Battle of Nyeg Warl

by Rex Hazelton

  Jeaf and Goldan found themselves surrounded by the putrid white-skinned assassins. Standing side-by-side, the two friends moved with lightning speed, repelling the swords that sought to cut their flesh and drink their blood. Standing on legs spread wide for balance, crouching low for battle, the two grim-faced swordsmen withstood the soldiers that came at them like a pack of mad dogs bent on tearing a cornered house cat to pieces.

  The milky-white-faced killers' glinting eyes reflected their master's lust. Blindly obeying Koyer's sinister order to attack the king and his sons, they pressed forward. No longer who they had once been in their former lives, they were now mere extensions of Koyer's rabid evil, a dagger in his cruel black hand that he planned on thrusting into the Eagle King's heart.

  Chaos broke out in the courtyard! Confused by what was happening, the Elite Guard attacked the griffin. Though Prince Phelp had arrived on the back of one of the magnificent winged-lions, the Society of Truth was able to negate this fact by spreading a rumor that told how the griffin had duped the prince into letting them get near the king so could harm him. Filled with the poison this lie carried, many of the Elite Guard mistakenly thought the Soldiers of Truth had charged forward to stop Jeaf and Goldan's attack on the king. They in turn moved against the griffin, believing they would soon join the assassination attempt.

  Having inherited a warrior's instincts, the huge cats circled the remaining royal heirs to keep them from being inadvertently hurt in the feverish fighting. Sadly, several of the blood sustained wounds in the surprise attack. In kind, a dozen of the Elite Guard lay hurt or dying. A result of the griffin' terrible retribution, these were the bitter fruits of the guards' mistake.

  Not fearing for his safety, Alynd jumped between the king's warriors and the winged-lions shouting, “Halt! Your efforts are misguided!” A pulse of blue light leapt out from the Elf-Man's eyes as he yelled, “Stay your hand! We're not the enemy!”

  Once Prince Phelp stepped up to fight alongside Jeaf and Goldan, the Elite Guard realized their error. Trained as well as they were, they redirected their efforts and fell upon the Soldiers of Truth. But the magic that empowered the white-skinned soldiers made their small numbers most formidable, something that could match a vastly superior force.

  Anticipating this, the pool of milky-white faces turned to meet the guards' attack. Falling like wheat before a razor-sharp scythe, the Elite Guard began giving way. For neither stab nor cut could bring Grog and his bloodless conspirators down, making them nearly invincible.

  Bacchanor, still in griffin form, came to fight alongside his brave companions. Futilely slashing at the enemy, it took all their skill just to hold the milky-white-faced assassins at bay. But the four were too few to stop all the evil soldiers. Soon several of Koyer's servants got past them and fell upon Hartshyll and his father.

  Though Hartshyll took up arms in Plagea, he was not yet fully recovered from his imprisonment. It was the months of incarceration that made him vulnerable to the evil guard's blow. Fighting as hard as he could, he soon wearied. Slowed by encroaching fatigue that his depleted body couldn't ward off, Hartshyll's sluggish arms failed to repel the blade that sunk deep into his chest, robbing him of life. The king, who stood behind his son unarmed, was the next to be wounded. And then he vanished into thin air! Shortly afterwards, one of the white-faced soldiers followed suit, vanishing just as Cane had. But unlike the king, he reappeared high above the courtyard, plummeting toward his comrades, crushing several of them upon impact. With their bones broken, a pitiful growing number of wounded soldiers lay squirming on the ground as others of their kind disappeared only to come falling out of the sky.

  Fyreed was at work!

  Cloaked in the invisibility his Wisdor Stone provided him, the quick-witted Bjork had mounted one of the griffin. In short order, nearly a third of the evil soldiers either lay crushed to death or was dragging themselves around on mangled limbs. With their strength depleted, the King's Elite Guard began to overwhelm the remaining Soldiers of Truth. One-by-one, they were either hacked into pieces or were held down and beheaded.

