by Rex Hazelton
As the sound of sliding steel was heard, Shloman shouted, “Fane J’Shrym forward!”
With little coordination taking place, the living and the dead found themselves riding beside one another as they moved toward the seething mass of wraith warriors that held its ground as the horseman trotted toward them, while every Ar Warler and Nyeg Warler moved aside to let them through. The Broyn’Dar and Bro’Noon growled and shook their mane-covered heads in approval of what they saw. The Otrodorians and elves beat their swords and axes against their shields as they got ready to follow in the Fane J’Shrym’s wake; a desire for getting revenge for the horror that had befallen their kin who had died inflamed their display. The darker-skinned Neflin had Leolynn to avenge.
So many had died. The spirits of those who perished could be seen chained behind the wraiths who gathered the dour harvest. The wraith warriors had taken so many spirits captive, the size of their army heaped twice as high as it had before.
As Shloman approached the Candle Warriors, he looked at Dolfon and saluted her by striking the pommel of his broadsword against his chest.
Hearing Dolfon’s command, all of the Candle Warriors came to attention and returned the salute by lifting their fiery lances over their heads before they stepped aside and let the king and his army through. As Sholman the Greats kin spread out and formed a line that was four deep, with the third and fourth lines primarily made of footmen, it became clear to all that the Fane J’Shrym would fight for the Warl of the Living.
How had those who were rejected by both the Ar and the Nyeg become the warl’s champions? Those that followed behind the Fane J’Shrym didn’t know. But one thing they were certain of was this: They were more than glad that those who once called themselves Brie’Shen to hide from the people who reviled them so weren’t sitting the fight out.
“Fane J’Shrym,” Shloman shouted once more, “forward at a canter.”
After few moments he shouted, “At a gallop.” And the horses and strange horse-like creatures surged forward. Amazingly enough, buoyed by the Hammer of Power’s magic that had touched them, the footmen kept pace with the horsemen, though they had to run to do so.
“Look at that,” Bacchanor said, “It’s the Dance of the Couble Camp. The eternal and the finite have come together and it’s wonderful to behold.”
Then the shape-shifter changed back into a griffin that was Grour Blood’s twin and the two jumped into the air to take their place with the Community of Blood as they went to war. And as he climbed into the air with Bala flying by his side, Mar’Gul gave a trilling cry from the place where she sat on her husband’s back and smiled when the Neflin below repeated her call as they ran. Magic has come home and the Lorn Elves are welcoming it, Mar’Gul’s smile deepened as she drew on the memories of all her predecessors had done to see that this day would come to pass.
“Indeed,” Grour Blood’s deep voice intoned after he pondered the Brown Wizard’s words, “the breach has been healed.”
“Give the mounts their reins,” Shloman’s voice was heard by all despite the thundering hooves that beat upon the ground they passed over so swiftly.
Bursting forth with such great speed, the Fane J’Shrym looked like they were being driven forward by a wind that plummeted out of the towering thunderhood to sweep across the battlefield. Verging on becoming blurs as they ran, the Hammer of Power’s magic had touched the animals too. Directed by the Son of the Storm’s magically enhanced swords, lightning shot out of the sky, striking the Hag and whiteskins that stood inside the wraith warrior mass a moment before the Fane J’Shrym tempest struck the evil dead head on.
An explosion of black bodies- all with long, slender arms and legs, joined to narrow abdomens and barrel-like chests, with necks that held over-sized heads in place- filled the air on impact. Chains, holding spirits the wraith warriors had extracted from their victims, whipped behind them, tossing their catch about but not severing the bond that held them together. Swords flickered about in the illumination the lighting bolts cast onto the field of battle as the wraith warriors were cut asunder by weapons that were infused with magic that came from the Dance of the Double Camp as Bacchanor called the living and deceased Fane J’Shrym that moved together.
If cleaved in two, the Evil Deads’ bodies turned into smoke that rushed back to the Hall of Voyd. Eventually, whether it took one stroke or two, the wraiths were being systematically cut in pieces.
