by Jason Alan
“Ha!” Morigos tapped his staff to the stone. “So, you say the foreseen dusk elf savior exists! And I am asked to watch over him should the last human on the planet die?” Morigos laughed, covering his mouth with his arm, in case anyone was near. “You are bold indeed, Herard Avari Fang. But I’ll tell you what, if I like this boy, I accept, for I will have nothing better to do!”
Herard narrowed his eyes. “Not amusing in the least, traitorous elf, not at all. He is—”
“The chosen one born of the stars.”
“So it is said.”
“He is unique. He has all our strengths, none of our flaws, perfect in every way…”
“I believe that to be true.” Herard sighed, breathed in deeply, and watched the only dark elf holding a shred of honor start to walk away. “His name, is Drinwor, Drinwor Fang,” he called after him.
“As I’ve just indicated, I know of the legend of the savior. As for what I do about him…we shall see…we shall see…” Morigos began to enshroud with the haunted shadows of night. “This meeting never happened, eh?”
“Agreed, and well met, Morigos of Kroon…” Herard waved.
The dark elf disappeared around one of the dingy crags that dotted the cliff-top, his voice an echoing whisper that was barely heard, then drowned by the wind.
“Farewell, Herard, last human of Phate…”
Morigos’ awareness was suddenly back on the beach of bones.
Warloove thrust a hand forward, as if throwing his screaming words at the mage. “Traitorous, lecherous, vile, rotten bastard! I will suck the skin from your bones and keep you alive! I will inflict you with a thousand more diseases and wait long centuries for you to die! Betrayer! Betrayer! Betrayer!”
“Such unoriginal insults,” Morigos remarked. “I swear, in the next life I fight for neither light nor darkness! They’re both infinitely annoying!”
Warloove stepped forth. “There will be no next life for you!” he said through gritted fangs. “I will steal your soul for the sword; yes, I will disintegrate your very spirit!”
Morigos chortled. “You cannot destroy that which I do not have…master.”
“We shall see!”
Now Warloove murmured with arcane madness, his fingers aching to unleash yet more flames. Morigos lifted his staff and the vampire laughed, mocking the mage’s defensive stance. Then Warloove whispered, and fire erupted.
Ah, but it was not his own.
Morning’s Hope had arced around and swooped in from the sea like a heavenly guardian of the stars come to douse the fiend with lightning-like flames of white!
Immersed in her breath, Warloove screamed with rage and pain, then whirled to retaliate. The runes on the Gauntlets of Loathing Light ignited, and eagerly did his flames explode upward from the ends of his clawed fingertips! Fire contested fire, and the translucent’s scorching breath was squelched beneath the stifling punishment of the vampire’s own blackened pitch.
Warloove had been stung, but his cloak of smoke had repelled most of the searing force of the flames.
Morning’s Hope soared right over him, then curled back out over the sea, screaming, “In the name of Fleeting Shadow, no enemy of light shall ever employ the power of the sun!”
Warloove swiveled to watch her, his hands lowering, his mouth twitching with a smirk. He yelled after her, “You are foolish to be dangling the sword right in front of my face like this! Do you not realize that I can in seconds overtake you?” But he did not go after her immediately. Ah, what a tantalizing moment! He couldn’t help but pause and savor the promise of battle, if even a battle it was going to be. Soon he would feast on sweet immortal blood and the Sunsword Surassis would be his. Finally, he would be free of the fear of the fires of an exploding sun! For a moment he imagined himself and his master aboard their technological dragon, slipping through the cool blackness between the stars…
“Ah, but first, there is one small matter to attend to. One revenge to incur!”
Disloyal, weak, and foolish Morigos was scampering away. Warloove began to stride after him, but stopped almost immediately, for a voice entered his mind. The voice was monotone, soulless…and persuading.
Warloove! Why do you delay? The sword is within your grasp! Seize it!
“Master…yes, of course.” Warloove instantly turned around and leaped onto the back of his dragon. His smirk widened. The mischievous mage might escape his own fangs, but he would not escape another’s.
