Dark Echoes of Light

by Michael James Ploof

  Too late.

  Orrian’s sword cut through Krentz’s wards, stabbing him through the gut. Dirk stabbed his dagger into Orrian’s neck, but the blade shattered against his renewed shield. Desperate, Dirk grabbed Orrian by the throat with both hands—hands that sizzled and burned as though pressed to the top of a hot stove.

  “I warned you not to try and stop me,” said Orrian, and he threw Dirk to the side, pulling back his blade with a quick twist.

  Dirk lay on the ground, his entrails spilled out beside him, and he reached a clawing hand toward Orrian. He could not speak, he could not curse his betrayer; he could only gasp.

  “Krentz!” he screamed in his mind.

  Orrian looked down on him with sympathy. His right arm was extended, and a dark beam was holding Chief at bay. The young man bent and rifled through Dirk’s pockets. Dirk grabbed his arm when he found the figurine, and Orrian pulled it free with a jerk.

  “Fool,” said Orrian, and he disappeared down the hill leading to the portal.

  Chief whined by Dirk’s side, licking his face and panting.

  “Chief!” said Orrian from afar. “Back to the spirit world.”

  Dirk watched, helpless and dying, while Chief clawed at the earth as he was pulled toward the trinket. He howled and whimpered as he turned to mist, and with a mournful howl, he disappeared into the distance.

  “Krentz. I need you…”

  Chapter 34

  Between Worlds

  Orrian marched toward the portal with the other mismatched soldiers of Uthen-Arden. He blended in well with his dark leather armor, though he thought that perhaps the cloak was a bit too loud. These were rural folk, farmers mostly. There were some younger men who no doubt held firm their grandfather’s rusty, dented sword. A few real knights and soldiers were among them, but they kept to their own little groups.

  When Orrian stepped through the portal, into weightless space, and out onto solid ground again, he was surprised at how much like Agora Drindellia looked. He was disappointed, to be sure, but the army of elves, humans, and dwarves soon stole his attention. There had to be thirty thousand who had come through the portal, but there were at least half that already gathered on the hill leading to the city.

  Orrian was surprised by the stupidity of the three races, who would send so many souls to an unknown continent all at once. They all seemed doomed by their own stupidity, and Orrian felt sorry for them. If only they knew the glorious new world that Orrian would help to build; if only they knew what their wars and violence and hate truly cost them. Some prayed to go to heaven without realizing that they were already there. The three races had ruined the paradise that they had been given, and now Orrian understood why the gods would want to wipe the slate clean.

  He slipped to the side, trudging through the mud being caused by so many stomping boots. They had churned up a quagmire, and the sucking sound of their feet drowned out all other noise. Orrian had come through the fourth of five portals, and he was deep in the middle of the herd, but he did spy the legendary Whill of Agora as the army marched by. The tall blond young man radiated like a sun, and Orrian was awed in his presence. He stopped in the middle of the procession, unable to take his eyes off the radiance of the people’s hero. While Eldarian was marvelous to behold, he was dark and wreathed in shadow. Orrian saw that shadow around Whill as well; it crept at the edges of the golden light emanating from his center, but it was there all the same.

  “Get a move on!” said an old soldier with dented armor and three quarters of a scorched shield.

  Orrian began walking again, and suddenly Whill turned his eyes in his direction. Orrian ducked and moved over a few rows, hoping beyond hope that Whill had not seen him.

  What have I done? Why did I come here? I should have listened to Dirk. Whillhelm Warcrown is like a god, and if he is a jealous god, he will not want there to be another like him. Eldarian can never defeat this man, this god king. No, Whillhelm shall smite his very soul.

  Orrian thought that at any minute Whill would bellow for the company to stop. He would walk the line, and he would stop before Orrian. He would see him for what he was, he would know his sins, and he would destroy him. Orrian dared not look back, but kept the pace, hunching his shoulder and arching his back.

  “Hey pal, you’re gonna miss it,” said the man beside him.

  Orrian glanced at him. “What?”

  “Look, its Rhuniston. The city that Whill of Agora built,” said the man with pride.

  Orrian looked upon the city and again he stopped, for it was nothing like he had imagined. People said that it was a beauty to behold, that its towers touched the sky, that its streets were paved in gold, but of course, people made up stories. And none of those stories prepared Orrian for what he beheld. Strangely, the city reminded Orrian of a cake, for it consisted of five levels, one atop the other, and each descending layer wider than the last. Each ring had its own battlements and towers, buildings and strongholds, but the bottom ring also boasted sprawling gardens lush with greens, and pastures with grazing cattle, goats, chickens, and other livestock. Orrian guessed the bottom ring to be at least a half a mile wide.

  “They say that Whill made it in a dream,” said the man, slapping Orrian on the shoulder. “While he was sleeping! Can you imagine? It’s like the gods sent him to us, bless the man.”

  “Gods bless Whill of Agora,” answered many of the soldiers around them.

  Whill is like a god to these people, yet he does not rule over them. He takes nothing from his worshippers.

  He dared a glance back at the portals and was surprised to see that they were no longer shimmering.

  “What are they doing back there?” he asked the talkative man.

