Dark Echoes of Light

by Michael James Ploof

  “Has nothing to do with menfolk and womenfolk,” said Ragnar. “I help who needs it. Had it been Azzeal instead of you, I would have done the same thing.”

  “I know, and…and I thank ye. Ye probably saved me a cracked skull.”

  “Nah.” Ragnar smiled at her. “With that beautiful thick red hair of yours, it probably would have cushioned the blow anyway.”

  Raene felt her cheeks getting hot, and she glanced over at Azzeal, feeling self-conscious, but the elf seemed lost in his studies. She ignored the compliment, thinking it quite inappropriate for a human to be flirting with a dwarf, if that was what he was doing. Of course, if there really was dwarf in him, it wouldn’t be quite as bad…

  “So, what be yer story, eh? There be rumors…well, I be sure ye be knowin’ what the rumors be sayin’.”

  Ragnar nodded. “There are many rumors about me.”

  Raene waited on the edge of her stone. When he didn’t elaborate, she blurted out, “Which ones be true?”

  “Did you have a particular rumor in mind?” he asked.

  Raene glowered at him. “Ye know what I be talkin’ ‘bout. How be it ye got the powers o’ the dwarven blessed?”

  “That is a long story. And one that I have only told a few. But I doubt that you would believe me.”

  “Try me,” said Raene.

  Ragnar considered her for a moment, and Raene imagined that he was deciding whether to trust her. At length he sighed, and he began his long story. He told Raene about his ancestor, a human wares trader, who had fallen in love with a dwarf princess.

  She stopped him at the mention of the dwarf princess, shooting to her feet and pointing at him and blurting out, “Now ye just be makin’ up stories!”

  “I assure you that I am not,” he said tiredly. “Please, if you would just listen, I will explain.”

  Raene sat, and with growing wonderment, she listened to his tale. The telling took nearly a half an hour, and by the time Ragnar was done, Raene was quite beside herself. She had gotten up and started pacing halfway through the tale, and now she continued after he had finished, taking it all in.

  “Now you know the truth of it,” said Ragnar. “But little good it will do me. To the dwarves, I am an abomination. And to the humans I am a half breed. I don’t truly belong to either race. But I serve them both, for they are my people. Whether they want me or not. They are my people.”

  “I guess…I guess it ain’t yer fault what ye be,” said Raene, feeling that she had completely misjudged the man.

  “It isn’t a fault at all, but a gift. For though I gained the power to move stone from my royal dwarf blood, I have been granted the power of the blessed by the gods. And I say that if I am good enough for them, well then, that’s good enough for me.”

  Raene hadn’t considered what the gods’ opinions might be, but Ragnar’s logic made sense. For surely if he had the power of the blessed, then he had been chosen by the gods, just as she had been.

  “They say that the gods work in mysterious ways,” said Azzeal as he strode over to them, wiping his hands on his white apron.

  “You done with your examination?” said Ragnar.

  Azzeal nodded, glancing back at his subject. “Yes, the drekkon can now be returned to his people.”

  “Returned?” said Raene. “Ye be right out yer head, ain’t ye?”

  “I very well may be, but as I said, we cannot kill him, it would be mur—”

  “Yeah, yeah, it be murder and all that. But I don’t agree. Ye can’t be murderin’ a beast, and a beast is what he be.”

  “Ah. But you called him a he, which is to say, you did not call him an it. This shows that you know deep down that this drekkon is a person.”

  “I be knowin’ no such thing,” said Raene. “And if ye be thinkin’ these drekkon be people, then ye be nuttier than a squirrel’s shyte!”

  “Be that as it may, I forbid either of you from killing him.”

  “Then leave him here and let’s get on with the quest. We still ain’t learned nothin’ o’ what the armies might be plannin’ to do.”

  “This is true,” said Azzeal. “At first light, we will venture farther into the stronghold.”

