by Rex Hazelton
“Shouldn't we speak to them?” This wasn't the first time that Muriel had asked this question, and each time she did, Bacchanor had given her the same reply.
“You know the answer to that.” Turning his head with owl-like movements, the wizard searched the night-shrouded forest. “They still need time to sort things out, to decide what they want to do.” The wizard kept scanning the surrounding woods as he spoke. “They must ask for our help, or the help that we give them will be of diminished value, at least to those things that are most important.”
“Won't they need food and drink?”
“With all of the streams we've passed, drink shouldn't be a problem,” Fyreed postulated.
“Food will be an issue, I'll grant you that, though their days spent scrounging around in Schmar's cave have equipped them to last longer than most well-fed townsfolk might, put in their same situation,” Bacchanor admitted. “Hunger will probably be the thing that forces them come to us. But I hope not.” Seeing Muriel fighting the desire to help those that were so much like her, the wizard shook his head in resignation. “At least if they do come to us seeking after food, I hope they hunger for other things as well.”
“Like What?” The memory of the day she stole Doleman's breakfast came to mind as she spoke.
“I hope they will hunger to know what it means to be men and women, and how to live as such in their new found warl. I hope they hunger for this and more.”
****
After a short time, Fyreed and Bear built a campfire to ward off a night as dark as a cellar with its door closed.
“You must sing the Song of Breaking again,” Alynd explained.
“When?” Muriel's eyes, shining beneath her furrowed brow, searched Alynd's face.
“How did you know when to sing in the Cave of Forgetfulness, or for that matter, how did you know what to sing?”
“I can't say?” Muriel tried to puzzle things out. “The song just welled up inside me like bread rising in an oven. And once it had fully risen, I was compelled to release it.”
“Truly, you are a prophetess.” Alynd's blue eyes reflected the dancing campfire as he spoke. “You have the intuition and the sensitivity of one who has been granted the Gift of Sight. I suggest, all you need to do is follow your instincts and sing the Song of Breaking as your heart dictates.”
The distant whinnying of a horse abruptly ended the topic of conversation. Stark silence followed as if it was an accomplice wanting to hide those who had been waiting, like highwaymen, ready to spring a trap.
“What was that?” Bear hissed out his words as he reached for his metal-studded club.
“Listen!” Bacchanor's hushed voice was replete with concern.
Soon, sounds of horses snorting and whinnying wafted out from under the forest's dark eaves.
“Quickly, put out the fire!” The Elf-Man's faculties were now in full use as he spoke.
But before anyone could comply, the company of vagabonds who followed them out of the odious stench filling Schmar's evil lair, began filtering out from under the surrounding pine trees and into the campfire's light.
“Please, may we have your protection?” It was one of the twins who spoke.
The Company of the Hammer looked at the distraught throng that had been silently hiding in the surrounding woods. Moved by instincts common to hatchlings, they had followed Muriel like a brood of ducklings traipsing behind their mother, but uncertain that she would accept them as such. Threatened by the unnerving sounds echoing through the greenwood, they could no longer wait to seek safety under her wings.
“Please, Muriel,” a young woman's voice was heard, “the sounds in the forest have frightened us.”
Without hesitation, the Prophetess leapt to her feet and called them near. Over-and-over-again, she waved her hands in invitation. “Don't be afraid. You're welcome here.” These and other words of encouragement acted like a magnet drawing a great multitude of iron shavings to itself.
Once gathered, Alynd moved them to the opposite side of the grassy bowl so that the Company of the Hammer could stand between the disheveled crowd and those who were responsible for making the alarming sounds. No one had to worry about the people making any unwarranted noises; their time of bondage made them experts in the art of stealth and obscurity. Each learned, very early on, how the maxim, the squeaky wheel gets greased, worked in Schmar's nightmare realm.
Bear stamped out the fire with his huge boots. Jeaf and Fyreed slipped the Wisdor Stones off their fingers, separating the rings. As soon as the stone's magic rendered them invisible, they stole off into the darkness to spy upon the intruders. Bacchanor, transforming into the great white-faced owl, swooped off into the night sky.
