by Rex Hazelton
When the weird fog was seen rolling over the bridge that joined the Hall of Voyd to the place where their fighting would eventually take them, the warriors’ confidence was quickly reduced to the grim determination those at war embraced in a battle they thought they could win. Few doubted that victory would be had, though the price they’d have to pay for that victory, most likely, had gone up.
The wraiths that flooded out of the Warl of the Dead were different from those who had come from Cara Lorn and the Lorn Fast Swamp, many of them had cast off their human form and assumed one that was closer to the one their master had, though shorter versions of its tall build. The amount of time they spent living in the shadows the Evil One ruled over had a direct bearing on how much they looked like their master. Some of the more ancient beings had attained greater height, unless they were of the same ilk as their lord was when they were alive in the same way that those born in the Warl of the Living now were. In that case, they wouldn’t have changed at all.
With unusually long, slender arms and legs attached to barrel chests sitting on top of much narrower abdomens, the Warl of the Dead’s wraiths had heads that were larger than those they had when they possessed human bodies, though proportionately smaller than their masters. Conversely, the Lorn fast Wraiths’s spirits still looked like they did before they died, to the point that the clothes seen on them looked like those they wore at the time of there deaths.
Besides their long, slender arms, the evil dead had fingers to match. Long and slender, they were built for catching and holding on to the spirits of the deceased that were trying to make their way to the grassy plain laying before the Mountain of Song. Some were called Thieves. Others, Catchers. All were engaged in rounding up the spirits the Evil One needed to construct the bridge it planned on using to cross the chasm that divides the Warl of the Dead in two called the Gulf Fix.
Reaching the Mountain of Song was ever the ancient entity’s goal. It planned on assaulting the resplendent place with spirits it twisted into its own image. Slapped together like pieces of black clay used to make a sculpture, the pathetic spirits were used to fashion, Scha’Tan, whose shape mocked the Mountain of Song. Here, the warriors were forced to wait in a prison-like condition inside the mountain they were melded to until the time for the assault came.
With the type of foe they had in front of them, the evil dead kept their weapons tucked away inside bodies that were less vaporous than they should have been, an outcome that was due to the Sorcerer wrestling the Prophetess’ magic away from her. Taking on a more substantial look as time passed, since the event that had torn down the barrier between the Warl of the Living and the shadow realm that covered half of the Warl of the Dead had taken place, the wraith warriors were beginning to look as dangerous as they really were. The least perceptive fighter could see that now. Stumbling over one another, as they rushed to get their long fingers on the living who fought each other in a battle that no longer ignored them, the wraiths looked like a black avalanche careening along at a speed far greater than the angle of the slope they were descending would actually facilitate.
In time, the broiling black avalanche swept over the combatants. Ignoring those who had the Spell of the White Hand cast over them and any who wielded Candle Magic- both Hag and Candle Warriors alike since their flames seemed to repulse the wraiths, the evil dead latched onto anyone clothed in flesh that had warm blood coursing through it- ANYONE! Nyeg Warlers and Ar Warlers alike!
The Warl of the Living had changed with the advent of the wraith warriors, since they had come to stay or, at least, establish a permanent presence. If something weren’t done to stop them, the Warl of the Living would be relegated to serving no other purpose than to provide the Evil One with the raw materials it would use to wage war on the Mountain of Song. An ongoing harvest of spirits the fiend would mutate into the warriors it needed to attack the object of its hatred was the material it coveted the most. And that harvest begins today.
The Ar Warlers were horrified to see an army that rushed out of the Hall of Voyd where the Lord of Ar Warl’s throne sat beset those who risked their lives to do the Sorcerer’s bidding. But that was precisely what was happening.
Latching onto warriors whose steel blades were useless against those who were already dead, the wraiths long fingers dug into the bodies they grasped until they took hold of the spirits found inside. That’s when the real fight began: for the living weren’t willing to just hand their spirits over to those who had no regard for them at all; nor were the wraiths moved by the looks of terror that showed on their victims faces other than to be excited by the pain they were inflicting, an excitement that made them tighten their grips and pull harder.
