by K T Munson
Backpedaling to stop her momentum, she cried out as she fell. Her leg folded under her, and Ki and his makeshift support landed in the sand with her. She glanced up at the shape and gasped in surprise.
“Nanette?” Ethandirill asked.
He was dripping from head to toe; water glistened on his bald head. His tattoos seemed somehow lighter in the dark. Without thinking, she abandoned her hold on Ki’s bed and threw herself into his arms. He didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around her before she remembered.
She pushed at his chest so she could look up at him. “You have to help Elisabeth!”
They both turned to look in Elisabeth’s direction. She and the crab were battling further down the beach, the crab having driven Elisabeth toward the trees. Nanette’s chest clenched. Elisabeth must be exhausted from not sleeping, Nanette didn’t know how long she’d be able to keep the crab at bay.
Ethandirill put an arm around her and shifted Nanette behind him. She was about to ask him what he was doing when he opened his mouth. The tattoos on his body quivered, and the shadow cast by the moon seemed to grow. Nanette took a step back as she tried to avoid touching Ethandirill’s shadow.
“Stop moving,” he commanded in a voice that seemed much too loud for one person.
As though by magic, the crab and Elisabeth froze. The trees stopped swaying, and everything within hearing distance simply stopped moving. A silence as Nanette had not heard since Croatoan descended upon the island.
He focused his attention on the crab. “Crustacean, you shall return to your burrow and sleep until the sun rises. Everything else may resume movement.”
The crab scuttled off, and Elisabeth gasped for breath as though she hadn’t been able to breathe.
For a moment Nanette couldn’t move. She stared at the man who had her heart and realized he was anything but an ordinary man. Nanette rushed around Ethandirill without looking at him. Elisabeth staggered a little before walking toward them normally.
“Are you all right?” Nanette asked when she reached her.
“A little out of breath and a few scrapes, but I’ll recover.” Elisabeth patted her arm.
“What was that?” Nanette whispered, glancing at Ethandirill.
“The power of the Det Morian Clan,” Elisabeth said, and explained briefly.
“Why don’t they use it more?” Nanette asked in a hushed voice. “They could change the world.”
“Words can be taken other ways. I don’t think he meant for me to stop breathing when he told us to stop moving, but to breathe my chest must rise and fall.” Elisabeth touched Nanette’s arm and they both stopped walking. “There is a reason they rule and have ruled the Netherworld for thousands of years. Ethandirill may be a banished prince, but he is still one of them. He will always have that part of him. It is his birthright. If anyone can look past the power that causes others to run in fear, though, it is you. You’ve already done it once.”
“When?” Nanette asked, utterly overcome by a flurry of emotions.
Elisabeth smiled tenderly. “With me.”
Chapter 39: Netherworld
Malthael had wanted to bring his sword, but he couldn’t risk them knowing he had access to the Netherworld from the planets at any time. He looked at the statue in the courtyard of his old home of a strange vase and knew Malthael’s sword was hidden within it. The ruins of his home looked even more bare and lifeless than he remembered. It was difficult to determine exactly when, but the mansion on Ashlad had become home.
As he made his way toward Morhaven, he turned his back on his past. He had thought hatred or perhaps anger would fill him as he made his way across the Netherworld, but all he felt was nostalgia. It was a lifetime ago that he had seen the red skies of his birth. Most demons were made, but some were born. Some demons were birthed into this world by tearing through their mother’s womb. Most of the higher demons had been born that way, and Malthael was no exception.
As he creased a hill, he could see the dome of Morhaven shining like a beacon of light in the endless burning sky. Unlike the Netherworld, Morhaven did stir his anger. Nothing good had ever come of his time within the deadly halls of the Divine Court. He ignored the hisses and clicking of the monsters along the shadows. A Nightmare in its shadow form followed him, not hunting, but, he imagined, out of curiosity. As he drew closer to the light of Morhaven, ash began to fall, clinging to his hair and clothes. He remembered one of the reasons he didn’t miss the Netherworld all that much.
