Crooked Finger and the Warl of the Dead

by Rex Hazelton

  The Sorcerer's laughter echoed through the empty hall he shared with two of the fraethym that stood guard over the fiery tree before he spoke to Kaylan again. "Did you know that your mother is the key that will open the door to my dreams?

  "Now all I need to do is figure out how I'm going to get her to come here. Will I have to use force? Or will subtler means do the trick? What do you think?"

  Ab'Don's angular features grew placid as he studied Kaylan’s motionless form. The matted tufts of grime-covered yellow hair, looking like long feathers jutting out of his head, stood motionless before he smiled and added, "I forgot... you can't speak. Can you?"

  ****

  Evening was descending on Suskynd following a day that the Nyeg Warlers had used to secure its parameters. Following the Candle Warriors who scoured the city in search of the surviving whiteskins, Muriel had spent the day working under the hot sun's watchful eye while she freed those who had been taken captive by the Spell of the White Hand. One by one, she touched the heads and spoke into the ears of the Sorcerer's victims. One by one, these fell to the ground where they looked up at the Prophetess as they took their last breath. Some smiled. Some said, Thank you. Some looked confused like they were awakening from a long dream that had finally ended. Unlike those who had been beheaded, black smoke lifted out of their pores and fell to the ground where it disappeared; and as it sunk into the rock and soil, a moaning sound was heard like the ground objected to the smoke’s intrusion.

  Earlier, with a swath of gray accenting the eastern horizon, most of the people that had fallen under the Spell of the White Hand left their hiding places in mass and headed for Suskynd's western wall. Battling their way up on the sparsely guarded battlements, for no one expected an enemy to come out of the west where Nyeg Warl was located, the milky white-skinned host dropped off the wall facing the ribbon of water that once was the Breach Sea and jumped into the southward flowing current the Malamor River imposed on the waterway.

  Though the Bjork hounded them with the few longboats they had time to man, those that were tied to the piers that were connected to the city that was once one of Ar Warl's greatest ports, the white-skinned swarm crawled along the river bottom where they couldn’t be reached. The Sorcerer's spell kept them alive without their lungs needing to draw in air. Though they would not survive forever in this condition, the school of whiteskins were able to remain submerged long enough to find places where an exodus from the narrowing waterway would go undisturbed by Nyeg Warl's warriors.

  Breaking away in small groups, those under the Spell of the White Hand would reach shore before the Bjork could respond. In time, the dwindling number of those that remained submerged made following them an all but meaningless venture. So, the seafarer's turned their vessels around and sailed back to Suskynd, leaving the dwindling, milky white-skinned host to climb out of the river as they chose and begin their eastward migration un-harassed. And like the pack of black hounds did before them, they were drawn to the place where the Sorcerer's forces were gathering.

  This mass evacuation made Muriel's work much easier, so did the help that came from Suskynd's citizens who were brave enough to take action. By enlarge, the Suskyndians stoically accepted the new masters who had taken control of their lives since that is what they thought the Nyeg Warlers were. Living in Ar Warl all their lives, a place where the strong ruthlessly dominated the weak, how could they think differently? Still, there were those who fought to cast off this learned helplessness, those who pointed out the whiteskins' hiding places in an act of defiance against the Sorcerer's magic that had despoiled their city and destroyed countless families that lived within.

  But even this act wasn’t far afield from Ar Warl's nature, a place where revenge was as prevalent as the acts of horror that initiated the reprisals.

  Sadly enough, people still died as the day progressed, though the outcome of the battle was no longer in doubt. Those under the Spell of the White Hand were not easily dispatched. Often-times, the white-skinned fiends would slaughter any who were within their reach when they realized they could no longer stay hidden, including Ar Warlers that had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. This was another reason why some of the city's inhabitants helped to expose the dangerous brood. At times, desperation can change a passive heart, and the Suskyndians were desperate to divest themselves of the dangerous whiteskins.

