Dark Echoes of Light

by Michael James Ploof

  “Aye,” said Dwellan. “What do ye need from yer cousins in Ky’Dren?”

  Roakore was surprised. He had expected anger, judgement, disdain. He had expected to be shamed, especially by the old Du’Krell. Their understanding and loyalty brought a tear to his eye.

  “Whatever forces ye can be sparin’ would be appreciated, me friends.”

  “I can spare however many it takes,” said Du’Krell. “And I’ll lead ‘em meself through the portal and onward to the gates o’ Velk’Har.”

  “I would be honored to fight beside ye once again,” said Roakore, slamming his fist to his chest.

  “Aye, I would be honored as well,” said Helzendar. “I should have been there in the first place, we all should have. For the reclamation o’ Velk’Har be the duty o’ all dwarves.”

  “Here here!” cried Dwellan. “Let us march to Velk’Har with our legions, and let us crush the enemy. Let us cleanse the halls o’ Ky’Dren, and may the gilded halls ever shine!”

  “Here, here,” cried Roakore.

  They all rose and clanged glasses before guzzling down their ale.

  “Shots all around!” Helzendar bellowed.

  The dwarves cheered the coming battle and emptied half a barrel of ale that afternoon. They made plans for a massive offensive, and as the strategy was laid out, Roakore’s excitement grew. Du’Krell promised ten thousand warriors, and Dwellan promised the same. Ro’Sar had taken the most punishment from the recent wars, but Helzendar assured them that her halls could provide another five thousand warriors, and hundreds of hawk riders as well, for in the last six months there had been many new recruits.

  “Let it be known by the gods in the gilded halls o’ the mountain in the sky!” said Roakore, standing and holding his tankard high. “The four dwarf kings march together to take back the ancient home once and for all. May the gods bless us in our endeavor, and may songs o’ our deeds echo through the celestial halls evermore!”

  “Here, here!” the kings cried, shattering their tankards together and laughing as the ale rained down.

  Chapter 32

  Nowhere to Run

  The lava spewed forth from the volcano like fire from the mouth of a dragon, and with it went Raene, Ragnar, and Azzeal in their small energy globe. Like an arrow they shot into the sky. The orb of energy fizzled and sparked, but it held against the licking lava that chased it into the sky. Soon, however, the energy globe and the lava had run out of momentum, and together they fell back down into the swirling pit, where black choking smoke was now billowing. Blind, they fell, though inside the globe they felt no jarring of the body, no movement, only a weightlessness and a view as black as a demon’s heart. Lightning suddenly erupted in the churning smog, looking blue and dull in the thickness of the volcano’s breath. Another river of lava crashed into them from below. Their direction shifted, and after many gripping seconds, the globe fell through the smoke and hit the side of the volcano. It bounced twice before beginning a high-speed roll that brought the three screaming companions on a ride that they would not soon forget.

  Five minutes later, they lay panting on the ground at the foot of the volcano.

  Azzeal and Ragnar were laughing, and Raene soon joined in. They rose to their feet slowly, shakily, for the excitement of the escape left Raene’s heart thundering in her chest. She felt blessed to have survived such terrible odds. She felt reborn. She felt ALIVE!

  “Holy dragon shyte!” she blurted through chattering teeth.

  Ragnar raised his hands and cheered while Azzeal watched them with a wide smile.

  “We made it!” Ragnar announced to the world. “That’s what you get!” he cried to the drekkon scurrying down the sides of the volcano, rivers of lava and rolling black smoke chasing them every step.

  Seeing the lava, Azzeal grabbed them both by the arm. “I think it is time to go.”

  The next thing that Raene knew, they were charging for the trees. The volcano rumbled and spat, spewing great globs of steaming lava into the air. Rancid black smoke rushed to suffocate them with its ancient breath, but the companions sped on down the hill, their legs fueled by exhilaration and fear. Raene dared a glance back, and her eyes widened.

  “We’re not gonna make it!” she warned the others.

  Ragnar came to a skidding stop, ushering Raene past him. As she sped by, she watched as he lifted his corded, muscled arms, bellowed incoherently, and raised his clawed hands skyward. To Raene’s amazement, a shelf of solid stone shot out of the side of the volcano. The lava splashed up against it, but the slab held strong, redirecting the lava off to the shallow sides.

