Crooked Finger and the Warl of the Dead

by Rex Hazelton

  Once the Duikosian cavalry made a concerted effort to disengage from the fighting, the Dalnostrokynd resisted following them and started to return to the larger cavalry they had broken away from to help their Wyneskynd allies. But before they did, they saw the Duikosian horsemen joining up with the rest of the mounted Ar Warlers that had been riding past the battle in the distance, heading in a direction that would take them to the foot soldiers who were being ferried across the Malamor River aboard Bjorkian longboats.

  Reining in their horses, the Forest People considered what they were seeing. Once they rejoined Goldan and the rest of the Nyeg Warl cavalry, hard decisions had to be made.

  “They’re heading for the Malamor River and the warriors who are crossing there,” Dalstyn, the Dalnostrokynd’s chief surmised.

  “Yes, they’re wanting to force our hand and make us follow them,” Goldan completed Dalstyn’s thought. “But we won’t take the bait like the Sorcerer wants us to.”

  “Are you sure about that?” An echoing voice spoke out of the sky. “You’ll just sit on your hands while Ar Warl’s cavalry runs your footmen down. How will their wives feel about that once they learn you refused to help their husbands?”

  Searching the the air above, Goldan’s teeth ground together when he saw the ragged sheet of flame descending toward he and the others. “Fire-blasted fraethym,” the general hissed out his words between teeth that remained clenched.

  No stranger to the evil spirits Ab’Don used to torment his allies and enemies alike, Goldan was aware he was dealing with an entity whose magic worked on the mind, driving its prey into such profound madness that they were left thinking the only way to escape their tormenting condition was to take their life with their own hand. He had seen the evil spirits do their work during the Battle of Decision where they tried to break the Hammer Bearer’s spirit as he fought a no holds barred duel with the Lord of Regret by filling Jeaf’s mind with memories of the abuse his wife suffered in a childhood she spent as a captive in the Cave of Forgetfulness.

  “Guard your thoughts men,” Goldan shouted, “evil that would touch them is upon us.”

  “You’ll protect your minds from me when I can only trouble you without doing any real physical harm, while willfully refusing to save your brethren who are destined to be impaled on sharp lances?” The fraethym’s speech was filled with the Magic of Persuasion. “I’d say: Evil is in the eye of the beholder. And, I promise you, I’m getting an eye full too. The way your men are looking around, I’d say they’re starting to think evil is closer than they think and it’s not coming from me.”

  “That’s right men,” the fraethym’s shout swept over the horsemen like wind dropping out of a thunderhead. “What kind of man would let his brothers die without lifting a finger to help them?”

  “Stand fast, the fraethym wants to get into your minds,” Goldan warned.

  Still, the men began grumbling about Goldan’s inaction. As each moment passed, and with each word the fraethym uttered, more of them were convinced they needed to chase after Ar Warl’s horsemen that had been spotted.

  One of the Candle Warriors who had been assigned to the cavalry, rode up to Goldan and said, “General, a friend of mine says he can help.”

  Looking past the woman sitting on a dappled-gray mare of unusual size, Goldan couldn’t see who she was speaking about. As tense as things were getting due to the fraethym’s constant badgering, he wouldn’t mind some help, but he also didn’t want his time wasted either.

  “Speak up,” Charl interjected once he recognized the woman who had fought beside him against the Hag who had murdered his father. “Fillanor, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “You were Rowniel’s friend,” Goldan cast his growing anxiety aside since the Candle Warrior deserved a moment of his attention.

  “I still am, Sir,” Fillanor looked over her right shoulder and smiled in the droll way friends do when they acknowledge each other’s idiosyncracies. “Rowniel may be dead, but he’s sure not gone.”

  “You’re saying his spirit is still here and you can see him… uh… communicate with him?”

  “Aye, Sir. These are strange days indeed. I can both see Rowniel and speak to him. He says he’s connected to me somehow and isn’t free to leave for the Warl of the Dead until the magic that binds us together finishes doing what it wants to. Rowniel also says he can help you with the fraethym.”

  “Why would he need my permission to do that?” Goldan looked over Fillanor’s right shoulder to find proof that Rowniel was really there, hoping that the fraethym had planted a dillusion in her mind.

