“He seems to be struggling with his newfound power. But then again, he has always struggled with his power.”
Azzeal nodded gravely. “Much has been asked of him in this life.”
“I do not envy the man.”
“Neither do I. But I respect him more than any human I have ever known, save perhaps Talon Windwalker.”
“Abram did well raising Whill,” said Zerafin. “Sometimes I wonder how he might have turned out without such a noble mentor.”
Azzeal shrugged. “Who’s to say? Some would argue that we are who we are from birth, and that our environment has little effect on the outcome. Still, there are those who say that we are born a blank slate, and that our environment and experience shape us completely. And then there are others still who believe that who we were in our past lives plays a big part in who we turn out to be.”
“And what do you believe?” said Zerafin.
“I believe that it is a little bit of all three. But in the end, it is a choice that we all make many times throughout our lives.”
“Some of us do,” said Zerafin. “And others remain quite the same. Take the dwarves, for instance. I have never known one very long, but they seem to never change. While humans are quite the opposite, and seem never to truly know what it is they believe or who they want to be.”
“Sometimes I pity the humans,” said Azzeal. “Can you imagine only living seventy to eighty years or so? And that’s if you’re lucky.”
“It is indeed a curse,” said Zerafin. “But it is perhaps a gift as well, for they are driven to squeeze out every drop of experience from their short-lived lives. In the months after the Taking, when we had forgotten all magic, I thought that I understood how humans must feel. They are indeed impressive. Look what they have accomplished, and without any magic.”
“Ah, but they do have magic, for it has reawakened in Whill, and I think that he will not be the last.”
Zerafin nodded gravely, for he had thought about this often. Indeed, Whill would not be the last. “The thought frightens me, for the human power of old is greater than that of any of the races, for it is that of all races.”
“It is truly amazing,” said Azzeal.
“And dangerous,” said Zerafin, glancing at him. “Can you imagine dozens…hundreds…or gods forbid, thousands of humans with Whill’s power? Sometimes I wonder if we should have told the others to remain in Agora. I wonder if we are better off on our own.”
“But it was together that we defeated Eadon, Kellallea, Zander, and even Eldarian. No, my friend. I believe that we are better off remaining united. Besides, if what Kellallea showed Whill was true, there was once a time when humans, elves, dwarves, and even dragons shared Drindellia.”
“Yes. And there was also a great war between them all.”
“Surely that was brought on by the Dark Lord, or whatever power it was that Eldarian defeated. The way Whill tells it, it was really a war of the gods, and the many races were merely pawns.”
“Perhaps we still are,” said Zerafin.
Azzeal laughed merrily at that. “Now what fun would that be for the gods?”
“I do not claim to understand the gods,” said Zerafin with a laugh of his own. But then he sobered. “But I do fear them. What do you make of Eldarian’s claim, that the end of this world is inevitable, and that our time was up long ago? I have spoken to Whill about it, for he knows better than anyone. He tells me that it is the cycle of existence, that the gods create worlds, create races, animals, plants, oceans, mountains—and then watch as history plays out. But then, as with all life, that of the planet, and indeed, that of the universe…must end.”
Azzeal pondered this as he stared at the fire. “I suppose that if it is true, it is no more tragic than any one person’s death. For what is life without the inevitability of death? There can be no moon without the sun; there can be no light without the dark. But it makes me wonder…if reincarnation is indeed real, will we be born again in this new world? And if so, that would suggest that we have lived on other worlds, just as we have lived multiple times on this one.”
“Yes,” said Zerafin. “But to what end?”
Azzeal offered him a feral grin. “For the thrill of it.”
“What I mean is: why should the same souls be reborn? What do the gods care?”
“Perhaps they live through us. Perhaps we provide the eyes, ears, taste, smell, and touch of the gods. Who is to say?”
“Who is to say indeed?” said Zerafin, and he took a long pull from his wine skin.
The two elves spoke no more, but lay on their bedrolls, staring up at the stars. Azzeal fell off long before Zerafin, who stayed up stargazing and imagining all the lost wonders that there were still left to behold.
