Battle of Nyeg Warl
Page 85
Jeaf gazed into Muriel's rich brown eyes while the Ska recited the wedding liturgy. How, he wondered, had he gained such a priceless prize. Not long ago he was running errands for his father, now he was marrying Nyeg Warl's crown jewel. Indeed, Muriel was a gem of unsurpassable value. She was peerless in form, unmatched in grace. An inner glow, that came as much from her rich character as it did from the well spring of magic residing in her, shown in her face. She was hope personified, the dawning of the day, resurrection's glory, and, Jeaf thought, She's all mine… and I am hers.
Byrnis spread out his arms and lifted his hands as he readied himself to ask the question that everyone had been waiting to hear. In the momentous hush that followed the Ska's movements, Grour Blood, mirrored by Tor Blood who was positioned opposite him on the dais, stood upon his hind legs and spread out his majestic wings over the Canopy of the Sky as Byrnis asked, “Will you, Jeaf Oakenfel, Fane J'Shrym, Woodswane, Willow King, Brossentaney, Bjorkkin, and Hammer Bearer, and you, Muriel Blood, griffin-woman and Prophetess be intermingle your lives and intertwine your hearts? Will you become one for all time?”
Looking at the one who had captured his heart, Jeaf replied, “I give my life to Muriel Blood for all time.”
Hearing laughter, sounding like falling rain, Jeaf turned toward the river that separated the jubilant throng from Vineland's fortress. He smiled when he saw a solitary Mythorian maiden dancing atop the water, bowing to honor the young Woodswane, lifting her hands to bless the one he had chosen to wed. Only elves, wizards, and the most gifted Candle Makers could see her. To the rest, she looked like a patch of vapor swirling atop the undulating river and nothing more.
Following Jeaf's lead, wanting to see what made him smile, Muriel looked to the river. Her eyes filled with wonder at the sight of the lovely waterkynd maiden's joyous dance, before she too smiled and said, “And I give my life to Jeaf Oakenfel for all time.” The most beautiful brown eyes in all the warl looked longingly into the eyes of the man she loved with all her heart, mind and soul. And as she smiled, her father's ring vibrated warmly upon the hand Jeaf held more tightly then he had before.
Soon the dais was floating on a sea of flickering light, as each person lit a candle to mark the ceremony's grand finale. And while the lights glowed and the crowd cheered, the Hammer Bearer held the Prophetess in his arms and gave her his first kiss as her husband.
Once the wave of joyful shouting receded, the voice of the Bard of Nyeg Warl was magically amplified across the plains, as he sang:
There is a love within the warl that can calm the tempest tossed,
And mend the breach and heal the wound that evil powers have caused.
It is sweet love and only love that can lay foundations strong,
Upon which castles of stone are built to undo the ancient wrong.
The Hammer Bearer will find his love and with his courage heal,
Her broken heart and innocence that evil men did steal.
Together they will face the night and the wicked wind's onslaught,
And overcome the dragon's fire until justice has been wrought.
Though swords may clang and arrows fly and threaten to destroy,
The hope of peace, the light of day within the warl of joy,
Their love will rise like dawn's new day to drive away the dark,
And break the spell and crush the heads of all with evil's mark.
One destiny, two visions intertwined like ivy on a wall,
For a three strand cord can't be broken by the darkness of the fall.
Embraced in each other's loving arms they will fight forgetfulness,
And usher in Parm Warl's resplendent light in the coming age of bliss.
The recitation of this ancient prophecy ignited the throng in jubilantly shouting, “Parm Warl! Parm Warl! Parm Warl!”
And while hope flamed the fires of rejoicing, Tsut'waeh, the courageous Tayn'waeh warrior, stepped forward and placed the living garland on the Hammer Bearer's head and looked eastward over the Plains of Decision, toward the Breach Sea and Ar Warl that lay beyond.
The end.
