by Jason Alan
“Stay with me!” Morning’s Hope screamed.
“I’m trying to!” Drinwor returned, leaning his body this way and that. He watched in horror as the flight of volcanic dragons beside them was smashed beneath a tremendous wall and driven toward the ground. The palace’s exploded spires fell by them. Demons clinging to the wreckage swiped at Morning’s Hope on their way down. In a desperate move to avoid them, she banked left, then dove hard right.
That last maneuver took Drinwor by surprise. He lost his footing and slid from her back. “Morning’s Hope!” he screamed, his one hand clinging to the Sunsword, his other to the edge of her wing. His demonskin gloves slick with blood and sweat, his grip was weak. He was slipping, slipping…
Morning’s Hope leveled and folded her wing to her body. Drinwor rolled onto her back, landed on his knees, his breath returning with a deep heave.
The translucent dragon winced. “I’m sorry, my Emperor, it was all I could do to avoid the wreckage.”
“No need to apologize,” he said, standing up, brushing himself off.
By now they’d flown clear of the falling ruins—all traces of the destroyed palace were gone. But most of the guardian dragons were gone, too, their molten husks lost to the crater-pocked plains far below, their souls lost to eternity.
Morigos, cackling as crazily as ever, flew up to Morning’s Hope. “Some allies you have with these spirit elves! Throwing palaces at us!”
Morning’s Hope ignored him, cried, “Come, to the Raging Sea we go!”
Arcynn Ahnna Jha retook her position over Morning’s Hope. Vu Verian flanked them to their left, and the dozen surviving volcanic spirit dragons spread out around them as they flew over the Cliffs of Moaning Wishes and plunged into the swirling vapors of the Devil’s Wind.
Nenockra Rool’s second foot stomped into the sea, riling up even higher waves than the first. Then, with most of his body still stuck in the Dark Forever, he leaned down and peered into the universe he intended to tyrannize. A moon-sized eye filled a corner of the cloven sky and regarded the world with a hateful stare, its pupil gleaming with a fire blacker than any that had been thrown in the battle.
The Devil King found the little sea that splashed his toes rather annoying, for he hadn’t expected his first steps in the primary universe to be planted in murky water. He looked to the sea and twitched his eye—a single little twitch—and the Raging Sea was overlaid with a shimmering coat of flickering energy.
The sea burned.
And then it disintegrated!
Oh, my, can you imagine?
Just as the tidal waves from Nenockra Rool’s first step were about to crash into the Cliffs of Moaning Wishes, they vanished. From horizon to horizon, from shore to shore, the entire sea disappeared in a sizzling flash, and millions of species were burned into extinction with the twitch of an eye.
Now the plains of the abyss were exposed.
Jagged rows of sedimentary rock crisscrossed into the distance. Oceanic trenches burrowed like canyons deep into the world. Hydrothermal vents sputtered the last of the sea’s liquid like blood from the mouth of the dying, and whatever foliage was left folded to the seafloor. All that remained were the deep elf cities, which now stood as isolated oases on an otherwise dead world, their Dreadship fleets suddenly patrolling the sky. For reasons to be recounted in later tomes, the Devil King had spared the mysterious elves from his burning glare.
Satisfied with the sea’s destruction, Nenockra Rool ducked through the rift and lifted his head into the free air of Phate. All the world seemed to gasp. Here was the seed of everyone’s darkest dreams, a crimson-black behemoth so terrible, his every feature so wickedly shaped, it hurt the heart just to view him. He was a mountain range of muscle, a devil of stupendously tremendous size, with nothing but death residing in the blackened hollows of his cruelly angled eyes. He was so many miles tall that when he straightened, his horned head rose up through the storms clouds, pushed through the atmosphere, and lifted into space. For a moment he just stood there, staring at the cowering stars. His look was so loathsome, it unleashed a torrent of hate that spread throughout the universe and froze the hearts of a trillion beings, slaying them wherever they stood.
Nenockra Rool was euphoric.
