Phate

by Jason Alan

  “Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!” Morigos screamed at each one as he slashed through their necks.

  Seconds after the confrontation had begun, only two of the original twelve who had attacked him remained. The duo turned, made to flee; but in a fit of spiteful rage, Morigos unleashed green fires into each of their backs. The fires punctured their invisible armor and burned all the way through. Black blood gushed from their bellies and their bodies tumbled into molten pits, their enchanted armor exploding, their limbs blown to bits.

  Suddenly, something slapped Morigos on the back.

  He whirled around, his burning hands ready to strike.

  It was his nephew, with eyes open and mouth agape in a wide, crazed smile.

  “Uncle!” Tatoc cried, “I am surprised and happy to see you embrace this holy ritual!”

  “Fool! You— Oh, curse the Dark Forever, turn around!”

  A trio of dark elves was flipping down out of the haze directly toward them. They were singing, their eyes glowing red, their raised black steel swords agleam with glinting flecks of crystallized obsidian.

  But before the middle one could even touch the ground, he lost his head, as Tatoc had already leaped into the air and swung his sickles straight through his neck. The head flew off into the throng, and sprays of blood slathered Tatoc as he somersaulted down. The flanking elves flew past Tatoc and slammed to the ground directly in front of Morigos. The mage yelled, “You have such beautiful voices!” as he struck out with his crackling flames. The electrified energy raced across his victims’ bodies, punctured their invisible chest plates, and stabbed their hearts.

  Down to the warm rock they folded, in a heap of burning death.

  “Well done!” Tatoc hissed and laughed. “Literally!”

  “Enough of this! Come with me, fool!”

  Morigos led them forth.

  They stomped straight through the melee, the old mage protecting his nephew from any dark elf who got too close. Tatoc whined and complained at this, for he wished to further bloody his invisible blades. He managed to get a few strikes in, but mostly, Morigos enveloped all who challenged them in a hail of green flame. It was a confusing chaos, to be sure, like navigating through a screaming smoke speckled with flashing violet eyes and silvery glints of elusive swords, all dancing about pools of molten fire. Eventually they fought their way to the edge, pushed their way out of the fray, and came upon the actual cave port.

  Quite an ordeal just to get through their own, wouldn’t you say?

  Oh, these persistently pesky dark elves!

  Anyway, now before them lay the subterranean lagoon that rimmed the western half of the cavern. A dilapidated dock clung to the lagoon’s edge right in front of Morigos, and beneath it lingered a luminous blue mist that reached out over most of the water’s surface. Looking at the mist made Morigos shake his head. “So, bold Herard, soon I surrender all that I was, and forsake all that I remember. We shall see about your alleged hope.”

  “What did you say?” Tatoc asked. “Who’s Herard?”

  “No one. Nothing. Be quiet.”

  Morigos winced when he regarded Tatoc, for the young warrior’s invisible steel armor was streaked completely over with dirty blood. It was an odd sight. It looked as if Tatoc bore wounds two inches above his body, even though he was virtually unharmed; the gore he wore was the smeared entrails of others. “Wipe the blood off yourself,” Morigos demanded, “and straighten up. I won’t have you greeting the deep elf ambassador looking like some stricken beast.”

  “Oh hells, I don’t care what the deep elf thinks of me.”

  “And help me cease the senseless ritual of these rabid fools of yours!”

  The request was unnecessary, for at that moment a moan like the sea howling in pain blasted over the lagoon. It had an effect similar to that of a wave of horrifying dragonfear. All the dark elves were stunned. Thousands instantly ceased their celebrating and went silent. Everything quieted down beneath that moan. Even the waves’ crashing was muffled. The moan drew out for long seconds, then receded, but its echoes continued to quiver the elves’ ears disconcertingly.

  Morigos looked across the lagoon, where a huge curtain of enchanted fog draped the cave port’s entrance. It was a marvel of dark elven sorcery, that glittering, violet grey membrane, for it had held back the might of the Raging Sea for thousands of years. Morigos mused on how it was about to let in something else, though...

  Another moan sounded and the fogwall parted as the prow of the lead Dreadship poked through it like the head of some abyssal beast surfacing from the Raging Sea. All eyes shot to the cave port’s entrance and watched as the ship slipped through and glided across the lagoon, barely disturbing the mist as it moved.

