by Jason Alan
A closer look.
For all its glorious wonder, Drinwor suddenly reacquainted himself with the growing likelihood of smashing into the ground.
“Well, that’s one way to experience the surface.”
Soon the mountains weren’t below him, but beside him, and the details of the world grew denser. And to make matters worse, it felt as if his descent was accelerating.
“What do I do?” he asked the nearby clouds.
When they refused to answer, he thought of Vu Verian. The sky elf mystic had told him to jump, told him he’d be safe. Seriously? Drinwor quickly mulled over the last moment on the terrace. There was Geeter, the Sunsword…and something else.
“The Ring of Floating!”
He grasped the ring, realizing he had no idea how it worked. Did he need to activate it in some way? He twirled it around his finger, said, “So, ‘the Ring of Floating,’ I guess I’m supposed to…float? Think of floating? Flying? Faeries…dragons…flying things… I don’t know!”
Nothing happened. He shook his hand. Still nothing.
The ring—
“Is useless!”
The winds grew more violent. He lost control of his stability and started to tumble again. Terror struck him. He had no doubt—he was going to die! Directly below, the landscape glinted in thousands of places, and he was convinced he was falling onto a huge bed of broken glass.
Once again, he called out to whatever entity would listen. “What do I do?”
He needn’t do anything, for at that moment, the ring released its store of magical power. A soft humming, almost singing, emanated from it, and it glowed. Drinwor felt his limbs lighten as the effects of gravity lessened around him. His tumbling stopped and the speed of his descent rapidly diminished.
He yelled, “By the Gods, what a morning!” and floated down into an ivory forest replete with crystal leaves. He never noticed, but the glimmering boughs retracted just enough to allow him to drift through them untouched.
He landed softly, and heaved a massive sigh of relief.
He knelt to the ground, and sifted the cool, dark soil through his fingers, murmuring, “I’m alive…I’m alive.”
Drinwor Fang had landed in the Forest of Chanting Angels.
He looked up, and for the first time in his life saw his sky through the interwoven jumble of a forest’s branches. It was something to behold. From here, the clouds were like colorful streaks painted on a faraway canvas, and the harshness of the sun was softened. And, oh, the trees themselves! Though inanimate, they seemed more alive than he ever would have imagined, like a huge crowd of rooted elders who looked upon him with curious, hidden eyes. Now that sounds like a thing that might have made Drinwor feel uncomfortable, but it was just the opposite. Something about these trees made him feel snug, as one does when wrapped in the covers of their own bed. And he noticed though each tree was shaped somewhat differently, with various configurations of branches and such, they all shared the same basic attributes. They were knobby yet fluid, intricate yet simple. The air about them was thick and fresh with the scents of sorcery and nature. Shafts of crimson light were turned blue by their azure crystal boughs, and large patches of ground by their bases were darkened with circles of tangled shadows.
Drinwor’s mouth hung open and he whispered, “Beautiful.”
And then a sunbeam swallow leaped from a nearby branch, startling him. He watched it slap its rainbow wings against the air and vanish into the trees like a dream disappearing upon awakening.
Had Drinwor known the name of the forest, he would have now understood how it got its name. The branch the bird had leaped from shook, and its leaves struck one another like tuned chimes, delivering a harmonious song. A passing breeze encouraged yet more leaves to stir, and the song became a symphony of sorrow.
The Forest of Chanting Angels indeed.
A tear trickled down Drinwor’s cheek. He sadly smiled and said, “For you, father.”
And then, just as he began to wonder just what in the Seven Glories to do next, his ears perked to a new sound. It was steadily rising over the leaves’ song, an airy whistle coming from…from… He couldn’t place it—
Wait. Yes, he could.
He went still as stone.
The sound was coming from directly overhead.
He peeked up through the trees just as a great shadow covered the forest, dimming all the sparkling beauty beneath it.
Realization dawned on him.
“Gods, no!”
He hadn’t been the only thing falling from the sky.
A huge chunk of Areshria’s dragon-blasted tower came wailing down as if to destroy the world!
Drinwor Fang exploded into movement.
