Crooked Finger and the Warl of the Dead

by Rex Hazelton

  The fight to separate the spirit from the body took so much time, those who had the good fortune of avoiding the evil dead were able to retreat from the struggle. But they didn’t go far, not when the Hammer Bearer was doling out power like he was. Maybe, if he could dispense enough of Vlad‘War’s power, the living could succed in resisting the dead. Maybe. But the point where it was enough had not been reached before the wraith warriors targeted the Otrodorians.

  It was now Alynd’s turn to shout as he watched his people being slowly and painfully absorbed into the growing throng of captive spirits that dumbly followed their captors affixed to the wraith chains that snaked along behind them.

  General Doeryn was the first Otrodorian to go, though the wizened warrior put up a fight to remember. Huge Boorwyn was next, though those who saw him struggle would swear that the giant of man beat two of the wraiths so badly with his huge fists that he pummeled them into mist that rose into the air and floated off to the Hall of Voyd. So many people Alynd knew followed, those he had broken bread with, all friends, all who looked to him as their king protector.

  “Enough!” he shouted before the Elf-Man was off in a blur to go help his people. Marta went with him. With the magic the Hammer of Power Had given her, she was nearly as fast as Alynd. To see such a matronly personage move so quickly was odd beyond belief. Ramskynd, Shalamor, and Silvamor weren’t about to let the Elf-Man face the wraith warriors alone, nor would the host of elves let their Otrodorian allies meet their doom alone.

  Rushing past the place where his people were being incorporated into the growing throng of captives, Alynd reached into a leather pouch that hung by his side and took out a tiny golden sphere that he began to speak to in the elvish tongue. Glancing forward as he recited the incantation, as the sphere lay in the palm of his open hand, Alynd was relieved to see only wraiths, their captives that were already dead, Hag, and whiteskins were in front of him. Then he shouted an elven war cry that joined the blue light exploding out of his eyes across the tiny sphere. And in the instant the war cry and light hit the sphere, Andara’s tear exploded with a fury that caused a ball of fire the size of king’s stable to rise out of the ground. And as the ball of fire rose up on a pedestal made of flame and unfolded like it was a giant, fiery mushroom, searing hot wind rushed out of from the pedestal’s base and slammed into the enemy who was across the battlefield from the Elf-Man wiping those it hit off the face of the warl.

  Once the thunderous roar of the explosion had abated and the wind and debri it conveyed had completed their work, a hole as wide as an arrow could fly and as deep as ten men standing on top of one another appeared before Alynd. While the sound of weeping swept over the battlefield, a sound that the wraiths intuitively knew came from the wizard’s magic that had been used to make the tear, a noise that was music to their ears since they correctly guessed the wizard was a compassionate person and his magic had been used in an unkind way, they evil dead took little note of the devastation as they began to fill the hole in when they moved forward to renew the hunt.

  The number of those that rushed forward was so great, that it appeared Alynd had done little damage to the wraith warriors. Still, he reached into his leather pouch and took hold of another one of Andara’s Tears. If he had to, he would use them all to blow the fiends off the face of the warl. With that thought in mind, Alynd was dismayed to find that the wraiths he had passed to get a clear shot at their sordid companions had turned their full attention on him. Before he knew what was happening, he found himself buried beneath a mound of wraith warriors who began the process of extracting his spirit from his body. Rushing to help him but lacking the depth of magic he possessed, Marta found herself swamped by the evil dead who were drawn to her. The same thing happened to Ramskynd and his sons when they tried to help Marta.

  With tears running down his eyes, Jeaf watched his friend and mentor’s spirit being clamped in irons. As Elamor came to comfort him by placing her hand on his shoulder like she had done a thousand times before, Jeaf dropped to his knee again and raised his fist to deliver another blow to the ground.

  “Wait,” Jeaf’s mother grabbed hold of his raised forearm. “Son, look at your hand.”

  “No, mother, let me strike the ground,” he shouted out in a hoarse voice. “I need to hit something, please.”

  “Father,” Kaylan said. “Listen to Grandmother and look at your hand.”

  Still, Jeaf kept his fist raised thinking he could look at his hand after he struck the ground. But this time it wouldn’t be just one blow. This time he would give the warl a thrashing.

