Crooked Finger and the Warl of the Dead Page 3

  "It seems obvious that the losses the Sorcerer suffered in the fight compelled him to petition the Power he has been colluding with for more magic. Keep in mind there's an old saying that applies to the realm of magic as much as it does everywhere else: You got to give something to get something. I'm almost afraid to ask what Ab'Don had to give up in exchange for his new abilities. I hope it wasn't too much. The Sorcerer was bad enough by himself without letting this Power have more sway in Ar Warl."

  Always ready to defend Bridgewater, Jayk asked, "What’re we to do?"

  "What can we do?" Jayk wasn't the only one who had questions that needed answers, Findyl had them too. "Little I'm afraid.

  "With what I think we understand, for now... we can only keep our eyes open. If we're lucky, we'll discover how folk are being turned into whiteskins without becoming one of them ourselves. Then we can come up with a plan to keep the village from being totally inundated with the Sorcerer's magic."

  Peyt's hands, laying flat on the table top like Findyl’s were, balled up into large fists. "The fire-blasted war with Nyeg Warl is going to ruin things. It won't be long before the kings call for the rest of the able body men to pick up arms and march off to fight Nyeg Warl. The only reason why we've been left alone so far is that the kings figure we're already battle-tested. It was the young men who needed training, not us. For the time being, we serve them better by keeping the village producing the stores the armies will need to wage war. Once we go... who'll protect Bridgewater form the whiteskins? Who'll protect Jayk's children from their grandfather?

  "Ah, My Friend," Findyl's eyes lit up like he'd found an answer to one of the questions that had been bothering him, "you struck on something that should have been obvious from the beginning. Ab'Don doesn't want to turn everyone into a white-skin. If he did, he'd lose the skills needed to keep a village running. Just as Kroyn lost most of his memories of the fight Bridgewater had with the raiders who killed Bowdyn and Jayk's parents, it's likely others would lose much of the knowledge they use to master their trades. This might give us something we could use to resist the Sorcerer's suffocating grip. But it won't be easy, not with the enormous flames of ambition burning inside him and his rapacious appetite for seeing others suffer.

  Chapter 2: Spell of the White Hand

  It had been sometime since Jayk and Bowdyn had exited the Cork and Cups and Findyl had gone up to his room when Peyt decided to clean up before he turned in, something that was easy to do with the dearth of business he had been experiencing of late. After burning the trash in the fire place, he decided to take the peels of the vegetables and fruit he used to make the evening's meal with out to the compost pile he had been building out back. In the morning he would add the ashes left by the embers still glowing in the fireplace to the pile.

  Hefting two buckets that held the peels and the leftovers from the customers' unfinished meals, Peyt unbolted the back door and stepped outside. Not fearful by nature, the tavern owner felt a chill run down his spine when he saw a mass of fog standing on the other side of the compost pile. Chastising himself for giving way to fear, Peyt grumbled, "I've lived with river mists my whole life. I can't be shying away from them now."

  With a harsh laugh, he squared his shoulders and began to walk toward the pile. Just to be safe, he checked to make certain the butcher knife he had stuck in his belt was still there. Another harsh laugh huffed out of his mouth when he thought: When was the last time I armed myself to take the trash out? If I'm not careful, I'll be carrying a sword with me when I empty the chamber pots.

  Peyt's mirthless sarcasm was cut short when the fog began to drift over the compost pile.

  Now why'd you go and do that? Too proud to turn around, not wanting to act like a dog frightened by loud noises, that wouldn't do for a man with Peyt's reputation, he kept moving forward. Just put one foot before the other, he told himself, and this foolishness will be over with before you know it.

  Then the mists slowly crept around him and the compost pile was lost from sight. Just wonderful, he thought. Employing the customary sarcasm he used to deal with problems he faced, Peyt added, if I don't get a hold of myself, I'll be hearing voices soon.

  Like someone had read Peyt's mind, voices arose out of the mists, sibilant voices rife with gleeful overtones and filled with hunger.

  Ashes! All pretense of bravery was dismissed as Peyt dropped the bucket of peelings and drew out his butcher knife.