  “Aye Sir, he doesn’t. But Rowniel wanted me to approach you like I have, so you can get ready to take advantage of the tactic he’s about to implement. He’s also big on showing respect to others, if you catch my drift.”

  “What tactic?”

  “He plans on using the Healing Magic he’s perfected to draw the fraethym’s influence away from your warriors long enough for you to explain things to them in a way that will enable them to properly guard their minds.”

  Once Goldan had quick conversation with the other leaders, the general gave Flilanor the go ahead. The instant he did, the Candle Warrior took out a candle whose wick burst to life once she uttered a Word of Power. A moment later the flame was snatched of its paraffin perch and flew into the air where it quickly grew to the shape of a man who raced toward the fraethym.

  “Ha,” the arrogant fraethym shouted, “you dare to challenge me with the spirit of a mere human.”

  “The demon will learn better,” Fillanor said to in a voice that was loud enough for Goldan and Charl to hear.

  True to Fillanor’s words, the fraethym soon discovered the spirit that was racing toward it was more than capable to give it problems. An entity that exulted in power and violence, the fraethym was surprised to find the magic used against it was based on healing, a magic, as it turned out, the evill spirit had little experience fighting. Rushing up and grabbing the fraethym with his hands, Rowniel merged into his adversary’s ragged, sheet-like flames and sent the two tumbling through the air looking like fiery, thread-bare cloth caught up in a tumultuous, twirling wind.

  “Nyeg Warlers,” Goldan shouted. “The Sorcerer is using the fraethym to keep us from coming to the Hammer Bearer’s aid. We won’t let him succeed. But know this: Neither will we let our brothers perish on the banks of the Malamor River. Dalstyn and the Forrest People will see to that, and anyone who wishes to go with them. The rest of you will follow me. And once we reach Jeaf Oakenfel, we’ll spit in the Sorcerer’s eye.”

  It wasn’t until much later, when the land below was devoid of warriors, that the ragged sheet of fire broke into two and Rowniel regained his human shape. Seeing the frustrated fraethym race off after Goldan, he was soon soaring through the air in pursuit. Like properly administered medicine, he was drawn to the infection that was trying to avoid him. This was how Rowniel was able to fly as fast as he did.

  ****

  Ar Warl’s cavalry that included the Duikosian horsemen reached the high ground overlooking the Malamor River just as the sun was setting. A hard afternoon’s ride had brought them far. It also was tiring enough to make them wait until morning before they mounted an attack against the sea of warriors gathering below them. Privy to what the fraethym would try to do, they sent forth riders to keep an eye out for the Nyeg Warl horsemen they hoped were following them. Guessing, because of the numbers they saw in the cavalry they had passed on the plain, that few horsemen stayed behind with the footmen, and those that did were most likely courriers who wouldn’t engage them in open battle, the Ar Warlers sent other riders down to find out what kind of defense the footmen would put into place to greet them when they swooped down on them the next day. As they did their scouting, the colorful sails of the bjorkian longboats could be seen moving through the river that flowed on the other side of the gathering Nyeg Warl warriors.

  Fyreed and Prince Lowen were numb
ered among the captains that used their expertise in handling their narrow crafts to swiftly ferry the remaining warriors across the river. Leyert, the Bjorkian King, commanded another fleet of longboats that kept watch on Malam while at the same time was ready to sail up the Voyd River to help the Hammer Bearer when the time came.

  “My thanks to you, for getting our warriors across the river so quickly,” Ballastyn, King of Riverkynd and home of the Hadram, handed Prince Lowen of Thundyrkynd a cup of mulled wine as they sat in the king’s tent. As they spoke, the moon rose into the night sky unaware of the fight that would take place once it set in the morning.

  Ballastyn wore a blue tunic over gray leggings and black boots. Lowen wore a dark red tunic with a picture of a golden dragon’s head being crushed by a hammer on it. Broad-shouldered and lean of build, Ballastyn was a tall man with eyes as deep blue as the seas that surround Nyeg Warl. His shoulder length hair and beard were the same color as the sands covering the shoreline fronting Riverkynd. His sunken in cheeks, pronounced forehead, and hawk-like nose made him look sterner than he actually was. Ballastyn’s son, who sat on a chair to the right of his father and slightly behind him, was a younger, beardless version of his father. Fyreed, Far’Lynn, Thrower, and Thor’Shom were there too. Since the four were nearly inseparable from the time they met during the Battle of the Cave of Forgetfulness, it was not surprising to see them together, which was fine with Ballastyn who wanted to show his appreciation for all the Bjork had done that day. No longer adolescents: the three who came with Fyreed were now men in the prime of their lives.

