Phate

by Jason Alan

The stars were waging a war, but Soular Centurion 7 was winning.

  Beneath the plains, more of Kroon’s caverns and corridors crumbled and caved in as the meteoric shards the centurion had evaded smashed down their ceilings. Many dark elves were lost. Those who survived fled into the cave port and bolted up the great shaft. From there they scattered into the many secret passageways that led to the terraces and balconies which dotted the cliff side. Dusty and disoriented, they staggered wide-eyed into the night, wondering why the fates were punishing their loyalty.

  When they looked to the sky, they understood.

  Now had come the fulfillment of prophecy.

  The stars were exacting punishment. Red death crept out over the waves. The sounds of battle boomed above, specter demons slipped through the clouds, and spectral storms battered the walls of Ulith Urn, its holy walls again solidified.

  Indeed, the new age had finally come!

  The dark elves sang out with euphoric joy, then turned savage with ecstasy.

  As massive waves pounded their cliffs, as spray doused them with poisoned water, they turned their swords upon one another. Hundreds died, their corpses taken by the sea. It was sensible. They were purging their ranks of all who did not belong or believe. Those who died tonight obviously had no place in the new order. The ritual went on for some time, calming only when the most violent among them had sated their bloody thirst.

  (I tell you, I would not want to be close to these dark elves when they found a reason for revelry, would you? Eh, perhaps you would! Ha!)

  “Come,” one of the Black Claw called, “come and join with the conquest of eternity! Come and reclaim your rightful place among the Lords of the Dark Forever!”

  Thousands of consenting cries rose over the cacophony of exploding meteors. The Mages of the Moom levitated up the face of the obsidian cliffs. Some of the Black Claw leaped upon the backs of their bats, and many more began to climb.

  There, in the fields surrounding Syndreck’s towers, they would gather, ready to kill whatever stood against their god, Nenockra Rool.

  And while all this was going on, Syndreck did nothing but snore…

  Sacrifice is a part of every noble story.

  Vorlicia

  Condemned Empress of Zyrinthia

  Although the stormy shroud of night had not yet revealed the beast to their eyes, Geeter’s dragonfear intensified. The companions were covered with a cumbersome blanket of dread. No one was immune from its effects, not even brave Morning’s Hope. Her wings and limbs grew heavy and her vision was momentarily blurred. Morigos felt his throat constrict and he coughed, as if choking on the fear. With his wings weakening, Fleeting Shadow fought just to not drop out of the sky. Drinwor’s will was reduced to a wilted, rotted thing. He leaned over the saddle as if sickened, and reached down to touch his dragon, to feel something that belied this suffocating horror.

  “How… How do we overcome this?” he barely managed to mumble.

  “Have faith my Emperor,” Morning’s Hope replied, her head swaying about as she scanned the swirling clouds.

  Fleeting Shadow whined as he drifted in a little circle, his large eyes bulging with fright. Morigos spat over the dragon’s side. “Bah, Warloove. It’s always a show with him. Always a charade. So wrapped up in his own world, the hero of his—”

  “Must you,” Morning’s Hope gasped, “please...”

  “Just come and fight us!” Morigos screamed toward the sky.

  “I’ve been so foolish,” Morning’s Hope muttered, “toying with our precious time throughout the whole day.” She addressed Morigos. “You were right. Although I’m aware of his immense power, I underestimated him. I was confident in the Fallen Angel’s ability to ensure that he wouldn’t acquire the gauntlets so quickly.”

  “Do not punish yourself too severely,” Morigos returned. “Warloove has an annoying habit of foiling even the most carefully laid plans!”

  “I can’t breathe,” Drinwor groaned.

  “Easy, easy,” Morning’s Hope soothed.

  “Well, it’s still not too late to succeed with our quest if we separate now!” the dark elf mage asserted. “Come, my ugly insect dragon, let us make for the mountain!”

  And then the world went utterly dark.

  The gleam of the bones beneath them faded, the reflection of the stars upon the sea diminished, and above the dull glow of the storm-shrouded shards disappeared.

  Drinwor straightened up. “What happened to the sky?”

  “It’s been stolen!” Morigos yelled. “Move!”