  They ran on, Raene and Ragnar raising slabs when need be and following the elf as he weaved around lava flows, leaping from stone to stone. Higher up on the volcano, drekkon were screaming, and like rats fleeing a deluge, more drekkon emerged from caves and burrows at the bottom of the volcano.

  Soon the companions found themselves running with hundreds of panic-stricken drekkon. They were mostly ignored, as no one had the time to stop and fight, but a few drekkon came at them with sword and spear, only to be put down by Azzeal’s magic.

  Azzeal led them to a long ridge that ran from the base of the volcano into the foothills surrounding it. They rode the ridge until they were safely above the lava flows, which had completely decimated the surrounding land. Like the spines of sleeping giants, the ridges emerged from the blackening flows, and upon them Raene saw hundreds of angry drekkon. They were staring with hate-filled eyes at the companions. Luckily, they were out of reach, but the ridge that the companions stood on held drekkon as well. They stopped to catch their breath, and Raene choked on the sulfuric stench riding the smoke.

  “We be trapped!” said Raene as they came to where the ridge dipped below the lava flow and did not emerge for another sixty feet.

  Azzeal suddenly sprouted large white wings, and Ragnar gawked at him. “You couldn’t have done that sooner?” he said in disbelief.

  “I could have, but running was much more fun,” said the elf with a feline grin. “But alas, the fun is over. We must be off. Look to the southern sky; it seems that Zorriaz and Moonbeam have found us.”

  Raene spun around, and there, flying low over the smoldering land, were the two mounts. She cried Moonbeam’s name triumphantly, and the beast responded with a shrieking cry. An arrow hit the ground by her feet, and Raene spun around to see a group of drekkon farther down the ridge, taking aim at them with bows and pointed spears.

  Azzeal took to the air as the mounts descended. The drekkon released a volley, but Raene and Ragnar stood side by side, extended their arms, and sent the projectiles wide. The drekkon charged, and another volley came from a different group across the lava flow on a separate ridge. The companions soon found themselves overwhelmed by the drekkon attack.

  Zorriaz roared and bathed the ridges in dragon fire, sending burning drekkon frantically fleeing. They tumbled down the sides of the ridges and disappeared into the darkening lava with a hiss and a puff of smoke. Skeletal hands reached out from the lava, only to slowly sink back down into the glowing sludge.

  Zorriaz and Moonbeam landed upon the ridge, and Azzeal unleashed a barrage of spells upon those drekkon still attacking with arrow and spear. Ragnar climbed onto Zorriaz as the white dragon unleashed another hellish arc of flame, and Raene rushed to her silver hawk. She was about to leap on when a streaking spell ripped through the air from a distant ridge and hit her mount in the neck.

  “No!” Raene cried, rushing to her mount’s aid, but Moonbeam was flailing, her neck smoldering as precious blood bathed the rocks and hissing lava.

  Raene rushed toward her, arms outstretched, and watched horrified as the silver hawk fell into the lava.

  “Ye bastards!” cried Raene. She came to skidding stop at the edge, and a cry of anguish tore from her, for Moonbeam was gone, and only a burning wing remained to be seen, slowly sinking as it was taken by the river of molten stone. “Ye bastards! Ye killed me bird!”

&
nbsp; “Raene!”

  Ragnar and Azzeal were both calling out to her. Zorriaz flew a wide circle and began to come around, but drekkon had taken to the sky as well, and they came on dozens of winged beasts like giant bats, their leathery wings fanning the noxious fumes coalescing with the smoke billowing from the surrounding forest. Azzeal engaged the mounted drekkon, and Zorriaz, who had been swooping down to scoop up Raene, was suddenly overwhelmed by the bat-like creatures.

  The drekkon upon the ridges were closing in, and Raene saw many of the sorcerers among them. She did not fear them, however, for her heart still screamed for her silver hawk, and her fury was that of a tempest. She unleashed her rage, her sorrow, and her pain, and reached a clawed hand toward the closest sorcerer. The drekkon shot a spell at her, but it missed wide and exploded against the ridge. With a cry of fury borne from the Mountain of the Gods, Raene took up the sorcerer in her mental grip and slammed him into a stone on the side of the ridge, cracking his head like an egg and spilling his brains down into the lava flow. Drekkon warriors approached her from both sides, and she shot a hand out in each direction, pushing the groups back with the force of a charging bull. She then turned to one of the groups, barreling into them with her gilded shield and bellowing the war song of the gods.

