by Rex Hazelton
With the tables turned, it was the Ar Warlers time to be slaughtered. And as one would easily guess, those that lacked the distinctive white skin that came with having the Spell of the White Hand cast over them, were, at first, cut down by the scores. Afterward, scores became hundreds. Then hundreds became thousands. And as the dying continued, the Hammer Bear and those with him pressed toward the Hall of Voyd where the Sorcerer stood facing the iron tree that held Muriels’ body on it.
Once the bolts of lightning the Sons of the Storm threw skyward and the griffin, whose magic was increased- if that were possible- by the Hammer of Power’s touch, were joined by the elves, who shot their sparkling thred arrows into the cloud of flying demons, the swarm was so greatly reduced in size that the Sorcerer decided to call the winged-mutants back to the Hall of Voyd where they circled overhead in a tight vortex that waited to defend the citadel if need arose.
Unlike the cretchym, the whiteskins were not recalled. Instead, they were given orders to continue fighting no matter how badly they were being beaten; and with the Oakenfel brothers turning their bolts of lightning on them, badly was about to be an understated word.
But all was not lost for Ar Warl’s Lord. The evil entity had an ace up its sleeve. In fact, all the warriors that had died up to this point were no more than stones sacrificed to win a game of crowns. In this game, stones were tools to be used to capture the crown and nothing more. As one might guess, with the way things now stood, Jeaf was the crown the Sorcerer was after, a crown that would be captured once the entity used the Prophetess’ Magic to open a door to let the dark army, that waited in the shadows covering half of the Warl of the Dead, gain entrance into the Warl of the Living.
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The Evil One cursed Ab’Don for not killing the Hammer Bearer when he had him imprisoned in Chygroyd’s Keep. Aware that he needed Jeaf Oakenfel alive to help him learn how to access the Hammer of Power’s Magic, the Sorcerer had taken a risk by keeping the Hammer Bearer alive, a risk that the Nameless Evil might pay for since Jeaf escaped captivity.
Circling the iron tree that was held in the arms of a Cragmar Giant who tried to help Muriel escape, the One Who Was Not Ab’Don studied the slender iron branch, named Crooked Finger that was thrust into the Prophetess’ heart after she was hung on the tree’s branches. The Nameless Evil was waiting for the Hag to bring in those who would provide the sacrifices necessary for it to take control of the magic Muriel used to raise the dead back to life, magic that Ab’Don, after placing Muriel on an earlier version of the tree she now hung on, employed to summon Otrodor’s deceased royalty into the Temple of the Oak Tree in an effort to use them to get a foothold in Nyeg Warl, an effort that ultimately failed.
The fraethym flew about the tree in a circle wider than the one their master traced around the iron arbor using a black substance that dripped off its fingers, changing from sheets of ragged fire, to similarily-shaped patches of smoke, to masses of bright light, and then back to ragged flames again as they eagerly anticipated feasting on the souls that would be released by the sharp edges of the Hag’s short swords.
The fraethym’s speed accelerated once the Hag began to usher in the unwitting victims, so much so, it was impossible to differentiate the evil spirits from one another as they melded together to form a wreath made of ragged flame that sat atop the ugly tree that had been ruthlessly trimmed by the wraith-blades Muriel’s parents wielded once their spirits gained access to the hall through a doorway their daughter’s magical ring had opened for them.
Looking about the huge room that was the Hall of Voyd proper, twelve pairs of young men and women were awestruck by the regal grandeur that went into its construction, even though the walls were stained with a residue of filth that was the by-product of dark magic practiced there. Having been told they were selected to act as the Sorcerer’s representatives once they were returned to the cities they had been taken from, the youthdul couples looked at the hall with a sense of ownership that was not in keeping with the single visit they had made there. Being pampered for as long as they had been since being selected from the twelve largest cities found in Ar Warl, a young man and woman from each city, the couples naturally assumed the Hall of Voyd was their’s to claim by association. With the Sorcerer standing before the strange, iron statue with his arms spread wide and a beatific smile on his face, how could they think otherwise, though there was something troubling about the woman’s body that hung on the tree. But the pampering they had received by the attentive Hag outweighed their concern, pampering that they were totally unaware was fattening them up for the kill.
