Crooked Finger and the Warl of the Dead

by Rex Hazelton

  As the huge winged-lions bowed their heads to acknowledge Muriel and her companions, Tor Blood looked at Pearl with eyes that might be mistaken for indifference if not for the formal way he greeted her. "It's an honor to have Mar'Gul grace us with her presence. Though we regret your demise, we are nevertheless exited to have you stand among us since you are the guardian of Andara's Healing Magic, a wizard the Community of Blood would have liked to have known."

  Lifting his nose to the sky and sniffing the air, Tor Blood added, "Another worthy wizard approaches, one I think you’re well acquainted with."

  "Thank you Tor Blood," Pearl's ethereal voice intoned after Muriel whispered the griffin's name in her ear. "Worthy wizard or worthy husband, which is the greater title? Though I agree with your initial assessment, you can guess which one I value more. But my husband is not alone, a cretchym accompanies him."

  "So we were told." The rest of the griffin lifted their heads and joined Tor Blood as he looked to the sky. "A worthy wizard's friends are always welcome among the Blood."

  With the circle the tightly-packed griffin had made being as small as it was, Bacchanor's shape-shifting skills would be put to the test with the landing such close quarters required. His pride was on the line too since he didn't want to look awkward before those whose bodies he had the temerity to copy.

  Typical of his indomitable nature, the Brown Wizard set the fear of possible embarrassment aside and went for broke. Spreading his wings, and the sword length feathers they held, as wide as he could, Bacchanor abruptly stopped his momentum at the precise moment he had flown above the ring of griffin. With his wings filled with air like they were sails on a ship that was running before a storm, he dropped out of the sky like he was a boy lowering himself from the rafters he had been climbing.

  At first, Bacchanor's descent was controlled. Then his massive wings' form disolved in a swirl of colors and he dropped to the ground like the boy had finally gotten enough courage to let go of the rafter he clung to. And like the boy might have felt over the feat he had accomplished, Bacchanor seemed quite pleased with himself.

  Pearl laughed at her husband's antics. The rumblings in the griffin's throats revealed they were impressed too. Landing next to the shape-shifting wizard, Bala had a smirk on her face as she elbowed the show-off. "Seriously Pearl," the diminuitive cretchym's voice had a flute-like quality to it, "how did you put up with him for so long? He's incorrigible."

  "Don’t you know, Bala:" Pearl said as she went to embrace her husband, "once a boy, always a boy."

  "A boy who can fight like a man," Muriel added.

  Bacchanor, who accompanied her into the Cave of Forgetfulness when she went to confront the fiend who had destroyed her childhood, was like an uncle to Muriel. Having seen the wizard in action against Schmar's deadly horde dispelled any mistaken notion that his inherent playfulness would dampen his willingness to fight. His heart was big. His courage was bigger still. His battle skills were more than a match for both.

  Having fought at the Brown Wizard's side when they confronted the fiend's rabid throng, Grour Blood nodded his head at the truth in Muriel's words before he said, "Welcome Bacchanor. Your presence is a gift the griffin cherish. And to you, Bala, I say: Welcome too, though I've never had the opportunity of greeting your kind without my claws being fully extended."

  "Words will suffice," Bala replied as the diminuitive cretchym greeted the renowned griffin with an unexpected curtsy. “There’s no need to unsheathe your claws.”

  Looking like a small child surrounded by the massive winged-lions as she was, Bala was surprised to see the circle tighten as she dismissed her courtesy and acknowledged the others with an appropriate number of nods. All the while she turned about, she looked at those who were using their noses as well as their eyes to study her with equal interest. It was like her presence had brought a whiff of the Sorcerer with it, whose magic was responsible for her creation. It was an intuitive scent that brought the meeting to order by focusing everyone's attention on the matter at hand: War.

  "Have you told them yet," Bacchanor asked his wife when she pushed herself away from his grasp to look into his eyes.

  "I've told Muriel that her husband is lost and in need of a Healer who will help him see the path that fate has set before him. I've withheld sharing most of the the details until you arrived."

  "Fate? Is that how you're referring to Vlad'War these days?" Muriel asked with a touch of weariness that came from having to contend with things that were hard to understand.