Morigos must have known: on this isle they were not alone.
With a sorcerously enhanced voice, Warloove called to the mountain. “Now, after long years, I will fulfill my part of the bargain and leave you your prize! Come Murdraniuss, come hither and take him!”
And then, with a mighty thrust of his wings, Geeter took flight. He shrieked his ear-splitting cry and bolted after Morning’s Hope.
Morigos flashed a look to the sea, his eyes tracking the fleeing translucent dragon. And then something peculiar happened to him. He was struck with small pang of…regret? Loneliness? Was that what that was? “Nonsense!” he exclaimed to the dark. He shook his haggard head, pulled the tattered brim of his cowl farther down over his face, and sighed to the bones beneath his feet. “Soon,” he whispered, “soon I will join you.”
A strange sound came from the base of the mountain, and the sky trembled with cosmic thunder, and auburn lightning scattered through the clouds; and Morigos of the Moom, betrayer of Warloove, outcast dark elf sorcerer afflicted with the Ever Dying, prepared to face the Lord Banshee alone.
Creativity is a fire in which the whims of the soul yearn to burn.
Drooviock
Warlock Sage of the Five Moons
Syndreck the Brooding regained consciousness.
He lifted his face from a pool of his own curdled blood and moaned softly, his joints aching with the soreness of mortality. Apparently, even these nimble limbs could stiffen. Well, no matter, it was time to evaluate what had happened, and assess what was presently going on. His cognizance returning, he pushed himself up with his elbows and attempted to stand. No such luck. His feet, slipping on the blood-slicked flagstone, slid straight out behind him, and his face met the floor with a dull smack.
He laughed at his stupidity, but gave his clumsiness an excuse. “So cumbersome and awkward, these mortal bodies, even the best of them!”
He reached up, grasped the rim of his cauldron, and carefully pulled himself from the floor. Once standing, he rubbed his eyes and peered into the pot.
The images within were wild.
“Ah, yes!”
Behind his towers, the sky over the Raging Sea was now torn in many places. Red vapor spread out from the cracks, cannibalized the clouds, and polluted the waters with poison. In front of Ulith Urn, the Wicked Plains were barely recognizable. The Shards of Zyrinthia had razed the ground. The soil was as blackened ash. Craters were everywhere, from which streamed endless columns of smoke and fire.
“Glorious!”
Ah, Syndreck. Naturally, he’d think it glorious, eh? He went into hysterics, a barrage of grating laughter exploding from his blood-stained mouth. “My sorcery has been successful! The dimensional walls have been breached and the centurion has undoubtedly been destroyed! Oh, Nenockra Rool will be so pleased.”
That might have all been true but for one perplexing little detail he was just beginning to notice—Soular Centurion 7’s body was nowhere to be seen.
“I don’t understand. Where could he be?”
Syndreck looked deeper into the bubbling liquid, searching for the centurion’s charred body. But it was difficult to discern anything, for even his extrasensory eyes struggled to peer through the wind-swept walls of fire, smoke, and dust. Determined to find the alien carcass, he firmly gripped the edge of the cauldron and hung his head right over the bubbling surface, searching, searching across the devastated plains. Nothing…yet.
“Where—”
Wait. Something moved. He looked closer. Yes, something was th
ere, glimmering where all else was dark.
The necromancer blew a foul breath into the cauldron.
On the plains, a wall of black smoke was dispersed by a sorcerous wind, and there, very much alive, was Soular Centurion 7, walking slowly, purposefully forward, toward Ulith Urn.
And not only was he alive, he was close.
In that moment of revelation, Syndreck experienced something he hadn’t felt in a thousand years.
In that moment, he felt fear.
It trickled into the basin of his mind, a small inkling that Soular Centurion 7 might actually possess the strength to destroy him. Although he commanded extraordinary sorceries and was favored by the most powerful force in the universe, Syndreck was not invincible. If his bones were shattered or blown apart, his spirit would flee into the very dimension he was trying to free. Now he just stood there, staring into his cauldron with disbelief as the cosmic warrior walked right up to the sorcerous shield surrounding Ulith Urn and squeezed his armored body through it.
