Phate

by Jason Alan

  Although the denizens of Kroon rarely stepped from their shadowy realm, on this most unusual night, two dark elves emerged onto a balcony set high up on the cliff face. As expected, they were greeted by sorcerous storms. Rain assailed them like a hail of icy little arrows, and the winds that whipped them were full of wraiths that hissed and howled and moaned. In the distance, ghostly dragons shrieked, multicolored lightning cracked the clouds, and peals of thunder rumbled like a grumbling god.

  To the elves’ stinging eyes, all the sea and sky appeared as a flashing greyish-black swirl.

  A typical Phatian night.

  “Magnificent, is it not, uncle?” said the younger of the two elves.

  “Magnificent?” Morigos of the Moom stepped to the stone railing, leaned over it, and spit into the waves. “It’s miserable.”

  “I disagree. It’s beautiful. And if you listen closely, you can hear the voices of the Dark Forever on the winds.”

  “Like you, the damn winds should be quiet.”

  Tatoc joined his uncle at the railing. “Why do you look to the sea when you should be looking to the stars?”

  Morigos sighed. “Why do you speak when you should be silent? Why is the night’s weather always so annoying? Why, why anything?”

  Tatoc laughed. “A pleasure as usual!”

  “Oh, shut up, fool.”

  The sea roared and they both recoiled to avoid the spray from a particularly large wave that had struck the cliffs below.

  When the spray dispersed, Morigos placed his elbows back onto the railing, wondering why the sea was so unusually riled. Perhaps this had been arranged by those I look for. He mulled it over… Yes, he concluded, that was it, the sea’s violence was a distraction, a cover for the subtler forces gathering beneath it. He continued to scan about, his eyes darting back and forth across the waves. Minutes went by, and still nothing. He wondered if anything was going to appear at all, and then…

  “Look!” Tatoc thrust a finger into the sky. “There!”

  Morigos muttered curses beneath his breath, for he had no interest in the sky on this night. Something flickered out of the corner of his eye, though, so he entertained his annoying nephew and looked up. Through a small break in the clouds he saw a pack of twinkling red stars. They appeared to be enlarging, but he wasn’t certain of this, for he only got a momentary glimpse of them before they vanished behind a swift moving column of black clouds.

  Tatoc laughed and clapped after they disappeared.

  Morigos put his gaze back to the waves, and sputtered, “Blasted, blinding surface world. Can’t see anything. Sun’s dying rays by day, sorcerous storms all night!”

  “You saw them!” Tatoc exclaimed. “The Shards of Zyrinthia have come!”

  “I couldn’t care less.”

  “It’s the foretelling of our conquest!”

  Morigos squeezed water from his robes. “It’s the foretelling of our doom.”

  “Doom? We’ve been given a new beginning and you do nothing but sulk.”

  “Beginning?” the elder dark elf scoffed. “Ending is more like it. That you fools actually think the Dark Forever will ally with us is most amusing to me.”

  “If you don’t believe, then why are you out here?”

  Whatever luster was left in Morigos’ eyes dimmed, and his face seemed to recede into the shadows of his oversized cowl. He whispered, “Because my aims are no longer for evil,” but his voice went unheard, overtaken by the whistle of ill winds.

  Snorting with derision, Tatoc swiveled on his heels and made for the balcony’s arched entranceway. “You can stay out here and drown for all I care, I’m joining my clan.”

  Morigos pushed himself from the railing, the runes embroidered on his robes glowing a dull green. “You’ll stay with me!”

  “Why?” Tatoc asked from over his shoulder. “We’ve seen the sign.”

  “I’ll not have the Black Claw rip you to pieces.”

  “My place is with them, not you.”

  “To the Dark Forever with the Black Claw!” Morigos growled. “They are nothing when compared to the powers that rule the universe. Stay with me, I command you!”

  Tatoc whirled about, pounded his chest. “I’m not yours to command, I’m a warrior!”

  “You’re a slave!” Morigos lifted his arms, red lightning cracking the sky behind him.

  “I’m a dark elf fighter!” Tatoc roared over the ensuing thunder.

