Dark Echoes of Light

by Michael James Ploof

  “If my brothers and sisters were here,” said Zorriaz as she gazed north, “they would burn this drekkon army and grind their smoldering bones to dust beneath their feet.”

  “You miss them, don’t you?”

  Zorriaz glanced at him, her eye nearly as wide as he was tall. She sighed, and soot blew from her snout. “One cannot miss what they never had. I’m not like them. I was forced to hatch by Eadon so that he might house Avriel’s soul. I feel as much like a dragon as I do an elf. Sometimes…sometimes I dream that I am an elf, that I walk among you in your halls and in your home, that I drink from small glasses like you do. When Avriel’s soul was trapped within this vessel, I thought her thoughts, I felt her fears, and…” she glanced at Whill as shyly as a dragon could, “and I knew her love. I was never greeted by a mother as I fought to break free from my shell. I was never nudged off a cliff to learn how to fly by my father. And my fire…rather than having discovered it naturally and on my own, it was milked from me, stolen from me to be used to burn humans, elves, and dwarves.”

  “Perhaps it is not too late,” said Whill, feeling as though he was the reason that she hadn’t gone to live with her kind. “You could still find your mother, your father. You are young, only what, two years old? There is still time.”

  “I may be young of body, but I carry the collected memories and wisdom of my line. I can remember other dragons breaking from their shell, I can relive their memories of first flight, and I can experience discovering my fire, but none of the memories are mine.

  “The others look at me in a way…they know that I am not natural.”

  “Nonsense,” said Whill. “Zalenlia offered for you to fly with them, to rediscover the ancient lands with the others.”

  “Perhaps I will go someday,” said Zorriaz, stirring uncomfortably. “But…you are my family. You and Avriel and the children. They are like my own whelps.” She suddenly turned to him, her long neck craning and her snout only a foot away. “I swear to you, I will always protect the children. I will protect them tooth and claw, and to the death.”

  “I know you will,” said Whill. He knew of her loyalty to the children, and knowing that she was always there was the one thing that helped Whill to sleep on those rare occasions that he did. “You will never know how grateful we both feel to have you in our lives.”

  She nuzzled him with her neck, and he pet her gently on the snout the way that she liked. When they parted, she looked again to the north.

  “I fear that we shall never know life without enemies. These last six months, helping to build the city, watching the humans and elves flourish, it has been like a dream. But now we awaken to find a wolf at our door.”

  Whill nodded, and he smiled. “Perhaps we need a good sheep dog.”

  Zorriaz glanced at him, and her grin would have sent most creatures fleeing for the woods. “You are Whill of Agora, one of the most powerful beings in all the land. Perhaps you should use your great magic to become a colossal sheep dog and route the drekkon that way.”

  Whill chuckled. “They would die laughing.”

  “Even better!” she roared.

  Chapter 38

  The Test

  Orrian floated upon the astral currents. Behind him trailed a thin strand of light connecting his astral form to his physical form, which lay far away in the camps surrounding Rhuniston. He didn’t like it here in this…in-between world. Shadows haunted the corners of his vision, and quick, low voices sounded all around him. He felt naked here, in this form. He felt as though he were floating in the blackness of space, set adrift from the planet, from the sun and the moon. Eldarian had beckoned him in his dreams, had told him to fly from his body, to meet him where time stood still—in this land of dreams.

  “Hello, Orrian.”

  Orrian jumped. Color, sound, smells, the touch of the ground beneath his feet, the taste of spring on his tongue—it all came crashing into him.

  “Where are we?” he said, awed by the paradise that lay before him. Here was virgin land, ripe, green, and full. Its weighted fruit oozed with sweet nectar. Its waters flowed fast and cold and pure. Its mountains rose to the ceiling of the world, and he thought that surely he could climb to one of those majestic peaks and leap to the moon.