  The battle had turned grievously against the assassins, leaving only Grog and a handful of his followers to wreak havoc. Seeing the king had slipped their grasp, Grog ordered the remaining soldiers to attack Jeaf. If Koyer had known that the Hammer Bearer would be accompanying Hartshyll home, the Lord of Regret would have ordered the evil soldiers to press all their strength against him at the outset. But Koyer's magic, focusing on the king in an attempt to weaken Eagle's Vale, didn't allow Grog and the others to reason for themselves. Now that the king had escaped, the evil soldiers were free to choose targets they deemed would best serve their master's interests. Jeaf, who was the real plumb in the pudding, quickly became the assassin's next mark.

  The handful of evil soldiers fell on the young Woodswane like ants on a picnic basket. First, Prince Phelp was wounded and removed from the fight. Afterward, Bacchanor and Goldan were isolated from Jeaf by soldiers who kept them busy while Grog and two others moved against him.

  The Hammer Bearer's sword flickered through the air like sunlight. One moment it was in one place, only to vanish and reappear in another, just before it took off again to somewhere else. As quick as a hummingbird, the young Woodswane's wielded his blade with the skill and precision his father's lessons had taught him. After repelling Grog's blow, Jeaf's sword dipped down to hack at one of the other soldier's legs before returning to intercept the evil commander's next thrust. The pathetic soldier, whose ankle bone had been crushed by the Hammer Bearer's savage blow, stumbled to the side where he soon had to deal with the King's Elite Guard.

  His flank exposed, Grog was now vulnerable to the guards' attack. This freed Jeaf to deal with the last of the commander's companions. Grabbing his sword with both hands, the young Woodswane swung his blade with all his might. The razor-edged weapon sliced the soldier's midsection open before it sped back along an invisible arch that cut through his milky-white neck. A loud cry escaped the evil soldier's headless torso. A wispy vapor followed behind.

  The tell-tale signs that Koyer's magic was fleeing its host's body informed Grog he was now alone. But before he could do anything else to spite his enemies, Jeaf's omnipresent sword fell across the commander's sword arm, cutting it off just above the elbow. Weaponless, the guards tackled him to the ground.

  Enraged by all that had happened, Prince Phelp came limping over, blood running down his pant leg. “Don't kill him yet!” he snarled. “Tie him up and throw him on top of his comrades,” his voice cracked when he looked his brother, “and torch him!”

  Grog tried to conjure up the Power of Speech, one of the dark gifts Koyer had given him. But it was to no avail. Hartshyll's body, laying lifelessly on the ground, acted as the antidote to the evil spell's force.

  After the prince's troubled eyes finished looking at his brother, he turned and glarred at the white, spite-filled face. “You stinking bastard!” he shouted. “May your soul burn in the Fires of Darkness!” And with that said, torches were thrown on the commander's body and on those he was tied to.

  While flames swirled around Grog, he continued cursing the Valamor until the prince had heard enough. Risking being burned, he stepped forward and, with one great swing of his sword, cut the cruel commander's white head off. Then, as it happened to his accomplice, a mournful cry, accompanying a ragged vapor, shot out of Grog's headless torso. Rising in the air, the wispy bit of smoke joined the other vapors to form a small foul-smelling cloud that emitted a horrifying shriek as it plunged into the ground and disappeared.

  The Eagle King reappeared, sitting on a griffin's powerful back. Fyreed, who rode behind Cane, was sealing his Wisdor Stone behind the ornate star's blood lid sitting atop of the ring he wore.

  Undone by what he saw, the king rushed to Hartshyll. Caressing his lifeless body against bloodstained robes, rocking back and forth, gripped in the agony that unexpected bereavement gave birth to, Cane lamented aloud. “The moon hides its gl
ory! The sun refuses to shine! The whole warl is crumbling!” Heaving his crown to the ground, the Eagle King wept. “Who will comfort me?” He moaned out his complaint. “Who will heal my heart that is afflicted with brokeness? My glory is cast to the ground by the traitor's blade! Who shall uphold my cause and bear my sorrow with me?” Beating a bloodstained fist against his chest, his lamentation turned into a vow. “May my name be exsponged from the memory of living men if I do not exact vengeance upon those who took my son Hartshyll's life.”

  Eagle's Vale's glory dimmed that day in the courtyard battle. From that time forward, until the Battle of Decision had ended, the courtyard became a sacred place where the multitudes came to mourn those who had already died and pray for the thousands that would follow.

