Crooked Finger and the Warl of the Dead

by Rex Hazelton

  With the remnant of the Breach Sea- now a large, elongated lake- gulping up Cassia River’s waters and, for that matter, the Ran River's waters that came out of the Nyeg and Sybel River's waters that came out of the central most mountain range in Ar Warl, the Thrall Mountians, a new name was given to the waterway that was formed by the flow exiting the lake's southern end- Breach River.

  Cloaked with both the Magic of Invisibility cast by Wisdor Stones and the cover of night, those in the Bjorkian longboats under Fyreed's command ferried the Nyeg Warler vanguard onto Ar Warl's shores both south and east of Suskynd: south by crossing the dwindling Breach Sea's narrowing expanse and depositing the warriors on the Great Plain that lay there; and east by sailing up the Malamor River to a place beyond the city walls that fronted the river.

  Already having amassed a considerable number of warriors in both locations, the Nyeg Warlers' plan wasn’t foiled even after Laviathon stumbled upon the invisible longboats as he and his children were patrolling the Malamor River's waters. The fountain of flame the sea serpent sent spraying over the first Bjorkian vessel he encountered not only alerted Suskynd to the impending attack, it served as the unwitting signal that sent the assault into motion. And for the rest of that night and well into the next morning, a furnace of super heated fighting that Laviathon's flames had unwittingly ignited raged as lives were lost and victories won.

  The spectacle of ferocity that the vicious crocodon displayed as they battled the Bjork, who feverishly navigated the Malamor's battle-churned waters, drew Suskynd's attention to the river. Following their father as he tore one longboat to pieces after another, Laviathon's children made quick work of the sailors and soldiers who fell into the river. The carnage was so great that the waters turned red with Nyeg Warl blood. The only thing that curtailed the slaughter was the Candle Warriors who were stationed on the longboats to guard against magic's intrusion. Though many of these perished as Laviathon's incendiaries washed over them, they were not consumed before they hurled their elongated spears into the crocodon's children's scaly hides. In time, sea serpent blood was as copious as that which flowed from the shredded human, hunchman, and elven bodies the thrashing sea serpents were busy devouring. With elven thread-arrows joining the fiery spears the Candle Warriors wielded in defense of their Nyeg Warl brethren, victory was snatched out of Laviathan's grasp. While uncompromised darkness still ruled the sky, he and his brood were sent fleeing upstream away from Suskynd and the fires that fed on the Bjorkian longboats.

  Taking advantage of the unintended diversion that took place on the Malamor River, the Nyeg Warlers that had been deposited south of the city went on the attack. In spite of their vast numbers, the advancing host approached the beleaguered city's walls in silence that was profound enough to catch the distracted defenders off guard. Before reinforcements could be called, the invaders had breached the battlements using grappling hooks and narrow ladders to do so. With elves taking the lead, the raiders reached the towers, where archers fired their weapons through killing holes positioned to create a devastating crossfire, well before significant damage could come from there.

  Cloaks, covering the soldiers' livery beneath their muted colors, flapped in the wind as the Nyeg Warlers leapt from the walls down to the city's streets where the real fighting began. And as the air lifted the cloaks from the warrior's backs as they flew through the air, the white and gold of the Valamorians could be seen, along with Vineland's maroon and green, Shomeron's red and silver, and Verdant Deep's green and yellow. The woodland colors the Forest People, the Bro’Noon, and the elves wore were amply mixed in with those who poured into Suskynd.

  Delaying long enough to let the assault from the south create enough confusion to cover their advance, Nyeg Warls' second prong of attack struck from the east. Here the cloaks' murky shades covered Plagea's silver and black and Hadram blue. The Woodwanes' colors, copying leaf and loam, didn't need to be hidden, nor the Tayn’waeh's simple taste in livery that leaned toward browns, burnt orange and moss green.

  Once over Suskynd's walls, and having opened the gates, the Nyeg Warler flood was arrested in the courtyards that sat behind the gates. This is where the Hag let loose their fury, stretching their black candles' flames out into deadly fiery fingers they used to stab at their enemies. Unbeknownst to them, the invaders had stumbled into a den of vipers intent on killing every last one of those who had the temerity to attack Ar Warl. Unlike vipers, the Hag strikes came with the rapidity of lightning hurled out of a storm gone wild.