He shot through the forest with a speed and dexterity that rivaled any two-legged being in the universe, covering enormous amounts of ground in seconds. A perfectly timed dive sent him flying just as the wreckage smashed into the spot where he’d just been standing. Dozens of trees were pulverized. The entire forest shuddered. The symphony of leaves erupted into a shattering scream. The piece of blasted tower speared the soil and stood like a heinous monument, rising hundreds of feet over the treetops. It teetered there for a moment, then toppled over, destroying many more trees as it slammed to the ground with a roaring thud!
Drinwor sat there for a few moments, catching his breath, staring with astonishment through the dusty white cloud of devastation. Then he slowly stood up, brushed himself off…
…and discovered the storm of ruin wasn’t over.
Now debris of all sizes and shapes hailed down in a blizzard of burning rubble. Drinwor covered his head with his hands. Small rocks struck his fingers and a particularly large jagged fragment of stone scraped the front of his armor, pushing him backward before lodging into the ground. Drinwor stumbled but didn’t go down. When he regained his balance, he looked at his chest in terrified amazement. The stone left a thin white line that slowly disappeared into the blackness of his demonskin.
He didn’t realize it, but his mysterious armor had just saved his life for what would be the first of many times.
He peered upward and wondered if the sky had any further insults to impose upon him. Thankfully, it didn’t. Things finally began to calm. Even the chattering leaves quieted, as if granting their shattered brethren a moment of silence.
The dusk elf let out a long exhale. “Welcome to Phate, Drinwor.”
“Yes, Drinwor Fang, welcome to Phate.”
“What?!” Drinwor nearly jumped out of his demonskin. He whirled and looked around.
There, in the midst of the murdered trees, a misshapen black figure shuffled through the settling haze. Backlit by the rays of the dying sun, it looked like a specter of the forest, perhaps come to seek revenge against the deliverer of the trees’ destruction.
Drinwor froze, unsure if what he saw was alive or dead. Well, the thing certainly wasn’t moving with the grace of a ghost, there was no such fluidity about it. It seemed to trip and stumble every other step, and he swore he heard curses uttered beneath its rasping breath. It had to be alive. There was some comfort in that…though little.
The thing stuck a gnarled staff into the ground and pulled itself closer to him.
Drinwor slowly backed away.
The stranger raised his staff and sputtered with disjointed words. “The weather of this cursed world never ceases to amaze me, next it’ll be raining cities. Ha! At least these damned, chatty trees have quieted!” The figure tripped over an exposed root, cursed and coughed as it righted itself, then said, “So, Emperor, what finds you, unbidden as you are, amongst this forsaken forest?”
Drinwor continued to back away, making ready to run. “How do you know me as Emperor?”
The figure cackled. “Who else, if not you, elfling? Not your father, certainly, unless he means to rule from the Dark Forever!”
“Take one step closer to him and that is just where you will find yourself.”
The voice that answered came
from behind them.
Again, Drinwor whirled around in surprise. He was getting awfully tired of this! But at least this time the source of the surprise was cause for a great relief, for there, not ten paces from him, stood a tall radiant being swathed in white robes.
“Vu Verian!” Drinwor shouted. “Thank the Gods!”
“Ah, the last of the sky elves!” the dark-robed figure said. “And not so much the worse for wear after mixing fire with a Greater Demonic Dragon. You did leave poor Geeter alive, did you not? Or was it the other way around?” Then he cackled through a fit of coughs.
Vu Verian stepped forward. He acknowledged Drinwor with a quick nod, then fixed his attention to the dark stranger. “I’m in no mood. Tell me who you are before I scatter your atoms.”
The stranger bowed his head. “I am Morigos of the Moom, once a mage of Kroon and High Councilor of the Cold-Blooded Caves, now renegade. I am the Punished One, cursed with the Ever Dying.”
“I know of you,” Vu Verian said, “you’re a dark elf.”
“No darker than you, my forsaken brother.” Morigos dared to move closer.
Vu Verian matched his steps. “I am no brother of yours, no relation. Your kind of elf is a desecration to everything my people stand for.”
