Dark Echoes of Light

by Michael James Ploof

  “Come on,” she said, urging on the others. “There is fresh air close by.”

  She didn’t know how long it had been, but the pressure in her ears told her how high they had gone, and so she was not surprised when they stepped onto the landing to behold a clear blue sky and low-hanging clouds. What did surprise her were the thousands of drekkon waiting for them.

  “It was a trap,” said Ragnar, and even as he spoke, the door closed behind them.

  They found themselves in a large bowl, for the top of the mountain was gone, as if it had been ripped off by an angry god. What remained was a crusty pit with slowly sloping walls at least five hundred feet wide. All along the rim of the mountain peak, the drekkon had gathered.

  Thousands of them.

  “That was a very clever trap,” said Azzeal, though he did not look angry or even scared; instead he seemed impressed by his opponent. “And look at what we are standing on. This is a water catcher. How brilliant. And the tunnel that we came up through must be one of the main pipelines.”

  “Yeah, that’s great. The drekkon have plumbing. Now how do we not die?” said Ragnar, surveying the enemy. “And why the hell they just standing there like that?”

  Raene put her fingers to her lips and whistled as loudly as she could. It was loud, and indeed, it echoed far, but unless Moonbeam was nearby, there was no hope that she would have heard. Beside her, Azzeal closed his eyes.

  “You getting a big spell ready?” Ragnar asked. “Because I think we’re going to need one.”

  Azzeal opened his eyes and glanced at Ragnar with interest. “What type of spell would you create to get us out of here?”

  “Shyte, man, I don’t know.”

  “What in the blazes are you two talkin’ ‘bout?” said Raene, extending her arms out frantically to point at the drekkon. “We got a friggin army o’ drekkon starin’ at us.”

  “We were discussing just that,” said Azzeal pleasantly.

  “Ye be drunk or somethin’?”

  “No, I am not. I have just faced too much danger to get too worked up about things like this. Please, do not be alarmed. We will get out of this. You will see. And more importantly, we will get the information back to Whill.”

  “Why are they just standing there, staring?” asked Raene.

  “Look,” said Ragnar, pointing. “There are children among them.”

  There were indeed drekkon children among the onlookers. For not only warriors, but it seemed commoners had come to peer out their windows and holes, which Raene realized littered the crater.

  “What they be doin’, eh? I ain’t for likin’ that look. It be givin’ me the creeps.”

  “It is likely that most of them have never seen a dwarf, human, or elf, dear Raene,” said Azzeal. “Look at them. They are afraid. Have you ever seen a draggard that was afraid?”

  “Never,” said Raene.

  “Brilliant.” Azzeal began scribbling in his notepad, and Raene offered him a shocked look.

  “Really? at a time like this?”

  “Look,” said Ragnar, pointing at the western ridge.

  A large door had opened, and a robed drekkon sorcerer like the one they had kidnapped walked out onto the ledge and blocked out the sun with his hand. Seeing the companions upon the landing, he banged his staff on the stone three times.

  “Be not afraid, my children, for the dogs of Agora have been cornered. And now you will see that they should not be feared. They should not be haunting your dreams. For you will see that they too bleed, but unlike us, they bleed red, like the lesser beasts of the world. Red like the sow, and the fish, and the bird. Red like dogs. You will see that there is nothing to fear from these dogs, for they will soon be tamed. Even the elf’s magic will not be enough to withstand the might of the followers of Vresh’Kon.”

  “Enough of your speeches!” Ragnar suddenly blurted, and his voice, to Raene’s delight, was like thunder upon the mountainside.

  “Yeah!” she added, smiling at him. “Shove yer speech up yer arse and get in here and fight!”

  The drekkon sorcerer smiled, which was eerie coming from a draggard kin. He tossed back his hood and raised his hands. “Who would like to be the first to kill one of these dogs?”

  The warriors among the drekkon roared with bloodlust as more of the beasts gathered around the rim, which began spilling over. Raene, Azzeal, and Ragnar stood with their backs to each other as they eyed the gathering.

