Crooked Finger and the Warl of the Dead

by Rex Hazelton

  Jeaf lowered his eyes and spoke in a barely audible voice that was intended to only reach his ears. “I was only nineteen summers old at the time. How could I have possibly known what such an offer entailed?” After a long pause, he spoke with a louder but still subdued voice, as he added, “How can I complain when my decision led me to Muriel.”

  When the Hammer Bearer lifted his eyes and saw the others looking at him, he realized he had unintenially spoken out loud. So he added in way explanation, “Don’t think I’m sorry. If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing. By accepting the Hammer of Power, I ended up fathering four sons I love to death and met the woman I gladly gave my heart to.”

  “What of the Singer?” Kaylan was fascinated with the idea that the Warl’s Magic would express itself through personas like the Dream Messengers. “He isn’t a person as some think, correct? Though I know some who say he’s the father of all wizards.”

  “No, the Singer isn’t a person,” Lylah replied. “Neither am I by a strict human definition.”

  “You are a being, aren’t you?” The long, thin braids, laying alongside his temples, swayed as Ay’Roan looked from Lylah to his brother with a touch of concern showing on his face.

  “Am I self-aware? Yes.” Lylah was amused by Ay’Raon’s apprehension. “Do I have freedom to make choices? I would say that I’m at least as self-actualized as you are.

  “Likewise, the Warl’s Magic is aware of itself and makes choices that stem from this awareness, though its view of itself is expansive in a way that includes more of its surroundings than you or I would. For example, you wouldn’t consider the horse you ride as an actual extension of yourself, nor the tree branches it carries you beneath, or the spring that you both use to slake your thirsts.

  “And speaking of choices, the decisions the Warl’s Magic have made are written on a scroll that, when unrolled, stretches beyond the confines of known history, a scroll as vast as magic’s own self-awareness.

  “You say a Singer stands on a Mountain of Song. But who begat whom? It’s hard to tell. And which one is closer to being a person as the human’s, elves, giants, and hunchmen think, the Singer or the Mountain? Maybe they’re one and the same. Maybe the humans are part of the Mountain too. Maybe that’s why you journey there once you die. Could it be you’re just returning to your home? If so, who’s more magical: those who sit before me or the waterkynd living in Mythoria?”

  Lylah concluded her comments while smiling and uttering a sound that displayed the pleasure she felt over discussing such matters. Hmmmmm, she repeated the sound as she considered those that were in the room with her.

  Mar’Gul laughed light-heartedly as she said, “Now that I’m dead, I think I understand what you’re saying, but not in an intellectual way, it’s more like a feeling has swept over me.”

  “Are you saying that I’m a part of the Warl’s Magic?” Arga’Dyne snorted with disbelief.

  Continuing to smile Lylah replied, “Did the Warl’s Magic take a hand in creating your kind? Certainly. If so, could it have plans for the Broyn’Dar you’re not aware of?”

  Seeing Mar’Gul was still laughing, she joined the wraith in her jovial display before she caught her breath and continued. “There are more realms of existence than just the Warl of the Living and the Warl of the Dead. But the place you call the Mountain of Song is particularly important to the network of realms that fill… well… that fill all there is. The Mountain’s magic is unrivaled in its potency, so the waterkynd have concluded, though we have never been there ourselves.

  “Isn’t it odd that my kind, who are clearly more magical than any of the other intelligent races populating the Warl, have traversed through a spectrum of realms in search of this place, only to fail to find it; while humans, with your primitive grasp of magic, gain access to the Warl where the Mountain of Song stands at the time of your deaths; and that this happens whether you want it to or not. I think this mystery is one of the reasons why I found Kaylan so interesting at first.”

  “It wasn’t his rakish good looks or scintillating wit?” Travyn smirked as he looked at Kaylan. As brothers were wont, he wasn’t about to pass on an opportunity to take a jab at one of his siblings. The hint of a smile that showed on Ay’Roan and J’Aryl’s faces told him they were glad that he didn’t. And if it weren’t for the others in attendance, and the nature of the meeting they were attending, they probably would’ve thrown a few barbs of their own.

