Dark Echoes of Light

by Michael James Ploof

  The guard, a seven-foot woman with arms as thick as Dirk’s legs, offered them a small bow. “White Paw will show you to the chieftain.”

  “Thank you,” said Dirk.

  He extended his arm, and Krentz walked before him. They followed White Paw, and Dirk noticed that the black-haired woman had only one arm.

  “White Paw? If I may? Elven magic could heal your wound, could…grow back your arm.”

  She continued wordlessly, and Dirk looked to Krentz with a shrug. Krentz scowled and mouthed something, most likely that Dirk was an inconsiderate dick.

  Their guide led them down the wide main street that had been inlaid with large, flat slabs of stone. Gutters ran the length of the road, covered with iron grates that could be walked on as well as driven over with horse and wagon. The smell of fresh leather permeated the air, blending with green timber, mud, straw, sheds, barns, and the musk of livestock and manure.

  To Dirk, it smelled like progress.

  White Paw stopped before a longhouse door and turned to face Dirk. “I have not allowed myself to be healed…” she glanced at Krentz disdainfully, “because I do not trust elf magic.”

  “Fair enough,” said Dirk.

  Krentz ignored the woman and followed Dirk into the long house. Two guards stopped them at the door, and Vardviezla Soaringsong was walking toward them.

  “Let them pass,” she said to her guards. “Governor Blackthorn, Krentz,” she said with a small bow.

  “Chieftain, thank you for seeing us,” said Dirk, following her deeper into the longhouse.

  “Why do I have a feeling that you come with bad tidings?” said the chieftain, turning to arch a brow at them. Dirk noticed the teardrop tattoos running down her face. They continued, he knew, beneath her clothes and all the way to her ankle—one teardrop for every family member killed in the wars.

  “There is no direct threat to the Seven Cities or Volnoss, if that is your fear.”

  “That is a good thing.” She sat upon a tall wooden throne covered in furs and wrapped one around her neck. “Would you like refreshment, wine perhaps?”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Krentz.

  Vardviezla nodded to a young girl, who poured the guests each a tall glass.

  “So, what brings you to the north?” said Vardviezla.

  “As I understand, you are the keeper of Aurora Snowfell’s figurine,” said Dirk. “I wish to speak with her.”

  “About?”

  Dirk shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to have to admit that he had lost the figurine. “I need her to try and contact Chief in the spirit world.”

  Vardviezla nodded with understanding. “You have lost the figurine?”

  “Had it taken, yes.”

  “By who?”

  “I will have to explain it all again to Aurora, and we are pressed for time as it is. Please, do you have Aurora’s figurine with you?”

  “Of course,” said Vardviezla. She withdrew the bone figurine that had been fashioned by Gretzen Spiritbone to look almost identical to the tall barbarian warrior. “Aurora Snowfell, come to me!”

  Blue and green mist swirled out of the figurine, shimmering and coalescing before them before spiraling around Vardviezla twice and coming to form. Aurora glanced around, looking surprised. “Dirk, Krentz, it is good to see you well.”

  “Thank you,” said Dirk.

  “They have a task for you,” said Vardviezla.

  “Oh?” Aurora was intrigued.

  “Someone by the name of Orrian has stolen Chief’s figurine,” said Dirk. “Do you think that you can find Chief for me in the spirit world?”

  “Of course. I speak with Chief often. His glade is one of my favorite places.”

  Dirk remembered it well, for he had spent his share of time in the spirit realm. “Excellent,” he said. “Please find him, and ask him where he is in Drindellia.”

  “As you wish,” said Aurora, and she looked to her master.

  “Back to the spirit world, Aurora,” said Vardviezla, and with a flurry of sparks, Aurora disappeared back into the trinket. Vardviezla pocketed it and looked to Dirk. “I will summon her again in a half hour. That should be enough time. Until then, please tell me more about this…Orrian.”

  Dirk wasn’t about to expose that another human like Whill had been found, and so he formulated a lie, which, while making him look like a fool, would at least keep Orrian a secret.

