Crooked Finger and the Warl of the Dead

by Rex Hazelton

  "Aye," Ay'Roan agreed. "If only we were facing a mindless fiend, instead of one with an intellect great enough to wrest control of a vast portion of the Warl of the Dead away from the Mountain of Song."

  “What about Lylah and Grour Blood?” Bala looked at the waterkynd and griffin with equal measures of wonder. “Not-Ab’Don isn’t the only one with strange magic at their disposal. I would say, we have a fair share of our own.”

  Indeed, the waterkynd’s arrival had a profound affect on the rebels’ thinking. Having a massive ice dragon soar into their midst had a way of doing that. Once it was determined the imposing beast was a friend, and after it morphed into the ethereal form of a waterkynd, the minds of all those around were sent on flights of imagination that tried to comprehend the mystery standing before them.

  Though rumors about the waterkynd were not lacking in Ar Warl among those given to esoteric persuits, the commoners had heard little of the magical beings said to live in the streams and rivers winding their way through the warl’s expanse like arteries running through a spacious body made of rock and soil. Still, the little they had heard made them think the impossible might now be possible. If a reclusive waterkynd had come out of hiding to help the rebellion at such a critical time, maybe other assistance was on its way. After all, weren’t the wielder of the Hammer of Power and his sons sitting in their midst? Wasn’t this proof that the unexpected could be expected?

  “Truly,” a voice more ethereal than Lylah’s own was heard, “our company is graced with those whose powers are most peculiar. Not the least are my own.” Pearl intoned with words seeming to come from far away, those that lacked the nuance of falling rain as the waterkynd’s had, “Never before has Mar’Gul’s magic been available to a wraith like myself. The prospect of what this might mean are yet to be determined, though I think the demands of the coming war, if I’m still in the Warl of the Living when it arrives, will force this into the light.”

  Pearl placed a mist-like hand on her husband’s shoulder as she turned her gaze to Lamarik and considered the Neflin, who was a likely candidate to take her place once she left for the Warl of the Dead, before continuing. And while she did this, Dog’s nearly imperceptible whining accompanied Pearl’s thoughts as he sat beside her. Subdued moaning intermingled with the noise coming from Mar’Gul’s hound as A’Kadar, laying next to Lamarik, was moved by his canine friend’s inexplicable emotions.

  Making a clearing sound in a throat that needed no clearing, Pearl continued. “As Bala has pointed out, a waterkynd and a griffin stand among us. Whereas, Grour Blood’s presence is a downpayment on the Community of Blood’s commitment to our cause, a commitment that the Prophetess is responsible for acquiring due to the griffin’s love for her, Lylah, as I’ve been told, represents only herself. We shouldn’t look to the waterkynd for help. As ever, they have little affinity with our warl and feel no kinship with our kind. Lylah, who has fallen in love with Kaylan and he with her, is the lone exception.”

  “We are Together,” Lylah explained with a voice that sounded like falling rain, an explanation that was easily understood by the way she looked at Kaylan; one that had to be taken at face value since such a thing seemed inconceivable given the differences between the two beings.

  “We are Together.” Kaylan smiled as a hand made of mist caressed the comely features on his oval-shaped face, lifting his honey-colored hair falling from his head as it did.

  As it turned out, Togetherness had changed Lylah as much as it had Kaylan. She found her ability to move through the Warl of Man was on equal footing with Kaylan’s ability to travel through the Warl of the Waterkynd whenever they were near each other. This was why she was able to remain in the meeting without having to retreat to the stream running through the middle of Shtytl as the conversation lengthened, a stream that had quadrupled in size since the past day’s storm, one whose cacophonous noise was a joy to her ears, a noise the others couldn’t hear because of the heavy stone walls surrounding them.

  Struggling to keep his dark mood from overwhelming him, Jeaf Oakenfel had to resist breaking into the ensuing discussion to deride everything that was said, save the making of plans to rescue his wife. How could he think of anything else with Muriel in the clutches of one who had hurt her so badly in the Warl of the Dead that she nearly lost her soul to the tormenting fiend who had imprisoned her there?