  “Boys!” Bacchanor wasn’t about to let the dam break. Looking around the room, the Brown Wizard made certain order was maintained before he spoke. “Lylah has touched on something important that we need to take time to consider: The battle we are about to join is more than just a struggle to determine who will ultimately rule over the Warl. It’s clear to me that we have been drawn into a war being fought over the Mountain of Song itself.

  “I’ve been to the Warl of the Dead and seen the bridge the Nameless Evil is building across the Gulf Fix, the chasm that separates the light from the darkness found there. I’ve stood with the spirits of Shloman the Great, Vlad’War, Aryl Oakenfel and a host of others, who are waiting to repulse the invasion that will inevitably take place once the bridge is completed. Facing the chasm, glowing with light cast off by the molten rock flowing in its depths, we watched the construction being carried out with the souls of men, women, and children, who were caught in the Evil One’s web, used as material to increase the span.

  “I’m certain the Foul Entity has come to the Warl of Men to further this enterprise. That’s why the fiendish thing value’s the Prophetess so, for she has raised the dead back to life.

  “I can’t help wonder: If the monster can somehow take control of Muriel’s power, it could join the Warl of the Living and the Warl of the Dead together in a way that enables it to complete the bridge it will use to wage war against the Mountain of Song. If so, the conflict we will soon march into is but the first battle in a greater war.

  “Could it be: Vlad’War knew this all those many winters ago? Maybe that’s why he made the Hammer of Power. If so, Parm Warl is not just a name used to express a desire for peace in the place we now live in, it also embraces hope that the Mountain of Song will escape the dark forces wishing to conquer it, those that want to write dour compositions of their own to undo the Singer’s work and reshape the warls into their own fetid image.”

  A deep-throated growl wafted out of one of the greatroom’s corners where shadows gathered like balls of dust drawn to a place where footfalls wouldn’t disturb them. But it wasn’t disuse that had assembled the shadows in this particular corner, it was Griffin Magic guided by Grour Blood’s broken heart. Disconsolate as the massive winged-lion was about the horrible fate that had befallen Muriel-Blood, he had shrouded himself in twilight to hide from view as he grieved for his friend. But Bacchanor’s words had roused his interest in a way that drew him into the conversation. And soon, his broad face came into focus as the light from the fireplace that was warming the room lit up his tawny visage and the heavy, brown mane that framed it.

  “If the Warl’s Magic is thought to be an influence stretching across the Warl, the heavens surrounding it, and all other realms known and unknown, then the Mountain of Song is the mind where the Warl’s Magic’s intentions are determined and where the power needed to see the intentions are fulfilled originates. Indeed, this proves those inhabiting the Warl are important, since, as Lylah noted, their spirits go straight to the mountain once their bodies fail them.

  “The griffin have long considered this phenomenon proof that the Warl’s Magic is using humanity’s experiences, as they struggle through life, as the inspiration for its compositions. And with a potential for experiencing both heartache and joy, living life can, indeed, be a struggle. Weak and frail as humans are, the Community of Blood is convinced that they play a pivotal role in determining how the Warl’s Magic interacts with all the realms it has helped create and now sustains.

  “The Song of
Breaking, Muriel-Blood has released into the Warl of the Living, is one of the more important compositions that human experience has helped the Mountain of Song write. Moved by the love Muriel-Blood’s father had for her, the Singer filled the ring Laz gave his daughter on the day she was born with an enchantment that helped her escape the terrifying, subterranean realm where she was held captive for so long, so she could gain strength to learn to sing this song. Finding Laz’s love compelling because it reflected its own heart, the Singer chose Muriel to be the instrument who would make this revelation known to the whole warl.”

  Seated next to where Grour Blood stood, Jeaf lowered his head as the griffin’s deep voice broke into song, conjuring up memories of the first time Muriel sang the Song of Breaking, a memory that took place in an obscene realm called the Cave of Forgetfulness. Filled with dirty-orange light emitted from the surrounding rocks, the foul hole reached up through the Thangmor Mountains like it was an elongated throat stretching out to feed on the warl above. And as the griffin continued to sing, Jeaf’s mind turned the rumbling sounds into the loveliest voice he had ever heard, the voice of his wife who had completed her journey to becoming the Prophetess of Promise as she sang:

  Do not rejoice over me my enemy,

  You who look at innocence with your eye,

  Do not rejoice or take pleasure when I fall,

  For I will arise!