  Having dispatched Grog, ending his vile rantings, Prince Phelp went over and held his father in his arms. Reaching out, he stroked his dear brother's head. As this was happening, Bacchanor strolled among the fallen, singing a song of healing to the wounded and a song of parting to the dying. Once again, Alynd, who had pulled out a golden orb, walked beside the wizard dispensing Andara's Magic with the breath of his mouth. The amber light that fell upon the pained men was as refreshing as the glistening dew and as invigorating as a draft of cool ale.

  Anguish ridden and confused by the tragedy that unfolded in the courtyard, Prince Phelp questioned the king. “Father, why was the Society of Truth allowed to greet Hartshyll?”

  Trying to recall all that had happened, the king ran his blood-soaked fingers through his disheveled hair. “Yesterday, Grog came, talking about a dream he had where he saw Hartshyll returning to me flying on the back of a huge winged-lion. This was startling, since I knew he couldn't possibly have known about your daring plan.” Cane sobbed and grew limp as if his life were escaping through the cut he bore in his side. “Claiming his dream was prophetic prompted me to confess the truth of the matter to him. Since Grog's words were a source of strength to me, how could I do otherwise?

  “Hearing what I had to say, Grog explained that the Soldiers of Truth were also in his dream as a part of the honor guard that greeted Hartshyll's return. Though I thought this was unorthodox, moved by the dream's encouragement, I felt compelled to ask the Society to be in attendance when my son and I were reunited. Once Grog left, feeling unsure of what I had done, I convinced myself that my actions were justified.” The king lowered his head to touch Hartshyll's as he blurted out, “But now I see that I was a fool, an old man who had been beguiled! I should have known better! Koyer's war should have made me more cautious! Indeed, these are days of doubt and fear!”

  Speaking to the warriors, as much as to his grieving father, Prince Phelp tried to put things into perspective. “The only doubt that should exist is about the outcome of the war that has arrived on our shores, not about who our friends are. For those who are for Koyer are our enemies and those who are against him are our friends.”

  “Who's to say who our friends are?” The Eagle King spoke out, his eyes widening as he did. “Who's to say who's in league with the Lord of Regret? The only safety I can now see lies within our own walls, not in Plagea or Wyneskynd... The whole warl has gone insane.” Anger twisted the king's countenance as he addressed his men. “Trust no alliance but the one you have with your mother's children. If we are to stand… we must stand alone. Look at my son's body that now grows cold in my arms and say otherwise!”

  “Father, the bitterness of grief is speaking through you. No more! Please! You must rest before you speak further lest Grog's spell gain root in your soul and defile your kingdom.”

  “Spell, you say! Let's talk about spells then, if you must!” The king began to vibrate with rage as he spoke. “What spell are you under, my son? Is it the griffin's spell? Maybe it's the wizard's spell, or the spell of this Woodswane here?” Looking hard at Jeaf, the king recalled the first time they met. “I think it's the Woodswane's spell, for we haven't had a moment's peace since the day he showed up!”

  Seeing how things were deteriorating, Prince Phelp ordered the Elite Guard to remove Hartshyll's body and take the king to his wife, Lisanor, so they could grieve together.

  ****

  “It's like a disease that attacks the mind.” Prince Phelp addressed those who had gathered in Eyrie of the Eagle's Great Hall.

  “The disease may enter through the mind, but its destination is the soul,” Alynd added as he and the others puzzled over the king's ranting. “Ab'Don has made it a point to perfect his ability to infect the human soul with ailments that keep them estranged from the very ones who can provide healing.”

  Looking to the Elf-Man, who was seated on the other side of the cherry wood table they had gathered around, Goldan frowned as he spoke. “What do you mean?”

  “Having lived as a Tsadal, you of all people should understand these evil machinations.” Alynd's blue eyes shone brightly as he spoke. “There is a sickness that can overcome those who have tasted tragedy's brackish water. It works like this, cruel misfortune creates an open sore so painful that the one who has been inflicted with the malady becomes unwilling to expose themselves to others, afraid they may inadvertently touch their wound and worsen their condition.”

  With a physician's precision, the Elf-Man examined the prince's countenance, searching for signs of the infection he was speaking about. “Simply stated, fear erects a wall that prevents a person from reaching out to others.” Returning his gaze to Goldan, he added, “Pride's dark magic, on the other hand, deceives one into thinking that the antidote to those things that ail them lay within arm's reach. And if the cure can't be found in one's own home, then it just doesn't exist. In both cases the result is the same, the disease causes one to become introverted and avoid those who could help them.”

