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  Crooked Finger and the Warl of the Dead

  Book Four of the Chronicles of the Prophetess and Hammer Bearer

  Rex Hazelton

  Crooked Finger and the Warl of the Dead

  Book Four of the Chronicles of the Prophetess and Hammer Bearer

  Rexford Hazelton Copyright 2018

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Prophecy

  Chapter 1: Cork and Cups

  Chapter 2: Spell of the White Hand

  Chapter 3: Bro'Noon

  Chapter 4: The Broyn'Dar

  Chapter 5: The Hag Encampment

  Chapter 6: An Unexpected Wraith

  Chapter 7: The Breach Sea

  Chapter 8: The Hammer Bearer Returns

  Chapter 9: Lylah

  Chapter 10: Alysha's Dream

  Chapter 11: A Broken Man

  Chapter 12: Blood and Relatives

  Chapter 13: Well of Souls

  Chapter 14: The Magic of Flying

  Chapter 15: A Meeting Forestalled

  Chapter 16: Arga’Dyne

  Chapter 17: Inexorable Rot

  Chapter 18: The Table is Set

  Chapter 19: Treachery

  Chapter 20: East of the Voyd River

  Chapter 21: The Storm Arrives

  Chapter 22: Fane J’Shrym

  Chapter 23: Dragons in the Sky

  Chapter 24: The Iron Tree

  Chapter 25: Laviathon’s Revenge

  Chapter 26: Crooked Finger

  Chapter 27: The Song of Breaking

  Author

  Dedication

  Book Four of the Chronicles of the Prophetess and the Hammer Bearer is dedicated to my two beautiful granddaughters, Katie and Bella, for two reasons: one, because I wanted to include their names in my writings because the girls mean so very much to me; and two, the soon to be young women, in my mind, represent a future that is worth fighting for. And isn’t that what Fantasy Writing is all about? In my mind, the other-worldliness inherent to this genre is more a manifestation of our longing for something better than it is a vehicle used to escape reality. Why can’t there be magic in our lives? As the Brown Wizard Bacchanor intimates: the power of the Magic of Friendship shouldn’t be understated. I would add: nor the love of family. It is these things, among others, that makes our endeavors to overcome the difficulties that often beset us worth undertaking. I might add, after looking into my granddaughters’ lovely faces once more, the endeavor

  The Prophecy of the Prophetess and the Hammer Bearer

  There is a love within the warl that can calm the tempest tossed,

  And mend the breach and heal the wound that evil powers have caused.

  It is sweet love and only love that can lay foundations strong,

  Upon which castles of stone are built to undo the ancient wrong.

  The Hammer Bearer will find his love and with his courage heal,

  Her broken heart and innocence that evil men did steal.

  Together they will face the night and the wicked wind’s onslaught,

  And overcome the dragon’s fire until justice has been wrought.

  Though swords may clang and arrows fly and threaten to destroy,

  The hope of peace, the light of day within the warl of joy,

  Their love will rise like dawn’s new day to drive away the dark,

  And break the spell and crush the heads of all with evil’s mark.

  One destiny, two visions intertwined like ivy on a wall,

  For a three-strand cord can’t be broken by the darkness of the fall.

  Embraced in each other’s loving arms they will fight forgetfulness,

  And usher in Parm Warl’s resplendent light in the coming age of bliss

  Chapter 1: Cork and Cups

  As cold as the nights were getting, fog was already rising from the nearby Teal River while a man in a full length, high-collared duster walked along the main street running through the village of Bridgewater. A split at the bottom of the coat kept it from impeding the man's long stride. A head full of curly, brown hair, dampened by the moisture the river emitted, turned to look at a nearby bridge spanning the waters flowing there. The fog sitting on top of the arching stonework gathered in human-shaped clots that gave the illusion they were turning to follow the man's progress.

  Lifting his collar even higher, the man hunkered down like he was trying to hide his face from the mists that stood atop the bridge. He was relieved when the buildings he passed concealed him from sight. All two stories in height, the structures flanking either side of the road were of a simple, but sturdy make. Pitched roofs, shingled with wooden slates harvested from the forest running up the side of the nearby Thrall Mountains, sat on top of stout timbers used to construct the building’s frames. Some of the structures first stories were shaped with carefully cut stones. Wood was used for the second stories. Half of these had their walls covered with plaster painted in either yellow or orange hues.

  Up ahead, the man saw the fog amassing in the mouth of one the side streets. After a patch of heavy mist broke off and hurried across the road in front of him, the man blew breath out of his mouth in the way people do when they are relieved of a burden. In this case, the strange mist was the burden; the fact that the tavern he was heading for was only a few steps away was the source of relief.

  Before the man entered the tavern, whose sign had a bunch of purple grapes painted on it and the name Cork and Cups engraved below, he turned to study the village wrapped in a darkness that was only challenged by the sparse light escaping from cracks in the shuttered windows. Villages this size rarely had streetlamps. This was true for Bridgewater even though its vineyards had brought the place a moderate level of prosperity. Satisfied the mists had lost interest in him, smiling over giving the fog human attributes in his mind, the man entered the tavern thankful he hadn’t seen one of the white-skinned authorities known to keep an eye on villages like Bridgewater.