  Her mace crushed skulls and her shield sent drekkon flying into the lava flows, but they came from both directions, pressing Raene’s ability to its limits. She soon became overwhelmed, and from the outskirts of the battle, the sorcerers were shooting glowing spells at her. She deflected these with her shield, often sending the spells flying back at her attackers.

  Something bit her left shoulder and spun her around. Her shield hit the ground, and Raene drunkenly glanced at her left arm…which was dangling by a thread of muscle and flesh. She staggered, turning to find the sorcerer who had hit her. The world spun, and the screams and nightmarish cries of the drekkon filled her ears. High above, Zorriaz was battling the bats and their riders.

  She felt a hot flash of pain in her back and a tug on her hip. Languidly, she looked down and saw the spear tip protruding from her side. She spun, catching her attacker in the temple with her mace. He crumbled to the ground, and Raene staggered. Dozens of drekkon were charging from both sides of the ridge, and Raene’s vision was quickly fading.

  With one last cry of rage, Raene gathered her power at her core, preparing to unleash a devastating blast that would send every last one of the drekkon flying into the crimson pits. But suddenly something jerked Raene up and into the air. Thinking that it was one of the giant bats, Raene cocked back her mace and looked up. To her surprise, it was not a bat, nor was it Zorriaz or Azzeal. Nothing held her, for Ragnar had taken mental hold of her from Zorriaz’s saddle, and was speeding her up into the sky toward them. Bats flew past, their riders trying to skewer her with gleaming lances. Spells streaked by, barely missing her. But Azzeal was there in his winged form, flying around Raene and batting aside with his staff both spells and drekkon riders.

  “Gotcha!” said Ragnar triumphantly as he grabbed ahold of her good arm and pulled her into his strong ones.

  Raene lost herself in his embrace, and she closed her eyes to the world of smoke and fire and streaking spells.

  Chapter 33

  Dark Echoes

  Whill awoke feeling refreshed. His dreams had remained pleasant all through the night, but now, as reality came crashing down on him, he remembered his conversation with Lunara. Now it felt like a dream. Traveling by thought often made him question his own sanity, for it seemed like such an impossible thing, blinking from here to there. Indeed, all of reality now felt like a dream to Whill.

  Zerafin met him for breakfast, along with Zilena and an elf that he had never met before, whom Zerafin introduced as his fiancée, Ninarra Lightbringer.

  “Greetings, fair Ninarra,” said Whill, kissing her offered hand. “Zerafin has spoken of you often.”

  “Greetings, Whillhelm. And let me say thank you for all those who have never had the pleasure to meet you, who have fought the good fight on the high seas; thank you for all that you have done, not only for our people, but for all of Agora. We forever owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  Whill acknowledged her thanks with a small bow. “Perhaps you should come with us to speak once more to the elder council, for you speak with such heart.”

  “If it would please you, I would be glad to speak to the council. I was surprised to hear their ruling, but I understand their hesitation. They are tired of war, as are we all.”

  “Indeed,” said Whill. “But the weary sword soon finds a new master, as Zerafin is fond of saying. Surely they have not fought this long to let the homeland slip through their fingers.”

  “Many gave up the dream of returning long ago. And now, their roots are planted firmly in Agora,” said Zilena. “But if there is anyone who can convince them, it is you, Whill of Agora.”

  “I will try again, and perhaps together we can convince them.”

  Whill spent more than an hour that day trying to convince the elder council that despite their reservations, they had a duty to their ancestors to take back their homeland. Many on the council disagreed, telling Whill, as they had told Zerafin, that their short-lived peace had not been long enough, that they could not risk leaving Elladrindellia undefended. But Whill would not relent, and he reminded them that had it not been for him, there would be no Elladrindellia to defend. The comment had surprised even Zerafin, but Whill cared not. He was tired of playing the humble savior; he was tired of always being looked to when the world came crashing down.

  In the end the council agreed, but not by unanimous vote. They offered to allow anyone who wished to volunteer to do so, but only if Whill agreed to dismantle all portals leading to Drindellia until the threat had been dealt with.

  Whill agreed.

  That night Zerafin called to the elves of Elladrindellia, beckoning them to join the cause. He promised glory, he promised redemption, and thousands came to his call.

