Dark Echoes of Light

by Michael James Ploof

  He couldn’t roll to put it out, for broken glass and burning wine covered himself and the floor. The fumes were noxious, and black smoke darkened the room. But small explosions continued, along with the sound of metal upon metal and the cries of the dying. Of all the voices that screamed in pain, Orrian’s was not one of them.

  Dirk stumbled upon a staircase, head swimming and lungs choked with acrid smoke. The flames still consumed him, but the wards upon his armor and the protection spells that Krentz had laid upon the many gems beneath his skin kept him from burning. There was no spell for fresh air, however, and Dirk groped at the rail, pulling himself up to cleaner air.

  He stumbled at the landing and rolled, dousing the flames. Elves rushed by to join the insanity in the wine cellar, and one of them stopped, pointing a spear at his neck.

  “I’m Dirk Blackthorn! I’m on your side!”

  The elf scowled, but then recognition flashed in his eyes. He offered Dirk a hand. “Are you injured?” he said over the tumult one floor below.

  “Where are we?” Dirk asked.

  The elf frowned.

  “Where are we?” Dirk screamed.

  “Warcrown Tower,” said the elf.

  Dirk’s eyes widened. “Where are Avriel and the twins?”

  “They are…they are protected,” said the elf.

  Dirk pulled himself up. “Listen—”

  An explosion shook the tower, and fire spewed forth from the stairwell.

  “They need to evacuate! Now!”

  ***

  Orrian conjured wind to clear the room, and he grinned at the scene; before him lay more than a dozen dead elves. Elves of the sun, whose power was that of legend. But they had been nothing. Their power had been eclipsed by his, and now he stood victorious. The three pulsing crystals sat where he had put them—their power too great to be interrupted by the elves’ petty spells.

  He took in the scent of death and turned his mind sight to the highest tower. There, he could see, Avriel was ferrying her children to a waiting dragon.

  Orrian grinned and began stalking up the smoldering stairs. He let a part of his mind split, focusing his consciousness on the minds of those whom he had given the gift of shadow. Eldarian had showed him the spell, and it was a glorious gift indeed. Orrian had prepared for this scenario, and he had walked the battlements at night, giving the gift of shadow to human archers and the dwarves who manned the dragon harpoons. He had gifted thirteen in all, and each one of them answered his call.

  He saw through thirteen sets of eyes, and with them, he found Avriel. She and an elf who looked similar, a sister perhaps, were hurriedly mounting a white dragon. In each of their arms was a bundle wrapped in spells of protection.

  Orrian continued up the stairs, slaying anyone he found and steadily making his way to the top.

  He guided thirteen bodies, turning them to take aim at the dragon.

  At the third landing, an elf attacked with magic and metal, but Orrian easily eviscerated him, spraying the walls crimson.

  The dragon spread its wings and leapt from the roof of the tower. FIRE! Orrian commanded his gifted. Three of the dwarfs resisted him somehow, but the others complied. Arrows and dragon harpoons tore through the sky, their tips enchanted with elven magic. Three arrows missed the dragon as it flapped its massive wings and rose into the air, but two arrows found their mark, digging into the dragon’s neck. At the same time, three dragon harpoons ripped through scales and muscle and bone, hitting the dragon in the ribs, hip, and shoulder.

  Orrian rushed up the stairs and came out onto the roof of the tower just in time to see the dragon—flailing and shrieking and spraying blood—crash back down again.

  He laughed as he rushed across the stone rooftop to finish off the elves and the little half breeds, but a streaking blue light suddenly erupted in front of him and took him off his feet. He landed on his back, sliding across the stone, and there was Chief on top of him, trying to tear out his throat.

  Orrian laughed all the while, even as a tall barbarian ghost and Dirk Blackthorn fell upon him with their blades.

  “You are too late,” he said, laughing as their weapons bounced off his energy shield. “You’re too late…”

  Chief suddenly bit through his energy shield, but the spirit wolf did not try to strike a killing blow; instead it tore through his pocket, grabbing ahold of the timber wolf figurine and yanking it free before disappearing with a howl.

