Looking down, he saw his father disappearing under the roof's eaves. The sound of the heavy front door being opened elicited a picture of the thick oak beams used to build the house. Peering to his left, Jeaf saw the ground run downhill toward where the Roam River's pristine waters flowed in a southeasterly direction until they joined the Eyrie River that plunged straight south until it poured out into the distant Largryk Sea.
The sound of the slow-moving water, filtering through the mixed oak and pine forest, stirred up fond memories in the young man's mind. Smiling, he recalled the time his father swung out over the river, holding onto a rope tied high up on a tree, trying to do a flip. But instead of impressing his son with his athleticism, Aryl spun out of control and hit the water like a rag doll tossed by a child. When he finally pulled himself ashore, his entire back was red from the force of the impact.
Shaking his head in amusement, Jeaf savored the memory of the humbled look crossing his father's face as he said, “And that's how you're NOT supposed to do it!”
Laying back, with his hands folded beneath his head, he watched tiny cream puff clouds floating overhead as the afternoon sun gently caressed him, enticingly, making him groggy, pulling him towards sleep's comforting arms. Yawning, Jeaf thought the clouds looked like a herd of sheep scattered across the sky. In time, he nodded off. But instead of dreaming about sheep, he found himself standing clad in shining silver armor; a golden cape was thrown about his shoulders; a ruby crown lay in his left hand; and a great flashing sword was in his right. Compelled, by what he didn't know, Jeaf found himself turning to his left. T
here, a dirt hill rose before him, one devoid of vegetation. Openings of varying sizes gaped out from the hillside, looking like scores of insect holes burrowed into a piece of rotten fruit that had fallen to the ground, and like rotten fruit, the holes emitted a foul stench.
While trying to make sense out of all that was transpiring, the sound of parchment being unfurled wafted through the air. “Are you willing?” The question seemed to resonate out of the very ground the young Woodswane stood upon, reverberating into the sky like thunder following lightning.
Looking about to see who was talking, Jeaf couldn't find the source of the mysterious voice that felt surprisingly familiar to him, as familiar, one might say, as the warl he lived in. After searching his mind for a reason why this was so, a sense of awe began to sweep over him as he thought, Could it be?
Again, the voice, whose irresistible magic demanded a reply, spoke. “Are you willing?”
Willing for what, his mind puzzled. In time, the stench coming out of the holes wafted into Jeaf's nostrils in greater force, triggering his Powers of Intuition. Inexplicably, he knew this colony of black pits was the subject of the voice's inquiry, and as he turned to face them, the question's ramifications were revealed when, unexpectedly, the hill became transparent, enabling him to see the disturbing creatures inhabiting the dark cavities. Hideous, disgusting, mucousy things, they possessed tentacles like some creatures living in the sea have. Mottled, dark green, blue and gray flesh covered their exteriors, oozing a sticky liquid that was the source of the odious smell.
What are those fire-blasted things? Jeaf, who sensed his thoughts were being orchestrated by an invisible conductor, instinctively knew the voice was asking if he was willing to go inside the putrid holes and evict the loathsome beasts living there. Realizing the horrible stink would get all over him if he did this, gnawing fear this could leave a residue of stench that would forever linger began to take hold of him, causing him to gag. Yet, somehow, he knew if these creatures were left undisturbed, they would multiply and infest every square inch of the hill. And this he would not tolerate. For as strange as it would seem, he deemed this simple dirt hill to be as valuable as life itself.
Crackling with electricity, the question was repeated for a third time. “Are you willing?”
This time Jeaf was surprised to hear a voice, radiating more from his beating heart than from his open mouth, reply. “I am willing!” And having said this, he marched up to the nearest hole and reached in to pull out its tenant. Soon, a stinking thing lay pulsating in his hand until he threw it to the ground and mercilessly ran it through with his flashing sword. Then for good measure, he crushed the creature beneath his boot heel.
Repeating this action over-and-again, the young Woodswane was moved by a fervor he hadn't felt before. Like a blood thirsty wolf plows through a flock of sheep, slaughtering more for the joy of the kill than to satiate its hunger, the young man moved from hole-to-hole destroying the foul creatures as he went, without regret or hesitation.
The openings varied in size: many were small like the first one; others were much bigger. At times, Jeaf put his entire upper body into the larger holes so he could use both hands to grasp hold of the creature living there. But whether the openings were large or small, each held a throbbing mass of tentacle thrashing putrescence.
Finally, after laboring long and hard, all the cavities in the hill were purged and the occupants were dispatched by either boot or blade, except for one extremely large stinking hole Jeaf knew he had to bodily enter to reach the resident beast.
Gulping air so he wouldn't have to breathe the concentration of foul vapors compressed within, he entered the creature's den. Some ten paces inside the opening, he found the massive thing gurgling and burping out more gas. Larger than himself, it had one huge, jaundiced eye that warily watched his approach. Without delay, Jeaf latched hold of the creature's repulsive mucous-covered hide. Then gritting his teeth so hard together he thought they might crack, he braced his feet and pulled with all his might.
