Crooked Finger and the Warl of the Dead

by Rex Hazelton

  "Who’s that?" Ilya'Gar asked Duga'Dyne after he saw his opponent lowering his sword.

  "It's my brother, Arag'Dyne." Duga'Dyne's muffled voice sounded like he was battling a bad cold. Aware that his adversary had intentionally kept from delivering blows that would result in severe injury, Duga' Dyne had decided to answer the stranger's question.

  Watching Arg'Dyne leaping down the face of the rocky ridge with the other Broyn'Dar following in a helter skelter wave of scrambling claws, for none wore shoes or gloves, Ilya'Gar sheathed his twin blades behind his back and crossed his arms over his chest like Jan'Gyn had continued to do. The last of the Bro'Noon that entered the clearing assumed the same disarming stance. After all, Arga'Dyne was the Broyn'Dar chieftain they had been tasked to meet.

  With the hunchman leaping down the rock outcropping, looking like a pack of wolves racing toward a herd of sheep, Arga'Dyne was brought up short when Lamarik stepped out of the greenwood. Standing two body lengths above where the stone outcropping gave way to the swath of scree that had accumulated over time, the chieftain placed his fists on his narrow hips. "The Storm Master's consort," he said with a voice both deep and gruff sounding. Always suspicious of things unexpected, Arga'Dyne's eyes narrowed. "Has he come back to finish the work he began, ridding the Thrall Mountains of the beasts that inhabit them? Does he regret having let us live?"

  The chieftain's recollections of the fierce battle where Travyn and his brother had slaughtered the mutant-hunchmen the Hag had created with the Sorcerer's dark magic were indelibly etched into his mind. He had always questioned whether the parting exchange that took place between him and the human, who had knowledge of the Broyn'Dar ways that none of his kind had displayed before, was as amicable as it seemed.

  Arga’Dyne thought that each had afforded the other a reasonable measure of honor, which was in keeping with the fact they had just met each other, at the time they parted ways. But now he wondered if Storm Master had only placed destroying the Broyn'Dar lower on the list of things he planned to do, and today was the day the hunchmen's names had finally come up. What else could explain the arrival of the Storm Master's companion that was surely a precursor to his own appearance? After all, wasn’t he a human? And like all his kind, wouldn’t he relish an opportunity to kill hunchmen?

  Then Arga'Dyne pondered Ilya'Gar's presence and added this to his thoughts: A human who uses renegade hunchmen as blood-hounds. This impression did not sit well with him.

  A clarion voice shook the hunchman out of his dour reverie. "Arga'Dyne, Chief of the Broyn'Dar," Lamarik bowed her head to show respect to the leader she addressed. "Storm Master, as you yourself named him, is near, but he hasn't come to fight you. On the contrary, he wishes to form an alliance."

  "If my guess is correct, an alliance that includes the Neflin and Brie'shen?" Though Arga'Dyne had left the Thrall Mountains but once to explore the wider warl he lived in, the knowledge he gleaned during his journey was not forgotten. Since the humans who were gathering before him wore cloaks with colored hems that identified which clan they belonged to, he knew these were Brie’Shen by the patterns he saw.

  "Brie'Shen no longer." Poroth had arrived. "We've cast off the name we were forced to hide behind after the Age of Star’s Blood ended and have taken up the surname our ancestors were known by- Fane J'Shrym."

  Arga'Dyne's husky laughter followed him as he leapt off his perch to land on the ground where Lamarik, Poroth, and the rest of the trespassing strangers stood. "The one who claims to be the Hammer Bearer has found the holes you were hiding in and has shared his pipe dreams with you, hasn't he? And after buying into his lies, you filled your own pipes with garga weed and developed your own fantasies. Everyone knows that the Fane J'Shrym are no more, at least those with blood ties to Shloman the Great and the others that lived during his time. As for the chances of the Age of Parm Warl coming? It's already here and the the Sorcerer rules over its dark expanse."

  "Is that what you think, Arga'Dyne?" Two points of amber light were the first things to be seen in the forest shadows a heart beat before the shadows resolved themselves into a human form that stepped out of the dense forest's covering. Like the others who rode horses, Travyn had left his mount in the care of handlers who waited in the greenwood behind him.

  "Storm Master," Arga'Dyne's snout-shaped mouth scrunched up as he frowned, revealing only the tips of his fangs, "have you kept your teeth white?"

