by Rex Hazelton
The Prophetess, undaunted by his ploy, raised Inheritor's sharp edge above her head.
Seeing his strategy was failing, wincing as he looked at the blade being lifted up, Schmar changed tactics and transformed himself back into the raging leech-like creature. Shouting intimidating threats, he called on the power of an old lie, the very one he used to control Muriel during the days of her captivity. “No matter where you go,” the beast's vile voice spat out his threat, “I'll find you!”
Infuriated, Muriel cried out, “No you won't, you ugly monster!” Then she let out a shout of anger. Stirred by the fervent cry, the hammer's blue light infused her voice with a magic that transformed her cry into a griffin's roar, a roar so compelling Grour Blood couldn't help but add his own terrifying voice to the mix.
“Muriel Blood!” the mighty griffin bellowed. As he did, the throng of children began shouting out against the beast, and before the shout had time to wane, the Prophetess swung the Hammer Bearer's sword high over her head and down on the leech's neck, savagely, severing Schmar's grotesque head from off of his black, elongated form.
When the monster's head flopped upon the floor, hitting the ground like discharged phlegm, his torso began to inflate. Larger-and-larger it grew, until it exploded like a bag too full of air, and when it exploded, the souls of a myriad devoured children burst forth like seeds being cast out of an over ripe pod. On-and-on they came, until the vast number swelled into a whirlwind of light that looked astonishingly like a twirling parade of comets that only paused, for the briefest of moments, when it saw their murderer's corpse laying on the stone floor. Infuriated by the sight, the whirling vortex swooped down on the Lord of Forgetfulness and tore his body to pieces, tossing remains around like so much discarded refuse.
Once this savage act was done, the brilliant tornado wove its way along the cavern's floor, flinging around the bodies of the dead river-children, hunters and hunchmen like they were pieces of confetti being thrown on a feast day. Heading for the tunnel that opened at the far end of the huge cavern, the brilliant whirlwind exited. And when it left, the sound of wind chimes filled the air, marking the luminous twister's passing. Children's laughter could be heard echoing back out of the tunnel, mixing with the airy sound of chimes, filling those left behind with joy.
“Look!” Bear exclaimed as he pointed at a light that lagged behind.
Once the light caught Muriel's eye, the tiny comet dove down and began playfully swirling around her head, mussing up her beautiful black hair. After the tiny comet finished frolicking about, it came to float before the Prophetess' lovely face and quickly transformed into a beautiful little girl who looked amazingly like Muriel. As the child walked up to the Prophetess, she said, “Thank you, Mother, for freeing me.”
Muriel choked back tears as she replied, “How did I free you, My Darling?”
The pretty little girl laughed as if she didn't have a care in the world before she explained. “Don't you know? When you saved yourself, you saved me too. Mother, if you live, I live. Schmar only wins if you take your life.”
“But I would never harm myself.”
“Mother, suicide is only the most drastic option among the many ways a person can choose to escape living.”
Muriel's remorse over having allowed her child to be murdered was slow to lose its grip. So, she blurted out her shame. “I'm so sorry My Darling!”
Understanding what she was trying to do, the little girl interrupted her mother. “Don't be, Mother. You've already freed me, but there is much more to do. You must let your feelings of guilt go and strengthen yourself for the battle that lies ahead.” Having spoken thus, the lovely little girl transformed back into the shining comet. Swirling around Muriel, she washed her mother with laughter. Then moving with blinding speed, flying around-and-around, the tiny comet created a wind that lifted her mother up off the stone floor. At last, overcome with the light's exuberance, Muriel began to laugh along with her daughter as they joyously danced in the air together.
The others stood transfixed by this miraculous reunion, overhearing mother and daughter telling each other how much they loved one another.
“What's your name?” the Company of the Hammer heard Muriel ask her daughter, once she was lowered back to the ground.
“Don't you know? Why, my name is Muriel too. I'm Muriel the Free, daughter of Muriel the Prophetess, she who has learned the Song of Breaking!” With that said, Muriel the Free raced out of the cavern laughing. Once she was gone, the sound of wind chimes lingered in the air.