  “It is a bit awkward to admit, really,” said Dirk, feigning embarrassment. “Orrian was my apprentice for a time. But I let him get too close, I suppose. I was betrayed, and he stole the figurine.”

  Vardviezla studied him intently, and Dirk could sense that she didn’t believe him.

  “How were you defeated by a mere human?” she said, brow arched as she sipped her wine.

  “I was not defeated, I was robbed, and the coward fled through the portal to Drindellia just before Whill closed it from the other side. I have a plan, though I do not know if it will work.”

  “It’s an insane plan,” said Krentz.

  “That sounds like the Dirk Blackthorn that I know,” said Vardviezla. “What’s this plan?”

  “I intend to go with Aurora through her trinket, find Chief, and go with him to Drindellia through the other trinket.”

  “Krentz is right,” said Vardviezla. “That is an insane plan…I like it.”

  Dirk offered her a nod, grinning.

  “But,” she said, “what is the urgency? Trying to go through the trinkets is risky, perhaps suicide. Surely you can sail there and hunt him down more safely, or wait until Whill opens the portals again.”

  “Like I said, I was betrayed. My apprentice has been compromised by the enemy, and I fear that he will do something terrible. He went through the portal with the Uthen-Arden forces, do not forget, and he is now a spy amid the allied ranks. I do not know how Eldarian might try to use him, but it won’t be good.”

  “Eldarian?” said Vardviezla, her face dropping. “I thought that he was defeated. I thought the mantle was under control.”

  “The mantle is under control, yes, and the prison has been renewed. But Eldarian seems to still possess great power, and he continues to be bent on bringing about the end of the world.”

  Vardviezla suddenly laughed.

  Dirk and Krentz glanced at each other. Krentz shrugged.

  The Vald chieftain’s laugh went on and on, and she slapped her knee. “Isn’t that a son of a bikkja!”

  “You find this funny?” said Krentz, hand on stomach, brow bent in worry.

  “How can I not? It is either that or bite my fingers down to the knuckles fretting over yet another dark conqueror threatening to tear the world apart. Feikinstafir!” She stood and began pacing, her long spear glowing hot with her anger. She turned abruptly, slamming the butt end of the shaft on the wooden floor. “If the gods are so bent on ending our world, then let us take the fight to the gods! I grow weary of these endless threats. I would rather fight beside my ancestors in the great halls of Thodin! I would rather fight the gods than cower in the dirt they created.”

  “Eldarian will be dealt with. He may be powerful, but he is not more powerful than Whill,” said Dirk.

  “Yes, well what happens when there is no Whill of Agora to save us all?” said Vardviezla. “What happens then?”

  To that, Dirk had no answer.

  Chapter 41

  The Assassin

  Orrian climbed the last flight of stairs to the top level of Rhuniston. The wind took his breath when he stepped out onto the cobblestone square. He glanced left and right, pulled his hood low, and walked briskly toward the southernmost tower. The tower was small, only three stories, but it was the most special of them all, for it was there that Whill and Avriel lived while staying in Rhuniston—it was there that the twins would be.

  There were hardly any civilians about, save for a few coming and going from their shops. Some—the more optimistic of the shopkeeps—had opened them up for the day, while others were mo
ving their valuables out, likely to be brought down into the vaults. A legion of human, elven, and dwarven warriors stood upon the battlements, and of course, an entire platoon of elves and men were stationed at the gates leading to the Warcrown residence. Orrian knew that there would be more of the royal guards inside.

  Despite his promise to Kellallea, he had no intentions to kill Eldarian with Godsbane. Instead, he would kill Whill of Agora, and the wards surrounding the prison would shatter. Then, the great power of the mantle would be released. Then, he would become king of the new world.

  He moved toward the library, which sat nestled between two sprawling gardens. On a normal day, these gardens would be full of people reading at the marble tables, or relaxing with their families in the warmth of the spring sun. But now the gardens were quiet, dark, and like the city, seemed to be holding their breath. The newly grown trees lining the gardens stood motionless, for there was no wind to stir their budding branches.

