Phate

by Jason Alan

  Weeks rolled past.

  Months went by.

  Herard’s tender grip on sanity slipped away. The forest sank into his soul, encapsulated his entire existence; he became as much a part of it as the specters whose eyes constantly leered at him from a distance he could never quite close. He became a specter himself, really, a shadow of the man he once was.

  For him, time dragged on and on and on…

  Then, finally, something came for him. The physical embodiment of the specters, perhaps, or maybe the servants of Warloove himself. They found him resting by the waterside of a small pond where he had sought some long-desired refreshment. Slowly they arose from the water, undead creatures with lava red eyes and bodies of compacted muck. A garbled speech spewed from the sewers of their mouths, and when a surprised Herard noticed them, he scrambled back from the pond and leaped to his feet, the warrior part of himself returning with a burst of adrenaline. The ring of unsheathing steel echoed as he screamed, “I’m here! I’m here!”

  Finally, a fight! A release!

  He put all his pent-up emotions into the edge of his fiery sword as the vile things came at him. They tore at him with pincer-like appendages, slashed at him with cursed weapons. But they were no match for Herard. He was a whirling circle of violence, his blessed sword slicing through their dark substance, vanquishing many into the imperishable night. Those who survived his fury receded back into the pond…but not before they had broken his blade (apparently, the curse of some otherworldly axe had been stronger than his sword’s blessing). And they had wounded him. He angrily freed himself from his shivered armor’s jabbing embrace, slamming his chest plate to the ground, flinging his gorget into a tree, tossing his leggings into the water. His noise making became his defiance and he hollered for his enemies to return.

  They didn’t.

  His adrenaline calmed and he quieted. The sting of fresh lacerations settled in his skin, and he collapsed to his knees in the shallows, polluting the pond with his pain. His head hanging just over the water’s surface, he stared at his reflection, but barely recognized the face staring back. The eyes were wide with fear, the expression vague and vacant, and—

  Diabolical laughter echoed throughout the forest.

  Herard lifted his head, and through blood and spittle screamed, “Betrayer of light! This is not sorcery but sacrilege! You desecrate the very nature of the universe!”

  “In Corpsewood,” Warloove hissed, “time is mine to manipulate. Did you enjoy your time? It was but a sliver of the centuries that I have endured!”

  Herard pushed himself up and stepped from the water. He reached for his sword, but of course his sword was broken, discarded, and his hand trembled in the space where the hilt had been. Nevertheless, he took a bold step forward. “Coward! Come and face me yourself!”

  “This game is over…another begins…”

  The forest brightened, ever so slightly, and all returned to as it was before the Spell of Time Destruction.

  Although Herard had perceived the passing of a year, only a few seconds had actually gone by. Can you imagine that? Enduring such torment for what seemed to be an entire year? When he realized this, he cried out long and loud and in frustration shook his fists at the stars.

  But there was no rest nor respite.

  The assault continued.

  The ground began to tremble, the leaves of the trees rustling together.

  “What is this, now?” cried Herard.

  All about, the trees were uprooting. Tearing, snapping, crunching, they freed themselves from their soil beds, then slithered backward on their roots, which curled beneath them like wriggling tentacles. The thorny underbrush pulled away or simply decayed into dust, and before long a prodigious clearing was formed. Then the ground in the clearing exploded. Hundreds of square feet of black dirt blasted into the air, and a ghostly castle shot up as if spewed from the bowels of the world, rocks and dirt tumbling from its sides!

  “May the Gods return!”

  Herard was pelted with grime and knocked back into the pond. He immediately scrambled to stand, and watched as the castle rose to challenge the height of the volcano itself. The structure reminded him of the Dead Towers of Ulith Urn, for its translucent outline shimmered behind a dreary blue haze while its details were shrouded in darkness, and it exuded a bone-soaking cold.

  From somewhere beyond, Warloove’s voice cut through the clamor. “Welcome to my home. My servants will attend to you now.”

  The infuriated Emperor of the Sky stepped from the pond and screamed, “Attend to me yourself!”