“This is preposterous!”
Oh heavens, now the alien enemy was inside the compound. Consumed by rage, Syndreck slammed his fists on the cauldron’s rim. “NO! NO! NO! How is it that the cowering Gods always manage to reach through time and space to torment me? I need to concentrate on the breaches, not on this damned warrior!”
A torrent of rain flew through the circular space in the ceiling, moistening the dried-up blood on his face. Bloody black tears streamed down his cheeks and dripped from his glistening chin. His eyes closed to slivers, and he growled like a stricken beast, pondering what spells to call forth to finally stop the centurion.
But then something new entered his sphere of awareness. He unclenched his fists, and shot a look back into the Cauldron of Carcass Control.
Something was crawling up the Cliffs of Moaning Wishes.
On came the dark elves of Kroon.
“YES! YES! YES!”
Two thousand battle mages and at least thrice that many warriors swarmed over the cliff’s ledge, a rising tide of fanatical fury devoted to crushing the foes of the Dark Forever.
Syndreck smiled so widely, the scabbed skin around his lips cracked and leaked more blood onto his chin. He waved his arms across the cauldron’s surface, temporarily deactivating the shield to allow the elves easier entry into the compound. He considered leaving the shield down, but knew he’d need it to protect his towers from the sky’s impending fury—the great onslaught of the Shards of Zyrinthia was about to ensue...
Dark elf commanders on bats soared into the compound and curled around the towers. Mages of the Moom flew through the storms, stealing lightning bolts and sorcerously storing them within their swelling robes. The thousands on foot clambered over the ledge and surged onto the grounds, their silver weapons held high, their echoing chants sounding like an angry dirge. The flying mages sang a foul song and a wispy shroud of magic blanketed those on the ground. Those with invisible-steel armor became invisible themselves.
Syndreck was beaming. “What a timely army!”
He reactivated the shield, effectively sealing the dark elves in, then telepathically contacted the battle mages, instructing them to destroy the approaching alien warrior immediately.
The command was unnecessary, for the dark elves were already advancing on the metallic intruder.
Soular Centurion 7 stepped into the compound and slowed his advance.
New signals were coming through.
– THOUSANDS OF DARK ELVES APPROACHING –
Dark elves.
That race, though uncommon in the universe, was known to him—intelligence misguided by hate, cunning in cold blood, steel empowered by sorcery. They could pose more of a challenge than any of the previous obstacles he’d dealt with since arriving on Phate. They were not indomitable, though, not to the galactic guardian of the stars.
He was just beginning to formulate his defensive strategy, when suddenly the sky brightened. A series of tremendous booming, thundering, and slamming noises reverberated across the entire world, nearly overloading his auditory sensors. It sounded like thousands of moons exploding in rapid succession directly over his head.
He wasn’t the only one whose “auditory sensors” were overloaded. Every inhabitant of Phate looked up, fearful the Gods had returned to murder the world. It wasn’t the Gods, but it might as well have been, for the doom promised by prophecy was now being delivered.
The prophets who had earlier wept now wailed.
The seers who had earlier sobbed now screamed.
The full onslaught of the Shards of Zyrinthia had arrived.
Although Syndreck had managed to pluck a small group of shards from the sky, he had no control over them all, so even he was somewhat stunned as the entire lower portion of the asteroid belt dipped beneath the atmosphere and blasted down to smite the lands!
The dark elves went wild.
As the great meteor storm commenced, they rushed the warrior from the stars.
Soular Centurion 7 stood his ground and silently readied to fight again.
When your energy has wilted, and you fall to your knees, crawl. Not as a slave, but as a survivor, crawl; for ultimately, it is determination that will carry you into your dreams…
Zravion
Captain of the Silver Fleet, Avatar King of Solidariuss, the Sentient Sea
Oh, brave reader, it was a night like no other on Phate!
