Crooked Finger and the Warl of the Dead

by Rex Hazelton

  The cretchym who had their throats torn out died. Those who survived being raked by a sweep of a massive paw would suffer grievously anyway. With their massive wings spred wide, the griffin used both their forepaws and hindpaws as weapons while they flew. Once on the ground, they resorted to using their forepaws only, joined by their powerful jaws that could break a spine or crush a carapace with one bite. Upon taking to the air again, the hindpaws were put back in play, tearing at any hunchman-human foolish enough to assail them.

  Two griffin and a wraith against multiple thousands of winged-cretchym was hardly fair, if fair had anything to do with war. It was like using two buckets to bail out a sinking merchant ship whose hold was full of water. With the winged-cretchym attacking as they were, the Broyn’Dar and the rest of the rebels were forced to fight on two fronts: one that was at ground level; the other came from the sky. As a result, if a rebel had to defend themself from an assault from above, their guard against a flightless enemy would, by necessity, be dropped. Conversely, if they were engaged in a struggle with a hunchman-human mutant, the sky became their soft spot. The dangerous conundrum took the lives of too many rebels.

  When the sound that two hundred roaring griffin make, as the powerful phalanx of fangs and claws slammed into the swarm of cretchym, joined the winged-demons weird screeching-like shouting and cursing, a moment of relief swept over the rebels. The sense of relief grew when they saw the griffin grind up cretchym like they were so much grain being crushed inside a grist mill.

  With the bits and pieces of mutants flying about like chaff blown about by a winnowing fan as the winged-lions as they churned their way through the massive swarm, relief would have turned into hope if it wasn’t that all the damage the griffin were doing, compared to the overwhelming size of the swarm, amounted to a trim job being administered to a beard the size of a king’s bed. There was too much hair and not enough scissors, though those scissors had amazingly sharp edges that moved like a whirlwind as they did their cutting.

  And all the while, the Hag were busy using their fiery-ropes to stab and burn anything that got in their way. More times than can be recounted, the hunchman-human cretchym fell prey to the magic that struck at those they were fighting against. With Hag fire clearing a path for those gripped in the clutches of the Spell of the White Hand to reach the Hammer Bearer, the whiteskin tide continued to rise as they surged behind the wizards whose black robes hardly moved as they swept forward.

  “By all that is holy,” Jeaf sucked wind through his clenched teeth, “there are so many of them.”

  “Help is coming.” Bala flew about Jeaf and Elamor’s head as she spoke with a voice as clear as flute played by a master musician. “The elves have crossed the Voyd River and Alynd is alongside with an army of his own.”

  “Good,” Jeaf said as he lifted the Hammer of Power out of its holster, “but more power is needed.”

  Elamor stepped away from her son as he lifted Vlad’War’s Child over his head and dropped to one knee. “Brace yourselves,” she shouted to the others a she widened her stance.

  As if it was aware of what was about to happen, magic, in all its forms, held its breath as it watched the Hammer Bearer lift the Hammer of Power over his head. The Hag’s fiery ropes froze in place, the twirling flames inside the Candle Warriors shields stopped gyrating, and those that had the Spell of the White Hand cast over them turned in whatever part of the battlefield they found themselves and looked in the Hammer Bearer’s direction, though many couldn’t possibly see him. The Sorcerer’s gaze snapped away from the iron tree where the Prophetess’ body hung and focused entirely on the Hammer Bearer. The fraethym that were moving about the Hall of Voyd, as they guarded the magical arbor balanced in the massive arms of a giant that had been turned to iron along with the tree, ceased their patrolling. Motionless as they were, the evil spirits- some appearing like shredded patches of smoke, some like ragged sheets of flame, while others were simply glowing masses of light- looked like they had been caught in a painting that was as big as the room they were in. Even Laviathon lifted his long neck above the mass of magical fog that was hiding him and cocked his huge, triangular-shaped head the Hammer Bearer’s way.

