Crooked Finger and the Warl of the Dead

by Rex Hazelton

  But this was not the case for the wraiths. Forced to stay in a warl where they didn't belong, the curse that imprisoned the phantoms enabled them to interact in part with the place of their incarceration, not fully like flesh and blood could, but in a way that permitted them to touch the corporeal realm with claws and fangs that could gain a measure of purchase in their prey's hide.

  Bound by the constraints the curse put on them, the same constraints that equipped them to dwell in the Warl of the Living, the wraiths were not oblivious to the breadth of the drama that was unfolding in the room like the boy's mother was. Instead, they knew exactly what was happening and planned on imposing their will in the matter. They intended on taking Shathan, her parents, and her son captive and carry them to those who would make certain they are cast into the darkness that covers half of the Warl of the Dead.

  Supporting the father's pleas, Rowniel set the dwindling candle back down on the stool and took up his flute to play a tune whose magic drew its listeners to the wonder found in the Warl of the Living. Hearing the melody, recognizing what the musician was trying to do, the wraiths scurried out of their hiding places and rushed to the room determined to not lose the spirits of the deceased family members.

  Not afraid of daylight, the phantoms assumed misty forms that sought access to the room from the outside, past the imperfectly sealed shutters, and through cracks in the window frame. Others looked like mists drifting into the room through the space found at the bottom of the door. More came down the fireplace's chimney. Some of the wraiths chose to gain entrance through holes and fissures in the walls that creatures like rats and mice might use. In the end, the room was filled with fog that only drew back from the Candle Maker's flames and the song that was being sung.

  Not long afterward, human-like apparitions began to appear in the fog: a woman wearing a beautiful gown, a man in his nightshirt, one who wore a butcher's apron, a mother attired in gardening clothes with a child standing next to her. There were also laborers, noblemen, soldiers, and more. All had gaping mouths filled with sharp teeth, all were groaning and moaning like the starving would once they set their eyes on food. Claws tipped their grasping fingers, spread wide to lay hold of the meal they spied. The wraiths were quick to see that there was more than the spirits they wanted to herd into darkness to be had here- living flesh was within their reach.

  Not waiting for the wraiths to attack, Tsan'wyl and his Tayn’waeh brethren drew their swords and began swinging at the phantoms that were now nearly as substantial as they were. The wraiths screamed as they were wounded, though, given enough time, the cuts sealed themselves. Others growled like rabid dogs as they slashed and bit at any part of the Tayn’waehs' bodies they could reach.

  Like the wraiths, the humans' wounds began to bind themselves the moment they were sustained. The shallower tears healed quickly; the deeper ones were slower to respond so that blood was not lacking on Tayn’waeh clothing. Gashes that reached muscled would need more time to heal than the battle would give them.

  Rowniel's Healing Magic was responsible for this. Concentrated as it was within the confines of the room, its efficacy was immediately felt. The rub was this- the candle Rowniel had used to dispense his curative magic was nearly spent by the length of time it had been burning and by the amount of virtue it had meted out. Once the flame consumed the last of the candle's wick, the Healing Magic would go with it. Then if the wraiths could keep Rowniel from lighting another candle, the flesh they’d cut wouldn't be restored as quickly even with the magical powder that Fillanor and the Tayn’waeh had consumed. All would be in great danger, especially Rowniel, Bibb, and Lanny who hadn’t consume the healing powder.

  Unlike Fillanor, Rowniel only had the ability to light one candle at a time. And until the first was spent, a second couldn’t be brought to life. As all knew, Fillanor was not subject to these limitations, nor was she idle while her friends fought. As one candle whirled about her hand until it became a flaming shield, Fillanor spoke a Word of Power that lit the wick of the candle she held in her sword hand. And the moment it ignited, the flame lengthened into a fiery blade that made the wraiths recoil in terror. Wounds inflicted by the magical weapon wouldn’t easily healed. And if the flaming sword cut their heads off, they would be instantly dispatched back to Cara Lorn from whence they came.

