by Jason Alan
Morning’s Hope screamed, “Cursed demon!” and swatted at the stinging ghosts.
Drinwor instinctively put his hand to his leg pouch, once again wishing the Sunsword had its captured soul. “What do I do?” he shouted through the shrieking and roaring. “How can I help you?”
Through a series of painful grunts, Morning’s Hope said, “There’s nothing…just hold on!” She then sucked in a heavy inhalation. Her insides lit up so brightly, she appeared as a glowing shard herself. She adjusted her course and flew straight for a particularly massive wave that rose up before them.
Drinwor pointed forward. “Uh, you do see that, right?”
“Yes I do!” Morning’s Hope answered.
“And yet still you fly toward it.” Drinwor was taken aback. Apparently, his usually levelheaded dragon had something rather daring in mind. “Good Gods,” he muttered to himself, “this is lunacy.” Indeed, it would seem that it was, with Warloove and Geeter closing in behind them, the wall of water rising up in front, and the stinging ghosts continuing to crawl over his dragon’s skin.
Morning’s Hope angled her head around, opened her maw, and spat a thin blanket of crackling lightning across her back. A startled Drinwor cried out and, fearing he was about to be electrified, tried to wrench his ankles from their safety straps. The straps held his ankles fast, but the lightning never touched him; it streamed around the saddle-throne and stretched beneath the dragon’s body, covering all the stinging ghosts. The ghosts moaned, but their cries were lost by the rushing roar of the oncoming wave as it reached up to slap Morning’s Hope from the sky.
She called out, “Hold your breath and hold on!” Then she faced forward.
Drinwor felt the ankle straps tighten even further as a sudden jolt of acceleration pressed him into the back of the throne. He had no idea what was going to happen next, but nonetheless did as he was told. He grabbed onto the armrests and sucked in a deep breath.
Morning’s Hope met the wave head on.
Tucking her wings and twisting her body, she drilled snout-first through its white-capped crest. Immersed in water, the lightning blanket she’d laid over herself crackled and sparked, scorching the stinging ghosts. They shrieked a piercing cry as their forms exploded and dispersed. The lightning fizzled out, and Morning’s Hope spiraled out the other side of the wave, her body cleansed of enemy sorcery.
She righted herself, yelled, “Drinwor!” praying her Lord hadn’t been electrocuted or lost to the sea.
The sky’s Emperor coughed up a mouthful of water, then said, “I’m still here!” His demonskin had absorbed the electricity (and perhaps saved his life yet again—Morning’s Hope would later admonish herself for this incident). Glistening with seawater, his heart pumping hard, he pointed forward and shouted, “Fly on!”
Behind them, Geeter soared over the wave, his talons skimming its crest as the riled waters passed on beneath him. Letting out an irritated shriek, he came diving down after his translucent prey.
Morigos of the Moom calmly waited for the Lord Banshee.
He knew he didn’t need to shout or make some garish show of sorcery to draw Murdraniuss away from the entrance to the Hall of Voices. He need only stand there. Surrounded by dull bones, he knew that even his weakened life-force would blaze like a fire in the cursed spirit’s eyes.
And now he heard an eerie, long drawn-out moan rise over the roar of meteors and waves—a moan that quickly multiplied into many voices.
Murdraniuss was coming.
“Ghosts!” Morigos said to the dark. “Phate is filled with ghosts! The skies, the seas; is there not a single place where the living reign?” He cackled, but halfheartedly.
Ghosts…
Bah, he didn’t care, he had no fear over that which he had once ruled.
“Yes, Murdraniuss, come closer.”
And closer the banshee came.
When Morigos saw its bluish vapor-like form flow over a foothill that lay halfway between himself and the mountain, he was suddenly seized with chills.
“No fear of ghosts, ha!”
Before he even realized what he was doing, he turned around and scampered over the dunes and onto the beach, retreating until the freezing surf tickled his toes. Then he pivoted to face the mountain again, and went still as stone. A small shard smashing into the mountainside momentarily caught his attention, and when he looked back down, he saw that he wasn’t alone.
The Lord Banshee had arrived.
Morigos’ chills returned with a vengeance.