  The Emperor of the Sky was snapped into the back of his saddle-throne as Morning’s Hope slapped her wings and dove wildly aside. Fleeting Shadow followed suit, his quadruple wings buzzing back to life, propelling him similarly in the opposite direction. Drinwor held on tight to the dragon armrests, and the straps about his ankles constricted. Against all reason he twisted his head back and looked straight up to glimpse the terror that was to befall them.

  “Gods, I should not have looked!”

  Imagine how he must have felt to see a huge black fireball burst out of the storms and come blasting straight down like a moon of burning shadows! It sizzled right through the spot where they’d just been hovering, scalding the tips of the dragons’ tails before smashing into the shoreline. Bones were blown into slivers, and waves were dashed into mist. The companions were soaked by foam and stung by fragments. The fireball never relented. It shot down into the unseen depths, boiling the waters of the nameless sea as it went.

  It all happened so quickly.

  “Move! Move!” Morigos continued to urge. For he knew, though the fireball had missed them, it was merely but a promise of impending pain. Morning’s Hope didn’t need convincing, she continued to dash away.

  As expected, on came the demons.

  Although Drinwor knew he should look away, he couldn’t help but continue to stare upward. He twisted full around and watched as Geeter punched through the bottom of the clouds. Now, with Drinwor no longer viewing the world through a veil of complete innocence, he got his first clear look at a Greater Demonic Dragon. The image was similar to the one Lord Dark Sorciuss had seen before his demise: a devilish dragon of unbelievable size diving straight down for them, its smooth, inky hide glistening, its massive pincers snapping, its ten-foot long fangs dripping acid and fire. Its tail curled overtop it like a great black serpent itself, twitching with eagerness to impale and sting anything.

  “It’s the stuff of nightmares sprung out of some evil sleep to slay us!” Drinwor cried in terror.

  But for all of Geeter’s horrific traits, the most frightening feature was the shadowy swirl of vampiric smoke upon his back. Although Drinwor caught only a fleeting glimpse of Warloove, he was stricken as if with a seizure. There was his father’s killer, projecting the power of a god. If the demonic dragon was the physical embodiment of fear, then Warloove was its heart, a throbbing black core from which all despair arose.

  Indeed, as I’ve earlier described, to look upon him was like being stabbed by darkness, by death itself, even!

  And then came Warloove’s echoing, distorted cry. “Son of Herard, give me the power of the stars, or suffer in torment and die! This item you toy with has sovereignty over the stars; it will besiege your lesser soul! Give it to me!”

  “Ignore him!” Morning’s Hope screamed as she continued to dash away.

  Drinwor turned about, brought his head down, and squeezed his eyes shut. He whispered, “I had no idea…no idea how awful… I can’t—” His words were strangled by fear into silence, and he was struck with a strong sense of foreboding. Somehow, he knew: death would now claim one of them. He didn’t think it was himself, but he could feel it…one among them was already lost. “No…” he whispered through a mournful moan.

  Although Morning’s Hope and Fleeting Shadow continued racing away, they were well within Warloove’s sorcerous reach. As Geeter plummeted toward them, on came maniacal magic.

  Wrapped by the G
auntlets of Loathing Light, Warloove’s clawed hands thrust out of his cloak of smoke, the fingers opening, flexing straight. Inharmonic songs of offensive sorcery sprang from his hidden mouth, and a wide swathe of black beams erupted from his fingertips. The beams were loud, crackling like dried leaves beneath a stomping boot as they came blazing down…

  …and cut into Fleeting Shadow’s hide.

  The insect dragon was struck behind the saddle, the beams slicing deep into his body. Warloove cruelly twirled his fingers, then closed them together, thus scissoring off the dragon’s tail. Fleeting Shadow jolted. His tail went spiraling into the sea, green blood gushing from the terrible wound. He loosed a cry that was recognized by all: a cry of suffering, a cry of dying, a cry of death.

  Oh, Warloove’s pitiless power!

  Drinwor twisted back around and screamed, “Morigos! What… no… NO! Fleeting Shadow!”