  Aware of the scope of a Candle Warrior's magic, the Tayn’waeh herded the wraiths into the killing zone that lay within Fillanor's reach. True to what they had witnessed earlier in Suskynd, the fiery sword's magic swiftly dismantled the wraiths, turning them into fog-like clouds that unseen winds blew away.

  With reinforcements continually flooding into the room, this was an uphill battle. Before half of the phantom horde had been dealt with, Rowniel's candle sputtered and went out. Immediately, the Tayn’waeh sustained wounding grievous enough to drive them from the fight. Lanny's father was likewise mauled a moment before the wraiths placed their full attention on his son. Only Fillanor's busy, fiery blade kept the wraiths from overwhelming the lot of them. Still blood flowed from wounds the wraiths inflicted on her when they were lucky enough to get past the Candle Warrior's blazing shield.

  Realizing he wouldn't be given time to lay hold of another candle, Rowniel herded the spirits of the mother and grandparents onto the bed where they huddled beside Lanny, placing their hands on the boy’s spirit that was reticent to leave his body. Once they were in place, Rowniel threw his body on top of them to protect the boy from being hurt and the spirits of his loved ones from being pulled away.

  Exposed to a thrashing that made his back look like he was being flogged with ten steel-tipped whips working in concert, Rowniel's white Candle's Maker's cloak was shredded to pieces as the wraith's fangs and claws searched for soft flesh to sink into. Rowniel's hope lay in Fillanor's fighting skills to save him and the others, a hope that did not lack merit.

  Seeing the man she loved being reduced to a lump of bloody meat, Fillanor went into a rage that made her weapon's yellow flame explode into a bright white radiance that blinded both man and spirit. Risking burning the sword's magic out with the passion she fed it before all the wraiths could be dispatched, Fillanor had no other choice but to take the gamble if she was going to save Rowniel's life.

  Fed by fear that her sword's fiery blade would soon fail, knowing how greatly magnified its magic had become until it did, Fillanor fought with a frenzy she had never known before. Slashing the heads of the wraiths off like she was an executioner gone mad, the Candle Warrior moved faster than she thought was possible.

  Heads flew through the air with a cacophony of expressions on them ranging from surprise to rage. The women decked out in the evening dress was horrified to think what her gown would look like without a head attached to the body that wore it. The mother and child displayed rage as their heads careened off each other. The butcher's twirling face looked pained. All showed their fangs a moment before they were reduced to mist. Then after one last lightning stroke, Fillanor's fear was realized when her sword vanished in a burst of light that died out a moment after it appeared, leaving her shield as the only weapon she could use to ward off the deadly apparitions.

  Lowering her shoulder, Fillanor bulled her way over to the bloodied Candle Maker. But before she had time to insert herself between the last of the wraiths and the man she loved, Rowniel turned and spoke a Word of Power that brought the candle he had gotten ahold of to life. Somehow, he had summoned enough strength to reach for the waxy talisman in the midst of his brutal thrashing.

  Unlike before, the command Rowniel gave the candle's flame was not one he used to conjure up Healing Magic. Now he called on what little Battle Magic he knew, the one trick he used to chase off the angry spirits he had encountered in his work. But unlike before, he wasn't restrained in the magic's implementation, rather he shouted out his command with a voice that called on the candle to exert all its power in one explosive moment.

  A groaning sound like the ground makes to herald an eart
hquake filled the room. Light was stretched to the point that the bodies of those present looked like a ship's sails being filled with wind. Though the erupting energy cracked the room's walls, the structure kept the Battle Magic from escaping in a way that would diminish its effect. Wraiths were turned into mists that were rudely thrown against the walls while the spirits of the family the Candle Maker shielded were unaffected.

  Once Rowniel shouted, "BEGONE," the mists simply vanished. No cry was heard, nor complaint uttered.

  With his candle gone, Rowniel took out another one he lit with a Word of Power. The command he gave the flickering flame was a familiar one this time, one used to unleash his Healing Magic. After placing the candle on the stool that sat beside Lanny, the Candle Maker collapsed on the boy's bed while the Tayn’waeh drew out more of the Willow King's Powder they partook of along with the boy's father.