  “Indeed! I do understand.” Goldan shook his head knowingly. “I come from a people who have a sickness of the soul that they are ignorant of.” The powerful warrior stood as the dam holding his emotions at bay broke. “Risking our lives to protect our beloved valley, we mistakenly believe the flames springing from fear are the fires courage breeds. I now know that the one who is truly brave is willing to hear another man's point of view and glean wisdom from the experience. Whereas, fear must silence the dissenter even before he speaks. It wasn't until The Hammer Bearer came into my valley that I realized this.”

  Walking over, placing his hand on Jeaf's shoulder, Goldan continued. “It was truth that set me free. But if I hadn't been willing to hear the truth... the Hammer Bearer would now be dead and I wouldn't be here. Instead, I 'd still be patrolling the hills that surround my smug little valley, extending my every effort to keep out the trespassers and troublemakers who would challenge our narrow view of things, thinking my work was the most important in all the warl. Ironically, I would be doing this unaware that the tidal wave of darkness that seeks to destroy us all was sweeping over Nyeg Warl.”

  Prince Phelp sat down in his chair before responding to Goldan's words. “Commander, it seems the Tsadal Valley is not the only place that is self-absorbed. As you have seen and heard, my own father is feverish with suspicion. I know not of a king or chieftain that he doesn't cast a wary eye upon. I fear he will not join arms with the rest of Nyeg Warl, not until the most desperate moment has arrived. By then, it may be too late.”

  Taking a deep breath, the prince added. “Listen closely... I must report that the Lord of Regret has filled our land with a most insidious lie that may ultimately foil our best efforts to gain the unity needed to stem his evil plans.”

  Every ear was turned to the prince.

  “Koyer's agents, like the Society of Truth and other well-placed persons of influence, have been spreading a rumor that says one of the kings is secretly in league with him. No doubt, he hopes this will fuel the suspicion that keeps the kings apart until his armies have moved deep into into Nyeg Warl.” Frowning as he probed the depths the lie could reach, the prince added, “Even the Bull King is riddled with suspicion. Though Wombur has known all a
long that Koyer is his unalterable enemy, he still has doubts about the other kings' ability to discern the times and to know what must be done. He trusts me… but not my father. The king's willingness to send Hartshyll into Koyer's trap, the one set at the so-called Feast of Harmony, only confirms his fears; the other kings' compliance in this matter encourages his cynicism. I doubt he would agree to jeopardize the lives of his warriors, if their safety depended on the other kings' performance in battle.”

  “What fire-blasted idiocy is this?” Fyreed's simple Bjork logic bubbled forth. “How hard is it for shepherds to unite and kill the wolf that's destroying their flocks? And if this simple act can't be done, what hope is there of killing an army of wolves?”

  “Don't despair, My Courageous Warrior!” Alynd rose to his feet and came to stand beside Goldan and Jeaf. “Take out your hammer young Woodswane and place it on the table for all to see.”

  Once the magnificent weapon lay on the cherrywood table top, Alynd added, “Whistyme, the Dream-Messenger, gave us the Hammer of Power in our greatest hour of need. An anointing accompanies the talisman that will heal Nyeg Warl's illnesses and bind up her wounds.” Placing his hand on Jeaf's shoulder, the Elf-Man concluded. “Though he doesn't know it yet, here sits the antidote to Koyer's poison. For the son of Aryl and Elamor Oakenfel, Woodswane, descendant of the Fane J'Shrym, Brossantanney, Bjorkkin, Willow King and Hammer Bearer is a shield to the Prophetess who is destined to learn the Song of Breaking that will free Nyeg Warl from evil's spell. So, don't despair. As long as the Prophetess and the Hammer Bearer walk among us... hope remains.”

  “That hope is magnified as long as the Elf-Man stands by his side!” Bacchanor chimed in. “The pieces of the puzzle are coming together: the Hammer Bearer has arrived; the Elf-Man stands by his side; the Prophetess awaits him in Vestylkynd; the griffin have come; and he is surrounded by friends who are the jewels in his crown. Is it not clear!? The magic that sleeps in the warl has awakened!”