  Chapter 28

  The Prison of the Gods

  Whill had not slept in days, and though he knew that he could keep going, he also knew that his mind and his body needed it. He had spent an hour trying to argue Zerafin’s case to the elder council, but it seemed that their minds were made up; they did not want another war, especially one waged across the sea. It was too early, they had said, and Whill couldn’t help but agree with them. He thought about bringing Avriel and the children back home. He thought about closing the portals and forgetting about Drindellia. But he knew that he could not turn his back on the settlements or the dwarves and their new mountain. And that meant that Whill had to kill.

  Soon he would add more faces to the great wall in his mind, a wall made of a hundred thousand faces—the faces of those he had killed. Some of them he had killed twice, he knew, for the necromancer’s evil power had raised the dead to be slain again.

  His dreams were haunted by the walking dead and their green eyes. Humans, dwarves, elves, women, children, even infants were used by the necromancer, and Whill had slain them all. He had done so for his people. He had done so for peace. But a part of him had enjoyed it, and that was what scared him the most.

  He thought of the Other often as he lay in bed during endless sleepless nights, and he wondered now how much of that had been in his head, how much of it had been real. He thought that he had been freed of the Other, but he felt that other side of him within himself. In the end, hadn’t he accepted the Other, when once he had rejected him? Hadn’t the Other taken form because of Whill’s attempts to kill that part of himself?

  Whill knew that the Other was still a part of him, but he was no longer afraid.

  With all the conflict and dire situations playing out before Whill one after another over the last two years, he hadn’t had time to focus on his incredible power. He had ignored it. He had tried to play humble. He had done everything he could to feel guilty about and fear his power, but never had he truly embraced it.

  And why not?

  Whill was afraid of embracing it, afraid of who or what he might become. But why? Why did he assume that he would one day become a monster? Perhaps it was because his uncle Addakon had become a monster, but he, in the end, repented for his sins. Eadon, on the other hand, had not. But the dark elf had once been a decent elf. Hadn’t he? Were all men doomed to become corrupted by power?

  No.

  Zerafin had never been corrupted by his power, and he had held one of the most powerful blades of their time in his hands. And hadn’t Whill already proven that he could control such incredible power when he gave to Kellallea the Sword of Power Taken and the Sword of Power Given?

  Whill debated these things nightly, and he had yet to find all the answers. They eluded him like a faint star drowned out by the light of the moon. But still he searched. He had to. He knew that soon he would face a choice; either he had to embrace his power, or he had to somehow give it up. He could not live in both worlds at once. He could not raise a family if he was afraid of himself. He could not teach boys how to become men if he himself had the fears of a child. And he could not be a husband to his wife if he had to hide who he really was.

  Whill wished that he could embrace his power and rise to a height yet unseen. And if there were indeed gods, he would pay them back for everything that they had done. It was their meddling that had brought about so much death and warfare…

  Whill got out of bed and dressed in his armor. He sheathed his sword, straightened his cloak, and took a steadying breath. He closed his eyes and thought of Lunara. He thought of the cave and the glowing energy prison that housed her. He thought of the throne, and the bones upon the floor, and the green-blue mist that hung about…

  Whill kept many secrets about his power, secrets that he did not e
ven tell to Avriel, and one of them was how he could travel.

  He held the image of the cavern and the energy prison in his mind until it was as clear as the waking world, and he took a step forward.

  Whill opened his eyes.

  Lunara was thirty feet from him. Between them was the pulsing energy prison that held her. She floated above the throne with her back arched, head hanging back, eyes staring right at him. On her head was a glowing blue-green crown to match her eyes.

  “Hello, Lunara.”

  She simply stared, her eyes churning like a hellstorm.

  “I’m sorry that I haven’t visited in the last few days. Things have been…well, you know how things are. It seems like the world has gone mad. We defeat one enemy, and another arises. We liberate one country, and another falls. We defeat one godsdamned god, and another is born!”

  His voice echoed loud in the chamber of green-blue mist, but if Lunara heard him, she gave no indication. She was slowly spinning above the throne, yet her eyes remained locked on his.

