Battle of Nyeg Warl Page 8

  An odd look crossed the tall man's milky-white countenance before he began tilting his head like a dog who was trying to understand human speech. Is he sensing my Powers of Intuition? The young Woodswane had never heard of a Candle Maker who looked like this whitewashed stranger. Mind ciphering was a skill the Candle Makers prided themselves in doing, a skill few others had mastered. But now, Jeaf was certain! The man had become aware of the Candle Maker ways his mother had taught him, and was hastily beating a retreat, throwing up a wall of darkness as he did, as black as ink and heavy as stone.

  As a part of his ploy to escape detection, the white-faced man turned his attention to the giant. “Don't I know you, big fellow?”

  Dispassionately gazing at the bothersome man, Bear replied, “Sir, I've never met y'before. But I've seen others tha looks like you.” Sniffing, the giant added, “And they're all a part a Koyer's White Guards.”

  Angered by Beryl's words, the tall man's sinewy, pale-colored hand reached for the sword hanging by his side, his dull pupils grew in size and, oddly enough, the air in the inn waxed cold. He had all the appearance of one who was getting readying to strike a blow.

  Though Bear saw the threatening movement, he didn't bother to change his casual demeanor. Tapping his index finger on the huge iron-studded club he carried, he simply said, “What a y'goin ta do with that tooths pick you're holdin?”

  Bear's challenge startled the tall man. It was clear he wasn't used to being treated so roughly. Dropping his hand from his sword, but not willing to give ground, the milky-faced man was quick to regain his composure. Lifting his voice, like a frightened bird puffs out its feathers to make it seem bigger than it really is, he began to speak in tones now both icy and methodical. “In spite of my appearance, I assure you that I'm not one of the White Guard.” Glutting his words with as much magic as he could, he was attempting to regain the upper hand. “My name is Grog. I'm a commander in the renowned and esteemed Society of Truth. Who you are, giant, I can guess... For I know you, though we've never met before.”

  Grog looked at Bear's massive fingers beating rhythmically upon his imposing club before adding, “The society has members even among the giants. It's these, that I call brothers, who have told me about you and the other outcasts... You're an outcast, aren't you, also a liar and tale bearer! And though your companion introduced you as Beryl, I know your dissident friends call you Bear.”

  For the first time, the man's pupils appeared. It was like two trap doors made of cold gray marble had opened to reveal the black pits hidden beneath. And as they came into focus, he spat out his threat. “I warn you to leave our city! Be gone by morning or the Society will come and make you leave! And I assure you, you wouldn't want that to happen!” The scarecrow was now waving his arms as if he were trying to chase birds out of the barren field he so tenaciously guarded.

  Angered by the sinewy man's hubris, Bear finally let his disdain for the Society flash forth. Jerking to his feet, sending the score of black braids sitting atop his huge round head flying, he swept up his indomitable weapon and poked its metal tip into his accuser's chest. “If they do come, I advises you… don't be with'm!”

  “So you throw around threats as well as lies, do you?” Grog's bloodless lips spewed out its words as he tried to hold his ground beneath the giant's menacing presence.

  Bear's rage, boiling just beneath the surface of his speech, was barely held in check. “My words are n'more a threat than your own.” He ground his teeth as he spoke. “So, if I was you, I'd go runnin along now! I think I can hear your mommies callin you.”

  Furious, but helpless for the time being, the tall man abruptly turned around and stomped out of the tavern. His cloak, snapping in the air behind him, sent out a wave of static magic that made the hair on the arms of those seated in the tavern rise to pay homage to his passing.

  After the verbal sparring was finished, Star's Blood Inn was gripped in silence until Barmster's worried face poked around the corner of the door he had earlier disappeared behind. “You two better go now!”

  “But sir,” Jeaf, perturbed by the turn of events, replied, “we're only seeking shelter for one night.”

  Stepping into full sight, the innkeeper repeatedly wiped his pudgy hands on his apron as he bit his lip in thought. “All right then! You can sleep out back in the stable. But come morning, you've got to promise me you'll leave.”

  Placing a silver coin on the top of the table that would easily cover the price of room and board, the young Woodswane answered. “Thank you, good sir. Now if you'll lend us a lantern, we'll find the stable for ourselves.”

