Battle of Nyeg Warl

by Rex Hazelton

  The students, aware of the Candle Master's ways, knew he was calling for an end to the gathering. Anticipating his next words, those as familiar to them as Vestylkynd's grand towers, they were already standing.

  “Please. Stand. Join me in singing the Song of Gratitude.” And after the song was sung, he added the all too familiar words, “Be kind to one another as you go.”

  Each went to bed that night pondering Muriel's story, and when they fell asleep, they dreamt that they were riding on a griffin's broad back, flying over the sea to Stromane's white cliffs where they spent the night visiting the Community of Blood. When they finally awoke, all found they were more tightly knit to Muriel then they thought possible, and like the griffin, the students and teachers had adopted her into their hearts. She was no longer just Muriel Blood, griffin-human. She was now Muriel Blood, daughter of Nyeg Warl, the one who Grour Blood said was the Prophetess.

  One night later, Muriel and Truamor sat in a small library along with Ahrnosyn. Theista, the Song Mentor, and Strenystron, the Sword Mentor, were there too. Ahrnosyn, after introducing the mentors, those who had been assigned to provide private tutoring for both Muriel and Truamor, explained that the two women would spend half of their time in private lessons and the other half of their time studying with the other students. Normally they wouldn't provide private instruction, but they felt it was the prudent thing to do in light of the rapid changes sweeping over Nyeg Warl.

  “We feel it is our duty to prepare you as best and as quickly as we can,” Ahrnosyn explained. “Knowing we'll have to face the earthquake Grour Blood says will violently shake everything that can be shaken. It is our desire to provide you, Muriel, with sure footing, footing good enough to withstand the warl heaving and tossing beneath your feet.”

  The mentors' also felt obligated to do their part in helping Muriel discover her resident anointing that would be unleashed once she was given the Prophetess' mantle, a mantle legend said would help usher in the age of Parm Warl.

  “Do you really think I am her?” Muriel asked the Chief Mentor.

  “Yes, I do,” Ahrnosyn replied with a look of deepest sobriety showing on his face. “For more than two summers now, Thiesta has been prophesying how the Prophetess of Promise would soon appear and that the sign of the griffin would identify her. The story of how Grour Blood was led to you only lends credence to our assumption.”

  “But I'm not qualified to be the Prophetess,” Muriel added, as nagging anxiety gripped her mind. “I don't think I want to carry the weight of the warls on my shoulders. I couldn't bear it if my failure dashed to pieces the hopes of so many good people. You shouldn't put your trust in me! I'm only an orphaned girl who has suffered many horrible wounds to both mind and soul.” Muriel lowered her head in shame when she finished speaking.

  “Muriel Blood, don't you know your weaknesses can become your greatest strengths? If you can comprehend what I've just said, then you're well on your way to grasping the mystery of the Warl's Magic.” The Chief Mentor exposed her words to wisdom's light as he spoke. “Do you know what the sign of the griffin is?”

  Muriel shook her head.

  “It's that life proceeds from death, strength from weakness, and light from darkness.”

  “But how is this possible?” Muriel asked.

  “Just as the ashes of extinction came together to form the griffinkynd's progenitors, so too, many of those who have been burned by darkness will seek out the light.” Ahrnosyn's face softened into the subtle smile that was the Chief Mentor's trademark. “I know you have suffered as few have... but I also know that if you choose wisely, the sorrows of the past can instruct your soul in the ways of compassion and humility. In turn, these will become a doorway through which the warl's transcendent magic will be released, the very magic that interrupted Hayrn's journey to the Great Hall of Death, calling him back to life.”

  The Chief Mentor paused before he posed his question. “Why did you sing the Song of Healing?”

  Muriel softly replied, “I only did that which felt natural to me.”

  “That's precisely how you'll fulfill your role as the Prophetess, by following your intuition and letting the virtue dwelling inside you flow out naturally. You see, Prophecy's Magic, and the power it brings with it, can't be purchased, rather, it comes as a gift from the Singer and must be embraced by faith. Above all things, you must believe the Warl's Magic desires to flow through you for good and not evil. Once you realize this, you'll be free to trust your instincts. Young Lady, intuition is magic's highway and a place that the wisdom needed to wield this powerful force is found.”

