Kunglomerate Literary Magazine (Winter 2023)

Many thanks to our contributors!

Advisors: Mrs. Docherty and Mrs. Kimball Editor-in-chief: Elizabeth Flintoff Copy editors: Robert Hartenstein, Katie Liberatore, and William Underhill Cover artist: Elizabeth Flintoff Artist: Natalia Benischek Writers: Natalia Benischek, Tommy DeFelice, Ruthie Eastlund, Elizabeth Flintoff, Robert Hartenstein, Adela Horsting, Alivia Merriam, William Underhill, Johnny Weaver, Terese Wilder, and more!

Resident poet: Adela Horsting Other staff: Tiernan Cain, Sophia D’Agnese, Roisin Docherty, Thomas Grimm, and John Paul Szewczuk

✣ Letter from the Editor ✣

This is the very first issue of Cardinal Kung Academy’s new literary magazine, the Kunglomerate!

Conglomerate (n.): a number of different things or parts that are put or grouped together to form a whole but remain distinct entities (Oxford Languages) The Kunglomerate has brought together different people with different writing styles and talents to create a remarkable collection of works. I hope you enjoy the students’ writing!

Happy reading!

Elizabeth Flintoff

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Listening

by Adela Horsting

a mountain that hides a flower of gold, a tree standing near the threshold cold; a forest of leaves that fall from the trees, and carpet the ground of loam. a noise from afar — the rippling stream, that winds through the trees like a glimmering dream; the voice from afar calls to the star, and guides me to my home.

Morning Dew

My Unknowing Bliss Dead

by Anonymous Inspired by Walt Whitman’s “When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer”

Floating among the night’s mysterious planets, Breathing the incomprehensible lights calling my name from lightyears away, Turning in a soup of pitch black with no cause or explanation, And I fly to their immortal structures swimming in oblivion.

Yet I find my unexplainable to be explained.

My flying body snatched back down to a solved reality.

The bright, mystical simpleness is ripped off my unknowing being.

My wonder is lost, my unknowing bliss dead.

by Elizabeth Flintoff

Green grass glistening Dotted with transparent pearls Dried up before noon.

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Moonlight

by Elizabeth Flintoff

Sometimes I gaze out the window after dark To ponder the pale, lonely orb in the sky Casting beams of borrowed light upon The slumbering Earth.

With nothing to offer but a loyal orbit, Our constant companion cannot help but play Second fiddle to the Sun. Yet it continues undeterred in its path Striving for the Earth’s attention Craving the satisfaction of a solar eclipse To numb the twinge of jealousy Just a bit.

Painting by Natalia Benischek

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Rumors of Thoreau

by Terese Wilder

Amidst the tower of the trees; Among the buzzing of bees; Inside the claustrophobic cabin He had written Walden.

The trees were quite a lovely green, And mud covered the ground And never was a smile seen Because he'd always frown.

And frown he did -- not of himself For society was saddening, Some shocked that his work did sell To live as he is maddening.

"The world possessed by constant buzz Forever enslaved," thought he "Restless and entrapped the world was And beauty remained unseen."

He took arms against society; He stared at his reflection.

He left to live deliberately; He lived without distraction.

"He's mad!" thought the town, "The buzzing of his thoughts-We must repress this sound!

Is two years too much?"

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Disgraceful Thoreau! Ungrateful Thoreau!

He turned his back on us!

Disobedient Thoreau! Mad Thoreau!

And arrested soon he was.

But even martyrs are mad; All good men can be bad; Live on Thoreau! Brave Thoreau!

Who fought against society.

A little bit of background thoughts while I was writing this poem: Though the poem was initially about Thoreau's Walden, towards the end, it took a turn towards a different angle. Initially, it was going to be about rumors that may have occurred pertaining to Thoreau: Did the people think he was ungrateful for leaving society after all it had given him? I was originally going to write one stanza on the thoughts of those who thought all the negative about him (his ingratitude towards society, and his narcissism), and another few stanzas of those who thought highly of him. However, as I was running out of time in the car ride, I came up with the last stanza as quickly as I could (without much thought), which gave the poem an entirely different meaning from what I initially wanted. I am actually content with the last stanza more than anything, and decided to keep it. Looking back on the poem, it seems to be less and less about Thoreau, and more about whatever interpretation anyone lands upon.

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Cold Feet

by Tommy DeFelice

She walks down the aisle.

Her cold feet feel the cold tile.

She takes a quick breath.

The thin air reminds her – death.

Until death do us part, These vows not yet in her heart.