  As such battles usually do, the fight began with a barrage of magic meant to soften up the enemy, so the less gifted could follow the destructive wave into the opposition's ranks. While the night sky was lit by the conflagration that erupted between the Candle Warriors and Hag, Nyeg Warl's troops tried to slip around the row of black-robed wizards. To their dismay, white-skinned soldiers awaited their approach, soldiers that included women and children in their ranks, those that were no less dangerous than the men they stood beside.

  Impervious to the effects of normal wounding, whether by blade or spear, the milky white-skinned host was a formidable foe to face. Having had the Spell of the White Hand cast over them, a spell whose power the Nyeg Warlers had already faced in the Battle of Decision fought thirty winters before, these unfortunate ones had all of their blood drained out of them to make room for the magic that now animated their bodies. More than that, the spell acted like a conduit that connected the victim to the one who was responsible for harming them, effectively making them a puppet to be used as their abuser saw fit, a puppet whose strings could only be cut by a beheading or a mutilation that was so severe the accursed could not recover.

  With this in mind, the Nyeg Warlers had Cragmar Giants act as the tip of the spear that cut into host ensnared by the Spell of the White Hand. With massive, medal-studded clubs in hand, the behemoths bashed their way into the throng that was not easily moved. The Bro’Noon, now only called hunchmen behind closed doors and by those foolish enough to do so in public since the Treaty of Gor'Dar was signed by Jeaf Oakenfel and Way'Gar, were sent to clean up after the giants by pouncing on the fallen and cutting them to pieces before they could regain their feet.

  As effective as this strategy was, the savage beast-men still suffered a sobering number of loses; usually at the hands of the white-skinned children whose counter attacks took advantage of the Bro’Noon's single-minded focus on the adults they deemed the greater threat. But with the Spell of the White Hand in play, the age of the person who had succumbed to its magic was inconsequential. Infused with the mind of The One Who Was Not Ab’Don, who now possessed their bodies, the children were children no more. Their fighting skills were those honed over countless winters of training and the chances for combat that came with them. Their cunning was an endowment given to them by a being whose age was beyond reckoning.

  With four of their number chopped down, the giants were not left unscathed. And unless the fighting ended soon, more would be slain.

  Unable to stay at the rear of the battle as many commanders often do, Bear charged into the fray to come to the rescue of one of his huge brethren who had been grievously wounded by the tireless swords the milky white-skinned warriors swung with inhuman strength. Having been touched by the Hammer of Power's Magic back in the Battle of the Cave of Forgetfulness, Bear's body was changed by the encounter: his skin was as tough as chainmail, his strength was increased, his speed enhanced, his wit sharpened. Once called Ragamuffin by Jeaf Oakenfel, Bear was far from being that today. After all the summers he had spent in the Prophetess and Hammer Bearer's presence, the giant had become one of Nyeg Warl's most venerated champions. Still, the flood of whiteskins that poured out of Suskynd was so great that his supernatural gifting and fighting skills paled in comparison to the size of the mob that rushed at him.

  Has tha Spells of the White Hands been casts over the whole city, Bear wondered as he battled the white tide that rose up around him.

  Men and women,
whose garments spoke of the varied occupations they held, rushed in like the masses were revolting against a tyrannical king- all armed with knives, pokers, shovels, pitchforks, legs broken off chairs, and anything else they could get their hands on to use in the fight. Most carried knives and cudgels they had acquired before hand at the behest of the one who possessed their white bodies. But this was no revolt. It was an organized assault aimed at the troublesome giant who was Jeaf and Muriel Oakenfel's dear friend.

  With seven, thick locks of hair slapping against his neck and shoulders, the Cragmar Commander swung his club with the force of a large boulder rampaging down a steep mountainside. Bear's thick lips lifted to reveal his clenched teeth as he saw that the mob was focused on him. They knows who I am, he surmised. They're coming for me."