  "Aye,” Peril nodded her head in agreement with Muriel’s assessment of things as she replied, “saying that fate is guiding Jeaf is an overstatement. Indeed, a long dead wizard's plans are moving things forward. Be that as it may, they hold the only hope we have of overcoming Ab'Don's powerful magic and the throngs that are subject to his evil will."

  “Aye,” Bacchanor replied as he turned his gaze away from his wife and onto Muriel.

  "Cutting to the chase," the shape-shifting wizard lifted his voices for the others to hear, "let me say that Jeaf's mind is infested with Hag spells that I, and others, have not been able to entirely uproot, spells that were planted inside his head during the interminable winters he spent as a captive in Chylgroyd's Keep. As such, he is plagued with insecurities that are not typical of his nature. Having been able to enter his dreams, the Hag have Jeaf questioning his grasp of reality and his ability to effectively wield the Hammer of Power in times of crisis.

  "That’s why we're here," Bacchanor swept his hand out to Pearl and Bala who stood beside one another as he spoke. "The spells must be broken before the Hammer of Bearer faces Ab'Don. The chances that Jeaf can overcome the Sorcerer when he is in his right mind are scant at best. To face the foul Sorcerer in his present condition would be pure folly.

  "The choices before us are dangerously simple," Bacchanor held Muriel in his gaze, "the Prophetess must go to Jeaf and sing the Song of Breaking over him. This is simple because I believe the Hag's spells will surely be broken when this is done. It is dangerous because the Prophetess must abandon Nyeg Warl's forces to do this and undertake a perilous journey to reach her husband."

  Dolfon shook her head like she was trying to gather her wits as she interjected, “I think using the Magic of Flying to transport Muriel would make your proposed plan more than dangerous.”

  "Indeed, that's the dangerous part I spoke about," Bacchanor admitted. It was well-known that the arcane form of magic was fraught with peril. This was the reason why the knowledge needed to conjure up the mystical construct needed to Fly had fallen into shadow, knowledge that only Mar'Gul now possessed and the man she had taken as her husband.

  "Why didn't Jeaf come with you? In his muddled state of mind, did he refuse to risk his own hide?" Dolfon was quick to note that Muriel was not pleased by her harsh words no matter that they erupted out of the Master Candle Warrior's concern for her.

  Aware of the motive behind Dolfon's rashness, Bacchanor refused to be bated into arguing his point. Instead, he calmly said, "If I was in your position, I'd be asking the same question. Know that much thought and discussion went into our decision and that Jeaf and Muriel's sons were key contributors to the conversation. Travyn, J'Aryl, Travyn, and their wives all agree that Jeaf should remain with the Fane J'Shrym since the Hammer of Power went to such extreme measures to bring the Hammer Bearer to Ar Warl where Vlad'War's descendents are found."

  Muriel heard nothing that Bacchanor said after he uttered the word ‘wives.’

  "Come again," she said as she struggled to sort things out.

  When Bacchanor began to rehearse the importance of the Hammer Bearer staying with the Fane J'Shrym, Muriel interrupted him by asking the question that was uppermost in her mind: "Did you say wives? I've been told that Ay'Roan has married Dayvara; but unless he has taken more than one wife, that means one or both of my other boys have wed. If so, wo are your talking about?"

  "It's Travyn. It's Travyn. It's Travyn." Bala was thri
lled to chime in. "And I was their when he took Lamarik as his mate."

  "Mate?" Muriel was baffled by the term.

  "Aye," Pearl's ethereal voice was heard in reply. "Following the Bro'Noon tradition, Travyn and a Neflin named Lamarik took each other as mates. According to our tradition, the two would be addressed as husband and wife."

  After Bacchanor stepped in to give a brief summary of what had happened, Muriel, her face drained of blood, shrugged and resigned herself to saying, "Alynd will be pleased that my son married an elf, even if it's a Neflin and not one of his Forest Deep kin, though, I suspect, he thought Kaylan would be the one drawn to an elf."