  There was no answer, but the area continued to tremble, for the forest had not yet finished with its expulsion of horrors.

  Now in revulsion Herard watched rotted corpses pull themselves from the upturned ground and stagger through the trees, wailing as they came. Spirits of the fog swirled around them, and here and there dark elf sorcerers scampered, their uplifted arms twitching with dark magic. Above, spectral forces flew down from invisible battlements, their shadow-heads topped with golden crowns, their hands wrapped about sentient swords whose blades were crafted from the blackest fires of the blackest souls. They came down before him, twirling and cackling with tortuous threats!

  Herard’s face looked as if it was covered by an obscene mask of horror. “Madness,” was all he could say before he fell unconscious to the ground.

  “Welcome, Herard.”

  Herard opened his eyes.

  It was pitch black but for a large ruby chandelier that hung in the darkness above and beyond him. With no apparent chain holding it in place, it spun in a whirlwind, its thousands of facets glinting brilliantly with reflections of dancing red flames. The chandelier was all he could see, but enough for him to know: he was inside the Castle Krypt.

  Warloove’s castle.

  “Oh, pity...”

  And then he became intensely aware of his pain—the burns, wounds, lacerations…and something else. Something was hurting him right now. He felt as if he was being nipped all over by a swarm of nasty little insects. He looked down, and saw that his body was tightly wrapped in thorny vines similar to the ones that had earlier hampered his flight through the forest. He was held upright, his arms pinned to his sides, his knees squeezed together, rendering him completely immobile.

  Warloove’s voice sounded as it usually had since the beginning of this chapter, from somewhere afar. “Welcome, Herard. It has been a long time since I have entertained guests.”

  “Obviously,” Herard muttered, “for I find your hospitality most uninviting.”

  Echoing laughter, then: “Ah, forgive, I am a rude host. Allow me to make you more comfortable.”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary; I’m really quite comfortable as it is.”

  More laughter ensued. “But I insist.”

  And with that, an embroidered carpet of crimson velvet rolled out from beneath Herard’s feet. It passed beneath the chandelier and crinkled up into a wide stairway. A banister of bones sprang up from each side of the steps and raced across a balcony of sinew that formed at the top. Furnishings then rose out of the blackness on either side of the carpet. There were demon leather couches and red satin chairs and little tables carved from crimson marble. To Herard’s horror, decomposed corpses materialized on the couches and chairs. Though corpses they were, they appeared to be conscious, and I can assure you, they were considerably more comfortable than Herard! They seemed quite content, actually, sipping curdled wine from bone goblets as they were, and admiring the animated paintings appearing on the phantom walls—paintings that depicted demons with unspeakable names performing unspeakable acts within frames crafted from dried blood.

  Although a morbid calmness accompanied the whole scene, the flickering reflections of the spinning chandelier also made it appear as if it was on fire.

  After all had settled into place, Herard noticed a distorted cloud of smoke hovering over the top step of the stairs. Warloove himself? Whatever it was flowed down th
e steps, then disappeared.

  “Emperor of the Dying Sky,” came a whisper, now from close by.

  Warloove indeed.

  “You demon,” Herard growled, “you murderous demon.”

  “Demon? No, not exactly.”

  The smoke reappeared right in front of Herard. He flinched, closed his eyes… But he could still see the smoke billowing violently against the black backdrop of the inside of his eyelids!

  “You cannot look away,” Warloove said, “you cannot hide. I can dance inside your dreams, scamper freely through your mortal mind.”

  Herard exhaled, and with all courage opened his eyes.

  The smoke was gone.

  But Warloove’s presence was not.

  Now Herard’s mind was imbued with horrible visions, for you see, Warloove appeared to him not as a physical presence, but as a mere thought, a manifestation of his worst nightmares parading around in his mind’s eye. In the span of just a few seconds, Herard envisioned shadows, then smoke, then blood and gore. Then he saw sacrifice, and dismemberment… Herard was repulsed, desperate to escape these visions! But there was no escape, the visions continuously remained in the forefront of his mind.

