Crooked Finger and the Warl of the Dead

by Rex Hazelton

  Glancing first at Travyn, then at Lamarik, and finally Poroth, Ilya'Gar began. “We here represent a confederation of Ar Warlers and Nyeg Warlers who are set on casting Ab'Don off his throne. Loda'Gar has directed me to extend an invitation for you and your Broyn'Dar kin to come and join us."

  Arga'Dyne's rough laughter was devoid of mirth. "You want me to join you on a suicide mission, is that it? You can't defeat the Sorcerer, not here in Ar Warl. His magic is too great and his influence is entrenched too deep for you to uproot so that his throne can be toppled."

  Shaking his head in disbelief, Arga’Dyne leveled his pale-gray eyes on Ilya'Gar and added, "Of late, his sorcery has been taken to a new level. His power has increased along with the avarice that fuels it. If possible, Ar Warl is darker now than it once was. Wraiths move freely where they once were never seen. Those who have fallen beneath the Spell of the White Hand have increased in such staggering numbers that if the rate of their growth is not stemmed, the Ar will look like a rampaging blizzard has ravaged the warl with its white fury. I swear to you, the Sorcerer can't be beaten."

  "Are you certain of that?" Travyn said as he unsheathed the sword he had remade on Vlad'War's Anvil, the blade that was gorged with both Vlad'War's and Andara's inimitable magic and laid it across his thighs.

  At that moment a roar was heard in the tree tops above as a huge, winged-beast plummeted out of the night sky and into the space that separated the negotiators from the fire that lent them its light.

  Once on the ground, the massive creature stood on its hind legs with its wings spred wide and roared again, alarming the Broyn'Dar who scrambled to their feet and reached for their jagged-edged swords. When the griffin’s shape warped, for even those with a rudimentary knowledge of folklore could identify the creature that stood in front of them, the hunchmen knew magic was at play. But whose?

  At first the griffin's body looked like someone was trying to punch their way out of a bag covered in fur before the massive creature’s form defused into particles as fine as grains of sand. A panoply of colors emanated from the particles as they whirled wildly about like a giant spoon was stirring them. In time, the particles transformed into radiant mists that collapsed in on themselves until the silhouette of a powerfilly built human took shape. After the various colors filling the mists fell into order, a man with a curly, brown head of hair and beard to match stepped forth.

  Lifting his hands, with palms aimed outward to show he wasn’t carrying a weapon, the stranger addressed the nervous Broyn'Dar. "Don't be alarmed. I’m Bacchanor. You may know me by the name- Brown Wizard. I like to refer to myself as Pearl Wyldewise's husband, the one called Mar'Gul. I am friend to both the Neflin and Fane J'Shrym. In summers past, I was honored to serve as mentor to Jeaf Oakenfel- the true Hammer Bearer and the father of the one you call Storm Master.

  "Please excuse the theatrical entrance, but I thought a show of magic was called for to display the benefits that come with the alliance you are being offered. As my shape-shifting abilities suggest, the griffin's famed Community of Blood stands with us, since I can only take on the form of those who are my friends."

  Not to be upstaged and wanting to add his own voice to the things Bacchanor was saying, Dog's bark echoed through the forest as he bounded out of the night-shrouded greenwood, leapt over the Broyn'Dar's heads that ducked at his passing, and landed beside the Brown Wizard.

  As big as a large pony, the wire-haired hound’s body made a resounding thump as it hit the ground, followed by a sliding noise that sent gravel flying at those who had the misfortune of sitting opposite Dog’s approach. And like the Brown Wizard before him, Dog's form dissolved into a swirling mass of infinitesimally small particles, all gray in color like his long, wiry fur.

  Then the particles darkened in color until they were as black as tar with tan, blue, and honey-brown hues marbling in the spinning maelstrom. Like the previous transformation, the particles soon turned into mists that collapsed in on themselves until a human form took shape, one that was clad in black armor whose helmet carried a long plume as black just as the armor itself.

  After taking off his head gear and tucking it under one arm, the stranger said, "My name is Rybara, son of the wizard Andara whose powers are well known to the learned living in Ar Warl."

  With hair the color of honey and eyes as blue as a cloudless sky, Rybara looked as young as the day his father changed him into the enchanted creature that came to be called Dog. Andara did this to save his son's life as it was slipping away due to the grievous wounds he suffered when he resisted Ab'Don's attempt to subjugatd the Warl.