  “This is the new world, this is your world,” said Eldarian, pointing west. “There upon that small mountain. I see your castle there, its gilded towers reaching to the heavens. That hill there by the lake, that is where you could build your academy. There you will teach the magical arts to the next generation, a generation of men and women just like you, whom Whill would surely abandon out of fear.

  “But alas, I would not make this paradise a dull one. There shall be foes. This new world shall be immense, with large continents separated by vast seas. And this new world will be wild, dangerous, yet bountiful to the strong. In this new world, I see you as a great conqueror. I see humans not as the weakest of the races, but the strongest and most feared. In this new world, humans will rule.”

  Orrian could see it: the gilded halls, the riches, the finery, the wine, and, more importantly, the women. He saw himself flying upon a winged beast, brandishing a sword of flame and striking against any who would see humanity bow at their feet. Never again would humans suffer the magic of others.

  “I have given you my fealty,” said Orrian, trying to shake the image, for he felt he was being bewitched. “Why do you show me these things? Do you not trust my vow?”

  “Trust? I don’t know what you mean by that word, for it is a word made up by infants. It is a word for the naïve. I show you these things to remind you, should your resolution falter. Now, tell me what our friends have been up to…”

  Orrian told Eldarian about the dwarves and their dragon’s breath bombs, about the explosives set at the bottom of the lake, and of the dwarven fortifications and elven wards set upon the city, as well as their preparation of the coast. He reported their numbers, which Eldarian arched a brow at, seemingly impressed by their resourcefulness.

  “It is truly a beautiful thing,” he said, and there was an ironic, forlorn quality to his voice. “To see life struggle so hard to survive, even when the odds are stacked against them, even when the end is inevitable. They must surely amuse the gods.

  “But like all things, they must pass on. Like the seasons, they too shall end, but even the falling of leaves and the cold of winter bring about bountiful spring. Let this be their winter, and let yours be the glorious spring.”

  “Thank you, Eldarian, for choosing me,” said Orrian, and though a part of him wept for the old world, his eyes shone with the promise of the new.

  “I did not choose you, Orrian, the gods did. For you have been awakened. You have the power of ancient man; the gift of the human god himself.”

  “And what, my lord, would you have me do now? How can I help you usher in the glorious new world?”

  Eldarian smiled as he stared at the distant peak. “Whill of Agora stands between the old world and the new. He is the pillar holding everything up. Without him, without his wards of protection surrounding the mantle’s prison, the power of the dark one will be free once more. We need to weaken him, we need to break him down. We need him to embrace the power of darkness and death.

  “Go to Rhuniston, seek out Avriel and the children…and kill them.”

  Eldarian turned and stared at Orrian, watching his reaction.

  Orrian nodded. “As you wish, my lord. So it shall be done.”

  Chapter 39

  A Gift of Light

  A week passed, and still the drekkon had not arrived. Tensions upon the Rhuniston wall began to mount as nights became more restless, soldiers more nervous, and every day brought with it the promise of war.

  Yet, the drekkon did not attack.

  Whill and Zerafin had sent out spies, rallied elves who could take the form of birds and watch the tunnels with mind sight. They reported no movement in the tunnels, no enemy advance. Indeed, none of the scouts saw anything. It was
as if the drekkon had suddenly disappeared.

  The dwarves were beginning to get restless as well. They were eager to return to Velk’Har and exact their revenge, and already some among them were leaning on Roakore’s ear, telling him that they had their own battles to fight and to march the dwarves south to the mountains. Roakore had confided in Whill, saying he knew that every day they were away from the ancient home of Ky’Dren was another day that the albinos had to prepare for an attack. Whill’s friend could just see the swarms of scorpions being strapped with bombs and those frail, red-eyed albinos plotting in the dark, perhaps even inside his own halls. But Whill urged patience, saying that this was only the calm before the storm.