  ****

  "Wraiths are in that building," Captain Donylsyn told the Candle Maker who was working with him and his men. Some called them ghosts since they were so much like the entities found in the tales used to entertain and scare them when they were children, apparitions that were never actually seen, most thought the phantoms were bred by imaginations run wild. But here in Suskynd, the frightening stories had become a reality with fangs and claws that could rend flesh.

  "In the attic or cellar," Rowniel asked as he looked over his shoulder at the captain. Well-versed in the rare exchanges that took place between the living and the dead, he was prepared to deal with the kind of spectres they were hunting down. The time he had spent as Muriel Oakenfel's student had seen to this.

  "Most are in the attic," the captain replied. "At least one is in the cellar."

  "Why are there so many in one place?" This time it was the female Candle Warrior who accompanied Rowniel that spoke. Unlike the leader of her order who was tall of height, Fillanor was short of build. But like Dolfon, she was well-muscled and armed with a disposition that didn't suffer foolishness. With her robe's multi-colored hood laying on her back and a long, heavy braid of hair resting on top of it, Fillanor watched Rowniel with a face that looked like it had been cut out of stone. Sharp angled nose, square jaw, cheek bones devoid of any chubbiness, and eyes as brown as the hair on her head, Fillanor was, nonetheless, a good-looking woman.

  Good looking wasn't something that could be said of Rowniel whose face had been scarred by the pox he had survived as a child, an illness that gave him his passion for Healing, one that devastated his body so much that it permanently bowed his spine and atrophied his muscles in a way that they would never fully overcome, not even with the aid of Healing Magic. But his physical deficiencies had no affect on the courage he used to enter homes plagued by the kinds of illnesses he had endured as a child. Fearless to a fault, he tended to people with the most alarming diseases while others were too frightened to knock on the patient's door, let alone open it.

  This is where Rowniel developed hands-on skill dealing with the spirits of the departed. One of only five known to possess an ability to see into the spiritual realm like Muriel could- five whom the Prophetess took under her wing to train and, in the process, were wonderfully infected with her magic- Rowniel had come face to face with a variety of specters, some pleasant, others not so much.

  Unable to save all those he tended to, Rowniel found this to be true- spirits of the departed were drawn to one another. At times, those who were drawn to the dying were of an ill ilk. Lacking the power to trouble the corporeal warl as they wanted to, these came to torment the recently deceased. Filled with bitterness breed by the inequities they had suffered in their time clothed in flesh and blood, they became phantoms that wanted to infect everyone else with the acrimony they had embraced.

  Over time, Rowniel become quite adroit at dispatching angry spirits, sending them on their way to a warl where the living was not given entrance. Similarly, his bedside manner included an ability to comfort the spirits that were confused when they no longer felt the pain that had been wracking the bodies laying before them. Explaining what had happened, he gave these the equilibrium needed to begin their journey to the after-life that Muriel said contained the beautiful Mountain of Song.

  Sensing the emanations coming out of the building standing before them, Rowniel answered Fiilanor. "There is a disease is in this house that I don't want you or the men to be exposed to." Looking at the Candle Warrior with a face one might have thought was haggard if not for the sparkling blue eyes i
t held, he added, "Stay here. The fight will come to you."

  Once again Fillanor watched Rowniel enter a place where she knew she couldn’t follow. With all the Battle Magic Dolfon had taught her, the mysteries surrounding sickness still eluded her. If a Hag waited for Fillanor behind the plastered-covered walls, she wouldn’t hesitate to charge through the door that Rowniel was closing behind him. If it was a giant, her response would be the same. Wolves, crocodon, cretchym, the Sorcerer himself would not keep her away. But the Curse of Sickness had her baffled. Fillanor had no defense against the more pernicious kinds of illness.

  But all of this just made her love Rowniel all the more, though she suspected he wasn't aware of her affections. Fillanor realized they made an odd couple- she with her warrior's build and Rowniel with his damaged body. Still, it didn't matter to her. His selfless character gave him strength few soldiers had. The warmth of his personality was more comforting than a Candle Maker's shield-wall. The confidence he had in his own ability to do the things he wanted to do, made him as attractive as any man she knew. His blue eyes made him more so. The brightness of his smile and the timber of his voice were parts of the whole she had grown to admire and love.