  Seeing Lylah with Kaylan, Lamarik with Travyn, and Ay’Roan with Deyvara helped Jeaf keep his impulse to disparage the others at bay, an impulse that continued to pressure him even though he was aware that nothing being said lacked meaningful application to the troubles facing them. The sight of the females his three sons had taken as mates- with Lylah in the mix, the term woman couldn’t be used without stretching things more than a touch- comforted him. The realization that his boys had found someone like he had when Muriel came into his life had a calming affect on him. It also reminded him that there were others to consider when plans to save his wife were made, those whose love for one another was just as important as his love for Muriel.

  How fortunate I am to know three of my sons have found mates who please them so much. I know that Muriel would be just as happy if she were here.

  Jeaf went on to consider the strange pairings he saw before him. I guess marrying a run-of-the-mill woman isn’t in the cards for the Oakenfel men, he drily surmised.

  Jeaf’s father, Aryl, had married a Candle Maker when unions between the benevolent wizards and non-magical folk were forbidden, except when the Candle Maker in question gave up their position in the distinguished order. Jeaf, himself, had fallen in love with one who had become the Prophetess who had learned to sing the Song of Breaking. Travyn had taken a Neflin as his mate whose best friend was a giant moan cat and whose father and sister were wraiths that were never far from her side. More unusual than this, Kaylan had come Together with a waterkynd. As strange as Kaylan had always been, strange in a way that made his esoteric nature intriguing to most, Jeaf was not overly surprised by this, other than being befuddled the two had found magic that made Togetherness possible.

  The closest relationship to being normal was Ay’Roan and Deyvara. But alas, having been made the clans’ Wylder, a role he shared with Vlad’Aeroth, the Fane J’Shrym insisted that Ay’Roan enter into an arranged marriage where he was required to accept the hand of a woman who could fight better than most men, one who would never let his family’s daunting history or his larger than life persona intimidate her.

  This left J’Aryl as the only eligible bachelor in Jeaf’s family. Gazing at the son who most looked like his wife, Jeaf smiled as he thought, to half way balance the scales, he’d have to marry a milk maid who can’t sing a lick, is all thumbs, and couldn’t care less about how magic works.

  Hearing Lylah’s laughter, sounding like rain striking a forest canopy filled with broad leaves, seeing her lovingly caressing Kaylan’s face, wondering at how right this seemed when the differences between the two were so great, Jeaf concluded that J’Aryl had little chance of falling for someone mundane. Seeing Lamarik, whose smile appeared mesmerizingly white juxtaposed to her dusky-colored skin, take time to enjoy the apparent pleasure her sister-in-law had in touching Kaylan’s face only confirmed his thoughts. In addition to this, the sense of danger that seemed to lurk behind Lamarik’s large, almond-shaped eyes, a sense of danger that only threatened those who would make themselves her enemy, buttressed his assumption.

  Then there was Deyvara whose lightly-tanned skin covering her high cheek bones was awash with golden freckles. Eyes as fierce as Lamarik’s, she was no less impressive than the Neflin. With the ring Ay’Roan had given Deyvara, holding Wisdor Stones whose magic would cover its bearer in a Cloak of Invisibility when called upon, the two were as much equals in their ability to stalk prey as they were in their fighting skills.

  “Speaking of strange magic,” Arga’Dyne, the Broyn’Dar chieftain’s eyes narrowed as he growled out his words in the inhuman beast-man voice that verge
d on always sounding angry, “the swords that the Oakenfel brothers carry have powers the Sorcerer would be wise to not dismiss. Despite the way he repulsed Kaylan’s attacks, Ab’Don should keep in mind: He was only facing one of them at the time. But I see four in this room. All would agree: Four is more than one. Besides there’s the hammer everyone talks about to lead them.

  “If I hadn’t seen Travyn at work with his sword, I’d doubt the stories I’ve heard told about the Hammer of Power. But not now. When the fighting starts, I think we’ll not be easily beaten, nor will we scatter like sheep set upon by a pack of wolve, not when we have fangs of our own.”

  The Broyn’Dar chieftain lifted his upper lip to display his impressive canines to help get his point across.

  “Aye Arga’Dyne,” Ilya’Gar’s own fangs showed as he smiled, “our enemies will soon learn that our teeth are sharp, and our claws are long. If we’re destined to die, it’ll happen with our enemy’s blood dripping from our mouths and hands.”