  Looking on that ship made even Morigos’ jaded soul shiver with icy unease, but outwardly, he managed to maintain his composure.

  The Dreadship’s hull was shaped like a bloated thorax. It was sickly grey, featureless, and throbbing like a wounded organ. Foul green vapors streamed over it, disorienting its otherwise smooth outline. It was repulsive, yet mysteriously intimidating. Had it not come from the sea, Morigos might have mistaken it for a ship of the stars. There was nothing about it that marked it as a seafaring vessel. It had no deck, no masts, and no sails.

  Of these things, it had no need.

  Tatoc stepped closer to Morigos, his bitterness toward his uncle necessarily vanquished in the face of something that could challenge them all, Moom and Black Claw alike. The mob shuffled closer to the lagoon, some ready to wield wicked weapons, some ready to unleash fiery spells—all stubbornly warring with their fear.

  The Dreadship cruised up to the dock. An enchanted chain of metal links extended up from beneath its waterline to snag a rusty cleat and pull the ship tight to the dock’s side. Then the ship emitted a strange sort of sigh, and forthwith a dim ray of yellow light appeared and spread out over the warped planks. The wood turned pale and straightened, as if the enfeebling effects of time had suddenly been cast away.

  Tatoc stepped to his uncle’s side, leaned in and whispered, “So, tell me now, what are they doing here?”

  “You want to bring about a new age? Well, here it is.”

  Tatoc frowned. “I don’t understand. If you knew they were coming, then why isn’t our leader here?”

  “Leader?” Morigos shot him a condescending look. “We have no leader.”

  “How dare you!” Tatoc pushed his words through clenched teeth. “Warloove is our ruler!”

  “Rule us he may, but lead us he does not. Now be silent.”

  The young fighter scoffed at this, but pressed the issue no more.

  Morigos felt a familiar presence invade his mind. He recognized it for the feeling he had experienced on the balcony, when they’d first seen the Dreadships. It was unsettling, to say the least.

  All the elves were unsettled, actually, and even more so when a telepathic message was sent to them. Although there were no decipherable elvish words in it, they somehow understood: it was a warning to remain still and calm. So, naturally, some of the fighters grumbled and shifted in defiance.

  Morigos smacked Tatoc on the chest. “Tell them to calm down! Tell them now!”

  Tatoc begrudgingly turned around and shook his head. Some vulgar murmurings continued, but for the most part, the fighters quieted. All seemed under control.

  Then another sighing sound came from the ship, and a small part of the hull disappeared, leaving a doorway-sized hole whose bottom sat level with the edge of the newly wrought dock. The dark elves, despite the warning to remain still, inched forward. Morigos hoped they would be disintegrated for their insolence, but, much to his disappointment, they were not. They crammed to the edge of the lagoon in hundreds of tightly packed rows, but left a semicircle of space around Morigos and Tatoc. Members of the Moom flew over the scene, but didn’t dare dip too close to the Dreadship.

  A shimmering stranger stepped from the inky cabin, and the cavern’s silence deepened, as if time itsel
f stood still.

  Thousands of fighters clambered for a better view.

  Here was a deep elf.

  It was like something out of a disturbing dream. It stood on the dock, but its body wasn’t quite solid. It wavered, as if its atoms danced between the dimensions.

  Morigos shed a magical tear, his vision cleared and, for him alone, the deep elf seemed to solidify.

  It was wrapped in a robe that appeared to be made of flowing seawater. Orange eyes peered from a gaunt elvish face with skin the color of rotted seaweed, a green so deep it was bleaker than black. It was slim, not very tall, but exuded a quiet, lethal power. Its arms were overlong and hanging, the skeletal fingers nearly brushing the planks.

  Those fingers disturbed Morigos. The magic they held…

  Unimpressed, Tatoc snickered. The deep elf looked like a mage, like a thing of sorcery and trickery—a thing not to be trusted. Tatoc’s confidence returned, and by the rising sound of blasphemous murmurings, he surmised that many of his brothers in the Black Claw were feeling similarly unimpressed by this stranger from the sea.

  He lifted a foot to step forward.