  A knife wasn't much of a defense against mists. Four walls to surround him and a roof overhead would have been better, but the fog wasn't going to let that happen as it picked up speed and flowed into the space separating the tavern from its owner.

  When Peyt swung around and attempted to return to the safety of his home, hands reached out of the mists and grabbed hold of him. Fingers tipped with razor-sharp nails dug into his flesh as he wrestled with the wraiths that had come for him.

  Cutting, punching, and kicking with all the brutish strength he could muster, Peyt was surprisingly successful in keeping the phantoms from wrapping him up. Busting fanged-filled mouths with fists the size of bowls, the large man took one labored step after another as he worked his way back to the tavern's door. Realizing knuckles were more effective than sharp steel, Peyt dropped the butcher knife early on. Elbows and knees struck bodies that absorbed the blows like they were goose down mattresses. When more of the wraiths joined the battle, the scales were tipped for good. Peyt's strength faltered. Fangs sank into the large man's flesh, weakening him further with the mystical venom they pumped into him, an anesthetizing magic that broke down Peyt's resolve.

  Feeling a drowsiness sweeping through him, Peyt made one last attempt to stop what was happening to him. But with his muscles failing as they were, all he could do was yell out like someone trying to awaken from a nightmare. "Someone, help me," he roared like a dying bull.

  Little did Peyt know his shouting was absorbed by the cocoon of fog surrounding him. What little noise did escape was no louder than the grunts he might make while absorbing a series of swift blows. Fortunately, that was enough to catch Findyl's attention. Unable to sleep, the magicker was going over everything in his mind that had been said that night. Thinking cool night air would help him fall asleep, Findyl went to open his window. That's when he heard grunting sounds that drew his attention outside.

  The dense clot of fog moving through the alleyway abutting the buildings flanking the tavern set an alarm off in Findyl's head. Quickly scanning the scene, the magicker noted the light coming out of the tavern's back door. Someone had left it open. He caught sight of a butcher knife laying on the ground whose blade was reflecting the tavern's light. Two buckets filled with peelings lay on their sides a few paces farther away.

  "Peyt!" Findyl was certain the fog was carrying the tavern owner away. Pulling his boots back on and strapping on a belt and the short sword it held, he was glad he had decided to sleep with his clothes on. After wrapping his cloak about himself, Findyl slung a large satchel he always carried with him over his shoulder. Then he climbed out the window and lowered himself to the ground so he could keep the fleeing fog in sight.

  As chance would have it, Findyl's path took him past Teadra's bedroom window. Wanting to have a life apart from the tavern, she had taken up lodgings in a nearby boarding house. Only a short walk from work, it gave her the separation she wanted. Now when she went to sleep, Teadra didn't have to worry about Peyt waking her up if help was needed.

  Hoping that Bowdyn's time on the road had been long enough to make Teadra's company more appealing than his brother's, Findyl knocked on the window and called out Bowdyn's name. If he had to guess, the highwayman would be inside. Karyn's pie would never be as alluring as Teadra's feminine attributes.

  "Yeah, what do you want Old Man?" Bowdyn didn't take long to open the curtains. Amazingly enough he was fully dressed.

  "Peyt needs our help." Not wanting to worry Teadra too much, Findyl didn't say anything more.

  "Where's he a
t?" Familiar as he was with Findyl's ways, he could tell that trouble was afoot.

  "He's heading off toward Chanyn's Vineyard. Grab your sword and climb out the window. You don't have time to use the front door."

  Turning to Teadra with a look of resignation on his face, Bowdyn was kept from speaking when the woman’s voice came out of the dark room. "Go on Bowdyn. You aren't doing me much good anyway. Maybe you can do better for Peyt."

  "Now Teadra, don't be that way. You know I was going to treat you right."

  "Don't worry... your conversation was welcome. It's just you put the cart before the horse. So, go on. I ain't mad. Peyt's not just my boss, he's my friend."

  Soon after, Findyl was busy explaining everything to Bowdyn as they ran through the village on their way to Chanyn's Vineyard. In time, both men had their eyes locked on the distant clot of fog that drifted through the rows of grapevines covering the rolling hills. Not wanting to lose track of the mists carrying Peyt away, neither man took time to go to the stables and saddle their horses.