She knows she has a sin That separates her from Him, And until she confesses it, From His mouth, she’ll be spit.

If she kneels upon the altar, Repeats the vows faltered, Receives Him with a black soul, With total control.

Then death will consume her all, From Him she will fall.

She knows she cannot wed, He she cannot be fed, He she will not eat, She flees – with cold feet.

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A Ballad

by Natalia Benischek

Once, in England’s merry woods, A fearful bear did live; It was of an enormous size, As well as primitive.

So savage did the bear become, The people were afraid; They sent requests to every land, In hopes of getting aid.

Out of several lands there came Kings and dukes a-plenty, All eager to receive the prize, And to challenge many.

But, no matter how hard they tried, The huge bear wouldn’t budge; So, they all began to give up, As well as hold a grudge.

Then, one day, a merry youth Came from a town nearby, All the kings and dukes around Scoffed and dared him to try.

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The wily youth just smiled at them, And simply set a snare, Unlike all the other attempts At slaying the big bear.

Head over heels, the bear fell in; Not noticing the hole; To the chagrin of all the kings, Who fled to the North Pole.

So now the youth in bliss doth reign; The people made him prince.

I don’t know where the bear is now, I haven’t seen him since.

An Ode to Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis

by William Underhill O word who in this poem must take a line and fill it up to all exclusion Whose letters forty-five and nineteen syllables will no doubt cause confusion To say you right, pronounce you well, some people would indeed believe it gnosis: Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis.

You’re ruler of the long words one can memorize and say without delaying, While systematic protein names would force one to delay and skip the saying.

Take shorter ones— electromicrographically— you have already beat her; And floccinauci– what’s the rest? I sadly couldn’t fit her in this meter.

Something about you makes you swim by very smoothly, briefly and succinctly; As I think, it’s your rhythm that so sneakily succeeds to make you kingly.

You’re coined by Everett Smith to mock the long and boring terms of many scientists– On words like those they always make themselves a helpless species of reliantists.

You really mean a sickness caused by breathing in fine glass dust, silicosis, Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis.

But really you’re a word at heart, and while you're sweet and fresh, you’re too, creative: A masterpiece unique, of which no other word can ever be emulative.

Though knowing that you’re satire makes you harder to appreciate for beauty, Yet for enjoyment, I’ll pretend my ignorance though they may call me snooty.

O word of words, may always you bring swelling of the mind, or mentiosis– Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis!

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MONEY

by Robert Hartenstein

I have a nice penny She's shiny, new copper.

She's brilliant as day And nothing can top her.

I know she's not worth much, Just only one cent, But, you know, when there's money, On the sidewalk cement, That there is a deal That I cannot resent!

So now I'm all happy As skippy as can be, Like a dog with a ball Or a kid with candy.

But . . . No! Now I've dropped her!

She's rolling away!

Right after I found her And she made my day!

You can't leave me like this!

I'll cry on the spot!

Come back to my hand Where it's safe, soft, and hot!

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But my penny can't hear me She's rolled into the street, And on towards a storm drain, A dark, wet fate to meet.

She plummets into darkness And with a soft plunk, She's now gone forever, My high spirits are sunk.

A Christmas Poem

by Natalia Benischek She crept down the stairs And looked at the tree, At the stockings in pairs, And she squealed for glee.

She hurriedly grabs a present And almost tears the wrapping off, Close to carrying out her intent But a thought makes her stop.

The crèche under the Christmas tree Is lit up with a glow.

Suddenly she recalls that He was born in a stable low.

She gently cradles the Infant In the small palm of her hand; She whispers something in that instant And feels her heart expand.

She knows how much He loves her If He was willing to come like this.

On His little porcelain forehead the whisperer Plants a kiss.

She creeps back up to her bed And waits for her family to wake.

The Infant blesses her sleepy head; He did it for her sake.

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Fragmented and Unnatural

by Ruthie Eastlund The shadowy shape chased her through the crowd, the vibrant neons blurred as she ran, gasping for breath. Her head swiveled back and forth as she frantically checked to see whether she’d finally lost her pursuer; she had not. Past the growling rowdy lions and that foolish man who thought he had tamed them, past the woman with the sunken eyes and the murky crystal ball, past the children eagerly watching as a man with his face painted white attempted to escape his imagined box. She hiked up her long flowing skirt with what must have been a hundred layers, and darted into the nearest building. Her pale face grew even paler, and she stared at her own reflection. One, two, three… twenty-eight of herself, each one more wide-eyed than the last. A young girl in a violet dress, tousled light hair streaming down her back, her pink lips forming a perfect O. Well, some did — was it just her imagination, or did one reflection not match the rest? She held out her porcelain hand, taking a shaky step toward the apparition.

