by Rex Hazelton
After hugging and kissing his wife, Jayk placed his hand on his son’s shoulder and said, “Take care of your mother,” as he sent the women and children off into the mountain heights.
“Da, I want to fight.” Large for his age, Shayn, who had only seen nine winters in his short life, was the spitting image of his father both inside and out.
Looking at the long-knife strapped to his son’s hip, Jayk replied. “Son, I need you to take care of your mother and the other children. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
“But what if you die.”
“Don’t worry about that. You’re Da is a hard one to kill, the whiteskins will find that out soon enough.”
Placing his hand on Kayrn’s shoulder, Jayk said, “Climb as high as your can until you no longer hear the sounds of fighting. Then stop and be as quiet as mice. If they get past us and come for you, surrender before they hurt the children. An uncertain future is better than no future at all.”
“You’re wrong,” Karyn’s eyes were filled with tears as she spoke. “A future without you is no future at all. Still, I’ll do as you say.”
The sound of Red’s teeth grinding together as he looked at his son who had been turned into a whiteskin could be heard by all twenty villagers who stayed behind to fight off the enemy that was ten times their number. Kyl was not the only adolescent to have the Spell of the White Hand cast over them: There was Tomy, Stevyn, and Danka too. Walking along with more than fifty others of their kind, half of which had once been villagers but, by the fiendish look that filled their clouded over eyes, no longer were. The other whiteskins were strangers to Jayk, though Bowdyn and Findyl had come to know some of them as they travelled across Ar Warl’s southern reaches.
“That’s Loady and Warwyk.” Bowdyn’s whisper was harsh sounding in Teadra’s ears. “I rode with those boys for a time. As far as bandits go, they’re good men… or were.”
“What chance do we have against so many whiteskins?” Teadra asked without a hint of fear in her voice. Having been a barmaid as long as she had, Teadra was not easily bullied and had learned to use a knife’s blade at any early age, which was a prerequisite for surving in Ar Warl’s unforgiving environs.
“Will soon find out,” Bowdyn replied in true Ar Warl fashion.
Having had to fight all of their lives, the highwayman and the women he loved would do what they had always done: they’d fight and worry about things afterwards. That’s how it was done under Ab’Don’s rule. Like dogs do when they lock eyes on one another, you fight without thinking things through. That kind of reflection was an unknown luxury in a warl that had little mercy found in it.
“I’ve seen the whiteskins fight against the Nyeg Warlers,” Tagle pushed his helmet up, the one he took off a dead Storch Regular after one of the battles he had survived back on the Syble Plains, a helmet that was still too big for his head, “we’ll be lucky to best the bloodless monsters. I saw one take a spear in the gut and pull it out like it was a splinter it got while chopping firewood.”
“I’ll drive a spear through your gut, if you don’t shut up.” Red growled out his words. “We all know what were up against. There’s no use talking about it.”
“Aye, there is,” Scoup pointed out. “The others need to know what it takes to down one of the white-ones.”
“They know,” Rufyk joined the conversation.
“We all know,” Peyt said before he added. “Pound ‘em hard. And when your done, hit ‘em again.”
“Unless you’ve already cut their head off,” Barty chimed in. “Once their head’s gone, you don’t need to worry about them no longer.”
“Ashes, that’s a pleasant thought,” Teadra replied as she realized their chances of beating the whiteskins were slim at best.
Dismounting horses that liked their riders less than the riders liked them, the whiteskins withdrew their swords and moved into the gorge.
Not wanting to endure the pain of breaking through Findyl’s magical defenses that made them feel ill like they were once able to when they were alive, the wraiths stayed behind waiting for their milky-eyed masters to determine if the there was prey worth breaking through the repugnant barrier protecting the gorge.
Surrounded by moaning spectres who looked at them with hungry eyes as their ethereal nostrils tasted the air filled with the scent of warm horse flesh, the whiteskins compelling magic was the only thing that kept the agitated animals from obeying their instincts that urged them to run off.
