by Rex Hazelton
In time, the light dimmed enough for the visitors to open their eyes. When they did, all saw the silhouettes of two men and two women walking through the light.
“Mother? Father?” Muriel’s eyes filled with tears as she saw her parent’s spirits walking toward her. A great sob erupted from her throat when she saw Jeaf was with them, though his body was different from Laz and Mara’s in the way her’s was.
Running as fast she could, Muriel fell into her husband’s arms and wept when the warmth of his body touched her. “You’re not dead?”
“Neither are you,” Jeaf replied before he gave his wife a long kiss.
“But how?”
“It seems the Mountain of Song has rejected me. Didn’t you see it protest?”
“Oh, stop it.” Muriel wiped the tears from her eyes as she dealt with her husband’s ridiculous humor. “You’re incorrigible: you know that don’t you?”
“I know that I love you and always will. But there’s someone you need to get reacquainted with before I show you just how great my love for you is.”
Taking her cue, Mara spoke up. “Sweetheart,” she used the term she always did when speaking to Muriel, “this is your daughter, Free.”
Laz nodded his head as he put his arm around his granddaughter.
Gasping at what she heard, Muriel stared at the beautiful woman her father stood beside.
“It’s me Mother,” Free’s voice sounded as much like Muriel’s as her appearance mirrored hers. “They call me Free now. I hope you’re not upset they got rid of Muriel.”
“Free,” Muriel cried out in joy as she threw her arms around her daughter who had died in the Cave of Forgetfulness so long ago. “One Muriel’s enough in the family,” she said before shouting, “Boy’s come and meet your sister. Deyvara, Lamarik, Lylah, come too. Where’s Aryl? Someone go get him, please.”
Laughing, Muriel continued, “By all that is holy, I’m Muriel Blood. Grour Blood gather our family.”
After a time, while Muriel languished in Jeaf’s arms as the two spoke to their parents and the Community of Blood was nuzzling Free as they introduced themselves to her, thousands of brilliant lights flitted out of the Great City above, moving this way and that way like a flock of birds as they flew down the mountain’s vast slope to pay homage to the Prophetess.
“Mother,” Free shouted from where she stood in the pride, “the ones you saved when your magic tore Schmar’s stomach apart and set them loose are coming to thank you.”
While those who had been consumed by Schmar like Free was and then had their spirits held captive inside his loathsome, engorged body gathered around Muriel and her family, the Dream-Messengers and the cloud they clothed themselves in returned to their place atop the Mountain of Song. Only Whistyme remained as he waited to speak to the Prophetess.
“That’s right: She’s my mother,” Free’s boast was almost childlike in its delivery.
“Indeed, she is,” Whistyme said, “But these are her children too: Everyone of them. Though she didn’t give them life in the way she did for you, Free, by singing the Song of Breaking, the Prophetess gave them control of their spirit-selves when the song’s magic broke the spell that kept them captive.
“Along with those who are related to your mother through the bonds of blood and marriage, they are her family as well: For the one who was taken from her own home has given shelter to others; she who was taken prisoner, has set the captives free. You should know that Free. You’re one these, making you her daughter twice over.
“Enjoy your family Muriel,” Whistyme said to Free’s mother. “We’ll speak again when you’re done.”
The time of camaraderie that followed was both a reunion and a time for giving introductions, since the Community of Blood was invited to join their Little Sister as she mingled with her immediate family members and with those who partook of the suffering that Schmar heaped on them all.
Bear was soon seen milling about among the throng once he recognized those who had been with him during his time spent in the Cave of Forgetfulness. Some of these he he already knew had died there. He learned about the others deaths when he saw them talking to Muriel.
Though joy was in abundant supply, the gathering’s mood was tempered by the dreadful loses sustained in the fighting. Griffin had perished as they attacked the Evil One’s eyes. And the carnage that was left behind in the Warl of the Living was not forgotten, carnage that came as a result of men and spirits thinking they had the right to dominate others.