The purpose for all the pampering is simple to understand if one takes into account that the Dark Magic the Sorcerer was going to use to take control of the Prophetess’ resurrecting power required extreme reactions- like shock, horror, and debilitating fear, all feelings found on the darker side of the emotional spectrum- to work properly. If the couples had been held in a dungeon and fed with food on the verge of spoiling, if they had been roughly handled and abused, if it had been made clear to them that suffering lie ahead, the young people would have been beaten down to a degree that would have drained them of the emotional energy needed for the explosion of terror the Sorcerer wanted them to feel once the couples discovered their doom. Raw feelings of horror were always better than resigned fear when it came to using the Dark Arts.
Arranging the young couples in a semicircle that faced the Sorcerer and the mangled iron tree that stood behind them, Ar Warl’s Lord asked them to lift their faces to the vaulted ceiling above in preparation for receiving his blessing before they are sent back home. With their eyes reflecting light from the whirling wreath made with the fraethym’s flames, the young men and women waited for the Sorcerer’s commission. Then to their surprise, they felt the Hag that were behind them grab hold of their head hair and unsheathe their short swords making a loud sliding sound they wanted their victims to hear. Lifting their swords high enough to ensure the couples would see them, the Hag lowered the blades and expertly slit the sides of their victims’ necks, cutting an artery that would spill their blood on the hall’s tiled floor.
After sliding their short swords back into the scabbards hidden inside their voluminous robes without taking time to clean the blood off of the blades, the Hag used the handfuls of hair they refused to relinquish to force the victims to their knees before bending their heads forward so the blood, flowing out of their necks, could reach the tiled-floor without being soaked up by the white tunics they wore. Some of the young men and women fell forward until they caught themselves with their hands, though the Hag would have done the work for them with the hair they still grasped in their cruel hands. Most grabbed hold of their throats, trying to stem the flow of red liquid with their scrambling fingers as they were brought to their knees. All had wild eyes that looked about for help that wouldn’t come. The sounds the victims made did not include gurgling since the cuts were only deep enough to ensure the bloodletting. Grunting and anguished moaning filled the hall along with pleading and declarations of unbelief that grew fewer by the moment as the victims’ strength was drained away.
In time, after the last drop of blood was extracted from their victims, the Hag pulled the lifeless bodies away from the precious red liquid that was gathering in a subtle depression located at the center of the hall’s floor and dropped them once they were clear. The moment the bloodless corpses hit the tiles, the whirling wreath made of fraethym flame broke into pieces as the evil spirits raced to embrace the disoriented and agreaved spirits that rose out of the bodies that once belonged to them.
Normally unable to see the spirits of the departed, because of the magic the Nameless Evil brought with it from the Warl of the Dead, the Hag were able to watch the fraethym gather up their prize and carry them up to the hall’s towering ceiling. There they latched onto the vaporous forms like slimy sea creatures do when they want to get at an organism hidden inside a shell. After time spent squirming over their prey,
the fraethym let the spirits fall to the tiled floor, spirits that had become black as pitch, those that stood in an uneven line looking like they were waiting for others of their kind to show up.
Gazing upon the shallow pool of blood that sat in the center of the great hall, satisfied he could see his reflection in the sticky liquid’s surface, the Sorcerer turned and began to recite an incantation in a language it had used back when it possessed another host’s body in the Warl of the Living. Continuing to speak with guttural intonations, the Sorcerer added theatrical arm movements that were specifically designed to release the power in the spell he was weaving over the shallow pool of blood, a pool that gathered in an indentation made by those the Evil One had ordered to file down the thick tiles used to cover the floor in a way that created the shallow basin.