Now the two very different mages stood right before one another, burning each other with stares. Vu Verian towered over this new nemesis, his fingers twitching, ready to unleash blue lightning. Morigos’ bent form appeared as the total antithesis to the sky elf’s elegance. If not for his crooked staff’s support, it seemed as though he might fall in pieces to the ground. And yet, something belied his guise of frailty. Drinwor guessed there was some measure of power lurking beneath the trappings of his shattered exterior.
“Come,” Vu Verian said with a sneer, “let me be done with all my battles before morning’s end!” He lifted his brightening hands.
Anticipating the fires to come, Drinwor cowered.
But then Morigos backed down. He cradled his staff close to his body and said, “Wait! You must know—I, too, have been summoned to Vren Adiri. That is where you’re taking the young Emperor, is it not?”
Vu Verian stayed his sorcery, lowered his hands. He considered the words for a moment, then said, “You lie. No being such as you will ever take a single step inside Vren Adiri.”
“Oh, I’ve already been there,” Morigos returned. “Herard didn’t acquire the Gauntlets of Loathing Light all on his own, you know! No, no, in these, the last of our times, good must conspire with…me! Ha! For now, doom comes even to those who consider themselves dark.”
Vu Verian shook his head. “What know you of Herard? And for you to credit yourself in the acquisition of the gauntlets is ludicrous.”
“We shall see,” Morigos grumbled. Then he turned to Drinwor. “You must know, young elf, without my help, he will have you.”
Drinwor was taken aback. “What? Who will have me?”
The crumpled mage continued with, “He knows you have the sword, and he’ll find you once he has the Gauntlets of Loathing Light…and he will have them, soon.”
Drinwor’s face was marked with apprehension. He turned to Vu Verian. “What’s he talking about? Who’s he talking about?”
Vu Verian’s gaze was locked on Morigos as he answered, “He speaks of the murderous demon, Warloove. But don’t trust a thing he says, for he is in league with that fiend.”
“I no longer serve the one who has afflicted me so!” Morigos declared, motioning to his own crinkled body.
Drinwor cast Morigos a dark look. “Warloove… That’s a name I’ve already grown to hate.”
“It’s a name I have long hated, young elf,” Morigos noted, “a name many hate.”
Drinwor picked up a small piece of rubble and threw it into the trees. “I’ve never had an enemy before.”
The dark elf lifted a crooked finger. “Ah, be careful who you count as an enemy, for simply naming one as such is enough to invite their wrath upon thyself! And I promise you, Warloove’s wrath will already be plenty severe, for he will chase the one with the Sunsword around this entire world if he has to.”
“Fool,” Vu Verian shot back, “be silent!”
Morigos chortled, then brought his finger before his cowl, mockingly shushing himself.
Drinwor froze in place. “You think I have the Sunsword?”
“Share nothing with this creature,” Vu Verian urged, “he will betray you to darkness.”
A cackling like the crackling of fire shot from Morigos’ charred lungs. “We’re all pawns in fate’s game, young Emperor. You, most of all. It’s long been known the Sunsword Surassis was ‘hidden’ in your palace of Areshria. Oh, I know you keep it, Emperor, for who else if not you?”
Vu Verian stepped forth, shaking his fists. “I told you to be silent!”
Morigos waved him off. “Fear not, sky elf, there is no one else here, and there’s no need to disguise the truths we share. Soon, you will both learn that it is a time for unlikely allies.”
“Are you my ally?” Drinwor asked.
“Ha!” Morigos laughed. “Good question!” He flashed a look to Vu Verian and said, “I like this one, he’s more transparent than you!” Then he turned back to Drinwor. “Yes, I tell you, I am your ally. But if you don’t believe me, you can ask the orchestrator of your fate, the Fallen Angel. Oh, and before I forget, she has a message for both of you. The message is this: The One Soul awaits.”
Drinwor’s expression went blank. “The One Soul?”
