Phate

by Jason Alan

  “Fear not,” said Morning’s Hope, “it is unlikely that we are being pursued. All is well.”

  Drinwor smiled. “I know.”

  Onward they flew.

  The evergreens’ bunched peaks bristled beneath them like a breezy valley of pine bushes, and Drinwor caught a whiff of their brisk, sweet scent. The scent vanished almost instantly, though, for what was once a light drizzle had become a heavy rain, and the moisture squeezed the sweetness from the air.

  Drinwor glanced upward and for a moment frowned at the clouds. When he looked back down, he noticed something peculiar straight ahead. A wall of fog was billowing out of the forest not quite a mile in front of them. It was so tall that it rose all the way up into the rain clouds. He opened his mouth to ask Morning’s Hope about it, but from behind, Morigos suddenly spewed with words. “We near the edge of Volcar! You dragons are not so slow after all. Ha!” Then he cackled as only he could, with that gurgling, half-choking accompanying it.

  “Yes,” Morning’s Hope said, “now again we come to a place that is not so natural.”

  “What do you mean?” the dusk elf Emperor asked.

  “You will see,” Morning’s Hope returned, “you will see.”

  They flew straight toward the fog-wall, and Drinwor began to shift with unease. With consternation trembling his voice, he said, “We’re certain this is all right?”

  “All will be well,” Morning’s Hope assured with a gentle tone. Then she streamlined her body and dashed right into the fog, the owl and insect dragon flying in behind her.

  The trees disappeared beneath them and all the world was a swirling greyish-white void. Drinwor had no sense of their altitude and, strangely, the farther into the fog they flew, the hotter it got. Morigos complained from behind and Fleeting Shadow whined. But it wasn’t long until Morning’s Hope cried, “Almost through!” It was true, for moments later she shot clear of the fog.

  Drinwor was dumbstruck by the revealed scene.

  “It’s as impressive as I remember!” Morigos said.

  “It is a sight to see,” Morning’s Hope agreed.

  Drinwor whispered, “This is baffling to me…”

  Now, my brave reader, Drinwor was to witness the most fantastical realm he had seen thus far! As usual, it had all been quite a lot for him to take in, but he was finding strength from the fortitude of his wondrous companions. The world of Phate and the universe in which it dwelled had already become much vaster things to him, and there was still so much more to encounter…

  But this place he saw now made him think that perhaps they had flown right into another world; for sprawled before them was a sea of purple fire!

  Beyond a beach of crushed crimson crystals, mountainous waves of violet flames roared beneath a sky filled with floating volcanic islands. Drinwor thought it looked as if the Volcanoes of Volcar had been torn from the ground and suspended in midair. (He was soon to learn he was essentially right.) Some islands were whole and huge, while others were sundered in many places, with some sections clinging closely together, and others drifting many leagues apart. Some islands had been reduced to nothing more than roaming heaps of molten rubble.

  But whether split or whole, most of the volcanoes on these islands were active. Lava falls were everywhere, often cascading over multiple islands, then plunging down thousands of feet into the sea, riling up the fiery waves that swept across all the flaming deep. The winds were hot, the still air sweltering, the sky a reddish-purple stain. The horizon was but a burning, blurry slash on the far edge of sight.

  It was a realm even immortal eyes could not believe!

  Morning’s Hope led them higher into the sky, maneuvering through the maze of airborne islands. She banked around and behind the lava falls, with Drinwor clinging tight to both arms of the saddle-throne. “Where in the world are we?” he asked as they ascended.

  “We’ve crossed over Volcar,” his dragon answered, “and have come to Pyrlovos, the realm at its eastern edge.”

  “Peer-low-vose…” Drinwor slowly pronounced.

  “Yes.” She went on to explain: “Constructed and overseen by sky elf wizards, this place was once a prison state for the most diabolical criminals on Phate. These volcanic islands were lifted from the coastal waters of the Pyrlovian Sea and suspended in much the same way that the sky elf palaces were, with a sorcery that defied our world’s gravity. Fortresses were built on the central islands, iron barracks whose walls were imbued with magic dampening wards and surrounded by molten moats. Below, the Pyrlovian Sea was covered over with flames, thus making Pyrlovos virtually inescapable. But then—”

  “Let me guess,” Drinwor cut in, “the Dark Forever came.”