  The older man craned his neck. “Ah, Whill has closed the gates. I hear it was the elves or something that wanted it that way. They wouldn’t help unless the portals were closed for a time.” Again, he slapped Orrian in the shoulder. “We’re stuck here, lad. For good or ill, we’re stuck here.”

  ***

  Dirk blinked awake and jerked alert, grabbing hold of the person beside him. “Orrian!” he cried.

  “Dirk, calm down. It’s me, Krentz. Now sit back, you’ve opened the wound again.”

  Pain stabbed him in the gut, and he grit his teeth, glancing down at the raw-looking wound. The recently healed skin was pink, the laceration large with jagged edges.

  “Orrian, he went through the portal. We’ve got to stop him.”

  Krentz glanced up from her work, looking concerned. “He did this to you?”

  Dirk nodded, seething against the pain. “And took the figurine as well. Damn it, give me something for the pain, I can’t even think!”

  Krentz frowned. “You shouldn’t be able to feel anything.”

  “Yeah, well I sure as hell can,” Dirk managed to groan. “It’s like…a hot coal in the pit of my stomach.”

  Krentz checked him over with mind sight. Dirk assumed she was making sure that—when putting back his insides—she hadn’t done something wrong. She checked his organs, particularly his stomach, but she said little, and Dirk endured the pain patiently.

  “What did he stab you with?”

  “Eviscerate me with you mean? His sword.”

  “Are you sure it was his?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  Krentz gave a long, slow sigh.

  “What the hells does that mean?”

  “I don’t know, but we’ve got to get you to someone who can help.”

  “What? How? There is no one better at the healing arts here in Del’Oradon than you.”

  “You are forgetting the Morenka missionary church here in the city. They have healers much older and more skilled than I.”

  “Krentz, we don’t have time for this,” he said, grabbing her arm as she was getting up.

  “Dirk, Whill closed the portal from the other side. If Orrian went through, then he’s gone, and unless Whill opens it again, it will take you three months to sail to
Drindellia by boat. I think we have time for this.”

  “Godsdammit!” Dirk barked, wringing his hands. “I can’t believe that little bastard beat me.”

  Krentz kissed him on the forehead and said with a shrug, “It happens.”

  On the carriage ride to the sun elf church, Krentz told Dirk how she had found him on the hill near the portal, an inch from death. She had revived him there on the grass and put him back together as well as possible before ushering him into the city. She had flown to his aid, she said, which was something that she had only ever been able to do rarely. But since her magic had been restored, she had been feeling stronger, more potent. Dirk joked that it was the pregnancy, though he grimaced and winced as he did so, holding his stomach in pain.

  Dirk was used to pain, and this one was up there. Of course, the worst pain that he had ever experienced was Eadon putting a two-foot-wide hole in him, and compared to that, this was nothing. But that had been only an instant of pain, while this went on and on, slowly getting worse. It was as though something were eating away at him…eating away at his soul.

  “Tell me the truth,” he told Krentz.

  She avoided his eyes for a moment before finally meeting his gaze. He saw the look, and he sighed.

  “There is a black…something, like a shadow. When I look upon the wound with mind sight, it is like, like an eclipse; there is a shadow covering your center chakra.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I do not know. Hopefully the Morenka will.”

  Chapter 35

  The Spies Return

  Raene awoke to find Ragnar frowning down on her. His expression became a joyous one, however, as he realized that she was conscious.

  “She’s awake,” he said to someone nearby.

  “Ah, and just in time,” said Azzeal. “How do you feel?”

  The memories of the fight came rushing back to her, and once again she lamented the loss of her mount. “Poor, poor, Moonbeam. Tell me that it was a dream; tell me that she lives. Tell me that she flies even now.”

  “I’m sorry, Raene,” said Ragnar. “She is gone, and now flies high above the Mountain of the Gods, waiting for the day that you join her.”

  Raene cried into his shoulder, and he held her close, stroking her hair and whispering to her of how beautiful Moonbeam must look now, soaring among the stars.

  She thanked him for his words, but pushed him away and rose to her feet. To her surprise, her arm was healed.

  “I hope that you do not mind my intervention,” said Azzeal with a bow. “But had I not acted, you would have surely lost the arm.”

  “Thank ye,” she said, realizing that he had healed the wound to her hip with magic as well.

  She surveyed her surroundings, wondering where they were. Turning to look behind her, she saw the very tip of the volcano above the trees. It still spewed forth its noxious black smoke. The forest fires that it had caused burned furiously, blending with the volcano ash to blot out the sun, creating a world of murky haze. The air was thick, itching Raene’s throat and causing her to cough. She spit on the ground, and was not surprised to find it black. The ash created a sulfuric film in her mouth, and Raene pulled her riding bandana up over her face.

  “Now that you are mended, we must make haste back to Rhuniston,” said Azzeal. “For the drekkon have opened their gates, and their retaliation will be swift. We must warn the others.”

  They mounted Zorriaz and left the smoldering land of the drekkon behind. Raene watched as the volcano disappeared in the northern horizon, swearing vengeance on the drekkon.

  ***

  “Dragon!” cried a guard upon the battlements.