  Now 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.

  After Grour Blood finished, the room was left in silence as the gathering pondered all that had been said, the lyrics they had just heard, and the magic the song’s words had drawn out of the griffin that, in a time now past, had transformed a flock of desicated birds, that had all their feathers plucked out of their lifeless bodies by profiteers who ravaged the wonderous fowl’s island as they went about harvesting the valuable plumage, into the magnificent winged-lions called griffin.

  The mood had grown somber as Grour Blood’s deep, rumbling voice reminded everyone there that the woman who was the first to learn to sing the Song of Breaking hung on a fiery tree turned to iron.

  Muriel’s sons looked at one another as their hands rested on the hilts of the swords they made on top of Vlad’War’s Anvil. If a father’s love was a force to be reckoned with, they were determined to prove a son’s love was no less potent. As they shared glances, an unspoken vow was made between them to see that Not-Ab’Don paid for his transgressions.

  Feeling as somber as the others, not certain why this was so since he had never met the Prophetess, Arga’Dyne sounded like a child asking his parent a question. “What about the Neflin, do the prophets say where your spirits go when you die?”

  Uncertain of the direction the Broyn’Dar chieftain’s inquiry was leading to, Lamarik spoke up when she saw Arga’Dyne looking to her for an answer. “Mar’Gul tells us that our ancestors once believed we would pass on to a Warl of Lights to take our place among the radiant beings who live there. That’s why I set out to free my father’s spirit that was being held captive in Cara Lorn.” She looked at her father and sister who were always hoovering near her for a time before she finished. “I couldn’t allow the Lorn Fast Wraiths to keep my loved ones from completing the journey Mar’Gul said they had to make.”

  “A Warl of Lights like the clouds that sit on top the Mountain of Song?”

  “Possibly.” Lamarik smiled at the notion the perceptive hunchman had come up with. “What about the Broyn’Dar, what do your wise ones say will happen to you when you die?”

  “From our childhood on,” the chieftain’s gravelly voice was unusually subdued, “we are taught: If we prove ourselves worthy in battle, there is another life waiting for us after our deaths in a place called The Great Lair. There we’re given another chance to win glory by fighting one another in never-ending battles that are only interrupted by feasts where meats of a variety are devoured, baskets filled with chata are consumed, and gloating over those we’ve bested takes place. They say The Great Lair is found in a warl where the terrain is made of burned stone laced with gorges that look like gaint claws have rent the stone.”

  Arga’Dyne sighed instead of huffing as he had done before. “I welcome the chance to prove myself in battle once again, but I must confess, I find this Mountain of Song you’re talking about intriguing.

  “Though we Broyn’Dar are not known for our singing, I was moved by Grour Blood’s voice, so much so that I wish to learn to sing the Song of Breaking. And just like Lylah’s kin, I’d like to find the place where the Singer lives.”

  Mar’Gul’s voice sounded closer this time, in fact it sounded like she was whispering in Arga’Dyne’s ear. “That’s why you’re here: The Broyn’Dar are being given an invitation to climb the Mountain of Song’s slopes and join the humans and elves who enter the clouds of pulsating light that sit like a luminous crown on top of peaks that are resplendent with magical music.

  “If you choose, your kin will no longer be drawn into the darkness covering half of the Warl of the Dead, for that’s where your family has gone. And if wisdom guides you to take the path that crosses the grass-covered plains laying before your goal, then you and your kind will climb the great mountain too and you will be given a chance to redeem your ancestors who have been snared in the shadows.”

  Arga’Dyne was confused that Mar’Gul’s mouth didn’t move as she spoke, for, unbeknownst to him, she had sent her thoughts directly into his mind as well as all the minds of those present. The truth of this dawned on the Broyn’Dar chieftain when he saw Ilya’Gar nod his head and clench his hands into fists he gently pounded on his thighs.