  The figurine bounced across the floor, and Dirk lunged for it. Orrian grabbed his leg, crushing the bone in his grip, but too late.

  “Fyrfrost, come to me!” Dirk cried.

  Chapter 42

  The Fall

  Whill felt the stone rumble beneath his feet, and he looked to Roakore.

  “Felt like a small explosion,” said the dwarf, turning and eyeing the battlements and city square below.

  They stood upon the ramparts facing north, when again a rumbling vibrated through the stone. Whill looked to the south, in the direction of his tower, and he felt the blood rush out of his face.

  “Avriel,” he whispered before leaping into the air and taking flight. He shot across the city square, and to his horror, he saw Zorriaz falling from the sky, her body shattered by enchanted harpoons.

  “Avriel!” he cried against the wind, his voice like a hurricane and his rage a tempest. His anger propelled him forward as he ripped through the air.

  He was only fifty feet away when suddenly a terrible explosion ripped through the tower from the base, sending flames and broken stone and molten debris surging in every direction. Whill careened through the smoke and fire, crying out Avriel’s name. He had seen her there on the back of Zorriaz with her sister, clutching one of the children, but then the vision had been consumed by flames.

  Whill flew through the smoke and fire, searching the pyre with mind sight. He saw many bodies there among the burning rubble, and a terrible rage began to boil in his heart. He bellowed Avriel’s name, his voice thundering like a god and sending the black smoke to billow out over the battlements to the south.

  “Whill!”

  He turned, his heart leaping.

  “Whill!”

  Finally, he spotted Avriel. She was flying upon Zorriaz with the children and her sister Zilena. But as seen through mind sight, Zorriaz was not Zorriaz. For he saw her life energy, but also the spirit of another dragon, a spirit dragon, one with feathers like a bird.

  Fyrfrost, he realized.

  He shot across the sky to meet them where they were landing a few hundred yards outside the city. Just then, a streaking darkness like a fleeing shadow shot out from the city. Whill intercepted it, thinking that it must be Eldarian, and landed between it and Zorriaz.

  To his shock, it was not Eldarian who suddenly appeared before him, but a human that he had never seen. The young man had eyes of deepest black, and a terrible power emanated from him—the same power that Whill had been trying to ignore since defeating Eldarian.

  A blue streak sped by and stopped a few feet from Whill, and to his further amazement, Dirk Blackthorn landed with it.

  “Orrian!” Dirk screamed, storming past Whill with dagger and sword in hand. “It is over! Lay down your arms and let us help you be rid of this dark curse!”

  Whill glanced back at Zorriaz. Blue light engulfed her, and Whill could see Zilena extending her healing energy. Abe and Arra were in Avriel’s arms…and they were alright.

  “Fool!” cried the human, and Whill turned back to see him engulf Dirk in black, writhing tendrils of shadow. The tendrils tore at Dirk’s soul, and he cried out for Whill to flee.

  Whill’s blood boiled. This man, this human with elven powers, had tried to kill his family, had destroyed his home, and now threatened to kill one of his friends. Whill unsheathed his blade and shot across the ground, slamming into Orrian with a great explosion of light.

  Energy shields collided, but Whill’s power was the greater of the two, and his opponent spun through the air and lan
ded a hundred feet away.

  Whill stalked forward as the mysterious young man rose to his feet. To Whill’s surprise, he leapt into the air and flew at Whill with his gleaming sword leading. Whill soared to meet him, his sword humming with power and vibrating like a rung bell. They met in the air, two humans with the power of the elves, their swords screaming and energy shields glowing. Their swords met with a crack of lightning, and Whill poured his rage and anger into the strike, driving through his opponent’s energy shield and stabbing him through. The man’s eyes went wide, and his power faltered. He clutched the blade as Whill sped them both toward the ground, his opponent impaled on his sword, and together they slammed into the earth with a resounding rumble.