  "My teeth are white. But I'm not ready to let you take them."

  "Having witnessed your skill in fighting in days past, I doubt they could be easily done."

  "The time for harvesting teeth is fast approaching. But it’s not today. Not here. Not now. Nor am I looking to fill my necklace with Broyn'Dar fangs."

  Having been raised with the Bro'Noon who lived in Nyeg Warl, Travyn was well-versed in hunchmen ways. Still, suggesting he was a goood enough warrior to best the Broyn'Dar if he chose, illicited a chorus of snarling growls from those he slighted with his words.

  "Brothers," Arga'Dyne took a moment to let out a burst of mirthless laughter, "take no offense. I promise you, he can back up his boast with that sword he carries."

  Searching the sky to see if clouds were gathering, the chieftain added, "And if a storm comes, he'll gather more teeth than we can spare to lose before he we subdue him."

  "Listen to Arga'Dyne." Travyn dared to speak directly to the Broyn'Dar without taking time to get the chieftain's permission. "I mean no offense. On the contrary, I'm aware that you are fierce warriors all. And if Arga'Dyne will grant me an audience, I plan on asking him for an alliance that will see us fighting side-by-side.

  "Storm Master, you're a fool to think that a handful of elves and misguided Brie'Shen can take the Sorcerer on in a fight. I know that the sword of yours contains great magic. But it's no match for the Hag and the master they serve, not if the wizards come at you in numbers. You'd need more than one sword just to stand a chance of surviving and scores of them to come out victorious."

  "Four," Travyn calmly replied.

  "What?" Arga'Dyne sniffed like he was trying to pick up a scent.

  "If you must know, there are three other swords like the one I have. All are carried by my brothers. As for the one you disparage for claiming to be the Hammer Bearer, he is our father."

  "No wonder you're surrounded by Brie'Shen. You're one of the empty-headed rebels, aren’t you? And your father is the chief lunatic. Tell me it isn't so. You've added disappointment to a day whose darkness needed no help in extinguishing the light."

  "Do you know Jeaf Oakenfel?" Ilya'Gar had taken offense at what Arga'Dyne had said. Still, he spoke in measured tones that kept the gap between his anger and the need to parley with the Broyn'Dar from widening. "Have you crossed swords with him? If you had, you wouldn't be standing here today. You'd be as dead as Koyer is."

  "And who are you?" Arga'Dyne chose not to be offended by the strange hunchman's remarks.

  "Ilya'Gar, Son of Loda'Gar, Chieftain of the Bro'Noon who live in Nyeg Warl."

  "The Bro'Noon, you say?" Arga'Dyne's fingers touched the red and blue paint that covered his snout-like mouth as he rubbed his chin in thought. "Rumor says the human's tricked you into giving up chata. Is that why you're here, to cast the deception you’ve succumbed to over us so that we’ll trade our souls to gain human approval that will only come if we lick their boots?"

  "I lick no one's boots, nor am I a slave to chata. My anger is my own. I don't need to take a drug to bolster my courage. If you want more proof than what you’ve already seen," Ilya'Gar nodded toward the unconscious hunchman that none had bothered to help, "I'll gladly uncross my arms and provide it for you."

  "It may come to that, Bro'Noon. But not now," Arga'Dyne glanced at Fage'Dom's limp form before watching Duga'Dyne tentatively touch his wounded snout in response to his brother's appraising gaze, "you've earned the right to speak."

  Arga'Dyne had used chata for so long its affects no longer raged inside him. Time had
turned the drug's influence into a slow burning fire. Since the frenzied state that chata threw the beast-men into culled the pack long before most could reach old age, few had lived as long as Arga'Dyne. And those that did reach his age were covered with as many scars he was. Each sustained in a raid or during the incessant dueling the Broyn'Dar were given to.

  "Then hear this, I invoke Kar'Sune'Jong. But before you say anything, know that the Bro'Noon consider this a matter of great importance. During our history the call for Kar'Sune'Jong was used to end wars where no end was in sight. Because of it, senseless killing was stopped. And to kill one's kin over matters that could be resolved without a bloody war breaking out is senseless, don't you think Cousin?"

  Arga'Dyne's harsh laughter was heard as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Cousin is it? Well Cousin, only females invoke Kar'Sune'Jong. What warrior would want to parley when battle is its own reward?"

