by Rex Hazelton
“No. I found them in Ar Warl.”
“In Ar Warl! By the Fires of Darkness, why would you go there?”
“Andara bid me to do so.”
“Who is Andara?”
The mere mention of this name made Bacchanor's eyes take on raptor-like hues; his eyebrows became feathery. “So, that explains it! They're the Tears of Andara!” The robust wizard spoke excitedly. “I thought the tears were just a part of the myth that surrounds the Healing Wizard's death.”
“No! It's not a myth.” Alynd, brushing the snow out of his blond locks, folded his hands on his lap.
Through long hours of sitting at his mentor's feet, Jeaf knew that the Elf-Man was readying himself to say something important.
“Let me tell you a story only the elves of Mystlkynd know. When I was still young, a man came to me in my dreams. He said he was Andara and that he needed my help.” Alynd went on to explain his extraordinary experience.
“Elf-Man,” Andara's voice was rich and intoxicating, “I've been waiting for your arrival.”
“But Sir, aren't you dead?”
“Yes, I passed away over five-hundred winters ago.” Having to make this admission seemed to trouble the wizard, but it didn't detour him from his purpose. “Yet, my magic still lives on, and as long as it does, so will a part of me. That's why I have come to you. You must reclaim its power.”
“How do I do that?”
Andara's ornately-designed robe followed his elegantly long arm as it swept outward. Fingers, gentle as a physician's, pointed to an old, ruined city that had a massive spire of black stone rising at its center called Dragon's Tooth. Looking like it had been burned with fire, it stood in the middle of a swamp. A sense of foreboding filled the heavy air laying upon the ruins. “You must find this place, retrieve my magic, and return it to the warl. It rests in Lorn Fast Swamp, an abode of much evil. Wraiths, once men who lived in a dark age, now long gone, dwell there. They, and the fraethym that haunt this place, are its guardians. Though, these spirits move freely among the moss-shrouded trees growing in Lorn Fast Swamp, they are ever mindful of Cara Lorn, which is the ancient, abandoned city you now see and the place that imprisons my power. But you must realize that what I'm asking you to do is dangerous. It may even cost you your life.”
“Sir, how did you lose your power?”
“I lost my power, when I lost my life.” With a sudden movement, the wizard lifted his long arms and the scene changed. The city's desolation was less pronounced like it was many winters earlier and Andara was seen stumbling through the streets, alone and undone. Weeping aloud, he swatted his arms about like he was trying to chase away a swarm of invisible bees. After falling to the ground, a golden tear appeared in the corner of one of the wizard's forlorn eyes before it slid down his check and dropped into the dirt. There it lay, emitting an amber light that slowly faded as the Andara gathered himself, stood back up and, like one who was blind, moved on with one of his hands pressed against a nearby wall.
“Elf-Man!” The former scene returned as Andara's long fingers swept before Alynd's face. “Did you see what lay in the dirt?”
“Yes! It was a golden tear.”
“Indeed! In that tear is the distillation of all my power, as well as in others that I shed during the days of my torment. These are the repositories of my magic. You must find them and use their power to undo the evil that scars the warl.”
“Alynd!” Jeaf interrupted the telling of the story. “What torment is Andara talking about?”
With eyes glistening like blue crystals, Jeaf's mentor replied by reaching out his hand and touching the young Woodswane's forehead. Once touched, searing pain shot through Jeaf's brain like a red-hot iron had been rammed through his skull. Before the pain had time to subside, one horrible scene after the other flashed through his brain: dark armies were seen plundering and pillaging; thousands, with hands tied behind their backs, were executed with the edge of an ax; women were raped; screaming children were taken from their families. When the scorching pain finally passed, so did the vision.
“What was that?” Jeaf spoke as he rubbed the spot on his forehead where Alynd had placed his hand.
“That's Andara's torment.”