When Malthael reached the dome of protection around Morhaven he hesitated, not sure it would let him through. He glanced back at the Nightmare. It was still following him. Though Malthael wasn’t armed, the Nightmare wouldn’t dare risk attacking a higher demon, even a fallen one. Looking beyond the light of the dome to what lay beyond, he found himself staring at the Dusky Woods. The dark forest of Morhaven held many secrets—some good, many more bad. The trees were tall and had thick twisting trunks. Dark green and purple-gray leaves hung from the branches and cast everything below it into gloom. Circling the dome, he searched for the trail that would keep him out of harm’s way.
He dare not risk traversing the Poppy Fields—he was no longer sure he could resist their call. The Ruins of Old Haven were worse. The dead haunted the entire ruins and hungered for the souls of the living. Even Malthael didn’t know what had caused the death of so many or why they’d turned into Wraths. Some dark curse, no doubt. This left the Dusky Woods as his best choice to gain entry to Morhaven and the best way to his daughter.
Elisabeth had made it through, but she had been born into her half-breed existence. He had made himself into one. His horns had been his immortality, and without them he was basically half demon. Malthael had always wondered if his partial soul had been the result of his loss of immorality or his love for Elisabeth. A combination, perhaps.
Unwilling to look hesitant or weak while the Nightmare watched, when he located the trail, Malthael put a hand out and touched the dome. It yielded to his hand, and he stepped through the protective barrier. It washed over him like dense air. When he was on the other side, the Dusky Woods surrounded him in a menacing gloom. It was never truly daytime in the Dusky Woods.
Malthael started down the path as he studied the underbelly of the trees and their strange purple color. The trail was overgrown to the point of being almost nonexistent. Something chattered at him as he focused on the path ahead. Things would try to draw him off the pathway, but he couldn’t give them any ground.
“Come,” a woman’s voice called to him, as sweet as any dessert, “Let me fulfill your every desire.”
Something large with multiple legs scurried across the forest floor and nearly drew his attention away. Despite his need to know what it was, he kept staring straight ahead and ignored the black outline in his peripheral vision. Malthael was not to be diverted from his task. He could not come so far only to fail her now.
Many more creatures called to him, trying to tempt him, but he stayed true. Just as he shouldn’t venture off the path, they couldn’t step onto it. No one could bar his way, and none did. It took hours of walking before he reached the end of the path and the beginning of the open fields. He had to blink and shield his eyes because of the sudden influx of light.
Off in the distance he could just make out the towers of Morhaven and could hear the waterfall. The Queen’s Tears meant he was very close to the Elementals and their caretakers. They wandered the land that existed between Morhaven and the outer ring. The closer he drew to the Divine Court, the more likely he was to be discovered.
Malthael started off in the direction of Morhaven. He wished he could change his appearance to make himself less noticeable amongst the happy green of Morhaven. His dark skin with its subtle golden flecks made him feel like a brown hare in winter. He entered a second set of woods that had old growth trees, tall and thick.
He carefully picked his way across the bright landscape, wondering if Elisabeth had walked this same path, and felt both an
ticipation and dread. If Elisabeth was at the mercy of King Nauberon, there was only one thing Malthael could do.
Ducking behind a boulder, Malthael listened to the thundering of hooves. Unicorns. He didn’t have the time to deal with them or their weaponry. They were violent selfish creatures for all their beauty. They posed as much of a threat as Weavers, though fewer of them existed. Unlike Weavers, unicorns were born from those who died from vanity, which happened far more rarely than death from war.
Malthael glanced over the top of the rock when they thundered past. Their opalescent scales shimmered as their white hair flew in the wind. They were a thing of beauty and grace, monsters in stunning skins. He slid back down the rock and waited. The Divine Court was close now—unicorns always stayed close to those in power. King Nauberon allowed them within Morhaven, no doubt to feed his ego.
Unwilling to fight them, he waited for a while. After silence fell, Malthael slowly stood and made his way through the rows of flowers, careful not to touch them, as the fortress came into full view. He passed over the bridge and into the courtyard around the Divine Court. Eyes watched him from on high—the gargoyles were actually stone guards. They didn’t stop him, only watched.
