Dark Echoes of Light

by Michael James Ploof

  “Roakore…” Philo stammered, choked up with emotion as he was. “Ye alright?”

  “Aye.” Roakore got up on shaky feet and wiped the right side of his face, which left his hand smeared in dried, charred blood. “How long was I out?”

  “Just a few minutes,” said Raene, pointing down the tunnel. “We came from that way, but the explosion caused a cave-in.”

  Roakore nodded, glancing down the tunnel the opposite way they had come. “What be down there?”

  “We ain’t for knowin’,” said Philo. “Likely more o’ them little albino bastards.”

  “Ye tried moving the cave-in yet?”

  “No, we was too concerned with ye,” said Raene.

  “Well, let’s see if we can’t move it together before more o’ them albinos decide to come sniffin’ around.”

  No sooner had he said the words than a commotion began to echo from down the dark tunnel. The sound was strange, like the clicking feet of crabs on hard stone.

  “Hurry!” said Roakore, and he rushed down the tunnel, which was faintly illuminated by the glowing mushrooms scattered here and there along the walls.

  The clicking grew louder, and Roakore squared on the mound of fallen stone clogging the tunnel. “All together now,” he said, planting his feet and gathering his inner strength. Philo and Raene stood shoulder to shoulder with him, and on his mark, they gave a collective mental push. They applied pressure slowly, letting it build. The pile of stone groaned and protested as it began to shift.

  “A little harder,” said Roakore, applying more pressure.

  The rubble vibrated in the crevices made by the chunks of stone, which began to shift backwards. The group pushed the pile back, and faint mushroom light peeked through the top of the pile. When there was enough room to crawl through, Roakore bade them to stop and hurried over the debris.

  Whatever strange creatures were now pursuing them were getting closer, much closer. The clicking continued to grow louder and was met by another sound, this one an insectile chirrup. The sound cascaded into a low roar, and the tunnel began to shake.

  Roakore, Philo, and Raene ran for their lives up the tunnel, hoping that the cave-in would slow their pursuers. A hellish chorus of shrieks told them that the strange creatures had reached the pile of debris, and by the sound of the commotion that ensued, their pursuers were making quick work of the blockage.

  “Go on, I’ll slow ‘em down,” said Roakore.

  “All due respect, but ye be the king,” said Philo. “Ye can’t risk it.”

  “Bah—”

  “He be right,” said Raene. “Go on and get back to the city.”

  “We ain’t got no time to be arguin’ about this,” said Roakore, stopping and turning to face the coming danger.

  “I ain’t leavin’ me king to whatever be comin’ after us,” Philo insisted.

  Roakore let out a sigh and stood with his friends, shoulder to shoulder in the wide tunnel. Shadows began to dance on the walls as the creatures drew closer, and the clicking sounds echoed maddeningly. The insectile chirrups became more urgent, more eager.

  When the first of the monsters came into view, Raene let out a disgusted gasp. A black scorpion the size of a small horse emerged from the shadows, two snapping claws leading the way. By the sound of it, dozens if not hundreds pursued them. The scorpion cocked back its tail, and a glowing stone bomb shot toward the group. Roakore caught mental hold of it and sent it back over the head of the scorpion as Raene let loose her shield and sent it spinning toward the beast’s armored head. The bomb exploded in the tunnel behind the scorpion, who went down hard due to the shield that had split its head down the middle.

  “Come on!” Roakore yelled as Raene pulled her shield back to her.

  Philo led the way, pumping his stout legs as fast as he could while at the same time tossing back a shot from his flask. The explosion suddenly set off more, and as the tunnel shook, Roakore laughed to himself.

  “The idiots had them bomb-wieldin’ scorpions coming one right after another!”

  The chain of explosions accentuated his point, and half deaf, he rushed up the tunnel with his friends in tow.