Vu Verian’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. How did this being know of such secretive things? How did he know so much of Herard and the gauntlets, of the sword and Vren Adiri? And what of the Fallen Angel? If Morigos’ contentions were true, then what had brought the most holy being on Phate to conspire with a dark elf? Vu Verian’s mind was awhirl. Was it possible that Morigos was actually being truthful…? No, it wasn’t possible. He was a Mage of the Moom, an enemy of light, a master of trickery and deceit. It was all a ruse. It had to be. And, Vu Verian realized, it was no coincidence that Morigos had been here waiting for them while Warloove’s own dragon was attacking above.
Enough. He had entertained Morigos’ lies for long enough. His brow creased and he said, “Evil, wretched being, I don’t believe any of this. You’re a servant of darkness hoping to despoil the Sunsword for yourself!”
Morigos shook his head and sighed. “You sky elves, always so righteous and always so wrong.”
“I’m not wrong!” Vu Verian lifted his arms, his fingers flashing with blue energy. “I give you this one, last chance. Leave now, or I swear there will be nothing left of you.”
“No,” Morigos replied, “for it is by the will of your angel that I stay…fool.”
Vu Verian snickered, then began to sing.
Drinwor shrunk back.
Morigos raised his staff. “For my part, I care nothing for your accursed sword, but I’ll be glad to exchange fire with an ivory imbecile!” The runes on his robe glowing green, he stood ready to match the sky elf’s onslaught.
“Then fire you shall have,” Vu Verian muttered. He thrust his fingers forward…
But no sorcery came.
The magic vanished from his fingertips, and the runes on Morigos’ robes dimmed. The whole forest suddenly brightened and a clanging patter began to sound. All looked around, and the sound grew louder. It was the leaves; they were ringing beneath a newly kindled rain. But it wasn’t the heavy drops of acidic water that typically poured from Phate’s punishing skies.
It was raining silver.
Drinwor looked up, and a million little drops of liquid silver, each shining light, bright, and beautiful, bathed the Forest of Chanting Angels with glimmering hope. All the smoke and dust of the day’s destruction was vanquished, and even the sun’s rays, breaking through the forest’s boughs in patchy rows, shone with some vigor of old.
Drinwor was awestruck. “How?”
Vu Verian closed his eyes and words slipped f
rom between his fine lips. But the words didn’t seem to be his; they sounded like the voice of the ringing leaves, the voice of the forest. They said:
“Once, long ago, many forests like this one filled the valleys surrounding the Mountains of Might with sweeping lushness. Their wardens were the shadowlight elves, elves whose beauty was matched only by the trees they cultivated. For many ages their sorcerous songs conjured showers of silver rain to nourish the trees. But now the shadowlight elves are gone. Their magic wanes, and most of their forests have disappeared. What trees are left stand with lonely trepidation in this dark land. They are innocent casualties, another feature of Phate’s beauty almost lost. But all is not yet lost and, as you can see, the sun still holds some glory for the morning.”
Then Vu Verian opened his eyes and lowered his arms. His voice returning to his own tone, he said, “This rain falls by the power of the Fallen Angel. Although Vren Adiri is some distance away, her spirit must be near.” He quietly added, “I haven’t heard of her leaving the safety of the palace for hundreds of years, though.” Then he turned to the dark elf mage. “I say again, begone. You have no place with us.”
Morigos grumbled unintelligibly. He gripped his staff with both hands and planted it firmly on the ground, apparently resolute on staying put.
Drinwor was convinced a sorcerous battle would commence, but then the world went white, the forest suddenly swamped over as if by a low-strolling cloud. The only thing Drinwor could see were the silhouettes of the opposing mages. Then they, too, faded to white, and Drinwor suddenly felt very sleepy…
The philosopher asks why. The scientist asks how. The faithful do not ask…
Synnethic Innadon
Warlord Ruler, High Priest of the Fezzonian Monks
The Raging Sea was riled by Ulith Urn’s reawakening. A ceaseless line of colossal waves broke upon the Cliffs of Moaning Wishes like sacrificial slaves come to honor the reemergence of their dark master. Above, the sorcerous storms in the compound intensified. Roiling black clouds lashed the newly raised towers with whirlwinds of blood rain. The spires were stung with scarlet lightning. The wind howled, frightened ghosts cried, and even the sun could not see through the stormy shroud of Ulith Urn’s perpetual necromantic night.