Her vision was shaky, blurred, her mind was wandering. The girl in front of her was a reflection — it must have been a trick of the mind. The reflection flickered, and the girl could have sworn its eyelid flinched as if it were winking. She lunged forward, anticipating a crash into a sheet of glass, but instead she found herself in a hall of mirrors — was it the same as the last? Silvery glass on all sides, no entrance or exit to be found. Had there been an exit in the last room? She couldn’t remember. Her mind was too clouded with doubt and confusion and some sort of eerie remembrance.

Footsteps. He was coming.

The reflections no longer attempted to hide their uncanny lack of attachment to their subject. She spun around, her skirt flying in all different directions as she attempted to hold back the creatures that had stolen her shape. But they remained trapped in the glass, only deviating slightly from her motions. Perhaps the girl had 11

raised her hand ever so slightly, like the reflection on her left, or perhaps she had unconsciously nodded her head, like the girl on the right. She stepped forward, shoving her hand through what she assumed would be another passage, but nothing.

Just the icy smooth feel of a mirror. The girl on the other side’s hand was pressed to the sheet of glass, her perfect twin. She repeated the process with every mirror, each time in vain. No difference, no deviation. She could have sworn the reflections were acting on their own, but perhaps it was all in her head. She turned back to the first mirror she had tried, and smashed her fist against the glass in desperation. A cold, clammy hand with purple fingernails snatched her wrist and yanked her to the other side. The dirt floor and red and white-striped tent ceiling were gone. Now it was only mirrors. Fragmented and unnatural, the apparitions stood on all sides.

She wiped a tear from her face, her cheeks flushed. Her pursuer was the last thing on her mind; she only wished to escape this house of mirrors and madness.

The girl approached the mirror in front of her in fascination and horror: her reflection pounding on the glass, silently screaming, tears streaming down its ruddy face. A beast leaped at it, a bloodbath ensuing, and the reflection too long-gone for help. Blood splattered on the glass, and to the girl’s dismay, it began to seep onto the floor on her side of the mirror. She stepped back before her skirts could be stained.

In the neighboring mirror, her reflection sprinted, a look of terror across its face.

The reflection's pursuer came into frame — shadowy and nondescript — and the reflection stumbled. The blurry figure loomed over the reflection, brandishing a small rusty dagger. Before the girl could see what befell the reflection, she turned and began to run down a hall that had not been there before, squeezing her eyes shut to escape the sight of her inevitable death. Every so often, she’d open them, to ensure the shadowy figure was not in sight; she would always instantly regret this decision, as she saw her reflection flayed, drowned, decapitated — always screaming and crying for help. Her inaudible screams made the perfect silence far more uncanny. Could

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she hear her own footsteps?

The girl crashed into a hard surface; glass shattered and she pulled away, impaled by tiny microscopic shards. She fell to the ground, her vision hazy as she pressed her fingers to her head, and pulled them away to see her crimson blood. The world slipped away, and the girl fell in a slump against the broken mirror.

The boy who had been pursuing her finally caught up. He had been calling her name for hours, his voice was hoarse and shaky. He cried out one last time as he saw her corpse, and the world felt like it was in slow motion: he threw himself on the ground and wept. The girl's long lost love carried her body from the tiny, completely ordinary room, four mirrors intact, one broken. He walked with her unmoving lifeless body in his arms, the circus goers staring at them in horrified terror. The boy felt a tear slip down his face as he wondered why she ever would have thrown herself into a mirror.

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The Tale of Lalo

by Alivia Merriam and Natalia Benischek

Una vez, once upon a time, there lived a peasant named Eduardo Chemeno Andrés Sanchez. (But for the sake of the story we’ll just call him Lalo.)

Lalo was a simple fellow. He was a burro-breeder, one who breeds donkeys on his ranch and sells them for a living. His dreams in life were achievable, simple, and were mostly based on living with his burros and marrying the chica of his dreams and childhood friend, Carmelita.

Her brother Juan, however, was a cruel, well-off burro breeder. Juan used to be Lalo’s childhood friend, but became greedy and mean-spirited towards Lalo, his competitor. He beat his burros and often skimped on their food, making his donkeys miserable and weak. Despite this, Juan managed to mask himself as a benevolent breeder when people visited his ranch to inquire about his donkeys, so he made a lot of money despite his maltreatment of his burros.