  A plume of dust and smoke shot into the sky, and when it settled, Whill stood at the bottom of a twenty-foot-deep crater, staring down at the laughing man in horror. He watched, wordlessly, as the man somehow absorbed his power. He did not steal it from Whill, but absorbed it the way Whill absorbed the power of others. He pulled away from the man, who suddenly began to glow. Whill staggered back, shocked, as the power of not only the elves and the dwarves filled the strange man, but also that of Gretzen, Zander, Eldarian, and the mantle of darkness itself. He heard Lunara cry out, and a vision of a world in flames flared in his mind’s eye.

  The young man stood, the light surrounding him being extinguished by the shadow once more. He grinned.

  “Hello, Whillhelm,” he said with a snide grin.

  “Who are you?” said Whill.

  “I am Orrian Dreck, the first of many humans who will soon awaken to the powers of old as we have.”

  “We?”

  “You and I,” said Orrian, grinning. “They will need a teacher. They will need guidance. They will need me. Together with Eldarian, I shall usher in a world in which humans, not elves or dwarves or dragons, are the superior race. I will do what you have not been able to do. I will free humanity from the fear of what creeps in the night. Mine will be a world of light and hope, not this nightmare that you have led us into.”

  “You cannot usher in a world of light and hope by using darkness and despair,” said Whill. “You know nothing of the power that you now possess, the power you have been seduced by. I had feared that there might be others like me, and now that fear has been realized.”

  Orrian grinned, unsheathing his sword.

  “You don’t want to do that,” said Whill.

  “Oh, but I do,” said Orrian. He extended his left hand, and from it exploded a beam of pure darkness. Whill answered the attack with a beam of his own, and the two powers collided with a glorious boom. The explosion rumbled through the hills, shaking the entire city of Rhuniston and leaving the crater ten feet deeper and twice as wide.

  Orrian shot into the air, and Whill sped after him. To his horror, Orrian sped toward the city. Whill blinked to a spot twenty feet in front of Orrian and brought up a powerful shield. Orrian collided into him, but Whill held strong, pushing the man back through the sky like a comet and bringing him far from the city. Orrian finally relented, spinning around and out of reach of Whill.

  He grinned.

  “It appears that we are evenly matched with power, but there is one thing I have that you do not.”

  “And what’s that?” said Whill, trying to think of a way to get the better of his opponent but knowing that he could not use the terrible power that lay dormant within him. For if he was forced to give in to that power, he did not know what he might become. Orrian, on the other hand, embraced the dark force, and so he stood, unafraid, floating before Whill with that infuriating grin.

  Orrian shot toward Whill, his gleaming sword cocked back for a terrible strike. Whill parried, spinning around in the air, always moving upward so as not to lose the advantage. Their swords rung like a heavenly chorus, sparks exploding from them both on contact. Orrian pushed with more of his dark power, and Whill dug deep, fighting the urge to embrace the power that he knew could destroy Orrian.

  Whill lunged forth with an attack of his own, sending beams of white-hot fire at Orrian, only to have it deflected. They exchanged blows high above the earth, but for every strike, for every spell, the other had a defense that was just as great. They fell from the sky, locked in battle, spells flying in all directions as they tumbled toward the ground. Orrian attacked like a beast uncaged, the force behind his blows enough to shatter a mountain. Whill parried with similar force, and with each blow, he became deaf. The ground was torn asunder beneath them as they battled. Forests were flattened by their spells, and giant craters were left in their wake as they battled above and across the valley.

  They took to the sky once more, Whill following Orrian as he turned toward the city again. Whill focused on a spot in front of Orrian, imagined himself there, and blinked to the location in a heartbeat. He impaled the young man, who looked to him not with surprise, but mirth. Whill pushed the blade deeper, forcing his power through it, power that should have shattered Orrian’s soul.

  Orrian put his hand on Whill’s shoulder, grinning with bloody teeth. Suddenly a blade was in his right hand, and it was stabbing through Whill’s energy shield. It sliced through his every enchantment, finding his chest. Orrian pulled Whill closer, impaling them both further. He smiled.

  “I never told you what it is I have that you do not,” he said, eyes glowing with dark power, the irises like raging green flames. “It is Gor’Enstal, the Godsbane. It is the only thing that can kill a god.”

