by Jason Alan
It petrified him like nothing in his life ever had. His heart skipped a beat and he fought just to remain conscious.
Vu Verian yelled, “Drinwor!”
The dusk elf flinched with fright. For a moment, he had forgotten the mystic sky elf was there. He composed himself the best that he was able, and said, “What?”
“I’m going to ask you to do something that will likely scare the light right out of you.”
Drinwor pointed to the approaching dragon. “Scare me more than that?”
Vu Verian’s skin turned bronzy and his eyes shimmered, reflecting the spells brewing in his mind. With a deep voice he said, “I want you to jump off this terrace, right now, immediately.”
Of course, Drinwor thought, why not? His father was dead. He had been entrusted with the most powerful weapon in the world’s history. A giant black dragon-thing was coming to kill them, and now Vu Verian was asking him to leap from the terrace of his home and plunge countless miles to his death upon the face of a hostile world he had never set foot upon.
Fantastic.
“Vu Verian, I really wish you’d left me alone today!”
“I’ve given you a Ring of Floating, you’ll be safe, but you must jump, NOW!”
Although Vu Verian’s magically enhanced command didn’t quite hold the conviction to convince Drinwor to jump, the creature’s second scream tipped the argument toward the mystic’s side. The scream was so shrill and piercing, it hurt Drinwor’s ears.
The dusk elf sat on the railing and swung his legs over the side.
Insanity!
He looked back at Vu Verian to make one final plea.
He didn’t get the chance. Vu Verian yelled at him again. “Go, now! I won’t be able to hold it off for long! Jump, Drinwor! I’ll meet you on the ground, but by the Gods, JUMP NOW!”
Vu Verian sang a song that belied his usual sweet voice, a song that riled up the strongest reservoir of power within him. He waved his arms wildly about, and sections of his body flew in and out of sight as the Cloak of Winds flailed around him like an enraged ghost. Drinwor couldn’t bear to look upon him any longer. He looked away, and cast his gaze down into the mass of sorcerous storms swirling below. Well, that sight wasn’t much better! Forks of scarlet lightning illuminated the black clouds with explosions of electrified fire, and thunder’s booming bellows accompanied the shrieking of the Greater Demonic Dragon.
“Oh, father, help me,” Drinwor whispered, “this is ludicrous.” He grasped his glowing sword charm, closed his eyes, and pushed himself off the railing.
Quite an introduction for Herard’s son into our story, wouldn’t you say? We’ll soon learn of his immediate fate, but first it’s time to take a quick peek at other matters…
It is the selfishness of evil that allows it to survive, for the foolishness of good says to fight until one dies.
Syndreck the Brooding
Master Necromancer, Emissary of the Dark Forever
Drekklor knew if the sun had the strength it would have burned his shadowy form from around his evil soul the moment he burst from the surface of the Raging Sea. But the sun was weak, dying. The effects of its radiance were negligible. Light leaked from it like blood from a lingering wound. It seemed as if every star in this portion of the galaxy was wounded thus. Here, light was struggling to merely survive. Here, the most brilliant stars were black…at least in the eyes of a demon.
Drekklor scoffed at the sun and soared onward.
He soon came to the Cliffs of Moaning Wishes, which were crowned with his ultimate destination—the Dead Towers of Ulith Urn. “So, here is the intended lair of the necromancer! Not so impressive…”
Well, perhaps not so impressive to a shadow demon, but to some, the sight might have been a supernatural marvel. Although it was morning, the compound was shrouded in a deep dark, as if the remnants of night itself clung to the spectral walls. A thick concentration of sorcerous storms hovered around it, and the wavering blue outlines of the ghostly towers were lost within.
Drekklor sped up over the cliffs, then slowed and slunk through the wraith-filled winds.
As he drew closer to Ulith Urn, his supernatural eyes discerned a Glyph of Multiversal Guarding—an invisible, sorcerous semisphere that covered the entire compound, a shield of sorts. He had to be cautious. The glyph itself wasn’t impassable or inherently dangerous, but if disturbed, its creators would be aware of his coming.
