Dark Echoes of Light

by Michael James Ploof

  Dirk clenched his fists against the pain, digging his fingernails into his palms. He grabbed the rail by the carriage door, feeling like he might become sick. Krentz frowned, wanting to be able to take his pain away, but helpless against the dark magic eating away his insides. She blotted his head and held his bloody hand. Dirk leaned into her, shuddering. He wanted to scream. He needed to get out of the carriage. The bumpy road and shaking back and forth made his head swim. His throat burned with hot bile, and he choked it down. He dug deep, weathering the pain as he had done his whole life, burying it beneath an ocean of willpower. He imagined great tides of frigid water cascading against the pyre growing inside him, and for a time it helped.

  “We’re almost there,” said Krentz, lovingly stroking his head.

  He shivered, teeth chattering, unable to speak.

  The carriage came to an abrupt stop, sending pain shooting through Dirk’s body from his core. Krentz got out and yelled to someone nearby. She guided him out of the carriage, but his legs were useless, and he fell in the street. The pain churned, pain so terrible and beautiful and pure that Dirk thought he might be swept up by it, consumed there on the street. Through blurry eyes he saw his hands, but they were not his hands, for the veins were dark, the blood flowing like the black ichor of the god of darkness himself. Dirk cried out angrily and cursed. It felt good to swear. He tore his throat as he screamed against the pain, pain that would not subside, but grew, and grew, and grew…

  “Bring him inside, my child,” said someone nearby.

  Dirk felt hands taking him up, and he thought that surely the angels of death had come to ferry him away to some distant dark star.

  In his fevered delirium, Dirk saw not the sun elves worrying over him, he saw not Krentz standing beside him, smiling down on him with hope and shimmering tears in her slanted eyes, he saw not the blessed pillars or the runes engraved upon them; instead, he saw faceless demons, their skin black and smooth like the shell of a beetle. Their hands dug into him, tearing flesh, ripping out sections of intestines, and shaking with violent hunger as they pulled his organs from him like sacred fruit.

  Dirk lashed out at the demons; he would not go down without a fight, he would not give in to the darkness. Rather than let them devour his soul, he would destroy it himself in a great explosion of light, light that would chase away the darkness, chase away the dark star—a light so great that it would glow upon the earth like a second sun.

  “What’s happening to him?” Krentz cried out.

  Dirk focused on her voice, for it soon became his only anchor to this world, the only thing keeping his soul from being torn asunder.

  “Go to him. Bond your mind to his, and help him to walk in the light,” came the strange voice.

  “Dirk!”

  A light shone in the darkness, a blinding light so pure and absolute that for a moment the shadows fled, for a moment the pain subsided. Krentz stood before him in a flowing white gown made of pure light. Her eyes glowed like twin moons.

  “Dirk, stay with me. Stay in the light.”

  Dirk embraced her in the chambers of his mind, and her warmth replaced the searing heat, the white-hot darkness, the devouring shadow. It waited near the corner of his vision, seething, thrashing, barking against Krentz’s light.

  “Stay in the light, my love, stay in the light.”

  Her voice was pleading, and fear edged the words. The fear caused doubt to blossom in Dirk’s mind; indeed, it made his own fear grow. Echoes of laughter filled his ears, but the laughter was not the pleasant chittering of children nor the jolly chortle of men; it was the depraved laughter of a madman—it was Dirk’s own laughter. Krentz cried out to him, but the laughter drowned out her voice. Her light was distant now, quickly being replaced by that eternal darkness. The laughter turned to cries of anguish, the terrified mewling of every lost child that ever lived. The terrible sound became a chorus of tortured voices, cherub-like, delicate, begging, pleading.

  “We’re losing him,” came a voice from a distance.

  “Dirk! Stay in the light. Stay with me!”

  Dirk’s eyes shot wide open, and for a moment he was himself, he was whole. For a moment, the shadow had fled. He grabbed ahold of Krentz urgently.

  “He’s coming!” he screamed, black spittle flecking her white gown.