  Turning to Donylsyn, Fillanor said, "Captain, send a man to get Tsan'wyl. He's down the street." Looking back at the house that hid wraiths that the Nyeg Warlers had quickly learned were dangerous, she added, "Hurry! Rowniel is in peril!"

  Fortunately, Fillanor didn't have to wait long before Tsan'wyl and two other Tayn’waeh trotted up to greet her. Skin as dark as a polished baranut, hair weaved into rows that dropped down his back in long, black braids, large brown eyes that drank up all he looked at, Tsan'wyl was a handsome young man, one that Fillanor would have been attracted to if not for the love she had for Rowniel. The other Tayn’waeh were lighter-skinned but just as pleasant to look upon as Tsan'wyl. All three wore clothes a woodsman would favor. Broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, all were formidable looking warriors.

  "I hear Rowniel needs our help," Tsan'wyl said as he came to stop before the Candle Warrior.

  "Rowniel wouldn't let us accompany him into the building," Fillanor explained. "He said the sickness in there was too dangerous for us to be exposed to it. But that didn't stop him."

  "It never does." Tsan'wyl shook his head in disbelief over the undisputed fact. "But if anyone can deal with the disease, it's him. Rowniel's Healing Magic is potent."

  "That may well be. But wraiths are hiding in that building and Rowniel's no warrior." Fillanor clenched her teeth in frustration after she spoke, angry at how helpless she felt. After all, she should be in there standing by Rowniel's side.

  Aware that Tsan'wyl carried Healing Powder made from crushed leaves harvested from the Willow King's Tree growing in Ranah as well as a sharp sword at his side, she added, "Can you help him?"

  Seeing Fillanor struggling with her emotions, rightly guessing she felt shame over not accompanying Rowniel into the building, Tsan'wyl offered a solution. "If you'll join me, we both can help."

  "How?"

  "Here... swallow this." Tsan'wyl gave Fillanor a handful of powder and a waterskin he slipped off his shoulder. The three Tayn’waeh were quick to follow Fillanor's lead. And once the skin was slung back over Tsan'wyl's shoulder, the young man said, "Let's go." And the four of them entered the building trusting that the power of the dried willow leaves would keep the sickness away.

  With the number of dresses and men's suits draped over human-shaped wire cages, it was obvious that the room they had entered was a tailor shop. The building’s closed shutters filled the space with shadows. This seemed fitting for a place where disease had taken up residence. Hearing the sound of a flute wafting down the stairwell, Tsan'wyl nodded to Fillanor who led them up the steps to where the living quarters were, holding a candle in each hand. The one in her left hand was lit while the one in her right was aimed downward like it was a sword's hilt bereft of its blade.

  Arriving at a hallway at the top of the stairs, Fillanor almost called the candle held in her sword hand to life and summoned its fiery blade when she saw a pillar of mist move from one open door to another at the hall's far end. The sibilant voices she heard coming from that direction added to her angst. But Fillanor resisted the urge to use a Word of Power to ignite the second candle, wanting to get a look at the room Rowniel was in before she did.

  Knocking on the door before opening it, Fillanor alerted Rowniel to her presence. "Rowniel," she said with a disarming voice. "It's Fillanor. Tsan'wyl, Phyllan, and Toet are with me."

  The music coming from the room stopped for a moment before it continued, letting Fillanor know that Rowniel had heard her.

  Opening the door, Fillanor was greeted by the same shadows that had filled the shop below. The shutters were closed here too. The people living in the building had shut themselves in like they wanted to stop worse things from entering their home, their neighbor's scrutiny for example, since the public’s remedy for the plague was never pleasant.

  Playing a flute, whose dulcet tones were filled with Healing Magic, Rowniel drew the company into the large room with a nod of his head. A young boy, burning up with fever, lay in the bed before him. His mother's lifeless body was in a second bed. The father was slumped in one of four chairs found in a room big enough to serve as the family's main living area as well as the place where they slept. Vacantly staring at his wife's corpse, the man was unresponsive to the new comers. The gray embers in the fire place that had a cold, black iron kettle hanging above it had gone out days ago.