  “They are eager to taste your blood,” said the sorcerer. “But you do not have to die here today. Lay down your arms, and your lives will be spared by the great and powerful Vresh’Kon.”

  Raene glanced at the men. “I ain’t becomin’ a prisoner o’ no drekkon. If ye be afraid o’ dyin’, it’s best ye not be followin’ my lead.”

  “I am with you, Raene, until the very end,” said Azzeal, smiling brightly.

  Ragnar looked much more grim, but he was just as sincere. “As am I, my lady.”

  Raene nodded and turned to the sorcerer. “If ye be wantin’ me weapons, ye best be ready to pry ‘em from me dead, cold hands.” She spit on the ground to accentuate the point.

  The sorcerer’s eyes widened with anger, and he bellowed a word that Azzeal did not bother to translate. At their leader’s command, the warriors among them began to charge down the sides of the crater.

  Raene white-knuckled her mace and hefted her shield, ready to meet her death valiantly. Beside her, Ragnar danced on his toes.

  “Wait,” said Azzeal with sudden realization. “I have an idea.”

  He then raised his staff into the air and spoke a long string of commands. Light erupted from the end of the staff and cascaded down around them, creating a ten-foot-wide energy dome.

  “What the hells ye doin’?” said Raene.

  The first of the drekkon warriors to reach them slammed into the shield and bounced back with magical energy crackling around them. Others reached the dome and began pounding on the shield, but it held strong against their feeble attempts.

  “This is a volcano,” said Azzeal, bending to his knees on the dark, crusty floor. “We are standing in the caldera.”

  “We be knowin’ that. The thing be dormant.”

  “Yes,” said Azzeal, grinning.

  Raene realized what he was hinting at, and she shook her head. “Now why in the hells would I want to be dyin’ by being drowned by magma?”

  “I said nothing about dying, my dear Raene.”

  “Whatever you have in mind,” said Ragnar, “you better do it fast. The sorcerers are coming to try their strength against your shield.”

  Raene saw them as well, and soon the crowd of angry, pounding warriors was backing up at the beckoning of the magic wielders. The sorcerer who had spoken to the companions was the first to roll up his sleeves and unleash his magic. It came in the form of a boulder, which was levitated and sent careening into the energy shield. The dome quivered, but it held.

  Azzeal didn’t so much as wince when the rock hit, for he was on all fours with his full attention on the ground below him.

  “Listen, elf, I know that ye be powerful and all, but to awaken a volcano? That’s not possible,” said Raene.

  “Our friend Whillhelm bestowed unto me great power by channeling it into the crystals in my staff. I do not know how much, for I dare not try to measure it. But I sense that it is vast. A greater power than I have ever possessed. But now I am grateful for the gift. Let’s see if it works.”

  He began reciting long strings of elven incantations and reaching up to the sky as if beckoning the gods. The bombardment of the spell shield continued to no avail, and Raene saw the looks of concern on the faces of the drekkon sorcerers. They redoubled their efforts, hitting the dome with spells and stones, lightning and ice—but the shield remained intact.

  “Even if he awakens the volcano,” said Ragnar, “how exactly do we not die?”

  Raene shrugged. “Beats the hells out o’ me. But I’ve known his crazy arse long enough to kn
ow to trust him.”

  Azzeal cried out with a ferocity that he rarely showed and slammed his fist into the charred floor. From the palm of his hand, a red beam erupted. It burrowed through the crust and poured into the volcano.

  A slow rumble began in the deep of the earth. It rose up slowly, shaking the entire volcano and sending Raene and Ragnar staggering as they tried to keep their feet. The drekkon sorcerers had stopped their attack, and they began frantically ushering the others back up to the rim. Raene’s heart thumped in her chest. She couldn’t believe what they were about to do. As the rumbling grew to an intensity that left her thinking that the earth was surely about to shatter, Raene grabbed Ragnar’s hand. Together they knelt beside Azzeal.

  And the volcano came to life with a molten roar.

