Dark Echoes of Light

by Michael James Ploof

  “Clever,” said Lyrian with a grin, though Whill could see that he was stumped momentarily for the answer. “The murderer is not truly helping himself. He is satisfying a need created by a sick mind.”

  “And can that mind be rehabilitated? If we are reborn many times throughout our lives, are we then not responsible for what we have done in the past?”

  “You speak of forgiveness.”

  “I suppose. Say you could meet the dark elves who killed your parents, your wife, your children. And say that they had become enlightened. Could you forgive them?”

  “I already have,” said Lyrian.

  “I don’t mean figuratively.”

  “Neither do I. The dark elf who killed my wife and children sought me out in Agora. Seems that he had a propensity for wiping out entire families.”

  Whill searched Lyrian’s eyes, feeling ashamed to think the old Morenka might be lying. But there was truth in those soft eyes, and perhaps a slight sadness that came and went when he blinked.

  “You find it hard to believe me,” said Lyrian, meeting Whill’s gaze. “But it is true. I forgave him for what he had done.”

  “Just like that? You let him go?”

  “It was not me who would not let the other go. It was not me who sought him out. He attacked, bent on killing me, and I was forced to subdue him lest I bring harm to my person. He was taken by elven soldiers who came to my aid. I do not know what became of him.”

  “Don’t you wonder? Don’t you hope, perhaps only a little, that he is dead?”

  To Whill’s surprise, Lyrian nodded. “There is a small part of me that feels that way. But that is the pain body of old. Even if I gave in to that voice and sought out the answers, learning of his death would bring me no true joy, for I have been down the many roads of vengeance, and they always lead to more pain. You asked what I hope, and I will say that I hope he learned to overcome his own demons. I hope that he cleansed his spirit and lived many years in the service of others.”

  Whill shook his head. “You are a better man than I.”

  Lyrian smirked. “That is because I am an elf.”

  Whill left Lyrian’s cottage feeling…he didn’t quite know how he felt. He often felt confused after speaking with a Morenka, but there was a truth in their words and in their beliefs that he could not deny. Still, he could not fully embrace their ways. They would tell him to forgive his enemies, to lay down his sword. Indeed, their way might work; that is, if everyone in the world believed and followed it. The problem that Whill had was that the world did not believe in the Morenka Way. There would always be those who wished to take from others. There would always be power-hungry gods, bloodthirsty monsters, and dangerous kings. But Whill had to do what he could to change that, and he chose action rather than what he often considered the Morenka way of wishing things away.

  Whill took the long way back to his and Avriel’s abode, which brought him through the woods west of the city. This route would take twice as long, but it held such beauty that Whill took it more times than not. The elves had touched the land here with their magic, and the result was a fresh new forest of tall young sequoias laced with purple berry vines from trunk to first branch. Soft moss covered the forest floor, and a trickling brook ran beside the footpath. Soon the brook grew larger and branched out in a dozen directions. Here were small islands of moss and trees, separated by the knee-high brook that slowly snaked its way west and south. Footbridges, some long and some short, connected those islands where the path meandered. Whill stopped on one of them to view the small waterfall that fed a swirling pond. He stopped here often on his way back home. Many times the hours got away from him, and he found himself entirely late for dinner.

  “Hello, Whill.” The voice came from behind him. It was such a shock that Whill’s heart fluttered thrice.

  He slowly turned around to face the speaker.

  Kellallea stood facing the opposite direction, looking bent and defeated while white-knuckling the rail of the footbridge. “You no doubt want to kill me,” she said, even as Whill’s fingers twitched for his sword. “Do it, if that is what you want, for I know that I have taken enough from you.”

  “Turn around,” said Whill, his voice low and menacing.

  She shuddered, bending as if pained, or…was she crying?

  “I said turn around and face me, damn you!”

  Kellallea slowly turned, and Whill saw the defeat in her eyes. There was no light, no sparkle of life, no glow of power; there was only defeat. He found that at that moment, he felt sorry for her, and he cursed himself his sensibilities.