  Rejecting his father's wishes to follow in his footsteps and become a Healer who vowed to do no harm, Rybara chose to fight fire with fire in his struggle to keep the Sorcerer from coming to power. In the end, the young man found the maxim that says those who live by the sword ultimately die by the sword was true. But his father wasn't willing to let him go.

  Since Andara's formidable magic was unable to heal Rybara, the wizard decided to save his son's life by casting a spell over his broken body. Along with the enchantment, Andara bound his son's life to his own and to the person who would inherit his magic- Mar'Gul as she came to be called. If his son wanted to fight, Andara made certain that his son would do so protecting the one who carried on the Healing Wizard’s legacy.

  A pathetically melancholy cry, wafting on the air, presaged the appearance of a moan cat that was Dog's equal in size. Mottled black and green in color, the beast's glossy smooth fur was perfect camouflage for the night. The campfire's reflection in its unblinking eyes warned of the danger the camouflage hid, danger that made the Broyn’Dar step aside as he moved to join Rybara and Bacchanor

  Placing his hand on the moan cat’s broad head, Rybara said, "This is A'Kadar, Lamarik's friend and companion. And this," Rybara's hand lifted to point to the tree tops as he added, "is Bala."

  The Broyn'Dar snarled as the cretchym arrived, angry that their kin were being used to make abominations like her.

  Little did the others know that the Broyn'Dar's present mission was aimed at dealing with the Hag responsible for abusing their kind in the horrible ways needed to create the mutant hunchman-humans.

  Not one to be easily cowed, Bala landed on A’Kadar’s back instead of Dog’s for obvious reasons and withdrew her needle-sharp sword as she said, "I know we're asking you to become our allies, but I'm willing to set aside time to teach a lesson to anyone who wishes to desparage me for being who I am."

  With nearly transparent wings stretched out as stiff as boards and large, almond-shaped eyes filled with a strange green light, the diminutive cretchym's fearsome pose caught the Broyn'Dar's fancy in a way that led to a chorus of snorting approval.

  "Put your sword away," Duga'Dyne said as he lowered the weapon he had drawn when Bacchanor, in griffin form, flew into their midst. Extending an open hand to cajole Bala, he added. "Little One, it seems you don't need sharpened steel to get your point across. If we can stomach the Neflin and humans, why not a cretchym?"

  Frowning over the rude remark about stomaching her, Bala, nevertheless, nodded her head in acceptance of what was a crude welcome. When Bala sheathed her rapier-like sword, the Broyn'Dar followed her lead like she had taken charge of them.

  Arga'Dyne's rough sounding laughter was heard again. This time enjoyment was its author instead of cynicism. "I must confess Ilya'Gar, your sales pitch is not lacking enthusiasm. And I get what you're saying: There's more swimming in the pond than just tadpoles."

  Quick-witted as he was, Bacchanor replied, "Don't think we're asking you to jump in the water and take a swim with the frogs. We're more than that as you can see. Our power has its roots buried deep in the magic that wizards like Vlad'War and Andara, in the foresight, prepared for us to use to usher in the Age of Parm Warl. And I assure you, with the Magic of Foresight they were blessed with, they were aware of the sorcery that would arrive to try and keep this from happening.

  No doubt, th
e painful lesson the Broyn’Dar have learned living in Ar Warl,” the timber of Baccahnor’s robust voice appealed to Broyn’Dar tastes, “is that there is more than enough darkness to extinguish the light. But there is another side to the coin that we in Nyeg Warl have come to know about, a side that tells us that light can be more powerful than darkness if enough people,” the Brown Wizard smiled as he looked around the campfire, “elves and hunchmen come to believe this and than act upon their beliefs."

  "And who or what determines the winner?" Arga'Dyne's question came from, as Ilya'Gar had eloquently explained it, the burden that rests on a chieftain’s shoulders; a burden that constantly kept the clan’s welfare in the forefront of Arga’Dyne’s mind.

  "Who's to say?" Bacchanor rubbed his curly brown beard as he spoke. "Maybe it's those with the most magic; maybe it's those with the most courage; or maybe it’s a combination of things that make the whole greater than its parts. What’s certain is this, until someone tries we'll never know."

