Dark Echoes of Light

by Michael James Ploof

  One took hold of a dragon’s breath bomb and hurled it in Philo’s direction. Roakore pushed aside the dwarf that he had just knocked out and grabbed a nearby human’s shield. He sent it spinning, taking the dwarf with the bomb in the forehead. He then took hold of the bomb and sent it over the wall, where it exploded, shaking the ramparts. Roakore continued to guide the shield, taking out the possessed upon the battlements and sending them flying off the wall.

  When they finally subdued the possessed, nearly a dozen humans and dwarves had been killed. Philo rounded them all up and tied their hands and feet before tossing back his flask.

  “Godsdamned dark magic!” he said and then spit on the stone.

  Roakore looked to the south, and there he saw Whill battling with someone high in the sky. He covered Philo’s mouth to shut him up. “Look!” he said. “Whill battles the enemy in the air. Look!”

  Every soldier upon the ramparts looked to where Roakore pointed. They cheered their god king, chanting Whill’s name. But then a gasp swept across the city, and Whill fell back to earth. Roakore squeezed Philo’s head, tensing as his friend fell lifelessly. He thought to call to Silverwind, but it was too late. Surely Zorriaz would intercept him, surely someone would save him.

  But no one came to save Whill, and like a fallen god, he plummeted back to earth, shaking the ground when he hit and sending up a plume of dust and dirt.

  “Ky’Dren’s beard!” Roakore gasped.

  Somewhere upon the wall a horn blared, and Roakore turned with the others. There in the distance, a black cloud was slowly covering the sky. But Roakore knew that it was no cloud, for it had a hundred thousand leathery wings.

  “Silver hawk riders! To arms! To your mounts! Fell beasts fly upon the horizon!”

  He called to Silverwind, who, like many of the other silver hawks, had been flying around the city since the commotion began. She landed, along with Philo’s trusty mount and Raene’s new one. Helzendar, Denmar, and Ardmar landed upon the battlements, awaiting their father’s command. Dozens of other hawk riders came as well, and still others were on their way.

  “Whill of Agora has fallen…me friend has fallen! I ain’t for knowin’ if he be alive or dead, but I know I ain’t going to let these bastards destroy his city!

  “Who’s with me?” he cried, raising his axe high.

  The hawk riders cheered and took to the sky once more. They moved into a tight V formation with Roakore at the head. The humans upon the wall cheered them on, and the elves sent shimmering enchantments from the wall that wrapped themselves around the mounts and riders.

  The clever dwarves had created many new weapons for the hawk riders, including retractable dragon lances, explosives both magical and dragon’s breath, and large iron balls loaded in saddlebags.

  Roakore had been training with the hawk riders extensively for the last six months, and he was eager to put the new weapons to the test. As he flew toward the terrible flock of bats, he called out to his riders, “Get them balls spinnin’!” He pulled six of the apple-sized iron balls from his saddlebags and tossed them into the air. He took mental control of them easily and set them spinning around him in a wide arching pattern. Behind him the hawk riders fanned out and set their balls to spinning as well.

  They met the first of the bats and drekkon riders five miles from Rhuniston and were bombarded by a plethora of streaking spells. The iron balls, however, had been imbued by the elves to deflect spells. The dwarfs surged through the onslaught, their spinning balls sending spells ricocheting in every direction, often back at the horde. The hawks spread out wider and surged from on high, plowing through the bats and drekkon riders. The spinning balls broke wings, crushed skulls, and dismounted the drekkon by the dozens. Roakore cried with the war song of the gods, his iron balls destroying every beast they tore into. Blood showered his face, turning Silverwind’s silver, blade-like feathers crimson.

  The bat riders were unafraid, it seemed, for they steered right at the spearhead of silver hawks, clogging the paths of the iron balls and finally stopping them. Roakore saw the danger. He called out for the hawks to camouflage themselves and steered Silverwind up into the clouds. Silverwind’s feathers turned as blue as the sky, as did the large coat of feathers that Roakore wore. He glanced back. The other riders were hard to make out, but he saw their shimmering outlines against the darkness of the horde below.