  Morning’s Hope nodded. “Yes, the war. The demons destroyed the guardian wizards of Pyrlovos, and the sorcery that held this place together went wild. The islands broke up, drifted apart, and the volcanic activity intensified. The prisoners died, escaped, or otherwise disappeared. Now it is a reckless, uncontrolled place.”

  “We should be especially cautious of confrontation here,” Morigos suggested, “for it is said that not all of the inhabitants have fled, and demons might still be lurking about. And,” he added, “this would be the perfect place for an ambush by those who seek to thwart our journey to the hall.”

  “We will be on guard,” assured Morning’s Hope.

  They flew on.

  The concentration of islands thickened, and so did the lava falls. Wavy ribbons of glowing heat plunged down all around and splashed onto the islands below, severing them, or disintegrating them all together. Clusters of glowing rock wandered about, suspended storms of burning stone that pelted the walls of black iron fortresses, whose ruins floated amidst it all. Fire dragons darted through the wreckage, flaming little creatures with skeletal heads that cackled like haunted fiends. They leered at the companions, but never engaged them.

  Morning’s Hope guided them safely through it all. As always, she seemed to know her way, flying swiftly and confidently, always managing to avoid the splintered ruins and scorching flows. Eventually, the concentration of islands thinned out, and she turned her head aside and said to Drinwor, “We’re almost through Pyrlovos, not too far from the Hall of Voices.”

  “Anywhere is better than this place!” Drinwor’s frightful eyes darted all around. “It is mesmerizingly wondrous, but equally frightening. I would have loved to have seen it as it was long ago!”

  “Indeed,” agreed Morning’s Hope.

  Suddenly, Morigos called out, “Look there!” his tattered sleeve fluttering as he thrust his arm out and pointed his staff down. “Something I do not like makes itself known!”

  “For someone who’s supposedly so broken, you seem to have very keen eyes!” Drinwor noted.

  “Nothing to do with my eyes, boy,” Morigos replied, “I have a knack for sensing trouble!”

  And trouble they may have found, for directly below them, many dozens of dark shapes were appearing in the fiery waves. Drinwor couldn’t make out what they were, but he was fairly certain they weren’t some phenomenon native to the sea. Could they be some sort of ships? Maybe. But they had no sails, no decks. They looked like fat, legless insects. Whenever a wave rolled over them, they emitted a green aura, but otherwise seemed completely unaffected by the sea’s fury.

  Morning’s Hope turned to the dark elf mage. “Are those—”

  “Dreadships,” Morigos confirmed. “Strange. I’ve never seen them in this sea.”

  “Nor me,” whispered Morning’s Hope, with a tinge of concern.

  Drinwor was confounded. “Dreadships? I thought deep elves were beings of the water.”

  “Oh, there’s water beneath those flaming waves,” Vu Verian chimed in, “but make no mistake, the deep elves have the power to exist anywhere. Fire. Water. It doesn’t matter. Some say that when Phate is gone they’ll live in space because it is most like the sea. A frightening prospect, that, because within the abyss…they’re unconquerable.”

&nb
sp; Drinwor patted his leg pouch. “Are they looking for the Sunsword?”

  Vu Verian looked perplexed. “I don’t know.”

  “They must be!” Morigos declared.

  Morning’s Hope looked to Vu Verian, and said, “Perhaps you should cloak us.”

  “Yes,” the mystic owl replied, “perhaps I should.”

  “Hurry!” Morigos urged.

  Vu Verian flew up over the dragons and directed them to gather closely together. Then he conjured the Cloak of Winds. The mystical cover spread out from his wingtips, curled down, and surrounded them all, rendering the group virtually invisible. The spell was timely, for at that moment, more Dreadships sprang into sight. Soon there were hundreds of them.

  Morigos spewed curses at them, then said, “Bah, deep elves! They should burn in those waves or sink back into their dark abyss!”

  “Why would deep elves be interested in the Sunsword?” Vu Verian asked.