  Morigos recognized the irritated expression on Tatoc’s face, so he made ready a precautionary spell. He muttered some incoherent sorcerous song, and thus his fingertips ignited with flickering green flames.

  Although he looked as if he was dressed only in a tight, sleeveless tunic, Tatoc, like all the Fighters of the Black Claw, was a walking armory. He was embraced within a suit of invisible steel armor, its hinges magically silenced, its bulk lightened and unnaturally strong. Raindrops dispersed a full two inches from his slender, tightly muscled body. Invisible sickles with extendable shafts crisscrossed his back, and Morigos knew a multitude of other indiscernible weapons attached themselves to his armor.

  Tatoc beckoned his uncle with a smile. “Come, old elf.”

  “You’re a fool of a fiend.”

  Lightning struck again.

  And so did Tatoc.

  With one fluid motion, he withdrew his sickles and sprang ten feet into the air. Then he curled into a ball and flipped over backward, wrists snapping, sickles smacking raindrops into Morigos, further drenching him.

  Oh, how this infuriated the already testy Morigos! “Damn you!” the mage swore, waving his hands in front of his face in a futile attempt to fend off the offensive droplets. “And damn your ugly mother as well!”

  Tatoc landed, his feet planted exactly where they’d been the instant before he jumped. He leered and hissed, flicking his forked tongue. “Mages. Such a paranoid lot.”

  Words poured from Morigos’ mouth like lava from a newly enraged volcano. “Young fool! I could vaporize you where you stand! You’re covered with and dependent upon items that are thick with my enchantments!” The fires on his fingers brightened, but he didn’t throw them. He knew that Tatoc had never actually intended to engage him in combat. It would have been futile. Nevertheless, Morigos had to restrain himself. At any other time, in any other circumstance, he would have destroyed his nephew for daring to even consider challenging his power. He was a Mage of the Moom, a High Councilor of the Cold-Blooded Caves, and the right hand of Warloove himself. It was well within his right to separate Tatoc’s atoms. But no…not now, not here.

  Not yet.

  Morigos growled at Tatoc.

  Tatoc smiled back.

  Morigos shook his head. Fighters.

  Tatoc relaxed his stance and reached over his shoulders, sheathing his sickles.

  Morigos dispelled his flames, within and without. “It is wise of you to restrain yourself, Tatoc. I cannot afford to lose you to wrath, be it mine or yours. If you—”

  Then something brushed Morigos’ mind—a ghost of an impression, a disquieting…presence?

  The confident smile fled Tatoc’s face. “What’s that?”

  “Be silent!” A power cloaked Morigos’ conscious, a power much greater than his own. He realized they were being watched, and probably had been all along. He rushed back to the railing and looked down.

  Tatoc moved beside him. “What’s going on?”

  Morigos motioned for him to quiet. He didn’t have to, though, for when Tatoc saw what his uncle was looking at, shock robbed the young fighter of words.

  You see, my friend, they were most certainly not alone!

  Indeed, it looked as if the sea was sprouting a thousand bulbous eyes to consider the dark elves with a mild curiosity. Actually, it was row after row of perfectly spaced vessels appearing in the waves. Morigos squinted, struggling to see more detail through the rain. There wasn’t much to discern; the vessels appeared as dim, featureless globs, throbbing with a sickly green luminescence. Thei
r most striking characteristic was that they were completely motionless, fixated in their spaces even as the monstrous waves passed over them. They were eerie, disconcerting to look upon.

  They were Dreadships.

  Morigos pondered the strength of their sorcery. It was considerable. Had these ships been anything other than Dreadships, they would have been dashed to splinters against the stubborn cliffs whose walls had split the hulls of countless vessels through countless ages.

  Morigos stepped from the railing, said plainly: “The deep elves are here.”

  “Deep elves?” Tatoc shrunk back. “Why…why are they here?”

  Morigos shook his head. “You do not need to know.”

  “Enough of this!” Tatoc shouted. “Why do you drag me all the way up to this balcony to stare at these unwelcoming eyes of the sea? The celebration commences. I belong below. I am joining the foregathering of my kin!” With that, he bolted for the entranceway.

  “Stay by my side!” Morigos commanded.