  Whill told the human soldiers the same, though he himself wondered what Eldarian and the king of the drekkon were up to. This waiting was maddening, and he had half a mind to move the armies forward to the stronghold in the north. Perhaps that was what Eldarian wanted…

  News that Vresh’Kon had been blessed and made king by Eldarian hadn’t surprised Whill—nothing surprised him much these days—but he wondered what Eldarian’s motives might be. Was he still obsessed with bringing about the end of the world? Was he after the mantle of darkness? Did he want to rise as the king of Drindellia himself? And where was Kellallea in all of this? More important still, was Eldarian under her control, or was she under his?

  “There is still no word from the scouts,” said Zerafin as he came to stand beside Whill upon the north-facing battlements.

  “Perhaps they are hiding their movement somehow,” said Whill. “Has word come from the dwarves of their scouts in the tunnels?”

  “They have nothing to report either. Perhaps Vresh’Kon is still gathering his army.”

  Whill shook his head. “No, Ragnar said that they were preparing to march. This is nothing but a ruse. Eldarian is trying to mount the tension. But every day that he waits is another day that we have to prepare.”

  ***

  Orrian crept through the sleeping camp like a cat. The torches upon the battlements of Rhuniston provided plenty of shadows cast by the multitude of tents, and under their cover he snuck around the back of the city, taking his time to avoid the guards stationed upon the five ascending battlements. It took a long time to sneak around to the west side of the city wall, but Orrian was patient. He was calm, he was ready. Eldarian had told him to go to the west side of the wall and search for a black rock. Beneath it, he said, Orrian would find three red crystals. He was to take the crystals and use them to blow up Warcrown Tower. Thus killing Avriel and the children. But he had to do so when he knew that Whill was away, else risk being found out.

  Orrian had been watching Whill, and he knew that the man stood with his elf and dwarf friends every morning, looking north. He assumed that the coming morning would be no different.

  He was about to use magic to leap over the high wall, when a quick flash of light caught his attention. Time stopped. The wind stopped, the trees froze in their swaying, and the sound of talking guards suddenly halted. Orrian felt as though he must be deaf. But then a surge of power came crashing into him, and he beheld an elf wreathed in light standing before him. He realized in an awestruck moment that this was Kellallea, and he had just absorbed her godly power.

  “I could have killed you,” she said in a soft yet commanding voice. “Instead I have allowed you to absorb my power so that it might fight the darkness that Eldarian has planted inside you.”

  Orrian breathed deeply, his mind exploding with knowledge and power. “Why…you are acting against him. Why?”

  “His mind has been tainted by the mantle. His soul is black. The Eldarian that I once loved is no more.” She raised a shimmering blade of light.

  Orrian’s heart leapt.

  “Godsbane…” he said, reaching for it.

  She pulled it back. “I will give you this blade, but with it you must kill Eldarian.”

  “Kill him? But why?”

  “You know why. He would see the world burn.”

  “But it will be made anew.”

  “If you believe that, then you are a fool. Why would an elf make a human the king of the new world? Once he is done with you, he will kill you. I’m sorry, but the new world does not await you, your family does not await you. All that awaits you is darkness and death.”

  “Why don’t you kill him yourself?” Orrian asked, still eyeing the blade.

  “I cannot, for I am a god.”

  “And what about your pet, Whill of Agora. Why not have him do it? What trick is this?”

  “If I show myself to Whill, he will kill me. Of that I have no doubt.”

  “You fear him too…” said Orrian, wondering how this man could instill fear in the gods.

  “Will you do it? Will you kill Eldarian?”

  “And then what? You say that Eldarian is a liar. But what can you offer me?”

  She was taken aback, and her eyes flared with light. “I have given you my power. And I offer you Godsbane. What I will not offer you are false promises.”

  “If I do this…will the world be saved from the power of the mantle?”

  “It will. For only Eldarian seeks to destroy the prison.”

  Orrian took a knee and bowed his head. “Then I will do it. If you say that it will save us from this terrible fate, then I will do it.”

  She studied him for a time, staring into his eyes; indeed, staring into his soul. He prayed to the gods that she did not see his true intent. At length she nodded, and she handed Godsbane to Orrian.