He still remembered it; Drindellia in the old days. The gilded streets, the bountiful land. Farms and gardens stretching for miles. Grand cities with towering pyramids glowing with power and light. His had been a pampered upbringing, as had all elven childhoods been in those days. Before Eadon’s rise to power, the elves of the sun had enjoyed a renaissance that lasted for thousands of years. The arts had flourished then, and the streets, dining halls, pleasure houses, temples, and homes had been filled with the most wonderful art and music.
But then Eadon, spurred by Kellallea’s lies, had set in motion a prophecy that was never meant to be. Millions perished, cities burned, and the age of the dark elves began…
Zerafin!
He awoke to Azzeal’s mental call and sat up, alert. Zerafin instinctively scanned the camp with mind sight, but he found nothing.
I am west of the camp. Come quietly, there is danger.
Zerafin unsheathed his sword and crept over the small embankment on the west side of their camp. The night was quiet, save for the bugs. The wind was still, and no leaves rustled on the trees overhead. The moon gave adequate light for the seasoned elf to see better than any human, but it was not humans that he feared. By Azzeal’s tone, there were draggard about…Or worse.
He spotted his friend squatting behind a tall and gnarled tree. Azzeal was watching a spot below him. Zerafin came to crouch beside him, and Azzeal pointed. They were perched above a ravine, which was at least twenty feet below them. Zerafin glanced over a root that jutted out above the pass. He was at first alarmed, and then confused. For indeed, it appeared to be a group of at least twelve draggard who walked through the ravine in pairs. But there was something different about their appearance; they were obviously a certain breed of the hated beasts, but unlike other draggard, these were talking. And it was not some crude, guttural language that they spoke, but Elvish. Stranger still, they wore clothes, walked on two feet rather than four, and their eyes were bright with intelligence.
“Scarzgard, halt!” said the lead draggard, who, unlike the others, wore a green sash rather than a yellow one.
The two draggard who had been talking quieted, and the group stopped and sniffed at the air.
Zerafin and Azzeal slunk back from the edge and hunkered down behind the tree. Below, the group of draggard were silent but for their sniffing.
“There are elves about,” came the voice of Green Sash. “Be on guard.”
They speak, said Azzeal.
And well, Zerafin replied.
What do you make of it?
Zerafin could only shrug. Intelligent draggard? The thought was absurd.
The group below was on the move, and Zerafin’s keen ears told him that a few of them were climbing up to their tree, while others were moving around to flank them.
Fall back to camp.
Azzeal nodded, and together they sped through the forest. Behind them, a call went out. They had been spotted. But it was no matter. Intelligent or not, a dozen draggard were no match for the two veteran elves.
They reached camp and loaded up the horses. They had too much important information and carried too many valuable relics to risk damaging or losing any of them in a fight.
“Let us make haste to the city. T
he council must learn of this…revelation,” said Zerafin. Just then, two draggard came into view on top of the embankment behind their camp, and Zerafin spurred his horse.
Even draggard were no match for the speed of the Cerushian horses, but the draggard did not give chase. Instead, and to Zerafin’s great surprise, two streaking green spells shot out of their palms. Azzeal had seen it too, and together with Zerafin, he brought up an energy shield. The spells exploded against it, illuminating the forest with green light. In the flash, Zerafin saw that another group kept pace with their horses a few feet to the right, behind a row of trees. He encouraged the horse on faster with a word and brought up his sword reflexively as another spell came at him from the left. He deflected the spell, which hit the trunk of a tree and dissipated with a fizzle.
“Those spells are meant to stun!” said Azzeal, sounding as confused as Zerafin felt.
Four more draggard appeared in front of them and together brought up a wall of green flame. The horses skidded to a halt and reared as the flames licked their hooves.
“Halt!” came the voice of the leader, and Zerafin and Azzeal turned their horses to see that they were surrounded. The leader of the group stood tall and held a gnarled, glowing staff. “We wish only to speak!”
Zerafin glanced at Azzeal.
Be prepared.
Always.