Murdraniuss appeared as a long, sinuous spirit of dark blue, looking somewhat like a cold, misty river spilling onto the beach. Hundreds of smaller spirits clung to him like spectral leeches, each quivering and moaning. These spirits were the captured sounds of defeated souls—the actual screams of the banshee’s victims given corporeal form. They were a cloak of shrieks, a coat of cries, forever clinging to their slayer, the grand master of fatal voices.
Morigos gripped his staff as if he was asphyxiating an enemy’s throat, so tightly did he squeeze. He whispered a sorcerous little song. Murky green magic sprang from his hands and entwined his arms.
“Yes, come,” he uttered, “come for me…”
The Lord Banshee stopped just ten paces in front of him and rose up like a disturbed cobra. The captured screams gathered around his head and fanned out like the cobra’s widening hood. Their many moans joined in harmony, and Murdraniuss’ own voice arose as an airy, raspy murmur, its unworldly sound getting louder with every second. A strange tingling charged the air and the temperature went from cold to freezing.
A shivering Morigos again whispered sorcery, and the green tendrils of magic entwining his arms expanded to encircle his whole body, surrounding him in his protective magic bubble.
And then the banshee and his captured screams went silent.
Morigos tilted his head, said: “Soooo… Do you, of all beings, have nothing to say?”
The banshee answered with a squawky whisper.
Morigos cackled. “You sound like a little sea nymph!” Then he erupted into a mocking dance in his bubble, twirling about, crunching the bones with his dancing feet, waving his staff.
He didn’t notice the sea receding from his toes. Didn’t notice when the first of the mighty waves caused by the meteor storm came slamming onto the shore…
Morning’s Hope desperately wove through a shifting maze of waves.
She couldn’t ascend, for Geeter’s fire continuously sizzled over her head, pinning her down, coming closer and closer to scoring a direct hit. Warloove constantly hurled threats along with his flames. He called out to Drinwor, said: “So pathetic a thing to bear so mighty a force! What need for the sword do you have, child? Give it to me, or your burned and bloodless body will be given to the sea!”
Drinwor turned around; but before he could respond, Morning’s Hope yelled, “No! Don’t acknowledge a single thing he says! Don’t even look at him!”
“No, Son of Herard,” Warloove countered, “you will look at me! Spare yourself the burden! Give me the sword, boy. Give it to me, and I will ease you into eternity.”
“You know nothing of eternity!” Morning’s Hope shot back. “It is lost to you!”
“No, it is mine to explore forevermore…”
With Geeter closing in, Warloove fired another barrage of black flames—a barrage that shot right toward Drinwor. Morning’s Hope spun around and lifted her forelegs, shielding Drinwor with her belly. The fire blasted into her, marring her translucent flesh with more blisters, contorting her with more pain. Her wings folded inward and she faltered.
Geeter was on her.
The Greater Demonic Dragon flew up to her and tipped forward, his tail whipping up over his back, its poison stinger slicing down like a giant scythe. Morning’s Hope ducked her head just below the strike, lashed her wings, and dashed forward. The demonic dragon’s momentum rolled him right over his prey, and he fell down behind her. Morning’s Hope raced away, her wings flap
ping violently, the swift movements intensifying her pain.
“Curse you!” Warloove bellowed after her. “Your mount will defy no dreadful fate. The sun scorns you most of all.”
Drinwor couldn’t help a little smile at the deftness of his dragon’s maneuver. “Good flying, Morning’s Hope!” But when he shot a look over his shoulder, his smile vanished. Geeter was right behind them, and Drinwor could see Warloove standing atop his back. The vampire was a ghastly pillar of smoke and darkness, a vaguely humanoid shape whose upraised hands were engulfed in black fire. The space about him rippled; his cloak of smoke distorted the air around it like a mirage. And then his shadowy head appeared; it grew many horns and its ghostly white face brightened with yellow eyes that shone hot with hate.
The eyes…
Drinwor’s gaze met those eyes, and he was transfixed.
“Yes, look into me!” Warloove called out. “Look into me, Son of Herard…look…”
“Close your mind to him!” Morning’s Hope implored. “Put your focus elsewhere.”
Too late.