Moved by all he had heard, Bacchanor's finger tips became feathery fine as he spoke. “What I once thought was a myth, seems now to be true!” Excited by this conclusion, the shapeshifter added, “Andara was one of the greatest wizards to live before the Battle of the Breach. Gathering more knowledge about Healing Magic than anyone before him, he used his exceptional powers only to heal and help, never to kill and destroy. That is, until Ab'Don came along. When he, who is now called the Lord of Ar Warl, opened his mouth to consume the first of the kingdoms he would conquer, Andara exerted his magic to stop him. Realizing the wizard had become his most formidable foe, Ab'Don changed tactics and feigned repentance. He called for a truce, one that the two men would consummate on neutral ground, in the Cara Lorn's ruins.
“Blinded by his own good will, Andara consented to meet the young ruler in hopes that he could convince him that it was too dangerous to deal with the Nameless Evil that is imprisoned at the roots of the warl.”
Though Cara Lorn sat at the center of the Lorn Fast Swamp where the insidious Lorn Wraiths dwelt, his desire to heal and help drove him to take the risk, knowing that if he were to succeed in changing Ab'Don's mind, he would be averting untold suffering.”
So, the great wizard, not heeding the warning in his soul, walked into a trap. He met with the young Sorcerer and was immediately besieged by a confederacy of forces: an army of wraiths came flooding in, the Dark One sent out his fraethym, and the Order of the Hag arrived to reinforce Ab'Don's magic. Try as they might to kill the great wizard, Andara's power prevailed against their assassination attempt. Yet, standing on foul ground, the wizard's magic was unable to do what it had done many times before, to draw strength from the life force that is found in clean soil and good strong rock. Eventually, the battle ended in a stalemate, one where, though still alive, the great wizard found himself imprisoned in the city's ruins.
“Unable to defeat his foe, Ab'Don settled on tormenting Andara with visions of his atrocities that nearly drove the great wizard mad by reason of a broken heart. Doomed to watch that which he could not stop, pressed by the weight of boundless suffering, Andara's Magic was wrung out into his tears, and once he was emptied of his power, he died.
“The ancients said that if one had the courage to brave the treachery of the Lorn Fast Swamp and face the foul creatures that live there, they might find Andara's tears laying among Cara Lorn's crumbling environs. Then, if they were wise enough, they could unlock a portion of the great wizard's Healing Magic.”
Leaning closer to the fire Fyreed had kindled, Jeaf quizzed his mentor. “Is this so?”
“It is as Bacchanor has said.”
“Then the weeping voice we heard was Andara's?”
“Yes! What you heard was the echo of the cries he uttered in the days of his torment.”
“I dare say, cries that still echo in my brain.” Jeaf was referring to the pain that Alynd's touch had brought him.
Acknowledging what the young Woodswane said with a look that one gives to another who shares an experience or a secret, he added, “Filled with the boldness that accompanies youth, I planned on going to Ar Warl. But I did not attempt the quest before I sought counsel in Mystlkynd. There, they encouraged me to heed my dream.” Alynd went on to share those things that the elves had said.
“Mystlnor, didn't Andara say that he'd been waiting for you?”
“Yes,” the Elf-Man replied. “But what can this mean?”
“He knows that you are a bridge, one whose life will reconcile elf to man. More than that, he knows you are destined to help heal the Breach and rejoin the Nyeg to the Ar.”
“Destined to help, you say? He also said that I might die in the trying.”
“Of course. Destiny is only a map that shows the way. It does
n't guarantee success. But neither does it leave us depending solely on our own devices. It will bring help, often times in the most peculiar ways.”
Unfolding his hands for a moment, Alynd continued. “Understanding the gravity of all that I had heard, I sought out Shom Blood, Grour Blood's ancestor. It was he who deposited me on Sky Master's heights. From there I journeyed alone, reaching the outskirts of the Lorn Fast Swamp after laboring to avoid both village and home.
“Passing into the darkness filling the ancient place, I battled the slograp that swim in the rancid waters of the Lorn Fast Swamp and braved the flesh-eating vines that grow there. Having survived this ordeal, I came upon the ruins of Cara Lorn, a place filled with sorrow unimaginable.
“Attacked by fraethym who had heeded the wraiths call for help, my soul was filled with Andara's torment, and like him, I thought I would die of despair. Then in my darkest hour, I fell to the ground, thinking I would never rise again. To my surprise, the dirt, beneath may hand, began to glow and I quickly dug up the first of the tears that I would find. Strengthened by its magic, I was able to endure the horrible visions long enough to retrieve six more of its kind.