  ***

  Krentz watched helplessly as Dirk thrashed against his bonds. The tight leather cords creaked and whined in protest as Dirk growled, teeth gnashing against the rolled leather in his mouth protecting his teeth from shattering. His eyes were black and oily, his veins dark and bulging, his skin like the weathered, paper-thin hide of an old man. But the worst was his voice, for it was the voice of many, a chorus of insanity.

  The Morenka healer looked terrified; indeed, they all did. The temple which had always been so quiet, filled only with the meditative humming of the elves, was now a bastion of insanity. Its walls echoed with the terrible song of demons. Stained glass windows shattered, the faces of saints and Morenka masters crashing on the marble floors like the fragments of Dirk’s soul.

  “Come back to the light, my love,” she said as she held his hand, a hand that was crushing her own.

  The healer sent a pulse of energy into Dirk’s chest, and Dirk’s back arched. His body shook as his eyes rolled back in his head.

  “Fight it, Dirk. Bathe in the light of love. Remember love…”

  The door banged open, echoing through the temple like rolling thunder. Krentz turned teary eyes upon the threshold.

  She gasped.

  Through her blurred vision, she saw a multitude of fractured light, radiant and terrible and wondrous. She wiped her eyes, awed by the being walking toward them. She could make out no features against the glow, for the being seemed to be made of starlight.

  “Step aside,” came a calm, deep voice.

  Krentz and the others made way for the ethereal creature, and she watched in awe as he laid a hand upon Dirk’s stomach, into the darkness, into the terrible writhing shadow wrapped around his soul. Blinding light filled the temple, and Krentz was forced to turn away from the glare. A howl escaped Dirk then, baleful and tortured. Krentz dared a glance. She watched as the leather straps snapped like dry wood and Dirk began to rise above the bed. The glowing being standing over him poured his light into Dirk, and the darkness fled. Writhing shadows spewed forth from Dirk’s mouth as glorious light shot out of his eyes, his fingertips, and his toes, and soon the darkness accompanying his screams was replaced by the awesome light.

  Silence replaced the tortured cries, and Dirk fell back down to the bed. The shadows fled from the temple, hissing and shrieking like monsters retreating into the night. Krentz’s ears rang against the silence, and she beheld Dirk’s savior for the first time.

  The elf turned to her, his shoulders drooping, his eyes tired. He smiled kindly and nodded. “Krentz, daughter of Eadon. Let your heart and your mind now be at rest. The governor is safe, the darkness has been cast away.”

  “Thank you…” she said, bowing before him.

  “I am Argon Haaren.”

  “Thank you, Argon.”

  He glanced at Dirk. “He will now sleep, for he has fought a terrible foe. But rest assured that he will be safe. May I ask what happened to him?”

  “He was stabbed by a blade…I don’t know what kind of magic was within it. But its wielder…I believe that he has been possessed by Eldarian.”

  The many healers stopped what they were doing and regarded her with horror. But Argon only nodded, as if he had already known.

  “As I had feared.”

  “Is Dirk…will he be…himself?”

  Argon smiled, glancing at Dirk. “He is a strong one, for not many could have resisted the darkness for so long. Time shall tell us how he will fare, but for now we must not fret. For now, we must pray. Come, brothers and sisters!” he said, his voice filling the temple. “Let us pray for this man. Let us bathe him in our light.”

  ***


  Dirk awoke from dreams of nothing. Above him, light shone down from the oculus of a domed ceiling, bathing him in warmth. He tried to sit up but found that it dizzied his head. He looked to the left, where pillars rose to the vaulted dome. Between them was a mural depicting a placid lake, around which grew marsh bellflowers and bald cypress. The sun hovered above the horizon in the painting, though Dirk could not tell if it was rising or setting. He turned his head to the right, and he smiled. For Krentz sat sleeping in a chair, her hand holding his and her face creased with worry.

  “Krentz,” he said, his voice hoarse and throat burning.

  She snapped awake and sat up, looking to him with sudden concern.