  “Remember,” Morigos replied, “it is they who offered the Gauntlets of Loathing Light to Warloove, they who would see the Sunsword in his hands, and they who will align themselves with Nenockra Rool!”

  His feathers ruffling, Vu Verian snapped back with, “And it was your people who conspired with them.”

  Morigos scoffed at the comment. “My people have become fanatical sheep, senselessly following that which they think will bring them to dark glory. They’re children in need of discipline, nothing more. But the deep elves…they have a collective mind like a dagger, aimed at the hearts of all. They’re just waiting for the armor of the world to fall away.”

  “Well, it is the deep elves who will foolishly perish,” Morning’s Hope added, “or anyone else who allies themselves with the Dark Forever.” She sighed. “Has history taught them nothing? Evil holds no allegiance, especially to those who aid them. The deep elves will be the first to fall should the demons breach our skies.”

  “Well, whatever the case may be,” Morigos said, “let’s just get away from here.”

  And so, they soared forth, the mystic owl as the hood of their protective cloak, the violet fires of the Pyrlovian Sea dancing in their eyes.

  Drinwor was relieved to be invisible. And he was glad that Vu Verian was playing a part in helping them now. The sky elf had been so distant of late. Perhaps his involvement would reaffirm that he was among friends, fighting alongside allies with whom he truly belonged—Drinwor and Morning’s Hope, at least, if not Morigos (though Drinwor was finding he rather enjoyed the dark elf’s company, despite any skepticism he had about the mage’s true intentions).

  It was well-known to those few who knew Vu Verian that he had long regretted his decision to remain on Phate when, a thousand years ago, the rest of his people had taken to the stars. Oh, initially, he had proudly volunteered to be the caretaker of Areshria, the honorary Emperor of the Sky; but he had been totally oblivious to the backlash he would eventually receive. After the war, all of Phate had denounced the sky elves for abandoning the world, and Vu Verian had been a constant target for racial hatred. As a result, he had grown increasingly more reclusive over the years. Even after Herard had befriended him and taken the responsibilities of emperorship away from him, Vu Verian ended up spending most of his time floating through Phate’s skies as a cloud.

  And now Herard, his only true friend, was gone.

  Drinwor had no doubt Vu Verian bore the weight of his father’s death as much as he did, and it pained him to see his sky elf friend so distressed. At least he wasn’t alone, though. Drinwor resolved to stay close by his side, no matter what happened.

  They flew on, and left the Dreadships far behind.

  Morning’s Hope eventually called to Vu Verian, “I don’t think we need the cloak any longer, my friend.”

  The Great White Owl nodded. “We should be out of range of the deep elves’ detection now.”

  “Wait!” Morigos crooned, “Perhaps it would be wise to keep the cloak about us, hide us from all enemy eyes.”

  “If, as you suggest,” Morning’s Hope said, “a shadow follows us, there is no cloak through which it cannot see.”

  Morigos merely grumbled and shrugged in response to this.

  Vu Verian snickered, and the Cloak of Winds swiftly seeped back into his wingtips. He looped down to his usual position off the translucent’s left flank, and Fleeting Shadow took his place out to the right.

  Thus, they left the realm of Pyrlovos.

  The waves of violet fire faded into the haze of heat behind them, and dark waters crawled out from beneath the fringes of the flames. But the inevitability of all things fated stood like a fiery tower in the forefront of their minds, for the afternoon was old, and soon the menace of night would take hold.

  A new lump of fear found Drinwor’s throat.

  For him, the coming night had a name.

  And that name was Warloove.

  The first stars began to twinkle in the sky, and for a moment Drinwor thought they were the awakening eyes of the murderous vampire, gazing at him from across the world….

  Drekklor the Shadow Demon slid silently through the clouds, coasting just out of range of the translucent dragon’s detection. He was more cautious now, having some inkling that he might have been detected by another, by one who was somewhat familiar with his kind. These beings he trailed had some sharp perception, and he need not jeopardize his mission. Destiny beckoned in the skies above, and soon the shards would strike. When the world fell to night, and the moment was right, he would steal away their most hopeful dreams.