  “Father,” a voice that sounded like a soft rain was falling on a forest filled with leafy trees addressed the Hammer Bearer, “look at your hand.”

  Lylah’s otherwarly presence touched Jeaf in a way his other loved ones hadn’t. Her voice brought back cherished memories of Mythoria and the gentle waterkynd who lived there. Blinking his eyes three times in an exaggerated way, Jeaf looked first to Lylah who was smiling at him, then to the fist he had lowered. White light was escaping from between his fingers like they were poorly sealed shutters on house that had a lively firing burning in its hearth.

  When he finally capitulated to the desire to open his hand, Jeaf stood as he watched the swirling light found there take on the shape of a ball of crystal clear illumination. Like the other times this phenomenon happened, a man with hair black and curly as a sinagar goat appeared inside the ball. A wide belt and broadsword were strapped around his waist and the red tunic that fell to his knees. A breastplate made of star’s blood covered his chest. A mountain Jeaf recognized as the Mountain of Song filled the horizon behind him.

  “Vlad’War,” Jeaf exclaimed.

  “Hammer Bearer,” Vlad’War replied. “I see you have your family gathered around you. Greetings to all.”

  “Are you aware of what is happening?”

  “I see what the Hammer of Power sees, though the talisman is no longer mine as you know.”

  “As many times as I’ve struck the hammer, the magic I’ve released is not enough to stop the wraiths from harvesting our spirits,” Jeaf complained.

  “Then do more.”

  “What more can I do?”

  “Are you suggesting you’ve found the limits to the Hammer of Power’s Magic?” Vlad’War looked over his shoulder at the Mountain of Song that was behind him and replied, “Hmmm.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. But I don’t know what more I can do.” Jeaf looked at the Mountain of Song as he spoke. “Should I reach into the ground and absorb the warl’s strength? Would it help if I absorbed my Fane J’Shrym kin into my body and became a giant again like I did at Chylgroyd’s Keep?”

  “Good. Good.” Vlad’War’s smile was the kind people assumed when they were resolved to carrying out a specific action. “Both things could help, but you need more than this. Travyn was correct in saying the magic I’ve amassed needs a firm hand to wield it, while he missed the mark when he minimized the role of imagination. Both are needed. What is your imagination telling you? Where does it want to go?”

  Looking back at Alynd’s spirit that was chained up with the others, it didn’t appear to be disoriented like the others were after their abrupt transition from being alive to being dead. Jeaf lifted his head a little higher when he thought his friend turned to look at him. When a flash of blue light shot out of the Elf-Man’s eyes, Jeaf turned his gaze back to the ball of crystal clear illumination where the warrior-wizard waited for his reply and said, “The Sorcerer used my wife’s magic to open a door that has let the Evil Dead enter the Warl of the Living. Since share each other’s magic to one degree or another, I want to continue opening doors likeMuriel has, so the Righteous Dead can enter the Warl of the Living and help us fight off the wraiths.”

  “Good. Good. My work was not done in vane.” Vlad’War spoke to himself more than he did to Jeaf. Continuing on, he added, “The Evil One had to spill blood to rend the fabric that separates the Warl of the Living from th
e Warl of the Dead, so its Shadow Warriors could be summoned. But I have a better way to do this, a way I made preparations for during the Age of Star’s Blood when my strength was at its peak. That’s when I realized: Blood ties can be as powerful as spilled blood. As a result of this, the only things that need to be done is for the Fane J’Shrym to realiize who they are, as they already have, and then accept their fathers’ help.

  “What say you?” Vlad’War’s voice was heard by everyone of his children- men and women alike. “Would you have your fathers join you on the field of battle? Would you have Shloman the Great come to your aid? Speak now, the Fulness of Time has arrived. That which was lost has been found.”

  “Aye,” J’Aryl was the first to speak. His brothers were quick to follow. When Vlad’Aeroth joined Jeaf’s sons reply, the surviving Fane J’Shrym shouted, “Aye!”

  Feeling the magic reaching out of his arm and ripple through his kin who stood around him, Jeaf took hold of the power he finally understood and said, “With the hearts of the sons having returned to the fathers, I invoke the magic found in shared blood to call our ancestors forth, so that we may stand shoulder to shoulder and fight against the enemy as one.”