  Mentioning Kaylan sobered Muriel up in a way that made her pressure Bacchanor for more details on the plan he, her husband, and her sons had made. Jeaf's mental state had a direct bearing on the chances of freeing Kaylan from captivity. Convinced that Ab'Don wouldn't kill Kaylan when he could use him as a hostage to make demands as the war unfolded, Muriel agreed to come with Pearl, Bacchanor and Bala before the window of opportunity to help her son closed.

  "I'm coming too," Elemor said while mulling her son's problems over in her mind.

  "I as well," Dolfon added.

  Blowing out a breath of air like people do before they undertake a daunting task, Bacchanor was reticent to give a reply he knew the women would not like. Still, he found himself saying, "With Grour Blood coming along, there won't be room for either of you. That is, if Grour Blood will agree to go."

  "Why Grour Blood and not me?" Dolfon asked.

  "Though your skill in Battle Magic would be of great use, he has wings you don't possess that can be used to transport the Prophetess quickly to wherever she is needed as the war unfolds. Besides, the Candle Warriors need your leadership."

  "Where will you Fly from?" Elamor asked as she resigned herself to the idea that she couldn't accompany Muriel.

  Since the Magic of Flying was dependent on strategic locations that took advantage of the weaknesses found in the mystical barrier that separated the Warl of the Living from the Warl of the Dead, for this was the space used to Fly through, hubs dedicated to the Art of Flying were scattered throughout both warls. Their locations were no longer known except for the few the Mar'Gul used to get around Ar Warl's eastern reaches.

  One of these locations was found near the Well of Souls, a place that got its name because of the spring found in a rock outcropping that rose up out of the dry grassland. Though Mar'Gul had never Flown there before, the legends surrounding the rock outcropping helped her find the supernatural hub.

  Local herdsmen would have used the small pool of water to slake their flocks' thirst if not for the door-sized crack that appeared in the rocks housing the spring. Lore said the opening led to a tunnel that wound its way into the Warl of the Dead. It was rumored that the spirits of the departed would sometimes wait there to ambush the living who were foolish enough to linger nearby; then force their captives to shed their corporeal forms and accompany them to the ethereal realm the deceased had come from. Only the bravest herdsmen brought their flocks to drink from the small stream that ran for a short distance from the outcropping before it sank back into the ground from whence it came.

  "There is a place near the Well of Souls we can use to invoke the Magic of Flying."

  The name that had found its way into Nyeg Warl's compendium of lore, legends, and myths sent a chill racing through Elamor's body. "Doesn't a place like that pose a danger to you in your present condition?" Elamor was refering to the pull the passageway would impose on Pearl to complete her journey to the Warl of the Dead.

  "Aye." Pearl's ethereal voice had a measure of excitement mixed into it. "I'm not immune to the tunnel's allure. But with Andara's Magic keeping me anchored to this warl, I can only drift so far in that direction. Still, thank you for your concern."

  “I’m certainly concerned for you,” Elamor explained. "But my worries are not limited to your well-being. Recalling all that I've been told about Dragon's Tooth and the Temple of the Oak Tree, both known to have passageways leading to the Warl of the Dead, I fear what might come out of the tunnel found at the Well of Souls. Strange things happen in a place like that, things unpredictable and hard to control. What if spies were stationed there who saw you when you came to this part of Ar Warl by means of Flying? What if they are reporting to those who will set a trap to ensnare you when you return?"

  "This is a valid concern, I assure you," Pearl replied. "That's why we must be on our way as quickly as possible."

  "She's right," Bacchanor added. "We can't wait for Nyeg Warl's kings and chieftains to endorse or plan. We must go now for the sake of the Prophetess' safety and to ensure that our return Flight is not disrupted."

  ****

  "The Wells of Souls," Bear exclaimed to the griffin he was talking to. "Ashes! Don't that sounds lovely. Where's it at?"

  "Not far," Seym Blood frowned at the giant as he spoke. "You're not thinking of going there, are you? You're not fast enough to reach the place before Mar'Gul initiates the Magic of Flying."

  "My discouraging friend," Bear's long locks of hair flew about his head as he looked out into the night-covered plain and then back to the massive griffin, "don't underestimate my resolves, nor how fasts I can run. I let Muriel go offs to Temple of the Oak Tree without me when she needed my helps, I won't make that mistakes again. I couldn't lives with m'self if something happens to her that I could'a stopped. Even if Mar'Gul and Muriel are gone by the times I gets there, I'll rests easier knowing I did my bests."