  He walked up to the energy prison and reached out slowly, his hand shaking. He knew what to expect, and that’s what scared him. But it excited him at the same time, for Whill could not feel pain like he once had. His power was so great that any wound inflicted was healed almost instantly. Indeed, he often wondered if he could even die…

  Slowly, he pushed his hand through the pulsing energy wall. First his fingers, which instantly dissolved. Whill ground his teeth and pushed farther, up to his knuckle, his wrist. He cried out in pure agony, reveling in it, FEELING it. He moved farther, pressing his arm through the shield created by the gods, cursing the gods as spittle flew and his tortured cry echoed deafeningly in his ears.

  “Stop!”

  Whill jerked back, clutching his sizzling stump. Lunara stood on the other side of the crackling wall of energy, her eyes full of pooling tears that shimmered with green and blue light. His arm regrew in a matter of seconds, and Whill reached out his newly formed hand. Lunara glanced at it and shook her head, staring at Whill with sympathy.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

  “Whill.” Her voice brought tears to his eyes, for it was full of compassion and love. “I did it to save you.” Now she smiled, and he saw no pain in her eyes. “I did it because I love you.”

  “Lunara, I—”

  “I know,” she said.

  “I will find a way to free you from this prison. I swear to you.”

  “What has been done by the gods cannot be undone again. Whill, you must leave this place and never return. You must forget about me. No good shall come of your meddling.”

  “Lunara…”

  “Please. You must forget. Live the life that I have afforded you.”

  “Lunara.”

  In the blink of an eye she was suddenly seated at the throne, and no matter how Whill pleaded, she would not acknowledge him. At length he gave up, but he determined to come back. He had to come back. He couldn’t leave her here for all of time. And no matter what she said, he would one day free her.

  He turned from his friend and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, imagined his room in New Cerushia, and took a step forward.

  When Whill opened his eyes, he saw his haggard reflection in the mirror next to his bed. Whill inspected his hand, the tenth one to have been regrown in the last month. He had named whatever power was imbued in the energy prison Godfire, and how Godfire hurt. Nothing in the world hurt him like that translucent, shimmering energy shield, and he realized with sickening clarity that he enjoyed the pain. But there was perhaps one good thing about such horrible self-infliction; it made him tired.

  After undressing and tossing aside his armor—armor that was now missing a right-arm piece—he crawled into bed and closed his eyes. Within three heartbeats he was asleep, and on this night, his dreams were not haunted by Lunara; they were full of bright, flowering fields and his children’s laughter.

  Chapter 29

  The Sleeping Giant

  Raene peeked over the ledge carefully. She could tell by the scent that it was made of copper and zinc. There were other smells as well in the vast cavern deep within the roots of the mountain; she detected the scent of fungi both strange and familiar. A musk also hung in the air, one that suggested that the humidity down here always stayed the same. And then there was the smell of the drekkon, which was not unlike that of the draggard. This new breed was less offensive than their unwashed counterparts, yet it was repulsive all the same, for the drekkon smelled like a mixture of copper, blood, and sulfur.

  The cavern that Raene was spying alongside Azzeal and Ragnar was vast, its stalactites and stalagmites thick and grown together like columns that made a maze of the place. The sound of dripping water echoed everywhere, along with the rushing of waterfalls feeding into underground lakes, rivers, and other tributaries that would feed the land south of the mountain range before finally reaching the ocean. Listening to the stone, Raene was amazed to hear the power of the water that surrounded them. If she listened too hard and for too long, she began to feel as if the water was squeezing in, and at any minute they would be flooded and drowned by the surge. She thought the drekkon stupid then for making such a soggy, sodden place their gathering hall. They sure sounded stupid, she thought as she watched them gyrate and screech and writhe like idiots. Their leader was talking, but Raene had no idea what he was saying. Azzeal, however, said that he had learned the drekkon language by reading their captive’s mind.

  “The end of days draws near,” said Azzeal, translating for Raene and Ragnar what it was the drekkon leader was saying.

  “We have been chosen to seed the great new world. We will—”

  “Blah, blah, blah, world domination,” said Raene. “We get it.”