  “I am sorry, Whill. I have only ever tried to do good, but it seems that I have failed in that regard. I am sorry that Lunara—”

  “Do not speak her name!” Whill unsheathed his sword and lunged forward, grabbing Kellallea by the throat.

  She closed her eyes as if she had accepted her fate, even welcomed it.

  Whill pressed the blade to her neck, noting that she had no wards of protection around her, no energy shields. He pressed the blade harder, knowing that all he had to do was jerk back his arm, and Lunara would be avenged. Whill was overwhelmed by his sense of power. Once he had beheld Kellallea with such reverie, such admiration, fear, and respect, but now he knew the truth. She was no god. She was just a person, and now he was stronger than her.

  “Tell me how to free her!” Whill screamed. “And do not say that there is no way. There is always a way.”

  “I will not,” she said. Their faces were as close as lovers on a cold winter night. Her eyes never left his, and in that eternal gaze, Whill felt naked.

  “Tell me how, damn it, or I’ll kill you here and now.”

  “No. You see, I do not wish to live. Eldarian is not the elf I remember him to be. I made a grave mistake. But how I wish the gods would have taken me when I was but a babe.”

  Whill pushed her away, disgusted. “What games are you playing now?”

  “I am playing no games!” Kellallea suddenly shot a spell at him that he deflected wide in a blur of motion. She stalked toward Whill, eyes alight with malice and bitter regret. “Kill me now, damn you, or I will slit your children’s throats!”

  Whill saw red. His hand thrust forward, and a spell erupted with ghastly, green-blue light. Kellallea closed her eyes and looked to the sky…

  Time stopped and started again, and Whill looked to the smoldering elf who lay at the base of a young sequoia. Kellallea was beautiful in death. Her long black hair covered the injuries to her chest with the same grace that she had always shown. Her eyes were closed, and there was a small grin; a peaceful smile, as though she were sleeping and dreaming pleasantly.

  Whill, however, knew no joy in that moment. He fell to his knees before her, feeling as though he had killed his own mother. Revenge brought with it no grand closure, no peace; it simply took from him an outlet for his rage and left him feeling empty and numb.

  Whill cried.

  He cried not only for the byzantine Kellallea—the elf maiden who had risen to godhood, she who had given birth to his legend long before he was born—but also for the loss of his chances of freeing Lunara, for surely Kellallea had held the secrets.

  “How do you feel, now that you have gotten your revenge?”

  Whill turned to find Lyrian smiling down at him.

  “Is…” Whill began, but his throat constricted painfully. “Is this real?”

  Lyrian shrugged, and turning, he strode over to a strong, tall sequoia and began stroking the deep red bark. “It can be. It may be, it might not be.”

  Whill waited, and at length the elf turned and waved a hand. Kellallea turned to smoke, and the smoke turned to mist, and soon, the mist was taken by the wind.

  “You never answered me,” said Lyrian. “How did you feel once you had gotten your revenge?”

  Whill stood quickly and scowled at the old elf. “You…the tea…how did you drug me without my knowledge?”

  Again, Lyrian only shrugged. “My quest
ion is much more interesting for us both.”

  “I…” Whill began. He turned and looked to where she had lain. “I felt, I felt empty.”

  Lyrian nodded knowingly. “I apologize for deceiving you. But you were so interested in my situation, I thought I might see how you would have handled it. Though, of course, I do not judge you your decisions. For I did not know what you would do. But having seen the result, I am quite curious to know if you would do it again.”

  “Don’t ever do that to me again,” said Whill. He sheathed his sword, waited for Lyrian’s acknowledging nod, and then shot off into the sky.

  Chapter 18

  Bad Tidings

  Roakore was no stranger to embarrassment and shame—living with the Ky’Dren dwarves in their whispering halls for twenty years had taught him humility. Of course, no one ever spoke the words, never rubbed it in that Roakore’s father had lost the mountain. Dwarves just weren’t that way. Regardless, Roakore had known their minds, and his had been a silent shame. But now, walking through the human trading post with tens of thousands of displaced dwarves in tow, Roakore found that his cheeks were burning, he was sweating profusely, and his ass itched like an old scab.