  “It’s alright, I’m alright,” he assured her.

  “Dirk!” She hugged him tight and kissed his face. “Thank the gods you’re alright.”

  “What happened?”

  “What do you remember?” she asked, wiping tears of joy from her dark cheeks.

  “I remember everything—Orrian stabbing me, then a feverish sickness. I remember darkness and shadow and pain and…the elf healer.”

  Krentz brought a glass to Dirk’s lips and helped him to drink. “His name is Argon,” she said.

  Dirk drank, and the water was like needles scraping his torn throat. “I would like to thank him. I’d like to thank them all.”

  “There is no need for thanks,” came a voice that Dirk remembered, a voice that had pulled him from the abyss and sent the shadow fleeing. A tall elf came into view on Dirk’s right. He was tall, handsome, and his smile was easy “For those of us who walk in the light, there is no greater reward than service.”

  “Well, either way, thanks,” said Dirk. He tried to sit up again, but he was too weak. “Why am I so tired? I must seek out the man who did this before more people get hurt.”

  “You have been healed of the darkness that afflicted you,” said Argon. “And we have given you what energy we have deemed necessary, but after something like this, your body needs rest, real rest. Magical healing can only go so far.”

  “There’s no time,” said Dirk, using Krentz’s hand to pull himself up.

  “Dirk, you need to rest. Orrian is far from here, across the ocean. What can we do now?”

  “We need to figure out a way to get to Drindellia, or at least get a warning to Whill.”

  “Whill has closed the portals,” said Krentz. “But perhaps we can find someone in Elladrindellia who can communicate with him. Perhaps the elder council has a speaking stone.”

  Dirk shook his head. “I’ve got a better idea. If it works, we’ll be able to find the location of Chief and maybe, just maybe, we can get to Drindellia that way.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Aurora Snowfell,” said Dirk.

  Krentz frowned. “The barbarian woman who betrayed us all? How can she help?”

  “Before her death, Gretzen Spiritbone created a figurine much like Chief’s, and the keeper of the figurine can summon Aurora’s spirit. If Aurora can find Chief in the spirit world, he will be able to tell us the location of the figurine. And if my theory is correct, I should be able to travel from one figurine to the other.”

  Krentz was shaking her head before he was even finished. “No, you cannot attempt such a thing.”

  “We’ve done it before, we can do it again,” he said, throwing his legs over the side of the bed with a groan. He slipped off slowly and stood shakily.

  “Dirk, you need to rest.” Krentz looked to Argon. “Please talk some sense into him.”

  To her surprise and confusion, the Morenka laughed. “It seems as though the fire of justice burns brighter inside of him than the fire of reason.” He squared on Dirk, checking his forehead, feeling behind his ears, and finally, peering at his chest as though searching for something. “You will do what you think you must. But I warn you. Take it slow. Get rest. Stay hydrated. And if you must travel, do so in comfort.”

  “Thank you, Argon.” Dirk bowed, which caused his head to spin, but he did his best to hide that fact from Krentz. “Come on, we’ve got hunting to do.”

  Chapter 37

  Laying Traps

  “Sire,” came the urgent voice of a young dwarf whose beard barely reached his chest. “We’ve found another network just over yonder, above that there ridge.”

  “Good,” said Roakore, and he turned to whistle to Philo. “Ye got the dragon’s breath bombs in place? There be more tunnels over here!”

  “Almost there,” came Philo’s voice, followed by a loud burp.

  Roakore shook his head. “The damned drunken fool’s gonna blow himself up,” he mumbled to himself.

  “Sire?” said the young dwarf.

  “What? Nothin’, nothin’. Tell the others to keep on lookin’.”

  “Aye, me king,” said the dwarf, standing smartly and slamming his fist to his chest.

  Philo shuffled over as the young dwarf was running back up the ridge. “Ye wait till them lizard-faced bastards come crawlin’ through that main cavern. They’re gonna get a stalagmite right up the arse!” Philo laughed and shot back his flask.