  It is the horror of war that it repeats itself, for freedom has long been paid for.

  Herard Avari Fang

  Emperor of the Sky, Ruler of Areshria, Last Human on Phate

  Droplets of spittle flew like darts from Syndreck the Brooding’s frothing mouth as he cursed in languages he thought he had long forgotten. He stared into the Cauldron of Carcass Control, his eyes wide with disbelief, for out on the Wicked Plains, the cosmic warrior had defeated his million undead minions.

  It was unconscionable.

  “This is unconscionable!”

  And to make matters worse, the beautiful body of Tatoc of the Black Claw had begun to decay. It was a shame, really, but Syndreck knew a body so young could not hold a soul so vile and old without repercussions. Alas, with sorcerous anger came aging. The smooth ebony of his face had greyed and crinkled. His once clear eyes had become bloodshot pools. And the onset of self-mutilation was simply inevitable, for with no other living bodies around, hence no other way to indulge his cannibalistic tendencies, Syndreck had discovered the delightful delicacy of himself. I must tell you, he had become prone to taking a little dagger and carving off slices of his own skin, then savoring them between his rotting teeth. He couldn’t help it! He was stressed and his skin tasted so good. Ah, so good…

  “I’m glad Tatoc saved all of himself for me! Ha!”

  Oh, well, anyway, with his gaze still fixed in the bowels of the cauldron, he thoughtfully thrummed his fingers on his chin. “My new pets…all gone.”

  Such a waste. Apparently, Soular Centurion 7 had no respect for the damned. Syndreck flicked the cauldron’s surface with his finger, and the image of the interstellar warrior dispersed.

  He took a deep breath and shook his head. “How annoying, how…irritating!”

  It was quite a quandary, indeed. To get involved in a prolonged confrontation with this alien invader and concentrate on freeing the Dark Forever at the same time would demand too much of even him. Once the dimensional breach was open, most of his energy would be required to sustain it.

  “Nothing is ever easy!” he complained to his cauldron.

  Indeed, nothing ever was, not even for our story’s exceedingly powerful evil necromancer.

  He sighed, with more curses riding on the breeze of his breath. He contemplated, thought hard, and that was something he was good at. You see, although his body was deteriorating, his mind was as sharp as it had been since his awakening from his thous
and-year sleep. After only a minute or so, he was struck with a wild idea.

  “Yes, I do have an idea! Perhaps I can tear open the dimensions and destroy the enemy with the same stroke?! Hmmm… It’s a bit premature to use such force, for I’m not certain the dimensional walls are yet weak enough to rip through.” He contemplated for another minute, his mind filling with increasingly confident thoughts. “But then again, if I could manage to create even the slightest dimensional tear, those demon hordes on the other side should have the strength to widen the breach themselves. And, using the method I’m thinking of, I could annihilate the galactic warrior in the process!”

  Yes, it just might work.

  Syndreck cackled.

  “Yes, it will work! Let the skies rain demons, and let my enemy perish beneath the crushing weight of falling stars! And, oh, Dark One, let me not wonder on why I continue to talk out loud to myself! Where’s that damn demon when I want him? Eh, no matter.”

  He mercifully ceased his babbling.

  It was time to make magic.

  He raised his arms, blinked his eyes, and tears saturated by sorcery dribbled down his face. Now his vision was all-encompassing. He could see through his walls, through the sorcerous storms that surrounded them. And when he looked high above, he saw the skies blazing with cosmic fire.

  The Shards of Zyrinthia.

  He bent his mind to them, and the strongest song he had yet sung erupted from his lips. Dark sorcery coursed through him like lightning through a flagpole. The Cauldron of Carcass Control bubbled and gurgled. Syndreck lifted off the floor, his toes dangling like tassels. Bright crimson light leaked from the orifices of his face and his song elevated into a thousand shrill screams. The incantation was so strong its words could be seen—glowing, cursive red letters of arcana scrawling themselves in the air above him. The letters entwined about one another then dashed like evil spirits into the sky. They rose through the storms, through the high-flown clouds, ascending beyond the atmosphere itself.