In the long silence that followed, many of the smaller children gathered around Grour Blood. Grasping hold of his fur and thick mane, as if he were a huge stuffed animal, the children intuitively sensed they would be safe in the great griffin's presence. Laying on the ground, looking like a huge sphinx, Grour Blood extended his massive wings over the growing number of lost children who continued to gather under his protective covering.
Other, older children, came and clung onto Bear's tree trunk legs. In time, the ragamuffin giant sat down on the ground to allow as many youngsters as could the opportunity to sit on his lap. Those that couldn't fit, stood leaning against his huge body, feeling the warmth it exuded.
The women gathered around Muriel, who spoke words of healing and hope.
Some of the men, under Alynd's direction, went into the fringes of the forest to gather rocks, tree branches, and other things that could be used as weapons. Many, including the women, already carried swords that the river-children, hunchmen, and hunters once owned.
In time, Jeaf and Fyreed reappeared bearing sober news. “There's an army moving our way. We must remain quiet and hope they pass by, for we may not be able to prevail against such a large number of warriors, even with the Hammer of Power in hand.”
“Could you tell who they were?” Alynd's voice was filled with urgency.
“No! They were too close to our campsite to give us time to follow them,” Jeaf explained. “We felt it would be better if we returned.”
“The wizard is staying with the army,” Fyreed added. “Maybe he'll be able to uncover their identity.”
“Why are they marching in the dark?” Jeaf tried to puzzle things out as moonbeams broke through the towering trees, heralding that the night's chiefest light would soon appear.
“That's a mystery.” Alynd rubbed his chin as he tried to come up with an answer. “This is either a great evil or...”
“Or what?”
The upper curvature of the approaching full moon began to rise above the living spires filling the forest. On any other night, the young Woodswane would have welcomed the moon in its fullness, since he loved the dim silvery warl its light created. On any other night, the snowy white sphere would have rekindled memories of when he and other Woodswane traveled through Nyeg Warl's nocturnal wildwood. But not tonight! Tonight, the moonlight was as unwelcome as a hunter's torch being thrust into a fox's den.
“Or the Warl's Magic is at work once again.” Alynd's eyes flashed bright blue as he spoke, so blue, in fact, Jeaf thought the strangers might locate their position by their glow.
Before they could conclude their conversation, the sounds of horses and steel were heard spreading about the greenwood surrounding the grassy bowl. Jeaf reluctantly withdrew his hammer realizing there wasn't much choice. Feeling the magic pulsating out of the weapon, passing up through his arm and into his chest, gorging his muscles with mystical might, the young Woodswane reflected on Whistyme's instructions, “The first three times you use the hammer, its full power will be unleashed. But your first three strokes must be made in wisdom, or else the hammer's power will be uncertain from that time forth.”
The Dream Messenger's warning's echoed through Jeaf's questioning mind, stirring up doubt. Had he wisely used the magic entrusted to him? The
young Woodswane dropped his head in thought as he examined himself and the motives that moved him to action. What right did I have to interfere in the affairs of kings when I used the hammer's magic to end their feud? But what would have happened if I hadn't done so?
When he recalled the loathsome battle in the Cave of Forgetfulness, he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was right in using the hammer there. Even if it was an improper use of magic, I would not have done differently, he reasoned.
Jeaf would have gladly thrown the hammer away in exchange for his love's life and he would most certainly not let it lay idle if the army, that was busily surrounding them, attacked.
The throng of vagabonds squeezed tightly together; a wide-eyed panicked look, like they were rabbits caught in a snare, showed on their faces. Some were wondering if Arachnamor's boast of protecting them from the dangers that lay beyond Schmar's lair had more merit than they gave it credit. Others lifted up their weapons- rocks and makeshift clubs mixed with the swords that their untrained hands held too tightly- as they caught sight of a ghost-like figure emerging from the forest dark shadows that lay heavy on the ground. A large bird of prey sat on the specters up-lifted arm.
“Unstring your bows and lower your spears.” The stranger's voice, amplified by the utter silence gripping the grassy bowl, rang out through the cool night air. “We are not your enemies.”