  Roakore slapped it out of his hands. “What I tell ye ‘bout drinkin’ while ye be workin’ with explosives? What be wrong with ye, eh?”

  Philo didn’t often get angry, but now his cheeks flared bright red and his brow furled until his eyes disappeared behind his bushy eyebrows. “Godsdammit, Roakore,” he said, swiping up the flask and leaning in conspiratorially. “Ye be knowin’ I get the shakes if I go too long without the bottle, and ye be knowin’ that I be knowin’ what I be doing.”

  “Ye get the shakes because ye be a damned drunk,” said Roakore.

  “Bah! Comin’ from the king o’ drunks!”

  If it had been any other dwarf, Roakore would have been angry, but he and Philo had known each other too long to bruise each other’s egos.

  “I drink me share, but I know when the spirits be takin’ hold. I know when to slow down.”

  “Let’s just finish our work, eh? After we deal with the bloodthirsty bastards that be comin’, then ye can play mother hen.” Philo drank again from the flask and winked.

  Roakore could only shake his head.

  They set the last of the traps and returned to camp as the sun began to set. For three days now, they had been placing the dragon’s breath bombs. They had found dozens of tunnels, but dozens more connected from the north, opening from the sides of ridges, rising like giant molehills in the lowlands, and connecting to caves that ran through the foothills south of Lake Ellarin. It had even been determined that some of the tunnels ran under the lake. Some stretched out to the east, others west toward the coast, and more still ran south, in the direction of the Velk’Har Mountain Range. But if the dwarves knew anything, it was underground tunnels. They knew where the weak points were and how to take them down most easily. Of course, they didn’t have time to place bombs in every tunnel, and so they had focused on the east and west, creating a bottleneck that would focus the hordes into the center, where the armies of dwarves would be waiting with still more surprises. Roakore’s favorite was what Philo called the balls o’ the gods, which were in reality half-ton granite boulders that had been rubbed smooth by water and sandstone, and now waited at the openings to the hundreds of tunnels. When word came that the drekkon were charging through the tunnels, the heavy balls, propelled by the power of the blessed, would be launched down the tunnels, crushing the approaching hordes.

  Roakore couldn’t wait to see them in action.

  After a hard day’s work, the dwarves retired to the large camp set atop a ridge with a clear view of the north. Fires burned brightly, and the dwarves—never ones to be meek—hooted and howled and carried on as dwarves so often did.

  ***

  A hundred miles to the north, Whill stood with Zorriaz, studying the underground tunnels running beneath the lake. He could make them out using mind sight once he got beyond the green glow of the lake and its many lifeforms. When he firs
t began using mind sight, it had been hard to focus, for living things burst with color and light, often obscuring non-living things. But eventually he learned how to see beyond the lifeforms and look deep into the dead earth. He had been surprised to see how much life grew beneath the ground, in between rocks, and in the smallest pools of underground water. As he studied the lake, he looked beyond the lifeforms, focusing in on a string of faintly glowing lights that ran through five different tunnels deep beneath the water. Whill had been at first confused by this string of life light, but as he focused harder, he realized that they were mushrooms growing along the tunnel walls.

  He grinned.

  The lake held countless millions of gallons of water, perhaps billions—Whill had no way to know. It mattered not, however, for it would be enough water to accomplish his plan. He imagined that the lake might lose a foot or two from its shoreline, but the rain and the mountains would replenish what was lost.

  As he watched, three small rowboats headed out to the middle of the lake. The elves, led by Azzeal and most of them Ralliad themselves, had been instructed to ferry explosive energy bombs to the bottom of the lake, just above the tunnels. They were to then watch and wait, and once the drekkon army filled the tunnels for as far as the eye could see, the bombs would be detonated. Azzeal had loved the idea, which was strange to Whill, for the elf was not a sadist. He was, however, a lover of experiments, and his eyes had widened when Whill had asked him how much water would drain into the tunnels. Azzeal had not known the answer, but he had promised Whill that he would figure it out before furiously scratching in his little notebook.