by Rex Hazelton
Though the magical eminations were greater than what a single person would normally emit, the Hag ascribed the sensation to the gray-clad person the black-robed wizard knew. "Horbyn."The voice that spoke was high-pitched and breathy. "What has happened to your robe? Has your pacifist ways caused it to lose its color?"
The Hag Community had long ago assigned Horbyn to a place among the insignificant academicians who were always studying but seldom put the things they learned to use. Since Horbyn gravitated towards the Healing Arts and not towards magic that could be readily used to exert power over others, he was marginalized even farther. That's why the Hag laughed over the humor he saw in Horbyn's faded apparel. But he didn't enjoy himself too much for the inconsequential wizard held a lit candle in his hand. Even a child, whose curiousity led them to pick up a sharp kitchen knife, had to be handled with a modicum of care. Besides, the candle was as gray as the robes Horbyn wore. Faded cloth was one thing. A Hag wielding a candle that was any other color than black was another thing. Not only were the Hag candles' coloring viewed as the distinguishing mark of those who were members of the unholy order of wizards, it was also the inevitable by-product of the magic they used. And here was a Hag who held a candle unlike any his brethren carried.
Having lived in Ar Warl as long as he had, a place where subterfuge was the norm, the Hag's suspicious nature was well-entrenched. This kept the black-robed wizard alert even in the presence of such a benign person as Horbyn was.
"You're probaly right, Scytholar." Horbyn thought it best to play along with the Hag's misconceptions. "My reticence to fully embrace the ways of our Order has probably taken its toll on my robes, since I have never been a good Hag as you yourself know."
"But what about your candle?" The yellow light that Scytholar's eyes cast off brightened as he spoke. "How is it that it’s gray too? Are you dabbling in magic that our Master frowns upon?"
"Don't dismiss my interests so easily," Horbyn replied as he looked at the hunchmen who had taken a step closer. "There might come a time that you'll be glad I studied the Healing Arts."
"Is that a threat?" Scytholar laughed over the absurd idea that this weakingly could ever pose a real danger to him. Still, he stayed on his guard.
"No," Horbyn added in an attempt to defuse the situation. "I'm just saying, my skills may prove to be valuable to you in the future."
As competitive as the dark wizards were, it was not unusual for the Hag to kill one another. And what better way to prove how powerful one was than to humiliate another Hag. To torture a person that those living in the Ar so feared was the height of the abuse dynamic. To kill them, or leave them bereft of their former abilities, was even better. This was how the Hag established their pecking order. But such a thing had to be done out of Ab'Don's sight, since he didn't like the ranks of his wizard horde culled unless absolutley necessary. Still a fight here or there was acceptible if it was discreetly done, and there were few places more discreet than the present location.
"The day I need a Healer is the day I don't deserve one!" Scytholar's breathy, high-pitched voice was filled with disdain at the thought that he would ever be weak enough or foolish enough to let anyone, other than Ab'Don himself, get the best of him. If the ship's captain deemed his vessel unsinkable, why would he need an escape craft?
"Of course you'll never need a Healer," Horbyn quickly added when he saw his mistake. "I didn't mean to impugn your power. But there is a war of unprecedented scope on the horizon. Though you may not need my skills, those you value may be glad to have me around when the Sorcerer sets out to conquer Nyeg Warl."
"That may be so." Scytholar turned his hooded head to look at the hunchmen that appeared to be more human-like than a normal beast-men. Horbyn had rightly guessed the relationship the Hag had with the strange creatures. For a father, who wouldn't dare humor the hint of weakness in his sons, will bind up the wounds they sustain in battle. "But you made a mistake coming into the mountains alone."
Then the yellow orbs, floating in the hood's dark shadows, narrowed as another bolt of lightning was seen atop the mountain heights. "Horbyn... have you come to spy on me and learn the secrets I use to change the hunchmen into this?" Scytholar pointed at one of the creatues that stood as erect as any man could. "Do you think my magic can be used to mend a broken back or regrow a severed arm or leg?" The lightning filling the distant, billowing cloud darted about like a wasp caught in a jar as the Hag snarled out his breathy words. "Why are you here? And who are these with you? I can't imagine the lies you fed them to make them come along on such a dangerous quest."