****
The Company of the Hammer watched the fires of the funeral pyre lick up the remains of Arachnamor's victims. Muriel's father was numbered among these. A second fire, burning behind Schmar's throne disposed of the dead hunchmen, river-children and hunters. A third fire crackled and groaned on top of Schmar's horrific altar. Appropriately, the foul Lord of Forgetfulness' remains were being burned at the same place that, not so long ago, Muriel's helpless daughter lay awaiting her dour fate. It was an eerie scene to behold. On one side of the massive cavern the flames of purification blazed as they freed victims from the confines of the defiling cave; on the other side, fires, looking like those that burned in the dumps found outside Nyeg Warl's great cities, devoured the enemy.
The cavern's ceiling reached so high that the smoke never completely filled the chamber. This made Fyreed wonder about the giant spider that had fled upward into the darkness.
Many of those who had survived Schmar's wickedness stood gathered around the Company of the Hammer; others, who had invited the evil magic of forgetfulness to return and encase them in its hold, moved about the cavern in a stupor, acting as if their grotesque lord were still alive. These were those who became terrified of the uncertain prospects that freedom brought with it, choosing rather to remain in the bonds of the familiar.
Muriel, leaning upon Jeaf's strong shoulder, wept as she looked upon her father's remains. “Daddy, you didn't fail me! Your love saved my soul from the darkness of the past and has given me hope for the future.” Having finished thanking her father, her ring began to vibrate reassuringly upon her hand and she sang, once more.
Do not rejoice over me my enemy,
You who look at innocence with your eye.
Do not rejoice or take pleasure in my fall,
For I will arise!
Now that the day of darkness is over,
And the father's love has brought me to the light.
Now all chains will be broken,
And Parm Warl will come to make things right.
Do not rejoice over me my enemy,
You who look at innocence with your eye.
Do not rejoice or take pleasure in my fall,
For I will arise!
And as the Prophetess sang the Song of Breaking again, a great earthquake struck Nyeg Warl, shattering the altar Schmar's ashes were laying upon and tearing apart the evil magic that infested other holes that lay all over Nyeg Warl like so many infected sores, places where Schmar's foul offspring held their own cache of children. Emerging from captivity, each had been given a dream the night before their escape, one that would guide them. In this dream, an old man who called himself Whistyme told them to search for the one who carried the Hammer of Power. With this single goal in mind, the throng- compelled by the message's power- instinctively migrated towards the Crescent Plains.
“It's time to go now.” Alynd, who did not want to dishonor the moment with brusque speech, spoke quietly to the others. “The battle has been won here and the Prophetess has learned to sing the Song of Breaking. We must now hurry, for the battle that will decide Nyeg Warl's fate is even now raging on the Crescent Plains. We must hurry and bring this new-found magic to aid those who war against Koyer.”
Chapter 42: On the Plains of Decision
Aryl Oakenfel led two thousand Woodswane horsemen in a raking maneuver against the fringes of Koyer's vast army. Firing arrows, while expertly guiding their horses with their legs, the Woodswane struck at
the Warriors of Regret.
Like a bear being attacked by a swarm of bees when it lurches forward to steal the hive's honey, Koyer's grim-faced hordes labored onward, seemingly oblivious of the noisome attacks. Undaunted by their lack of success, the Woodswane delivered blow-after-blow until Koyer at last relented and reached out to swat at the pests.
A cavalry of over four thousand Archan came riding forth to engage the pesky Woodswane. But instead of fighting, Aryl lead his companions in a hasty retreat down a long dry stream bed, one of many nestled in the plain's rolling landscape. The Archan, who couldn't resist chasing after a fleeing enemy, fell in behind the Woodswane, riding their mounts hard after their prey. In time, the ax-wielders, who were well out of the main body of warrior's sight, galloped around a tight bend only to find the Woodswane had vanished.
“It's a trap,” the Archan commander shouted what everyone was fearing. “Quick! Retreat! Retreat!” he screamed as the Plagean archers who had been waiting in hiding unleashed their arrows. Pierced by the razor-sharp projectiles, both horses and riders fell. The survivors made a mad dash back to the bend in the stream bed. Once they negotiated the turn, another group of archers met them. This time Vinelanders stood on the high ground, launching another barrage of deadly arrows.