  A moment before Jeaf struck the Hammer of Power on the ground, the memory of the first time he laid eyes on Muriel stole its way into his mind. Standing on Vestylkynd’s ramparts with Tsut’waeh, who was in an energetic discussion with Truamor about the art of swordplay, Jeaf was transfixed on the beautiful young woman who stood in front of him, a moment later he felt her in his arms as they rode on Grour Blood’s back as he flew them to one of their many trips to Shiprock Island, then he stood beneath the Canopy of Stars facing the woman who was becoming his wife as the Fane J’Shrym Ska presided over their wedding, three quick scenes flashed by where Muriel held the babies she had just birthed in her arms- Kaylan and Travyn where together in the first, J’Aryl was in the second, and Ay’Roan in the third. The last thing he saw with his mind’s eye wasn’t a memory at all, it was a picture his imagination conjured up of an iron statue of Bear lifting a tree up in his arms that had Muriel’s limp form hanging from its branches. With this picture filling his mind, Jeaf shouted as pain and rage fought with one another to take control of his emotions.

  In the nearby Hall of Voyd, Muriel stirred for the first time since she was placed on the loathsome tree.

  Hearing the Prophetess say, “Jeaf,” the first word the Evil One had heard Muriel say out loud since it had put her on the cursed arbor, brought the foul entity’s attention back to her. But when an explosion was heard out on the battlefield and a shockwave filled with supernatural might struck the Hall of Voyd, shaking its foundations as it did, the Sorcerer’s gaze quickly returned to the Hammer Bearer where he saw Jeaf rising to his feet with Vlad’War’s Child held in his hand.

  The hammer’s silver head looked like ice melting beneath a hot sun, sending rivulets of liquid metal streaming down into runes carved into the handle that spelled out Words of Power in a language few recalled. As the Hammer of Power’s head continued to melt, the red rubies that adorned its silvery top flowed along with the liquid metal until they came to rest on Jeaf’s knuckles, tendrils of red light shot out of the gems looking like hair was rising from the back of Jeaf’s hand that continued to grow until they reached out over the battlefield and struck everyone who had Fane J’Shrym blood in them. Interesting enough, some of these stood among those who would swear they had no relations among the people who the rest of Ar Warler had stripped the name Fane J’Shrym from.

  “Ah,” the Evil One said as he watched the slender streams of red light reach out to the Fane J’Shrym, “it seems the pathetic clans are more important than Ab’Don would like people to believe. No wonder he hated them so.”

  Unlike the time the Hammer of Power sent tendrils of blue magic into the Company of the Hammer’s bodies to empower them to fight off Schmar’s hordes that glutted the Cave of Forgetfulness, this time the tendrils were red in color, matching the three rubies that once sat on the hammer’s head. It seems the rudy gems weren’t for show after all. Red like blood, they spoke of a father’s commitment to the children he bore, those who had his blood flowing through their veins. As such, Vlad’War’s descendents who had volunteered to fight, found themselves partaking of his magic: magic that strengthened their flesh, making it impervious to any wounding except that which came from a direct blow delivered with terrific force; magic that strengthened their muscles and the bones they clung to. In the end, this was a supernatural impartation that made the Fane J’Shrym the whiteskins equal, though no one knew it yet.

  J’Aryl watched the hammer’s silver continue to flow until it wrapped around his father’s forearm and disappeared inside his flesh. When the powerful talisman’s handle followed the silver that Jeaf’s arm had absorbed, J’Aryl said, “Father, touch my sword.”

  Feeling the Hammer of Power’s magic course through both his body and mind, Jeaf looked at his son who most looked like
his wife thinking it was only right that he should be the first to come to him. Reaching out and grabbing hold of the blade heedless of its razor-sharp edges, the swords blue light flared up and enveloped father and son for three heartbeats before it returned to dancing along the blade’s length. Travyn and Kaylan were next to come forward; and as their father grabbed hold of their blades, the blue light flared up so much that Lamarik and Lylah were captured inside its glow as they stood beside their mates. Finally, Ay’Roan stepped up to his father; but when the light flared this time, it didn’t surround Deyvara with its blue glow since she was already being protected by the red light that had struck her along with all of her kin.

  Smiling at his father and his grandmother, Elamor, who came to stand by her son’s side, Ay’Roan tuned to Deyvara and nodded his head before he lifted his voice so all could hear. “Let’s get going. The Hall of Voyd awaits.”