In reply, the thing let out a loud mournful groan that was anointed with the magic of sorrow; sorrow that began to break the young man's resolve; sorrow the creature felt over the threat of losing its ancient home; a home it had entered centuries before. Then it was a small thing, snail-sized and harmless enough. But as generations passed by, and time with them, it grew. Feeding on the rich soil it had burrowed into, it came to believe it owned the hill it lived in and the womb from which the hill had come.
Why am I doing this? The incessant moaning swept over Jeaf, filling him with the kind of pity one feels when they put an old pet to sleep. It's been living here for so long, wouldn't it be wrong to remove it from its home?
But before the enchantment had enough time to entice Jeaf to loosen his grip, the thing cast a python thick arm about his neck and began choking him. Once it attacked, the Spell of Sorrow and Remorse was discarded, muscle would now continue what magic had begun.
This is not a thing to be pitied! Young Oakenfel pressed his chin into the constricting tentacle, trying to pin it against his chest, away from his neck. It's the mold that must be cut from the bread, the infection that must be washed out of the wound.
Infuriated by the spell the creature had cast over him, Jeaf savagely yanked the monster backward. Though the bulbous body slid forward, he knew the tentacles had not yet lost their grip on the den's walls. So, setting himself again, he pulled as hard as he was able, hoping he could drag the creature out before he would need to breath the acrid air and before the loathsome thing had time to throttle his ability to do so.
At last, he felt the tentacles lose their hold, the hole echoing with the sticky sound of suction cups breaking their grip.
Once again, the beast groaned out its complaint. But it was to no avail, for the determined young man pulled the creature, as heavy as a water-soaked mattress and just as unwieldy, backwards along the floor. Slowly, relentlessly he moved. But try as he might, Jeaf couldn't extract the slimy monster quickly enough.
Not being able to hold his breath any longer, he reluctantly gulped in what air the python-like arm allowed him to. Instantly, his lungs felt as if they had been set on fire. The brain numbing stench flooding his nostrils made him wonder if he would ever be the same again. So horrific was the odor, the young Woodswane feared the stink would damage his sense of smell forever, damage it to the point he would never be able to enjoy the fragrance of a flower again, the smell of good soil, or the inviting aroma of his mother's freshly-baked bread.
Ah, freshly-baked bread. Eyes blinked slowly as a desire for deeper sleep began to caress his mind, urging Jeaf to escape the harsh reality he struggled with. The ghastly air was not only strong, its pungency was anesthetizing, causing him to lose focus, to forget that his life was in jeopardy.
Slowly, at first, then picking up momentum, the tunnel began to rock from side-to-side and then back-and-forth. Before long, all was tumbling and swirling about.
Stumbling to one knee, Jeaf felt himself losing consciousness. But before he did, another tentacle reached out and wrapped itself around his ankle. As before, the monster had overplayed its hand. If it had waited but a moment longer, Jeaf would've succumbed to the horrible gases. But sensing victory was at hand, the thing acted foolishly.
To its chagrin, its ill-timed movements had the affect of slapping Jeaf out of his stupor.
Sluggishly, the young Woodswane struggled to his feet and set himself for one last tug he hoped would bring an end to his ordeal and save not only his sense of smell but his life as well.
Jeaf bowed his back and pulled. But before the outcome of the battle could be determined, the sound of a scroll being rolled up wafted through the air outside the huge hole, followed by what sounded like a door closing, and in the instant it shut, Jeaf found he had awakened from his dream.
Sitting up, he shook his head and inhaled a great gulp of air. To his utter astonishment he could smell the fresh aroma of cooking stew, mingled with the sce
nt of the green forest enveloping the Oakenfel's woodland home. Stunned by his experience, and rubbing a strangely sore neck, Jeaf climbed to his feet and made his way off the sod-covered roof, down the hillside his home was built into, and around the corner to the door. Lost in his thoughts, pondering what this dream might mean, he entered his home and took a seat beside his father.
Sensing something was askew, Elamor turned from the pot she was stirring and came to face her son. Gently placing a hand on his shoulder, she asked, “Are you all right?”
Until that moment, Jeaf was unaware that he had been staring blankly off into space.
Rapidly blinking his eyes as he turned his attention away from the dream and onto his mother, he quietly replied, “I'm fine.” Elamor's continuing touch told him she was listening to more than the words he said, she was also drawing on his ruminations, tapping into his emotions. No! Mother, please don't! Jeaf's mind protested the intrusion.
Respecting her son's wishes as was her way, Elamor slipped a question into Jeaf's thoughts before letting her magic wane. Why won't you tell me what's wrong with you? After studying the signs showing on Jeaf's face and digesting those things her magic could discern, she exclaimed out loud, “You look like someone hit your head with a shovel.”
Lifting her hand from off her son's shoulder and taking his wooden bowl, Elamor went over to the steaming cauldron hanging in the fireplace and filled it with stew. After returning to the table, she changed her approach. “Is there anything you want to tell me,” she calmy asked.
Looking up into the dark brown eyes, perfectly set in his mother's face, Jeaf recalled his father's story of how he had been smitten by her beauty when they first met on the streets of Eagle's Vale.