“Fearing my mind might become permanently stained by the bombardment of filth and slaughter forced into my thoughts and not wanting to give time for others to come and help the wraiths imprison me, I finally fled. All the while, the tormenting fraethym hounded me, that is, until I reached Sky Master's heights. Once there, driven to the brink of insanity, I mistook Shom Blood for an enemy and attacked him. The powerful griffin warded off my confused assault until he used one of his huge paws to knock me unconscious. When I awoke, I found that I was, once again, in Mystlkynd where my elf-brethren told me that Shom Blood had showed up carrying me like a griffin cub clutched between his powerful jaws.”
Taxed by the telling of his tale, not wishing to entertain the subject any longer, Alynd abruptly shifted topics. “Ab'Don has acquired powers that he formerly didn't possess,” the Elf-Man explained. “He has somehow conjured up this evil storm and cast it upon Nyeg Warl in an effort to prevent the kings and chieftains from facing the assault that will surely come in the spring as a united front, an assault that, if the kings remain unprepared, will tear up the roots of every kingdom and tribe as easily as the avalanche toppled the trees that lay behind us.”
With his Powers of Intuition telling him that Alynd had not told all that there was to tell about Andara's tears, Jeaf studied his mentor's face while trying to decide whether he should try to read the Elf-Man's thoughts. But before he could act, Alynd's mind touched his own. You are right! There is more to tell. But it will not matter whether you hear it or not, if we do not win the war Koyer will wage this coming spring.Sweeping up his hat and placing it upon his head, a glint of blue flashed out from the shadow cast by its broad brim, as he added, I promise you, if we survive, I will tell you all!
“Is the storm everywhere then?” Tsut'waeh asked unaware of what had transpired between the Elf-Man and the Woodswane.
“Yes!” Bacchanor replied. “When I left you and the others back on the trail, I battled strong winds and blinding snow until I reached Vestylkynd glad that I had not lost my life in the effort. Once I told Ahrnosyn and Alynd all that had happened, Grour Blood, the great griffin that warned us of Laviathon's approach to Thundyrkynd and I set off into the dark storm to ascertain the parameters of its reach. When we returned to Vestylkynd, we concluded that much, if not all, of Nyeg Warl had fallen under its spell.”
“Ab'Don is a good strategist,” Goldan reluctantly conceded. “He's trying to literally freeze Nyeg Warl in her tracks.”
The distant sound of another avalanche encouraged the men to finish the meal they were eating so that they could be off as soon as possible. After gathering themselves together, the Company of the Hammer was soon on its way down the trail that led to Vestylkynd and to the School of the Sword and the Song.
Onward they labored through the inclement weather, only stopping to sleep once they reached the lower elevations. A trip that should have taken two days, ended up taking three. But in the end, after the sixth day of the storm, the sun peeked out from behind the clouds that had so long violated the warl. And as if on cue, the snow-covered towers of Vestylkynd came into view, sparkling far below like a million diamonds had been scattered among the newly fallen powder. Perched atop the Alabaster Mountain's lower peaks, one overlooking a valley that cut through the foothills and poured out into the grasslands surrounding the Klarn River, the revered school was a most welcome sight.
Chapter 32: The School of the Sword and Song
While approaching Vestylkynd's gates, the young Woodswane turned and eyed the intimidating mountains they had just traversed, those that looked like a herd of white behemoths plowing through a warl of snow. Giving thanks that they were not trampled to death by the stampeding storm, a wry smile appeared on Jeaf's face as he mulled over this metaphor. Wheeling back around, he returned his gaze to Vestylkynd and to the students of the School of the Sword and Song.
Rose-colored buildings were scattered among seven towers bearing the same hue. The work of Nyeg Warl's finest artisans, architects and stone masons was in evidence everywhere. A cathedral like structure, sitting in the middle of the city, piqued the young Woodswane's Powers of Intuition. There's magic in that place, he concluded.