  Roakore led the riders back toward Rhuniston, flying high above the still-advancing flock of bats. Far below, elven spells began to erupt from the battlements and the valley. Spells of fire and ice and wind assailed the bats, and for a time they were thrown into disarray. But their numbers were so great that even as hundreds fell from the sky, still thousands more surged like a storm of wings and streaking spells and gleaming blades.

  Roakore trailed the swarm, urging his riders on and attacking the rear. As he passed over Rhuniston, he was heartened to see the shimmering energy globe around the city absorbing the magical blows. Whill had created the shield, Roakore knew, and he hoped that its continued presence meant that his friend was still alive.

  The hawk riders followed their king into the fray, hacking and slashing the unsuspecting drekkon and sending bats spiraling to the ground below, only to bounce and slide down the sides of the energy globe, stacking twenty feet high around the perimeter.

  The swarm climbed high, touching the clouds, and turned in a wide arch to speed toward Rhuniston for a second pass. And all the while Roakore and his riders pursued them. He called out for a large circular formation, and the well-trained dwarves prepared their bags of steel pellets. Roakore took two of the bulging bags from his saddle and gave the command to fire. The hundreds of silver hawk riders took mental control of the bags and shot them toward the swarm of bats they pursued. The bags ripped through the air, tore open, and from them, hundreds of small metal pellets the size of grapes shot through the air. The barrage tore through the bats and their riders. Propelled by the innate power of the dwarves, they continued through multiple victims, tearing through scales and armor and ripping apart thousands of enemy riders.

  Roakore and the hawk riders gave a cheer and flew through the carnage, hacking and slashing the flailing beasts as they spiraled to earth. Their cheers were drowned out suddenly as an explosion ripped through their ranks, scattering the silver hawks and sending many of them to join their enemies in the growing ring of the dead surrounding the city.

  ***

  “Fire!” Zerafin cried, and a thousand glowing arrows shot from the battlements of Rhuniston. The projectiles sailed through the energy shield and exploded in great fireballs, charring bats and riders alike.

  But the swarm was so thick that it blocked out the sun, leaving the city in darkness. The drekkon retaliated with a collective blast from their glowing staffs and shimmering swords, battering the shield with an onslaught of magical energy.

  Like an egg, the dome surrounding Rhuniston began to crack.

  “Fire!” Zerafin commanded once more, and another barrage assailed the drekkon.

  The bats flew by, soaring for the clouds once more, and behind them the dwarves followed, attacking from the rear like a swarm of angry hornets. But some of the drekkon riders had flanked the dwarves, and a powerful sorcerer among them let loose a spell that exploded in the center of the flock of silver hawks.

  Out in the valley the horns blared. The drekkon were attacking from land as well, and now that the bombardment of the passing drekkon riders had ceased, Zerafin could hear the rumble created by the approaching horde.

  Zerafin searched the sky for any sign of the mysterious man that Whill had been fighting, but he saw nothing but the magical energy of the drekkon. He searched for Eldarian and Kellallea as well, thinking that surely the pair would show up.

  If they did, Zerafin did not know if the city would survive. He realized with sickening clarity that he had depended too much on Whill’s power. They all had.

  He looked to the north, and trepidation filled his hear
t, for tens of thousands of drekkon charged the smaller allied army. They rode mammoth elephant-like beasts with wooly fur and large, curved tusks. Mountain trolls and giants charged with them, shaking the ground with their massive feet.

  Far to the north, a glow like a distant, winter star appeared. It grew bigger as Zerafin watched, and soon it filled the sky like a full moon.

  Chapter 44

  The Price of Betrayal

  “What have you done?” Eldarian stormed over to Orrian as he landed on the roof of the decrepit tower less than ten miles from Rhuniston.

  Orrian took a deep breath and let it out with a slow shudder. The power churned within him. The power of Kellallea, the power of the dragons, that of the elves, dwarves, drekkon, and Eldarian as well. He thought that he might explode. Spells flashed in his mind. Ancient text came alive before his third eye. An endless river of power flowed through him, seemingly from the heavens, for his was the power of the gods.