Ah, but Drekklor was a devious one.
As he approached, he condensed his shadowy form and became thinner…and thinner…and thinner…
Now he was but a black needle.
He pierced the glyph with a quick jab, then filled in the miniscule hole with his own substance. A tiny ripple coursed over the glyph’s surface as he passed through, but no sorcerous alarms sounded. The tiny hole sealed itself behind him, and he was inside. He enlarged, reassumed his favored demonic shape, and flew unchallenged toward the towers.
“Yes, my demon, go! Raise them!”
Drekklor wasn’t certain whether his mind played tricks on him, or if he had actually heard the voice of Nenockra Rool urging him on from the other side. Nevertheless, he was ever haunted by that voice, haunted by the vision of that moon-sized eye glaring at him, demanding his obedience. And always he remembered the ten seconds of agony.
Whether it was his master or his own conscious commanding him, it mattered not. He obeyed.
He flew to the spectral towers and saw what was left of the actual physical ruins. Splintered stones lay everywhere in dusty, spider-ridden heaps; piles of twisted skeletons were scattered about; and lonely ghosts flitted where halls had once stood. When the ghosts saw Drekklor, they thought he was the visage of death finally come to take them to the Forever after their thousand year wait in limbo. Drekklor paid these lost souls no mind. They mattered to no one.
He flew deeper into the compound, and made for the heart of the towers.
He came to an exposed chamber that sat atop a particularly large pile of rubble. He descended through the large break in its domed peak, and hovered over a wide, flagstone-capped platform that resided in its center. He remained there for some time, just wondering what in the Dark Forever he was supposed to do next. “Now I would actually appreciate Nenockra Rool’s guttural words of instruction!” he grumbled. But no words came.
An inexplicable compulsion struck him, though, when he looked up through the broken ceiling and saw the twinkling crescents of Rong and the Four Apostles shining through the storm clouds.
The sight of the moons inspired him to express innate desires.
He was compelled to sing.
What was this? What were these strange sounding words? Incantations? Whatever they were, they flowed through him easily and quickly. He became aware that these words carried some influence, for as he continued singing, thick, bright shafts of moonlight shot down through the broken ceiling, immersing him. Not particularly comfortable in this light, he backed out of it. Henceforth, the light intensified, and splashed like a waterfall onto the platform. The radiance then streamed across the floor, leaked out the cracks in the walls, and spread throughout the ruins. Before long, the entire compound was flooded in a gleaming lake of liquid moonlight.
And so it was that Drekklor learned that he could utilize sorcery.
He tilted his head back and hissed, “Thank you dark master for yet another glorious gift! Now I understand the obsession of wizards and warlocks. The wielding of magic is gloriously satisfying, like…like the unleashing of lust upon a long-desired lover! Thank you, oh great one!”
And now, submerged beneath the moonlight lake, the ruins of Ulith Urn began to rumble and shake. Above, the ghostly walls began to brighten and solidify. Enraptured by his newfound power, Drekklor sang so loudly he screamed. His own chamber shuddered and lifted into the air, the tower beneath it resurrected and rising out of its own moonlight-slathered ruins. Everything was being rebuilt. Where rubble once reigned, twisted towers of iron and onyx now arose. Where wre
ckage had piled, temples took shape. Stone blocks stacked themselves, splintered beams straightened in reforming rafters, and moonlight filled in every crack, crevice, and imperfection, solidifying into whatever substance it had repaired.
The resident ghosts were terrified. They fled down into newly hollowed dungeons, their confused moans bouncing off the restored walls. And then…
It was done.
Drekklor went silent.
The moonlight dimmed, the lake of liquid light receded, and the rumbling ceased.
No longer dead, the Dying Towers of Ulith Urn had awakened after a thousand-year sleep. The surrounding sorcerous storms, half-existing in another dimension, slipped through the Glyph of Multiversal Guarding unimpeded and, as if in celebration, illuminated the place with lightning.