“If you're not our enemy,” Alynd replied with a voice filled with authority. “Then identify yourself and the reason why you travel in the heart of the night.”
Leaping off the stranger's arm, the bird of prey grew in size until it was as large as a human. Once the magic completed its work, Bacchanor, the inimitable wizard, was heard saying, “May I introduce you to Jubalamor of the city Dalnostrokynd, Chieftain of the Forest People who live there!”
****
Jeaf marveled at the sight of the enigmatic Forest People tenderly caring for the refugees that recently escaped Schmar's evil cave. For the first time in all of his travels, Jeaf was meeting the reclusive people face-to-face. He, like the other Woodswane, knew where their villages were found, but a commitment to not enter them without being invited kept him from making their acquaintance, though his father knew them well. The countless campfires scattered throughout the surrounding woods, showed how this army was much larger than he first thought.
Looking at Jubalamor, seated alongside his commanders on the far side of a large fire, Jeaf wondered about the strange stories he had heard about the Forest People. Some said they were a race of outlaws; others said that they were infected with an evil spell that drove them to their secluded life. His mother, Elamor, as well as his friend, Bear, explained that they were a people who, having had great wickedness inflicted upon them, devoted their lives to discovering the magic that would heal their wounds.
“Jubalamor,” the Dalnostronor chieftain turned his face toward the Hammer Bearer who was speaking to him, “why have you come here, traveling through the heart of the night?”
Sensing the time was right, the man stretched out his well-muscled frame as he stood to explain. “My Good Woodswane, the day has arrived for the Forest People to walk out into the light of Nyeg Warl's day. But don't judge us harshly for our introverted ways. You see, we have come by these through much trial and tribulation.”
Jubalamor, who unsheathed his sword and leaned upon its hilt as he spoke, looked like a man Jeaf would not want to fight. “We Forest People once were as these now are.” The chieftain lifted his muscular arm to point at the beleaguered host that had followed the Company of the Hammer out of Schmar's evil lair. “All but a few of us, or our parents, have been defiled by Schmar or Koyer's wicked magic. I myself was imprisoned for most of my youth within the lava tubes and dungeons that honeycombthe Mountains of Sorrow. It was only fate that allowed me to escape from a farming detail that had been sent to work the fields spreading out beneath G'Lude's cold walls.”
“Because a fight broke out among those guarding us, I and six others, out of the hundreds that labored in the fields, took opportunity to slip off into the forests covering the Mountains of Sorrow's lower reaches. Heading southward we risked the waters of the Straits of Regret and the crocodon who live there. Floating upon driftwood, we leap-frogged along a string of islands called the Tears of Sorrow, until we reached Nyeg Warl's coast. Eventually ran into the Verdant River. From there we headed home to Verdant Deep. Sadly, this is when the real trouble began.”
Once my companions and I told our kinsman the tales of horror we witnessed in Koyer's dungeons, we received a chilly reception, the type of thing that is all too common of an experience among the Forest People. We were soon labeled liars and accused of being a destructive force. Some of the Candle Makers stood against us, as well. Counseling us to leave the past alone, they promised us that the candles's light would prevent its darkness from intruding into the present.”
I argued that I needed to know where I had been, if I were to know the correct path to take in the future. But it didn't matter. Eventually, I was accused of being devisive and was shunned my family and friends. Not able to stand the rejection, I finally left Verdant Deep with four others who escaped the Isle of Regret with me.”
Tragically, one of my companions agreed to quit talking of the horrible things he had seen so that he might be permitted to live with his family. In time, he fell prey to a disease some call Zarantha. It's a condition where people, like my unfortunate friend who was forced into silence, fall into a pit of despondency. Once his younger sister disappeared, just as he had so many winters before, he took his own life.”
“I've heard of this disease,” Jeaf said.