"I haven't come to see you as you suspect." Worried by Scytholar's apparent paranoia, Horbyn decided to tell some of the truth. "I and those who are with me are on our way to the Hall of Voyd with important information we have gleaned about the Neflin. When our Master gives me more power as my reward, I'll be able too change my gray robes back to black once more."
Seeing Lamarik standing beside Horbyn, Scytholar was taken in by the ruse. It also explained why Horbyn avoided well-traveled roads. A Neflin this far west would create questions that other Hag would raise. And once the questions were answered, for a large dose of pain would see that they were, any number of Hag would exert their strength to extract the prized information that would enable them to gain Ab'Don's boon for themselves.
The reason Horbyn dared to use such a ploy was predicated on the hope that Scytholar was so committed to his present enterprise that he wouldn't want to take the time, nor expend the energy needed to usurp the reward the gray wizard said he was after. If this were so, Scytholar might let Horbyn pass. But it was a big might. Besides Scytholar was interested in the Neflin he set his eyes on for other reasons than to force her to share the valuable information she carried with her. After all, Lamarik was a female, and Scytholar had always wondered what he could do if he was to mix Neflin and the hybrid hunchmen's blood together.
Nodding his head when he decided Lamarik was good breeding stock, Scytholar's eyes brightened as he looked at what he hoped was the mother of a new kind of warrior that would possess the strengths of humans, hunchmen and Neflin alike.
Look at those legs. Scytholar pictured the graceful Neflin speeding through the forest. Maybe that's why there are only three horses, she doesn't need one.
The Hag looked from the human-like hunchmen and back to Lamarik as he tried to meld the two beings into one in his busy imagination. Though a full-blooded hunchman couldn’t impregnate a human, the Hag had learned that some of his hybrid creations were capable of such a feat, and if they could breed with a human... why not a Neflin?
The simply made clothes Lamarik wore did nothing to protect her body from the Hag's scrutiny. Her children will have a more refind, though less human, look than those I fashioned by joining hunchmen and human essence together. If her offspring are less savage, they will make up for this with a cunning few hunchmen and humans now possess, one that is fueled by the unfathomable greenwood that has shaped the Neflin way of thinking. Set apart from men, elves, and hunchmen alike, my children will belong to Ab'Don alone. And when my Master sees that they're superior to the cretchym in every way, except in their ability to fly, he will reward me with gifts of power that surpass any the Hag have here-to-fore recieved.
"It may be that you're doing our Master's bidding," the light atop Scytholar's candle flared up in a threatening way, "but you don't really need the Neflin to complete your task. When you give Ab'Don your information, tell him the Neflin you brought along as proof that the things you say are true, is now in my hands. He'll understand and, no doubt, be intrigued by the possibilities she brings to my undertakings. Don't think he will do otherwise, for the Sorcerer greatly values the work he has entrusted me to do.
"Chyd," Scytholar's high-pitched, breathy voice increased in volume as he spoke to one of his children that stood on the edge of the dropoff fronting the stream bed, "she's yours, if you can take her."
Chyd was the most human looking of the hybr
id hunchmen. His nose and mouth were less pronounced than the others who were like him. His legs were longer, giving them greater symmetry with his powerful arms. He was tall in the way Malamor were. The thick hair on his head and the back of his neck was flaxen in color, though fur-like in compostion. Wearing a leather jerkin that had a breastplate made with a large animals rib bones draped over it, Chyd carried the kind of razor-sharp, jagged-edged sword the hunchmen favored. Slapping his leather leggings with a hand that reached to his mid-thigh, Chyd lifted his upper lip to reveal his sharp teeth that the moonlight glinted off before he lept off his perch. Landing with only the slightest bend in his legs, a feat few humans could match from the height he had jumped from, Chyd displayed the strength he possessed. The quickness with which he leaped, told the company of travelers that he was far from slow.