“Who am I speaking to?” said Zerafin. “And how, indeed, are you speaking to me?”
The commander nodded to his draggard, and they lowered their weapons. He strode forward bravely, standing well over eight feet tall, and stopped a few feet before them, staring down at the mounted elves.
“I am Hyrku Skren,” he said, his mouth full of fangs somehow making the words, though there was a thick, hard accent.
“What are you? How is it that you can talk, can perform Orna Catorna?”
“Those questions can be answered by King Gnawrok.”
“You have a king?” said Azzeal, looking intrigued.
“As do you,” said Hyrku, glancing at Zerafin.
“If you have a king, what is his kingdom?” said Zerafin.
“Gnawrok’s great kingdom stretches north to the winterlands, south to the mountains, east to the unknown plains, and west to the coast. You have trespassed, and you will now come with me and stand before my king.”
“If Gnawrok’s authority comes from the dark elf Eadon, know that he is dead, and the elves of the sun have returned to reclaim the homeland.”
“We know of Eadon’s fate,” said Hyrku, which surprised Zerafin. “And we lament only that it was not a drekkon that killed him.”
“A drekkon?” said Azzeal, his small notepad in hand and feather scribbling.
“Drekkon!” said Hyrku, slapping his chest and gesturing to the others.
“Ahhh, you are the drekkon. Very interesting.”
“The age of the elves in Drindellia has passed,” said Hyrku. “Now drop your weapons and dismount from your horses, for I would rather present you to my king as you are.”
“Take a moment, Hyrku, and think,” said Zerafin. “We mastered Orna Catorna many centuries before you were created. Even twelve of you will be no match for us. Instead of your death, I suggest that you bring a message back to your king, inviting him to a meeting near the coast.”
Hyrku regarded Zerafin thoughtfully, his beady black eyes moving quick as a lizard’s between the two elves. The others had begun to get restless and were clearly insulted by Zerafin’s bravado and assessment of them.
“I will bring him no such message,” Hyrku said at length. “Surrender now!”
“Are you trying to start a war? And if so, is it a war that Gnawrok wants you to wage on his behalf? I am indeed the king of the elves, as you have already guessed, and if you move against me now, you will be waging war with not only the elves, but the humans, dwarves, and dragons. I beseech you, Hyrku, use your newfound intelligence and do the smart thing. Let us pass, and bring your king my message.”
“We should flay the cursed elves!” one of the drekkon cried.
The group took a step closer, their spears and swords gripped tight. Zerafin and Azzeal unleashed glowing blades, and Zerafin added a bit of magic to his, causing it to glow with blinding light.
“Hold!” Hyrku cried.
Zerafin and the commander stared at each other for many tense moments. Finally, Hyrku nodded. “Let them pass.”
“You are wrong, Hyrku!” said the drekkon who had suggested killing them. “They are valuable.”
Hyrku wanted to hear none of it, however, and as the insolent drekkon stomped toward him, the commander struck with his long, curved spear, taking the drekkon’s head clear off.
The warriors blocking Zerafin and Azzeal’s way wisely stepped aside.
“You are indeed wise, Hyrku,” said Zerafin. “Please tell your king that I would meet him this month, when the moon is full.”
Hyrku nodded, though he scowled dangerously at them the entire time.
Zerafin and Azzeal spurred their horses on westward, feeling as though spears might find their backs at any moment.
Chapter 5
The Pikes
Roakore rose from his chair, raised his goblet in one hand, and banged his double-headed axe on the table with the other. Those dwarves close to him and those seated at the many tables in the city square all stopped and looked to their king. The great cavern went silent, and Roakore looked out over his dwarves with shimmering eyes. It wasn’t often that a king took back a dwarven mountain, and it was even more rare to do it twice.
“Me good dwarves. Some o’ ye have been with me since the first reclamation. Hells, some o’ ye been with me since the draggard attack that first sent the Ro’Sar clan to Ky’Dren. Some o’ ye be Ro’Sar Mountain dwarves, some Ky’Dren, and others Elgar. But from now on, ye all be Velk’Har dwarves as well!”