Morning’s Hope continued to call out, but Drinwor was already ensnared in the vampire’s stare. Twisted in his saddle, gazing deeper and deeper into those immortal eyes, it felt as if he was falling into the bottomless pit of Warloove’s accursed soul…
With Morning’s Hope maneuvering through an endless valley of waves, and his gaze sometimes blurred through the back of his translucent throne, Drinwor’s line of sight with Warloove’s eyes would occasionally break. But the Lord of the Dark Elves would always catch his stare, and our Drinwor was lost in the depths of his twisted mind. And there, Warloove telepathically showed the dusk elf his intentions. He showed him how he would catch him and rip him apart. Showed him how he would imbibe his blood as a heathen imbibes a brew, then spit out the tattered remains of his spirit as he stole the sacred Sunsword away. Drinwor hadn’t until now realized just how desperately Warloove desired to ensnare the golden hilt of Surassis. The sword was his salvation, as much as it was for the side of light. The sorcerous vampire would torture the world for its acquisition! Drinwor would die. Morning’s Hope would—
“No!” Drinwor suddenly screamed, his primal instincts fighting to break him from the stare’s psychic connection. “Let…go! Let go! Ah!” He tried to look away, tried to push Warloove out of his mind—
“Never!” Warloove screamed. “Through me you will see the truth of your existence, the futility of your flight!” Then his voice smoothed over, the syllables dragged and stretched out. “Don’t you see, Son of Herard? You are helpless, whereas I could fly to other worlds and gather forces against the darkness you fear. With the sword in my hands I could repair the sun and fulfill all prophecies. You would prefer that? Light could reign for eternities uncountable…”
Morning’s Hope screamed, “Begone, defiler of light!”
Warloove growled and hissed, “Silence, creature! I will sink my fangs into your soul!”
Drinwor’s resistance wavered and he sank deeper into the stare. Morning’s Hope uttered something akin to a curse, frustrated she couldn’t fly far enough away from the demonic dragon to free Drinwor from the trance. So, she did the only thing she could—she went in after him with her mind.
Drinwor, Drinwor! she thought, over and over again. Come back to me, come back! She continued to press, even as the enemy dragon’s fire singed her flanks.
Drinwor heard her and drew strength from her, much in the same way that Zraz had drawn strength from Herard earlier in our tale. He heard her compassionate voice rise over Warloove’s promises and threats, saw her face through the shroud of horrors the vampire placed in front of his mind’s eye, and finally used her spirit as a tether to pull himself from darkness.
Drinwor blinked.
“No!” Warloove yelled, “you are mine eternal!”
Yes! Come back to me, Drinwor!
Drinwor blinked again, then strained to turn his head away from the vampire’s stare. He struggled and struggled, then finally managed to look away, lurching back as if someone had just released the other end of a rope he was pulling on. He twisted round and slumped in his saddle-throne, his head throbbing with hot pain.
He was back.
“Can you hear me?” Morning’s Hope asked.
“I hear you.”
“Good, good.”
“Your soul is mine!” an enraged Warloove called from behind. “The Sunsword is mine!”
“Ah, with his incessant threats. Don’t listen!” Morning’s Hope begged. “Don’t look!”
“Oh, I won’t,” a sighing, bleary-eyed Drinwor responded, even though Warloove’s booming voice echoed inside of his head.
And so, Morning’s Hope flew on, ignoring Warloove’s threats and evading the waves and meteors and barrages of fire. Noticing the bone mountain in the near distance, she adjusted her course to fly directly toward it, wondering if Morigos was ever going to draw out the banshee and sound the signal that warned of its bloodcurdling cry.
“Come on, mage, do it…”
The titanic wave blasted over the shoreline, but like a Dreadship in a storm, Morigos was unaffected. His bubble-shield completely protected him, and he wasn’t even aware of the wave until after it had passed over him. The Lord Banshee was also unaffected. The wave went right through him, then washed over the dunes and receded into the bones of the foothills.
Morigos cackled. Apparently, he found all of this rather amusing. He continued dancing, and the banshee resumed rising over him, soon towering to over twenty feet tall.