  Orrian marched along briskly, heading for the stairs to the battlements that ran behind the library and the Warcrown tower. He had stolen Uthen-Arden armor, and therefore was not bothered when he stepped onto the landing and continued toward the tower. Elves watched the north with unwavering eyes. Like statues they were, and there they would remain for their entire shift, watching the north, watching for the drekkon horde. The humans manning the dragon harpoons were laughing and telling jokes, some smoking pipes and others tossing back flasks. Like them, the dwarves manning the catapults seemed relaxed and unaware. Orrian walked past stacks of giant arrows and rows of archers, past pyramids of cannonballs and dragon’s breath bombs, and stopped to look out over the horizon with Warcrown Tower behind him. A small bridge spanned from the battlements to the tower, but Orrian ignored it, and instead, he turned and walked back toward the library.

  “Where are you headed, soldier?” said a man behind him.

  Orrian cursed the interruption and turned, taking on a baffled demeanor. “To the library. I thought it was that tower there. Sorry, I’m new. Just came through the portal the other day.”

  “The library is behind you,” said the older man, eyes squinted and brow furled. “It says it right across the front of the building.”

  “Sorry, cap’n, never learned to read,” said Orrian, tapping his noggin.

  The man waved him off and shook his head, grumbling something about illiterate hicks.

  Orrian continued to the back of the library, which, like Warcrown Tower, had a small bridge spanning the distance from the battlements. There was a guard stationed here, a young man who looked bored, but he perked up when Orrian arrived.

  “Come to break me?” he asked.

  “Sorry, brother. Fetching something for the damned elves,” said Orrian, rolling his eyes. “Must be magical folks don’t have to run their own errands.”

  The guard sighed. “Ain’t that the truth.”

  He opened the door for Orrian, who slipped inside, expecting to find more guards, but instead finding only silence. He quickly moved to the stairs, which brought him down to ground level, and from there he continued down into the depths of the library where furniture, old torches, unused candelabras, mirrors, broken bookshelves, stacks of parchment, and other things were stored.

  He moved to the wall, the one that Eldarian said held the weakness, and he put his ear to it. Eldarian had told him that this wall divided the library from the wine cellar of Warcrown Tower, and that by using the dwarven gift, Orrian could slip inside without raising alarm.

  He inspected the stonework and ran a finger around one of the large squares. To his surprise, he found that they had been stacked without mortar. Reaching out his hands, he called upon the dwarven gift and pulled the stone slab. To his annoyance, it grated and protested, but it soon emerged, leaving a square hole in the wall. Orrian held it in place with his mind as it floated above the floor, and he slipped through the opening into the cellar. He stopped, listening carefully and studying the surroundings.

  Nothing.

  Carefully, Orrian replaced the slab. From his pocket he withdrew one of three crystals. He knew that they had to be placed in a perfect triangle, and so he hurriedly went about measuring out a spot on the bare floor. Once he had the positioning figured out, Orrian placed the crystals, which began to pulse.

  Orrian had five minutes to get away…far away.

  ***

  “Aurora Snowfell, come to me!” said Vardviezla, holding the figurine aloft.

  Dirk watched with growing anticipation as Aurora swirled out of the figurine and took shape.

  “Did you find him?” said Dirk.

  “I did,” said Aurora. “He has not yet been summoned by his new master.”

  “Does he know where the figurine is?”

  “I am sorry, he does not.”

  “Bring me to him,” said Dirk, extending his hand.

  “Dirk…” He looked to Krentz, expecting her to try and talk him out of it. But instead she kissed him, saying, “Be careful.”

  “I will,” he told her and nodded to Aurora. “I’m ready.”

  Aurora took his hand, and they both looked to Vardviezla. The tall barbarian woman shook her head as she held out the figurine. “Good luck to you, Dirk Blackthorn.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Aurora Snowfell, back to the spirit world!”

  Dirk felt Aurora shift, but he held firm. She, in turn, wrapped her spirit around his body, around his spirit, and together they swirled like smoke into the figurine. Dazzling light blinded Dirk as they shifted into the spirit world, and once there, Aurora sped him across the sky, where the moon chased the sun backwards. The surroundings were soon a blur as they shot across through the air like a comet. Soon they slowed and came to a clearing beside a backward flowing river, where Chief was resting beside a tree stump.

