Chapter 1: A Meeting of the War Council

The dark stone of the hallway danced with shadows cast from flickering, violet flames. Under normal circumstances, Crimsonflame would have found the caretaker’s choice of color to be amusing, and perhaps find some political symbolism to ruminate upon within it (assuming, of course, that none of the races had already laid claim to the color purple).

Much was weighing on her mind, though. The situation was growing increasingly grim. With the loss of the battle of the BlackSmoke Mountain Range, a significant amount of territory had been ceded to the enemy. That hardly mattered, though, in comparison to the far greater loses that the Draconian people had suffered.

She stretched one long black and red claw from beneath her robe and pointed, motioning for her assistants to open the massive redwood door to the Council chambers. They moved swiftly, their robes twisting in the dim light, their claws clicking on the ground. Obediently, they opened the door and allowed her to pass.

“Ah,” called a hissing, low voice as the cloaked figure entered the room and approached the ancient stone table. Arcane Domination leaned forward, the scales of his head and body glistening in the oblique light of the room. “So you decided to grace us with your presence?” he asked sarcastically. He nearly continued with something further, but then his reptilian eyes glinted, and something like a smile crossed his mouth, revealing his long, pointed teeth. “You are not the Grand Magus,” he hissed, sounding mildly amused.

Crimsonflame pulled back the hood of her cloak, revealing her face to the members gathered in the room, exposing her red and black skin and the elegant, sweeping features of the Draconian people, her powerful beauty marred only by one milky, blind eye.

“Grand Magus Rageclaw has perished in the battle of the BlackSmoke Range,” she stated with regal composure, even as the weight of the situation weighed heavily on her heart. “I am his daughter, Crimsonflame. I am the new Grand Magus, ruler of Draconia.”

The other delegates looked shocked at the news, but Arcane Domination continued to smile, if only because the reptilian features of trihorns were not nearly as pliable as those of the Draconians. Though both species were fundamentally reptilian, they were, in many ways, opposite, and Arcane Domination as a fine example.

“The appointment of a new Grand Magus,” he said, and Crimsonflame knew that he was, indeed, smiling. “This calls for celebration! Slaves!”

He raised his hoof above him, and his three horns glowed with light. For a moment, it was possible to see a thin, glistening magical chain pass through the air into the darkness behind him. He seemed to pull on it, and two small whimpering creatures were pulled from the darkness.

Crimsonflame took a breath and released it slowly, smoke trailing from her nostrils, as she attempted to control her shock and offense. The two terrified creatures resembled trihorns in shape, but were half the size of Arcane Domination, their bodies narrow and thin, even compared to his gaunt form. Like parts of his own body, they were covered in fur, but theirs was both gray, save for their manes, which were pale off-white, while his was regal green. Their large, wide eyes were filled with fear, and around their necks were heavy iron collars binding them to Arcane Domination’s now invisible chain.

Most disturbing, though, was the single spiral horn that protruded from each of their heads.

“Slaves!” said Arcane Domination, nearly on the verge of laughter. “Provide our newly crowned queen with gemstones!” then, turning back to Crimsonflame, “oh, if only I could have been present for the coronation! I am sure my invitation, it only got lost in the mail.”

The pair of monohorn slaves picked up a pair of bowls with weak magic projected from their horns. Crimsonflame sighed again. He had known. That was why he had brought these two here. If he had dared to do so in the presence of Rageclaw, he would have been immolated on sight. Crimsonflame felt her father’s temper within her, and knew that she wanted to do the same, and not only for the insult and challenge to her position. She cooled her temper, though, and refrained.

“Arcane Domination,” she said, her voice cold, but carrying with it miniscule flecks of deep red fire. “I am sure you are aware of our most sacred policies about forcing evolution of lower creatures.”

“Is that all you can say?” he said, his expression suddenly darkening. He pounded one of his hooves on the table. “It is only by the arrogance of your kind that such a foolish rule is allowed to persist. I bring you this gift, these creations, and you scorn me so? A triumph of our sorcerers. Slaves for the factories, and for the front lines. Or did you forget that we are losing a war?”

Crimsonflame pounded her own claw against the table, and, forgetting herself, glowing cracks formed within the surface, superheated by her barely contained magic. She inhaled, and prepared for something of far greater potency, something that would be directed at Arcane’s smug face.

She was interrupted, however, by the sound of shattering china. She turned to see one of Arcane’s monohorns standing over a shattered pot, with numerous brightly colored gemstones scattered across the floor. Tears were welling in her eyes. It seemed that her magic had failed. No doubt, Crimsonflame knew, having a horn synthetically grafted into her brain was rather painful.