****
“It’s time for you to return to your own warl,” Whistyme said to Muriel as the others waited for the outcome of their conversation. “The Song of Breaking must be sung there too, for the wounded need healing, those on the brink of death need to be pulled back, and the spirits of the recently deceased whose bodies cannot be restored need to be comforted and set on the path that will bring them here. This includes those you once called whiteskins. Brutally overwhelmed by the Spell of the White Hand, the confusion their transition has cast on them will be the greatest. Be kind to them.
Give the Hag and Shadowmen an opportunity to repent and renounce their ways that they can clearly see are wrong through the destruction it wrought. You may not think it, but not all of them are beyond saving. And the griffin and waterkynd can identify those that are irretrievable lost, these you should not suffer to live among you.”
Whistyme had a wry smile on his face as he added, “I think the time the Evil One spent with them will make many of them reconsider their view of things. And with their experience in the Dark Arts, who would be better at knowing which practices need to be stopped and which philosophies need to be amended to keep others from going down the regrettable path they took.”
Whistyme’s smile became genuinely warm as he turned to Travyn and Kaylan and said, “Regarding the Hag, a friend of yours, Horbyn is his name I think, would enjoy your company right now. As brilliant as his mind is, the time he spent immersed in the Voyd River’s depths and the foul magic that infested its waters has knocked him off his game so to speak. Give him what he needs to build a School of Healing where the Hall of Voyd once stood. And have Muriel talk to him about his mother.
“Ay’Roan, the Mountain of Song wants you and Vlad’Aeroth to take the Fane J’Shrym back to the city of your fathers, Mishal Parm that sits on Sky Master’s broad slopes. If the Age of Parm Warl is to come, as seems most likely now that the war has been won, the city must be rebuilt.
“Pearl, you must return to the Warl of the Living, as Andara will tell you, and stay until the mantle of Mar’Gul has been given to your replacement. Of course, Andara will go with you.
“Have you spoken to Lamarik yet?”
“I have.” Pear looked at her husband, Baccchanor, as she spoke.
“She is a worthy choice, don’t you think?”
“She is,” Andara replied.
“Mystlnor, tell her she needs to get to know Marta.”
“I will.” Blue light flashed out of the Elf-Man’s eyes as he spoke.
“Travyn, have you considered putting up shop in Cara Lorn. It needs some cleaning up, but once its is straightened up- and mind you, there are ways to drain the swamp that surrounds it to a manageable size- it would make a good home for the Neflin and any who would want to live with them there. I think Lamarik would think the idea is an appealing one.”
“Lylah.” The Dream-Messenger spoke to the waterkynd. “Remember that there is a Pool of Transition located near the island where Horbyn will build his school. I think the waterkynd will find that having him as a friend has its benefits.
“J’Aryl,” Whistyme looked at Muriel’s son who looked most like her, “Dandaryll will need you and your sword’s help. Looking as much like Ab’Don as he does, the people of Malam will readily accept his claim to his father’s throne. If given support, he can become a great king. Besides, the Mountain of Song has foreseen that many of the rebels will go with him to live there. But know this: Malam needs to
be cleansed from Ab’Don’s defilement and the kingdom of Orskovo will need to be kept in its place.
“There is a man named Jayk who comes from the village of Bridgewater. Take note of him and his brother when they reach Malam. They can be a great help to you and Dandaryll. And there is a wizard who travels with them, the Malam court would benefit from his presence.”
“As for the cretchym,” Whistyme returned his gaze to Muriel, “once you sing your song, the magic Ab’Don used to create them with will be broken and their minds freed. What they will become once this happens, no one can say for sure. But it can be said that they should be given an opportunity to amend their ways, so they can find a place among the races inhabiting the Warl of the Living. Since they lack the ability to procreate, their kind will die off. But until that time comes, give them a chance to live in peace.