  He glanced down at Godsbane and beheld the power of the blade in a new light. It stung his eyes, humming in his hand, eager to take another life, eager to take the life of a god.

  “I have done what you could not,” said Orrian. “I have stripped Whill of Agora of his godlike power, and I have taken it as my own. He is no longer a threat, and now, together, we can destroy his wards and shatter the prison containing the mantle.”

  “Fool!” said Eldarian, his eyes alight with dangerous energy. “You may have stripped Whill of the powers of the mantle, but in doing so, you have given him another power—the power to kill a god!”

  Orrian looked to Godsbane, frowning.

  “That blade was made by the god of light!” Eldarian screamed, stalking toward Orrian with a dark, dangerous gaze. “It was used to murder the god of darkness, and now Whill has absorbed its power, and the power of its creator.”

  “What does it matter?” said Orrian, glaring at Eldarian. He stood his ground determinately, white-knuckling Godsbane in his right hand. “I fought Whill of Agora, and he fell from the sky like the false god that he is. Let us go now to the prison and shatter his wards.”

  “His wards surrounding the prison have been strengthened by the power of light, you fool!” Eldarian erupted suddenly. A thousand shadows burst from his chest and surrounded Orrian. But Orrian did not back down, he did not cower; instead he let out a great surge of power, an energy shield that vibrated against Eldarian and his shadows, pushing them back.

  Eldarian staggered back, his shadows pulled back into himself, and looked to Orrian fearfully.

  Orrian grinned. “You once told me that you could not defeat Whill of Agora. Yet, I have. Keep that in mind, my dark master.”

  Eldarian fumed, but he did nothing.

  “Kellallea, you may as well stop hiding,” said Orrian, glancing in her direction.

  She stepped into view from behind a broken pillar, glowing like the moon.

  “What have you done?” she said, her eyes fearful.

  “My lady,” he said, offering her a respectful bow.

  “It was you!” said Eldarian, spinning to face her. “You stole Godsbane and gave it to Orrian. Why?”

  “So that he would put you out of your misery!” she screamed back at him.

  Eldarian appeared at first to be hurt, but then he lashed out with a hand wreathed in shadow.

  “No!” said Orrian, putting Godsbane between them.

  Eldarian recoiled. “You would dare to threaten me with my own blade? Give it to me. You have caused enough trouble with it already.”

  “Neither of you can wield the sword. It was not meant for you.” Orrian looked to Eldarian, eyes gleaming. “You fear that now Whill has become too powerful? Yet here I stand with the same abilities as he, and the sword forged by the god of light. I need only impale myself with the blade, and my power will be that of the blade, will it not?”

  He suddenly turned the blade on himself, but his body froze. Kellallea was floating now, and her bent fingers pointed at him, paralyzing him. At the same moment, Eldarian became a tangle of shadows that flew the distance between them in a flash. Orrian shook with the blade inches from his stomach. He focused his rage, his anger, his sorrow at the loss of his family, at the loss of Agora. It was if he had collected everyone’s pain, had taken unto himself every tear that fell in Agora during the Draggard Wars, and he released his pent-up energy.

  He felt the sword pulled from his grasp as his shockwave of power exploded from him, and he saw Kellallea, sword in hand, streak into the sky like a comet. Eldarian stood cloaked in shadow, Orrian’s terrible power washing over him. The shockwave tore trees up by the roots; it broke stone and shattered rock, flattening everything nearby. Yet, Eldarian remained.

  Orrian’s power abated, and the world became still.

  “You have made a grave mistake,” said Eldarian. “For there is a difference between having power…and knowing how to use it!”

  His howling shadows tore into Orrian like knives, ripping through his every defense and invading his mind, body, and soul.