Drekklor looked back through the hole in the domed ceiling. It was smooth now, perfectly circular. Rain came through it and he could see the crescent moons shining softly through the clouds. “Fascinating!” Before this, he never would have considered the moons for allies. And they still had one more little favor to impart upon him.
They gave his intellect a little, shall we say, ‘nudge.’
While he gazed through the hole, moonlight glinted the wavering spaces just above his tower. Ah, yes, the glyph! He’d almost forgotten about it. Using his newfound gift of sorcery, he sang another song, and perverted the glyph’s power into something more useful. The invisible semisphere thickened to translucency, turned into a magical shield that could protect Ulith Urn against high energy attacks. And it was rendered useless to those who had created it; it would never again alert anyone of anything.
Now that all was prepared for the coming of the necromancer, Drekklor sent these words into the winds: “Ulith Urn stands ready.”
The sorcerously tinged words carried over the cliffs, plunged into the Raging Sea, and fled far down into the abyss. Soon they echoed in the ears of the deep elf sorcerers who had secured Syndreck’s ancient soul in Tatoc’s young body.
Moments later, black flames erupted on the platform in Drekklor’s chamber. The flames flickered violently, grew denser, then receded and solidified into something shaped like an elf.
Ah, here was Syndreck the Brooding!
The necromancer was home.
Finally, after a thousand years of insufferable torment in the bowels of a black hole, he was home.
“The towers are raised?” he asked the shadow demon.
Drekklor nodded and hissed, “Yesssss.”
His uplifted arms still flickering with black fire, Syndreck tilted his head back and laughed. Now he was truly free! Free within the smooth wrap of taut, young muscle. Free within the beloved walls of a place he never dreamed he would see again… No, that wasn’t true, he had dreamed of it, every day, every waking moment for a thousand years. He had dreamed of it and, finally, he was here. He looked upon the shadow demon and was again seized with uncontrollable laughter. He laughed until the laughter became weeping, then he fell to the platform, grasping at the cool, slick stone.
He fell unconscious right there, and dreamed of wonderful nightmares…
Syndreck stood on the edge of a mile-high cliff that overlooked a sea of writhing souls. Waiting in the sea was an army of a billion demons. A billion—all his to command. Above them, floating through clouds of fire, came massive fortresses of obsidian, with hundreds of thousands of demonic dragons encircling them.
Here were the armies of the Dark Forever.
And appearing on the horizon, his black silhouette encompassing the whole of the sky itself, was the supreme ruler of it all, the Devil King, Nenockra Rool. In eternal servitude, Syndreck fell groveling to the ground. Blood poured from his mouth, preceding words enwrapped within the shaky timbre of ecstasy. “Master, I will open the gate between this world and the Dark Forever. I will lead your eminence’s armies to the primary universe, where you will conquer time and space. Before this system’s star dies, I will tear the skies apart! I swear it…”
Some men must first pass through the depths of hell before ascending to heaven.
Garg Ogregone
Part-time mercenary, full-time drunk patron of the Hog Harrow Inn
His heart a heavy stone of sorrow, his limbs numb with dragonfear, Drinwor Fang tumbled from the only place he had ever known, his sacred sanctuary and home, the pearly palace of Areshria.
“Oh, how could my beloved sky turn on me so?” he called to the wind.
But the wind only roared back at him like some vengeful banshee, stealing the air right from his mouth. That didn’t stop him from yelling, “Brilliant idea, Vu Verian!”
Breathing was a chore and all was blurry. The storms appeared as naught but flashing black smears, for his tumbling rolled him over ever faster. A wave of nausea passed over him. His sweat was freezing, yet it burned the skin beneath his armor. His hair speared the tears from his cheeks as soon as grief and fear pushed them from between his fluttering eyelids.
“This is suicide!”
Indeed, it just may well have been (well, hopefully not!).
But the farther he fell, the more the effects of the dragonfear diminished, and a portion of his panic abated. Soon his head cleared enough for him to rationalize that it was time for him to at least try and control his wild descent.