  Tatoc laughed and said, “Certainly, my uncle,” as he disappeared into the shadows inside the cliffs.

  Morigos looked to the floor, shook his head, and went after his nephew.

  As soon as he was gone, the lead Dreadship quivered ever so slightly. Soon it would break position and head toward the cave port’s entrance located in the base of the cliffs. The ship’s occupants were uncharacteristically anxious.

  There was the dawning of a new age to deliver.

  The two elves swept down through a dark that was as deep and impenetrable as a starless night. They were not tentative, for their eyes saw best when not blinded by surface light. They moved swiftly but carefully, deftly avoiding invisible snares that periodically shifted positions all along their path. Morigos floated, his sorcerous song carrying him as smoothly as a specter. Tatoc bounded on all fours, his movements filled with a confident, animal-like grace.

  “Your clan,” Morigos grunted, “they’d probably be even more delighted to ensnare one of us than to catch an intruder.”

  Tatoc, who quickly strode out in front of his uncle, called back, “Then use your grating sorcerous tongue to call upon the bats! I do not wish to expend all my energy running, anyway.” His voice echoed loudly, the reverberations carrying far into the dark.

  Morigos waved off the suggestion, said, “No.”

  “No? Why do you insist on delaying?”

  “Because I want to view this place one last time. Yes, one last time. I want to remember it as it was…”

  Tatoc thrust a hand out to the side. “Ha! Look around, the great cavern is as empty as it has always been. There is nothing here!”

  “Nothing?” Morigos called after him. “Once, a thousand years ago, this place was the center of everything, before your generation squandered all that was darkly glorious! Once—”

  “Stop!” Tatoc interjected. “Not again! I’ve heard your inane ramblings about the past more times than I care!”

  When the echoes of their words diminished, the place filled with an eerie silence, and Morigos suddenly felt as if he was accompanied by a ghost. “A ghost indeed.” He exhaled, tilted his head and shivered as he glanced aside into the haunting black.

  They traversed a rocky shelf that spiraled down the inner rim of the largest space in all the realm, a mile-high shaft dug deep into the cliffs. Although it had long been empty, Morigos suddenly couldn’t help but to see it as it had once been. Memories filled his eyes like tears, because here, in this place, was Kroon’s forsaken past. His past. Now his memories flowed forth as words. I’ll let him describe what he saw…

  “Once, long ago, obsidian fortress towers lined the shaft’s sides, gleaming and glinting like black steel swords. Once, long ago, Greater Bat Dragons flew about, waiting for commands to fly to faraway lands and slather enemies with liquid fire that spewed from maws dripping with lava. Oh, yes, I remember! Once upon a time, hundreds of thousands of dark elf fighters strode up and down this shaft; and hundreds, no, thousands of Moom hovered all around, conspiring with wizards from faraway moons. And all in the great shaft twinkled and glowed, for the ceiling was encrusted with enchanted slivers of silver, onyx, and gold!”

  From somewhere ahead, Tatoc yelled, “Pleeease, spare me!”

  Morigos barely heard him. His eyes glinted for just a moment, perhaps with real tears (well, knowing him as I do, perhaps not), and he whispered, “When did yesterday become so long ago?” The vision of times long past ran dry in his fading eyes. Now all was quiet and dim and dead. Of the great shaft, not a glimmer shone, nor was a shred of life about.

  Like much of Phate, for Kroon, history had nearly run out.

  “A couple of old fools, you and I,” Morigos said to the ancient dark.

  “I see only one fool!” Tatoc yelled from afar and below. He was on the other side of the cavern now.

  Morigos called after him, “Don’t stray too far. Wait for me, imbecile!”

  Tatoc ignored him, of course, and ran on.

  Morigos muttered profanities so vulgar, I’ll refrain from scribing them here. He composed himself, sang a string of sorcerous notes, and floated on with a burst of speed. Before long, he came up right behind his nephew.

  They were more than halfway down now, and a stink of salt and souls stung their nostrils. The roar of waves pummeling the cliffs outside became apparent. It grew louder the farther down they went. Eventually the sound took on a distinctive voice, as if the waves were a chorus and their crashing was a sloshing song. The sound spurred Tatoc on. He grunted, ran even faster. “Blast this useless giant cavern! How age has slowed you, uncle, come on and hurry!”