The noisy dwarves cheered and clanged tankards. Beer spilled onto the floor and dribbled down many beards, and upon every face was a beaming smile. Roakore looked out over his dwarves, and pride swelled in his old heart.
“Within these halls, Ky’Dren, Agora’s first dwarf king, dined.”
The crowd quieted, and reverence replaced the smiles.
“For this be the lost mountain o’ the dwarves! But it be lost no more!”
Again, the cheers and the banging of boots echoed throughout the hall. Roakore glanced over at his children, those old enough to decide for themselves if they were going to follow their father east. Over a hundred had. A tear came to his eye, and he wiped it quickly, telling himself it was the dry air, though the cavern was quite moist.
“The gods be smilin’ down on ye, and yer ancestors too. For they know, as I do, that there be a place in the Mountain o’ the Gods for every single one o’ ye.”
“Here, here!” Philo roared as he came stumbling over and leaned into Roakore. “Now let’s drink some beer!”
Roakore laughed with his old friend and tossed back his tankard.
In the six months since the settling of the Velk’Har Mountains, the dwarves had mostly lived off meat and potatoes that arrived from Agora every two weeks. The ships brought with them more dwarves as well, as word of the richness of the Velk’Har mines quickly spread throughout the mountain kingdoms. Roakore and his dwarves traded with the elves, who could grow crops during the winter months with the help of heated longhouses and more than a little magic. But spring was upon them, and the sheep, cows, and pigs would soon give birth. The crops had been planted, and the mines were rich. It was going to be a good year.
Philo nudged Roakore and nodded toward Raene. “So, what be with yer cousin? She seein’ anyone?”
“Not that I be knowin’ ‘bout,” said Roakore.
“Well, I been askin’ her out for months now, and she’s yet to take me up on me offer. Does she…ye know, prefer other lasses?”
“What? No,” said Roakore. “Maybe she just don’t like drunken slobs.”
“Bah!”
&nbs
p; “Bah, yerself. Maybe if ye put on clean clothes once in a while and washed up, she might consider yer offer.”
Philo sniffed his armpit. “I don’t smell nothin’.”
“Yeah? Well ye be the only one. Ye be smellin’ like ye done fell asleep in a distillery and shat yerself!”
“Sire,” said Wurtzide, Roakore’s new royal brain. “If you have a moment, I would like to go over tomorrow’s itinerary.”
Roakore rolled his eyes at the old dwarf female and lifted his tankard. “Can’t ye see I be drinkin’?”
“You are always drinkin’, sire.”
Beer shot out of Roakore’s mouth at her audacity. “Ky’Dren’s bloody beard, Wurtz, leave me be for one godsdamned moment!”
“As you wish, sire.” She bowed and took her leather satchel full of papers and scrolls with her.
“I swear,” he said to Philo. “It be like livin’ with me mother with that one. I can’t take a shyte without her writin’ it down.”
“She were a good dwarf, yer mum,” said Philo, raising his glass.
“Aye.” Roakore sighed. “And Wurtzide be a good one too. Truth be reckoned, she be great at her job, but, well, she reminds me o’ Nah’Zed.”
“Nah’Zed was a good dwarf,” said Philo, lifting his drink again.
Roakore shook his head and couldn’t help a small laugh. Philo seemed to always find a reason to raise his glass.
Early the next morning, Roakore was awakened by a ruckus. At first he thought that the mountain was being invaded, for the mob of dwarves outside of Gold Castle was in an uproar. He threw off his quilt and held his throbbing head.
“What be the problem?” he yelled to Arrianna as she came rushing in from the other room with Wurtzide in tow.
“Something has been found in the deep!”
“What’s this ye say?”
“Come, Roakore, you’ve got to see it.”
Roakore hurriedly got dressed and followed his wife and his royal brain out of the castle gates. Hundreds of dwarves had gathered, and they had formed a ring around a pair of miners dirty from the tunnels, holding aloft a glowing orb.
Dark Echoes of Light Page 3