  “No thanks is needed,” Lowen said as he nodded his head to his friend from Riverkynd, a man he knew well because of the long-standing business relationship the Bjork had with the Hadram who hired Wygean’s Children to transport their goods to the harder to reach places in Nyeg Warl.

  “With the horsemen sitting on the high ground overlooking our camps,” Fyreed said with a wry smile, “you might need to thank us again tomorrow night, for our works not done here.”

  Laughing, Ballastyn said, “Maybe that’s why I’m plying you with drink. You’ve noticed it’s not watered down.”

  “I thought that’s what you were doing,” Fyreed replied. “But, with the wine being so good, I didn’t want to talk about it too soon, lest you cut the flow off once I did.”

  “Well,” Ballastyn laughed some more, “you’re right about that.” With a wave of his hand, attendants came and bought in flagons of water to replace the wine they took away. “It wouldn’t do to have you addle-brained at the war council we’re going to.”

  ****

  Ar Warl’s cavalry of fifty thousand strong were arranged in long lines twenty deep. The spacing between each line ensured that the horsemen wouldn’t trample one another when contact with Nyeg Warl’s defenses was made. It also gave them room to strike at weaknesses that were exposed as the line of horsemen in front of them engaged the enemy. Since there were no signs that Nyeg Warl’s cavalry had taken the bait and followed them north, the Ar Warlers were getting ready to make them regret they didn’t come to help their brothers and sisters who depended on ther legs for transportation.

  As in all matters they were involved in, the Orskovyt’s took charge of the assault. Tied to Malam’s hip as they were, the masters of Chylgroyd’s Keep, where Jeaf Oakenfel had been held captive for so long, the Orskovyt’s were as blood thirsty and ruthless as the Sorcerer’s own people. Loyal to a fault to those they looked at like they were older brothers, the Orskovyt’s willingly offered their people up to the Spell of the White Hand. Because of this, more than half of the whiteskins that rode with the cavalry were from their realm. King Stahlynd, who was numbered among the whiteskins, was in command.

  King Roundoyff of Bostwych and Lanmyre of Emylion, who were left in charge of the footmen that continued to press toward the Hammer Bearer, were tied to the Sorcerer by the Spell of the White Hand too. King Flouse of Mirrortyn, situated on the shores of Mirror Lake in eastern Ar Warl, was still himself, though that mattered little with how many whiteskins were in his command. The same was true for King Korbyn of Tandyn and Ednor of Whytzell who drove their warriors on with stoic dedication that came from their pragmatic perspective on things, a pragmatism Ar Warl’s unforgiving nature had forced on them.

  At first, Ar Warl’s cavalry set off in a canter that made the long lines of mounted warriors look like sap oozing down a tree trunk that had been cut its entire width as they moved down the slope that was taking them to the sea of footmen who awaited them. The black and silver livery of the Orskovyts was seen at the center of the line. Tandyn green and white, Whytzell orange and yellow, Bostwych gray and white, Emylion’s gold and tan, as well as an eclectic collection of colors leaning toward the dominant hues found in the Fertyl Plains grasslands that the Duikosian and the Mirrortyn wore, filled out the ranks. The armor they wore was of light make to keep from weighing the horses down and restricting their speed. Chain mail was abundant, as well as boiled-leather breast plates and helmets. Gauntlets, vambraces, and greaves were only thick enough to ward off a glancing blow.

  Then, with a whistle-like sound that could be heard by warriors from both sides of the approaching struggle, the tide of horsemen urged their mounts into a gallop that surged toward the Nyeg Warl pikemen who kneeled to brace the butt of their long weapons against the ground, making them look like a porcupine with its quills extended as they did. Warriors armed with shields and lances stood a step behind the pikemen, offering them protection once they were driven back by the weight of the horses that would be impaled on their pole length pikes. The horsemen carried shields and lances of their own that were not fully lowered until a second whisting sound sent them off at full speed.

