by Jason Alan
Are you still with me? she thought.
Always, my servant, she swore she heard, a weak but determined reply. She swam on, deeper, deeper, her wings and limbs drawn in, her body undulating like an eel’s. Yet the banshee’s cry was still growing louder and louder. She couldn’t stand it!
Stop! Stop!
And then, just when she thought she couldn’t bear it any longer…it ceased.
Thank you, mother!
She immediately changed course and swam upward.
Stay with me, Drinwor! Hold your breath just a little longer!
And then, in the moments before she surfaced, she became aware of the undersea’s serenity. In these moments, things were actually calm…and graciously quiet. Save for the faraway cry of some peaceable beast gently pulsing through the currents, not a sound could be heard. What a relief! She looked about. Here and there, the deep blue of the abyss was illuminated by sinking shards, which flickered for a time before burning out like discarded torches as they sank into obscurity. And far, far below, she saw a dim glow of orange rings.
Deep elves.
There was a deep elf city below. She wondered what those mysterious elves were doing about the bombarding shards… No matter, she continued swimming up.
Before long, a whitish mound appeared from out of the darkness directly in front of her.
The island of bones!
The sight of the island spurring her on, she lifted her head, thrust her wings down and darted for the surface, which hung above her like some wavering magical veil, glittering with reflections of fire and stars. Her graceful snout sliced through it, and she leaped like a dolphin from the water. Fully extending her wings, she caught air and soared free on currents of wind.
She swiveled her head around. “Drinwor! Are you all right?”
The Emperor of the Sky erupted with a gargling scream, regurgitating what he thought was half the sea from his body.
“Drinwor!” she cried again.
He let out a mighty gasp, then, through a fit of coughs, said, “I think I’ve had enough going underwater…for a lifetime… I’m fine, I’m—”
“My Lord, the banshee’s cry, did it—”
“That was loud!” Drinwor put his hands to his head. “I wonder if the ringing in my ears will ever go away?”
“I’m sorry,” Morning’s Hope said as she dashed for the island, “I had no idea how long we’d be submerged, but the voice would have killed you had you been exposed.”
“No, it’s all right,” Drinwor said, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. “May the Gods return, you saved my life yet again.”
“It is my honorable and sacred duty, my Lord. Now, let’s get you into the hall.”
Drinwor looked forward and nodded. “Let’s go!”
The bone mountain loomed before them, looking more than ever like some giant evil skull. The shards had punched holes like eye sockets in its sides, the orifices flaring as if with pupils of fire. The castle at its crown was lurching, and all the island quaked. Half the foothills were smashed flat and steaming fissures pocked the beach. The banshee’s cry had given the island a minute’s respite from the punishing sea, though, for his voice had leveled all the waves before it.
Still dodging shards, Morning’s Hope dashed across the shoreline. She flew in low over the foothills, following the pathway Morigos had earlier pointed out—a thin cleft that zigzagged like a hairline fracture through the bones before heading straight toward the mountain.
She called out, “Are you ready?”
“I am!” Drinwor returned, his eyes ablaze, his demonskin’s sigils aglow. The saddle-throne’s ankle straps disappeared, and he stood up. “For my father, for Fleeting Shadow, for the Fallen Angel, let’s finally resurrect the Sunsword!” He slapped his leg pouch hard.
“Then prepare to leap. When I tell you, jump down and run as fast you can to the mountain.” Morning’s Hope motioned beneath her. “I’ll bring you in closer to the path and—”
She never finished the sentence.
Dragonfear struck a split second before Geeter’s foreclaw.
Morning’s Hope was hit so hard on her left-rear flank, her tail whipped up over her back and lashed the mainsail of her right wing. The wing crumpled and she pitched over. She recovered as fast as she could, and called out, “Emperor Fang!”
Too late.
The attack had thrown Drinwor from her back.