Moving at a speed that seemed impossible to attain given the angle of the climb, the whiteskins moved up the gorge at a remarkable pace. The mounts they left behind stomped on the ground and lifted their heads to send out whinnying laced with fearful shrieks. The wraiths laughed at the panicking animals.
Despite the steepness of the terrain they swept across, none of those that had fallen under the Spell of the White Hand was breathing hard as they approached the rocks the villagers hid behind. The arrows loosed by four archers from their places of concealment thudded into bodies that were barely moved by the impact.
Breaking the arrows’ shafts to keep their sword arms from being hindered, the bloodless fiends raised their weapons to meet the blades that were being brandished by the warriors that stood on the rocks they had been hiding behind.
Without slowing down a step, the whiteskins leapt up on the rocks the villagers stood on and engaged them in battle.
Surprised that the white warriors could jump so high and so far, two men were cut down before the others set their feet and went to work defending themselves. Teagle and Rufyk were the first to be killed by sword thrusts that were delivered at the same moment the whiteskins landed in front of them.
A woman named Beatrym was the next to go down, though the wounds she sustained as she tumbled down the rock she had been standing on were worse than the cut that ran across her ribs. Landing in the midst of the white fiends who had yet to leap upon the rocks removed the chances that she would survive the fall.
The fighting was so fierce, all but a few sustained cuts, though the villagers were the only ones to bleed. Peyt was bloodied worse than the rest. As big as he was, the tavern owner wasn’t fast enough to intercept every blade that flew his way. Still, he had shoved at least four of the whiteskins off the rocks and onto the approaching milky-eyed swordsmen who unsuccessfully avoided the falling bodies.
Things didn’t look good for the villagers who left the uneven rocks to find ground level enough for them to form a ring, so they could defend each others’ backs. Once the perimeter was established around the few who were lucky enough to escape from the rocks, Red found his son, Kyl, was standing in front of him.
“Hello, Da,” Kyl said with a smirk. “Are you going to kill your boy?”
Red didn’t answer, though he stood his ground with his sword raised and a look of confusion showing on his face. When Kyl slashed at him, Red blocked the violent blow. He blocked the thrust that followed too, but he didn’t retaliate and take advantage of the openings his blocks had created.
The duel continued on in this way: Red blocking his son’s attacks without offering any of his own. This didn’t change even after Kyl drove his blade into his father’s shoulder.
Laughing, Kyl’s clouded-over eyes drank in the sight of his wounded father refusing to retaliate, even though his surviving the duel was clearly in doubt.
Bracing himself, Kyl drew his blade back, confident his father couldn’t block its next pass with his sword arm’s shoulder being as badly wounded as it was. But before the blow Kyl coiled up to deliver had been launched, his eyes lost their expression, the smirk on his face vanished, and his sword fell to the ground. A moment later, his body followed the sword.
At the same, the rest of the whiteskins inexplicably collapsed to the ground where they lay as motionless as Kyl did.
Looking as lifeless as pigs scattered across a slaughterhouse floor, not one pillar of black smoke rose from them like Jayk had seen happen when a white-skin had
their head cut off on the battlefield.
“What happened?” Jayk asked Findyl.
“The dark magic used to animate them has been withdrawn.” Unlike the others, the old wizard was unscathed in the fighting that had so abruptly ended. “I felt the power go when it left their bodies.”
“But why?” Bowdyn asked as he put a weary arm around Teadra’s shoulders.
“It’s the war,” Findyl opined. “Ab’Don is summoning his power, though having to lose such valuable assets to do so, doesn’t bode well for him.”
“What about the wraiths?” Teadra posed her own question. “I hear the sounds of fighting below us.”
When the defenders returned to their rocky perches, they saw spirits fighting spirits. Had the wraiths lost their minds when their white masters fell? Were they fighting each other because they were the closest targets to unleash their madness on?
“Hey, Findyl,” a familiar voice rose out of the din below. “It’s Cloy and Petyr. We’ve been gathering Bridgewater’s militia just like you.”