  Whill clutched the blade, crying out, for it ripped through his very being, searing his soul and destroying the power of the gods that he had absorbed from Kellallea and the mantle.

  Orrian smiled upon him, even caressing his face lovingly. “Goodbye, Whillhelm Warcrown.”

  Whill fell.

  Blood gushing from the wound given to him by Gor’Enstal, the Godsbane.

  Whill fell.

  Chapter 43

  Attack on Rhuniston

  The horns blared in the distance—the drekkon had arrived.

  Avriel watched, horrified, as Whill fell from the sky.

  “Zorriaz!” she screamed as she ran to her mount. The dragon had seen it too, and was already preparing to take flight.

  But it was too late for Whill, she realized in horror. He fell like a comet, slamming into the earth a mile away.

  Avriel shuddered when she felt the ground rumble.

  “Avriel!”

  She watched the dust rise in the distance, her eyes blurring with tears.

  “Avriel!” yelled Zilena, shaking her.

  Avriel’s head spun, and she clutched the child at her breast.

  Please, gods, if you are listening. Please let him be alive.

  “Come on!” Dirk yelled as he climbed up onto Fyrfrost’s back. Aurora and Chief streaked across the valley toward where Whill had landed. Behind them, the sounds of war began to erupt.

  Avriel snapped out of it suddenly and mounted Zorriaz. Zilena joined her, one arm curved around a crying Arra. Both children were crying now, and Avriel clung tight to Abe as Zorriaz took to the sky. Tears blurred her vision, and Avriel switched to mind sight, searched for Orrian, but he and the incredible blade that he had wielded were nowhere to be seen. She looked down as they drew closer to the plume of dust and dirt, and there in the field below, at the bottom of a large crater, lay Whill.

  “Bring us down!” she bade Zorriaz.

  The dragon flew spirals down to the crater and landed beside Whill. Avriel leapt off with Abe and rushed to his side. His body was broken and bloody, and a large wound bled in his chest.

  But he was alive.

  His bloodshot eyes focused in on her, and to her great relief, he smiled.

  “You’re alright,” he said, but then terror spread across his face. “The children!”

  “Abe is here,” said Avriel through her tears. “Arra is here as well. We are all safe.”

  Whill coughed up blood, his eyes wild.

  “We need to get you to the healers,
” she said, wiping at her eyes and sniffling. “You stay with us, Whill. You stay with us.”

  Dirk and the spirits accompanied Zorriaz as the dragon scooped up Whill’s broken body and ferried him to New Cerushia.

  In the distance, explosions rang out, and the screams of the dying began to climb to the heavens.

  ***

  Roakore watched Whill fly across the sky, and a dark foreboding filled his heart. Warcrown Tower crumbled to the ground in a grand plume of black smoke, and the old dwarf king feared the worst. But then, miraculously, he saw Zorriaz sail into the sky. With her, Roakore thought he could see two elves. His heart leapt to think that Avriel and the children had gotten away in time, but then in the next breath, terror filled his heart. Archers upon the Rhuniston wall began to turn, as did many of the dwarves manning the dragon harpoons.

  “That beast be one o’ ours!” Roakore cried out as they took aim.

  “Hey, ye bunch o’ halfwits—”

  As one they fired, and Roakore watched in horror as the arrows and harpoons tore into Zorriaz. The dragon went down in a plume of streaking fire, and Roakore screamed. He rushed to the nearest archer and shook him. Then he froze, for the man’s eyes were black.

  The man laughed maniacally, and Roakore laid him out with a punch to the face.

  Philo and Raene came rushing over, weapons in hand.

  “Them archers be possessed!” Roakore yelled. “Round ‘em up!”

  An arrow zipped past, and those who had fired began attacking those around them. The ramparts erupted in chaos, and Roakore ordered them not to be killed, but to be taken alive. That feat proved hard indeed, for the humans and dwarves were possessed by a powerful magic. They unleashed arrows into those who tried to take them down from the battlements, and the dwarves, blessed one and all, launched dragon harpoons through the air with their minds.