Confused and angered, the Archan commander led the remnant of the cavalry in a charge up the nearest slope, hoping to race past the archers before they could target all his warriors. But before he reached the knoll's crest, two thousand Woodswane horsemen swept over the top, furiously charging into the midst of the decimated Archan cavalry. Ax and sword clanged; screams of rage and pain were heard; a fierce battle ensued. Aryl Oakenfel, the courageous Woodswane leader, rode through the Archan cutting a wide swath of destruction as he went. The Master Sword Smith's blade, moving with unmatched expertise, lopped of heads and cut the bodies of those who thought they would take Nyeg Warl as easy plunder.
Inevitably, the Archan cavalry was wiped off the field of battle. Not one man was left alive to tell what had happened. Not one riderless horse returned to give a clue to the massacre that had taken place. As far as the Ar Warlers knew, their comrades might as well have been swallowed up by the ground. But nothing so amazing had happened, the Archan were simply outwitted by a Tsadal's clever plan.
Ayrl's blade was covered in blood when he met with Goldan, the architect of the trap they sprung on the hapless Archan. “Greetings Commander! All went as you said it would.”
“How many men did we lose?”
“Only fifty to their four thousand,” Aryl exclaimed as he wiped his blade on a cloth he had picked up.
“Good! But we won't be as lucky next time.” Goldan smiled as he and Ayrl clasped arms to celebrate the swift victory.
“By all reports, I'd say we whittled away a fifth of Koyer's horseman. It's a good beginning to say the least,” Aryl calculated. “How long before the Lord of Regret reaches Wyneskynd?”
“His advance forces are arriving even as we speak.” Goldan frowned. “Ayrl, keep nipping at their heels until the kings' armies can join you. But be more careful than you were before. I think Koyer would like to return the favor… if you know what I mean.”
****
Courageously defending Wyneskynd's walls, the Tayn'waeh's burnished-brown skin glowed in the light cast by fires spreading over the portable stairwells, fires that were ignited by a host of flaming arrows that the Nyeg Warlers hoped would bring the lumbering towers down.
Tsut'waeh and three other warriors leapt onto a flaming platform in an effort to drive the Malamor back down the ladder. Using a move Jeaf taught him at the School of the Sword and Song, the young Tayn'waeh's blade fainted at a tall Malamor's head and then quickly dropped to tear into his exposed thigh muscles, only to sweep up into his neck once he dropped his head in pain. Continuing on, he next brought his sword down across the fingers of another Malamor who had grabbed hold of the railing running up through the platform's center. Then before Tsut'waeh knew what had happened, he was knocked off his feet by a heavyset brute of a man who rammed his helmet into the young Tayn'waeh's breastplate. As he fell among the fires, devouring the tower's wooden planks, Tsut'waeh swiveled on his back, sweeping his sword across his assailant's ankles, dropping him into the heart of the flames that surrounded them.
Scrambling to his feet, having only sustained minor burns, the young Nyeg Warler caught hold of another Malamor's arm that wielded a sword he was using to hack at his head. In reaction, the foul warrior mimicked the young Tayn'waeh and latched onto Tsut'waeh's sword arm.
Once entangled, the two fell against the railing encircling the platform's perimeter. Tsut'waeh's back was now exposed to the Archan archers who were dug into the Wyne River's eastern bank. Realizing the vulnerable position he was in, the young Tayn'waeh shoved his knee into his opponent's groin. Then shifting his feet, he threw the Malamor over his extended leg, splaying the man out on the tower's planks. Quickly pouncing upon the warrior, he crushed his adversary's wind pipe, using his falling elbow to deal the blow.
When he stood to move away from the tower's eastern edge, searing pain cut into his side. The force of the arrow's impact knocked Tsut'waeh face first onto the decking. Knowing he would die if he didn't get up, the young warrior tried to claw his way to his feet. But before he could right himself, a heavily muscled Malamor shoved him back down to the wooden floor. Grabbing Tsut'waeh by the locks of his hair, he pulled the young Tayn'waeh's head back, exposing his throat to a sword's razor-sharp edge. But before the cold steel began its trek across the glistening brown skin covering the young Tayn'waeh's neck, Tsut'waeh heard the Malamor's breath get knocked out of him and felt him fall away.