The haunted remnants of a thousand civilizations were dismissed into the dusty pages of history as the vengeful shards came down and consumed them in a great storm of cosmic fire. Not since the last war with the Dark Forever was so much lost in so short a time. Port cities were swallowed by their seas. Obsidian mountains were pounded into plains. Sapphire forests were reduced to ash, and the sky inherited a sea of dust that ever after deepened the darkness of the bloody days.
Indeed, it was a night like no other on Phate.
A night of a thousand forgotten stories. Stories of heroes who saved those who might have perished. Stories of villains who murdered those who might have lived. Stories of courage, and sacrifice, and yes, even love... Ah, so many forgotten stories, reduced to nothing but a passing paragraph on this very page as the Shards of Zyrinthia burned them from the minds of those who might have remembered.
Yet for all those forgotten stories, there were some tales that stood the test of recorded time. Among them was the tale of Drinwor Fang and Morning’s Hope, who we now join as they dash away from the demonic dragon and his master…
The Shards of Zyrinthia streaked down all around Morning’s Hope, pummeling the nameless sea and battering the island of bones like great molten fists. Explosions of shattered fossils blew into the air and the sea erupted with monstrous waves. The rumbling of impacts echoed in the distance, the horizon flared with every strike, and all the world endured this cosmic punishment.
Morning’s Hope whispered, “So, Phate has become the drum upon which destiny pounds. Now our paths dash us headlong toward whatever end awaits, be it glorious or vile.”
Drinwor was certain he beheld the end of the world, for it looked as if the entire sky was being slashed to fiery ribbons. “Is this the doings of the Dark Forever? My Gods, the burning moons come for us all!”
His dragon looked back to him. “It does appear to be the doings of evil, does it not?”
“Watch out!” Drinwor cried as a shard screamed down at them.
Morning’s Hope swung her head forward and dodged aside. The meteor grazed her flank and plunged into the sea. “Hang on, my Emperor!” she yelled whilst evading the ensuing wave.
“I hadn’t planned on letting go, I assure you!”
Drinwor held on for dear life while Morning’s Hope flew as if to shake him from her back. She angled this way and that, twisting and spiraling, dodging the shards and waves.
And then came Geeter.
The Greater Demonic Dragon swerved around a shard’s blazing trail and swooped in behind them. Drinwor knew Geeter was
there before he even saw the beast, for dragonfear stifled his breath and shrieking terror pierced his ears. Against his better judgment, he flashed a look behind him.
Foolishness!
The enemy dragon filled his field of vision, and Drinwor was both horrified and amazed. “How can something so huge be so fast and maneuverable?” Just as he said that, Geeter lunged forward. Eager to dig his massive fangs into the enticing flesh of the translucent’s tail, he bit down…but missed, falling short by only a few feet.
Drinwor cringed. “Morning’s Hope! He’s right on top of us!”
“I know!”
“Gods, he’s tremendous!”
“I know!”
The meteor storm intensified.
It seemed as if the sea itself caught on fire as a pair of blazing meteors collided and exploded right over the waves beside them. Morning’s Hope flew through a spray of sea and sparks as Geeter snapped at her tail with his maw and pincers. She continued her wild maneuvers, but couldn’t shake her larger, faster opponent. The Greater Demonic Dragon was drawing ever closer.
The whole situation was madness, I tell you!
Warloove was ecstatic.
“Concede the Sunsword!” he cried through the roar of waves and wind and fire, “for there is no force that can forestall the coming of the Dark Forever! Concede the sword, or I will give you wounds more severe than anything the sea or stars can inflict!”
Apparently, he had no intention of waiting for a reply, for then he immediately sang out a malicious song of sorcery.
A host of sparkling silvery-white spears appeared in the air around him, and behold, these spears were actually spirits themselves—the Spears of Stinging Ghosts. Warloove flicked his fingers and the spears whipped toward Morning’s Hope, howling as they sliced through a wave and into her hide. Morning’s Hope cried out. The ghostly spears shrieked. Warloove cackled, “Yes, burn her! Burn her!” The imbedded spears dissolved like ice rapidly turning into liquid, melting into crackling little pools that stung her as they spread across her sides.