Malthael strode up to the great double doors carved from stone. He didn’t know what he was going to find, but he knew he had to try. The gargoyles moved across the top of the fortress, still watching.
“I am Malthael, and I demand an audience with King Nauberon,” he bellowed. The guards heard, but more importantly, the fortress did. It was an extension of King Nauberon, and if it knew, he knew. “I demand to see Elisabeth.”
It wasn’t long before the call of a hunting horn sounded—Arawn. Malthael knew what that meant. He took one step back and then another, putting some distance between himself and the entrance doors. His fingers drummed against his palm, but he didn’t call to his sword. He would only do so as a last resort. There was a call to arms. Malthael shifted his weight, ready and waiting for when the Lord of the Hunt came. There was no turning back now.
The door opened, and out stepped a near match to of Malthael’s pitch black skin. The antlers on his head, a great rack, were as imposing as the rest of him. He did not look pleased by Malthael’s presence. All of the gargoyles gathered above him on the top of the fortress. Other guards in black stood behind Arawn with their jagged weapons drawn.
“You should not be here, fallen one,” Arawn said.
“I have no quarrel with you, Arawn,” Malthael said carefully. “I wish only to speak to King Nauberon and my daughter.”
“She isn’t here!” a female voice called.
He watched as a girl slipped through the ranks of the soldiers. None of them moved to stop her. She had brown hair and something on her face. When she drew closer, he realized they were dots that marked her as a young Hysterian. He didn’t recognize her, but she seemed to know him, and for some reason her voice sounded familiar.
“This is not a time to trifle, girl,” Arawn said, but he sounded more amused then annoyed.
“You wouldn’t tell him the truth,” she said boldly. “You would have left him in the dark.”
Arawn reached down and trapped her head in his hand. “And so he should remain, or you may suffer the King’s wrath.”
The girl pushed at his fingers and slipped out from under his hand. She looked half ready to scowl and stick her tongue out. She turned back to Malthael. “Elisabeth isn’t here.”
Surprise didn’t begin to describe what he was feeling. If she wasn’t there, where else could she be? He was about to ask that very question when a second girl slipped her way through the soldiers. Her hair shimmered golden like Elisabeth’s, and for a moment he thought the girl had been wrong about his daughter. It only took him a moment to notice that she was smaller than Elisabeth, though, shorter, and that she had none of Elisabeth’s natural grace.
He inhaled sharply when she lifted her head and looked at him. She bore more of a resemblance to Serena then Elisabeth did. She looked nearly exactly like a younger version of Serena, were it not for her paler skin and slightly longer face. She appeared taken aback by him. He watched as she studied him in as much detail as he regarded her. She seemed wary of him.
“Selene,” the Hysterian girl said, “this is Malthael, Elisabeth’s father. Malthael, this is Selene, Elisabeth’s cousin.”
“Serena didn’t have any family.” Malthael blurted out before his mind caught up with his mouth.
“My mother spoke often of her sister and my namesake. She said my hair was just like hers,” Selene said, her eyes a little sad. She glanced at the girl who had introduced them. “Kerrigan said it is just like Elisabeth’s.”
“Kerrigan?” Malthael blinked. Kerrigan was the name of the girl who had shared a body with Jinq.
“Yes.” Kerrigan smiled. “It is me.”
“What happened?” Malthael asked.
Kerrigan glanced up at Malthael and cleared her throat. “It is a long story. Perhaps I should let King Nauberon explain.”
“Very well.” Malthael nodded to Arawn. “Lead on.”
Chapter 40: Unknown World
Nobody had been dreaming every night, and none of the dreams had been good. The nightmares that plagued him were not his own. Ever since the fall of the group of men and the Soul Eater’s consumption of their souls, he had been exhausted. He slept so often that he felt as though he could not tell sleep from waking.