  Morigos raised a hand. “Wait.” Then he pushed past Tatoc, squeezing the fighter’s arm in an effort to encourage his cooperation.

  Tatoc briefly pondered continuing forward just to spite his uncle, but remained still.

  Morigos stepped onto the dock and bowed before the deep elf, his voice sounding with the watery tones of some strange language. The deep elf responded in a similar tone and, after a short exchange, Morigos turned around and faced his people.

  “One more show of words to these fools,” he whispered to himself. Then he levitated ten feet into the air and spoke to the thousands with a sorcerously enhanced voice, the words echoing loudly throughout all the Cave Port of Kroon.

  I would listen carefully, my brave reader, for Morigos’ words to follow outlined the ultimate aim of evil….

  “The time you’ve long waited for has come. After a thousand-year exile, your god, Nenockra Rool, the Devil King of the Dark Forever, is returning to start another war and conquer all eternity.”

  Cheers erupted from the fighters, but they soon died down as Morigos energetically motioned for silence.

  He continued.

  “Weakened by ghostly black stars, the dimensional walls surrounding our galaxy are again ready to fall and, as always, the walls around our own world are the weakest of all. Hence, the Devil King has once again chosen Phate for his first step into the primary universe. But he cannot ascend until someone tears through the dimensional walls from our side. That is why the deep elves are here. We’ve agreed to give them a body to house the soul of the one who can break through the dimensions and, in exchange, they’ve agreed to give us the artifacts that will enable Warloove to steal the Sunsword Surassis, the weapon that could prevent Nenockra Rool’s ascension. To put it simply—for those of you too ignorant to understand—we will give the deep elves the means to resurrect the deliverer of the Devil King, and they will give us the means to ensure that he emerges unchallenged by the Sunsword. Do you understand, thickheaded fools?”

  The dark elves looked to one another with blank stares.

  Morigos chuckled, then lowered to the floor. He turned to the abyssal ambassador and said: “My Lord, if you would.”

  The deep elf lifted its hands over its head, palms facing upward. The skeletal fingers curled open, and a ball of silver fire erupted in the air above them. The flames quickly darkened to black, then separated and solidified into two equal-sized objects, each spinning furiously on a fixed axis.

  Morigos turned back to his people. “The artifacts in question, the Gauntlets of Loathing Light.”

  The Cave Port of Kroon filled with gasps.

  “The gauntlets?” Tatoc lifted an apprehensive eyebrow, then joined his uncle on the dock, all-the-while keeping an eye on the deep elf.

  “Yes,” Morigos said, “with these gloves, your ‘leader’ will be protected from the sword’s accursed powers of light.”

  Tatoc motioned to the deep elf. “You said we’re to give them a body?”

  Morigos nodded.

  The young fighter looked around. “Well? Whose?”

  The Mage of the Moom couldn’t resist a joyfully cruel smile as he gently touched his nephew on the shoulder. “Yours.”

  “What?” Tatoc reeled back as if the touch had stung him.

  Hissing chortles erupted from hundreds of throats. Dozens of warriors broke from the throng, tightening the space around the mage and his nephew. Morigos said, “The deep elves would not sacrifice one of their own, they’re too few. So, we chose you.” He acknowledged everyone in the chamber. “We all chose you. Be proud, dear Tatoc. Within your strong, young body, the soul of the one who will free the Dark Forever will reside. You will be immortalized!”

  “Wha—?” Tatoc was stupefied into silence.

  “Welcome to your new age.” Morigos laughed.

  Thousands of dark elves cheered.

  Tatoc went pale. Chills of terror pushed a cold sweat from his skin. “This is madness!” he screamed as the mass of fighters closed in, cornering him on the dock. His warrior’s adrenaline kicked in and he unleashed his sickles. “Come then, I’ll fight you all!”

  No, my dear reader, as you will see, he most definitely would not fight them all.

  In fact, his fingers went numb and his beloved sickles fell from his grasp. They went thudding to the planks, as did he, stricken as he was with the paralyzation spell that Morigos had just placed upon his shoulder. Straining to even swivel his head, he looked to the lagoon and considered plunging into the water. He tried crawling toward it, but it was no use. He could barely breathe, let alone move. Waves of nausea bombarded him and he was seized by a fit of convulsions. Then he went still.