When the Company of the Hammer rode into Vestylkynd, the students- like gophers at work in a garden- were busy digging out from under the waist deep snow. Seeing Alynd returning and knowing who was with him, they quickly forsook their labors. Looking intently at their honored guest, eyeing the hammer strapped to his thigh, they tried to measure him. Could he be the one, they wondered, who will lead us into battle? The war that loomed over the coming spring, like a vulture spreading its wings over a carcass it had claimed, was the upper most thought in their young minds.
Once the weary company passed into the citadel's central courtyard- there were three others used for various functions- a man who was tall, twenty pounds overweight, and bald on top except for a swath of light brown hair growing above his ears and on the back of his head, handed his shovel to a student and stepped over to greet them. A golden garment that was wet along its hem, could be seen beneath a long, fur robe. Bowing to the approaching men, he said, “Welcome! My name is Ahrnosyn. I'm Vestylkynd's Chief Mentor.”
Not long afterwards, they were eating a hot lunch consisting of chicken soup, rye bread, and steaming hot cider. After their ordeal, this simple fare tasted better than anything they had ever eaten. Due to everyone's keen interest in the sumptuously warm cuisine, conversation was held to a minimum.
Upon finishing his meal, Ahrnosyn spoke to the young Hammer Bearer saying, “Well, if you're going to be a student here, you'll have to do chores like everyone else.”
Jeaf was amazed that he didn't inquire about the Hammer of Power. Instead, he was treating him like a newly arrived pupil.
“Tsut'waeh! Why don't you and Jeaf go up on the ramparts and help the others remove the snow that's accumulated there. The Commander and Fyreed will stay so that Alynd and I can talk with them.”
Tsut'waeh laughed out loud when he saw the expression crossing Jeaf's face once he realized his friends would be accorded the honor given to adults and he would not.
“Come on.” Tsut'waeh pulled his friend by the sleeve. “Don't let it get to you. It's just a part of our training.”
“But do I need your training?” the perplexed Woodswane asked.
“Why do you think I brought you here?” Alynd replied, a subtle smile crossing his face as he did.
“Yes… and you have too much to learn, in too short of time,” Ahrnosyn heartily added. Then he shooed the two young men out of the room with a brush of his hand while Goldan, Fyreed, and Bacchanor laughed in amusement.
Soon, Jeaf was up on the ramparts. Mumbling something about already having had a mother, the Woodswane followed Tsut'waeh as he walked towards two young women who were clearing off o
ne of the fortress parapets.
“Do you need a hand?” the Tayn'waeh asked.
“Be our guests.” The redheaded woman gladly gave her shovel away.
“You two are new here, aren't you?” Tsut'waeh asked.
“Yes. We arrived during the summer.”
Hearing this, introductions were made. “My name is Tsut'waeh, son of Zhan of Tayn'waeh. And this is my friend, Jeaf, son of the Woodswane, Aryl Oakenfel. What might your names be?”
“I am Truamor, daughter of Vav and Hylde of the village Barm, and this is my cousin Muriel, daughter of Laz and Mara.”
Following Tsut'waeh's lead, Jeaf went over to take Muriel's shovel; but when their eyes met, he froze in his tracks. Do I know her? I'd swear that I've seen her before. It was more than her beauty that had arrested his attention, neither was it just her shapely form, it was something else, something sitting in his brain close to where his Powers of Intuition were found.
Then strangely enough, when his hand touched the shovel Muriel handed him, the sky quickly darkened and a howling wind began to blow. Leaning on the parapet, trying to keep his balance, Jeaf found that it had changed from stone to wood and the shovel's handle had become the wheel of a magnificent ship.
I'm having a vision! Jeaf was trying to sort out the rude transformation.
Not far off the ship's bow, he spied a raven-haired woman standing atop a precipice of white stone, weeping. A raging sea lay between them. Buffeted by the storm's power, Jeaf struggled steering the great vessel towards the distraught woman. Compelled to help her, he cried out, “Fear not, for I am here!”
Then as swiftly as the storm had risen, the clouds parted, the blue skies returned and a snow-covered warl replaced the turbulent sea. When the abrupt vision disappeared, the young Woodswane collapsed onto all fours, stunned.