  Chapter 30

  The Undying Flame

  Zerafin couldn’t have slept that night even if he wanted to. He, Zilena, and Ninarra had shared a fine dinner and enjoyed stories of their time apart. They had drunk wine and sang songs of old. They had performed for each other on instruments both string and wind, and they had laughed, cried, and even argued a little. Zerafin couldn’t remember the last time he had had so much fun. Of course, his sister Zilena had always brought out the younger side of his heart; she was quick to laugh and full of light, with a smile that was perhaps her greatest weapon. And then there was Ninarra, sweet, beautiful Ninarra.

  It had been decades since he saw her, and to behold her again brought all the same feelings back that had once burned so brightly in his heart. Indeed, she had always held a corner of his heart, but theirs had been a doomed love affair. Set to wed on the night that Eadon first attacked, they had been thrust into war and chaos. The war toiled on and the years rolled by. Duty became the precedent, and they pushed back their wedding for a time. That time became years, decades, and then faded into history, for they grew apart during the wars. They changed. There had been no falling out, no words spoken in anger, it just happened, like all things do. Zerafin knew that it was his fault. He had grown distant after his father’s passing, and he fell into a deep depression after the exodus. After the wars, building Cerushia and Elladrindellia had taken priority, and Zerafin had lost himself in his work.

  But now…now things were different. The world was different. He was different.

  Zilena excused herself shortly after midnight, looking to her brother and Ninarra knowingly, and taking the bottle of wine with her.

  Alone, Zerafin and Ninarra smiled at each other. She sat across from him in a large loveseat of velvet, green like her eyes. Her gown was white as snow and embroidered with vines and flowers. The neck hung loose and low. One shoulder peeked out from behind the fabric as she reached for her glass, and Zerafin felt the old flame in his loins spark anew.

  Her eyes twinkled with knowing, and her full lips pressed together in a delicious grin. She stood slowly and drank her remaining wine before slowly striding toward him. She leaned down, staring into his eyes with that look that had always captivated him so.

  “Ninarra…”

  She kissed him before he could say another word. Passion flared inside of Zerafin, and as Ninarra straddled him and took his hair in tight handfuls, his passion became a pyre. Their tongues danced, fueled by longing. His hands explored her body, and hers tore his robe open. She kissed his neck, his chest. She took him in her warm hands, slowly loving him.

  Zerafin thought that he might burst, and he took her up in his arms and lowered her down to the soft sofa. The wind blew in gently through the open doors, the curtains swaying languidly. The warm summer breeze melded with Ninarra’s intoxicating scent, a scent that awakened the beast within Zerafin, and she cried out as they came together as one. He held her close, their cheeks pressed together, her fingers clawing down his back, his arms holding her firmly, his hand cradling her neck. Together they rocked, their love pulsing between them. Their dance of the flesh became urgent. She pulled him closer, kissing him with desperate need. The fire inside them flared, and together they cried out, locked in a passionate embrace.

  They lay panting, their bodies covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He did not withdraw, for indeed, he wanted to remain in her arms forever. She smiled, laughed a delightful laugh, and kissed him again.

  “I see that you still have the passion of youth,” she said, stroking his long hair.

  “Only for you, my love.”

  She looked to him with a vulnerable, unsure smile. “Zerafin, I have waited for this day for centuries. Tell me that I have not waited in vain. Tell me that it is not too late. Tell me—”

  He kissed her softly, holding her face in his hands. “I have never stopped loving you, Ninarra.”

  “Then why…why did you push me away?”

  “I felt ashamed.”

  She looked confused as she searched his eyes.

  “I failed, Ninarra. I felt that you deserved better than a prince who had lost his nation.”

  “Zerafin, my love. We all lost our nation. The blame did not fall upon your shoulders.”

  “I am so sorry, Ninarra. For it sounds so childish now, but I decided that I would not deserve you until I took back Drindellia.”

  “And now you have…”

  “I have been such a fool. But if you would have me, I would make you the queen of Drindellia.”

  “You have been a fool,” she said, offering him a look of disapproval. “I never cared about titles, or station. I have only ever cared about you.”

  “Is that a yes?” he said, grinning.