Confidently striding forward, for he didn't expect to face any resistence from the outmatched strangers, Chyd was brought up short when Travyn drew out both his sword and long knife with one swift motion. Rings of amber fire, radiating out from the shadow cast by the wide-brimmed hat the human wore made certain he wouldn’t renew his short trek without furthering prompting.
"The Neflin is not yours to take!" Travyn's angry words were followed by a flash of lightning that was closer than the ones before it. The cool breeze quickened as he shrugged off his cloak, revealing the garments beneath.
Loosening the upper buttons to a well-taylored brown leather jacket, brass buttons shaped like flames, Travyn gave his shoulders a greater range of motion as well as displayed the gold-colored silk shirt he wore. A wide leather belt, adorned with brass coins that had flames imprinted at their centers, momentarily came into view below his jacket's reach as he shrugged his shoulders. Four flame-shaped brass pieces lined soft, brown leather boots. Pant legs of the same color were tucked into these. A black, wide-brimmed hat sat above everything. Eyes that had circles of amber fire in them, looked out from the shadows the brim cast.
"The female is yours?" Scytholar hadn't considered this possibility.
"Yes." If Travyn had taken his eyes off of Chyd, a thing he wasn't about to do, he would have seen Lamarik had a smile on her face and eager eyes that wanted him to say more. "The female is mine."
Thunder rolled across the tree tops as the declaration was made, shaking the greenwood as it went.
"Well Chyd," a crooked smile appeared in the darkness beneath Scytholar's luminous yellow eyes, "What do you say to that?"
Taken back by Travyn's strange eyes, Chyd hesitated only a moment before confronting the strange swordsman. "I challenge you for the right of ownership."
If Chyd had hesitated a moment longer, one of his brothers would have taken his place and he would be branded a coward. But with the chata bean's effects, and the disgust he felt over his unexpected reticence urging him on, Chyd shouted out his challenge in a gutteral voice that neither human nor hunchman could accurately emulate. His renewed desire for the delights the Neflin's body would afford him sealed the deal. And like males of other species did, the two were bound to fight one another for the female they both wanted.
As if he was accentuating this feral dynamic, Chyd pulled a sharpened, multi-pronged section of antler out of his belt that could be used as both a stabbing weapon and a guard to catch an approaching blade.
As the struggle was about to begin, Horbyn kept his eyes locked on Scytholar who looked on the proceedings with parental interest. Lamarik and Kaylan kept track of the Thrall Giants and the others that surrounded them while trying to catch glimpses of a fight they could do nothing to stop.
To the surprise of the attending hunchman, Travyn snarled out words that were familiar to them all. "Ahk darr doon ayt thym," he spoke in the snarling way the hunchmen of Nyeg Warl did when they addressed an adversary.
Translated, Travyn had said: Take my tooth if you can.
He said this as a reflex to the situation, though he thought of his friend, Ilya'Gar, as he did. Maybe the presence of Ar Warl's hunchmen brought the words to mind? Maybe his Powers of Intuition made him utter the ages old challenge hunchmen used to begin a duel? No matter what had prompted him to do as he did, it was greeted by hunchman whispering among the pure bloods, course whispering that was interspersed with growls and snapping teeth. Their hybrid brethren remained silent.
A bolt of lightning filled the sky with branches of light. Thunder soon followed as the storm approached.
What had Travyn done? Had he inadvertently enraged the already frenzied beast-men who continued their hoarse whispering? Was a fight with the pure blood hunchmen now inevitable? Then all went quite... and the beast-men turned to watch the fight with renewed interest; their large, manic eyes reflected the silvery moonlight as they did.
Chapter 27: The Stream Runs Red
Chyd was a battle-tested warrior, trained by the Shadowman who looked on with a mixture of pride and curiousty showing on his face. Chyd had already accounted for six kills in the training pits where the hybrid hunchman were being honed as weapons the Sorcerer would use in a war with Nyeg Warl that was quickly approaching. Five of the slain were humans the Shadowmen provided for the training sessions. Three of these were outlaws of the worst kind, men who would slit their mother's throats if the price was right. Two others were Brie'Shen who had the missfortune of being captured by bounty hunters the Shadowmen hired to keep the pits stocked with able body combatants. The sixth kill was a hunchman who had irritated Scytholar in some way.