He instinctively curled up his body and somersaulted forward as he plummeted nearly a hundred feet to the bones. He righted just before he hit, and came down into the side of a particularly steep foothill. Luckily, the bones there were brittle; it felt as though he fell through the boughs of a forgiving tree. His armor saved his skin from lacerations, and the impact was relatively soft. (The mountain island itself would dare not claim the life of the Son and Savior of the Stars.) Unhurt, Drinwor climbed up through the little chasm he had just created, and poked his head through the hole.
Directly above him was a sight he would never forget.
There was Geeter, his huge foreclaws grasping Morning’s Hope, his neck intertwined with hers. With wings flapping wildly, they writhed around one another, snapping at each other like dueling snakes. Geeter shrieked and Morning’s Hope roared. Each spit fire: Geeter his black acidic spray; Morning’s Hope her white electrified flames. With their heads so close together, the fires missed their marks, but crossed streams and clashed like the meeting of two overpowered cosmic swords. A puff of greyish smoke emanated from the point of contact, and giant sparks flew everywhere.
“Get away! Get away from her!” Drinwor spewed with a guttural cry. He leaped from the chasm onto the more compacted bones near the pathway, his gaze an angry slave to the sky.
Geeter was overcoming his prey.
He is so much bigger than she is! thought Drinwor.
His limbs wrapped tighter around Morning’s Hope, his giant teeth grazing her neck, drawing streams of clear-bluish blood.
Grunting, Morning’s Hope managed to twist about in his grasp. She looked down and screamed, “Run, Drinwor!”
Drinwor just stood there.
Liquid crystal tears exploded from his eyes. He knew he must run, but how could he leave her to die? No! He couldn’t abandon her, couldn’t leave her to die at the hands of these murderous fiends. Emboldened by rage, he stepped forward, called out: “Warloove! I swear on my father’s soul, if you harm her you will swim inside a thousand suns!”
“No!” It was Morning’s Hope. “Drinwor, go, go, go!”
Warloove, who was seconds away from blasting Morning’s Hope into a bloody carcass, turned his head and called down, “Will I, Son of Herard? Will I swim inside the stars?” With a snarl he added, “Would you care to join me?” And with that he threw the fire that had been meant for Morning’s Hope at Drinwor.
The dusk elf back-flipped out of the way. The bones before him exploded, and he landed awkwardly on his side, ivory splinters raining down upon him. He stood up slowly, his surge of courage subsiding, his will wilting before the fiery ire of his enemy.
But then he met the eyes of his dragon.
Though meteors screamed down behind her, though blood trickled from her myriad wounds, though claws scraped her beautiful skin and black fire blistered her wings, her eyes shone with hope. And with her features glinting, she flashed Drinwor a little smile.
Drinwor felt his heart warm.
Morning’s Hope then slipped these sorcerously persuasive words down to him: “Have faith in the light of the universe, and have faith in me. Run, Drinwor. Please. For your father, for yourself, for all creation, run.”
Now the dusk elf Emperor of the Sky was overcome with a single thought.
The Sunsword Surassis.
He whispered, “Beloved creature of light,” then turned away, and with all speed dashed for the Hall of Voices.
He never saw the green beams of sorcery blast into Geeter’s flanks. Never saw a dark, twisted shape levitating up behind the dragons, tr
ailed by a streaming ribbon of moaning, angered spirits.
Of Morigos and Murdraniuss, Drinwor was not aware.
But of Warloove, Drinwor most certainly was.
The demonic dark elf vampire leaped from Geeter’s back, leaving the dragons to wrestle themselves to death for all he cared. A glowing blur of spinning blackness, he shot down and landed hard, his booted feet loudly crunching the bones. He screamed, “Like father like son, with nowhere to run!”
Drinwor ignored the cruel words and jumped into the cleft. The pathway was tight and deceptively deep, the sides rising to well over his head, streams of seawater splashing at his feet. The confinement was unnerving, but without pause he bolted for the mountain.
Warloove bounded in after him, yelling, “Fool! It is you who is fated to die by the fires of the sun!” Invisible lightning erupted from his claws, scattering a smattering of lethal little forks. They branched out, but fell short of their mark, exploding only the bones that jutted from the sides of the path behind the fleeing dusk elf.