  Whill and Roakore had been overseeing the newest fortifications on the western side of the city when the guard gave his warning, and Whill looked north, instantly recognizing Zorriaz.

  “Our spies have returned,” said Whill. “Come, let us meet them in Zorriaz’s perch.

  Together with Roakore he took a lift up to the fifth level and climbed the many flights of stairs leading to Zorriaz’s perch high atop a wide tower. The dragon had already landed, and as Whill and Roakore walked out onto the landing, they were met by a haggard looking Azzeal, Ragnar, and Raene.

  “Good to see ye all in one piece,” said Roakore. “I take it ye were spotted.”

  Raene staggered over to him and fell in her cousin’s arms. “They killed Moonbeam, Roakore, the bastards killed her.”

  “Awe, Raene, I be sorry to hear that.”

  “Whill,” said Azzeal, moving closer and speaking low. “The drekkon king has made a pact with Eldarian. Our foe is much more powerful than we thought. He is gathering legions.”

  Whill glanced around at the guards. “Come, there is food and drink below. Let us speak of this in private.”

  He led them down to the ground level of the dragon tower and across the street to the governor’s mansion. Shepard Smith greeted them in the antechamber and, frowning at the three companions covered in soot, bade them to follow him into his personal study.

  “Please, sit. You three look parched. Might I offer refreshment?”

  “Whiskey,” said Raene and Ragnar in unison, drowning out Azzeal’s request for tea.

  Governor Smith nodded to the servants and bade the companions to sit at the large table adjacent to the fireplace. “Please, tell us what you have learned.”

  “Vresh’Kon, the new king of the drekkon, has been blessed with the power of Eldarian,” said Azzeal.

  Shepard Smith blanched and tugged at his collar. “How many do you estimate?”

  “Hundreds of thousands,” said Ragnar, “and they are marching south as we speak.”

  Whill and Roakore shared a glance, and the dwarf king slammed his fists on the table. “Well if it ain’t one bloody thing, it be the other!”

  “I agree, master dwarf,” said Governor Smith. “It seems as though we have leapt out of the frying pan, only to land in the fire.”

  “There be more,” said Raene gravely. “From the volcano, I spied a line o’ the beasts comin’ from the east, a river of the devils stretching off into the horizon.”

  “If their numbers are as great as you say they are,” said the governor, “and if indeed they are blessed by this…Eldarian, what chance do we have? Our numbers combined are barely over fifty thousand.”

  “Yeah, but we’ve got Whill of Agora,” said Ragnar.

  Whill gave a mirthless laugh, but Roakore spoke for him.

  “We can’t be dependin’ on one man to save us from these beasts.”

  “I fear that this foe is too great for us to withstand,” said Azzeal, surprising them all, and for many, saying what was on their minds as well.

  “We have come too far to turn back now,” said Whill. “Besides, even if we were to flee back to Agora, this army would soon follow. We must make a stand, for we are the first defense against this growing horde.”

  “I be agreein’ with Whill,” said Roakore.

  “How long do we have?” said the governor.

  “The flight from their mountain is a day and a half by dragon,” Azzeal began, but Roakore suddenly shot to his feet, incensed.

  “Their MOUNTAIN?”

  “Aye,” said Raene, looking disgusted. “The bastard done made their home in the northern mountain range.”

  “Those mountains were once called Olgen’Dy,” said Azzeal.

  “Olgen’Dy,” said Roakore dreamily, but then his face twisted with rage once more. “Now we got two mountains to be cleansin’ o’ beasts? Gods give me strength.”

  “Gods give us all strength,” said Ragnar.

  “You said a day and a half by dragon,” said the governor. “That means that their giant bats could hit us at any time.”

  “Yes, but the ground forces will take much longer,” said Azzeal. “If you recall, they appear to have made the journey back to their mountain after their retreat in less than a week. And considering that we saw nothing of them from here to there o
n land, I would assume that they have some sort of underground tunnel system.”

  “Sons o’ bitches,” said Roakore in disgust.

  “Sons o’ bitches indeed,” said the governor.

  “Perhaps this will work to our advantage,” said Azzeal.

  “What ye be meanin’, elf?” said Raene.

  “Ye mean to smoke ‘em out, eh?” Roakore guessed.

  “Indeed,” said Azzeal.

  “If we could find their tunnels,” Whill put in, “then we could lay traps. Hit them before they hit us.”

  “Excellent idea,” said the governor.

  “Then what we doin’ standin’ ‘round here?” said Roakore. “We got less than a week. Let’s get to work!”

  Chapter 36

  Inner Light

  The pain seared his insides. It was as if he had swallowed a hot coal, the ember of which now flared white hot, engulfing his bowels in flames. Dirk growled against the pain. He had known pain all his life, first at the hands of the world, which had taken his mother and his sister, then at the hands of his father, a man who was consumed by grief and rage. Dirk had suffered many wounds during his life, for pain was a part of life, but this, this was something new. There had been some curse tied to Orrian’s blade, a darkness that Dirk could feel creeping into his very soul. The darkness filled him, growing with the fire. He imagined black flames engulfing his soul, blotting out his inner light.