Trained to engage an adversary with probing strikes meant to expose an opponent's tactical style, Chyd came at Travyn swinging his sword and weaponized antler in a rhythmic fashion.
No stranger to a fight, and trained by the best swordsmen living in Nyeg Warl, Travyn met the powerful blows with a defense that was as stubbornly patient as the attack was methodical. A hand-width shorter than the hunchman, Travyn was not a small man by a long shot. The Malamor blood flowing through the hybrid's veins was responsible for Travyn's size disadvantage. The hunchman blood that flowed through the hybrid's veins made him the stronger of the two. But as the son of the Prophetess and Hammer Bearer, Travyn didn't lack resources since his body had been touched by Vlad'War's power in a way that strengthened his skin and increased his senses. As ironic as it seems, both he and the hunchmen were altered by magic. As such, the two were well-matched.
Frustrated by the human's patient defense, Chyd's hunchman nature surfaced and he became more aggressive. Snarling and biting, like his feral forefathers were won't to do, Chyd swung his jagged-edged sword furiously. Travyn replied in like kind as he swung his sword into the antler the hunchman used to shield himself with. Severing one of the tongs, Travyn's blade slid down the antler's trunk as it swept over the hunchman's arm, his bulging shoulder muscles, and into the back off his hair-covered neck. But by the time his sword's sharp edge reached the hunchman's flesh it had lost the velocity it needed to deliver a killing blow.
Swinging his own sword in desperation, for the hunchman had never been hurt so badly in all of his other fights, he knew he needed to retaliate and wound his adversary to keep things equal. But the man, who hadn't even taken time to remove the broad-brimmed hat he wore before the duel began, caught the hunchman's blade with his long knife a moment before he lifted his sword in an arching motion over the beast-man's head and down across his stomach that was not protected by the breastplate made of bones.
Seeing his guts fall out of the gaping wound, Chyd looked, first to the Hag and then to the Shadowman, for help. But all he got was an unblinking stare from the wizard. The Shadowman just lowered his head, letting his angry gaze fall to the ground.
The breeze strengthened as the storm clouds inreased, blowing the hunchmens' hair about as it did, catching the Neflin's, the humans', and giants' hair in its swirling currents.
Siezing the opportunity that his dying brother had given him, another hybrid jumped down from the lip of the steep drop that fronted the stream bed. Larger than Chyd was, the new challenger was mo
re hunchman than human. With his greater bulk, the beast-man snorted through an elongated mouth that was half the length of a full-blooded hunchman's as he went to one knee when he landed. Placing one hand on the peeble-covered ground to catch his balance, the hybrid half roared, half yelled when he saw the human leap over Chyd's crumpled body and sprint toward him.
Before the hybrid had time to stand and mount a defense, Travyn was plunging his blood-soaked blade into the crossbreed's chest and into the frantically beating heart it held.
Enraged that the human had kept his hat on while he fought, the beast-man decided his last act in the Warl of the Living would be to knock it off the arrogant man's head. But before he could swat at the stranger with either blade or hand, the human had stepped away after yanking his sword free from the ribs it had pierced.
As the beast-man slumped to the ground, Travyn noted that its fur-like hair was equal parts brown, black and gray. When two more crossbreeds dropped to the stone-covered stream bed, he quickly ended his curiousity-driven inspection. Having lived among Nyeg Warl's hunchmen for as long as he had, Travyn found the strange beings fascinating in the way that enemies did when they were about to fight each other.
A short time later, flashes of lightning showed that four dead hybrids lay at Travyn's feet. His sword dripped blood. His hat's wide brim hid the amber-colored rings of light that sat in his eyes as he looked down at his defeated foes. Then the hat's brim lifted and the luminous rings appeared as Travyn waited for the next challenger. But none came, even though the full-blooded hunchmen were busy whispering to one another in their gutteral way of speaking. The sounds of rumbling thunder gave the illusion that the storm clouds had joined the conversation.