Spurred by adrenaline and fear, assisted by the strength of his demonskin’s glowing sigils, Drinwor ran as fast as he ever had, ran as he never knew he could. Without realizing what he was doing, he leaned forward, dropped to all fours and sprinted like a supernatural tiger. Growling like a werewolf, Warloove picked up his own pace. His vampiric form was a blur of smoke and shadows, phasing in and out of sight as he half ran, half flew after the dusk elf. He gained ground on Drinwor, and bellowed, “Son of Herard! Do you abandon your beloved as your father abandoned his? What is this light you uphold that begets such betrayal? Truly, your cause is less worthy than mine!”
The words were swayed with sorcery.
An image of Morning’s Hope crushed in Geeter’s clutches filled Drinwor’s mind, and he faltered a step. In that instant, Warloove caught up to him and swiped at his legs, grazing the back of his calves, the Gauntlets of Loathing Light sizzling as they scraped the demonskin. But the armor absorbed the blow, and Drinwor recovered his stride. He ran even faster down the path, unleashing a guttural cry. “No, damn you! She will survive!”
The dark elf vampire was in disbelief.
How was it possible that this child’s swiftness superseded his own immortal speed? He called after Drinwor, “Your Fallen Angel has done nothing but sabotage the fate of this world!” and tried to keep pace.
But he could not.
The Son and Savior of the Stars was too fast.
With the meteors’ final assault bombarding the island, and the rising sea swamping the bones, Drinwor dashed into the shadows at the base of the mountain, and came to the pathway’s end. The cleft’s sides fell away beside him, and in front, a stair of polished ivory led into a cavern carved into the mountainside. A sparkling blue mist poured out of the cavern and spilled down the center of the steps.
Drinwor straightened up, looked wonderingly at his arms, then raced up the stair, his feet swirling the mist. He stumbled over something, but didn’t stop to see what it was. (It was one of many bodies. Concealed by the mist, the victims of the Lord Banshee piled all over the steps—curled, decomposed corpses still clutching unused weapons or grasping unspoken scrolls, the tattered parchments ripped through by death-convulsed fingers.)
With Warloove screaming threats from close behind him, he made it to the top of the stair and bolted into the cavern.
The cavern was dim and serene, its size difficult to discern. Curtains of blue vapor undulated all around like walls of windblown silk. Where the real walls stood was a mystery, for beyond the vapor walls, all was dark. Glittering mist covered the floor like a swamp of sparking ghosts. It came up to Drinwor’s waist, and in some places reached up to the ceiling in tightly coiled swirls. High above, the chamber was capped by a crystal dome whose glints were dimmed behind a suspended haze.
But Drinwor barely noticed the cavern’s features, for his attention was immediately drawn to the middle of the chamber. There, hovering as though it floated upon the surface of the mist, was a huge, humming globe of soft yellow light. It looked like a little sun. Rings of glowing blue runes hovered around it, and here and there certain words would flicker brightly. Stone steps rose out of the mist before it and disappeared into its lower curve. Within its brilliant core, Drinwor saw a shining realm whose sky was bespeckled with the multicolored stars of his dreams. “May the Gods return, the portal doorway to the Hall of Voices,” he whispered.
He ran halfway up the steps and stood right beneath the globe, his silver hair fluttering in an undetectable breeze, the sigils on his demonskin flaring as if they were on fire. He knew not why he paused. Perhaps out of fear of entering a realm totally unknown. Perhaps all that had happened was sinking in and he felt terribly alone.
Then he sensed Warloove enter the cavern.
“Stop, Son of Herard! Listen to me, if you enter there, you doom yourself, for you are no conduit for the sword! That is a place for immortals. There you will find only horrible death. Let me be the soul you seek, and I will empower you to rule the world! We can both prosper if you would only wait.”
Entranced by that distorted yet flowing song of a voice, Drinwor turned to face the black apparitional form.