  In an instant, the world came alive once more. Orrian found himself alone, but in his hands, he held the glowing sword…the sword that could kill a god.

  He didn’t have much time. Eldarian would know that it was missing, and he would come…

  Chapter 40

  Chieftain Soaringsong

  Dirk and Krentz rode through the ruins of Bearadon, a once bustling city in Shierdon. But Bearadon, like all other cities in the northern kingdom, had fallen. Its pillars lay upon the overgrown cobblestone, its once majestic towers now razed to rubble. The cathedral of Saerah, once the beacon of northern faith, still stood, though it had been cracked like an egg, and its famous stained-glass dome lay scattered in the dirt. Here was a city of the dead, but no skeletons littered the streets, for the dead had been risen by the necromancer Zander and now rested within one of the many mass graves of Shierdon.

  In the end Zander had been defeated, but Shierdon had been ruined, its people wiped out, its kingdom shattered. Those who remained of the once proud northerners had fled south to Uthen-Arden, east to the safety of the dwarves, or west beyond the Ky’Dren Pass. They had sought refuge, only to find more war, more death, more ruin.

  Whill had tried to heal the land, had tried to mend the wounds inflicted by the dark elf, draggard, and undead hordes and remove the taint that lay upon the land, but his power was only so great, and Shierdon was vast. To his credit, he had cleansed the waters, and life was beginning to blossom in the north. Nature was quickly claiming the burnt and shattered cities, and where the earth had only months ago been scorched and scarred, it was now lush and green. New life hid the corpse of the old, draping itself across the land like a green shroud.

  Dirk and Krentz continued past Bearadon for another half a day before finally coming to the new barbarian settlements known as the Seven Cities. For their help in the war against the necromancers, and because of Whill’s friendship with Gretzen Spiritbone, the barbarians of Volnoss had been given the northern quarter of Isladon. It was perhaps they who gained the most out of the wars; though they lost most of their men, they had gained more than five times the land, and unlike the harsh Volnoss, this was fertile land, known for its wine and its bountiful crops.

  “It is amazing how much they have done here in so little time,” said Krentz as they studied the cities.

  “And without the magic of the elves,” said Dirk.

  He had traveled here a few months ago to work on trade negotiations with
the seven chiefs, but the cities had only been shells filled with snow then. Now they were filled with tall wooden longhouses and tents like pyramids wrapped in animal hide and painted white. The harbor—where each tribe had many docks—was vast and full of both fishing ships and ships made for war, like the legendary barbarian ice crushers.

  “It is good to see,” said Dirk, and he felt guilty that his own people were not rebuilding as quickly, for indeed, the winter had been hard in Agora, and the food scarce. But everyone had tightened their belt and tried to pull their weight and more.

  In the center of the Seven Cities was that of the Timber Wolf Tribe, and together Dirk and Krentz walked their mounts down the slowly slanting hill and toward the main gate, where two timber wolves were chained to spikes. The two wolves growled as they approached, and a slat opened in the wall beside the gate. Two nervous green eyes peered out.

  “State your business,” came a harsh female voice.

  “The gates of the Seven Cities remain closed?” said Dirk, genuinely surprised. Beside him one of the wolves growled, and Dirk stared the beast down until it whined and lay down.

  The eyes watched. “Most people coming to the Seven Cities do so by boat. There is nothing in the south but death and memories. From where do you hail?”

  “I am Dirk Blackthorn, governor of Uthen-Arden, and this is my associate, Krentz. We wish to speak with Chieftain Vardviezla Soaringsong.”

  “Blackthorn,” said the Vald guard, peering at them through the slat in the wall. “Where is your ghost dragon? Where is your spirit wolf?” she asked with obvious suspicion.

  “They rest in the spirit world, where all spirits rest,” Dirk said dryly.

  The guard eyed Krentz with interest before turning to speak to someone else. A new pair of eyes peered through the gate, and more talking followed. Finally, the gate clinked open and swung wide.