The wraiths had to pull time and again until the living succumbed to fatigue the dead were not subject to, fatigue that quickly led to death. As the bodies’ strength failed, the spirits that belonged to them were extracted like laundry pulled out of the wash. Once the spirits were extracted, the abandoned bodies collapsed to the ground while the disoriented spirits were clamped in the wraith version of irons. These were affixed to ethereal chains the abductors carried like they were stringers used to hold a catch of fish. As the catch increased the chains lengthened accordingly and the black avalanche got larger.
Seeing what was happening, the Ar Warlers- who were enlisted in one or the other king’s army- turned to flee from the black fog that was devouring their comrades’ spirits. The thought of dying was dreadful enough; the thought of having one’s spirit taken captive by those who were already dead turned the feelings of dread into something that words couldn’t describe, especially since the captors were discernably evil. Amazingly enough, the Hag took mercy on the other Ar Warlers and didn’t try to stop them as they fled. The whiteskins weren’t so kind.
Unaware of the specifics of what was taking place, the Nyeg Warlers and rebels responded to the Ar Warlers attempts to escape the approaching doom like they were facing a renewed assault on their lines. At first, the rebels didn’t notice that the Ar Warlers weren’t attacking them in a concerted way. Instead, they only fought to defend themselves.
Though the enemy was pushing toward them like they were the aggressors in the fight, with the erratic way they moved about, a sense of panic seemed to be moving them along. The source of the panic that drove the Ar Warler’s on was identified once they were heard crying out for mercy while claiming an army of dead was approaching that was slaughtering anyone that was in their way.
At first, the rebels made the harvesting job the wraiths were doing much easier by killing those who cried out for sanctuary. Then a griffin roar, filled with magic, was heard rolling across the battlefield before Mar’Gul shouted, “Stop!”
Perched on top of her husband’s griffin back while he spread his wings to hover in place, Mar’Gul continued to speak with a voice that sounded much like it did when she was alive. “Our fight is no longer with Ar Warl’s armies, neither is their fight with us. We have a new enemy that would subjugate us all, for a door has been opened to the Realm of Shadows that exists in the Warl of the Dead and has let its foul brood enter the place where the living are found.
“Keep your weapons in hand. You’ll need them to fight the Hag, the cretchym, and those under the Spell of the White Hand. But don’t fight any other. We no longer struggle to determine who will rule over the warl we know; instead, we fight to keep the shadows from the Warl of the Dead from sweeping over the Warl of the Living and drowning us all in its fathomless depths.”
Amplified by the magic she possessed, her voice was easily heard by the warring parties. With the light that that same magic cast about her and Bacchanor- and with all the griffin hovering behind them, adding the weight of their presence to the words being spoken- Mar’Gul took command of the situation. Even the massive thunderhead Travyn had called into existence paused to listen to Mar’Gul, though flashes of light could still be seen inside its broad expanse that kept sunlight from reaching the battlefield.
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nbsp; “For now, Dolfon, have the Candle Warriors and Wielders move forward and set up a picket line of fiery shields. From what I’ve seen while riding through the sky, the wraiths are not overly fond of the candles’ flames. Leolynn, have the Neflin surround the Fane J’Shrym and the Hammer Bearer until Jeaf has time to decide what he will do. Alynd, if you will, have the Otrodorians do the same. Then ask Mystylkynd’s king to join you and Marta by Jeaf’s side, since he might need your magic.
“As for you Ar Warlers: You can keep running, but you won’t get far if the Hammer Bearer is unable to stop the army of darkness that is invading our warl. Stay or go, the choice is yours. But if you stay, you must fall into ranks with those you once fought.
Becoming more substantial by the moment as the Warl of the Dead’s influence imposed itself on the Warl of the Living, Mar’Gul shouted, “Get moving. There isn’t much time left.”