  Ahrnosyn gestured towards the other mentors. “We know, because of your arrival, that our generation is being given an opportunity to break the evil spell gripping the warl. If we neglect to act, another such doorway may not come again during our lifetime. It is now our hour of decision.”

  Chapter 21: Ab'Don Sends a Message

  “Be quite Bolkar!” Ab'Don ranted as he stomped about in the Hall of Voyd's soot-filled air, the place that was the womb of his evil genius and the soil in which the roots of his avarice gained their nourishment. “You stinking dung heap of a spirit, I'll send you back to your master if you ever question my wisdom again!”

  Bolkar was the chief among six disembodied spirits called fraethym that appeared before Ab'Don. Hovering in the air, the apparitions looked like so many pieces of laundry hung out to dry. Their faces came and went, changing from vapor, to flame, to glowing masses of light, and then back to vapor again. Roughly imitating human form, troubled looks were exchanged among the phantoms. The mere mention of their old master terrified them, the pernicious one who had sent them to serve Ar Warl's lord.

  This ancient evil, whose name only the Sorcerer knew, was the mystery of iniquity that wound its suffocating coils about the roots of the warl long before the Breach created the Ar and Nyeg. Slithering to the surface, the wicked entity who was the Lord of the Fraethym and a progenitor of dark magic, seduced young Ab'Don. Helping his apprentice develop an avid appetite for the defenseless and the weak, the nameless horror taught him the sport of preying on widows and orphans, the very thing it had cut its own teeth on in an age now long past.

  The young sorcerer was quick to learn that the ancient evil gave him a level of power commensurate to whatever atrocity he was willing to commit. So, in time, Ab'Don sought to expand the parameters of his offenses beyond the helpless until all the kingdoms of the Warl were brought within its terrifying borders.

  Yet, Ab'Don's evil mentor did not share its secrets without asking compensation for its malicious generosity, and the price the wicked thing exacted from its willing pupil was the use of his body. The foul entity required Ab'Don to agree to let it, from time to time, use his eyes and ears as windows through which it could peer into the warl since it had been confined to the nether regions by a power still greater than its own.

  Having sought out one it could use to undo the good and wise use of the Warl's Magic that had so far thwarted its evil plans, the wicked thing entered through ambition's doorway, a doorway guarding the secret yearnings of Ab'Don's heart. There, it found an ally who gladly accepted the hideous role he was asked to play.

  Still, Ab'Don was no dupe. Forewarned by the Hag, he entered this foul tryst realizing the ancient evil would consume his very soul, if he'd let it.

  “Yes M'Lord! There is great magic to be gained by conjuring up the Dark One, but the risks are as great as the rewards, I'd say.” The Lady Isham was Ab'Don's aunt and a seer whose powers few could match.

  Educated in the School of the Hag, she had foreseen her nephew's greatness and, because of this, seduced the young lord into becoming her lover. Hoping this soul-tie would give her sway over his decisions, Isham plotted to rise to power with him. Being a Hag, she was well equipped to see her plan through, for the Hag had, at one time, been an order numbered among the Candle Makers. Eventually, they chose to break ranks with their brethren, feeling their search for knowledge
was too limited. Unlike the Candle Makers, the Hag didn't fear the ever-increasing shades of gray that heralded the approaching darkness they were willing to explore, a darkness whose magic they believed the candle's light would help them master. But in the end, they were beguiled and traded their Candle Maker candles in for those said to have greater power, whose wicks were lit by the Fires of Darkness.

  “Are you a gambling man?” Isham hoped Ab'Don would say yes. After all, it's not my skin that will be risked, she reasoned. He'll be the one in jeopardy.

  Isham had seduced Ab'Don with her femine wiles. Now she would beguile him with the promise of power the Dark One's magic would give him, a power that she herself was not willing to touch lest she lose her own soul. But his soul… what did it matter if he were lost? Surely, cruel fate's dark side would create another one it hoped would rule mankind. And when he would arrive, she'd be there waiting, ready to seduce again. If by then she was too old, she'd train others to do her work for her, those who would serve her whims, acting like pieces of bait adorning her greedy hook.