“You IDIOT!” bellowed Arcane Domination. His three horns ignited in green energy, and he raised his hoof, sending the cowering monohorn flying across the room, propelled by his energy, slamming her into a wall. Crimsonflame closed her eyes as she heard something crack. “That bowl is worth more than you are!”

“ENOUGH!” shouted a deep, booming voice. Commander Grayrock finally stood from his chair, sending it crashing backward. Crimsonflame and, to a lesser extent, Arcane Domination, had been watching him as he sat, grinding his teeth as he tried to control his anger. He had reached his breaking point, however, and both Crimsonflame and Arcane Domination were glad for very different reasons.

“Arcane Domination,” he growled, “you disgust me.”

He crossed the room, his massive body moving with surprising elegance. Though his figure was essentially equine, he was the epitome of a cerorian. His body was covered in hard, smooth plates of interlocking organic armor that made him look rather like a pill bug. Onto this armor had been printed the coded identification of his rank and title, a red-painted line of text identifying him as High Commander of the cerorian army.

He reached down to help the injured mare, offering his hoof. When she saw him clearly, though, she shrieked out in fear at the sight of his horned face and focusing, horizontal-puplied eyes. She picked herself up and limped back to Arcane Domination’s side as fast as she could, holding her left foreleg from reaching the ground.

“Oh, a broken leg, I see,” said Arcane Domination. “Well, that’s no good. When we return to my people, that will need to be…dealt with.”

“You are a monster,” spat Grayrock.

“Really?” said Arcane Domination, his eyes widening. “If I recall…no, I haven’t.”

“Haven’t what?”

“Haven’t killed as single one of my own people. And what was your record? Oh, if I recall, two hundred million.”

“And I could just as easily add one trihorn to that- -”

“Now, now, Grayrock,” said a grotesque, metallic voice from next to him. Lord Goldmist leaned forward, finally looking awake. He spread his massive golden wings behind him, stretching them, the metal clanking together with nearly musical tones as he did so. In truth, all present were amazed that he could even fly at all with such wings, or that any of his kind could- -but his construction was deceptive. Lord Goldmist was known as the most daring of his people, to the point where it was widely considered that he had been “blessed” with madness by a Lord of Chaos. Like all living Aurasus, he was able to effortlessly surpass the sound barrier, a process which inevitably emitted wide spectra of pure gold, but only he was said to have achieved a quantum-celestial acceleration, although no one had seen it. The minds of all watching had been instantly shattered by the incident, and their bodies decomposed into a fine, golden mist. Goldmist had been so overjoyed that he had taken up their remains and crafted a trophy for himself out of it.

“Don’t get so worked up,” he said, his mechanical-like eyes shifting toward the seething goliath. “They’re not really sentient, and not really alive. They’re just tools. Actually, I would rather like to place an order for four hundred of them immediately. Although, Domi, if you would tell, what is the quality of their meat?”

“Most excellent,” said the trihorn, once again smiling. “And the quality of their fur is spectacular. I can actually give you this one, if you like.” He pointed his hoof at the mare with a broken leg.

“And cover this with fur?” said Goldmist, gesturing toward his pure metallic equine body. “I am afraid not. But meat…actually, I’m rather hungry. Greyrock, sit down. Grand Magus Crimsonflame,” he said, standing and bowing. “Perhaps tempers have flared from hunger. We were waiting for a rather long time- -” he cut her off before she could interrupt, “because I realize that, as Forward General, it must have been difficult for you to return so quickly, especially after your father’s death. So, food.”

He raised his hoof, and his own servants appeared from behind him. Like him, they were metallic in nature, but they were Auragasus; their bodies were silver, and their wings far less regal. Unlike the monohorns that Arcane Domination had brought, they were also not slaves. In fact, Auragasi were rather highly regarded; only an Aurasus would be allowed to have them as a servant, which would be apparently be an honor to them.

They brought trays of food and dexterously placed them before each of the delegates. Both Arcane and Goldmist received plates with freshly prepared meat upon them, with Arcane’s being uncooked and bloody. Grayrock looked nauseously at their food as a plate of simple grass was put before him. Crimsonflame was given a small bowl of magically liquefied gold to complement the gems that the monohorn slave had already given her, and as she eyed it, she noticed Godlmist wink, and she barely suppressed a shiver.

The last plate of food was brought to the darkest corner of the room, to the silent final delegate. None of them aside from that delegate was sure what the plate contained, exactly, aside from something squirming and quite alive. When the plate was placed down and the silver equines nervously departed, a single narrow insectoid claw reached out of the darkness and took a screeching leech from the bowl, drawing it back into the darkness until the squealing stopped.