  “We’ll take many teeth together before we fall before the fire-blasted Sorcerer,” ArgaDyne smiled back at Ilya’Gar in a way that hunchmen did when battle lust was upn them; his lips quivered from the drug he habitually partook of.

  “Aye, we’ll do that,” Ilya’Gar said though the Bro’Noon had long ago stopped taking teeth from those they killed. Still, a hunchman could only be civilized so much. Though the Treaty of Gor’Dar had forced the Bro’Noon to break the chains of addiction chata beans had bound them with, their savage instincts couldn’t be completely subdued; instincts that were being aroused as Ilya’Gar recalled the teeth-filled necklaces nailed to the walls of the Bro’Noon dwellings in memorial to a violent past they abandoned as the price paid for peace.

  Arga’Dyne’s presence was affecting Ilya’Gar in a way chata had done to his forebearers, heating his blood to the point that it would be easily brought to a boil when the fighting began. Hair on the mane covering his head and neck rose accordingly.

  “The Broyn’Dar and Bro’Noon are not the only ones itching for a fight,” Vlad’Aroth interjected. “The Fane J’Shrym are anxious to bloody their swords as well.”

  Where the hunchmen’s eyes burned with fire, Vlad’Aeroths were as cold as ice, a proper state given his pale complexion and dispassionate demeanor. The black hair, framing his forehead and face, spoke of the darkness dwelling inside Vlad’Aeroth, a darkness that came to life whenever he took hold of the twin swords strapped to his back to fight in the duels where his fame came from.

  Now older, as the strands of white hair seen in his otherwise black, curly mane attested to, Vlad’Aeroth had gained the wisdom needed to keep the darkness caged up inside him so the better parts of his nature could rule his life. But the time to loose the beast was fast approaching; and when the beast roamed freely once again, the hunchmen would learn that he was not so different from them.

  Having lowered his head as he listened to those who spoke, Travyn looked up just enough so the others could see the amber rings of light, glowing beneath his hat’s wide brim, if they wanted to. A perfect blend of Arga’Dyne and Vlad’Aeroth, Travyn was both fire and ice. The rings of amber light sitting in his eyes gave proof of the fire burning inside him, a fire darkness fed, a darkness that had entered his soul when the Nameless One tortured his mother while he and Kaylan lay inside her womb. Though the darkness had failed to take control of him, it was always there coloring the warl Travyn looked upon. That’s why he felt more at home with the Bro’Noon than he did with his fellow humans.

  No doubt, that’s why Lamarik appealed to him so much, a Neflin female who had lived alone in the Lorn Fast Swamp’s haunted environs for as long as she did. Lamarik was someone who understood him, since she had lived in the same darkness that touched Travyn while he was growing inside his mother. Because of this, she understood the daily struggle to keep himself under control as he chose to do right in a warl where doing wrong was all too common.

  Like Travyn, evil had ravaged Lamarik’s family; and like Travyn she had declared war on the powers that were responsible for the violations. Though bred by evil’s violent intrusion into their lives, the darkness inside Travyn and Lamarik was turned against those who would perpetrate the same evil on others. Thus, Travyn and Lamarik were not dissimilar to the twin blades that Vlad’Aeroth carried, only the hands that held them were their own. And like Vlad’Aeroth, the threat of reprisal for the stance they took was met with icy indifference. They would stay the course no matter the cost.

  “When and where?” Rings of amber light flaired up in Travyn’s eyes as he spoke. “I’’ve stood in the Hall of Voyd and felt its malice. I saw what the Sorcerer did to Kaylan. My mind is constantly tormented by the image of my mother’s body hanging on the fiery tree where my brother once was. I’ll not wait much longer before I take matters into my own hands. Make your plans. It’s time to fight. So, I ask, when and where?”

  Jeaf sighed when he heard Travyn’s words. His sons were no different than him. Muriel was uppermost in their thoughts. Though they were willing to fight a war whose outcome would decide who would ultimately take control of the Warl, their minds were set on another goal- to see that their mother was set free.