  “What the hells is this?” said one human trader.

  “They get run out of the mountain already?” another whispered.

  Roakore looked straight ahead, chin high, shoulders back, and strode through Riverfork.

  “Maybe they’re returning to Agora,” came another voice, and Roakore fought the urge to overturn the nearest cart and all its wares right in the laps of the ogling humans.

  “Bunch o’ lookie-loos,” said Philo, spitting in the direction of a pair of old traders. “Not three good teeth between ‘em. Ye think Whill would be goin’ around and fixin’ the poor wretches’ teeth.”

  “Bah. Whill ain’t no tooth doctor,” said Roakore, glad for the distraction.

  They made their way to the dwarven quarter and were greeted by the commander there. The old dwarf slammed his right fist to his chest and bowed low. “Me king, I done like ye asked. It’ll be tight, but we can house everyone for the time bein’.”

  Roakore offered him a nod of respect and patted the dwarf on the shoulder. “Show me what we be workin’ with, Commander Burza.”

  The commander led Roakore, Philo, and Raene through the small dwarven town, which, like the human and elven quarters, had been built along the banks of the Velk’Har River. The trading had been good throughout the winter. Wagons came steadily from the mountains, heavy with loads of coal, stones for building, precious stones that had been masterfully shaped, gold, silver, jewelry, armor, and most importantly, weapons. In return, there was a steady flow of barrels containing foodstuffs and other wares leaving the docks of the human and elven quarters. The barrels would make the journey into the foot of the mountains, where they would be fished out by the dwarves. But now, no barrels floated downstream, and the snaking line of wagons coming into town were not full of wares, but dwarves.

  “I hope it be good enough for now,” said Burza as they came to a large stone building that stood above all others, solid and strong.

  Roakore was impressed, for the blessed were strong indeed to have moved such large slabs. He followed Burza through the large double doors and was impressed further to find a well-lit antechamber with seven tunnels branching off from it.

  “Them tunnels go deep, and the hundred o’ pods branchin’ off from ‘em can house five to ten dwarves each. The plumbin’ was finished this mornin’, so ye be just in time.”

  “It’ll do,” said Roakore. “We ain’t goin’ to be here long.”

  The day was spent helping the dwarves settle into their temporary home. It was a tight fit, as Burza had predicted, but the dwarves didn’t complain. Those who had made the trek across the ocean to the new mountain with Roakore were a tough lot; whether they were miners, master crafters, soldiers, or tinkers, they had known when they signed up that there would be unforeseen dangers.

  Later that night, Roakore met with both the human and elf commanders of Riverfork. He filled them in on what had happened in the mountain, assuring them that he did not expect an attack. Still, he advised them to be prepared, and so for a time, the trade town became a fortress. The watch upon the wall was tripled, scouts were sent south to watch the hills and the river, and both the human and elf commander ordered more soldiers to be sent to Riverfork immediately.

  With the safety of his people off his mind, Roakore turned his attention to New Cerushia, where he was due to meet with Whill and Zerafin. He flew with Arrianna, Philo, Raene, and his sons, Denmar and Ardmar, who were hawk riders as well as newly blessed. They arrived in New Cerushia a few hours before midnight and were led through Zerafin’s palace to the main dining hall.

  “Oy!” said Roakore as he greeted his friends. “Ye ain’t goin’ to believe what been goin’ on in me mountain.”

  “We have had trouble as well,” said Zerafin.

  They all shared a late meal and filled each other in on recent events. Roakore was beside himself with rage to hear about the new breed of draggard, and not only Zerafin, but Whill too looked concerned to hear about the albinos.

  “You say they have psychic abilities?” said Zerafin.

  “Aye, and they got giant black scorpions for pets to boot!”

  “Strap bombs to ‘em they do,” said Philo.

  “I’m sorry to hear of your troubles,” said Whill, looking to have something weighing on his mind.

  Roakore sensed that Whill wanted to offer his help, for indeed, he could probably wipe out the albinos as easily as one might a colony of ants, but they both knew that this was something the dwarves had to do themselves.