Pulling out the long, slender black blades the wraiths hid inside their bodies didn’t help the wraiths, since the Hammer of Power’s magic enabled the Fane J’Shrym blades to cut the weapons apart as easily as they did those who held them.
On and on this went until a cloud of smoke rose up to challenge the thunderhead’s supremacy in the sky, a challenge the storm gladly accepted as its winds threw the dark discharge at the Hall of Voyd. Using any opening it could, be it window or door, the smoke quickly disappeared inside the citadel like it wanted to hide from those who had dispatched it. But once the smoke was inside, it did more than hide. To the Sorcerer’s vexation, it was pulled into the crevice that Muriel’s power was used to create as it was forced to retrun to the Warl of the Dead. Rent as they were, the wraith warriors had been separated from the Prophetess magic like their spirits had been separated from the lives they once lived. When this happened, the black fiends lost their hold on the Warl of Living and were summarily drawn back to place where they belonged.
Two thousand Fane J’Shrym steered the horse-like creatures they rode toward the Voyd River. With their unusually long mane’s and tails streaming behind them, the cloven-hoofed animals jumped over the river like it was no more challenging than jumping over a fallen tree trunk. Charging into the black fog bank, made of wraith warriors and the chains filled with spirits they had harvested snaking behind them, the riders began to cut through the host of evil dead found there just as effortlessly as they had done to those found on the other side of the river.
When the Candle Warriors, Ar Warlers, and Nyeg Warlers reached the fight, they had plenty to do since the whiteskins and Hag continued to fight. But now that their bodies were strengthened by the Hammer of Power’s magic that had increased in power with Vlad’War’ and the others’ arrival, they discovered the Sorcerer’s minions were a foe that could be beaten if they fought hard enough.
In addition, something totally unexpected took place as the Fane J’Shrym were cutting their way through the seething host of evil dead. Whenever a wraith warrior was dispatched, the chains that were tied to them went up in smoke at the same time their black bodies did. This freed the spirits who were clamped in irons, since the ethereal chains they had been bound to no longer existed. While their captors’ disassembled bodies were driven back to the Hall of Voyd and the fissure they used to enter the Warl of the Living, the spirits of the recently deceased were drawn back to the bodies they had been pulled out of.
When they were drawn inside the flesh that once housed them, the spirits found that they could reanimate the vessels. The magic used to pry spirit and flesh apart had inadvertently preserved the bodies it had subdued with its numbing influence that threw the vacated flesh into a pseudo-state of hibernation. As a result, decay was held at bay, a job the measure of the Hammer of Power’s magic that had been dispersed to the rebels and Nyeg Warler’s played no small part in doing.
With the tumult of the one-sided battle swirling about them, the bodies that were as numerous as autumn leaves covering a dense forest’s floor rose to their feet. No longer threatened by the wraith warriors, whose thoughts were focused on surviving the Fane ‘Shrym onslaught, the resurrected ones found themselves walking towards a tall, bearded man who sat on top of the strangest horse they had ever seen, one whose hooves were cloven like a deer’s, and to the large hound that stood close by. When the confusion they had been wrestling with when they were disembodied spirits faded and their mental faculties began to return, they correctly guessed the man was a wizard, not only because of the robe he wor
e, but because of the Healing Power they felt radiating from him.
The magic that reached out to them from the bearded man was so soothing, no one thought it strange that Ar Warlers and Nyeg Warlers alike were being drawn to him. When the man introduced himself, saying he was Andara and that he had come from the Warl of the Dead with a host of Fane J’Shrym that was now fighting for all the living, everyone accepted this account. When he explained that the war between the Nyeg and Ar was over, relief washed over those who had migrated to the compelling wizard. Without asking a single question, the gathering throng followed Andara off the field of battle and on toward the Candle Makers who were waiting to complete their healing, all except those who responded to Dog’s barking.