  Chapter 10

  King Gnawrok

  The northern gate of Rhuniston opened slowly, and Whill spurred his mount to follow Zerafin’s lead. The elf king wore a silver crown upon his head and full armor adorned with numerous energy crystals. The crystals had been imbued with power by Whill himself, and even Zerafin did not realize how much power was contained within. Azzeal and Ragnar followed close behind; Azzeal with his small book and quill in hand, and Ragnar with his hand on the hilt of his massive long sword. They rode through the gates and past the army of elves and men who had gathered just outside. There were exactly five hundred in number: four hundred humans, all seasoned veterans, and one hundred elves, magic wielders one and all.

  The drekkon horde stood at attention in five smart formations of one hundred on the distant hill overlooking the village. They flew black banners with an eclipsed sun at their center and stood eerily still in the gusting wind that blew in from the west across the plains. They made for an eerily surreal scene; a reptilian horde with dark matte scales in a field of flowing golden wheat.

  Zerafin and Whill led the army of men and elves to the middle ground between the horde and the city walls. There they stopped, and there they waited. Whill scanned the army of drekkon, amazed to feel so much magic emanating from them. Their power was strange, but not unlike that of the dark elves. They seemed to leech power from their surroundings, but they had no energy crystals that Whill could see with mind sight. Instead, their bodies seemed to be able to contain the energy on their own, something that elves could not do, lest they risk losing control. He would soon know, however, for he could already feel himself absorbing their power and adding it to his own.

  At length, four drekkon rode out to the center of the field on large beasts that resembled bulls, although they had scales rather than hair, and much larger horns. The tallest and most adorned of the four drekkon, presumably Gnawrok, held a glowing scepter in his right hand. In his left, extending from knee to shoulder, was a shimmering shield, which pulsed and throbbed with writhing light. Although his hide was hard and scaled, he wore large pauldrons, a chest plate, and spiked forearm and shin guards as black and matte as his hide.

  He reigned in his beast ten feet from Whill and the others, looking them all over with a snide grin. Vresh’Kon had come with him, along with two of the robed drekkon, whose eyes peered from behind drawn hoods and whose forked tongues darted out between sharp teeth like a snake tasting the air.

  “Behold, the great Gnawrok, king of the Forgotten Lands, father of the master race, slayer of Eadon, and liberator of the drekkon,” said Vresh’Kon in Old Elvish.

  Whill and Zerafin shared a glance, and Gnawrok glared down at them.

  “I am Zerafin, king of the elves of Drindellia.”

  “And I am Whillhelm Warcrown.”

  Gnawrok regarded them both with contempt and said something to Vresh’Kon in a dialect that Whill did not recognize.

  Vresh’Kon nodded and turned to the group. “The great Gnawrok demands that you kneel before him.”

  Whill raised a brow and glanced at Zerafin, who slowly shook his head. “I kneel before no one.”

  Vresh’Kon translated, and Gnawrok’s eyes widened.

  “You called your king the slayer of Eadon,” said Whill, “but it was I who defeated the Dark Lord by severing his head.”

  Gnawrok looked to Vresh’Kon as he translated and gave a roar when he heard what Whill had said. “Ungott! Hargar!”

  “He says that you are a liar,” said Vresh’Kon.

  Gnawrok went off on a tirade of harsh-sounding words, and Vresh’Kon translated something similar to what they had already heard: leave now or die.

  “I am not leaving the land of my forefathers,” said Zerafin. “We have defeated the dark elves, the draggard, and the most powerful necromancer
s of our time. If you insist on making war, know that you will fail, for before you stands he who defeated not only Eadon, but also Eldarian, bearer of the mantle of darkness.”

  Gnawrok listened intently, and his expression changed many times, going from stern to surprised, then slightly transfixed, but then hard again, as though he were saving face. He spoke, and Vresh’Kon grinned.

  “He says that elves lie, and humans stink of fear. The time of the elves has passed, and you should go back to where you came from.”

  “We have done nothing to you,” said Whill. “Yet you march an army to our borders and threaten us with death. Why? Why can we not all live in peace? Eadon is dead, and Drindellia is vast. There is enough land for all.”

  Zerafin regarded Whill with a look of disbelief, and once Vresh’Kon had translated Whill’s words, Gnawrok gave a guttural laugh.