Slowly, he spread his arms wide, cupped his hands and, after a short struggle, managed to straighten his legs. That worked! He stopped tumbling. Now he faced upward, his body splayed on a bed of more agreeable winds. Breathing came easier, and he voraciously inhaled mouthfuls of air. Feeling a little bit better, he pulled the hair from his face and looked up.
He saw the bottom of Areshria’s cloud bank…and the Greater Demonic Dragon approaching it.
“So much for feeling better.”
The dragon still appeared much as it had from the terrace—a giant, wavering black blur that looked awfully out of place in the morning sky. The visage was just as terrifying as it had been before, and he wondered why his usually excellent eyesight couldn’t clearly see the beast. (He didn’t realize it was simply because his blessed vision hadn’t yet grown accustomed to viewing something so purely evil.)
For now, my friend, Geeter would remain naught but a wicked shadow in our hero’s eyes… I promise we’ll see more of him later, though!
While Drinwor watched, Geeter angled in toward the palace, let loose a soul-rattling scream, then belched a burst of crackling black flames.
A section of the main tower was blasted into shards.
Drinwor was mortified. My home! He called out, “Vu Verian! Vu Verian!” praying the sky elf hadn’t been killed in the fiery strike. This was just terrible! He felt so helpless. All he could do was cringe as Geeter swung around and dove in for another attack.
But this time the attack came to the dragon. A shimmering flash of blue energy shot from the palace and struck the beast in the side. Enraged, Geeter sounded his horrific cry again and veered aside, his massive wings furiously pounding the air.
Vu Verian was alive and fighting back!
“Yes!” Drinwor shouted.
And then everything disappeared behind swirling billows of blackness.
“No…”
Drinwor had fallen into a lightning storm.
Immediately thereafter, jagged, bent beams of electrified light stabbed the inky spaces all around him, and the ensuing cracks nearly burst his eardrums. He threw his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut, hoping he wouldn’t be blasted out of the sky. Well, as you might have guessed, it wasn’t yet time for him to depart our tale… The lightning continued to strike, but its branches mercifully missed him. After a short time, the intensity of the strikes lessened, and Drinwor tentatively opened his eyes and uncovered his ears.
He had passed through the bottom of the storm. The black clouds hung flashing above him, eclipsing Areshria, and the sights and sounds of Vu Verian’s battle with the dragon were gone. Drinwor craned his neck and moved his head about, trying to see an
ything around the clouds, but the effort was futile. He couldn’t see a thing. For now, Vu Verian’s fate would have to remain a mystery.
Resigned, Drinwor decided to focus his attention on his own immediate destiny.
He carefully turned himself over…
…and gasped, for here was a sight he had seen only in his dreams. Having spent his entire life in the lofty perch of Areshria, the world below had been too far away to see and nearly always covered with clouds, anyway. Now he was closer to the ground than he’d ever been, and he could see everything. The Continent Isle of Volcar spread beneath him like a jeweled tapestry laid by the Gods. For the first time this morning, his heart fluttered with something besides grief or fear.
“What a sight!”
Forests of crystal trees glittered from within roving fields of violet mist. Silver rivers slid like bespeckled snakes down emerald mountainsides, then fell a thousand feet into lakes of liquid light. There were inland seas of azure fire lapping shores of granule gold. There were jade towers rising out of low flying clouds, their opal spires spinning and glinting in the rays of the bleeding sun. And in the dreamy distance, phantasmal nations lay in the haze of the horizon, their palaces fading from view as lonely dragons flew above them.
It was all so wondrous.
But Drinwor also came to notice that every landscape was plowed through with blackened gullies, as if the world had long ago been scratched by giant flaming claws. (In actuality, it had!) The gullies stretched for miles, then converged on a mighty range of dark mountains that dominated all others, mountains whose sundered peaks spewed liquid fire that trickled down and lined the surrounding lands with molten rivers.
You know of these mountains, of course…
Drinwor shook his head and wondered how Phate must have shone before the first war with the Dark Forever. As fantastic as he’d always thought the upper reaches of the sky to be, the lands seemed even more incredible, despite the burned-out gullies. And with every moment he was getting a closer look.