  Looking around the room he entered, the man saw a sparse gathering of villagers that had come to commiserate with each other or drown their cares in the wine the village was famous for. Not so long ago, the place would’ve been filled with patrons and the kind of laughter common to Ar Warl. Rarely carefree, oftentimes mean-spirited and cynical, nevertheless, it was the only kind of merriment they were used to.

  Seeing the two sitting near the back of the large room, the man took his coat off and hung it on a peg beside the door. He left his belt strapped on with its sheathed sword and a cudgel still in place. To divest himself of weapons in Ar Warl was to strip naked. Here everyone was armed and ready to use the arsenals they carried. They had to be in the place where the Sorcerer set the rules: dog-eat-dog, only the strong survive, the prize goes to the winner or to the one powerful enough or cunning enough to take it away from them afterwards. Strife and animosity were things Ab'Don's dark magic fed on. Fear and shame was the drink that sated its thirst.

  Like most places, the tavern's windows were shuttered, but this didn’t hide the shadow that silently passed down the street, a shadow the man's wary eyes caught a glimpse of. Shivering at the thought of what might have made the shadow swept over the man, prompting him to loosen his sword in its sheath. Satisfied he wouldn't be taken unawares, he walked slowly through the tavern taking note of all that he saw. The dearth of customers filled the rafters with a feeble cloud that rose from the pipes they were fond of puffing on. In better times, the room was packed with so much smoke one would have thought the place was on fire.

  The meager pile of glowing embers in the fireplace the man passed,
reflected the owner's wish to close the place down for the night. But with his business struggling as it now was, he couldn't afford the luxury. Still, his growing fear of the night might soon make him reconsider his hours of operation.

  Night, no longer safe for the villagers, had become a time of strange doings. From the sun’s setting to its rising again, people vanished or were so changed in appearance and personality that others wondered if they were same person or not. Then days later, those missing would return, meeting their family's questions with haunted looks that were in step with their unwillingness to talk about the things that had happened to them. Many of these were children. Not all the children returned. Others came back to the village with skin as white as milk.

  It was this very subject the man had come to discuss with the two who were nervously waiting for him. Ar Warl had always been a dour and dangerous place to live in. Lately, it had grown much worse; worse, even, than the threat of war that hung over its head.

  Though their discussion would include the approaching conflict with Nyeg Warl, a thing the unbroken string of earthquakes accompanying the two warls being inextricably drawn together heralded, there was something more insidious happening. It was like the difference between being slowly poisoned or struck down with a single blow from an ax or sword. Both were dangerous. But one was horrifying in an intimate way, as intimate as an abuser’s breath washing over their victim's face.

  One of the two, who had been tracking the man's progress across the room, looked like he could be related to him. And, indeed, they were brothers. Both had a full head of curly, brown hair. Both had green eyes with a touch of gold around the pupils. Both had strong chins and well-sculpted noses. Both were muscled in a way that was in keeping with their inherent physical strength.

  Where the approaching man was dressed for traveling- black riding boots, brown leather pants and jerkin, heavy woolen shirt matching the boots in color- the man who was seated wore scuffed up, brown work boots, dark green woolen pants, a wide brown belt, and a woolen shirt that was closer to gold than brown in color. The knife that was thrust into his boot was the only weapon he carried with him. Since he lived nearby, he hadn't bothered putting on a coat.

  The third man wore a cloak he wrapped around himself like he was trying to stay warm. Its large cowel lay against his back. The gray, disheveled hair covering his head, framed a leathery, wrinkled face. Light blue eyes, filled with an odd light, were a stark contrast to his sun-baked skin.

  After pulling a chair out for himself, the new arrival turned to the tavern's proprietor and said, "Peyt... a mug please and something to eat."

  "It's been a while Bowdyn."

  "Yeah. With all the stories I've been hearing about Bridgewater," the man cast his gaze about the mostly empty room "I've been avoiding this place."

  Nodding his head at the too few customers, Peyt replied, "With the stories travelers have to tell, I suspect you've been avoiding a lot of places lately." After rubbing his nose with the back of his hand, he added, "Bread and cheese is all I have to offer. With the way the nights have been going, I didn't want to be wasteful and make too much food. Oh... and there's always grapes to be had."

  "Fetch them for me then. It's better than what I’ve been eating. Rabbit and squirrel can only satisfy a palate for so long."

  Laughing to himself, Peyt mumbled something about the carefree life of a highwayman as he passed through the kitchen door since that was what Bowdyn was- a highwayman. But he was also one of Bridgewater's sons. As such, despite his growing infamy, he was always welcome in the place where he never practiced his craft, a place where he could come and take respite from the storm that had become his life, a place where Jayk lived, his brother and as far as he knew, his only living kin.

  "The breads a bit crusty," Jayk reached across the table to shake Bowdyn’s hand, "But the cheese is good.

  "If you like, I have some pie at home we can have for dessert," Jayk added.

  "I might take you up on that if there's time." Bowdyn accepted the old man's hand after finishing with his brother's. "But I got to meet someone first."