“Come and unleash your anger upon me,” Morigos taunted. “Come and scream like Zyllaaaandriaaaa!” His tone rose and fell as he sang through the syllables.
For the first time in thousands of years, the master of screams was speechless. (Leave it our Morigos!)
Zyllandria? The insane mortal dares utter that name?
Now would come a cry that would drive the dragons from the skies and erupt a hundred meteors! Now would come a cry that would shake overturned Shirian Shirion from the mountain!
Now all the world would suffer the cry of the Lord Banshee.
A face appeared on Murdraniuss’ peak. It was transparent, looking like a holographic image hovering between the corporeal screams. It was the face of a man, a man of such intense anger, his eyes boiled, his frown curled down far past his chin, and the bridge of his nose was stabbed by the deeply creased V of his furrowed brow. He sneered at Morigos…then his bottom jaw plunged twenty feet to the ground, revealing a throat like a cavern that led to some dark, awful place. The captured screams all retreated back to the banshee’s tail, and there sounded the rushing roar of a mighty inhalation. Morigos was pulled forward, shield and all. He reluctantly stopped dancing, then threw himself down to the bones. The bubble of green magic tightened around him and he curled up into a ball.
The time had come to send the signal.
He sang out, sorcerously sending these words across the sea: “Deathly sounds must not be found by the ears of one and all!”
And then the banshee’s inhalation ceased.
Morigos clenched every muscle, and…
“Deathly sounds must not be found by the ears of one and all!”
“Did you hear that?” Drinwor asked. “That wasn’t Warloove’s voice, was it?”
“No, it wasn’t!” Morning’s Hope never thought she’d be so happy to hear Morigos’ grating tones. “Drinwor, take in the deepest breath you can, and hold it!”
“Oh, no, not again.” The dusk elf looked around. They seemed to be chasing the waves this time, not flying directly into them. “What are you—”
“Listen to me! Do it! Do it NOW!”
Drinwor wasn’t going to argue any further, for Morning’s Hope was already diving down into the sea. He took the deepest breath he could, closed his eyes, and felt the icy waters wash over him…
If all the oceans in the world had in a split second been sucked into space, the sound wouldn’t have come within
a thousandth of the volume of the blaring shriek that emanated from the Lord Banshee.
The scream was so strong it could be seen.
It blew from his mouth like a storm of specters. It was a flurry of black gusts that blasted across the foreshore and out over the sea, a shrieking, roaring, tortured, crying, deathly scream of unholy horror!
It was the loudest sound Morigos of the Moom had ever heard, and ever would hear. He lay there cringing, his hands pressed so hard against his ears he nearly broke his wrists. Although his protective shield stifled the scream (and ultimately saved his life), it couldn’t possibly repel all the sound. The decibels that found his ears bled them.
And yet, despite the strength of Murdraniuss’s cry, it did not go on for too long. Thank the fates, for if it had drawn out any longer than a single breath could hold, the story of those who kept the Sunsword would have ended right here, right now.
Morning’s Hope had plunged into the sea a split second before the scream reached her. The tip of her tail wriggled as the sound waves plowed into it, then disappeared into the abyss.
Right behind her, Geeter thought the night itself had grown fangs and bit him. Warloove felt as if the Spears of Stinging Ghosts had been multiplied a hundredfold and thrown back in his face. They were too strong with darkness to be slain by the fatal voice, but both fiends cried out as the waves around them exploded. Geeter’s wings were weighed down by many tons of water, and he fell smacking to the surface. His ears filled with agony, he whined and thrashed and whipped his tail about. Warloove screamed commands, but it was futile.
Now only one voice could be heard, and it mastered all.
Morning’s Hope dove down as fast as she could.
She had all along counted on the cover of the sea to diminish the voice’s effects, but there was no way for her to know just how much sound the water would filter. She hoped Drinwor could withstand it, for even she could barely endure it now. It was so loud, so painful! A pain like jabbing needles punctured the softest parts of her inner ears. That it was excruciating to Drinwor, she had no doubt. She wondered if Geeter still pursued her, hoped Murdraniuss had indeed been drawn from the hall’s entrance, and prayed that Drinwor wouldn’t lose his life or the Sunsword.