Another Tayn'waeh warrior had tackled him, one who lifted the foul Ar Warler above his head before throwing him over the railing, crying out like an animal as he did.
Turning his head, wondering who had helped him, Tsut'waeh watched his father returning from the platform's edge.
“Quick! Grab my arm! The fire's spreading fast!” Zhan shouted.
Gasping for air, as sweat ran over their brows, Tsut'waeh and his father scrambled back over Wyneskynd's parapets. After lowering his son onto the walkway, the Tayn'waeh chieftain watched the flaming siege machine crumble backwards, crushing through the portable bridge that stretched out below, tumbling into the river. The hissing noise it made as it hit the water fittingly conveyed the relief the Nyeg Warlers felt over its demise.
In time, Zhan escorted a group of warriors, who carried Tsut'waeh's wounded body on a litter made of shields, into a large courtyard that had been transformed into a makeshift hospital. Laying his son among hundreds of maimed and wounded warriors, the Tayn'waeh leader called for a physician. But with so many needy ones at hand, a nurse was the only person they could find to help the young warrior, an old woman who the war had compelled into service. A garment maker by trade, she now spent her time sewing bodies back together. Occasionally she even performed surgeries, trying to emulate what she had seen the healers do early in the day, back when fewer warriors needed tending to. As it so happened, this was one of those times. Forced to do that which was beyond her skills, the courageous woman went about her grim work without the slightest complaint or trepidation.
Zhan held Tsut'waeh in his strong arms as the nurse cut the arrowhead out of his side. “You'll be fine.” The chieftain, looking unconvinced by his own words, consoled his son while the woman dropped the bloody projectile into a bowl of hot water.
Grimacing in pain, Tsut'waeh dug up a weak smile. “Father, can you bring the Hammer Bearer's garland to me?”
Sometime later, the Tayn'waeh chieftain was seen walking under the stone archway that led back into the courtyard where his wounded son lay. Carrying the crown of leaves Tsut'waeh had made back on the banks of the Blue River, Zhan was relieved to find his son was still alive.
“How is he?” the warrior-father asked the nurse as she approached him.
Exhaustion reflecting off her wrinkled face, th
e women shrugged her weary shoulders. “The boy's lost a lot of blood and we haven't been able to stem the flow.”
Zhan placed his hand on the old woman's shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly. “You've done everything you could.” Letting his arm fall, the chieftain strode over to his son, who was coughing to free his lungs from the blood seeping into them.
Smiling, Zhan placed the leafy garland in his hand. “Here's the Willow King's crown.”
“Thank you.” Tsut'waeh, speaking between coughs, gazed at the interwoven branches that refused to die. “Don't despair, Father.” Weakened by the loss of so much blood, his voice was barely audible. “As long as the Hammer Bearer is with us, there's hope.”
Seeing the weight of concern pressing down on Zhan, the young Tayn'waeh gathered all the strength he could in an effort to encourage him. “Look at these leaves!” He coughed out his words. “They refuse to die, and so shall Nyeg Warl. You must fight on through the darkness that presses upon us, until the new day dawns!” Reaching out and grabbing hold of his father's arm, he added, “I know Parm Warl is close at hand. Yet, I don't know if I'll live to see it. So, remember this… if you or mother live to see the prophecies fulfilled, then I will have seen them too. Fight on Father! Fight for Parm Warl! Fight so that all men may live free.”
****
Zhan slumped against the courtyard wall all alone with his troubling thoughts, that was, until Feryl placed a comforting hand on his back. “I'm sorry about your son.”
Tsut'waeh's father watched the Candle Makers light their candles, calling upon the magic that lives in the warl to come and heal the young Tayn'waeh before he responded to Feryl's overture. “Thank you. His life now rests in the Singer's hands.”
Remembering that others carried their own burdens, he questioned Feryl. “Why are you here?”
“My cousin had his leg crushed by a stone that was catapulted into the city.”
“My Friend, I'm sorry to hear that.”
“Zhan, we aren't the only ones who suffer this day.” Grim-faced, Feryl spoke the harsh truth. “We've lost over a third of our warriors to death and wounding and the city is filled with fires. Unless help comes soon, we're all in serious danger!”