  With that said, Jeaf dropped the ball of crystal clear illumination onto the ground once it grew so big he could no longer hold it. “Back up,” Jeaf shouted when he saw the ball of light had grown as big as the horse and rider who stood inside of it, for Vlad’War had mounted a creature that could best be described as a horse with the way it was shaped, though its mane and tail were much too long, its hooves were cloven, and its eyes shined with amber light.

  Looking across the battlefield, seeing the wraith warriors pause in their work when they felt magic open another door into the Warl of the Dead, Vlad’War nodded his head and gave his mount a gentle kick in the flanks. A moment later, the wizard passed out of the Warl of the Dead and back into the Warl of the Living where he once resided as a being clothed in flesh.

  Speaking to Ay’Roan and Vlad’Aeroth in their role as Fane J’Shrym Wylders, Vlad’War said, “Have your warriors make way, more than five thousand horsemen are ready to follow me. One horseman per living Fane J’Shrym.” Vald’War paused to let his words sink in. “If only ten of you would have shown up on the battlefield, only ten of the departed would have gained access to your warl. Do you understand the magic that is at work here?”

  “Aye, Father,” Vlad’Aeroth intoned. “That’s why we were hunted down and killed. The darkness wanted to keep you from stopping it once it chose to arise.”

  “More importantly,” Vlad’War spoke to Vlad’Aeroth like he was an equal, “we will extend our every effort to save those who have reviled us- and it is ‘us’ since you are my descendents- knowing that darkness has deceived them into accepting their self-serving beliefs.

  “If you are angry, be angry at me. I’m the one who saw this day coming. I’m the one who made the Hammer of Power and bound its magic to our bloodline. And because of this, I’m responsible for marking my children for persecution and death. But, I’m also the one who now stands on the field of battle to fight against the Evil One who would absorb the Warl of the Living into his dark empire. And you, Vlad’Aeroth, are the one who stands beside me. If I hadn’t done what I did, the wraiths would never be stopped and the shadows that encroach on the Warl of Dead would cover the Warl of the Living entirely.

  “What do you have to say to that?”

  “I say, it’s time we maked the fire-blasted fiends pay for what they’ve done and for what they want to do.”

  “That sounds like something a son of mine would say.” Vlad’War was not the one who said this.

  Vlad’Aeroth’s head snapped toward the voice he heard, before he said, “Father!”

  “Aye,” Garyth said as he slipped out of the saddle that was cinched onto an animal big enough to hold him and stepped over to give his son a huge before he pushed him to arms length and said, “What’s this I hear. They’re calling you Vlad’Aeroth now. What did your mother say when she heard this? Plain Aeroth wasn’t good enough for you?”

  Laughing over his father’s rough sense of humor that he had forgotten just how much he missed, Vlad’Aeroth waved his own son over. “Da, this is your grandson, Poroth.”

  Gestering his grandson over to give him a hug, Garyth couldn’t help but say, “Poroth huh? Not Vlad’Poroth?” Then he laughed and pulled his grandson into his massive chest that death had not diminished one bit.

  “Leave the Vlad thing alone.” Vlad’War shook his head in weary disbelief over the banter he heard as he slipped out of the saddle like Garyth had and continued to talk strategy with Ay’Roan and his brothers.

  Until the moment Garyth came through the portal Jeaf had opened, neither he nor his mother had considered what might happen. When Elamor saw a man approaching that looked painfully like her son except for the beard he wore, she gave a great sob as tears filled her eyes and she gasped out, “Aryl.”Having to wait too long for other horse-like beasts and their riders to move aside so her husband could make his way to her, Elamor pushed past the riders and pulled Aryl out of the saddle before he had time to make the grand entrance he had been planning. The Candle Warriors, who saw the Candle Master grab hold of the man that few of them knew like she was a young woman again, ducked their heads and looked at one another wishing they weren’t privy to the undignified scene.

  At the time Elamor and Aryl were reintroducing themselves to each other, Bacchanor and Pearl were doing the same.

  Discovering her form was firming up even more when Jeaf used the Hammer of Power to open the new doorway, she told her husband what was happening. Without a moment’s hesitation, Bacchanor found a spot to land and changed shapes from a griffin back into a human, so he could embrace his wife like he wished he could have ever since her spirit had shown up.