  Now below could be seen a heaving haze that spread all across the bottom of the great shaft. It looked as if a massive storm cloud had snuck inside the cliffs to linger in the dark elves’ domain. It was a swirling grey vapor, filled with smoke and souls, flickering here and there as molten fires blazed beneath it. Voices grimly beautiful climbed out of it, mesmerizing notes and languages archaic.

  An exhilarated Tatoc raced down around the shaft’s final curve and disappeared into the haze. When he came out from underneath it, the pathway leveled onto a rough, rocky terrain.

  Morigos grunted as he approached the cloud, but followed his nephew’s path down through it. When he appeared from out of the cloud’s bottom, he floated up next to Tatoc, then padded to the ground. A waft of smoke crossed before their gazes, then their vision cleared.

  Thus, they beheld the Cave Port of Kroon.

  Tatoc slapped Morigos on the side. “Ah, yes! Look at them!”

  The cavern’s floor was packed. Ten thousand dark elf fighters swayed like black reeds in an autumn breeze as they chanted in tune with the echoing crash of furious waves that pounded their vile domain. They were a sea unto themselves, these elves. The stench of salt and souls blended with foul sweat, and Morigos felt his heart pound as it had when he was a young killer. While he watched, the elves went wild with ritual celebration, breaking into a frenzied dance of joyous evil. Twenty thousand wickedly enchanted weapons were thrust high into the air and waved about, sometimes even thrown. Dark elves died within their dance, sending souls twisting into the air. Mages of the Moom hovered in the haze like soul vultures, capturing spirits that they would consume to further feed their sorcerous power.

  Attempting to quell his surge of adrenaline, Morigos took a deep breath. “How quickly the cruel centuries have fled. How sad only a foolish few remain, these decadent fools cavorting at the decaying roots of a once nobler ruin. Oh, how I have come to hate these people…”

  Tatoc let his euphoria flow. “Yes! Do you feel that? Do you feel it boiling your blood? Our song!” He shook his fists and leaned in close to his uncle. “Do you still deny the strength of the Black Claw?”

  Determined to retain the calming demeanor of a mage, Morigos exhaled slowly. “I do not deny its strength, my young nephew, I deny its wisdom.”

  Tatoc shook his head.

  Mages.

 
Morigos motioned to the side of the cavern, to a path that led around the masses and onward to the dim, dank regions beyond. “Come with me.”

  Too late.

  Tatoc had already bolted into the midst of the mayhem, his sickles in hand, splitting unwary skulls.

  Morigos’ lips trembled and quivered with anger and magic. He spat a sorcerous song. Wispy green sorcery poured out of his cowl, tightened about his body, and congealed into a translucent shield. Satisfactorily protected, he chased after his nephew, his arms raised, his fingers swirled with flame.

  Utilizing his magically attuned eyes, he soon noticed a familiar pair of sickles. They stuck up from the mob not too far ahead, then maliciously hacked down. A bevy of agonized shrieks ensued.

  Morigos groaned. Then he yelled at the top his lungs: “If you should damage or kill yourself, I’ll serve your remains to the starving shades of the netherworlds! Tatoc, I warn you, come back to me!”

  That garnered some attention, but not from the one he sought. A dozen growling fighters rushed him and slashed their scimitars across his body. His shield deflected every strike, but his pride was nonetheless pricked. “Insolent bastards,” he grumbled. There was a time when no fighter would have dared attack a mage, especially one who served all the Cold-Blooded Caves.

  Morigos let some of the adrenaline he had turned aside seep back into his veins, and with astonishing grace and swiftness for one of his advanced age, he whipped his body many times around. His fingers, now bright with green fire, lashed out like daggers. His burning nails cut through faces, torsos, and limbs. The nails dug deep, their poisonous flames burning flesh and puncturing organs. Half a dozen elves dropped dead, their weapons clanging to the ground. The wounded rest retreated…then snarling they came right back like malicious little shadows sprung from the greater shadow of the crowd. But their weapons, though sharp and true, still could not penetrate the mage’s shield.