To the wizened wizards’ surprise, Cloy was visible now. So was Petyr and Styn and Langoryk and Fran and many others. Unable to enter the Warl of the Dead since the Evil One used his magic to block the passageways the deceased used go there, Cloy and Petyr decided to help Findyl look for Bridgewater’s warriors. When they came across the villagers who died in battle, the two decided to form a company of deceased they would take along with them to help their living loved ones any way they could. In the condition they were now in, being dead and all, fighting wraiths was right up their alley.
What Bridgewater’s dead lacked in fangs and claws, they made up for with determination that eventually drove the ghostly fiends off into the greenwood where they went looking for easier prey.
Except for the occasional complaint that came from the nearby wounded, a hush fell over the gorge as the villagers wondered about the war that was taking place on the other side of the Thrall Mountians, a war that had forced Ab’Don to withdraw his power from those who were about to kill them.
****
Filled with power it drew out of the masses that had the Spell of the White Hand cast over them, the Evil One threw the black candle it held to the ground like it wanted to shatter the talisman that had absorbed all the Hag magic. Huge flames rose on impact and engulfed the ancient entity as the fiend drew the the black-robed wizards’ magic into the body it possessed.
In time, one might have thought the fire had shrunk; but it hadn’t. Instead, the Evil One was growing while the supernatural heat nourished its body with mystical might, increasing its proportions as it did. In time, Not-Ab’Don looked like he was standing in a dying campfire with a flaming sword in hand. A short while later, the Evil One towered over the Prophetess and the others like a farmer standing over a brood of chicks recently hatched. But it didn’t attack, not until it knew the odds were so much in its favor that the thought of losing would be impossible to consider. That’s how much Not-Ab’don feared Muriel and the talisman she held in her hand.
When the fire finally went out, the black mud the fiend stood in began to crawl up its legs until it disappeared once it reached its thighs. With the mud taking over once the fire went out, the Evil One continued to grow.
Seeing the mud slide along as the Evil One summoned the remains of his wraith warriors to himself, Jeaf had witnessed enough to know what he had to do. If Not-Ab’Don was going to absorb his army to become a giant who could squish his enemies beneath his feet, Jeaf would become something that would keep this from happening.
Remembering what he did in Chylgroyd’s Keep, Jeaf planned on melding with the Fane J’Shrym, using Vlad’War’s Magic that was constructed around their shared bloodline to do so.
Reabsorbing the Hammer of Power into his arm, then changing back into a griffin without having to touch Grour Blood again, visualizing himself to be big enough to carry Bear as he did, Jeaf growled out orders. “Grour Blood. Take Kaylan and go get Muriel. Hurry. Ay’Roan you and Seym Blood go and tell the Fane J’Shrym to stop fighting. Have them meet me where the Healers are working on our wounded. Tell them I need their help me like I did back in Chylgroyd’s Keep. There’s enough of them who can help the others understand my meaning. The rest of you, get out of here now. I’ll follow once Bear’s on my back.”
After picking up his huge friend and leaping into the air, Jeaf said, “I need you to keep an eye on my mother.”
“What abouts Muriel?”
“It’s more likely she’ll be riding on Grour Blood’s back than standing on the ground. Unless you can sprout wings, there’ll be little you can do to help her. My mother, on the other hand….”
“Don’t worry. I gots it, Shorty,” Bear said before he took time to enjoy the wind blowing against his huge round face.
The Evil One kept his eyes on Muriel as the company of rebels flew off with the Community of Blood and ice dragons escorting them away. Continuing to slurp up the black mud that covered the battlefield, the Lord of the Darkness Covering Half of the Warl of the Dead snarled through lips that belonged to Ab’Don. Though the Hammer Bearer had power to be reckoned with, the Prophetess and that fire-blasted talisman was its bane. The fiend’s failure to pull Crooked Finger out of Muriel’s chest made this clear.
****
Landing in a space the Healers made in a battlefield filled with Fane J’Shrym who were burned to one degree or another by the Fires of Darkness, Jeaf took on his normal shape. Running over and pulling Muriel off Grour Blood’s back as Kaylan said, “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. She’s not made of stone you know,” all the while smiling at his father who spun his mother around like they were kids again. Jeaf wept as he held Muriel as tight as he could without hurting her.