  Closing on the Nyeg Warlers like the tree sap had been heated to fast-flowing liquid that planned on washing over those foolish enough to withstand them with mere pikes, the Ar Warlers were ready to deliverer a staggering blow that would cripple the Nyeg Warler’s ability to reach the Hammer Bearer in time to protect him from the army that was marching towards him from out of the east, an army that intended on forcing Jeaf Oakenfel onto the sharpened tip of the Sorcerer’s sword that was aimed at him and the rebels who supported him.

  Willing to sacrifice a host of horses to break through Nyeg Warl’s outer defenses and cut into the warriors behind, the Ar Warlers shouted war cries filled with excitement over the prospect of maiming an overmatched foe. The rain of arrows that fell on them did little to dampen their enthusiasm as the first two lines of horsemen were predominantly whiteskins who were impervious to the speeding projectiles lethal properties. By the time the rest of the calvary had to weather the storm of arrows that fell on them, the ranks of archers that conjured up the storm would already be broken up.

  Lowering their lances further, the Orskovyts’s shouting turned into an enraged roar as they sought out targets to vent their anger on. Then to their utter surprise, a flaming shieldwall appeared out of nowhere, blocking their path to the the targets they had chosen. At the speed they were travelling, the oncoming cavalry only had the briefest of moments to realize they had entered a Field of Invisibility the Bjork had cast around the shieldwall with Wisdor Stones they had taken off their longboats. Built by all the Candle Warriors that could be gathered, the fiery-wall was as long as the the lines of horsemen that descended on them.

  Putting their heads together to see if they could somehow make the Magic of Invisibility the Wisdor Stones rendered work with Candle Magic, the Bjork and Candle Warriors came up with the strategy the Ar Warl’s had unwittingly stumbled into, a strategy that was well-conceived and, as the Ar Warlers were about to discover, well-executed.

  After the Candle Warriors constructed a shieldwall like those their Bjork allies employed in battles they fought on dry ground, but one that was many times longer than anything the Hammer Wielders would normally make, the Bjork had to take the Wisdor Stones used to hide the longboats from sight to create a Field of Invisibility long
enough to hide the fiery barrier from sight. Once in place, the Candle Warriors reinforced the shieldwall with magic that sent fire racing around it entirely. The flaming lances jutting out from the barrier made certain that none would question its lethal potential that was realized the moment the Ar Warlers struck it.

  With Candle Magic used to brace the shieldwall against the ground, the barrier didn’t bend the slightest as the lead horses slammed into it and were burned by the fire that was there. The whiteskins were burned too. If they weren’t quick enough to extricate themselves from the fire that bit them, their bodies were damaged beyond repair. Those that were skewered with the lances that reached out for them, suffered the same fate if they were held in place long enough for another fiery-lance to slice through their necks or heads. The horses that tried to jump over the shieldwall had their legs cut out from under them by the barrier that was too tall to leap. Soon hundreds of pillars of wailing, black smoke rose into the air above the Field of Invisibility before they dove into the ground and began their journey back to the Sorcerer who shuddered at the impact of the Spell of the White Hand that returned to the ancient entity, an ongoing impact that told the Evil One that its whiteskins were being slaughtered.

  The Hag that rode with the cavalry had their hands full trying to use their magic against the supernatural barrier that unexpectedly popped up in front of them. Having already lit their black candles with Words of Power that were in keeping with their dark inclinations, the Hag held either a fiery shield in hand or a fiery rope used for stabbing. But neither was much use against the well-conceived shieldwall. A smattering of fiery ropes snaked over the wall and struck at those who stood behind. The speed the Hag approached the Candle Warriors’ fiery barrier, and all the horses and riders that were heaping up against the shieldwall in front of them, removed the space and time the black-robed wizards needed to wield their weapons. If it wasn’t for the fiery shields that some of the Hag had fashioned with their candles’ flames, the first wave of Hag would have been totally obliterated. Only the sudden disappearance of those who rode before them, kept the following wave from rushing heedlessly into the Nyeg Warlers’ trap.