If his dreams were to be believed, thousands of creatures—people, Nobody corrected himself—had died at the hands of the Soul Eater. He could see them all, every face that thing had eaten. The yellow-skinned people were short, the tallest only coming up to Nobody’s chest. They had long foreheads and very little hair that seemed to start at the top of their heads in a point and grew back from there. It was thicker in the back but most seemed to keep it short and spiked, no matter the color. Their teeth were pointed, as were their long tipped ears. Beyond that, they were all unique.
These creatures moved from place to place and only seemed to have homes within mountains. Despite their predatory look, he had a sense that they were not as savage as they appeared. They had outgrown their warrior mentality; it had been softened by lack of need. They made weapons, and he could see them being traded through a gate. More memories that were not his own.
When Nobody opened his eyes, he stood in the middle of a small village at the base of a mountain. Arrows rained down on the enemy behind him, the Shadow Clan. The words made his chest hurt, but he didn’t know why. Everyone fled from him as darkness swirled around him. A child cried inside of a home, and as he walked by he put a hand out and crushed it flat. Horrified, he realized he was inside one of the Soul Eater’s memory as the Soul Eater. No longer a bystander grasping at memories, he was experiencing one for himself. He tried to fight it, but to no avail.
The arrows that were volleyed at him fell around him, curving off on some sort of magical barrier. All of these mortals ran from him, and his armies killed what he left behind. His boots struck the dusty ground with a growing urgency. He had to find him; he had to.
“Aryan,” a voice called that Soul Eater trusted, “the orc known as the Blacksmith is within the mountain.”
Aryan didn’t turn or acknowledge the news. Instead, he bent his knees and jumped. Aryan didn’t worry and didn’t look down, though they were up so high. As Nobody cringed, Aryan landed at the base of the mountain and threw his arms forward. The great metal doors that barred his path were hit with an unseen force. It bent them, and a second strike exploded them inward.
The orcs shouted and scrambled on the other side. Aryan didn’t pay attention; he continued on and used his strange powers to throw the orcs one way or another. He went deep into the belly of the mountain, relentlessly killing those who blocked his path, until he came to a great open center.
Massive stone stairs spiraled up into homes. Out in the middle, next to a flowing waterfall of lava, a taller orc struck a great hammer against an an
vil. The consistent sound of heavy thuds abated a moment before he held a strange blade aloft. He inspected it in the light. It gleamed with steel teeth. He began attaching it to a young orc. On his right side he had only a partial arm, to his elbow, to which the blade was being fastened.
Aryan inspected the area around him and could see the long twisting path to get to the center. Instead of running, he bent his legs and leapt. As unnerving as this jumping had been outside, it was more terrifying with lava flowing beneath them. One leg destabilized when Aryan landed. He fell to his knee but caught himself with his other hand.
The older orc immediately grabbed another sword, and Aryan stood, facing him with an ugly hatred within his very core. “Run!” the Blacksmith yelled.
Aryan snarled as he unsheathed his sword. Rushing forward, the older orc narrowly managed to block his downward swing. Despite his just being a passenger along for a ride in the Soul Eater’s memory, Nobody felt fear. The Soul Eater was afraid of this old mortal, no doubt the Blacksmith who Aryan sought. Their swords clashed and sparked from force as they battled.
Nobody was forced to watch as the orc fought bravely and died. He wanted to look away, but Aryan never did. Instead he buried his sword deep in the Blacksmith’s gullet and then kicked him off the sword with his boot. Abandoning the elder, he ran after the youth.
When he rounded the corner, the young orc was gone, though the shimmering gate remained. Aryan glanced at the dial and whispered “the Netherworld” under his breath. As he started forward, he heard something dripping behind him. He turned to see the dying elder, blood pouring from him, striking out. Aryan narrowly parried. With his next stroke he sliced his blade through the elder’s back. Blood splattered against the stone. The elder fell forward into the dial, which turned, losing the setting for the Netherworld. Aryan howled with rage. Whatever had happened displeased him greatly. He began slice up what remained of the elder until he was in too many pieces to count.