  Dolfon followed up the Fane J’Shrym Wylder with her own command. “Candle Warriors, FORWARD! The Broyn’Dar need our help.”

  Ilya’Gar growled in response and sprinted along with the Master Candle Warrior as she ran to meet the Hag with a fiery-lance in hand.

  Travyn, Lamarik, A’Kadar, and Dog followed the swift Bro’Noon; that was until Travyn saw Shala’Dyne get pinned to the ground by a huge cretchym that looked more falcon than human. Travyn had seen enough, so he stopped running. The sight of Arga’Dyne’s mate squirming beneath a creature whose hooked beak was as long as a carving knife made something snap inside him. The ropes of Hag fire that struck the Broyn’Dar like they were fiery-serpents, set on injecting their super-heated venom into every living Broyn’Dar they could find, made him desperate enough to lift his sword to the sky and shout, “COME TO ME… NOW!”

  This was not an experiment. Travyn wasn’t testing out his powers. He was demanding the magic that had been hammered into his sword when it was remade on Vlad’War’s Anvil obey him. No longer willing to feel like a novice when using his own sword’s magic, Travyn was determined to become its master. With the amber rings of light in his eyes flaring up with his emotions, Travyn drew on every bit of supernatural ability he had inside himself to compel the sword to obey him.

  “I said,” Travyn looked up into the sky and shouted, “COME TO ME… NOW!”

  Instead of resisting Travyn like he was an upstart adolescent wanting to have a say in how his parents ran their home, the sword’s magic saluted him by making the blue light dancing on the blade’s razor-sharp edges flare up in a way that made those standing near Travyn turn their heads to see the sight. Vlad’War and Andara’s Magic that was invested in the sword was glad Travyn was taking the bull by the horns, so to speak. Anything less than that would have been unacceptable and could have compromised the sword’ ability to comply with his wishes. But that time had passed now, Travyn had finally become the master the sword longed to serve; and to show its appreciation for this, a bolt of lightning was sent out of a tiny cloud that couldn’t be seen behind the swarm of cretchym that hid it. Streaking over the winged-demons, the lightning sent a flash of blinding light pulsing through the cretchym swarm.

  As the Sword Wielder’s Magic would have it, the tiny cloud didn’t stay tiny for long. Billowing higher than an eagle could fly, the thunderhead’s bottom took on a greenish-black aspect as lightning flashed inside the towering monster that waited for Travyn to command it. When he pointed his sword at a cretchym he set his eyes on, the growing cloud sent a bolt of pure white energy into the hilt of Travyn’s sword before he used the blade’s tip to redirect it at the cretchym he was targeting. Ground shaking thunder followed. FLASH! BOOOOM! FLASH! BOOOM! Two more cretchym were skewered with power that burned their bodies up before they hit the ground.

  Where the cretchym cloud had darkened the sky, the billowing thunderhead turned day into night.

  When Travyn’s brothers came to stand by him with their own swords raised to the sky, the bolts of lightning multiplied accordingly.

  The Sons of the Storm that prophecy spoke about had finally arrived, and wrath came with them.

  Still the sea of whiteskins flowed over the landscape undeterred by the light show the Oakenfel brothers were putting on, a light show that was reflected- time and again- on their faces, giving them an incandescent facet that appeared and disappeared as the bolts of energy came and went.

  An unimaginable slaughter ensued when the sea of whiteskins finally swept over the rebels, a slaughter that included the elves of Forest Deep, the Otrodorians, and the Cragmar Giants within the parameters of its destruction after they fought their way past the Ar Warlers who failed to stop them from joining the fray.

  Unable to bring the whiteskins down with a thrust of a sword or a lance though the chest, nor even when their limbs were so severely cut that they were held on by a strip of flesh, those under the Spell of the White Hand were a nearly unbeatable foe. The enhanced strength the spell gave the whiteskins made the task of destroying them that much harder. Still, they could be dispatched if their heads were cut off or their bodies were burned or mangled beyond repair.