Looking back up the slope they came from, back to the Hall of Voyd and the bridges that led to the Sorcerer’s citadel, the Ar Warlers were dismayed to see that their brothers on the other side of the Voyd River were being consumed by the black fog that rolled along on that side of the waterway. Their dismay threatened to turn into panic when they saw their own stragglers have their spirits yanked out of their bodies, spirits that wouldn’t have been visible if it wasn’t for the Evil One confiscating the Prophetess’ magic. Then they looked up at the griffin who hovered in the sky behind the woman who had spoken, a woman that looked like a spirit herself and higher up into the storm that sat above them. Recalling the bolts of lightning that had decimated the cretchym swarm, they made their decision: Most stayed; few ran. The leaders that remained made contact with their rebel counterparts to coordinate their movements and make certain no misunderstandings drew them into unwarranted conflicts with each other, though the terrifying foe they both faced would keep this from happening.
Jeaf was soon standing with his sons, their mates, and the rest of those Mar’Gul asked to remain near the Hammer Bearer. Bala flew by Bacchanor’s side as his wife continued to organize the warriors. Ilya’Gar, accompanied by Dog, went to work with the Bro’Noon as they gathered the remaining Broyn’Dar to themselves. Griffin were asked to carry missives to Ballastyn and Goldan who were approaching the deadly battle from both the north and the east.
The remaining hunchman-humans were left to their fate as they stood before the approaching avalanche that would view them no differently than they did the rest of the Ar Warlers. No attempt was made to contact Ar Warl’s eastern army that was being overwhelmed by the wraith hordes that were busy pulling their spirits out of their bodies.
With the Warl of the Dead warriors securing their prizes and continuing to subdue those who failed to flee when they could have, the Thrall Giants were eventually included in the dour harvest that was taking place. As stubborn as the behemoths were, it took at least a dozen wraiths and a great deal of time and energy to extract a single giant’s spirit.
Jeaf Oakenfel was caught half way between his own thoughts and waiting, even hoping, for the others to give suggestions of what to do. As it turned out, the hunchman-humans provided the time needed for the luxury of inaction.
When the wraith warriors found how entertaining it was to watch their comrades trying to latch onto the elusive mutants, most took a break from pursuing the other spirits to enjoy the sight. After all, of all the living they were busy catching, the hunchman-humans were proving the most difficult to sink their fingers into with the desperation the mutants displayed in dodging their pursuers.
But the luxury of inaction would end soon, and Jeaf knew it.
“Make a fist and strike it against the ground.” Since no one else was speaking, Vlad’Aeroth thought he’d get things going, though he felt out of his element suggesting how to use magic.
“That might work,” Ay’Roan added more to save his friend from embarrassment than to add something of substance to the talk.
“That might work if we were facing the likes of Koyer and Schmar,” Marta said as she took the others in with an appraising eye.
“And if Ab’Don were Ab’Don,” Elamor added.
Blue light flashed out of the Elf-Man’s eyes as he asked a question. “Travyn, I hear you’re responsible for conjuring up the thunderhead that sits above.”
With his head lowered in thought, the rings of amber light in Travyn’s eyes weren’t seen until his hat’s broad brim rose high enough to expose them to the others. “The sword did the conjuring after I told it to.”
“How’d you do that?”
“I imagined the storm in my mind and then commanded it to come forth.”
“You used your imagination?”
“No. Not my imagination.” Travyn looked like he was struggling to come up with the right words. “Imaginations can take too much of a life of their own, if you know what I mean. I was more deliberate when picturing the storm. It was like my mind’s eye was in total control. As a matter of fact, now that I think of it, it wasn’t until I decided to take the reins and kick the horse in the flanks that the sword’s magic finally responded to me like I’ve been wanting it to all along.”
“So, you think taking charge was a key?”
“Aye. It’s like the sword has been waiting for me to take control of things all along.” The amber rings in Travyn’s eyes gained an intensity that was in keeping with his aggressive nature. “I don’t think it liked me feeling uncertain about myself.”
“To use your imagery: No horse does.” Satisfied with what he had heard, Alynd turned to Jeaf and said, “There you have it: Following your son’s example gives us the best chance to survive the fight.”