  Bala simply stood on dog’s back smiling over the familiar sight that Mar’Gul’s death had interrupted. Dog just wagged his tail anticipating Pearl giving him a good rub behind the ears. In time, the couple was lost in the numerous reunions that were taking place among the living and the dead who were closely related to each other. That’s how many of the five thousand who came through the portal were chosen. The closer the blood tie one had with the living, the likelier the deceased would be given the honor of going to fight for their loved ones. That’s why the Fane J’Shrym who had died in the raid on Chylgroyd’s Keep were showing up. But there were others too, others only known because of the legends that had grown up around their names.

  “Father,” Jeaf stepped toward Aryl with four young men following him, “these are your grandsons.”

  “By all that is holy, would you look at that,” Aryl said as he turned his head to look at his grandsons. Giving Elamor another kiss before he released her, he added, “Come here and let me get a good look at you.”

  With Aryl’s eyes filling up with tears, Kaylan, Travyn, J’Aryl and Ay’Roan’s eyes were filled with wonder. Where Aryl smiled liked a proud grandfather would, the boys stood as tall as they could so their grandfather could see them as the men they had become. To their surprise they found that they desperately wanted this man’s approval, a man they had never met before.

  When the Aryl waved them over to him and then gave them all a hug, the four young men became boys again for one blessed moment. When their grandfather asked if they had been trained as blacksmiths like he had been, the boys became men again; and as men, they called their mates to come and meet their grandfather. When Aryl asked if they knew how to use the swords he saw sheathed at his grandsons’ sides, the men became warriors. That’s when Jeaf stepped forward and unloaded his grief about Alynd and the others who had their spirits stripped from them on his father.

  Hearing about what had been happening, Aryl called for his horse to be brought to him. With those nearby anticipating further requests, those with horses had their mounts brought to them without having to ask. Elamor, Lamarik and Deyvara’s mounts were included am
ong these.

  Having Dog as a companion, who helped the huge moan cat fit in with civilization’s requirements, A’Kadar had developed a relationship of tolerance with the horses Lamarik and Deyvara rode. Dog was facilitating the same type of relationship between the huge moan cat and Elamor’s mount when a familiar figure, sitting on one of the horse-like creatures the Righteous Dead had rounded up in the warl they inhabited, passed through the portal. No longer worrying about Elamor’s horse, Dog used the magic his father had placed in him to take on his human shape.

  “Father” Rybara shouted with joy as he strode toward Andara. The black armor he wore was so well made that it literally flowed with his body’s motion. “How have you come here? I thought you were trapped in Cara Lorn and you’e not a fane J’Shrym.”

  Not taking time to leave his saddle since so many were mounting up again, indicating they would be on the move soon, Andara replied, “You knew I couldn’t miss the fight. Healers will be needed as much as good sword arms. Though I don’t carry the blood of the Fane J’Shrym inside of me, Mar’Gul did. As it turned out, the bond that exists between us has given me access to its privileges.”

  “You know that I’m one of those sword arms you spoke of, don’t you, though my weapons will be a hound’s fangs?”

  “Of course. Of course. We’ll both fight as hard as we can in our own ways. I’ve heard there’s a place in Nyeg Warl called the School of the Sword and the Song. It’s a place I wish I could visit. It’s also a place that’s a lot like the two of us, for you are the sword and I’m the song. See we fit together better than I once thought. But enough of that. Come embrace me before the fight begins.”

  “The king comes!”

  Every mouth closed. Every eye turned to look at the portal as twelve great warriors, mounted on twelve of the more magnificent specimens found among the horse-like creatures, rode through gateway looking about to see if there were challengers to the ancient monrach’s return to the Warl of the Living. Finding none, they formed a gauntlet as they faced each other, six on a side. The moment the gauntlet took shape, Shloman the Great rode through the portal on the back of a horse-like creature that pranced as it went like it understood how important its rider was. Wearing armor that looked like it was made of star’s blood that covered every conceivable part of his body, except the sky-blue eyes that sat on either side of his helmet’s noseguard, Shloman slide the broadsword he carried out of its ornate sheath and shouted, “Fane J’Shrym draw your weapons.”