“Shall we finally discuss the matter at hand?” asked Crimsonflame. “As in the war?”

“Situation is grim,” buzzed a voice from the darkness, and several reflective eyes seemed to glow in the dark. “Enemy approaches from south. Monsters flow in wake. Egg-grounds at risk of being overrun.”

“Do you need reinforcements?”

“Not now. Can tolerate monsters. Public discontent about killing them. Time consuming. Problem is enemy, behind monsters. Approaches from south.”

“Your people are at the bottom of the continent,” said Greyrock, his face furrowing with concern, at least to the degree that an armor-plated face could furrow. “Are they attacking by naval assault?”

“No…rising from sea, we believe. Fish, dying. Ocean, dying.”

“Then they are attacking from multiple fronts,” said Crimsonflame, placing her fingers on the table. The stone split and illuminated with red magic, spreading across its surface to form a map.

Goldemist pulled back his plate, and tried to say something through the meat in his mouth. Crimsonflame nearly vomited from disgust.

He swallowed. “Our forces are spread too thin for further extension,” he said.

“And yet eighty percent of your airforce, including all Aurasi generals, circle your capital,” said Grayrock.

“We must retain air-superiority,” replied Goldmist harshly. He pointed at part of the map. “As you can see, Olympus is currently being moved to rest over Draconian territory, but we are literally moving a mountain. A flying mountain, I might add. Until it is over mainland, we are extremely vulnerable.”

“We have assembled a new shock force,” said Arcane Domination, somewhat smugly.

“You?” said Goldmist, suddenly chortling with laughter. “The trihorn, the wizard-folk? Have that many of your grand and mysterious spells failed, that you are finally joining the fight?”

“The force consists purely of monohorns. It is currently ten thousand strong.”

Crimsonflame nearly gasped. A force of ten thousand of the creatures indicated that the problem had been far more systematic; the Trihorn Empire had been at work far longer than she expected, even into her father’s rein.

“You would send these creatures to fight?” she said, her anger returning. “Their species is not but children, you can’t be serious.”

“Grand Magus,” said the delegate in darkness, pleading. “Understand, please. If swamps fall, our larva, the symbionts, they will die. Mothers will weep. Land will weep. Effect on Go will be profound. Could end us.”

“If a thousand of them must die to save just one of our people, the cost will be worth it,” said Arcane Domination, conviction in his slit-pupil eyes.

“Very well,” said Crimsonfire, slowly, with even greater sadness in her heart. She turned her face away; she could not bear to look into the eyes of the two mares on either side of Arcane Domination. “We will send your monohorn force.”

“They will not be alone,” said Grayrock. “I assure you, Crimsonflame. This will not be a suicide mission.”

“But your forces are already spread so thin.”

“No matter. There is a new crop of cadets. We are ceronians. We are born for war. Our children grow restless when withheld from battle.” He tried to force a smile, but Crimsonflame could see the pain in her eyes.

“And I will send a mage to assist,” she said.

“Thank you, Grand Magus.”

They stood silent for a moment, and Crimsonflame finally felt the full burden that her father had held before her. She had been reduced to sending children and slaves into battle. It would have been different if she had not known, and not seen the enemy, but she had been at BlackSmoke Ridge. She had seen it, in the distance, an abomination unlike any that she had witnessed or conceived. The horizon overtaken by a force, not of soldiers, but of a single, writhing, mucoid mass. It had stretched out over the land, its tentacles engulfing everything it touched, destroying everything. Even her father, the most powerful Draconian who had ever lived, could only slow it for long enough for his forces to retreat. It had engulfed him, and Crimsonflame had felt his magic slip away, his fire consumed by the shapeshifting mass. She knew the meaning of the name Choggoth, and knew it as her enemy. She also knew that the ceronian cadets and the monohorns could, at best, buy time for an evacuation. There would be no survivors.

She sighed, and took her seat at the table. She pointed at the map, and continued her discussion.

What neither the delegates nor the servants, or even the Draconian golems that guarded the room, had noticed, however, was that they were not alone. In a distant corner of the high stone ceiling, clinging to the rough and ancient stone, was something that could have arguably been mistaken as the type of slime-mold that often infested old buildings and the cycads of unfortunate nut-farmers. It was, however, a color that no slime-mold ever was: bright blue. Likewise, it confirmed to rudimentary, triangle-shaped organs that simultaneously watched and listened, observing everything that was occurring below.