  It was all so ludicrously frightful, he did the only thing he could think to do: he entertained a touch of insanity, and began to laugh. It was his only weapon. If he was to be a prize, a plaything, then he would deny his enemy the pleasure of his fear.

  The visions subsided.

  But Warloove’ physical incarnation reappeared, this time clearer than ever.

  Herard watched in horror as he floated toward him.

  And now my reader, we get a clear look at the vampire!

  He was a humanoid-sized apparition of black smoke who swirled like some furious little tornado, emitting a constant clamor of rushing winds, ghostly whispers, and random growls. His face, though buried behind the hazy shroud of his form, was easily visible, for it glowed a deathly white. It was an abomination, that face. It looked like the face of some wicked elven child who had been freed from mummification to let his fine and angry features fume in a more innocent air. And, oh, his eyes! They weren’t seen so much as felt, cavernous slits of black fire that burrowed fear deep into the souls of those unfortunate enough to behold them.

  To look at Warloove was like being stabbed by darkness, I tell you!

  Herard stopped laughing.

  “You are no longer amused?” Warloove said with that distorted voice of his. “Pity. I am amused…mildly. Oh, and by the way, thank you for the drink of your dragon. I’ve been kept so thirsty of late, even a dead cloud dragon’s blood is delectable.”

  Herard spit, and the frothing glob of blood disappeared into Warloove’s smoky countenance. “To the Dark Forever with you!”

  Warloove swept up to his side. “I have been there,” he answered in Herard’s right ear. “It is rather stifling for my tastes.” Then he curled around to his left ear. “I see that you lied. You do not have the Gauntlets of Loathing Light, do you? You left them with the alleged ‘angel,’ I presume?” The voice shifted again, came from behind. “A futile effort, somewhat inconvenient, but daring nonetheless in your own pathetic little way. This is most unfortunate…for you…”

  Herard chortled. “All beings of light will stand against you. The Dark Forever’s conquest will not go unchallenged.”

  “The Dark Forever?” Warloove laughed. “I am always amused by the narrow-mindedness of mortals. What makes you think I care for the Dark Forever? Ah, never mind, you have not the wit nor the wisdom to understand my desires. Enough. Now I offer you this: retrieve the gauntlets, give me the Sunsword, and I swear your son will survive my thirst.”

  At the mention of his son, Herard gritted his teeth and strained against the thorns, drawing more blood from his already depleted supply.

  “Please, please, save some for me,” Warloove said.

  Herard’s rage erupted. “Don’t you touch my son! I swear if not by my hand then by someone else’s you’ll be destroyed, sent back into the crypt you came from!”

  “I ask for these items, not for your feeble threats.”

  “You so desire to lead demons? To take up arms and ally yourself with the Dark Forever? To conquer worlds?” Herard scoffed, “You fool; Nenockra Rool will have no one at his side.”

  Warloove’s smoke suddenly twirled into a scalding whirlwind and he shot around to Herard’s face and burned him with words. “No! You are the fool! I care nothing for the Dark Forever! Mindless horde!” Then he retreated, and lifted up before the ruby chandelier, obscuring its fiery radiance, thus darkening the chamber. “Have you noticed your sun, lately, Herard? Have you? The witless sky elves! By crafting the Sunsword they destroyed the very thing that sustains your fragile life. The sun bleeds now! Bleeds with trickles of dying light, poisoning the broken lands you so favor. Soon it will go supernova and this world will be consumed in fire. It is unavoidable. The sky elf traitors have killed us all!”

  Herard hung his head, for not all that Warloove said was untrue. “It was…a mistake. In crafting the Sunsword, they took too much of the sun’s light.” He lifted his face back up. “But the sword was created to repel you demons from destroying all eternity.”

  “Stop speaking as if I am one of them!” Warloove roared.

  “What are you, then?”

  Warloove flew back down, and when he spoke again, his voice was surprisingly soft. “A slave of sorts…like you…but no…not like you. You are stranded whereas I will leave this world, leave you to burn as you deserve.”

  “You’re as stranded here as any.”