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About the Author
Born with a vivid imagination that longed to express itself in more ways than a good conversation would allow, it was only natural that Rex Hazelton found himself writing. And what type of books would he write? Seeing he chose the Hobbit as the vehicle he would use to transport his four young boys to a world where they discovered the endless possibilities found in a good book, it's not surprising that the fantasy genre came to the forefront.
An entertainer at heart, and a storyteller by inclination, Rex Hazelton used the experience of writing Battle of Nyeg Warl to scratch an itch that remained unattended to for far too many years. And once he began scratching, the itch just grew worse, for he has completed Books Two and Three of the Chronicles of the Prophetess and the Hammer Bearer, entitled Tears of Andara and Vald'War's Anvil that will soon be released to the e-pub world. The last book in the series, entitled Crooked Finger and the Warl of the Dead, has been written and is in the process of being edited.
Though the impetus for writing the Chronicles of the Prophetess and the Hammer Bearer is essentially the same one that motivates most people to share stories around the proverbial campfire, the womb that gave birth to the tale is found in the author's professional past. Serving as an educator and counselor for all of his life, the hardships Rex has seen people face and then overcome gave him the inspiration needed to create the Warl and the panoply of characters who live there.
If you would like to contact Rex to discuss the Battle of Nyeg Warl or the other books in this series, his email address is Rexford.Hazelton@yahoo.com.
Preview of "Tears of Andara"
by Rex Hazelton
Book Two of the Chronicles of the Prophetess and the Hammer Bearer
Copyright 2013 Rexford Evan Hazelton
Chapter 1: The Hag
“Muriel Oakenfel, the one they say is a prophetess, do you know where we can find her?” The voice sounded feminine, though the shadows cast by a deep hood made identification uncertain.
Two others, also robed in black, flanked the speaker. Taller in stature, they could have been men, but the body length garments they wore made this impossible to determine. When one of them spoke, the hissing sound it emitted didn't provide clarification either. In any case, the poor man the three threatening figures were confronting, could care less about such things. He knew trouble had found him and whether its source was masculine or feminine was immaterial.
“Anssswer quickly, if you know what isss good for you.” The hissing vocalization made it seem like the hooded-figure had spoken but a single word.
A farmer by trade, the beleaguered man was not a fighter by nature, at least not with fists or knives. Nevertheless, he was determined to withhold aid to anyone who wished ill towards the Prophetess, and he was certain these three did. “How would I know? I'm but a poor laborer, not a nobleman who would be aware of such a thing.”
“How would you know?” The feminine voice was heard once again. “All the wretched ones know everything about her. She can't do a thing without rabble like you finding out about it before she's had time to finish her deed.”
“I will admit, many are grateful for the Songs of Healing she has sung, and news of the Blessed One is always welcome, but I still don't know her whereabouts”
"YOUUUUU LIEEEE!” The breathy words wrapped around the farmer like a snake set on constricting its prey. Placing two fingers on the poor man's forearm, the taller hooded-figure added, “Thissssss isssss your lassst chance. WHERE ISSSS SHE?”
“Ashes, I don't know.” The man spoke with resignation more than anger. Looking up and down the road, seeking help and finding none, he had made his choice. He would not betray the Prophetess to the likes of these. The courage her magic had brought to the w
arl and to this simple farmer made certain of this. He could easily have told the three that Muriel Oakenfel was at the School of the Candle waiting the birth of her first child. What would it matter if he did? They would find this out eventually, but not from him, not if he could help it.
“Wrong anssswer.” The hooded-figure lifted his two fingers before tapping them lightly on the farmer's upper wrist. SNAPPPP! The sound of breaking bone echoed through a forest made brittle by winter's cold. The copse of gray timber bordering the farmer's fields threw the unwanted sound back at the wincing man who was cradling his wounded limb with his good arm. But before it reached him, the sound flew past a woman who was hiding behind the broad trunk of a beechwood tree. Reaching down and touching her belly, swollen with the child growing inside, the woman considered helping the farmer and weighed the cost of doing so. After all, she was the focus of the stranger's inquiry, Muriel Oakenfel, the Prophetess who sang the Song of Breaking.