“Burn it to ashes,” Marta’s curse wasn’t meant to imply she disagreed with her king, it was a spontaneous utterance to what she had seen. “Alynd, look!”
What the Elf-Man saw had him cursing too. Having caught the last of the hunchman-humans, the wraith warriors had turned their attention back to the remaining prey. Dissatisfied with the meager efforts the Hag were putting into breaking down the Candle Warrior’s fiery barrier- like the black-robed wizards weren’t certain they wanted the wraith warriors to win- the evil dead rushed past the pathetic Hag and charged at the flaming shiedlwall made with Candle Warrior and Candle Wielder magic.
Hesitating only long enough to figure out how to avoid the candles’ flames, the wraith warriors decided to use an ability they discovered they had in the Warl of the Living. Unlike the Warl of the Dead where they were bound to the rock and soil there like the humans, elves, giants, and hunchmen were in the place the evil dead had only recently entered, the wraith warriors discovered they had the ability to leap high enough into the air, for a time that was long enough, to make them feel like they were flying. That’s why they had been mistaken for being a mass of black fog that nearly reached to the tops of the Hall of Voyd’s highest towers. It was the ability to levitate off the ground that was going to be used to avoid the candles’ magical flames.
On the move again, after they regained the speed they had formerly attained, the wraith warriors simply lept into the air high enough to pass over the fiery shieldwall and those who held it in place, pulling the spirits they had captured along with them as they did. Those who didn’t jump high enough were stabbed with the fiery lances that accompanied the shields and fell to the ground where they and their prisoners writhed about in pain. Those who did jump high enough, and that was most of them, landed amidst the Nyeg Warlers and rebels where they used their long, slender fingers to take hold of the spirits they began to pull on.
Strengthened by the Hammer of Power’s magic, the wraith warriors found that it was nearly as hard to extract their prize from the bodies of those they now assailed than it was to remove the Thrall Giants’ spirits. It took six evil dead to finish the job. But finish the job they did after latching on to Leolynn and the Neflin close to him. In time, after the wrestling match was over, the Neflin’s spirits were clamped in irons as they were included with the earlier
catch. Brusyr, leader of the Cragmar Gianst since Bear’s absence, was next. Twenty wraith warriors were needed to pull his spirit from his massive body.
Jeaf roared in pain as he saw his friends and ally’s drop limply to the ground while their spirits were clamped into the Warl of the Dead’s version of irons.
Falling to one knee as he ground his teeth together, Jeaf proclaimed, “I am the Hammer of Power!” Then he slammed his fist against the ground, making the battlefield shake as he did. Booming thunder accompanied the shaking, those without sure enough footing were thrown to the ground, and hundreds of tendrils of blue light shot out of the arm that had absorbed Vlad’War’s inemitable talisman. As the tendrils of blue light rose into the air they divided apart until they had become thousands. Then the thousands broke apart to become tens of thousands and more that went searching for men and women to impart magic to, those who aligned themselves with the Hammer Bearer including the Ar Warlers who had joined them.
Once the ground quit shaking and the booming thunder rolled off toward the horizon, Jeaf stood to look at his handiwork. What he found was disheartening to say the least. Though it now took twice as many wraith warriors to complete the unholy separation of spirits from the bodies that had housed them, those from the Warl of the Dead continued on with the harvest, though it was being completed at a slower pace due to their prey’s increased strength and speed.
Ilya’Gar’s spirit was the next to be clamped into irons though the extraction was a violent process due to the additional magic they had been given. Travyn shouted this time as he raised his sword to the storm. Unwilling to release the lightning’s fury into the field of battle lest he hit his friends who were being wrestled to the ground by the frenzied wraith warriors, Travyn let the bolt of energy use him as a wick to burn itself out on.
Without knowing what else to do, Jeaf drew his fist back and struck the ground a second time, sending out another host of radiant blue tendrils to help his friends and allies. Infused with this new dose of power, the warriors possessing flesh and blood had become so fast in their movements it was a wonder that the wraiths could catch them. But catch them they did.