  Morning’s Hope also flashed a look behind her. For a moment she considered flying to her kin’s aid, but she immediately recognized there was nothing to be done. The insect dragon’s fate was already sealed, and in her current position, she was vulnerable to Warloove’s fire.

  “And, above all,” she reminded herself, “I must protect the Son and Savior of the Stars.”

  She continued to dart away.

  “Oh, Morning’s Hope!” Drinwor cried, flinching as he watched the unfolding of such a wickedly violent fate.

  Bleeding and mortally wounded, Fleeting Shadow careened, contorted, then slammed into the beach of bones with a tremendous crunch. The impact broke his own bones, and the last of his blood drained into the nameless sea. His dome-like eyes dimmed, and his fluttering heart and buzzing wings went still. His soul teetered on the precipice before the gaping abyss of eternity, then fell into it.

  Fleeting Shadow of Vren Adiri was dead.

  A wave came in and washed his body into the sea.

  He was gone.

  (Although his life was lost, he was spared the eternal damnation of the Dark Forever, for his spirit was met between the planes, joined by those glittering dragon souls who awaited the opening of the gates to the Seven Glories. He was spared joining the coming battle, and led to a shining realm of infinite silver skies, where soon his mortal pains disappeared beneath the gaze of immortal eyes.)

  And to Fleeting Shadow, we bid farewell…

  Morigos had pitched himself over the dragon’s side after Warloove’s beams had struck. He’d plummeted down beside his mount, but whispered a levitation spell right before he would’ve struck the beach. He gently landed on the bones, then scampered from the shoreline, the bones nipping his calves. “You were a fine beast,” he quietly uttered, “and it should be me, not you, who bears the sufferance of so pointed a hatred.”

  Geeter never slowed.

  The demonic dragon smashed into the shore with such force, the entire isle shuddered. His head plunged through the bones and into the abyss, garnering him a mouthful of fossils seasoned by seawater. His belly smacked onto the beach, and for a moment he just lay there, watching Fleeting Shadow’s body sink into the darkness of the deep.

  The reverberation of Geeter’s impact sent Morigos flying over the dunes, a cursing, ragged pile of robes. He grunted, “Urgh! Geeter, you’re not so fine a beast!” when he hit the bones with his bottom.

  Warloove solidified and somersaulted onto the shore. His boots firmly planted in the bones, he glanced to the sky. There he saw the translucent dragon soaring out over the sea, the dusk elf Son of Herard upon her back, and the blinding white glare of the golden artifact among him.

  The glare of the Sunsword Surassis.

  “There it is! There it is!” He turned to his dragon. “Come, Geeter, not all bones are so dry. Let us feast on blood and meat, and claim the master’s prize!”

  The Greater Demonic Dragon pulled his head from the water, and Warloove made to remount him. But then a peculiar feeling struck the vampire, giving him pause. What is this? He felt a familiar presence, as if something or someone he knew was right here on the beach. His head perked up and he sniffed the air. Could it be? He twirled about and scampered to the top of the dunes.

  “What is this I smell?” he bellowed, scanning the darkness before him. “Smells like a slave!”

  Morigos froze. Then he slowly turned around and held up his staff. The gnarled piece of wood emitted a little cloud of magical smoke that he hoped would blend him into the shadows.

  It didn’t appear to work, for Warloove took a step down the dunes, directly toward him.

  Morigos took a step back.

  Warloove took another step toward him.

  Morigos took another step back. “Oh, devil!” he whispered.

  Warloove thrust his enkindled hands over his head and unleashed a brilliant fire into the air, illuminating all the area. And there before him, contrasting sharply against the white of the bones, was a wavering little cloud of smoke.

  “By all the Dark Forever,” Warloove roared, “I see you!”

  Now exposed, Morigos lowered his staff in futility and let the smoke screen disappear, putting himself in plain sight. The runes on his robes burned brightly, just as his eyes burned with the visage of the vampire who towered over him like some wind-racked wraith recently raised from the sea.

  “You dare hide from me?” Warloove yelled, “You dare defy me? What in hell’s cursed name are you doing here?”

  Morigos shrugged. “Uh…I don’t know. Are those all questions? I was thinking of building myself a dark little domicile here? You?”