  Catching his brother's drift, Jayk smile and amended his earlier words. "We can have it for breakfast then."

  "The noon meal is more like it." The old man's smile looked forced, even though it wasn't. His leathery skin wasn't up to properly conveying his feelings any longer; which wasn't a problem with how guarded his emotions had become over time. Devotion to a life of asceticism helped sculpt his lean build and drawn facial features. Credit for his hawk-like nose went to his parents.

  "Breakfast it is brother." Bowdyn ignored the gray-headed man. "Teadra has to get up for work anyway."

  "She better be here in the morning." Peyt said as he returned to the greatroom with food in hand. "My Maddy made me promise that. We got a side of beef coming in early. Ashes, why don't you up and marry her?"

  "And take her on the road with me. That'll work."

  "Why don't you settle down? You know you're not as young as you once were."

  "And less forgiving." Bowdyn was touchy about the subject of his age, though he was still on the backside of his prime. "Besides, I don't know any other trade. I can't make shoes like my brother, and I make a piss poor husbandman. Picking grapes and trimming vines doesn't suit me. You know that."

  "With all of that pent-up anger you keep inside, you'd be great at stomping grapes," the old man added with a sour chuckle.

  "Watch it Findyl. I can stomp more things than grapes."

  "I'd like to see you try." The old man's smile looked like it would rip the skin on his face as it broadened.

  "I tried once," Bowdyn admitted with his own smile. "And I still got the scars on my rump to prove it."

  "How else are you going to teach a boy a lesson without using a switch?"

  "A switch made of fire, You Old Wizard."

  Findyl was a local magicker who used his powers in various ways, including revitalizing the vineyards whenever he passed through the village. Moving about the region, his real talent was trafficking in information.

  When Bowdyn was young, he traveled with the wizard for a number of winters after his parents had been killed by a band of outlaws who were looting Bridgewater. His time spent with Findyl gave Bowdyn his love for the highway. Like father, like son one might say, for that's what the wizard had become to the young man. Bowdyn's inability to use magic was the thing that motivated him to learn how to handle himself around the rough crowd he and Findyl met in the open country.

  Though the wizard posed as a courier of sorts, he was much more than that, and much of the information he trafficked in was far from trivial. It dealt with issues of intrigue, not only among the noblemen and kings who lived nearby but among the power centers found throughout Ar Warl. Hag, magikers, kings, outlaws, wraiths, monsters and the like were subjects included in his compendium of knowledge. He even knew things about Nyeg Warl that most didn’t. Transcending all of this was his love of prophecy, especially prophecies that spoke of the coming age of Parm Warl. Having lived his whole life in a place known for unrelenting fear and strife, he longed for the Age of Peace to come, though he doubted he would enjoy it when it did.

  Twisted by the continual struggle to survive in a warl that rewarded the merciless while destroying any who had regard for civility, Findyl wasn't sure he had the capacity to enjoy true peace when it came. The uncertainty filling the warl he lived in had all but obliterated his ability to trust others beyond those he felt he had control over. To become vulnerable to anyone or anything was to give your enemies a weapon to use against you. And if life had taught Findyl anything, it was this, there was an endless supply of enemies. Would any of this change when Parm Warl came? Could he ever let himself become vulnerable, even to something noble? ...Noble? What did that even mean? Still, he wanted Parm Warl to come.

  Aware that Ab'Don and the Hag arduously sought to revise history, he had devoted himself to uncovering the truth of the matter. What was the warl
like before the Sorcerer took control? What could it be again? Though the things he uncovered were hard to believe in light of the present bleak circumstances, he found that he wanted to believe. As dissatisfied as he was with the present state of affairs, he had no choice but to believe. To do otherwise would lead to despair. And so far, he had been able to keep that particular hound at bay, though he heard its ubiquitous howling inside his troubled mind.

  Successful to a degree that few achieved in this warl of fighting and failing, Findyl wanted more... he wanted something he had a hard time putting into words... he wanted to pursue the study of magic without having to look over his shoulder for those who wanted to knock him down... he wanted to quit hurting others as necessity dictated... he wanted... more.

  There was a time Findyl had reveled in the ability to inflict suffering on others, but that time had long since passed. The pursuit of power for power's sake had left him empty. Winning for winning's sake seemed pointless. Winning what? More importantly, what was winning? He wanted more... he wanted the warl to flourish like the vines his magic stimulated in the vineyards he tended. He wanted to help. And the day that that desire appeared was the day he met Bowdyn and Jayk, orphans he would normally have ignored.

  Findyl could still recall the smell of smoke rising from Bridgwater following the raid that killed the brothers' parents. He could still remember laying eyes on the two boys for the first time, whose curly hair made their heads look over-sized for their adolescent bodies.

  After a local cobbler said he would take Jayk on as his apprentice, which included putting a roof over his head, an awkwardly long silence followed the cobbler's admission that he couldn't take both boys. How could the cobbler do so with the devastation the raiders had left behind? No one was in good enough shape to take on another mouth to feed. So, the wizard volunteered to take on Bowdyn long enough for the village to recuperate its losses in hope that once this happened, someone would be willing to take the boy into their home, someone normal, unlike himself.