  “If I conjure this thing up out of the bed on which it now slumbers, what are my risks?” The Hag's seduction was now nearly complete. Ab'Don had tasted Isham's magic, and though it had satisfied his cravings for a time, he now wanted more, more than the Hag could offer him.

  “The risks?” Isham wistfully touched Ab'Don's lips as she pressed closer to him. “The Dark One will try to control you, possess you if he can. But you won't let this happen. The magic you possess will see to that. Besides, the Hag will help you get what you want without letting the ancient thing have its way with you.”

  Buoyed by Isham's flattery, Ab'Don entered Cara Lorn.

  The ancient woods, bordering the Lorn Fast Swamp that sat in the Warl's eastern reaches, was the home of the Lorn Wraiths, the spirits of a race of people who had once served the Dark One in an age almost forgotten, an age filled with despair and war. Not fearing the madness that these wraiths were known to cast upon those who trespassed into their haunts, Ab'Don enlisted their aid in contacting their old master.

  “Call our master, you say!” The wraith was dressed in a full suite of ghostly armor, his sword was drawn. “We can't do that. It's impossible. But we can kill you!”

  Noticing that more wraiths were gathering among the moss-covered trees, Ab'Don knew he had to play his trump card if he was going to survive this meeting.

  “It most certainly can be done!” he quickly replied.

  Several of the Lorn Wraiths were busy using their magic to build a cocoon-like prison, a place that Ab'Don would be doomed to spend the rest of his tormented life if he couldn't change their minds.

  “I'M A KING!” Ab' Don's shout broke in adolescent-like fashion as his voice rose in pitch. For the first time, fear gripped his heart. Had he overplayed his hand? Would the Lorn Wraiths refuse to help him?

  “A king, you say?” The specter sheathed its sword. Smiling at the ethereal throng pressing towards the trembling man, he added, “Well, that's a different story. Maybe we can do some business together. Come closer, My Son.”

  Since the Singer had given the care and stewardship of the warl to those with flesh and blood, the nameless evil was forced to find one of these creatures to use as the portal through which its influence could be extended out beyond its prison. With elves, giants, river-children and others like Schmar being too difficult to control, the ancient evil was left with man, the wild card in history's outcome. Yet, it could not use just any man… it had to find a person who wielded the rod of responsibility that chieftains and kings were entrusted with. If the wicked thing were able to persuade such a one to freely invite it to possess them, one who understood this act's ramifications- for the Singer would not permit the naive or witless to be so abused- then it could live out its evil through the offering.

  In as much as Ab'Don was just such a person, the ancient spirit, long exiled in a nether world filled with shadows and lacking substance, was summoned forth. And the contract was made!

  Ab'Don, who quickly became addicted to the power the ancient evil tossed his way, as if it were so many scraps thrown to a dog, lustily donned the mantle of Sorcerer and Master of the Dark Arts

  Over the course of time, like his mentor, Ab'Don learned to parcel out his power to those who would help him. Once hooked on his magic, hopelessly addicted to those things he provided, these men became no more than slaves.

  Not only using a system of rewards, Ar Warl's lord also became adept at doling out pain and torture. This is where the fraethym, like Bolkar, were especially useful. These disembodied spirits, who had risen out of the same malicious swamp of despair and anguish that their cruel master had, could fill the hearts of men, and other living things, with dark emotions of an unimaginable magnitude. Most of the executions carried out on Ab'Don's orders were actually suicides that had been induced by the fraethym's torturous presence.

  Bolkar wanted Ab'Don to send him to Koyer on just such a mission. Though he loved the sense of power he felt when tormenting Koyer and Ab'Don's other generals and officers, Bolkar wanted this job for reasons of his own.

  “If he fails, we'll be sent back!” Bolkar shouted.

  “NO!” Falkar's cry echoed through the the secret place where the phantoms shared their thoughts with one another. “We'll kill that stinking cretchym before we let that happen.”

  Painfully aware their stay on the surface of the warl depended on Ab'Don succeeding in his conquests, there was no fire-blasted way that he and the others of his kind would let the incompetence of creatures like Koyer foul up the Sorcerer's plans.

  “Can you imagine the horrible things Master will do to us, if we're sent home?” Bolkar gasped.