“Has it nearly been six summers since we last saw each other, My Love?” Muriel’s voice was as clear sounding as a flute played by the Elf-Man.
“It seems like sixty. And I’ll not waste another day.” With that said, Jeaf kissed his wife for as long as the breath in his longs would permit; and as they kissed, the light being emitted from Muriel’s ring increased until hid them from eyes they didn’t mind seeing them.
With the light remaining much longer than he expected it would, Bacchanor, who had been working feverishly to keep the wounded from being drawn into oblivion, cleared his voice and said, “We’re all still here.”
Hearing laughter wafting out of the magical illumination, the Brown Wizard cleared his throat again and added, “Waiting.”
Not waiting for the magic to dissipate, Ay’Roan and J’Aryl stepped inside the light to embrace the woman they weren’t sure they’d ever see alive again. Looking at Travyn, Kaylan smiled and followed his brothers.
Travyn let his broad-brimmed hat fall to his back, where it was held in place by the leather strap that was affixed to it. Then he turned and gave Lamarik a kiss and said, “You’ll like her,” before he went to join Kaylan.
“Come here girls,” Elamor said with a maternal tone in her voice. “I’ll introduce you to Muriel once the boys are done greeting their mother.”
With a Neflin, a Fane J’Shrym, and a colorful ice dragon- for Lylah wasn’t ready to release her battle form yet- heeding her call, a more unlikely group of females couldn’t be found, unless a giant had been added to the group; and Elamor couldn’t see J’Aryl falling for a giant. The idea made her chuckle for a moment as she pictured her grandson sitting on his wife’s lap like he was a child as they enjoyed an evening of conversation washed in light coming from their home’s fireplace.
****
Looking down at the black mud that continued to slide towards the giant that rose above the battlefield as big as a mature pine tree, Jeaf made sure the others had retreated to a safe distance as he had insisted. With the thousands he was going to try to absorb into his body, he had no idea if those who weren’t Fane J’Shrym would be hurt in the process. The flowing mud gave him pause when he considered the size of the bodies he would try to meld into his own. Would
they inadvertently strike those in their path when he called them?
Gazing up into the sky, Jeaf watched his sons and wife soar so close to the thunderhead’s greenish-black bottom that they could reach up and touch it if they wanted to. Each rode on a griffin’s back- Muriel on Grour Blood, Ay’Roan on Seym Blood, Travyn on Nazar Blood, and Kaylan on Shar Blood. Lylah, with Lamarik riding on her back wearing garments that helped the Neflin deal with cold that emanated off her sister, flew beside her mate. Mar’Gul, sitting astride Bacchanor’s griffin back, spoke to Muriel as she flew along.
“I think Ay’Roan and his brothers are far enough away now,” Jeaf told Deyvara and the other Fane J’Shrym who stood beside the man who would try to meld their bodies into his own. “The distance they’re at and the swords they carry should enable them to resist my call.”
Jeaf agreed with Bacchanor, Mar’Gul, and Ramskynd who said his sons and Mar’Gul should be free to move about and use their magic as need and intuition dictated. If this strategy was a mistake, and if things got bad enough, Jeaf could always draw his sons and the others into himself to continue the fight. Not having any actual Fane J’Shrym blood in them, Muriel and Elamor wouldn’t be affected by the magic Jeaf was about to use.
Spreading out his arms, Jeaf summoned the Fane J’Shrym to come to him. Deyvara was the first to touch the Hammer Bearer’s hand. As she did, her body blurred into a swirl of colors before her substance was absorbed into Jeaf’s arm like the strange occurance was the most normal thing to happen that day. Following her example, the living Fane J’Shrym that could stand quickly followed behind her. On and on they came adding their substance to Jeaf’s own, turning him into a giant as they did. When the Hammer Bearer got too big for the others to reach his hand, he knelt and lowered his arm so his kin could touch his hands; and no matter which one they touched, their bodies were turned into a swirling mass of colors that disappeared into Jeaf’s forearms as they were pulled out of the black mud that continued to slide toward the Evil One.