  Having said that, Jeaf and Bear left the inn and headed out back, accompanied by the innkeeper's light.

  Once they were comfortably situated on a fresh pile of straw, Jeaf quizzed his new-found friend. “Bear, why did that man call you a liar and bearer of tales?”

  “Well, m'curious cat, y'see, they don't believes tha things I say about Schmar.” Bear began curling one of his long braids around his massive pointer finger as frustration got the best of him. “Well, burns it ta ashes, what did I expects from a fire-blasted ghost!” The disgruntled giant shoved fist into palm and squeezed until the resonating popping of his knuckles had ceased.

  “Well, nough a tha for now!” Bears words marked a sudden change in subjects. Turning to the young Woodswane with a most peculiar expression showing on his face he chimed in, “Hey... Shorty.”

  “What's that, Bear?”

  As eager as a puppy chewing on a shoe, he let loose his question. “Do y'have another goodnights story y'can tell me?”

  Jeaf smiled as the magic residing in Bear's request conjured up memories of the families they had seen earlier that night, families that sat contentedly around sturdy tables topped with fragrant food, those whose members delighted themselves in each other's presence, knowing where they belonged and who they belonged to.

  “Sure. I'll tell you the story about how the Candle Makers came to be.”

  The young Woodswane spoke for a very long time, and as he did, moonlight, shining through cracks in the stable's roof, fell upon Bear's face revealing an expression of utter contentment.

  In time, though they guessed Grog was not idle, the two friends had slipped into a well-deserved sleep, one where, like the night before, they dreamt of Parm Warl.

  ****

  The persistent crowing of a large, robust rooster woke Jeaf and Bear well before the breaking of day. They spent the time, in the waning darkness, eating a healthy portion of trail mix and making plans.

  The young Woodswane tried to get the giant to continue escorting him, assuring him how the two of them could handle this so-called Society of Truth. But Bear, feeling Jeaf would be safe now that he was in the city, refused the young Woodswane's offer. He said he would be waiting for Jeaf's return, near where the greenwood and River Road meet. But before leaving, Bear told Jeaf there were other Forest People in the city, those who had filtered into Eagle's Vale to keep an eye on him.

  Chapter 5: The Eyrie of the Eagle

  When the sun finally broke above the tops of the Cragmar Mountains, rising east of where the Eyrie River turned southward to flow towards the distant Largryk Sea, the two friends were seen going in opposite directions on River Road. Bear was heading toward the rich farm land laying outside Eagle's Vale, while Jeaf was marching toward the Eyrie of the Eagle.

  In the morning light, the fortress looked like a golden ship sailing on a sea of houses. The young Woodswane, who looked on the sight with slack-jawed amazement, wondered if Parm Warl itself would have more splendor than the brilliant scene his eyes were feasting on that day.

  It took Jeaf most of the morning to traverse the distance laying between Star's Blood Inn and the first battlements of the Eyrie of the Eagle. The dirt road, that had taken him through the farmlands and into the vale, had long since given way to cobblestones. Cottages had been replaced by multistoried tightly packed buildings. Shops of all descriptions filled the boule
vard: tailor shops, carpentry shops, hardware stores, jewelry shops, taverns of varying sizes, bakeries, and butcher shops. The street itself was filling up with carts filled with produce, and the vendors who hawked their wares. A smattering of musicians played music to passersbys who dropped an occasional coin into the upturned hats laying at their feet.

  The young Woodswane took special interest in the handful of Candle Makers he saw walking about with bunches of candles hanging from their shoulders. One of these, who was huddled next to a wall with a sobbing woman, was dispensing the counsel their order was renowned for.

  Looking about, Jeaf tried to picture Elamor walking among the people, doing what the others of her order were now doing. He even went out of his way to look into the Candle Makers' faces, wanting to see if they had the same light emanating from his mother's eyes. Yet, none he saw had the radiance she possessed, though all carried her demeanor, one consisting of a unique blend of the magical, mixed with a down-to-earth air.