Standing with his paws set apart, Dog looked like a commander who was calling his warriors to assemble. The sharp barking brought many out of the stupor-like state they had fallen into and to full awareness: Alynd, Ramskynd, Ilya’Gar, Leolynn and the like who were some of the last captives to be taken and first to be set free. Reaching down and picking up whatever weapons they found, the mixed company of elves, men, giants and hunchmen set off with Dog to rejoin the fight against the darkness that had nearly absorbed them entirely. With the Hammer of Power’s magic still inside their bodies, the renstored warriors set off at a pace that would make a herd of spooked horses jealous. Before long Alynd the Elf-Man and the fallen Otrodorians rejoined their brothers, who greeted their arrival with cheers. Ramskynd and his sons were united with their woodland kin who fought even harder after they arrived.
Broyn’Dar and Bro’Noon gave of yelping shouts when their fallen leaders rejoined them. The appearance of resurrected hunchman-human mutants on the field of battle cut the celebration short and sent them after the cretchym abominations who were created with dark magic that melded the Broyn’Dar essence in with Ab’Don’s own. Loda’Gar and Arga’Dyne led the charge now that their spirits had been freed.
The Hammer Bearer’s magic filled the air in a palpable way; the swords his sons carried added to the supernaturally charged atmosphere; miracles were happening; the darkness was being beaten back; and unless the Evil One did something soon, it would find itself thrown back into the shadows from whence it came.
Chapter 23: Dragons in the Sky
The Hall of Voyd’s walls weren’t an impediment to the Sorcerer’s magically enhanced sight. Neither was the smoke that swirled around him, marking the wraith warriors’ return to the Warl of the Dead. Unsure that it could summon the army again even if it wanted to, certain if it did, the outcome of the battle wouldn’t be changed, the Evil One cursed the Hammer of Power’s magic he was convinced was responsible for the lop-sided fight it had been forced to watch. If the battle took place in the Warl of the Dead, the magic the wraith warriors possessed would be sufficient enough to even the odds out when they crossed weapons with their foes. The long, slender, black blades they wielded wouldn’t be sliced up like they were no more than reeds plucked out of a river bank. Otherwise, the Nameless Evil’s aspiration to conquer the Mountain of Song was beyond folly. If this were so, if it was lunacy to think it could assault the place where magic’s songs were composed, why were the Righteous Dead waiting in such vast numbers to meet the wraith warriors in battle once they crossed Gulf Fix. A much smaller force would be sufficient enough to handle the wraiths who would be ordered to cross the bridge the Evil One made, once its construction was complete.
The eyes that once belonged to Ab’Don narrowed as the Sorcerer thought, the fire-blasted Hammer of Power’s magic is at fault. But the talisman wasn’t responsible for the battle’s outcome by itself. Otherwise, the Righteous Dead wouldn’t be needed to save those the wraiths had minimal trouble pulling their spirits out of the bodies that failed to keep the deed from being done. Hadn’t the Hammer Bearer struck the talisman numerous times, sending magic out to help those who struggled against the wraiths who harvested their spirits? And did this stop the wraiths? No, it didn’t. Not until the Righteous Dead arrived. That’s when the humans, who claimed to be Fane J’Shrym, suddenly discovered their swords could cut the wraiths apart like they were dirty bed sheets.
That was the key to the mystery, the Evil One finally decided. It took two ingrediants to make the potion that was destroying its plan. Left alone, the Hammer of Power couldn’t do much more than increase the degree of difficulty the wraith warriors had to deal with when capturing a person’s spirit. If the Righteous Dead met the wraith warriors in a place where the Hammer of Power’s magic was missing, the fighting would take place on even footing, of that the Evil One was sure. But with the Hammer of Power’s magic mixing in with the Righteous Dead’s supernatural might, the two interacted in a way that made the whole greater than the the sum of its parts.
But why did they interact the way they did? The one who possessed Ab’Don’s body struggled to sort things out in its mind. “It’s the fire-blasted wizard who made the Hammer of Power, Vlad’War. He had to have seen this day from afar, and prepared for a convergence of magic to take place that would increase the power the Warl of the Living and the Warl of the Dead brought to the war once the two were mixed together.