  Chanyn's Vineyard was large and the only one situated north of Bridgewater. Because it was close to the Thrall Mountains, the hilly country grew stepper as they went along. The men's concern deepened when they saw they hadn't closed the gap separating them from the fog. Having failed to get closer, Bowdyn and Findyl were afraid they would lose the wraiths in the forest bordering the vineyard on the north.

  Standing on a hillside covered with winding rows of grapevines, Bowdyn turned to look at the forlorn lights shining in Bridgewater below. Setting his bearings, he encouraged Findyl on to greater speed.

  As they ran, mists began to rise amid the leafy rows like smoke floating up from pipes field hands were enjoying while taking a break from their nocturnal labors. Of course, at this late hour, no one was working in the vineyard. No one that was alive at least.

  Inhuman faces began to appear in the columns of vapor. Lunatic, fang-filled smiles followed. Ghostly hands came into focus as claw-tipped fingers spread wide in anticipation of digging deep into warm flesh. Then the pillars of fog began drifting toward the men.

  "Here... take this." Findyl handed Bowdyn one of two bracelets he wore on his wrists. Familiar with the Magic of Illusion the talisman possessed, the highwayman nodded his head and affixed the bracelet to his arm. This wasn't the first time he and Findyl had used the bracelet's powers to escape danger.

  With the wraiths moving faster than the men were running, Bowdyn and Findyl's proximity to the greenwood gave them the edge they needed to reach the forest before the wraiths reached them, though one could only guess what advantage this temporary victory would give them. Sooner or later, the wraiths would have to be dealt with.

  Looking over his shoulder as he slipped beneath the forest’s canopy, Findyl saw movement where Bridgewater met Chanyn's Vineyard. Was that a white-skin, he wondered. Things were only getting worse.

  Asking Bowdyn for the bracelet he had given him back in the vinyard, he took the twin talismans in hand and struck them together. A flash of light erupted as the men dashed off into the woods, enveloped in hazy illumination that remained after the radiant burst. Having trouble locking onto their prey’s bodies now hidden in the hazy covering, the spectres homed in on the demure glow that failed to adequately hide the men’s location from sight. On they went, though their pursuit was hindered by the winding path the men took between the tree trunks reaching up like rough wooden pillars used to hold up a vast ceiling made of leaves.

  In the place where both mists and men had entered the woods, two dark figures stepped out from behind the brush they used for a hiding place. "Nice trick," Bowdyn smiled and shook his head at the wily magicker. He had to admit he missed the old man's company. If we escape this mess, I think I'll tag along with him for awhile, the highwayman decided. He had enough coin stored away to do that.

  "How long will the decoys keep running?" It had been some time since Bowdyn had seen Findyl use the bracelets' magic.

  "My image will match the distance I covered from Bridgwater to here. Yours will only run as far as you did with the bracelet on."

  "Do I inherit the bracelets when you die?" Bowdyn chuckled when he saw the magicker's eyebrows rise in respose to his words.

  "Pleasant thought." Findyl's sarcasm fit well with the highwayman's use of dark humor. "You know that'll probably be tonight."

  "Well... do you want to give them to me now, or are you going to make me take them off your lifeless body?"

  "Lovely wit you have there. Maybe you can use it to distract the wraiths while I rescue Peyt."

  "We better get going before there's nothing to rescue." Refocused by the picture of Peyt being turned into a white-skin sent the men off in the direction they reckoned the fog had carried the tavern owner.

  Slipping through the night-shrouded greenwood, coat and cloak flapping behind them, Findyl and Bowdyn were energized by the bonds of friendship they had with the bull of a man. Neither the rough terrain they traversed nor the clinging brush that grabbed at their legs slowed the pursuers who gave no thought to the cuts and bruises they sustained. When the glow from a campfire reached out past the dark, towering arbors and beckoned them forward, Bowdyn and Findyl knew their first objective had been attained. A far more difficult task remained for them to complete, one that was sure to include fighting wraiths and those the spectres had brought Peyt to.