  Pleased by what he had heard Mar’Gul say, Travyn’s eyes glowed brightly as he said, “This is a day for the Broyn’Dar to receive gifts, for I have another they might find to their liking. It’s a gift that will help you and your kin fight back against those who use magic against you. Listen closely, and I’ll tell you a little trick a friend of mine, who was once a Hag, taught me, a trick made possible with the use of glassy shards of black rock taken from the Stone Desert.”

  Travyn went on to explain how he met Horbyn, the wizard who helped he and Kaylan get inside the Hall of Voyd. Over the course of the telling, he shared details on how he and his brothers had fashioned their swords using the magic invested in Vlad’War’s Anvil and the virtue found in Andara’s Tears.

  Since Arga’Dyne was present to witness the battle that was about to be described, a battle that revealed more of the Oakenfel brothers’ swords’ abilities, Travyn briefly touched on the deadly contest he and Kaylan were engaged in with a Hag named Scytholar, a Shadow man named At’Jak, the hunchman-human mutants, and two very large Thrall Giants.

  As Travyn described the fight, Arga’Dyne interrupted the story a few times to add his own commentary on the violent affair. Though she was there too, Lamarik remained quiet as her mate spoke. But she couldn’t hide the pride she felt for the warrior she had fallen in love with.

  Seeing the others were especially interested in the Hall of Voyd, Travyn used greater detail to describe his visit there. Though the harrowing conclusion to the ill-fated quest to take Crooked Finger away from the place where the Sorcerer held it in safekeeping was enthralling- with Kaylan having the talisman that looked like a slender, iron branch rammed through his chest and with Horbyn’s body being planted at the bottom of the Voyd River alongside a host of other unfortunates glutting the torrid waterway- Travyn was mindful to return to the part of the story where he had earlier said Horbyn used fragments of black, glass-like rocks he had taken from the Stone Desert to shield his living quarters from magic his fellow Hag might use to spy on him. The ability the stones possessed to thwart magic’s use was the gift Travyn wanted to give Arga’Dyne.

  “After we reached Shtytl,” the rings of amber light in Travyn’s eyes brightened with excitement as
he spoke, “I sent my Fane J’Shrym relatives off to the Stone Desert to gather the black shards you and your kin can use against your enemies who are armed with magic. With the time that has passed since they left, the harvesters should be well on their way back over the Great Ral Mountains that separates Shtytl from the desert bordering eastern Ar Warl.

  “Once they return, we’ll keep the stones in a place that is far enough away to keep them from impeding our own magical abilities. Blacksmiths will be sent to fashion swords, shields and spears with the rocks imbedded in them. It will be your task to determine the limits of the stones’ power and how best to use them, since this is still an unknown. Afterwards, you and the rest of the Broyn’Dar will return to your kin with the remaining shards in hand, so that copies of these weapons can be made.”

  Arga’Dyne smiled as he thought: The alliance with the humans is proving to be a profitable one, at least for the time being. With their help, we freed the captives that were being used to make the fire-blasted abominations. My wife included. And now Travyn is giving the Broyn’Dar stones with power to thwart magic that is used against us.

  “Once our plans are made, and the part the Broyn’Dar will play in the strategy we develop is decided, we won’t see each other again until we meet up on the battlefield where the fate of your home warl will be determined.” Bacchanor used these words to transition into the plan-making process proper. “There, we’ll join forces with Nyeg Warl when they go to confront the Sorcerer and his armies.”

  Looking to each of his sons in turn, Jeaf used Mind Ciphering to speak to them. Then we’ll save your mother or die trying.”

  Save sounds good, Travyn added. We’ll let the Sorcerer and his followers do the dying.

  Aye, Ay’Roan replied.

  Save sounds good to me too, J’Aryl added.

  Kaylan and Lylah, who was privy to the thoughts Jeaf shared with her too since Mind Ciphering was the waterkynds’ main mode of conversing, turned and looked at one another as they touched each other’s mind and emotions.