  "Arga'Dyne, you forget that my father is a chieftain like you." Ilya'Gar was quick to establish common ground on which to stand with the Broyn'Dar leader. "I know that you care for your clan, for the women and children as much as the warriors. I've heard my father and mother talk at night when no others except their children were close enough to hear them, just as I know you have talked with your mate. And you know what I heard?"

  A wry smile appeared on Arga'Dyne’s face before he deigned to take Ilya'Gar's bate. "What did you hear?"

  Wanting to get inside the mind of the Bro'Noon chieftain was one of the reasons that Arga'Dyne asked his question. As intelligent as he was, he knew that you couldn't know too much about a potential enemy.

  "I heard them bemoan the deaths of the Bro’Noon they ruled over. I heard them fret over there not being enough food to feed those they felt responsible for keeping alive. My father doesn't live just to fight, though those who crossed swords with him would say otherwise, he lives to see his kin flourish in a warl that, at times, seems set on keeping this from happening.

  “Seeing children grow up to become great warriors is a source of delight for him. But unless our young ones survive long enough to reach maturity, this won’t happen. That’s where Kar’Sune’Jong comes in. My father has discovered that it is as great a weapon as any sword ever could be when it comes to ensuring the clan's well-being. Since you are about the same age as my father, surely you have discovered the limitations that sharp steel has."

  "Ilya'Gar, Son of Loda'Gar, Chieftain of the Bro'Noon, it’s you who forget that the Broyn'Dar live in the Ar and not the Nyeg where such pleasantries can be entertained." Arga'Dyne shook his mane-covered head as he struggled with his aggresive inclinations. Then he paused. His pale-gray eyes focused on an unspecified point in front of him before he huffed out a breathy growl that was a prelude to his muscles relaxing. "I'm still tempted to mock you for playing a female's game. But as you have said, I'm your father's age, and, like him, time has taught me that swords and daggers are not the only weapons a chieftain has at his disposal. I'm willing to give Kar'Sune'Jong a chance. Only, don't tell my mate that I did. I'll never hear the end of it if your do."

  With that said, Arga'Dyne bellowed out an order for the Broyn'Dar to sheathe their weapons and make camp. After giving elves and humans leave to do the same in the forest, he directed his warriors to use the rocky-outcropping as a base of operation.

  Travyn and Ilya'Gar agreed to the arrangement, since it gave each side an advantage they could use to defend themselves against the other if talks broke down. While trees provided the elves and humans cover, the Broyn’Dar gained the benefit of controlling the high ground.

  ****

  As chance would have it, the place where the Nyeg Warlers and Ar Warlers first met was ideal for hiding a large encampment. Situated between the rocky ridge and the forest that rose up just beyond its base, nature's vagaries acted like two hands that shielded the ongoing parley from unwanted attention.

  Watching their Nyeg Warl counterparts moving about the glowing campfires that had been lit, the Broyn'Dar were surprised to find that the Bro’Noon had similar practices to their own. From the way they sharpened and oiled the jagged-edged swords each carried to the shape of the dried meat they consumed, their cousins' behavior mirrored their own to an astonishing degree. Even the cakes they ate, both made with whole grains and crushed nuts, were near replicas to their own.

  The way the two groups of hunchmen groomed themselves was so similar that they had to smile in the feral way they did when they saw each other doing the same things at the same time. Once, when a Broyn'Dar and Bro'Noon caught each other lifting a squirming pest above their open mouth with the same sweeping hand motion that followed plucking the bothersome insect out of their fur, rough, snarling laughter filled the space between rock and tree.

  Their difference in size and color gave proof that their lineage had diverged somewhere in the past, a divergence that was made absolute by the magic that separated the Nyeg from the Ar at the Battle of the Breach. Broyn'Dar fur leaned toward gray and black coloring, whereas, the Bro'Noon trended toward brown with darker shades found in the thick manes that covered their heads. Broyn'Dar fur was less likely to lie down like the finer hair that covered the Bro'Noon. This gave the Ar Warlers an even wilder look than their Nyeg Warl cousins' ubiquitous feral appearance.

  Bro’Noon eye color ran from moss green to dark brown. The yellow tinting that was found throughout added to the already existing variety. The spectrum of Broyn’Dar eye color ran from powder grey to a charcoal grey that was close to being black.