  Lowering the musical instrument, Rowniel completed the Healing Incantation by singing a brief song that followed the melody line the flute had been playing.

  "Will he survive," Tsan'wyl asked as he studied the scene before him.

  "It’ll be a fight," Rowniel frowned at Fillanor as he answered the Tayn’waeh, "where conventional weapons will be of little use."

  "I wouldn't speak too soon." The Candle Warrior was miffed that Rowniel would disapprove of her presence. After all, he had to know she had ingested the Tayn’waeh's medicinal powder. "The wraiths are already in the hallway. The fight you speak of will need more than curative weapons." She nodded to the candle sitting on the stool next to the boy. "The sharp edge of the candle's flame will be required if I don't miss my guess."

  "What are you seeing?" As Tsan'wyl questioned Rowniel, Phyllan was forcing the father to swallow the Willow King's Powder while Toet was mixing a concoction to pour down the boy's throat.

  "The spirits of the young man's grandparents are in the room with their daughter. Their bodies are next door. I think they're waiting for the boy to join them before they leave. It's either that or they can sense the danger the wraith's pose."

  Hearing that Rowniel could see his wife's spirit, the father pushed Phyllan back and sat up. "Shathan's spirit is here? You can see her? Does she see me?"

  "Her eyes are fixed on your son who now stands on death's doorstep. I can ask her to turn her attention to you. But she may not respond. Please know- the confusion that accompanies death may keep her from grasping all that is happening in the room. Her son is the anchor that keeps her mind fixed on the Warl of the Living where you appear only as a shadow to her."

  "Please ask. If I can tell her that I love her just one more time and know she’s heard me, I can find strength to comfort my son."

  Sighing, Rowniel stood. "You say her name is Shathan? Very well."

  Taking his candle in hand, now a third the size it once was because of the amount of magic it was dispensing, Rowniel waved its flickering light before the spirit's face trying to get Shathan's attention. With the flame catching her eye, Rowniel said, "Your husband wants to speak to you."

  "My husband?" Shathan's voice sounded like exhaled breath devoid of words to those who lacked Rowniel's gifting.

  "He's over here." Rowniel's candle's light acted like a carrot used to lead a horse.

  Standing in front of her husband, Shathan squinted as she look
ed at the shadowy figure and asked, "Bibb, is that you?"

  "Say yes," Rowniel told the man. "She wants to know if it's really you."

  Hearing this, Bibb began to sob as he said, "Yes Darling, it's me."

  Seeing the confusion on Shathan's face, knowing how little pull the corporeal warl had on her, Rowniel gave Bibb further instructions. "Tell her what's on your heart before she's drawn back to your son's bed."

  "I love you Shathan!" Bibb hurriedly gasped his words out before he calmed himself and added, "I always will."

  "I love you too." Bibb heard a breathy voice wash over him a moment before his wife's smiling spirit appeared like flickering sunlight breaking through a breeze tossed canopy of leaves. Then she was gone. With her thoughts returning to her son, whose spirit had risen partially out of his fever-ridden body, Shathan returned to her vigil by his side.

  "Lanny, come to Mommy." Shathan's maternal instincts made her call to her son's spirit.

  The grandparents echoed Shathan's words, calling him by name, reaching their arms out to him, words that sounded like demure exhalations of breath to those who couldn't see them.

  "Quick," Rowniel said. "Say your son's name. Let him know you want him to stay with you, that you want him to get better. Tell him you need him."

  "I've lost too much." Bibb was still sobbing over the voice he heard that sounded like his wife had whispered in his ear. "Lanny, I need you. Please don't leave me. If you live… so does a part of your mother."

  Neither Shathan nor her parents could hear Bibb's pleas. They longed to embrace Lanny's spirit that was overlaying his body like a hairnet made of shear cloth. Nothing beyond this desire existed for them, not the love of hearth and home, nor the pleasure found in the sun's warmth. These things were no longer within their grasp, neither could the Warl of the Living touch them.