  Chapter 45

  From Darkness into Light

  Whill lay in the temple of light in New Cerushia, staring up at the oculus. The sun was directly above the dome, shining down upon Whill with the warmth of a mother’s words. He bathed in the sunlight, and all around him golden dust shimmered in the sun’s rays. All around him the elves stood, bearing witness as the darkness of the mantle was washed away by the power of the god of light. The elves’ awe was palpable to Whill, and he floated above them, crying golden tears of joy. He was consumed by love, by peace, by light.

  As the sun slowly moved away from the oculus, Whill began to float back down onto the satin-covered dais. The blinding light in his mind receded like the tide, the power becoming distant like a slow crashing of waves, but always within reach.

  Whill sat up, and Avriel came rushing to him. She crashed into him with a hug and, pulling back, held his face in her hands and inspected him. Her eyes widened momentarily, but then she smiled. “Your pupils, they are like two small suns.”

  “The darkness is gone,” he said. “It has been replaced by light.”

  “And the wards around the prison?”

  “Intact. Where are the children?”

  “Here,” came a voice, and Whill saw Zilena behind Avriel with Abe and Arra in her arms.

  She brought them to Whill, and he kissed each of his children as he held them closely. They smiled up at him, Arra trying to pull one of his golden strands and Abe staring at his eyes, mesmerized.

  “The fighting,” he said, looking to Avriel. “Does it continue?”

  She nodded.

  “Then I must return. With every second that passes, a life is lost. I must stop this.”

  Avriel took the children and kissed him. “Return to us quickly.”

  “I will. I love you, Avriel.”

  He turned from Avriel and the children, from the smiling Morenka elves, and he rushed out of the temple. Zorriaz was waiting outside, and she roared with delight as he approached.

  “Beautiful Zorriaz!” he said as he leapt into the saddle. “Take me to Rhuniston, for we have a war to end!”

  She shot flames fifty feet into the air and leapt, beating her long white wings and rising high above New Cerushia.

  They reached Rhuniston shortly after, and to Whill’s surprise, the drekkon army was retreating to the north. The battlefield outside of Rhuniston was smoldering, and the scent of death rode upon the wind. Whill spotted Zerafin and Roakore outside of Rhuniston and urged Zorriaz to land.

  He leapt off and trotted over to his friends.

  “Whill, so ye be alive after all!” said Roakore joyfully.

  “I’m still breathing,” he said, looking north. “What happened? Why are they retreating?”

  “There was a grand explosion in the north,” said Zerafin. “I believe it might have had something to do with Eldarian, for the energy that created it was great indeed. After that, the drekkon began to retre
at.”

  “So, what happened to ye, eh lad?” Roakore asked, offering him a flask.

  Whill tipped back a drink. “The story will have to wait, for there are many who lay upon the battlefield on the brink of death.”

  He extended his hands, closed his eyes, and released the glorious power warming his soul. Light exploded from him, washing over the battleground and mending the wounds of those who had fallen but were not yet dead. Elves being carried on stretchers, dwarves being read their last rites, humans clinging to life, and even the drekkon and bats of the north rose from the smoldering battleground, there every wound healed.

  The drekkon were quick to mount the bats and fly north, and Whill bade everyone to let them go.

  “There has been enough violence and death!” said Whill, his voice echoing out across the battlefield. “Let us gather our dead. Let us mourn. For now, the threat has passed.”

  The archers lowered their bows, and the dwarves reluctantly stayed their dragon harpoons.

  Whill, Roakore, and Zerafin spent the remainder of the day helping to gather the dead, and that night there was a grand pyre outside of Rhuniston to set free the spirits of the human dead. The elves who had perished were brought back to New Cerushia, and the dwarves took their own to Riverfork.

  The three kings stood upon the battlements that night, watching the pyre burn, and Whill told them about his battle with Orrian.

  “Then it is true,” said Zerafin. “There will be other humans like you. Humans with the abilities of old.”

  “Yes, and I cannot seek them out. I cannot help them. For they would then absorb the power of the gods, a power that we were never meant to have. My own children…” Sorrow filled him at the thought. “If they begin showing signs of the human power, what then shall I do?”