  In time, Bears' garments, made of scraps of leather sewn together in a quilt-like manner, were cut to shreds. His reinforced skin finally gave way to the knife blades' inexorable assault. Slashed as deeply as he was, Bear's wounds began to leak blood. Taking as much pummeling as he did, bruises were already beginning to appear on the giant’s arms and the parts of his legs that could be seen beneath his torn pants. Still he fought, bellowing in rage the whole time he did.

  The Bro’Noon were drawn to the seething mass that surrounded the giant like a horde of white ants swarming over a crock of spilled honey. Born with a love for fighting, the hottest place in any battle was where the beast-men could be found. And true to their nature, they rushed toward the throng of whiteskins that were trying to beat the giant senseless.

  The violence that swept around Bear drained some of the energy from the rest of the fight that spanned the courtyard's width, but not enough to make it significantly less dangerous.

  Seeing the white-skinned host targeting Bear, the Hag were quick to guess that their master wanted the giant killed, even at the expense of other objectives. With the Candle Warriors pressing against them as hard as they were, Hag struggled to disengage from the feverish magical exchange. But some did. And these were busy sending fiery tendrils out to strike Bear whose battered body had already been tenderized enough to give their magic purchase in what lay beneath his besieged hide.

  Screaming in pain as Hag magic struck him, Bear was relieved to see a Bro’Noon Candle Warrior leap onto the growing pile of bodies the giant stood upon to protect him with a fiery shield held in his claw-tipped hand. The blue and red paint the beast-man had smeared along his snout-like mouth crinkled as his fangs clenched in response to the amount of magic he was expending. A moment later he yelped as a white-skin's dagger tore at his shield arm. Falling to one knee, the Bro’Noon stabbed the one possessed by the Sorcerer's magic with the blazing sword he carried in his other hand. The gaping wound the beast-man inflicted did nothing to stop the assailant. After his bicep was raked by the dagger's return pass, the Bro’Noon took the assailants head of with one swift pass of his fiery weapon. But the Candle Warrior had not dispatched the last of the whiteskins, and he was soon defending himself as much as he was protecting Bear.

  Then a moment before the milky-white wave swallowed all of the Nyeg Warlers who had come to rally around Bear, a roar filled the air announcing other help had come, help that rode astride a griffin's broad back, help that was as beautiful to behold as the rain-washed warl.

  Muriel Oakenfel had entered the fight, the Prophetess who needed no candle to wield the magic she had come to master over the twenty summers that had passed since the Battle of the Temple of the Oak Tree had been fought. Lifting her hand, Muriel reduced the Hag fiery fingers flying her way into fizzling wisps of dying smoke.

  Rising up on Grour Blood, Muriel stood on her winged-guardian's back and surveyed the battle that was raging beneath her. Brown eyes, with a touch of red in them, squinted at what she saw. Olive-complected, with a figure that hid none of her inherent femininity, Muriel's raven-black hair framed her angry countenance that beheld Bear's dire situation. But instead of assailing the giant's foes with griffin claw and fang and with the power she held in her hands, Muriel filled the air with the Song of Breaking, a weapon far stronger than any found below. And as she sang, her father's ring that sat on her finger began to glow.

  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.

  This was the song that Muriel had learned to sing in the Cave of Forgetfulness where she had endured fifteen winters of unspeakable abuse, a song that released the magic found in the mystical gem her father had given her on the day of her birth, a gem that was filled with the Singer's voice, a voice whose song was loosed by the faith of the one who had suffered so much. Suffering alone could not have done this, faith had to be mixed with it, faith that wounds could be healed, that tragedy could be overcome, and that wholeness could be had. Then the melody changed, and new verses were sung.

  I can run farther than my feet can carry me.

  I can lift weight greater than my arms can hold.

  I am more than the things that have befallen me.

  For the Valley of Trouble has made me bold.

  Shadows flee before my song, to the safety of your lair.

  No solace will your children find within the darkness that they share.

  For the warl is yours no more, it is given to the just.

  I'll find you there my enemy and grind you into dust.