Lalo wanted to propose to Carmelita soon and although he lived a simple life, his situation was quite complicated. Although he was very sure Carmelita would say yes (seeing that they had been courting in secret for almost 4 years) he still had to ask permission from Juan to marry her, since he was her legal guardian.

He was not quite sure how that would go. Above all, he wanted to offer Carmelita the best, which meant that some more money could definitely come in handy.

One fine morning, Lalo, waking to the crowing of his rooster, decided that today was the day he’d ask Juan’s permission to propose. After eating his breakfast of nopales y tortillas, he set off to Juan’s farm. As he was on his way he saw Doña Filiberta, the old town gossip.

“Oyé Lalo!” she called. “I have news to tell you! Apparently, a rich man named Don Lupe moved into the pueblo across the montaña. He needs a reliable person who will supply him with burros. I heard he’s planning on having you 14

and Juan compete for the position.” Doña Filiberta chuckled, “Eh mijo, good luck.” With that, she comically sauntered away.

“Ay caramba,” mused Lalo, his thoughts churning. “Juan is so competitive and he already doesn’t like me. There's no chance he’ll say yes to our marriage, especially if this rich man will make us compete. Hmmm…but if this rich man hires me, it will help me and Carmelita financially… if by some miracle we do get Juan’s permission. But maybe he hasn’t heard the news yet.”

So Lalo decided to set off to Juan's ranch and see if he had heard the news.

When Lalo reached Juan’s ranch he was met by two things: the strong scent of donkey poop and a torrent of yelling from Juan.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing! Stay away from my donkeys. I don’t need you trying to ruin my chances of winning this competition. Now get off my land or I’ll take out my gun!” Lalo turned away quickly. He sure knew better than to provoke Juan when he was angry.

“Cielos!” thought Lalo, “there’s no way he’ll let me marry Carmelita!”

The next morning Lalo received this letter: “Felicidades.

You have been chosen to participate in a competition for Don Lupé. You and your competitor, Juan Loera, will both start off this morning with his burro carrying one bushel of elote. You must cross the mountain pass and come to my casa. My servant Pepito will meet you, and he who arrives first with his donkey and his corn still in good condition will be declared the winner and will get the contract with me as my official burro supplier.”

-Don Lupe Lalo immediately filled a bushel basket with elote and set out with one of his most trusty donkeys.

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Juan also received the same letter and set off at the same time. He was faster however, due to the many harsh lashes he showered upon his burro. After an hour or so of traveling through the rough terrain of the mountain, Juan met an old widow.

“Ay, kind Señor, would you be willing to spare a bit of corn for a poor old woman?” She pleaded.

“Cállate, vieja! Go find your own! Can’t you see I'm in a hurry here?” And with this he hurried on faster, viciously beating his burrito.

A few hours later, Lalo came trudging slowly up the path (He was much slower because he saw the pure, raw cruelty of beating his poor innocent burrito). He met the old widow and instantly saw the starvation in her eyes and her hollowed cheekbones. Before she could speak he said, “Ay, Señora, you must be starving!

Here, take some corn,” while he filled her apron with corn. “¡Muchísimas gracias!” she said.

“Oh it’s really nothing,” Lalo responded, “Here, take some more.”

“Oh no, I don’t think I can carry any more. But thank you, y Dios te bendiga!”

When night fell, Juan reached the mountain inn and put his donkey in the stable. He decided to stay the night since he was fatigued and Lalo was far behind. A few hours later, however, he noticed Lalo trudging slowly up the road to the inn with his burro. He realized that the competition would be close if he didn’t do anything, so he decided to feed Lalo’s donkey a poisonous herb that night and kill it.

That night, when Lalo was asleep, Juan crept into the stable slowly and carefully.

However, as he was creeping in with the herb, he overlooked the fact that burros don’t especially like him, and these burros were especially strong kickers. Just as he was about to put the poisonous plant in Lalo’s burro’s feed, he accidentally 16

tripped on a pail and woke all of the animals in the stable. Lalo’s burro, startled and rudely awoken, created a ruckus which notified the other burros to start kicking and braying loudly. To make a long story short, Juan was kicked out of the stable (literally) with hurt pride and many bruises.

He realized that Lalo might suspect his foul play and set off bright and early before Lalo woke up.

It wasn’t long before Juan met a poor orphan boy outside the inn begging for food, and when he saw Juan, he cried piteously “Por favor señor, can I please have some of your corn? I am very hungry and I have no money to buy food at the inn.” Juan replied spitefully, “Ay, chiquillo mugroso, I am not going to give you anything! Go find something useful to do!” as he angrily swatted at some imaginary fly in the air.