  “Fools!” said Vresh’Kon as Gnawrok spoke. “Long before you returned to these lands, we were fighting Eadon and his armies. We have fought them for centuries, and now we stand victorious. This land is ours. There will be no peace. Go back to the place that you call Agora, and never return. I give you this one last chance.”

  “If you say that there will be no peace,” said Zerafin with his head raised high, “then so be it.”

  Vresh’Kon translated the words, and Gnawrok laughed and spit on the ground. Zerafin tensed beside Whill, but the drekkon did not attack; instead they turned their mounts around and disappeared into their army’s ranks.

  “There is enough land for all?” said Zerafin, glaring at Whill with disbelief.

  “It is true. The land is vast, and if the dwarves and dragons can live on the same continent in peace, then there is no reason that we cannot.”

  “They were created by Eadon,” said Zerafin. “They are an abomination.”

  “I thought that perhaps you had seen enough of war.”

  “A weary sword soon changes owners,” said Zerafin. “I have not fought my way back to the homeland to share it with glorified draggard.”

  “Perhaps we should speak of this in private,” said Whill, glancing at the slowly retreating drekkon army. “They may have means to listen.”

  Zerafin cast a soundproof energy dome around that kept out the prying ears of even Ragnar and Azzeal before squaring on Whill.

  “I cannot believe that you would offer them peace.”

  “As I said, I thought that you might be tired of war. I know that I am,” said Whill.

  Zerafin laughed mirthlessly. “Two years of war, and already you have seen enough of it? The elves have been at war for over six hundred years, and I have lived through every one of them.”

  “Do not attempt to downplay what I have done and what I have seen.” Whill’s temper flared, and he felt dark power waiting for him to call upon it. “I have been forced into a role that no one should have to fulfill. I have seen the dying faces of hundreds of thousands that I have killed.”

  “They were Eadon’s abominations.”

  “They were life, and I extinguished it. I feel…You don’t understand how the darkness beckons. I know that if I wanted to, I could destroy the army of drekkon with but a thought. I could clear this land of everything evil, until the only evil left in it is me. There will always be something to fight about, and if we do not stop, we will always be fighting.”

  Zerafin glanced at him knowingly. “You speak like a Morenka.”

  “I’m just trying to find peace, brother.”

  Zerafin put a hand to Whill’s shoulder and squeezed. He smiled. “You go find your peace, Whill. But I will fight until the last of Eadon’s abominations are dead, as I always have.”

  Chapter 11

  The Wolf’s Revenge

  A crashing of furniture and the terrified cry of a man woke Dirk from sleep. He and Krentz both leapt out of bed brandishing weapons, he a glowing dagger, and she a glowing hand ready with a killing spell. Krentz spoke a word, and the dozens of candles in their bedchamber erupted to light. When the fires flared, Dirk saw Chief with his mouth around a masked man’s throat.

  “Sir!” came the voice of a guard outside the door. “Is everything alright?”

  Dirk growled and walked to the door, kicking the prone man in the ribs as he passed. He opened the door, grabbed the guard by the back of the neck, and dragged him over to Chief.

  “Does it look like everything is alright?”

  “Who’s that, sir?”

  “Who’s that? He’s the man who got by your sorry ass while you were supposed to be guarding my bedchamber.”

  “Sorry, sir, I didn’t see him.”

  “Well no shyte,” said Dirk, giving him a shove toward the door. “Report to your commander and then start packing your bags. Perhaps a few months in the wild north will teach you to be more alert.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry si—”

  Dirk slammed the door in his face and kicked the man on the floor again before pulling off his mask. “And who do we have here?”

  The man, who looked to be around thirty, had dark black hair and a scarred face. In his hand was a long thin dagger.

  “It would be best if you speak,” said Krentz as she stood over the man. “The governor gets very angry when he is awakened from his sleep.”

  The man did not speak; instead, he grinned and shifted his jaw, grinding something with his teeth. There was a muffled pop and a hiss.

  “Son of a bitch!” said Dirk, realizing what the man had done. “Oh, no you don’t!”