  Standing to take control of the room, Bacchanor ran his thick fingers through his curly, brown beard as he surveyed those who had come to the meeting. Nodding his head in approval at what he saw, the Brown Wizard reached down with his other hand and hitched up his pants as he got ready to go to work. With so many factions present and Jeaf Oakenfel not yet ready to assume leadership, Bacchanor was the ideal person to take charge of the decision-making process. His knowledge of the forces the Nyeg would bring to bear in the war, coupled with insights gained about the Ar Warlers as he helped his wife serve them in her position as Mar’Gul, equipped him to help devise a plan that would take into account the nuances of all parties involved, those who wanted to unceremoniously toss the Sorcerer off his throne.

  Whereas, the Nyeg Warlers would send well-organized armies into battle, the Ar Warlers were left with the raider mentality they had developed over numerous winters trying to avoid Ab’Don’s attention, a mentality that had limited value in the kind of warfare that would be waged.

  With the Ar Warler’s strength forged in the fires of oppression that gave greater value to mobility than brute force, making them ill-prepared for structured warfare, it would take a special touch to prepare them for prolonged, all-out battle. Bacchanor’s acumen as a warrior, coupled with his extensive experience in working with people from all walks of life- scholars, royalty, commoners and the like- gave him the touch needed. After all, he was both a Healer whose magic had few rivals, as well as a renowned warrior who had experience fighting alongside elves, men, and giants.

  Besides, the wizard knew he wasn’t alone, Ay’Roan and Vlad’Aeroth were there to help devise a strategy. The leadership instincts the two put on display at Chylgroyd’s Keep, during the raid that set the Hammer Bearer free from captivity, displayed their tactical skills. Bacchanor’s confidence in the Fane J’Shrym Wylders’ input was clearly not misplaced.

  “Now is the time,” Bacchanor’s deep voice intoned. “The where is on the plains stretching out before Malam, Ab’Don’s home and the gateway to the Hall of Voyd where his seat of power is found.”

  Clasping his hands beyond his broad back, the Brown Wizard slowly turned to face all those who were listening to him. “I know that this is dismaying to some here who would rather fight inside the forests they love so much. But we have no choice in the matter. Nyeg Warl has gone on the offense and so shall we. The Sorcerer must be caught between the hammer and anvil, so to speak.

  “Why has the Nyeg that is the anvil I alluded to, risked leaving their homes: Because the Hammer of Power, and the one who wields the talisman, is here in the Ar, far from the fortresses they’ve built. It behooves us to follow their example and leave the protection the greenwood has given us to go and join the brave hosts that have dared to invade the Sorcerer’s
dark realm.”

  Arga’Dyne grunted, displeased at the prospect of fighting out in the open, a place better suited for swift cavalry and foot-soldiers marching in ordered ranks. Wanting to make sense of the strategy he knew would expose the Broyn’Dar to unexpected danger, he said, “I’m told, prophecies are being cited to excuse our disregard for safety. Are these utterances to be trusted enough to make us leave our shields at home and go off to face a fully-armored foe without them, utterances that time has covered in dust?”

  “Take heart Brother,” Ilya’Gar said. “The prophecies are not without merit as the Battle of Decision has proven. And as you can see, the Hammer of Power is not a myth.”

  After pointing at the talisman strapped to Jeaf’s hip, Ilya’Gar added, “The Prophecy of the Hammer Bearer was not fabricated by some wild-eyed soothsayer. Here he sits before you, the one who bested Ab’Don during the Battle of the Temple of the Oak Tree. Don’t turn from the confidence you displayed but a short time ago.

  “The power you saw Travyn release through the sword he made atop Vlad’War’s Anvil is surpassed by the magic the Hammer of Power possesses, a talisman the insuperable wizard, Vlad’War, made to help usher in the Age of Parm Warl prophecy tells us will surpass the glory of the Age of Star’s Blood.”

  Arga’Dyne huffed with displeasure over Ily’Gar patronizing him so. Nevertheless, the respect he had for the young Bro’Noon was not blunted. “My confidence in putting up a good fight has not waned. But this doesn’t lessen the doubts I have over plans requiring the Broyn’Dar to leave the protection mountains and forests have always provide us, plans that rely so much on ancient human prophecy.