Lifting his shaking hands up like he was summoning the blood to come to him by force of will alone, the red liquid began to heap up until it took the shape of a person who was kneeling with their head bowed and their hands glasped before them. When the Sorcerer shouted, “Ak Bene Hruk Tar Fun Dol,” and pointed at the Prophetess, the heap of blood stood on feet as flat as a frog’s. Much taller than Ab’Don’s body was, the creature had long slender arms and legs with a short torso and broad shoulders. A head the size of a large gord rested on a neck that should have been too narrow to hold it up, a head that was round on top, narrowed at the temples, and then expanded once again into a wide jaw needed to hold the size of mouth the blood-creature had.
Unbeknownst to the Hag, the creature looked like a statue modeled after the Evil One as it appeared in the Warl of the Dead. But statue it was not, for the tall creature began to take labored steps that brought it before the iron tree. As the Sorcerer continued to guide it with the harsh incantation and motion of its hands, the creature made of blood reached out and took hold of the slender, iron rod that had been thrust into the Prophetess chest and gave Crooked Finger a turn like it was a strangely-shaped key.
Shouting out more words in the guttural intonations it had been using, the ancient entity that had taken possession of Ab’Don’s body looked like it had taken hold of the wheel to a large seagoing vessel and turned it. At the same time it did, the blood-creature turned Crooked Finger once again. Another shout and another cranking of the invisible ship’s wheel led to Crooked Finger being turned again. A third shout and cranking of its arms had the Evil One’s black doppleganger turning Crooked Finger again. Shout, Crank. Turn. Shout. Crank. Turn. The ritual continued until the Prophetess spasmed and opened her eyes like one coming out of a nightmare and stared at the massive red stain that had been the womb that birthed the blood-creature. And as she stared, the Hall of Voyd shook and the stained floor split apart throwing the Hag about as it did.
A fissure appeared where the stain once was, and the blood-creature’s form dissolved back into the red liquid it had been formed out of. Splashing on the tiled-floor, the blood slithered toward the fissure, like it was a sea creature returning to the water and slipped over its edge to fall into the chasm below. Muriel fell back into unconsciousness as the blood disappeared and Not Ab’Don went over to peer into the crevasse where it cupped its hands to its mouth and called out like a mother calls her children to dinner.
When moaning and chittering laughter rose out of the hole, the Sorcerer ceased calling out and stepped back in anticipation of what was coming. Sibilant voices joined the moaning and chittering laughter before a deep rumbling sound blotted out all other noise, a rumbling sound that grew until creatures as black as the sacrifices spirits had become flooded out of the hole. The laughing returned as the creatures bubbled over the chasm’s brim and began to fill the Hall of Voyd like ants swarming forth to protect their colony from attack.
On they came, warriors all in a frenzied army that raced out of the Warl of the Dead like they were afraid the Prophetess’ magic would change its mind and seal the passageway it had opened. If the evil dead had known better, they would have realized that once such a door had been opened it could not be easily closed. In truth, even if the barrier that separated the Warl of the Living from the Dead had been restored where it was torn, and Crooked Finger would have to be destroyed for this to happen, the Hall of Voyd would house a new passageway that the recently departed could use to make the journey to the afterlife, one that was like the passageways in the Temple of the Oak Tree in the Nyeg and the one in Dragon’s Tooth in the Ar.
Though all three passageways began as fissures in stone, they didn’t end that way. They were not simple tunnels one could take to enter the Warl of the Dead like it was a chamber found somewhere below the livings’ feet. To do such a thing would only take that person deeper into the ground until they were either lost in a labrynth of adjoining caverns or became discouraged and returned to the surface and the welcome light that was found there.
If one were to think about it, the fissures were akin to the Pools of Transition that the waterkynd used to travel between the Warls of Ice, Water, and Vapor. For anyone else, save the Mythorians, the pools were just pools, and any who dove into them would go no farther than the pools’ stony bottoms would allow. But for the waterkynd who used them, the pools became doorways leading to other realms. In the same way, the fissures would only become passageways to the Warl of the Dead for the recently deceased.