  Muriel's ring's glowing grew until her hand was lost in its light... then her body... then Grour Blood’s massive form. And as she sang the last word of her song, the light exploded onto the courtyard below, inundating the warriors in its blinding brilliance, momentarily blinding them while all the candle flames were blown away. When the Nyeg Warlers' sight returned the Hag were gone and a pack of black hounds was hastily sifting through their ranks on its way to the open gate and the plains that lay beyond.

  Lenora, one of Mystlkynd's Elf-Princesses, was not deceived by the canine forms that wound their way past the surprised soldiers. Pulling out a sparkling thread-arrow, she nocked it to her bow string and shot it at a passing hound.

  Stumbling to the ground in a sprawling heap of black fur once the radiant arrow struck the fleeing creature, the hound transformed into one of the black-robed wizard's the Candle Warriors had been fighting. Alerted to the Hag ploy, a handful of other elves got shots off before the pack had cleared the site of the conflict and were racing across the Great Plain. Two more Hag were killed in the process. Three others ran off with thread-arrows sticking out of them, their multi-colored, sparkling light marking the path the hounds’ used for their escape.

  The milky white-skinned soldiers closest to Muriel as she sang, crumpled to the ground when the flash of light struck them. Looking like bugs scurring off to find a rock to crawl under, those that were farther away stumbled about as they retreated into the city to find hiding places in Suskynd's buildings.

  Once Grour Blood spread his massive wings and settled on the ground, the Prophetess dismounted from the huge winged-lion and went to one of the stumbling whiteskins. Placing her hand on the woman's head, she spoke a word into her ear a moment before the woman collapsed to the courtyard. With her white-skin taking on a hint of pink, the woman inhaled a deep breath like it was the first she had ever taken. Then she smiled at Muriel and exhaled for the last time.

  Without hesitating, Muriel signaled the Nyeg Warlers to surround the stumbling whiteskins who had lost the desire to fight. One by one the Prophetess went to these, and with the touch of her hand and words spoken into their ears, she freed the captives from the Spell of the White Hand, weeping as she did. But with the blood drained from their bodies, those released from the curse only knew a moment's rest before they perished, a moment they
were glad to lose their lives to gain.

  ****

  In the far-off Hall of Voyd, the Sorcerer grimaced as he felt his ties to the whiteskins being severed. A moment later he shuddered as the magic he used to weave the Spell of the White Hand returned to him. On-and-on this went, a subtle grimace followed by a brief shudder, as Muriel continued to wash his wicked stain off of Suskynd.

  Contrary to what one might think, Ab'Don had forfeited little in the battle that was being fought at the place where the Nyeg had entered the Ar. Beyond losing access to the pale, blood-drained bodies that were accumulating on Suskynd's streets like fall’s leaves, his loses were negligible if not wholly predictable once one took into account that Suskynd was the meat used to bait the Sorcerer's trap.

  Wanting the war fought in Ar Warl where his power was greatest, Ab'Don hoped a quick victory would embolden the Nyeg Warler's to venture deeper into his realm. Besides, the spirits that departed from the bodies once held in the throes of the Spell of the White Hand would be harvested by the wraiths that had not yet made their presence known in Suskynd and herded into the Namelss Evil's fold that was gathering in the shadows that covered half of the Warl of the Dead.

  A cunning smile crossed the Sorcerer's face that was not lessened by the ebb and flow of the magic that buffeted him. Cunning changed to something more celebratory when the Sorcerer looked upon the body that hung upon the fiery tree standing in the midst of the Hall of Voyd.

  "Kaylan." Raptor-yellow eyes watched the rivulet of blood dripping from the young man's wounded chest and onto the floor as he spoke, though the one who looked through them was not really Ab'Don. "Your mother has finally arrived in Ar Warl and all is coming to pass as planned. Soon she'll be taking your place on the tree and you'll be freed from your burden, if the term freed is not taken literally. And once the tree takes hold of Muriel and Crooked Finger is taken out of your heart and plunged into hers, I'll use your mother to break down the barrier that separates the Warl of the Living from the Warl of the Dead and summon the army that waits in the Shadowland to be called into the realm where flesh and blood exists. Then, who will stop me from conquering the Warl? And once this happens, who can keep me from triumphing over the Mountain of Song?"