“On matters regarding the kingdoms that fought against you, I only ask that judgement be balanced with mercy.
“Now I ask all of you to look out across the plains and see what is happening, so you will know what to do when you get back home.”
The plains were already covered in ankle-high grass as the Rightwous Dead were seen moving among the blackened spirits that didn’t flee with those who pursued the darkness. With the Prophetess’ magic having broken the spell the Catchers cast over them at the Fork in the Road as they were entering the Warl of the Dead, they were now free to reconsider the choice they made there, the one that brought them into the Evil One’s fold.
“Go and do the same in the Warl of the Living. Give all but the worst offenders a second chance. The war is over. It’s time to let the healing begin.”
“Whistyme,” Jeaf was the one speaking now, “we’ve known each other for a long time now.”
The Dream-Messenger chuckled over Jeaf’s limited perspective of time.
“If I have any say in things, the place you live in will no longer be called the Warl of the Dead. That name just doesn’t fit. From now on, I’ll call it the Warl of the Hereafter and I ask all my friends to do the same.”
Whistyme chuckled again. Those who live in the Mountain of Song have a different name for this place. One day you’ll find out what that is too. The only true Warl of the Dead lies on the other side of Gulf Fix where darkness dwells. But, Warl of the Hereafter works.
“Thank you Jeaf, son of Aryl and Elamor Oakenfel. Not only are you courageous, but you are wise too.”
Looking intently at the Prophetess and the Hammer Bearer, Whistyme said, “I have only one more matter to discuss with you before I go. Please follow me.”
Once the three separated themselves from the others, the Dream-Messenger said, “Because of all that you’ve done and all the magic that has touched you and flowed through you both, the good and bad of it all, you can choose to come to the Mountain of Song this very instant if you wish and begin composing songs that will shape the warls. You don’t have to go back to the Warl of Living and continue to carry the burdens that you do. I must warn you, If you decide to go back, there’ll be no rest for either one of you. Having a normal life is no longer an option. And though the war has been won, there will be other battles to fight.”
Jeaf and Muriel looked at one another and smiled.
“Whistyme, your offer is generous,” Jeaf intoned as he put his arm around Muriel. “But you already know my answer. I gave it to you back in the little cottage where you offered me other choices.”
“I thought as much.” the Dream-Messenger smiled along with the two as his visage took on an ancient aspect. “Let me say: The Mountain of Song is looking forward to the day you finally arrive.
“But enough of that.” Whistyme’s youthful look returned as he spoke. “Off with you, your burdens await you, as well as the joy you derive from shouldering them. Tell your sons to get their swords out, its time to go home.
“By the way,” Whistyme shouted over his shoulder as he turned to go, “tell Lylah a Pool of Transition is being constructed in the Great City this very moment, so the waterkynd can come visit us. After all, they don’t have flesh and blood to deter them. Tell Lylah, this is Mythoria’s reward for helping those they share their warl with in their time of need. And tell her she’s carrying another reward for the waterkynd inside of her, one whose value surpasses the Pool of Transition I just spoke about, a reward that is given to Mythoria because it did not turn its back others.”
****
A window, framed in brilliant energy, opened in the sky below the thunderhead’s greenish-black bottom during the lull that was taking place in the fighting. A cobalt blue sky filled its expanse. This was the first significant thing to happen since the mountain-sized giants disappeared after a much larger frame than the one now in the sky, fell over them as they fought.
When the radiant square blinked out of existence, after a mixed swarm of colorful ice dragons and powerful griffin passed through it, cheering erupted from the rebel army and all those who had marched out of Nyeg Warl when they saw that Not-Ab’Don didn’t follow them. As the tide of cheering rose to envelope the battlefield, it grew to a crescendo when Grour Blood, with the Prophetess and the Hammer Bearer on his back, flew over the armies that were depending on them to win the day and then over those who had sought to destroy them before this could happen.