  The elves speed was good for cutting heads off, the giants’ massive metal-studded clubs made them masters of mangling, and the Candle Warrior’s magical fire did the trick when burning was needed. If you threw in the lightning the Oakenfel brothers were tossing about into the mix, one would think the alliance of Nyeg Warlers and rebels could hold its own against the whiteskins. That might have been true if the numbers had been different; but a sea of whiteskins could not be easily beheaded, burned or mangled, not when they could kill with the same sword thrust that didn’t harm them a bit. So, the slaughter continued and the fighting that created it.

  But what else could each side do but fight and kill and kill and fight until one or the other side had lost so many warriors they forfeited the ability to resist in any meaningful way. So, lightning flashed and cretchym died in numbers that would make a commander blush for having the hubris to send so many to their deaths. Fiery lances and ropes flared, dropping bodies to the ground like overly ripe fruit shaken from trees in an orchard armed with swords and spears. Claws and fangs rent the flesh they sank into. Huge metal-studded clubs crushed whatever they struck. Swords and spears cut at the whiteskins who refused to give way as they returned the favor by stabbing and cutting those who buckled before their heartless onslaught.

  ****

  Roy’Dohk waited for the initial chaos of battle to resolve itself into the rhythmic fighting that emerges when foes get a good idea of each others present strengths and weaknesses before he showed up. Given the title Lord of the Cretchym by his maker, the griffin-human mutant had the entire host of winged-demons placed under his command.

  Entrusted with carrying out the Sorcerer’s directives, the details on how this was accomplished was left up to Roy’Dohk. Today, the details were arranged in a way that advanced his own agenda aimed at humiliating the Community of Blood. That’s why the griffin-cretchym entered the fray when he did: He didn’t want the manic opening moments of the furious fight to force his targets upon him, the time when chaos trampled orchestrated destiny underfoot. He had a specific prey in mind, one that had fur and fangs like him but lacked the human characteristics he inherited from Ab’Don- the griffin. And of all the winged-lions he wanted to kill, Seym Blood was at the top of his list. In Roy’Dohk’s mind, Seym Blood had commited an unpardonable offense when he insulted him during the Battle of Chylgroyd’s Keep when he dared to take the Lord of the Cretchym on in a fight that ended without a clear victor, a fight Roy’Dohk was determined to renew today.

  Anticipating that he would have to face those with muscle, claw, and fang like him, Roy’Dohk brought fifty human-griffin cretchym with him. He considered these particular cretchym to be his offspring because Ab’Don had used Roy’Dohk’s essence to mix in with his own to create the next generation of human-griffin cretchym, a generation that was more human than griffin. As such, they looked more like long-legged hunchmen with wings than they did th
ose who belonged to the Community of Blood.

  Still, to use beast-men to describe Roy’Dohk’s children was an ill-fitting template. Whereas the human-griffin had a distinct lion-like quality to them, the hunchmen’s animal-oriented characteristics were more akin to the apes that lived on Stromane Island, though many thought their long snout-like mouths gave their facial features a canine bend to them.

  The similarities between Roy’Dohk’s offspring and the Broyn’Dar and the Bro’Noon was found in the feral aspect their hair-covered bodies gave them and the fangs and claws each possessed. Though falling short of having manes, the human-griffin’s heads were covered with coarse, blond hair that was only a step or two shy of matching the hunchmen’s mass of head hair that could easily be called manes.

  Along with his mutant children, Roy’Dohk had one hundred beetle-like cretchym flying along with him to provide interference that would clear the path to Seym Blood and then to the others that would be targeted. Filled with an ambition to take over the winged-pride that lived on Stromane Island, Roy’Dohk’s attention would turn to Grour Blood and Thor Blood once Seym Blood was dealt with. But the troublesome griffin had to be dealt with first so that others would learn that the penalty for standing up to him was death, and that none who dared to do such a thing would escape this sentence.

  Roy’Dohk’s strategy was simple: He planned on targeting specific griffin while a battle that was forcing the other combatants to randomly select those they fought swirled about him. The Lord of the Cretchym wanted to kill as many of the griffin elders as he could before the pride mounted a concerted effort to stop him. Needing more than the assassins he surrounded himself with to keep from being overwhelmed by the Community of Blood’s reprisals, Roy’Dohk would call on the cretchym swarm entire to come and help him weaken the winged-lions further until they were forced to submit to his will, a call the winged-demons were already expecting.