  Dirk pried the man’s mouth open, but the damage had been done. The assassin’s mouth foamed, and he began to go into convulsions.

  “The son of a bitch poisoned himself.”

  “He is not yet dead,” said Krentz. “Step aside.”

  Dirk moved, and she laid her hands upon the temples of the dying man. She closed her eyes, grimacing, and then released the man as his body twitched.

  “He was sent by your old opponent, Jonathan Gelding.”

  “Really? Well, that man has some balls, doesn’t he?”

  “This cannot go unpunished,” said Krentz, hugging herself and rubbing her arms. “They broke into our home.”

  “You’ve broken into many homes, my dear.”

  She glowered at him.

  “I’m teasing. Of course he must be dealt with.” Dirk looked outside, determining that it was still early in the night. “We should do it tonight, and bring along Orrian. See if he can follow directions.”

  Dirk knocked on Orrian’s door. The door opened quickly, and seeing that Orrian was still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, Dirk knew that he had been up all night.

  “Insomnia?”

  Orrian nodded. “Ever since I gained my power.”

  “It’s just as well tonight. I’ve got to pay a visit to an old friend, and I would like you to come with Krentz and me.”

  “What kind of visit?”

  “The kind warranted by an assassination attempt.”

  Orrian’s eyes lit up. “Well then, why didn’t you say so?”

  Krentz met Dirk and Orrian in the courtyard, and Dirk summoned Fyrfrost to take them to the lord’s castle. They mounted and strapped in, and Fyrfrost leapt into the air and flew over the battlements. The guards on the battlements stared with admiration, some cheering their governor and his dragon.

  “They’ve seen us leaving,” said Krentz. “If something happens to Lord Gelding tonight, people are going to talk.”

  “Exactly,” said Dirk, turning to offer her a devilish grin.

  They flew five miles out of the city, where small hamlets and villages dotted the rolling hills and sprawling meadows. Jonathan Gelding was a wealthy lord, and his land spread out for miles, consisting of the hamlet named after his family. The Gelding fortune had been made in wheat and whiskey, and their land was said to be blessed, for theirs was the best farming land for a hundred miles. The Gelding name was synonymous with good whiskey, and not even Dirk, as well traveled as he was, could dispute the fact that they made some o
f the best. But Jonathan had nothing to do with the family’s distilleries, which had, since the time of his grandfather, been run by the workers, the true craft masters.

  Gelding Castle stood thick and imposing on the tallest hill on the ridge. The battlements were guarded by no less than a dozen men, and surely more than that were stationed inside. But Dirk and Krentz had infiltrated this place before. It would be no problem for them. The real test was for Orrian. He sat on the dragon’s back, staring down at the castle, his eyes scanning and darting quickly.

  “What do you see?” Dirk asked over the wind. They were a hundred feet up, gliding on a warm current yet invisible to those below.

  “There are thirteen guards upon the battlements. Which makes, say, three more inside to give them their breaks. I spotted six in the courtyard, and would guess anywhere from ten to twenty inside the castle proper. There is a small barracks there in the eastern wing, and it looks big enough to house nearly a hundred.”

  “Why do you think that is a barracks?” Dirk asked, looking down at the building.

  “Not a lot of windows. Many doors. And they’re double doors, while those attached to other buildings are mostly single. Also, there are only two chimneys attached to the building. A hundred bodies give off a lot of heat, so there’s no need for a large fire. See that series of chimneys? Those are the family’s living quarters. I would bet gold that the largest chimney there to the right services the main dining hall.”

  Dirk glanced back at Krentz, and she too seemed impressed.

  “You have a keen eye,” Dirk noted.

  “How is it that a simple farmer’s son knows so much about the layout of castles?” said Krentz.

  “Books,” said Orrian. “Lots of books. We had a pretty good-sized library in my town.”

  Dirk wasn’t sure if he believed him.

  They circled a few more times, taking note of other guards who were patrolling the gardens.

  “Alright, you two ready?” said Dirk.

  “Always,” said Krentz.