Here was eternity! His eternity! So many souls would he rule! So many beings would he subjugate! He would suck on the stars, chew on their worlds, and crush the moons between his fingers. He made to rise into space…
…but found that he was not completely free.
His right arm was still elbow deep in the dimensional breach.
He tugged at it, but couldn’t pull it all the way through, for in his hand was his weapon, the Hammer of Battered Souls. The hammer’s head was so massive, it couldn’t fit through the rent, the handle pushing on the sky from inside of his own realm. Well then. It would seem that Nenockra Rool was in a little quandary, eh? He would not leave the Dark Forever without this weapon—which also served as his scepter and staff—so he leaned down to deal with this bothersome issue.
When his head reappeared within the atmosphere, he was welcomed by a frenzy of dragons.
One hundred thousand volcanic dragons had broken from the battle above the Wicked Plains to converge upon the living embodiment of all their fears. They screeched at the stars, some begging for help, some for mercy, and some cursing all who hadn’t come to aid them. Angered and desperate, with a million demons on the tips of their tails, they swarmed the Devil King, a streaming mass of molten covered souls curling around his tremendous body and attacking.
At first, Nenockra Rool ignored them. They were tiny, inconsequential; they couldn’t even scratch his stone-hard skin. And their fire was futile, pleasant when compared to the sensation of the Raging Sea between his toes. He was confident that his demon hordes would slay them while he tried to wrench his hammer free. But soon the dragons managed to annoy him enough for him to twist around and swat at them. The dragons parted, half of them diving away, half of them diving closer to his body.
Tens of thousands of them couldn’t evade that kingdom-sized claw as it came down like the Continent Isle of Volcar itself falling from the sky.
The dragons were slashed apart, their ruptured lava skins raining down upon the now Disintegrated Sea. Simultaneously, each doomed soul let loose with their last scream, and all the world heard what would be forever remembered as the Dying Chorus of Light.
The Devil King went back to trying to work his hammer free, not yet noticing the little white fire of Surassis coming closer and closer…
“What’s this?”
Syndreck the Brooding swore he heard the triumphant cry of the Dark Forever, swore he felt thudding steps tremble the underpinnings of the universe.
It could mean only one thing.
Nenockra Rool was free.
Syndreck’s skeletal face stretched with a sinister smile. (For all the things that I’ve described, I actually find that little image to be one of the most disturbing!)
“Come, wicked warrior!” he taunted Soular Centurion 7 as they chased, “come and mix might with the mightiest!”
Now, as exhilarated as ever, Syndreck rallied all his sorcerous strength and sped beyond supra-light speed, beyond the reach of the Sword of Molecular Destruction. His echoing laughter haunting the skies of a hundred decaying worlds, he flew faster and faster, until he managed to lose the centurion…and then he stopped.
His blasphemous form faded like the spirit stars about him, and he disappeared.
As the companions drew ever nearer, more and more of Nenockra Rool’s nightmarish form became apparent through the choking haze of the Devil’s Wind.
Drinwor grimaced.
In Nenockra Rool, he saw the death of his father, the death of dragons, the death of all who didn’t deserve to die. Here was the purveyor of the destruction of his once beautiful world, the poisoner of his blessed skies.
Drinwor realized he hated Nenockra Rool.
Hated him even more than he h
ated Warloove. Hated him with such fervor, the desire to burn him from existence right then became an obsession. And he knew he could do it. All along the power had been inside of him. The Sunsword was merely the wand through which his innate magic would flow.
“Morning’s Hope!” he screamed, “take me to him! Take me now!”
“My Lord!” his dragon returned, “we must first defeat these demons!”
Drinwor looked down as a hundred demons shot up from the red vapors below as if they’d been launched from a cannon.
“No time for tea?” Morigos snickered.