  “Always an imbecilic fool!”

  And then Morigos felt Warloove invade his mind.

  Such was the strength of Warloove’s will, there was little he could do to curtail the vampire’s forced entry of his thoughts. Warloove searched through his memories as if he ransacked a shelf of books, tossing each volume aside until he came upon the one he sought. And when he found what he wanted, he tore off the cover, if you will, ripped through the pages, and a scene from the recent past played out like one of Vu Verian’s magical stories in the minds of both victim and invader. For Morigos, time seemed to slow; he seemed to slow, his limbs feeling like weights, his usually fluttering heart now laboriously chugging beneath his rotting breast.

  As simply as I can describe, this is the shadowy scene they saw:

  “You’d just love to kill me, wouldn’t you, Herard?” the dark elf sorcerer quipped as he looked out into the thundering night. “Or perhaps your dragon would delight in smothering me in flames?”

  They both noticed the black silhouette of Zraz passing through the clouds above them, flying watch over the edge of the Cliffs of Moaning Wishes, where the two stood alone in the storms.

  “You are unarmed, Morigos,” Herard returned, “and I still hold honor, as does Zraz. If it is blood you still crave, return below, to Kroon.”

  “I am always armed, you know this. Sorcery is my sword.” The ancient dark elf sorcerer turned to face the man, his shady eyes flickering with malcontent…and sadness just the same. “It’s a shame, in a way, for besides my own kin, I have run out of worthy enemies. A part of me will miss our battles, Skylord.”

  “I cannot agree with you…but I understand…”

  Herard glanced to the Raging Sea. It was so big, and he felt so small now, so exhausted of body, mind, and soul. And despite Morigos’ claims, he sensed a similar weariness in his old adversary, a similar dissatisfaction, though his own life had not been wasted in the administration of senseless evil. But, alas, he still didn’t trust him, still needed to know—was this wretch going to betray them? He asked plainly, “You have the gauntlets? You will give them to me as planned? They are in Kroon, I presume?”

  Morigos hung his head as if the slightest shame was upon him, yet he would not speak of it. When he did talk, his voice was low, practically blending into the sea and waves and wraith-filled winds. “Yes, yes, you shall have them, if all goes as planned. They are not in Kroon, though, but soon will be. Do not worry, Lord o
f Areshria, though I know my words hold little weight with you, I swear this is true, for by merely being here I risk torture eternal…as do you.”

  “I know,” Herard said, “I know. And because there are no others who will defy the darkness set against the universe, because of the angel’s urging, I will trust you. May the Gods return, I am forced to. Though our chances are slim, I must acquire the Gauntlets of Loathing Light. If Warloove obtains them, and the sword—”

  “Then this damned and ruined world will meet its dark end even faster!” the mysterious mage finished for him. “For once he has the Sunsword, nothing will stop him. I cannot compete with him, his dragon, and his dark master from the sky, not alone.” He paused, for one thoughtful moment, then said, “Remember me Herard, remember that I am the only of my kind that has even had an inkling to betray them, an inkling of conscience for that matter.”

  Herard stood still as stone, praying that Morigos was not like the other dark elves, like the thousands he had been forced to kill in his decades as ruler of the sky. “If that is true, then may whatever Gods are out there notice your courage and bravery that are so foreign to your kind. Should I survive, should I claim the gauntlets, then I am in your debt.”

  Morigos cackled lowly. “So, the last human on Phate indeed still holds glory and honor. Good, make sure you have speed, accuracy, and a complete lack of fear when the time comes. For you know I can but assist you little; too many eyes, too many eyes upon me.”

  “One more favor?” the silver-armored man asked solemnly.

  Another favor? Morigos thought. What more could this man want of me?! “I believe I am doing enough, but go ahead,” Morigos snarled, his heritage showing a bit now, his patience with the encounter running out as he feared one of his kind would find them.

  Herard appeared to look back up at Zraz, but he was actually looking beyond her. He started to choke up a bit, but carried on with his request. “He is up there, the sword is out there. If I fall, do what you can...if you have truly turned to the side of light, see it through and help watch over him. He knows nothing of what he is, what is at stake. Phate is doomed if he does not—”