  Tatoc of the Black Claw was completely paralyzed.

  The only lively thing about him was the reflection of betrayal burning in his eyes.

  Morigos bowed to the deep elf ambassador. The abyssal being bowed back, then turned around and strode into the Dreadship, leaving the Gauntlets of Loathing Light floating in the air. The ship’s doorway disappeared…and so did Tatoc’s body. The paralyzed fighter simply faded from sight as he was sorcerously stowed away on the ship. The enchanted chain untethered itself, fled below the surface, and the Dreadship departed the dock, easing across the waters with nary a ripple to mark its passage. It slid across the lagoon and sliced through the fogwall, leaving the Cave Port of Kroon to carry on with its part in the fate of things.

  The dock withered back to its shabby state.

  The dark elves let out a collective sigh, and so did the Raging Sea; the sound of crashing waves returned.

  The Fighters of the Black Claw resumed their ritual. They ran from the lagoon in a mad pack, joyously swinging their swords and throwing their daggers, knowing that on this holiest of nights they had gained the Devil King’s favor. And, as a bonus, the annoying Tatoc was gone. It was all so wonderful! They leaped and danced and thrashed one another. Certainly, more lives had to be sacrificed to properly honor the return of the Dark Forever. The Mages of the Moom were curious about the gauntlets, but forbidden to touch them, so they flew away. They hovered above the fighters, dodging hurled weapons and ensnaring whatever souls they could.

  Soon the chamber was the same as it had been when Tatoc and Morigos had first entered it.

  The same, except for the Gauntlets of Loathing Light.

  The gloves had ceased spinning, but remained hovering in the air, emitting a low, buzzing hum. Morigos stepped directly beneath them to get a better look. They were so gloriously dark, so infinitely black! Their cuffs were inscribed with glowing red runes, words so vile their very utterances would kill anyone who pronounced them incorrectly. Morigos was bewitched, reminded of his younger days, when he had thirsted for murderous magical items. Imagining his hands wrapped with the gauntlets, he reached up to them, stretched his fingers closer, closer…
/>   And then he cried out with a high pitched, “Ahhh!”

  He wrenched his hands down and slumped to the ground, feeling as though his fingertips had been severed by a rusty blade. He moaned continuously while the agony spread to fill his whole body with pain. It was awful! He thought he could feel his bones bending. The runes on his robes dimmed and his hands clenched, fingernails piercing his palms.

  “Foolishness!” he sputtered. “That’s what I get! That’s what I get! Imbecilically stupid! Haha!”

  He knew that he was unable to touch the gauntlets. They were made of otherworldly material, imbued with the freezing cold of space, a biting cold that far exceeded the power the deep elf had exuded.

  Morigos well knew: there was only one dark elf on Phate who had the power to wear the Gauntlets of Loathing Light.

  After a brief time, the pain thankfully set him free, and Morigos stood up, his back turned to the water. Uttering a masterful string of profanities, he flexed his fingers, shook out his hands, and brushed off his black robes.

  Behind him, a little bubble broke the surface of the lagoon.

  Then another…and another…

  Then the lagoon released a gurgling hiss and its surface mist rushed into the center, gathered, and spouted upward like an inverted waterfall. Up and up it went, twenty, thirty, then fifty feet into the air. Its bluish tint brightened to white, and it began to take shape and solidify. Eyes ignited at its peak—blue orbs set in wide, silver slashes. Great wings of mist unfurled from its sides, and a snout extended from the developing face. The creature, now close to fully formed, exhaled long and loudly, for it had held its breath for a long time.

  Morigos heard it.

  He slowly turned around…

  …and looked into the eyes of a magnificent cloud dragon.

  The cloud dragon looked into his.

  Morigos cracked a frail smile. He said, “I have done my last task for evil, and my first task for you.” He stepped from the dock, away from the Gauntlets of Loathing Light.

  Now fully formed, the rearing dragon fell to all fours, its foreclaws splashing in the shallow waters. Morigos could see a saddled rider between the topmost spikes of its serrated spine. The rider was accoutered like an ancient knight, for he was encased in reflective silver armor. One of his hands grasped the reins, the other held high a glinting sword, its blade awash with sparking blue flames that flickered against the stalactites above.