Unlike the way the waterkynd could use the Pools of Transitions to move back and forth between realms, the deceased who reached the Warl of the Dead couldn’t return to the Warl of the Living any more than a full-grown man could become an infant again. But that limitation was no longer true in regard to the departed. The dead, in this instance the evil dead, had gained access to the Warl of the Living with the unwilling assistance the Sorcerer forced out of the Prophetess using Crooked Finger’s Magic to do the work, magic that had bound itself to Muriel when it was thrust into her heart.
The surging wraiths looked like a geyser spewing black water out of the jagged fissure that opened up in the Hall of Voyd’s floor. The number of dead released into the Warl of the Living swelled beyond the opening’s capacity to let them pass in an orderly fashion. Not limited in the same way those with corporeal bodies were, the wraiths were able to access every bit of the hall, its floor and all the space above it, making the huge room look like a bin being filled with grain that was loosely packed since the forces that kept the living anchored to the ground had little effect on them.
Sensing their master was inside Ab’Don’s body, they stared at the human with a look displaying a mix of both revulsion and deference: revulsion at the thought that the Evil One was forced to debase himself having to put the puny man’s body on; reverence because the Lord of the Shadows Found in the Warl of the Dead was the one who wore the body. Letting their gaze reach beyond their master, the wraiths smiled at the sight of the woman who hung helplessly on the iron tree that had once been made of fraethym fire. As always, pain and suffering was the food on which they fed. The emotional meal they were enjoying was made tastier by the sight of the giant that held the tree’s trunk in his grasp.
The giant had to be a fool to think he could carry the tree away, they thought. But a fool would make a tastey condiment to the fare they partook of.
The wraiths that showed up later only got a glimpse of the iron tree and the woman who hung on it as they were forced to move into the hallways winding their way through the Sorcerer’s citadel. Once these were filled, the wraiths moved into the courtyards outside.
Chapter 22: Fane J’Shrym
Hope, blessed hope, filled the hearts and minds of Nyeg Warl’s warriors. With the Hammer of Power’s magic reinforcing their skin beneath the armor they already wore in a way that enabled them to stand toe to toe with the whiteskins and not be cowed by those who wouldn’t succumb to ordinary wounding, the invader’s confidence grew by the moment as they pushed Ar Warl’s army back as they continued to force their way to the Hall of Voyd. The renewed vigor Vlad’War’s Child gave those it touched with the veins of blue lig
ht it dispensed to the Nyeg Warlers and rebels, the new-found confidence was now bordering on arrogance. How could they lose now that the Hammer of Power had flexed its muscles, now that it was proving that prophecy about its efficacy was not unfounded? With the Hammer Bearer striding boldly across the field of battle and the Sons of the Storm drawing lightning down on their enemies, how was failure even possible? The Srocerer had thrown his best at them and his best was found wanting. All the Hag, whiteskins, and cretchym in the warl couldn’t stop them, of that they were certain. All that was needed now was time, time to destroy an enemy that was staggering back to the Hall of Voyd where its master was crouching in fear as his inevitable doom fell on him.
The Nyeg Warlers’ confidence was so great, they took the earthquake that shook the Sorcerer’s citadel to be a sign that the Evil One’s power was disintegrating. This was an opinion most held except for the Hammer Bearer himself and those experienced in using magic- Bacchanor, Mar’Gul, Elamor, her grandsons, Dolfon, Ramskynd, Alynd the Elf-Man and the like.
Hacking and stabbing the whiteskins with a furor that kept the Ar Warlers off balance, burning the Hag with fiery lances that were more effective than the dark wizards’ fiery-ropes given the protection the Hammer of Power’s magic gave the Candle Warriors, Nyeg Warls army didn’t immediately see the darkness that appeared in the Hall of Voyd, a darkness that looked like froth billowing up in a pot of boiling liquid, froth that was black instead of white. The oversight was corrected when the radiant illumination from the bolts of lightning no longer lit up the Hall of Voyd as they once did. Less and less of the structures were seen as each wave of light washed across them, until only the tallest towers were visible above the strange, black, cloud-like fog that covered the island where they stood.