  “Quiet. Please,” said Azzeal, as a school instructor might.

  Raene rolled her eyes and went to counting the gathered drekkon while the king rambled on.

  “The god of darkness and death, Eldarian, has chosen me to lead you to this great new world.” Azzeal stopped, looking surprised. “He speaks of Eldarian and the mantle. He speaks of the god of darkness and death.”

  “They all talk like that,” said Raene. “They all be crazy in the head. Don’t ye know that by now?”

  “No, Raene, this is not just talk. For there is great power in the drekkon king. I can feel it even now, and if I look upon him with mind sight, I see not the blinding glow of life energy, but the suffocating shadow of darkness. This new drekkon king, this Vresh’Kon…he serves Eldarian, and Eldarian has blessed him with great power.”

  “How is it that Eldarian can still summon the power of the mantle?” said Ragnar.

  “I do not know. But we must make haste back to Rhuniston and tell the others, for I fear that the next drekkon attack will be fatal to our beloved settlements.”

  “Bah, just take the bugger out right here and now,” said Raene, pointing at the drekkon king. “Use a spell or something.”

  “My dear dwarf lass, it is not as simple as that, as I am sure you are aware. Besides, that would be assassination—very bad for relations.”

  Raene barely registered what Azzeal was saying to her, for her eyes were locked on Vresh’Kon’s. The drekkon king had stopped speaking, and he was looking right at her. She was sure of it.

  “Raene?” said Ragnar, but then Azzeal quieted him.

  “We must go,” said the elf, pulling Raene back from the ledge with him.

  As soon as they broke eye contact, Vresh’Kon screamed like a furious draggard and released a writhing spell.

  “Run!” Azzeal yelled, pushing Raene through the hole in the tunnel they had made to get to the gathering hall.

  The ledge they had been spying from exploded as Azzeal dove through the hole. He landed in a roll and came up sprinting after Raene.

  Ragnar came close behind, and the three ran for their lives through the tunnels as behind them, a terrible rumble and chant for blood began to echo through the halls. T
he tunnel they followed led to dozens of other tunnels with a multitude of options to take, but Raene ensured them that she knew the way back, and she guided them deftly through the twisting and turning passageways. Raene heard her pursuers become louder, but then quieter and farther away, and then again louder as she tried to avoid interception. Eventually, however, their luck ran out.

  Their tunnel suddenly ended at a fork from which three other tunnels connected, and in the mouth of each, the drekkon waited for them. The beasts pounced as soon as Azzeal came skidding into the antechamber. But he had been prepared for such a thing as this, and he dropped, sliding across the floor on one knee and a foot, letting loose a spell from his palms. A shockwave erupted from him in an arch that slammed into the stone, shaking it, but also sending the drekkon colliding with each other as they were pushed down the tunnel like a clog being forced free from a pipe. Behind them, Raene heard more drekkon approaching from their tunnel.

  “Follow me!” said Raene, and she ran down the tunnel to the left after the drekkon tumbling along the channel.

  They ran with the growls, angry cries, and stomping feet of the drekkon close on their heels. But then Raene stopped at a fork that fed from their tunnel to three more. She studied the three tunnels, not recognizing them.

  “They’ve changed it,” she said, and no sooner had the words come out than the room shifted one hundred and eighty degrees, and the tunnels were replaced by others.

  “They’re coming,” said Ragnar, who looked ready for a good fight.

  “Bah, this way,” said Raene, and she took the left tunnel and hurried down it.

  She had made a blind guess, but it seemed to have been the right one, for no sounds followed down this one for more than fifteen minutes as they continued. The tunnel began to steepen, and soon it became stairs. Raene would have liked to change up their escape route to keep the drekkon guessing, but the tunnel that she had chosen never branched off. It just continued up, up, up, until they were all sucking wind and soaked with sweat. This was the hottest mountain that Raene had ever been in, and she was beginning to have dizzy spells. But when the air became lighter, she perked up and surged on up the stairs for the last leg of the journey.