“Evade!” Morning’s Hope commanded as the demons poured in. The companions did, but the last of their guardian volcanic spirit dragons didn’t. Instead, these brave beasts dove down, tightening their positions to each other in an attempt to obstruct the attack upon the companions. Their sacrifice succeeded, for their bodies blocked a rising wall of greenish-black fire spewed from the demons’ mouths. The huge wall engulfed the dragons and exploded. With their molten skin ruptured, the dragons’ bluish souls appeared for a second, swirling up out of the fires before they went screaming into eternity and disappeared.
“Cursed devils!” Morning’s Hope swore.
“Come to me!” Drinwor challenged the demons.
And came they did, though had they been wise, they would have stayed far away from the Emperor of the Sky. His sword wasn’t a blade but a blinding blur to those fiends who found themselves skewered on the end of its fiery tip. He raced from wingtip to wingtip, jumping, diving, rolling, fighting the demons off his dragon as much as he fought to keep his balance. Surassis screamed its song and Drinwor screamed, too.
Morigos chanted like a mad witch as he threw endless streams of violent sorcery. “Demon heads aflame! Devil eyes afire! Of killing brainless fiends, I shall never tire! Ah, haha!”
Vu Verian was silent as he shot his beams.
Morning’s Hope breathed fire and maneuvered wildly through the great storm of demons and dragons and palaces and sorcery.
The fighting raged on and on…
It was getting late.
The unseeable sun flirted with the lost horizon, and nighttime waited like an assassin in the shadow of the world, anxious to bloody the sky with black. By now, the chaotic battle and temperamental winds of a hundred clashing sorcerous storms had swirled much of the Devil’s Wind apart, and the companions fought their way into a portion of the sky that was relatively clear. They were far out over the Disintegrated Sea now, closer than ever to Nenockra Rool.
“By the light,” Morning’s Hope uttered in a hushed tone, “look at that. He looked huge before, but…”
Drinwor was stunned with both hate and wonder.
Viewing the Devil King at this close range, it was apparent that he was even more immense than they’d all first believed. Had his arm not still been stuck in the breach, Drinwor imagined he would have been able to reach up into space with his other arm and crush Rong and the Four Apostles with one squeeze. Tens of thousands of volcanic spirit dragons surrounded him like a swarm of fiery gnats, and a million cavorting demon slaves piled at his feet. Fires burned all over him; all around him the sky was sliced open as if he himself had ravaged it with a great cleaver. A realm darker than black lay behind the tattered fabric of Phate’s sky, and within shone a galaxy of angry red eyes.
“Most impressive from this close, wouldn’t you say?” Morigos noted with a chortle. “All he has to do is take a step toward us, and it’s all over. Perhaps I should call to him!”
Morning’s Hope flashed him such a look!
Drinwor slimmed his silver eyes, said, “It’s the most horrendous, hateful, horrifying abomination of the universe I have ever seen.” Then he yelled, “Closer! Closer! Take me to him!” and pointed Surassis forward.
Morning’s Hope looked worriedly about. “I’ll bring you closer when I can, my Lord, but I fear we’ve been spotted again.”
She was right.
Rushing in from the far side of the sea was a great horde of beasts. They flew as one maddened mass of limbs and claws and horns and weapons, cackling as they came to annihilate the little band of companions.
“It’s over,” Vu Verian solemnly said, his gaze fixed on the demons. “There must be thousands of them in that swarm.”
“Come for us!” Drinwor challenged.
The demons heard his cry.
They recognized the white flame of Surassis now. Recognized it for the weapon of their most dangerous opponent: the silver-black warrior who struck them like a vengeful star, the dusk elf boy who was Emperor of the Sky.
They came for him.
The companions made ready to fight, and perhaps to die.
“My Emperor…” Morning’s Hope said, “I’ll protect you the best I’m able.”
“Have no fear!” Drinwor responded. “Fly to meet them and I’ll cut them from the sky!”
“Evade them!” a cowering Vu Verian suggested.
“Kill them!” a cackling Morigos yelled. He raised his staff, ready to send a barrage of green flames into the infernal fiends.