Warloove stepped slowly toward him, easing his utterances as he came… “No, not just the world, but all the universe could be yours. Let us be reasonable. I will bargain with you. Give me the sword, and spare your father’s soul. I grow weary of asking, over and over. I will kill you gently. Or perhaps I will save you… Give me the Sunsword Surassis, Drinwor Fang, for the sake of us all.”
Drinwor saw eyes of black suddenly blaze to yellow, and he remembered falling into them, into the well of Warloove’s soul. It was a place he did not want to return to, a place only Morning’s Hope could have rescued him from. He then whispered just a single little word. But his voice carried the word like a strong gust across the undulating ocean of mist, and it burned like an ember in the undead ears of his adversary.
The word was: “No.”
“No?” Warloove crept closer. “Are you certain? Is this what you seek?”
Suddenly, a host of dreadful thoughts and images filled Drinwor’s mind, and he had the distinct impression that claws were reaching for his throat.
Warloove crept closer still.
Drinwor turned away from those blazing yellow eyes and cried out, “Morning’s Hope!” Then he bolted up the rest of the steps, closed his own eyes, and leaped into the portal…never noticing the small, nearly invisible black wisp of shadow that was Drekklor accompany him in.
Warloove screamed, “Bastard child, you are no destroyer of destiny!” then went flying after him.
But Warloove never made it, for you see, when he was only three feet away from the portal’s steps, the crystal ceiling came crashing down atop him…
The last shard of the meteor storm shot over the Continent Isle of Volcar, passed over the nameless sea, and as if guided by some meddlesome whimsy of fate, angled down and smashed directly into the sky elf fortress of Shirian Shirion.
The castle was totally destroyed.
The towers exploded, the walls caved in, and the keep crumbled. The mountain couldn’t withstand the stress, so it fell into itself. The crushing of ten million bones crackled like the burning of ten thousand trees, and all ruin came thundering down.
The island was lost to the sea.
Waves came in and swept all that remained beneath them.
The portal globe to the Hall of Voices, hanging suspended over the water, flickered, faded, and failed. Nevermore would it be seen, though evermore would it be sought. Thereafter, legends would tell that it had been lost when the sea had defeated the stars.
And I, the scribe of this story, slump in my chair and heave a great sigh of relief, for my precious Drinwor had survived Against the Fall of Night.
Our lives are but the eyes of the universe, which ever gazes wonderingly at itself.
Vorlock
Sky Elf Warrior of Shy-Rheem
> Syndreck’s relentless application of dark magic continued to exact its price. The rate at which his stolen body decayed was accelerating. Now he looked more like he did when his part in our fairytale had just begun, when Drekklor had first pulled him from the bowels of the black hole.
Scabby skin fell in flakes from his face. Black blood dripped from the corners of his mouth, for his throat was lacerated by the perpetual passage of scathing sorcerous songs. Even his conjured robes were withering. Their green fabric went grey, the embroidered cuffs unraveled…much like the sanity of the one to whom they belonged, I suppose. The dearly departed Tatoc would have been mortified to see his body in such condition, but Syndreck didn’t care, for his bloodshot eyes still held a remarkable light, even as the flesh around them rotted.
His hands splayed above the Cauldron of Carcass Control, he continued to tear the skies over the Raging Sea apart. And then, to his delight, words came from within the cauldron, words that trembled the very foundations of eternity…
Yes, Syndreck, set me free! Set us all free!
His ears twitching, the necromancer paused. “My Lord…? Is that your voice?”
Nothing of the Dark Forever must be withheld. With all the power you can muster, tear down the dimensional walls!
“Nenockra Rool!” Syndreck raised his arms, his words issuing slowly and thunderously. “Great One, though I strain against the stars, though I toil against the very fabric of the universe, I am succeeding! Look, Great One! Your vast hordes assist me from the other side!”
Syndreck made a fist, punched the cauldron’s surface, and a million demon eyes appeared within the ripples. He called upon them, exhorting them to expend yet more strength. “Pull harder! The Great One must be freed!”