  For three days, elves came from distant reaches of Elladrindellia to march through the portal, and on the other side, in Drindellia, Whill watched as a steady stream of soldiers poured through the five portals that connected the three mountain kingdoms, Uthen-Arden, and Cerushia. Roakore and Helzendar came with five thousand. Dwellan, king of Ky’Dren, marched through, his force ten thousand strong. And Du’Krell, riding proudly on an armored mountain ram, led his army of ten thousand through the portal. Lastly came the humans, though Whill did not see Dirk among them.

  The armies marched through New Cerushia toward Rhuniston and made camp around the human settlement, and though the dwarves had a mountain to reclaim, they had vowed to first help against the drekkon.

  ***

  On the other side of the Kell-Torey portal, Dirk watched as the last of the human forces marched through. Beside him to his right stood Orrian in sleek black armor. The young man wanted to join them, wanted to prove himself upon the battlefields of Drindellia, but Dirk had insisted that he remain in Agora. “Your time will come,” Dirk had told him. “Be patient.” Orrian had nodded silent agreement, but now, watching the army move through the shimmering gateway, Orrian’s eager eyes gave away his intent.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Dirk. “I am thinking it too. But now is not the time.”

  “I wanted to thank you for all that you have done for me,” said Orrian.

  Dirk glanced at him, and he saw a change in Orrian’s eyes. They became dark onyx pools of swirling energy. He backed up a step, hand on hilt.

  “You have served your purpose,” said Orrian. “And now we must part ways.”

  “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Goodbye, Dirk Blackthorn.” Orrian took a step toward the portal, and Dirk reached out and grabbed his shoulder. In a heartbeat and a blur of motion, Orrian had moved inside Dirk’s guard and held him in a standing armbar.

  “I am leaving you know,” said Orrian before shoving Dirk away. He turned with a flu
rry of black and crimson robes and began down the hill toward the portal.

  Dirk unsheathed his sword with one hand and held out the wolf figurine with the other.

  “I can’t let you do that,” he warned.

  Orrian stopped, looked to the sky. Was he laughing?

  “Chief, come to me,” said Dirk.

  Orrian turned. Indeed, he was laughing. “You cannot stop me, you must know this,” he said. “Nor should you. You do not own me. I am neither your servant nor your slave.”

  “Don’t be a fool. You can hardly control your power as it is. If Whill finds out about you, what do you think he will do?”

  “I do not fear Whill of Agora. I do not fear you. Step aside, old man.”

  Chief growled at Dirk’s side, but Orrian only smiled.

  “What happened to you?” said Dirk, seeing how his eyes shone. “Who got to you? Was it Kellallea?”

  “Goodbye, Dirk.” Orrian turned to walk away, and Dirk threw a dart at his feet that Krentz had enchanted to absorb all nearby magical energy.

  Orrian froze in place and growled against the effect of the pulsing power emanating from the dart. Dirk threw another dart, this one enchanted to render its victim unconscious. Even as it landed, he was coming around with his mind control dagger. Orrian erupted suddenly, lashing out with a shockwave of energy that not only took Dirk off his feet, but Chief as well. The spirit wolf turned to mist and flew a wide circle, coming around the back of Orrian. Dirk landed on his feet and retaliated with a barrage of explosive darts. But each one was repelled and came shooting back at Dirk. He was forced to dive and roll, and as he came up, Orrian hit him with a twisting blue spell. The incantation slammed into Dirk’s chest, but the wards of protection that Krentz had laid upon his armor absorbed the blow. The power collected into the energy crystals embedded in the palm of Dirk’s gloves, and he extended his right hand, bellowing the elven word for fire. The crystals had been imbued with the ability to spew flames, and spew flames they did. A long swath of blue fire engulfed Orrian. Dirk knew that Orrian would simply deflect the flames, but he had only intended them to be a distraction. He ran and leapt through the flames, bearing down on Orrian with short sword and dagger in hand. Orrian was caught by surprise, and Dirk’s enchanted blade tore through his energy shield and cut deep into Orrian’s shoulder. At the same time, Chief leapt on Orrian’s back and rode him to the ground. Dirk rushed over to pin him with his blade, to save him from himself, to save him from Whill’s wrath. But to his surprise, Orrian suddenly disappeared. Chief rolled onto his feet, sniffing the ground, and Dirk instinctively whirled around, sensing Orrian at his back.