The great flight of demons angled down to spear the companions as if upon a lance of living fire. There were so many of them! They were so close now, the companions could feel the heat they exuded, could smell their foul breath and revolting spittle. The demons’ clamor elevated into roaring laughter, and the insanity of wild, fiery death reflected in the eyes of each companion.
“No,” Morning’s Hope whispered, “Not like this…”
And then the dragons came.
Oh, thank the Seven Glories, they arrived just in time!
Spurred by the sight of Nenockra Rool killing their kin, urged by the instinct to protect the Son and Savior of the Stars, a hundred thousand volcanic spirit dragons had massed together and dove over the Cliffs of Moaning Wishes, leaving the Wicked Plains to burn unabatedly. Now they came in with all the force of a miles-wide, fire-breathing battering ram, blasting right over the companions’ heads and slamming into the diving demons!
The demons were instantly annihilated.
Molten fire burned them to cinders, and gleaming claws shredded them apart. Not even one survived, and their remains settled down in the Disintegrated Sea.
The companions, though doused with demon parts, were saved.
They hovered in the air, quivering with relief as the great tide of dragons passed overhead. Drinwor and Morigos cheered. Vu Verian bowed his head. Morning’s Hope whispered, “Thank you.”
It was a last, great push to the Devil King by all those who were left. The remaining sky elf palaces, damaged and on fire, with demons clinging to their walls, came in behind the dragons. Spirit elf sorcerers could be heard, either singing sorcery or screaming in their death throes. Vren Adiri, heavily damaged and listing, flew before the rest, its sorcerers still flinging the strongest of flames. Commanded to protect their god and ruler, the legions of demons on the Wicked Plains turned around, leaped or flew over the cliffs, and came charging in behind it all.
“Drinwor!” a newly enlivened Morning’s Hope roared, “we fly for the freedom of the stars, for the conquest of all that defeats hope! Ready yourself and your sword, and strike darkness in its heart!”
“One Life! One Soul! One Sword!” Drinwor cried.
“One insane dusk elf!” Morigos added.
And then they flew to join the enormous flight of dragons.
Syndreck the Brooding was gone.
Accelerating away at such an astonishing speed, he’d vanished from Soular Centurion 7’s scopes. The tether of greyish magic faded, and all traces of the necromancer disappeared.
The centurion stopped.
And then the centurion calculated.
He knew Syndreck couldn’t abandon Phate for too long, for the necromancer would risk losing control of the dimensional rifts that now allowed the Dark Forever access into the primary universe.
Yes, there was only one place for Syndreck to go to.
– SET
COORDINATES FOR ULITH URN, WESTERN EDGE OF VOLCAR –
Soular Centurion 7 phased out of solidity…
Moments later, the galactic warrior materialized on a floor of crumbling flagstone that was suspended hundreds of feet above the ground. A tower of lightning surrounded him, and a large, disgusting pot of gurgling filth sat on the platform next to him.
– THE CAULDRON OF CARCASS CONTROL –
Good. He was back on Phate, in the precise spot where he’d been when he left.
But there was one problem.
Syndreck the Brooding wasn’t there.
That was impossible—he had to be there…somewhere.
Soular Centurion 7 looked around, scanning. There was nothing. He turned, then leaned over the cauldron, half expecting the necromancer to jump out of it.
That wasn’t quite right.
Syndreck suddenly materialized, hovering in the air behind him. With a sorcerously strengthened pair of bony arms, the necromancer grabbed the back of the centurion’s head and shoved it into the boiling pot.
“Die! Die! In the name of the Dark Forever, Die!” Syndreck screamed with joyous insanity. “Imbibe the brew of the demons!”
The bubbling froth of the necromancer’s cauldron was something of a scalding dimension in itself, haunted by hateful spirits who tore and slashed at the galactic warrior with spectral claws. The heat was intense, hotter than a sun’s, the attacks surprisingly fierce. The circuits in the centurion’s supra-steel helm sparked, and his motor control functions failed. For a moment, he was stuck in place, with fiery undead clawing at his head.