  While pondering this, Jeaf caught sight of a bluish-gray flash off to his left. Feeling dread starting to grip him, the young Woodswane searched the crowd for a tall milky-white-skinned man. After only a moment's time, his quest ended in ominous success. There, next to the rough stone wall of a nearby bakery, stood the troublesome Soldier of Truth. Eagerly pointing at Jeaf, the tall man was busily conversing with two other people who lacked his white distinctive but wore the same type of bluish-gray cloak. Recalling Barmster's warnings, Jeaf hurried off toward his destination, occasionally looking back to see if he were being followed. And, indeed, he was! Two of the Society's soldiers were keeping pace with him. But the tall man was no longer with them. Strangely, the young Woodswane gained some comfort from this knowledge.

  Finally, Jeaf arrived at the Eye of the Eagle. Acting as a gate, leading to the road spiraling up to the king's castle, the Eye of the Eagle was a tunnel that had been cut through the same pinnacle of stone the fortress was perched on. A score of lamps were needed to aid the natural light shining in from either end of the short passageway.

  Once in the tunnel, Jeaf felt the strain the road's steepening angle placed upon his leg muscles. Here a group of men dressed in white and gold, colors the Valamor warriors wore, joined the young Woodswane in his journey up the rock. Carts of food and drink were also being towed up the King's Way, as this particular part of River Road was called. Splendidly dressed lords and ladies, riding on brilliantly adorned and well-bred steeds, also moved along with them. A cadre of merchants intermingled with the company.

  Other lesser tunnels could be seen intersecting with the Eye of the Eagle, each with a guard posted at its entrance. Where they went or what they were for, the young Woodswane could only guess. The bright light shining out from some of these made him think barracks used to house the king's soldiers must lay just out of sight, and that, undoubtedly, the dimmer passageways must in some way be employed by these soldiers in defense of the king's fortress.

  Emerging from the Eye of the Eagle, Jeaf saw how the floor of the King's Way bore a lattice work of grooves cut for footing and how ornately carved gutters ran parallel to the road.

  Indeed, he reckoned to himself, this highway was built for beauty as well as function.,

  The impressive feat of engineering, that must have taken an army of strong men a thousand days to craft, circled upward like a bird soaring on air currents rising from a sun warmed warl.

  High up, at one of the places where the road turned to face the greater portion of the valley, the company stopped for a moment's rest. Enjoying their respite, each chimed in with their impressions of the picturesque city sitting below, cradled between two of Thangmor's mighty arms. During one of these imaginative descriptions the young Woodswane caught sight of two bluish-gray figures slowly moving up the serpentine trail. Seeing the two men piqued Jeaf's Powers of Intuition, causing the unwelcome vision of the brush fire to return. Frowning, he lifted his eyes and looked beyond the home of the Valamor, out over the plains spreading across northern Nyeg Warl. There... there is where my troubles are coming from! But exactly what was coming, Jeaf didn't know, he had only spoken out of intuition.

  In time, the King's Way reached the massive gates and the fortifications they were affixed to, guarding the Eyrie of the Eagle. The young Woodswane guessed the walls, encircling the rock, must be taller than ten men standing on each other's shoulders and wider than as many men walking abreast.

  Standing in the cool shade cast by the massive portcullis, Jeaf gave a letter to a guard who turned and disappeared through a nearby doorway. Upon returning, he introduced the young Woodswane to one of his comrades, a man who would act as his escort.

  Having entered the Eyrie, Jeaf was amazed to see how the surrounding buildings' stone walls were exquisitely polished. Not one was left rough. He was surprised to find the edifice itself was not a singular structure as he had supposed, but was comprised of many impressive structures that could have, if each had been located somewhere else other than the Eyrie of the Eagle, been a castle by themselves. Even at his young age, Jeaf could estimate that great wealth must have been used to construct these buildings. Star's blood! The young Woodswane thought to himself. This was all paid with the precious metal they mine here.

  After a time walking in the shadows cast by structures as tall as sugar loaf pine trees, the young Woodswane's escort approached a smaller gated archway, one guarded by six heavily-armed soldiers, and passed through. Crossing a cobblestone-covered courtyard, he stopped at a door leading into the side of what must have been the king's castle. Here the soldier knocked and a young man dressed in a green and gold tunic answered.