  Slowing down as they approached a clearing the campfire light was illuminating, the men took stock of what they were facing before taking the last fateful step to reach Peyt. If the tavern owner had already been turned into a white-skin, something Findyl doubted the wraiths had time to do, the mission would be abandoned. But if Peyt was only dead and not yet turned, they would risk their lives to keep his body from suffering that fate. They did this gladly, knowing the tavern owner would do the same for them if roles were reversed. If he was alive... so much the better.

  Like cattle herded into a corral, the wraiths stood shoulder to shoulder on the far side of the clearing. No Longer mists, they had assumed a more corporeal form. A score in number, there were women clothed in formal wear as well as those that were dressed like maids. One of the men must have been a nobleman in his past life, while the others appeared to be laborers. All held a maniacal aspect as their chests heaved like they had been suffocating before sucking in the air they no longer needed.

  Their proximity to warm flesh and blood had this affect on them. If they had their own way, the wraiths would have torn Peyt to pieces and then forced his spirit take its place in their ranks. But to think they were only interested in killing would be a mistake. Feeding was also a part of the dour process, feeding on their prey's life force that accompanied the blood and tissue sliding down their throats, a life force that would be regurgitated as a spirit that would be irrevocably tethered to those who had eaten its corporeal body.

  The ability to feed on the living came with the spell that bound the wraiths to the ruins filling the once great city of Cara Lorn. A talisman called Crooked Finger gave Ab’Don the ability to expand the parameters of that spell, so the wraiths were free to do his bidding throughout Ar Warl.

  ****

  Looking like a side of beef that had recently been slaughtered, Peyt's body hung upside down from a tree branch that reached out over the clearing. A taut strip of leather, tied to his wrists, anchored the tavern owner's body to a bronze ring affixed to the top of a rod that rose out of the center of a large bowl made from the same metal. Blood running out of his forearms, wound its way down the leather restraint and the rod it was affixed to, on its way to the collection basin.

  Kroyn bent over the bowl, using his fingers to taste the blood, before lifting his hand and continuing to recite a spell he was casting over Peyt.

  A Shadowmen stood guard. The campfire's light glistened off his black leathers and the steel blade he held pointed at a nearby girl whose unfocused eyes were roughly aimed at the proceedings. This was the third turning she had been forced to watch.
The cuts on her arms and legs bore witness to the time she spent as the wraiths’ plaything. And who could guess what the Shadowman had done to her? All of this was part of the horrible repast that those who had been kidnapped were forced to partake of before they were freed to return to their homes. Once there, the stupor that took hold of them bred fear and confusion in the rest of the family, emotions Ab'Don's magic fed on. A smiling white-skin boy paced behind Kroyn nodding his head at the words he heard.

  "That's Felicynt." Bowdyn identified the hapless girl the Shadowman stood guard over. "We've got two to deliver now."

  "Aye," Findyl replied. "Can you handle the Shadowman?"

  "We'll find out. I've had one or two of them on my tail before, but I've never crossed swords with any of them, and those I know who have, didn't fare well."

  The Shadowmen served Ab'Don as assassins and judges who roamed through the warl dispensing his pitiless justice. Gifted with magic the Sorcerer had given them to do their cold-blooded work, Shadowmen possessed unnatural speed and strength. Like owls gliding through the night sky, the cadre of assassin-judges moved about veiled in an Enchantment of Silence that enveloped the mounts they rode. But unlike the whiteskins, they were still human.

  "Here," Findyl dug into the large satchel he carried and pulled out a tiny vile filled with brown liquid, "drink this."

  "What is it?" Bowdyn unstopped the vile and drank its contents that was hardly enough to wet his tongue.

  "It's a potion that acts like a stimulant. Its ingrediants include an extract derived from chata beans."

  "Won't that stop my heart?" Bowdyn rubbed his tongue against his lips in disgust. Chata was a drug that hunchmen could ingest without fearing being killed. Not so humans, whose constitutions were ill-suited to cope with the kind of energy chata beans produced. Driving the hunchmen into a frenzy, the drug kept the beast-men awake for days at a time as they wreaked the type of blood-thirsty havoc they were known for. Fortunately for the humans, the hunchmen living in Ar Warl were relatively few in numbers.