  She rolled her eyes. “I said yes centuries ago. Now shut up, my dear, beloved, foolish king, and help me give you an heir.”

  Chapter 31

  The Dwarf Kings

  Roakore paced the hall, mumbling to himself what he had been reciting for an hour. A guard had just told him that both King Du’Krell and King Dwellan had arrived and were being led to the meeting hall.

  The door opened, and Helzendar looked to his father with concern. “Ye ready?”

  “Aye, aye. Ye got anything to drink in there?”

  “Now that be a funny question.”

  Roakore gave a half-hearted laugh and followed his son inside. The meeting hall had been renovated since Roakore had stepped down as king. Helzendar had added a large oak table with gilded patterns inlaid in the smooth lumber. There were gilded chairs with red velvet backs and clawed feet. Above the fine table hung a golden candelabra consisting of seven ascending rings, each one larger than the one below it.

  Helzendar poured his father a tall beer as the old king sat at the head of the table. There were only ten seats, four on each side and one at each end. Helzendar poured himself a drink as well and took the seat at the other end of the table.

  “Ye look worried,” he told his father.

  “What? Worried? Nah, I ain’t worried.”

  Helzendar raised a brow. “Well, ye be lookin’ like ye be.”

  Roakore scowled at his son. “Ye be just like yer mother, ye know that?”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Aye,” said Roakore with a sigh. “She can always read me. Bah, so I be a little nervous, and for good reason. I lost me damn mountain!”

  “It be a setback, that be all.”

  “Ye say that because I be yer father. But ye know it be a disgrace, and now I got to ask the kings for reinforcements again. They’re gonna be sore, ye just watch.”

  “They’ll understand.”

  Roakore shook his head. “Just like yer mother.”

  Helzendar raised his tankard to that and tossed it back. When he finally put it down, Roakore noticed that much more foam collected on his beard, and he was reminded of just how young his son was. Indeed, the youngest king to ever rule Ro’Sar.

  “Sire,” said a guard as he entered and slammed his fist to his chest. “I give ye King Du’Krell o’ the Elgar Mountains, and King Dwellan o’ the Ky’Dren Mountains!”

  Roakore and Helzendar both stood and met the kings at the
door. The older of the two, Du’Krell, strode through the door, taking up most of it with his broad shoulders and barrel chest. Dwellan came second. He wore smoky silver armor and an open-faced helm with a plume of red horsehair sprouting from the top, and for a moment Roakore thought it was the late king of Ky’Dren.

  “Greetin’s,” said Roakore, slamming his fist to his chest and bowing once for Du’Krell and once for Dwellan.

  “I trust your flight was enjoyable,” said Helzendar.

  “Bah, flyin’ be for the birds,” said Du’Krell, already eyeing the bar. “Makes me thirsty for that Ro’Sar red ale, it does.”

  Helzendar nodded to the waiting servers, and they promptly poured two more tankards.

  “And three fingers o’ whiskey, whatever ye got,” said Dwellan.

  The four dwarves took seats at the table, and Du’Krell lit a pipe. Roakore thought that a smoke might be just what he needed to settle his nerves, and so he lit up as well.

  “Now, what I be hearin’ ‘bout bein’ run out o’ the mountain?” Du’Krell asked, never one to mince words.

  Roakore nearly choked on his pipe smoke. He had hoped to explain what had happened in a more roundabout manner.

  Dwellan and Du’Krell stared, waiting.

  “It be true. We ran into these creatures in the deep, these albinos with the power to take over the mind. They strap bombs to mindless scorpions, which be as big as a horse, they be. Them albinos turned dwarves against each other; bless Ky’Dren, but brother killed brother when they attacked. They came by the thousands, up from the deep.

  “It be me own damned fault for movin’ too quick into Velk’Har.”

  “This be grave news,” said Dwellan.

  “I be sorry to hear it, Roakore, I truly be,” said Du’Krell. “Whatever ye be needin’ from Elgar, ye need only be askin’. Velk’Har be the blessed home o’ Ky’Dren.”