  Upon receiving the letter, he greeted the young Woodswane. “Sir, welcome to the Eyrie of the Eagle. I'm George, Prince Phelp's page. You must be Jeaf.” After his words were acknowledged, George added, “Please follow me, son of Aryl Oakenfel!”

  “Lead on,” Jeaf replied.

  Winding their way through the castle's seemingly endless hallways, the two men eventually came to a chamber that could have easily held fifty people. Here, Prince Phelp was lunching with a handful of other lords, and one seasoned warrior.

  Seeing his page enter, Phelp enthusiastically greeted him. “George, welcome... Who is this with you?”

  “My Lord, it's Aryl Oakenfel's son, Jeaf.”

  “Jeaf Oakenfel, son of the Master Swordsmith and Woodswane how interesting.” Gesturing welcome with open arms, the prince continued, “Would you join us for our noon meal?” Phelp, who was as tall as Jeaf, wore a white tunic held in place with a golden belt. Tan-colored, soft leather boots showed below the garment.

  Turning to George, the young Woodswane smiled and nodded.

  George returned the smile and nod and then left the room.

  Approaching the dining table, made of rich redwood, Jeaf bowed and said, “Thank you My Lord. Your invitation is indeed an honor.”

  “A Woodswane with manners.” Phelp laughed as he stood and slapped Jeaf on the back. Then, after pulling a chair out for his guest, he circled the table, introducing his companions as he went. “This is Prince Charl of Vineland; this is Lord Claymant from our own realm; over here is Sir Leoyn a trusted knight and commander in my father's service; seated next to him we have Prince Lob, the Wolf King's son; and finally, at the end of the table we have Vav from the who once served in the Elite Guard and is responsible for saving my father's life.”

  Each, in their turn, nodded to the young Woodswane.

  Finished with introductions, the prince exhorted his guest, “Please be seated Jeaf Oakenfel, son of Aryl the Master Swordsmith and Woodswane.”

  As Jeaf made hisself comfortable, Prince Phelp called for servants to bring in additional food and drink. Allowing the young Woodswane time to eat his lunch, knowing he must be famished after his arduous ascent up the rocky spire, the prince turned to his companions and engaged himself in talking about the evening festivities, those that had been planned to celebrate his father's fiftieth summer.

/>   Once the young Woodswane, who had been thinking about the ragamuffin giant as he ate, finished his meal, Prince Phelp turned his attention back to him. “Well Jeaf, son of the Master Swordsmith, I'm told you have a gift for my father... May I see it?”

  “Yes, My Lord,” Jeaf replied as he brought forth the leather-bound package and handed it to the king's son.

  Untying the straps holding the thick leather sheath in place, the prince drew out the great sword. “On the life of all that lives in Nyeg Warl, I swear that I've not seen its equal! …The craftsmanship is masterful. …Its form is amazing.” Phelp stood and swung the sword, revealing his own skill in the art of swordsmanship. “Its balance is perfect, and I see it is made of an alloy that is replete with star's blood.”

  Turning to Leoyn, the prince asked, “Sir, what do you think of this?”

  The king's knight replied, “Aye, My Lord, it is a prize that will please your father.”

  “What say you Prince Lob?”

  “It's a treasure kings would fight over.”

  This made Prince Phelp laugh with delight over his father's good fortune.

  Handing the sword back to the young Woodswane, he exhorted him, “Guard well this charge of yours... You just might end up being the highlight of tonight's party.”

  Carefully rewrapping the great sword, Jeaf replied, “Thank you, good sirs. No doubt my father will be pleased with your appraisal of his handiwork.”

  Looking like a child who was planning some mischief, Prince Phelp turned toward Vav, the warrior who sat at the end of the table, while asking Jeaf another question. “Son of Aryl Oakenfel, what do the Woodswane say about the Lord of Regret?”

  Remembering his father's admonitions and recalling the vision of the wildfire he had seen twice on his journey, Jeaf carefully weighed his response. Then, turning a puzzled eye toward Vav who was intently studying him, he took a deep breath and spoke. “The Woodswane say the true Lord of Regret is not found in Nyeg Warl, but lives in Ar Warl.”