  Gasping at the sight of Rowniel's motionless, bloodied body, Fillanor approached the Candle Maker like she was afraid any sudden movements would chase his spirit out of the room.

  "Rowniel," she said with a voice tinged with the fear she felt. Touching a part of his arm that was free from cuts, she repeated his name before reaching to feel the blood vessel that ran down the side of his neck in search of a pulse.

  "Yes?" Rowniel replied in a faint voice.

  "Are you dead?"

  "No."

  "Are you going to die?"

  "I don't think so, though I hurt like the Fires of Darkness have been dumped on me."

  "How can I help you?"

  "If you will, stay by my side for a while."

  For a while, she thought, I'll never leave.

  Not knowing what to say, Fillanor asked, "Are the wraiths gone?"

  "I believe so." Rowniel turned to look at Fillanor through the corner of one of the two most beautiful eyes she had ever seen. "But there's still work to be done here."

  His backs all torn up and all he can think of is unfinished business? Fillanor smiled at the response that was not surprising coming from Rowniel, the man she loved.

  "We'll work together." Fillanor's heart was warmed by the smile Rowniel gave in response.

  ****

  In time, Rowniel and Fillanor walked down the road leading away from the building where the fight had taken place, talking as they went. Rowniel was cloaked in Captain Donylsyn's cape that hid his tattered Candle Maker's robe and the healing flesh that lay beneath it. Tsan'wyl, speaking with Toet, walked in front of them. Phyllan had stayed with Lanny and his father, lending them what help he could. Unexpectedly, the boy's disease had disappeared with the wraiths.

  After speaking with Lanny's mother and grandparent's spirits, Rowniel had given them the courage and vision needed to complete their journey to the Warl of the Dead. At that point, the Candle Maker's work was done.

  Chapter 8: The Hammer Bearer Returns

  Suskynd's Great Hall was built on a hill overlooking what was once the Breach Sea, but had now become an extension of the Malamor River. The melding of the waterways formed an elbow the city was cradled in, one where the river’s westward flow turned abruptly south as it passed the city. Having been eroded away by the erstwhile sea's rhythmic barrage of waves, the hill's western side had become a cliff. This added more drama to the hall's already impressive height and gave those gathered there a panoramic view of the surrounding area. Presently, Nyeg Warl's kings and commanders where included among those who were in attendance.

  Stain glass windows picturing different aspects of the sea that was no longer there were equally spaced in the upper portion of the hall's stone walls. Horizontally-shaped shutters that were situated below the windows had been pushed open to make the view readily available to the edifice’s present occupants. Lacking glass or any other covering except the shutters, this let the outside air pass freely through the openings and into the massive room. With night firmly in place, the city lights could be seen flickering below as well as the host of fires the surrounding armies had lit in the encampments that were too vast for the city to hold.

  With their skill in helping people who had suffered at the hands of those who took delight in abusing them, the Forest People and Tayn’waeh were given charge over the entire city of Suskynd for the time being. Aided by Candle Makers, they moved among the Suskyndians dispensing the wisdom they had gained in overcoming a long history of suffering that for the Tayn’waeh included time spent in slavery. Likewise, the Forest People had endured being defiled by monsters like Schmar and Koyer who were lesser versions of Ab'Don himself. This gave them an inimitable ability to empathize with the city's citizens and gave them expertise in knowing what needed to be said to a people who had lost hope.

  Just as important, they were experts in spotting wolves who were still moving among the sheep, so too speak. Though the weakness engendered by their days of oppression had long since been turned to strength that was well able to cull the predators out of the flock, the continuing presence of wraiths and the few remaining whiteskins that had not escaped from the city made it necessary to enlist the Candle Warriors' assistance.

  Even though the Suskyndians quickly fell into line with their, as far as they were concerned, new master's directives, the covert rebellious nature that had evolved with the help of the Sorcerer's hand bubbled beneath the lid of outward conformity. Except for the fealty his subjects gave him, Ab'Don did not wish for his empire to be filled with passive compliance. Rather, he wanted rancor to rule the day since the brand of dark magic he practiced fed on acrimony; suffering was the air it breathed; bad blood and betrayal between families, villages, and kingdoms under his rule was the drink that slaked its thirst.