  “Chief!” Dirk yelled, and inside the spirit world, his voice sounded melodic, as though he had yelled through a church organ.

  Chief perked up, and upon seeing Dirk, he gave a howl and shot to his feet. The spirit wolf spun a circle and tackled Dirk when he and Aurora landed.

  “Hey boy!” said Dirk, rustling the wolf’s fur.

  Chief whined, licking Dirk’s face repeatedly.

  “It’s alright, boy. I found you.”

  “So far so good,” said Aurora. “Now what?”

  “Now we wait,” said Dirk, hunkering down with Chief, afraid to let him go lest he miss Orrian’s calling. “Now we wait.”

  ***

  Orrian nearly had the rectangular stone out of the wall when sharp footsteps began to echo from the stairwell. He cursed under his breath and unsheathed his sword before turning to face the intruders.

  Three elves came rushing down the stone stairwell, swords gleaming. Orrian gave them no chance to give warning. He charged in, blasting them against the wall with a shockwave of energy that crackled and hissed against their combined energy shields. Those shields he sheared with his blade, slicing through the incantations with dark energy. His blade cut deep, not only cutting through their defenses, but also their armor, skin, muscle, and bone. The three elves tumbled down the stairs in six halves, and such power surged through Orrian that he was brought to his knees, his heart skipping three beats before finally thudding back to rhythm.

  Voices at the top of the stairs, rushing feet, the song of metal being torn from sheaths; more elves were coming. The sounds issued from above, but they also issued from the wall where the block lay, waiting for the final nudge. Orrian was trapped, but he cared not. Avriel and the twins would be evacuating, but he cared not. Cold, hungry energy born from the shadow of the gods coursed through him. It was building again, and he knew that he could not hold it in much longer. He cared not to hold it in. He cared not to stop it.

  The block in the wall suddenly shot into the room, slamming against one of the three glowing crystals, though it did not break it. Indeed, the block stopped dead, gonging against Eldarian’s magic. From the hole came a glowing spell that
nearly took Orrian’s head off, but he reacted in time and absorbed it into his palm. He added his own energy to it and, spinning, unleashed a sonic boom that crashed straight through the wall. Footsteps rushed down the stairs, and Orrian turned, surprised to see a winged elf flying right at him with a long, glowing lance. Orrian sliced the lance in half, shattering the enchantments within. He spun behind the shapeshifting elf as it flew by and sliced off both his wings. The elf careened into the wall, but more came. A half dozen rushed through the large hole in the wall, and a half dozen more descended down the stairs. They circled him in the wide wine cellar, the glow of their weapons coalescing with the red and white treasures within the bottles and lighting up the entire room with dancing, multicolored light.

  “Come to me, Chief!” said Orrian, grinning at the elves who circled him.

  ***

  Dirk felt Chief jerk awake before he heard the voice echoing through the rippling color that suddenly blasted from a shimmering portal.

  “Come to me, Chief!”

  Dirk grabbed ahold of Aurora, who wrapped her misty blue spirit around both Dirk and Chief, and together the three flew through the portal. Light exploded all around them, but then suddenly dimmed.

  Dirk stepped out into the material world and puked. He was shaking and covered in a thick, translucent ooze.

  “Kill them, Chief! Kill them all!” cried Orrian, who stood in the center of a ring of elven soldiers.

  Dirk was behind Orrian and hadn’t yet been spotted. He fought against his sickness, shaking his dizzy head. Then he leapt to his feet as he pulled a dagger from its sheath—a dagger imbued with the power to cut through magical defenses—and he stabbed Orrian in the liver.

  Orrian spun around, swinging his sword as he went. Dirk ducked below the strike, but he could not stop the spell that came a moment after—a glowing, writhing spell that crackled with lightning. The black globe exploded against his enchanted armor, sending him careening into a rack of bottles. As glass shattered all around him and the sweet liquid rained down on him, he saw faintly as both Chief and Aurora attacked Orrian from each side. The elves attacked as well, and there was a boom and a blinding flash of light. Fire and lightning filled the cellar, and Dirk soon found himself aflame.