An hour later Lalo left the inn with his burro, having assured himself that his burro was unharmed. He wondered what on earth Juan did to create all the ruckus last night, but he suspected that Juan was up to no good. Soon he was met by the sound of the orphan boy’s begging and out of the kindness of his heart said “Claro que si, my boy, here is some corn.” He continued on his journey with his burro, his heart lighter.

Now our story goes back to Juan. But first, have you ever heard of la chupacabra? The chupacabra is a fearful monster with a long snout and sharp teeth, and cold, empty, wolfish eyes. It feeds on animals ,and sometimes even people when it is particularly hungry, and the chupacabra in this story was ravenous. Its elusive and ghostly figure haunted the mountains unceasingly for many years, to the point where it had become a legend as well as a threat to all the people passing by and in the neighboring towns. People who had seen it and heard its blood curdling howl would be the main attraction in the cantina where they told their stories. No one who had been attacked came out of the experience unscathed; they often were never heard of again, or at least, their animals weren’t.

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On this particular evening the chupacabra was in a very bad mood. That day when he was deciding where to take his nap, he made the mistake of choosing a stone out in the open at the top of the mountain (FYI chupacabras don’t tan).

Consequently, he ended up burning like a quesadilla in the sun, and now had a terrible sunburn on the right side of his body. As he was out, restlessly trying to find the stream so he could soothe his burn, he came upon a short, sweaty Mexican dude with a mustache hopelessly beating a donkey that was refusing to budge.

“Andale, burro mocoso!” the man yelled.

This, as we know, was Juan, and in an instant the chupacabra pounced on the donkey and ate it and the corn on its back in one gulp. Quite satisfied but wishing to leave no survivors, he struck Juan across the chest, bit him for good measure, and left him wounded and stranded by the road, expecting another wild animal to finish him off.

Lalo came by a few hours later, and seeing Juan unconscious by the side of the trail, was moved by compassion to help him. He knew that it was probably the chupacabra's doing, as he noticed several wounds on Juan’s body. After a moment’s thought, he took the heavy load of corn off his donkey’s back and laid it on the ground beside him, since his burro couldn’t carry both the load of corn and a man. As he and his burro were trudging along, he realized that he would probably lose the contract. Maybe Don Lupe would understand and give both of them another chance, seeing they both failed.

He brought Juan to the nearest inn, which, fortunately, was in Don Lupe’s town, and, after seeing that he was well taken care of, and paying the inn-keeper to dress his wounds, he went straightaway to Don Lupe’s ranch to explain the incident.

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Lalo marveled at the vastness and richness of Don Lupe’s ranch and saw that he had many workers tilling and harvesting the land. It took him almost a whole hour to reach the rich man’s house, which was a spacious Spanish manor. He saw a servant running out of the house, who introduced himself as Pepito and said, “Ay, where is your corn? I only see a burro here.”

“Perdon, I am sorry, but I can explain all of this. May I talk to Don Lupe?” said Lalo.

After a moment’s hesitation, Pepito said, “Andale pues. Fine. I will go get him, but let me warn you: Don Lupe is a very busy man and he might not be free right now.”

Pepito quickly ushered Lalo into the large house and told him to wait. After a few minutes, Don Lupe entered the waiting room from the veranda and said to Lalo: “Alright, alright. You are Lalo, no? I have a few minutes to spare, so tell me why you only came with the burro and no corn. I hope you have a good reason.”

“Perdon, Don Lupe, but I did have a good reason for leaving my corn…”

Lalo then told Don Lupe about everything that happened: how he had to sacrifice his corn to save Juan, who had been attacked and left unconscious by the chupacabra.

Finally, he said, “I hope you understand, Don Lupe. I was just trying to be charitable, and I understand if I do not get the contract. I just wanted to explain.

If you want, when Juan gets better, we can redo the competition.”

Don Lupe, however, was deeply touched by Lalo’s kindness, especially since he had already heard stories about Juan’s mean attitude towards Lalo. After hearing Lalo’s story, he said,

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“Ay, mijo, you did a good deed. I am not angry and I understand that what you did was the right thing. I know that you are a good burro-breeder, but now I know that you are also a good person. And so, because of this, I will give you the contract.”

Lalo, overjoyed, went back to the inn to check on Juan. Juan was no longer unconscious, and his wounds were bandaged. He was confused as to why he was in the inn, and not lying hurt on the mountain road.