  Not willing to leave things where they were, Arg'Dyne's hand swept out to point at his kin who surrounded him. "The Broyn'Dar are hunchmen. What good has the light ever done for our kind? The night is our friend, not the day. Surely the Bro’Noon know this. Isn't it true that the Nyeg Warlers used daylight to hunt you down to near extinction?"

  "It’s true," Ilya'Gar confessed. "But it’s also true that daylight revealed another pathway to the Bro’Noon, one that has enabled us to reach a level of prosperity that we’ve never known. As a result, we have greater power. The Bro'Noon have discovered that night was never the friend we thought it was. Instead, it kept us bound to ways that led to our near extinction, as you have said."

  "You’re speaking about chata, aren't you?"

  "Chata added to our troubles, yes. But I'm also refering to the animosity we held for others that were different from us. We blamed them for the hatred we constantly nurtured. If they throw a fist at us, we’ll throw two at them, we would say. But after the Bro’Noon began to travel down the new pathway we had chosen to use, we learned that they weren't totally at fault. For our cruelty towards strangers verified every fear the humans and elves felt towards us and drove them to attack us accordingly.

  “In the end, it was the elves and humans who sought reconciliation with my fathers when they didn’t have to, something thay chata would never let the Bro’Noon do. Indeed, if it wasn’t for the fear of extinction, we would never had agreed to the Treaty of Gor’Dar."

  "Is that what you'll ask us to do, give up chata?"

  A wave of angry growling swept through the Broyn'Dar.

  "It might come to that. But there may be other solutions."

  "Like what?"

  "We’ll give you territory of your own that will be more than sufficient to provide for your needs. There, you can continue to use chata. But know this, as long as you keep taking that drug, you'll never be totally free, nor will any trust you except for your own kind. That’s what the Bro'Noon have learned."

  "So, the Bro'Noon are free? How so?"

  "Today, our villages are found throughout Nyeg Warl. We're not holed up in one place because we fear the warl we live in. We trade with elves and humans alike- both services and merchandise. Our children have gained entrance into the School of the Sword and the Song, where the kings send their own children to learn leadership skills, and the School of the Candle Makers where they are taught to use magic.

  "Ben'Syne," Ilya'Gar signaled for one of his Bro'Noon brethren to stand, "if you would please."

  Having already talked to Ilya'Gar about what he wanted him to do when he was called upon, Ben'Syne stood and took out a white candle he lit using a Word of Power. Then he sent the talisman whirling about his hand until its flame had expanded into a sheet of fire that soon took on the glowing shape of a large, round shield. "Who here dares to challenge my magic with their blade? Come now Cousins… one of you attack me. I’ll not hurt you if you do."

  Duga'Dyne placed a hand on Fage'Dom's shoulder as he began to stand. Not wanting his friend to be humiliated again, he said, "I'll go."

  Then Duga'Dyne rose to his feet, took out his sword and swung it at the fiery shield. On contact, the edge of the blade was burned away. Another blow saw the steel reduced to three-fourths of its mass. Before a third blow could be thrown, Ben'Syne’s hands were a blur as they reshaped the fiery shield into flaming lance that he drove through one of the stones used to make the firepit. Once he withdrew the lance from the cut it had made in the rock, Ben’Syne spoke a Word of Power that turned the spear back into the simple candle whose flame was quickly extinguished.

  As Ilya'Gar thanked Ben'Syne, the Bro'Noon nodded his head, first to Ilya’Gar, then to Duga’Dyne, and then sat down.

  "What is chata compared to that?" Ilya'Gar intoned.

  "You’ll teach us to use magic?" Arga'Dyne hadn't felt such a rush since the first time he had eaten chata, a rush that, with the deepening of his addiction, could no longer be duplicated.

  "Yes… in exchange for you giving up chata. But, as I've already stated, our alliance doesn't have to include this unless you want it to, and if you do, Nyeg Warl's Candle Makers have powers that can help free you from the drug's grip." Smiling, Ilya'Gar added, "By the way, Ben'Syne is a Candle Maker. More than that, he is a Candle Warrior."

  "What do you have to add to that Storm Master?" Arga'Dyne frowned as he tried to come to grips with what he was hearing.

  "I will only add this, the Bro'Noon have honor in Nyeg Warl, though,” Travyn smirked as he spoke, “humans still have a healthy fear of them."