  The grit in Warloove’s voice continued to smooth out, the volume lessening to a whisper. “Have you ever dreamed of the stars?”

  Herard was taken aback by the question. The words were lulling, entrancing; they persuaded him to let his guard down. His eyes glistened and his thoughts lingered to Zraz. “Yes…yes, I have,” he said, though he didn’t want to answer.

  “I have, too…” Warloove paused, his mind lost in cosmic ruminations. Then, after some moments, he said, “You know, there are other sorceries, other powers in the universe. Powers that can create dragons of metal. They can fly beings between the stars, these dragons. There is one such dragon here, I will tell you; my master constructed it.”

  Herard shook himself from mesmerization. “Then take it. Take it and fly away! Leave my son be, and leave the sword so we can fend off the Dark Forever! I implore you!”

  Warloove ignored him, and continued. “This metal dragon needs power to fuel it, tremendous power. There is only one thing on Phate that can empower it…one thing.”

  “The Sunsword Surassis.”

  “Yesssss!” hissed Warloove.

  “There must be some other power source you can use,” Herard pleaded. “If need be, I’ll help you find it.”

  “There is nothing else.”

  “What if—”

  “Shhh…” Warloove’s swirling smoke calmed, and his face slowly receded into it. “I ask one more time. I give you one more chance. Give me the Gauntlets of Loathing Light, and give me the Sunsword Surassis!”

  Herard pondered for but a moment, then whispered, “We need these items. Drinwor needs the sword.”

  Warloove whispered back, “Consider your son.”

  “My son…”

  Herard looked aside and noticed the chamber’s decor had relented its devilish imagery. The skeletons had been replaced by beautiful women. The paintings now depicted serene vistas of golden fields. The ruby chandelier had diffused its fires and glinted softly with healthy white light.

  Herard looked back to his enemy’s countenance. There was no horror there now. Now, trying to lull him into agreement rather than frighten him into acquiescence, Warloove had dwindled into a faceless puff of grey smoke.

  Truly, the demon must be desperate for the sword, thought Herard. That Warloove had no desire to conspire with the Dark Forever, he couldn’t be certain, despite what the Fallen Angel had t
old him. But that the vampiric fiend was afraid of dying in the fires of an exploded sun, he had no doubt. Alas, it was all irrelevant, for the forces of light needed the Sunsword.

  Drinwor needed the Sunsword.

  Warloove whispered, “Well, Herard?”

  Herard answered him the only way he could: “In the name of all the universe, in the name of all that still clings to the hope of light, I say no to you.”

  Warloove’s frightful face reappeared and he said, “Then know that all that I do, all the rage I unleash, is because of you.”

  Herard cried out, “Confounded demon! You doom yourself as much as any! Should you even manage to flee this world, Nenockra Rool will find you and kill you!”

  “It is almost dawn, and I am bored of entertaining you.”

  Herard was frantic. “Let me confer with the Fallen Angel. Perhaps she can find a way to set you and your master free amongst the stars!”

  “Goodnight, Herard Avari Fang, and know that because of you, your son shall be drained of his blood. And know that before the sun again sets, I will claim the sword as my own.”

  “The sword will be gone from Areshria before the day is through!” Herard shouted in defiance.

  Warloove floated closer to him. “Mortals, mortals, mortals… You think me so bound to the night? My reach extends through the darkness and into the day. My pet already makes for your palace—”

  “Bastard! Stay away from my son!”

  “We are through, be silent now.”

  Warloove enshrouded Herard within his cloak of smoke. His leering white face came right up to the man’s eyes…then fell from sight. “Ah… My master has kept me very thirsty…very thirsty indeed…”

  “No, wait…”

  Herard’s vision went dark.

  He was vaguely aware of his remaining vestments being torn away. There was a pressing on his neck, a painful puncturing, and a sound like wind fleeing a hollow tunnel ensued. His body was driven into convulsions, and all the things that encompassed him were sucked into the fangs of the demonic dark elf vampire. Warloove took his memories, feelings, thoughts, passions, fears…and then took his life.