When Lalo came into his room, Juan said, “Oye, what happened to me? Was it you who brought me here? Or is this some kind of dirty trick?”

Lalo explained to him all that happened, and reluctantly told him that he got the contract, expecting an outburst at any moment.

Juan, however, was for the first time deeply touched. He had never received such kindness before, and he certainly did not expect it from his competitor and ‘enemy’. He realized then what a good person Lalo was, and that being kind is better than being mean-spirited.

“Who cares about the contract anyway? I am already well-off.” Juan said nonchalantly. “You need it more than me,” he added, hesitantly.

“Oh, gracias a Dios! I thought you would be really angry,” said Lalo.

“Oh, and umm … thanks for saving me,” Juan said, rather bashfully.

“Heh, no problem. Also, I’ve been meaning to ask you something for a while now…”

“What is it?”

“This might come as a surprise, but I have been courting Carmelita for almost 4 years, and…”

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“Aha! I knew there was something going on between you two!”

“And I am asking for your permission to marry her.”

“Hmmm. You have kept this a secret for a long time, and I should be mad at you, but considering the great kindness you have done me, I *reluctantly* (wink wink) give my consent.”

“Muchísimas gracias! Thank you so much! You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this moment! I have to go and tell Carmelita!”

Long story short, he remade the journey across the mountain, made it back to Juan’s ranch and proposed to Carmelita. They got married six months later, ended up having 12 kids, and lived happily ever after.

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In the Shadow of the Raven Queen

by The Dragon-Born The chill autumn wind whistled between the tall vallenwood trees of Gloomsong Wood. A lone man staggered along the overgrown forest path. His clothes were dirty and ragged. His long hair was matted with blood and streaked with grey. At his side hung an ancient-looking bronze scabbard, a pattern of ivy leaves engraved on it. The man’s name was Helm Eventide, and he had faced many great perils to retrieve the legendary sword that hung at his side, a sword remembered solely in myth, Blackrazor. Helm had, at enormous risk to his life, journeyed to the Shadowfell, the dimension of dread and despair, to the obsidian-black demesne of the Raven Queen, an ancient being rivaling gods in power, in order to take Blackrazor from her bastion of evil, that it might be brought before the Silver Council so that they might find a way to destroy the evil weapon, which could reap the very souls from living beings.

Finally, Helm came to the edge of the vallenwood forest. Before him stood the hidden valley where the Silver Council dwelled. The Silver Council, an organization of scholars devoted to studying the arcane practice of magic, had hired Helm to retrieve Blackrazor for them in order to ensure the blade’s destruction. A lone young man, clad in red robes came to meet him.

“Any luck?” the man whispered.

“The best.” Replied Helm, and drew Blackrazor from its sheath. The blade looked like a piece of the night sky torn from the heavens. Tiny pinpricks of light gleamed like stars in the inky blackness of the blade.

“You really found it,” murmured the red-robed wizard in awe.

“Yes,” replied Helm. “The council must be summoned as soon as possible.

After I used it out of necessity against a hill giant while I was travelling here, I believe it is more powerful than any of us ever fathomed initially.”

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“Why? What did it do?” inquired the wizard.

“All will be revealed when the Council is gathered,” replied Helm. “Take the sword up to the tower for the Diviners to examine it.”

“Sure,” said the wizard. He began to mumble strange words. “Ithtar Lytren Ivien Kelyar, Ethna Attran Nayru Narmath Alithae, Brenwe Elista Lantharak.” In a sudden gust of wind, a being that looked like a small cyclone with vague humanoid features appeared. It took Blackrazor from Helm, and flew in the direction of the white marble tower. Helm’s knees buckled.

“Get me something to eat,” he said weakly. Leaning on the wizard’s shoulder, he staggered toward the tower.

Far away, the Raven Queen stirred in her sleep. She sensed that something was wrong, though she could not tell what. Then it hit her. Blackrazor was gone! She was brimming with fury, though she knew the thief would not get far. Blackrazor was a fragment of her consciousness; it was as susceptible to her will as an appendage.

Feeling both rage and amusement, she telepathically ordered her sword to prepare to strike.

As the golden sun tinted the ether above the vallenwoods of Gloomsong wood a brilliant scarlet, the Silver Council assembled in the great council chamber of the white-walled citadel of the Silver Wizards. At the table were diplomats from the different kingdoms of the continent of Thak-Turos, as well as representatives of the divisions of the Silver Wizards’ Guild. At the head of the table sat Pandalan the Archmage, leader of the Silver Wizards’ Guild. His white hair fell below his knees, as did his beard. A miniature dragon with a stinger like that of a scorpion lay curled on his shoulder. In his right hand he held a staff of wrought silver, a glowing white orb

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encrusted on the head of the staff. In the center of the table lay Blackrazor in its bronze scabbard.