  If this were to happen, they would, once again, find themselves locked inside the ancient evil's personal playpen where they would be subjected to the same tortures that they had been anointed to inflict on others. Thus, Bolkar and his kind, fervently served Ab'Don, knowing that he was their passport to the partial freedom they enjoyed while they were in the warl. That's why the foul spirit quickly capitulated to the Sorcerer's will and sought absolution for his previous impertinent behavior.

  “Sire, I beg you, forgive me for my insolence.” Bolkar's voice sounded like it came from somewhere far away. “Have mercy on me! I in no way meant to question any part of your perfection. Nor did I mean to cast doubt on those that you've chosen to lead the invasion of Nyeg Warl. Koyer is a fine choice, for he is both cunning and ruthless.”

  The other vaporous evil spirits blackened with relief when they saw how Bolkar's words placated their master.

  “But I would like to suggest just one thing.” The fraethym gingerly maneuvered his way towards his goal. “Send me and my friends to the Isle of Regret to give Koyer a pep talk, if you follow my meaning. After all, you know what they say, Spare the strap and spoil the mule.”

  “You're right.” Ab'Don waved his long finger nails in Bolkar's direction in acknowledgment of this fact. “Koyer's the best I've got. But even the best needs a boot in the pants every now and then. Besides... it's not like he can't be replaced.” The dark Sorcerer laughed over the pleasure he had in possessing the power to do such things.

  “Of course, he must pay for his failures!” Ab'Don shouted as his bright yellow eyes darted about the Hall of Voyd.

  The wicked spirits began to move like wispy snakes that stood on their tails glad their tormenting lord had turned his fathomless anger towards another target.

  “How could that miserable fool let the Hammer Bearer escape his web? Make him pay for his transgressions. Punish him! Torment him! Drive him mad! Do whatever it takes to get his attention. If need be, touch him with the Fires of Darkness to remind him of my power and my willingness to destroy incompetents.”

  “Well spoken your highness!” Bolkar's quivering voice jubilantly exclaimed. “Your wisdom in these matters is, once again, displayed.”

  The foul spirit looked back at his compatriots, glee showing on its
face. Instantly, the others united into a single, huge, fanatically blazing fire. The combustion this produced provided Bolkur a most foreboding backdrop while he gave a final salute to the human he served. “We shall go forth to do your bidding, Great One!”

  When Bolkar leapt among his brethren to stoke their flame with his own unscrupulous power, Ab'Don spread his arms apart as if they were the wings of a raptor. Then, with the flickering light of the burgeoning inferno dancing wildly upon his soot-covered countenance, he shouted his command, “Cruel fraethym, away with you. To the Isle of Regret go and fill Koyer's heart with the fires of woe.”

  Bolkar, and the other evil spirits, swept around the Hall of Voyd, their hideous glory glinting off the Sorcerer's muted armor, before racing off into the rancid night air. The hall's jagged pinnacles, receding below them, looked like fingers of a giant hand that had tossed the blazing fireball skyward. Those living within the pale of Ab'Don's loathsome reign cringed when they saw this hellish light arching high over Ar Warl.

  In time, the evil spirits reached the shores of the Breach Sea. Here, they transformed into a ragged cloud that looked like massive claws had rent it. The shredded vapors raced over the waters, as if driven by harsh gale force winds. Relentlessly they flew, until the Mountains of Sorrow's foreboding heights came into view.

  Seeing the ominous cloud approaching and sensing the fraethym's malice, the crocodon swimming out in the sea lifted their heads and roared greetings to their comrades in evil.

  Bolkar, seeing G'Lude's cold parapets rising from the lower slopes of the Isle of Regret's rocky heights, banked downward, leading his foul flock toward their goal. The others instinctively followed his lead without the slightest disparity of motion being detected. After a few moments, the evil spirits, passing over a large herd of swine, which was the main staple of the Archan diet, slipped through a crack in G'Ludes walls and were busily scouring the inside of the fortress for Koyer's whereabouts. As they passed down the gloomy hallways, the Archan they met pressed their short heavily muscled bodies against the walls, afraid the evil vapors would touch them with the pangs of madness. The Malamor, who had once lived in the Hall of Voyd, were not panicked by the foul spirits' presence. They simply bowed their heads, knowing the fraethym would skirt past, pleased by the show of obeisance.