  As a result, Ar Warlers were forced into being dichotomous in nature. On one hand, they were victims needing to be delivered from the Sorcerer's oppression; on the other hand, they had unwittingly become like the one who oppressed them. Recalling their own dour pasts that included regrettable acts committed as the instinct for self-preservation dictated, neither the Forest People nor the Tayn’waeh were ignorant of this dynamic. So, they tempered their empathy with a dose of pragmatism based on understanding the darker side of human nature as they dealt with the Suskyndians.

  ****

  The Great Hall was shaped like a key hole. Rounded and wider at the far end where a raised dais was positioned, the rest of the hall stretched back toward the door between towering walls that stood parallel to one another. In the hall's rounded end, the kings and their retinues sat on seats and benches that were placed in consecutive circles about a firepit that looked like a fiery seed stuck in the middle of a massive piece of fruit whose pulp was made up of Nyeg Warl flesh. The fire was used for light more than heat, and the wood it fed on was dispensed accordingly. The dais was ignored by the sovereigns. After all, none had come to Ar Warl to expand their holdings. Bringing an end to Ab'Don's ubiquitous threat was their common goal.

  Ahrnosyn, the revered Chief Mentor of the School of the Sword and Song, moderated the meeting. Tall and pleasantly overweight, the old man was still an impressive figure to behold. Known for his wisdom and kindness, Ahrnosyn was large in a way that implied physical strength was not lacking. The hair that sat on the sides of his bald head, looking like a snow-white victor's crown, did nothing to minimize this impression. His fame as a Sword Master added gravitas to his stature. The magic that had lengthened his life was not something one could dismiss.

  The Chief Mentor stood in front of a large table with a map of Ar Warl spread across its top. The table was situated in one of the spaces that gave the attendees access to their seats. Using an area that was wider than other more utilitarian gaps, the kings and the generals had finished studying the geography they would have to cross to reach Malam, the place of Ab'Don's birth. Ar Warl's mountain ranges were noted. Its rivers were taken into account. The names of the kingdoms they would encounter were rehearsed. It was now time to put the pieces together and make final plans for the assault on the Sorcerer's dark realm, an assault that most c
ertainly would be suicidal if not for the presence of the Prophetess and the Hammer Bearer, the two that Nyeg Warl's prophecies said would play an indispensible role in Ab'Don's undoing, prophecies that differed from Ar Warl's own.

  "Ladies, Gentleman, Your Majesties, Esteemed Elders, and Revered Chieftains, may I have your attention please." Ahrnosyn commanded the room without lifting his voice. Having been entrusted with Vestylkynd's care where the rulers' children were given an education at the School of the Sword and Song whose curriculum focused on unifying Nyeg Warl, the dignitaries present were quick to comply with the esteemed teacher's request.

  "Wombur wishes to begin the discussion." Ahrnosyn introduced the Bull King who cleared his voice as he rose to his feet. With chainmail draped over the purple tunic he wore, and a broadsword strapped to a wide, green-colored leather belt used to hold his garments in place, Wombur looked no less ready for a fight than he had before the Battle of Suskynd began. The iron-toed, green leather boots he wore spoke of his readiness to mount up and ride at a moment's notice.

  Stroking his beard, now white with age, Wombur took the room in with a sweep of his frowning gaze. He nodded to Bear who sat on a bench to his left along with one of his Cragmar brothers. Both giants were twice the Bull King's height. The metal-studded clubs that rested on their laps would reach his chin if stood on end.

  Wombur's gaze settled on Grour Blood and the woman the massive griffin guarded longer than on any of the others in the hall. Still as beautiful as the day he first saw her when Muriel slew Koyer in the Battle of Decision, the Bull King was still amazed that someone as lovely as her could be so dangerous. Beside her stood the woman who took his breath away- Elamor, Aryl Oakenfel's widow.