Pandalan raised his hand for silence. “Let the Silver Council begin! Khelenar, the representative of the kingdom of the Sky Elves, will speak first.”

A tall, slender Sky Elf stood up. There was some scattered applause from the council members. “Brothers!” Spoke Khelenar. “As you most of you know, this magnificent and ancient weapon was forged eons ago by the elves’ arcane ancestors, the Shadar-Kai, on the orders of the demigoddess known as the Raven Queen, when they were enslaved to her. Since the race of the Shadar-Kai no longer exists, and the Sky Elves are the closest relatives of that race, excepting the Dark Elves, whom we no longer call members of our glorious race after their blasphemy against our gods, my king, Gilthanion the Third, has demanded that the weapon be surrendered immediately and unconditionally to the Sky Elves.”

The moment Khelenar finished this speech and took his seat, the council chamber erupted in furious noises of dissent. Pandalan made an effort to restore order, to no avail.

A Genasi, an elemental spirit in human form, stood up.

“The sword must go to us. No creature, mortal or immortal, can breach the walls of the City of Brass. It will be safest with us,” declared the Genasi in a dreamy, melodic voice.

“Safest my foot!” exclaimed a Mountain Dwarf gruffly. “The Dwarves should have the first say in the matters of weapons!”

“Exactly!” said a Hill Dwarf. “Us!” “Not you common filth!” yelled the Mountain Dwarf. “The Moun-“ “SILENCE!” cried Pandalan. “Let Helm have a say in the matter. He has had firsthand experience with what Blackrazor is capable of.”

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About fifty pairs of eyes turned to look at the haggard human. Helm stood up and cleared his throat.

“People of Thak-Turos!” cried Helm. “Before any decisions are made concerning the fate of this weapon, Hear this! Soon after I left The Shadowfell, and the despair and weakness induced by that wretched place had not yet worn off, I was attacked by a hill giant. Since my own weapon had been destroyed in my battle with one of the Raven Queen’s automaton guards, I was forced to draw Blackrazor against the monster. The moment the blade left its scabbard, it-” He hesitated at the last few words. “-It spoke to me.” The crowd gasped. “I heard a voice in my head. It told me it held great power, just waiting to be unfettered. But it also said that the Raven Queen would be willing to use any means necessary to recover that power. I attempted to ignore the weapon, but when I swung the sword at the giant, I heard a great ripping sound as the giant was torn apart by the sword. When it fell, it left no remains, except for some wisps of what looked like smoke, which were absorbed into the sword.

Then, I heard in my head the noise of something being messily devoured. The giant’s soul, if the legends surrounding the sword are true. It is my reasoning that we must find a way to destroy it as soon as possible.”

The great council chamber was silent for a few moments. Then, Li-Tharistul spoke. Li-Tharistul was a Candor, a spirit of light bonded with the soul of a human.

His form was humanoid, and he looked mostly human, but his eyes looked like infinite pools of radiance, and his long, misty-white hair fluttered behind him as if in a gentle breeze, though the air in the chamber was still. When he spoke, his voice was as soft and gentle as a moonbeam, while still maintaining a commanding tone. “I agree with the human. If the weapon is as powerful as he claims it is, then it certainly must be destroyed as soon as possible. I believe that the thing most likely to destroy it is to bathe it in the waters of the Spring of Light. The Positive Energy of the spring should be enough to overcome the Negative Energy of the sword.”

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A quick vote was taken, and after some argument from Khelenar, it was decided that the Candor’s idea was the best. Pandalan decided that Helm should journey to the Spring of Light in the Forest of Arborea, accompanied by Li-Tharistul the Candor, the Elf-Lord Khelenar, and Girithil the wizard of the red robes. The Forest of Arborea lay on the other side of the Doomladen Mountains, meaning it would take about five days to reach the spring by foot.

The following day, the party was supplied with weapons and provisions, and Helm was strictly told by Pandalan, “At all costs, no matter how great the emergency, you must not use Blackrazor. We still do not know fully what it is capable of.”

“Do not worry, Old One,” said Helm. “I would not deign to wield it. To tell you the truth, I’m afraid of it.”

“And you have good reason to,” murmured the archmage as the party strode off into the autumn sunrise.