  Their taste in apparel was similar too, both favored leather vests and matching pants that stopped short of covering their calves entirely. Ilya’Gar’s full length pants were an exception, as was the waist length coat he wore that was tailored like the one Travyn wore.

  Footwear was rare among the Broyn'Dar, who seemed to want to keep their extremities free from confinement, whereas all six Bro'Noon wore soft leather boots whose tops made it hard to determine where their pant lengths stopped. With warmer weather being the norm for the current season, none wore the cloaks that were carried inside their bed roles.

  The Broyn'Dar's addiction to chata was the most noticeable difference between the two clans. After hearing that the Bro'Noon had sworn off chata beans as part of the Gor'Dar Treaty they agreed to along with Nyeg Warl's elves and humans, an agreement that ensured them a place of acceptance among the concerned parties, the Broyn'Dar couldn't keep from trying to seduce the abstemious hunchman into consuming some of the forbidden beans whose meat carried an extremely powerful stimulant inside. Once Bro’Noon and Broyn’Dar curiousity drew them to the campfires they began to share in the space found between the two camps, opportunities for the attempted seductions increased.

  Whenever chata was offered to the Bro'Noon, an act that was repeated in the most humorous and creative ways, the Broyn'Dar would fall into fits of laughter over the discomfort this produced in their cousins. Eventually, the tactics the Ar Warlers used to torment the Nyeg Warlers became more blatant, so much so, that it wasn't unusual to see a Broyn'Dar leaning close to one of their cousins as they chomped happily away on a purposely large mass of beans they had crammed into their mouths, rolling their eyes back in ecstacy as they did while giving detailed descriptions of just how good the beans were. Some came so close to their cousins that globs of thick saliva fell on the Bro'Noon's boots.

  Knowing that their beloved chata was poison to them, the Broyn’Dar didn’t bother to offer the Fane J’Shrym and Neflin any of their beloved beans. Where the drug inflamed the hunchmen’s emotions and enhanced their physical abilities, it would incite the others' hearts into pumping so violently that the organs would eventually tear themselves apart. As a result, the humans and elves were relegated to being spectators to a game that Ar Warl’s hunchmen were clearly enjoying more than their besieged cousins.

  Once the Broyn'Dar slicked their hands with chata-infused spittle before offering them in feigned friendship to the uncomfortable Bro'Noon, Arg'Dyne dec
ided to step in. "Alright children, that's enough. I warn you, if I see anyone spitting in our guests' cups, I'll turn you over my knee and spank you with the flat side of my sword. If that doesn't stop you, I'll cut your hand off."

  The manic company's hoarse-sounding laughter grew even louder at the threat they knew their chieftain would carry out if pressed. Amazingly enough, none of the frenzied troupe seemed to want to fight. Rancor was conspicuously absent. Watching their guests squirm was enough intertainment for the night. Plus, the beast-men appeared to be storing their energy up for the next day that, from the little the Bro'Noon could glean, was going to include some kind of raid. This above anything else kept the hunchmen's attention focused on the parley that was about to take place and on the topic of discussion their chieftain planned on raising.

  Tasked with reaching out to Arga'Dyne and the Broyn'Dar to offer them an alliance, the Bro'Noon kept themselves from responding to the demeaning chicanery that was thrown their way. Used to being roughed up by each other’s pitiless teasing that never overlooked an opportunity to take a jab at those they loved, the Bro'Noon resisted reaching for their swords even when the Broyn’Dar trespassed on their personal space. Instead, before Arga’Dyne had stepped in, they had pushed their tormentors away with half-hearted shoves that could not be construed as coming from a desire to fight. At the same time, they ridiculed their cousins for their dependence on chata. Pushing the boundaries between playfulness and being mean-spirited, the Bro’Noon got their digs in in the way that only hunchmen could.

  Looking about, Arga'Dyne nodded his head in satisfaction that his brethren had complied with his command. Settling down on his haunches with a campfire separating him and Ilya'Gar, who was similarily resting on his haunches, he said, "Now that the children have stopped playing, let's begin talks, knowing there is little time for negotiations since the Broyn'Dar have an issue of grave importance we must attend to tomorrow. Ilya'Gar, Son of Loda'Gar the Bro'Noon Cheitain, tell me what you have come to say."