  "If you must go, I'll accompany you to make certain the way is clear." If Seym Blood admitted it: He too wanted to go to the Well of Souls with the giant, for his concern for the Prophetess was as great as Bear's own. "Since I'll be flying high enough to gain the greatest view of what lies ahead, we won't be able to talk. If you hear me roar, pull out that club of yours and get ready to fight. Otherwise, I'll drop down and tell you if a course change is needed to avoid a problem."

  With the griffin's massive wings thumping overhead, Bear's large, round-shaped nose crinkled with the effort he exerted as he sped through Nyeg Warl's camps and towards the dark plains that stretched out before him.

  The warriors that saw the giant race by were startled by the speed the behemoth was able to achieve. It was like a runaway wagon was plummeting down a steep hill on a road as smooth as a clean-shaven face, one that ran straight and true the whole time it descended. Had the soldiers known it, Bear was yet to fully extend himself. He was saving that for the plains where there was little chance that he would unwittingly crush someone who got in his way. The amount of Vlad'War's Magic that the Hammer of Power's touch had given him as he fought Schmar's seething host in the Cave of Forgetfulness, back when Muriel learned to sing the Song of Breaking, gave him reserves of energy no other Cragmar Giant had. It enhanced his already prodigious strength.

  Wearing clothes made with a patchwork of leather pieces and boots to match, Bear's passing sounded like muted thunder was rolling along just beneath the plain's flat surface. His long coat, flapping wildly behind him, made cracking sounds reminiscent of a bullwhip furiously employed. With arms pumping and knees lifted high as he ran, Bear became a blur of motion that would have been lost in the night's dark embrace if it wasn’t for the rumbling, crackling sounds that accompanied his passing.

  ****

  With the rock outcropping in sight, Muriel bent low over the winged-lion's neck and the thick mane she held in her hands as Grour Blood drew his wings closer to his body, making them look like fletchings on an arrow. This sent him and the rider he bore on his back speeding downward at an angle that would take them to their destination. Copying Grour Blood's maneuver, Bacchanor followed close behind as Pearl's spirit clung to his back. Bala flapped her tiny wings in a blur to keep up with the two massive griffin.

  After landing beside Grour Blood, Bacchanor's griffin form dissolved into a haze of swirling colors that quickly resolved itself into the Brown Wizard's human sh
ape and the lovely wraith standing by his side. Muriel slid of Grour Blood's back and joined Pearl and Bacchanor, who faced the foreboding rock outcropping that looked out of place rising above the plain's nearly flat contours. Bala spred her wings wide to catch the amount of air needed to lower herself onto Grour Blood's broad back. The griffin didn't seem to mind that she took it for granted that he would accept her doing so.

  The sound of wolves howling drifted over the dry grassland to wash up against the stone outcropping.

  "Those are no ordinary beasts," Pearl surmised as she turned to look at the night-shrouded plain. "Many of the animals are possessed by wraiths. I can detect their unwarly influence on the howling."

  "Others sound possessed by another power," Muriel added as she recalled the Commander of the Soldiers of Truth who tried to take her make her his prisoner in the village of Barm. "Ab'Don has become more creative with the Spell of the White Hand. It appears that he has included animals within the scope of its use."

  "Let's get moving," Grour Blood exhorted. "The howling is getting closer."

  Taking the griffin's advice, Bacchanor led the others into a large cleft in the rocks where a spring fed pool of water was found. Blocks made out of hewn stone that were level with the ground, surrounded the small pool in a way that indicated they continued beneath the water. It was like the masons who laid the blocks intended to make a place for bathing. This was the platform used for Flying.

  "The water has acummulated faster than I expected," Bacchanor rubbed his fingers through his thick, curly brown beard as he spoke. Since the huge magical sphere they had arrived in had pushed the water out of the stone-lined bowl it settled into and the rate at which the spring would refill the bowl once the sphere had disappeared was hard to reckon, the Brown Wizard didn’t anticipate what he found. "How do we get rid of it?"