  “We just need to regroup is all. We’ll be hittin’ back soon, don’t ye be doubtin’ that. What about ye? Ye be needin’ any help against the drekkon?”

  Zerafin glanced at Whill, and Roakore sensed a tension between his old friends. It was Zerafin who answered him first.

  “We may indeed need your help, if they decide to strike again. And I would offer the help of the elves in your endeavor. I believe that we can create wards that will protect your soldiers against the effects of their mental intrusions.”

  Roakore was relieved and elated to hear it, but he held his composure. “I thank ye, Zerafin. That would be greatly appreciated.”

  The main door to the dining hall opened, and Ragnar strode through in full armor. He held his helm tucked under his left arm, and his right hand sat upon the thick hilt of his long sword. To Roakore, he looked less like the wild mountain man who had won his weight in gold during Whill’s tournament and more like an honest-to-gods soldier of Rhuniston. Still, Roakore didn’t like the human, who was rumored to be part dwarf, for he had the powers of a blessed, and the implications were not something that Roakore liked to contemplate. But Whill had grown fond of the young man, and so Roakore tolerated Ragnar, like him or not.

  “I apologize for being late, my lords. Me lady,” he said, nodding respectfully at Raene, who blushed—much to Roakore’s annoyance. The young man similarly greeted Arrianna before seating himself to Whill’s right. “I have gathered my men, my lord, and await your command.”

  “Ye strikin’ back at ‘em?” Raene asked.

  “No,” said Whill. “I am sending Ragnar on a scouting mission with a few others.”

  “I would offer my assistance,” said Azzeal. “I am most interested in documenting more about this…species.”

  “Species?” said Roakore, beside himself with frustration and anger that needed a way out. “They ain’t a damned species, they be bloody abominations.”

  “Hear, hear!” Philo cheered and tossed back a pint of ale, dribbling it down the front of his beard as he gulped hungrily.

  “Ye be such a beast,” said Raene. “Show a little more couth.”

  Philo burped and wiped his mouth with the end of his beard. “As ye wish, me lady.” He leaned over to Roakore and said behind his hand, “What the
hells be couth?”

  “It means don’t be such a blasted slob,” Roakore grumbled.

  “I would like to go as well,” said Raene, surprising them all. “For yer enemies be our enemies.”

  Ragnar looked pleased, and he glanced at Whill.

  “It is just as well that the dwarves be represented,” said Whill. “King Gnawrok named you as his enemies, along with humans, elves, and dragons.”

  “Yeah, well there ain’t no need to get the dragons involved,” said Roakore.

  “I have not spoken to Zalenlia in many months,” said Whill. “As you say, there is no need…at the moment.”

  “Now what’s this ye mentioned earlier about portals to Agora?” Roakore asked. “They be done yet?”

  “They are finished now, yes,” said Whill. “There are five portals in Rhuniston that are linked to their twins in Agora. There is one in Cerushia, one outside of Del’Oradon, and one in or near each of the three mountain kingdoms.”

  “And if I go through with Silverwind…” Roakore gulped. “Am I going to come out the other side with wings?”

  “Now that would be interesting,” said Azzeal, quite thoughtfully.

  Whill shook his head and chuckled. “No, you will not come out with wings. I assure you, it is stable.”

  “Sounds like a bad idea to me,” said Philo. “Portals and all…should we be riskin’ that? Somethin’ like the drekkon might be using it to get through to Agora. I ain’t likin’ that one bit. Agora done already had enough hard times. They ain’t needin’ that possible threat hangin’ over their heads.”

  Whill seemed to second-guess his decision to create the portal. “I assure you, Philo, I have taken every precaution to ensure that they do not.”

  “Aye, well it still be possible as long as it be open.”

  “I agree,” said Roakore.

  “These portals were agreed on by everyone involved,” said Whill. “But I understand your concern, for surely they will be the same concerns that the other leaders of Agora will have. I suggest that we go to Agora, speak with our respective councils about the drekkon, gather reinforcements, and then I will seal the portals until this threat has passed.”