The first day of travelling passed without event, as did the second. On the third day, the party reached the range known as the Doomladen Mountains, which got its name from the number of orc tribes that dwelled in it.

They had not been travelling through the mountains four hours when six orcs sprang from behind the rocks. They had a muscular build, their skin a sickly grey-green hue. Their bottom canine teeth jutted out from their drooling mouths like the tusks of an elephant. The monsters drew scimitars from their belts.

“Stand back, this could get messy,” said Girithil, reaching into his pouch of spell components. The first two orcs charged. “De Arizan, Ne Naqar, Yetel Itrea Solama Martalae Retsetu. Enemar.” A blast of fire flew from the wizard’s outstretched hand, turning the two orcs into smoking heaps of ash in seconds.

The rest of the orcs, angered by the death of their comrades, leapt forward.

Khelenar, yelling an Elvish battle cry, drove his spear into the gut of one of the orcs, and then pushed the lifeless body off his weapon with his foot. Helm slew another orc

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with a javelin to the chest. Li-Tharistul caved in the head of the fifth orc, and gracefully whirled around to deliver the same fate to the last orc. The party continued through the mountains, leaving the rocks stained black with orc blood behind them.

That evening, they came to the summit, where they made camp for the night.

Below them spread the aspens of the Forest of Arborea, the ancestral home of the Candor. In the morning, they began the descent down the mountain. They met no more orcs, though there were signs of some having been in the area lately.

The Forest of Arborea was beautiful, with soft sunbeams shining onto the path from between the aspen leaves. Even the hardened Elf-Lord had to admit that the forest where the Sky Elves lived couldn’t compare to the beauty of the Forest of Arborea. The companions spent the night sleeping beneath the aspens. Their dreams were untroubled, for the Positive Energy that pervades the Forest of Arborea fills those who are pure-hearted with peace, and those of evil alignment, a terrible restlessness.

At around noon of the fifth day, the company reached the Spring of Light. The waters flowing forth from between the rocks glowed with a golden light of its own, day and night.

“I guess this is it,” said Girithil.

“Do it, Helm Eventide,” ordered the Candor. “Plunge the sword into the water.”

Helm drew Blackrazor from its sheath, and prepared to thrust it under the water.

Now was the time! Sensing the distress her sword was in, the dark queen of the Shadowfell projected her consciousness into Blackrazor, filled with the lust to kill!

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The sword leapt from Helm’s grasp, and spun through the air. Before any of them could fully comprehend what was happening, Blackrazor had swooped down upon Khelenar, and sliced him cleanly down the middle. He shrieked in anguish as his body fell to shreds and Blackrazor devoured his soul.

“What’s happening?” screamed Girithil.

“I don’t know!” screamed Helm in reply.

The blade whirled around and dove towards Helm, who sidestepped it barely.

Blackrazor then proceeded to back Helm and Girithil into a corner with a few strategically placed thrusts, and rose into the air, planning to end both their lives in one stroke. Helm and Girithil hugged each other and closed their eyes, so as not to see the sword as it cleaved the pair of them in two.

Helm heard a thud, and a grunt of pain. He opened his eyes. Li-Tharistul was standing there, Blackrazor stuck through his chest and out his back. Instead of blood, light poured from the wound. The Candor turned to face them, his face totally expressionless, as his human body dissolved into wisps of golden light. The wisps of light were drawn into Blackrazor, and consumed. Blackrazor rose into the air again to finish them off.

But something was wrong. In the piece of midnight sky the sword was made of, the shreds of light that were the pieces of the Candor’s soul continued to swirl.

Blackrazor made sudden, jerking motions, as if in pain. The shreds of light coalesced into what looked like a miniature sun. The sun expanded until it made the jet-black blade appear golden. Helm saw cracks forming on the sword. Rays of sunlight shot forth from them. Finally, in a final twist of agony, Blackrazor exploded in a great flash of sunlight. When Helm and Girithil opened their eyes, no trace remained of the legendary weapon. Above the grove, they saw a dark thundercloud in the shape of a raven.

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“You were foolish to resist, mortals,” spoke an imperious, feminine voice. “The sword may be gone, but you have only delayed the inevitable. I shall return, and my vengeance shall be terrible.”

With that, the thundercloud turned and swooped away to the west.

Without saying a word, the warrior and wizard packed up their things and turned for home. It had taken the sacrifice of Li-Tharistul, but they had destroyed Blackrazor, and it would be a long time before the Raven Queen recovered from this blow.

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Thank you for reading!

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