  The amber light in Travyn's eyes flared as the Broyn'Dars’ laughter filled the night sky. Soon he too was laughing as he got caught up in the delight the hunchmen felt over the Bro'Noon’s reputation. It was as if the Broyn’Dar outburst was saying: Maybe the strange hunchmen are kin after all.

  "Men, elves, and giants alike have learned it is unwise to cheat a hunchman." Travyn went on to expound on the topic. This stoked the laughter that was joined by snarling and the sounds of snapping of teeth.

  "Are you saying the Bro'Noon can defend themselfs without fear of reprisal?" Arga'Dyne leaned forward and put his fists on his thighs as he waited for the answer.

  "Within reason, yes." Travyn looked at the Bro'Noon before adding, "They have recourse to appeal to the Candle Makers to make a judgement on any dispute they might have with any Nyeg Warler other than the Bro'Noon themselves, who follow their own laws when dealing with each other."

  “Let me say,” Ilya’Gar looked the Broyn’Dar chieftain squarely in the eyes, “the Candle Makers have proven to be impartial judges, and many of the rulings have been rendered with Broyn’Dar, who have been accepted into the renowned order of benevolent wizards, included in the decision-making body.”

  Hearing the Bro’Noon were given freedom to defend themselves, time was taken for the Broyn'Dar and Bro’Noon to expound on the virtues of dueling before the parley continued. When they were done, each looked at their cousins with new respect.

  "How do I know whether all of this is just window dressing or not," Arga'Dyne settled back on his haunches as he spoke.

  Travyn tipped his broad-brimmed hat back with one hand while keeping ahold of his sword with the other so his face could be clearly seen by all. The drama the rings of amber light in his eyes produced was not lost on him.

  Lamarik rolled her eyes and sighed when she saw what Travyn had done. No need for theatrics, she thought. Bacchanor was proving to be a bad influence on the normally stoic human.

  "I too am Bro'Noon," Travyn announced as the light in his eyes flared.

  The Broyn'Dar growled in anger over the human's ignorance. This wasn't possible.

  "By what right do you make your claim?" Arga'Dyne asked in measured tones. "Be careful what you say. You're treading on dangerous ground."

  "By the right accorded to me by having gone through the Bonding Ritual with Ilya'Gar."

  "The human is your Bloodbrother?" Such a thing
was unheard of among the Broyn'Dar who went to great lengths to hide their rituals from man's eyes.

  "Aye Chieftain," Ilya'Gar stood with his arms crossed over a chest he stuck out with pride, "we’re brothers, though his hairless body makes it hard for my family to accept him."

  This elicited another round of snarling laughter from the Broyn'Dar.

  One of the hunchmen picked up the fur-covered hide he was sitting on and offered it to Travyn with a mock look of sympathy on his normally fierce-looking face. Another suggested that the human trade his hat in for a beaver-skin cap, since a beast-man without a proper mane just wouldn't do.

  "Ilya'Gar is my fourth brother." Travyn and Ilya'Gar looked at one another and nodded their heads in acknowledgement of the respect they felt for each other. "I have lived with him for most of my life, either in his village or in the Eyre of the Eagle where my parents spend a great deal of their time. Loda'Gar is as much a father to me as Jeaf Oakenfel is. And if my father hadn't been away from home for so long, I'm sure Ilya'Gar would say the same thing about him. I assure you, Nyeg Warl's relationship with the Bro'Noon is not window dressing.

  "How does Ab'Don treat you?" Travyn asked. "From what I'm told, he values you as game to be hunted. When you're not providing sport for the noblemen, he uses the threat of your raids to create the kind of fear in his subjects that his dour magic feeds on; and he uses the skirmishes with your kin that inevitably follow to harden his people for war. Does he teach you how to use the Hag's black candles? Will he allow any of his warriors to go through the Bonding Ritual with any of you?"

  "Even Koyer employed the Bro'Noon in his service during the Battle of the Decision. He honored them for being the warriors they were, giving rank to the best of them, and entrusting their leaders to carry out his battle plans. Has Ab'Don done the same for you?

  “Isn't it likely that if you reject our alliance and he wins the approaching war, the ground that future generations of Broyn’Dar will stand on, while trying to survive Ab’Don’s unrelenting displeasure, will prove to be unstable as sand?'