The firelight danced across Jubalamor's stron face, revealing his interest in Jeaf's response. Gazing thoughtfully at the young man, who Bacchanor introduced as the Hammer Bearer, he added, “In time, I and my friends met others like us. They called themselves Forest People. I soon discovered how these, living in obscure villages scattered throughout Nyeg Warl, were joined in an intricate network of relationships dedicated to undoing the ancient evil which had befallen them and the warl they lived in. As a result, they developed Powers of Healing that they used to help others who, like myself, had escaped places of wickedness. This was how the Song of Life was discovered, a song whose golden balm cleanses a person's soul from the sense of hopelessness that wounds of rejection give birth to, wounds inflicted by those who should have helped us.”
Muriel, whose own dark history enabled her to empathize with Jubalamor's story, interrupted the chieftain. “I haven't heard of the Song of Life. Nor have I seen this golden ointment that you speak of.”
“Tha ointment's good stuffs!” Bear enthusiastically quipped.
“My Lady, you will soon see this ointment with your own eyes, for we will sing this song at dawn's first light. Afterwards we will harvest the ointment that remains behind, once the sun rises and melts the frozen dew. Having the appearance of golden seeds, it can be administered to human flesh like a balm.” Smiling at Muriel, the chieftain added, “Tomorrow, the women shall apply this magical salve to your flesh and help complete your own healing.”
“Why do you think she needs this ointment?” Jeaf was disturbed at how easily Jubalamor had made this assumption.
“Is she not the Prophetess who has learned to sing the Song of Breaking, whose power shook Nyeg Warl with a great earthquake?”
Jeaf and Muriel looked at one another surprised that he would have such knowledge. “How do you know this?” Jeaf continued his inquiry.
“The Forest People have prophecies that other Nyeg Warlers have not been told.” Jubalamor, who passed by Alynd and Bacchanor as he came over to stand on the same side of the campfire that Jeaf and Muriel were sitting on, looked into Grour Blood's broad face before he continued. “Our seers have also anticipated the coming of the Hammer Bearer. They have proclaimed that when he arrives, the Prophetess will come with him.” Here, Jubalamor nodded at Muriel. “To be clearer, let me add that they h
ave foretold, like so many others in Nyeg Warl, how a vast dark army will invade Nyeg Warl. But unlike the others, they have foreseen that a great earthquake will come in the midst of this incursion, an earthquake that will be a sign telling us that the Prophetess has learned the Song of Breaking. On that day, we have been instructed to arm ourselves and gather at the Bowl of Redemption where, it is written, we will meet the Prophetess and learn to sing her song. We have been getting ready for this event ever since the griffin told us that Koyer's invasion had begun.”
“Where is this Bowl of Redemption?” Jeaf's heart burned within him when Jubalamor spoke the mystical name.
“Don't you know?” A wide smile broke out on the chieftain's face as he shook his head in amazement. “You're sitting in it right now!”
Jeaf and the other members of the Company of the Hammer looked about themselves in wonder when they realized that the grassy bowl they had randomly chosen as their campsite was the very place Jubalamor spoke about. Each looked at the other stunned by how the Warl's Magic had led them to this timely place, a place replete with prophetic importance.
“Bear, didn't the Forest People adopt you?” Jeaf playfully punched his friend's thigh. “Why didn't you tell us about all of this?”
“Shorty, I swears ta you, I don't know 'bout no prophesies.” After tugging on one of the heavy braids that fell on his boulder-sized shoulder, he corrected himself. “Well, I guess I heard 'bout it a time or twos, but, with all we've gone through, I plums forgot. For sure, I had no ideas where this Bowl of Redemptions was at.”
Alynd's wide-brimmed hat tipped low, covering his eyes but not the blue light that flashed out of them as he thoughtfully asked his next question. “What do your prophecies say will happen now?”
Hearing the Elf-Man's question, the chieftain lifted his sword. “The evil army flooding over Nyeg Warl is the head of a boil seething with evil infection,” he growled out his words, “an infection that despoiled the souls of the Forest People, a foul contamination that is now threatening to spill out and defile every man, woman and child with its grotesque wickedness.” Clenching his fist, he added, “What will happen now, you ask? Now, we go to war!” Jubalamor nearly shouted his words as the the ecstasy of prophetic fulfillment buoyed his soul. “But first, the Prophetess must teach us how to sing the Song of Breaking.”