Everyone knew what this meant: The Prophetess and the Hammer Bearer had driven the Evil One out of Ar Warl. Being as sensitive as they were to things magical, the Hag already suspected something like this was happening. It was evident that the reservoir of dark magic the Hall of Voyd had amassed was no longer there for them to use. As a result, the black-robed wizards could no longer match the Candle Makers’ power, let alone the more imposing Candle Warriors’ might, not with the numbers the Nyeg Warlers had on their side. But, as strange as it seems, that didn’t bother them as much as their enemies might think, not with how much anxiety had been growing in them over the vast number of people the Sorcerer was casting the Spell of the White Hand over, a number they feared they would eventually be added to.
Ab’Don was no longer Ab’Don, the Nameless Evil had risen out of the Warl of the Dead to take the Sorcerer’s place, and mankind had been relegated to sitting on a back seat in the entity’s scheme of things. In fact, mankind had become the fodder the rapacious entity’s ambition fed upon.
There was little to suggest the Warl of Man wouldn’t be overrun with whiteskins who would provide eyes the entity could use to spy on others, mouths it would use to utter threats through, and hands it could reach out and strike whoever it wanted to. In the final analysis, the ancient entity’s presence would literally be in all places at all times, through those who were reduced to being extensions of its own body and mind.
Fortunately, the epidemic of whiteskins had the same affect on the rest of Ar Warl as it did the Hag. Though they secured the Evil One’s hold on things, the growing number of people who were caught in the spell’s web made the others fear they might become victims themselves, for that is what they thought the whiteskins were. Because of this, the ancient entity’s overwhelming evil had made the prospect of being conquered by another power not only palpable but desirable as long as the new rulers didn’t decide to sell them into slavery or have them executed.
The huge winged-lions that were flying their way made the Ar Warlers fear the later would be the case. The men who rode on the griffin’s backs with upraised swords, whose blades were covered in blue fire, seemed to confirm their dread. The lightning bolts that moved between the towering thunderhead and the obvious talismans the men held in their hands made them want to run.
The message the men brought with them only confused matters because it told them that the Prophetess and Hammer Bearer who would come to them the following day to talk. Talk? To talk like they had a say in anything? Surely not. More likely, they’d be given onerous orders they had to follow. But they weren’t ordered to put their weapons down, though they were warned that it would be a mistake to try and harm the two when they came
and that the storm would be brought down upon their heads if they did. The warning was given after they were told that the Prophetess and Hammer Bearer would only be accompanied by a small company of delegates. Not a word was said about demanding them to surrender.
Ab’Don was mercilessly evil, but at least he was predictable. What was up with these Nyeg Warlers? What game were they playing?
The foreboding thunderhead rumbled deep into the night, acting like it was repeating the men’s warning, the four men who carried the radiant blue swords that could summon the storm’s might.
Satisfied it had gotten its message across to all those who huddled beneath its expanse, the thunderhead moved northward toward Malam and dissipated after briefly displaying the kind of energy it possessed. With the city’s entire military having been turned into whiteskins, Malam’s population was slashed in half when Not-Ab’Don allowed the warriors to die when he stripped the Spell of the White Hand’s power from them to increase its own during the fight with Jeaf.
Once the thunderhead vanished from the northern sky its hulking presence had blocked from sight, the storms light show was replaced by another one that stretched across the horizon, one where a panoply of colorful bursts of radiance intermittently pulsed. A red flash to the left was followed by a blue one to the right. A green flash that was further to the left of the red one was followed by a golden pulse that appeared in the sky’s center. On and on, the mesmerizing light show continued through the night. At times, the brighter bursts of colorful illumination revealed the billowing shapes of the clouds that were there.
As captivating as the strange lights were, those who watched them found that it wasn’t hard to slip away and get the rest they so desperately needed since the memory of the lights escorted them into sleep. When they were awakened by the next morning’s graying sky, they found that the pulsating lights were still there.