“But haven’t I drawn the two warls together. Yet, I failed to to give my warriors such power. There has to be something else at play in this game.” Focusing its thought on Vlad’War in an effort to uncover his methods, Ab’Don’s eyes widened as the Evil One spoke out loud again, like doing so made thinking easier. “Spilling blood is always the key to working powerful magic. From what I’ve learned, wizard’s like Vlad’War would never make a human sacrifice. He must have found another way to use blood.”
Considering the prophecies having to do with Vlad’War and the Hammer of Power the wizard made, the Sorcerer’s thoughts kept returning to the name Fane J’Shrym, a name that was found in many of the warl’s ancient predictions. Recalling Vlad’War was a Fane J’Shrym and that prophecy said the Hammer Bearer would come from his bloodline, the Evil One couldn’t keep from thinking that the relationship that existed between the two men was key to the mystery at hand. “What if the Righteous Dead who joined the fight are Fane J’Shrym too? What if the numbers of those who came out of the Warl of Dead were limited by the number of Fane J’Shrym warriors found on the battlefield? That would explain way the Righteous Dead showed up in their thousands and not tens of thousands.”
Laughing in a mirthless way, the Evil One added, “I think I understand now. I also think it no longer matters that I do, since the damage has been done. But Vlad’War isn’t the only one who can do damage; and that fire-blasted bastard, who’s no doubt numbered among the Righteous Dead who are out on the field of battle, will soon learn that he’s far from winning the war.”
Looking at the Prophetess body that hung limply on the tree made of iron, the Evil One considered using Crooked Finger to take her life. This would probably end the possibility that his army could be summoned back to the Warl of the Living, but it would make the Sorcerer feel good to destroy someone the Hammer Bearer loved so much that he risked marching to the Hall of Voyd to come and set her free.
But the ancient entity knew it wouldn’t kill the Prophetess, no yet, maybe not ever since it wanted to keep the magic it could use to open a door between the Warl of the Living and the Dead around. Anyway, the Prophetess wasn’t the problem, the Hammer Bearer and his fire-blasted kin were. Speaking of fire-blasting, the Evil One, who was an expert at it, planned to display his skills before the Fane J’Shrym so they could appreciate the one who was destroying them. A death at the hand of a great warrior was always preferable to being destroyed by the hand of one who, without the help of blind luck, wouldn’t stand a chance of winning a fair fight.
Sick of watching the wraith warriors being sucked back into the fissure that opened up in the great hall’s floor, the one who looked liked Ab’Don, but wasn’t, soon lost that distinction when the Sorcerer’s body became blurred in the way a shapeshifter’s body was when they underwent a transformation. With
Ab’Don’s head, arms and legs looking like a painting had been smeared across an artist’s canvas, the swirling mass of smoke was drawn into the smear that darkened as the smoke was absorbed. After becoming as black as the wraith warriors it absorbed, though its eyes remained yellow like Ab’Don’s were, the Evil One quickly shaped itself into the weird, giant bird-shaped creature it had become to fly out of Chylgroyd’s Keep and wing its way to its new home in Hall of Voyd. But instead of stopping here, the Evil One went further.
With the barrier that separated the Warl of the Living from the shadows covering half of the Warl of the Dead being rent as it was, the entity was able to summon more of its power than it had been able to before the rending had taken place. Taking advantage of its increased power, the Evil One continued molding the ragged winged creature it had assumed into the shape of dragon that looked more like a snake than a flying creature with the way its wings and legs were pressed against its glossy skin-covered body like they were.
Bigger than one of the centipede mutants that attacked the Nyeg Warlers during the previous night, the dragon extended its legs to brace itself as it got ready to spew fire at the fissure. Arching its head back like it was a viper getting ready to strike, the dragon’s mouth opened before its triangular-shaped head was thrown forward as far as it could go until the limits of its long neck were reached and the head stopped with a sudden jerk. Carried by the inertia the lunging motion built up, fire flew out of a mouth that shook like it was straining to stay open. While the fire reached out and melted the tile-covered floor with its terrific heat, the dragon’s head continued to shake as it expelled incendiary vomit that flowed out of the furnace-like stomach where it originated. Without pause, the dragon forced fire out of its belly until the fissure was sealed over with melted tiles and stone.
