Heart of the Maiden: (Lords of the Deep Hells Book 3)

by Paul Yoder

  They were already perched alongside Revna who lay flat along the lip of the canyon wall, watching the hundreds of moving figures shuffle unnaturally towards the large, shrouded creature that loomed at the head of the forces, antlers smoking in the sunlight.

  “It came out a few minutes ago. Just started moving the troops when Liv came and got you,” the priestess whispered, all the while keeping her eyes locked on the activity below.

  “That…is not the presence I felt the other day. That’s not the arisen lord,” Lanereth said, the others taking note of the High Priestess’ concern.

  “Yeah, as far as I know, Sha’oul doesn’t have antlers,” Fin agreed, asking, “But why does the army follow that thing then?”

  None had an answer. Instead, they all watched a minute longer before the antlered figure began loping off north along the shaded side of the canyon, taking the arisen horde along with it.

  “It’ll take that number of arisen a while to move out, but move out it seems they are doing. Though, I see no arisen lord among their ranks,” Lanereth said, backing up to begin heading back to camp to see about gathering the rest of her knights.

  “Nor Denloth that I could see,” Fin added, following her as Malagar stayed at Revna’s side.

  Most of the sarens had not wandered far for their tasks with the exception of Hassa, who had gone looking for water with Hamui on horseback earlier that day.

  “All are here but Hassa and the praven,” Sarah reported as Lanereth jogged back into camp with Fin at her side.

  Lanereth considered the announcement for a moment, eyeing all six knights and Tove, her priestess.

  “We may need to move without them. We may not get another shot at an opportunity like this, and the window may close quicker than we have time to scour the countryside searching for them,” she said, looking to Fin to confirm he concurred with her reasoning.

  Fin looked uneasy about the prospects of facing Denloth or the arisen king without Hamui. He had witness terrible magicks from both, and though he knew the priestess had some chance at combatting the dark sorcerers, he had not actually witnessed saren magic before for himself.

  “I don’t like going in there two people short either—Hassa is my best fighter—but the opening has presented itself,” she pressed, all now gathered around the two as they discussed whether or not they were going to mount the assault they had all been waiting on for days now.

  “That’s another thing. Why order his army to head out without him? It could easily be a setup,” Fin said, hesitating to dampen the energy he was feeling mounting in everyone. He knew getting pumped before a battle helped, but it could also cause people to make dumb decisions.

  “Trap or no, the majority of the arisen lord’s forces has just moved out. This is as good a chance as I see our small force will get to catch him alone to deal with him. If we can take him down, all his force will be untethered from his command. This is our chance, Fin. Would Reza do differently? Would she hesitate when the target is clear, unprotected before you?”

  Fin was taken aback at the mention of Reza. She was younger than him, but he respected Reza’s ability to execute military operations immensely. Her fiery spirit knew no fear when charging into war, but…would she agree with Lanereth on this one? He couldn’t say.

  “Something doesn’t seem right about this whole setup,” was all Fin could reply, but Lanereth waited, needing a confirmation of if he and his crew were in or out of the strike.

  At length, he reluctantly answered, “Yozo, Wyld, you two ready for this?”

  Yozo nodded slightly, resting a hand on his sword, ever at his side, and Wyld puffed up her chest, stretching out her arms, flexing for battle being enough of an answer for him.

  “Then, we fight at your side,” Fin grimly said, turning back to Lanereth, adding, “May Sareth and any other merciful gods watch over us this day.”

  “Sareth is the only goddess we’ll need,” Lanereth stiffly said, calling for all her sarens to gather their war gear and get ready for the assault, Fin doing the same.

  The army had all but moved around the bend by the time the crew was assembled and ready for the operation. The lingering memory of the number of abominations that had just been there still haunted the vision of all along the cliff’s ledge as they stared down into its gaping expanse.

  The trail down was rough, and it took them a good half hour to scramble and descend to the bottom of the canyon from the many tiered ledges on the side of the canyon they had been perched atop of.

  Kicking a severed arm off to the side, Fin scanned the silent canyon, looking to his crew, seeing that Malagar and Wyld were both equally ready to resolve their score with Denloth.

  Yozo, however, seemed neither overconfident, nor skittish. Fin had come to appreciate the man’s stoicism in the face of battle. It reminded him of Nomad, in a way. He knew he would not have to worry about him in a tuff, and that was always a relief when fighting with someone at your side.

  “Say your final prayers,” Lanereth ominously said to her small platoon. “It may be our last chance before battle.”

  The group made their way across the canyon floor to the steps of the temple, all gazing upon its impressive façade. It was ancient, and either man or time and weather had defaced much of its design, but there still remained imbedded opal and obsidian stones, laid in a pattern showing the sun and moon along many cycles, arching over the entrance.

  The archway stood twenty feet above them, ten foot wide, and one by one, the sarens crossed the threshold between light and shadow, disappearing into the long-forgotten halls of a distant god.

  Fin was the last one in, giving a hopeful look to the cliff walls from where they had come, half expecting to see the burly saren knight with the humorously small praven along her shoulder, making their way down the canyon to join them—but like the canyon floor, the rim remained quiet and empty.

  “Sareth,” Fin whispered, looking to the sky one last time before following the rest into the darkness, “you’d better goddamn be there for us.”

  11

  Plunged Into Darkness

  The dim hallways were stale, no traffic breathing air in or out of the glowing hallways for decades, perhaps centuries. Lanereth walked confidently through archways, flanked by her two priestesses who held symbolic staves with the sign of their goddess.

  Behind them were seven swords and shields, the saren knights marching as quietly as they could, attempting to compensate for the heavy armor they all wore.

  Fin, Wyld, Yozo, and Malagar were close behind, guarding the rear, eyeing the many black corridors that split off from the main path they had taken.

  Lanereth called for a halt, holding up her hand as she tilted her head to listen to a noise deep in the temple.

  “What is that buzzing?” she asked, all in the company straining to listen to the high-pitched hum further ahead in some distant room of the temple.

  None had an answer, and she produced a hefty, marbled cylinder from her robes. Whispering words, lips pressed against it, the cylinder began to lengthen, forming into a solid pole, a clear, perfectly smooth crystal at the top.

  She touched the end of the staff to the ground, and a dull shockwave of sound echoed out in all directions.

  Everyone was still, only able to guess as to what their leader was doing.

  The sound came back, rippling in from some of the side corridors. She had her eyes closed, deep in concentration.

  More shockwave sound ripples came to her from ahead, though these were distorted.

  “Whatever it is, it’s in some way affecting the aether currents, and it’s up ahead, through that archway in a room off to the left.”

  “A noise, a disturbance in the currents. If they have set a trap for us, that room on the left would be my first guess as to where they’re going to spring it on us,” Fin whispered, walking up to Lanereth as the group stood there, waiting for the order to proceed forward.

  “Fin, we don’t have the remainder of
the day to get lost in this place searching for our quarry. It’s too massive. What, do you advise we take that tunnel?” she asked, pointing to a side corridor beside them. “Or that passage, or that one?”

  Fin looked off into the dark hallways, realizing she was right, at least about searching pointless avenues that showed little to merit investigation.

  “If they’re here, they’re up there, and that’s where we need to go, trap, or no trap,” she ended, stepping forward into the gloom, her sarens following behind as they passed Fin by.

  Shaking off the gut feeling of trouble, he picked up the pace, falling in beside Malagar and Yozo as the group continued down the dim hall, passing through the threshold at the end of the line of archways, the room beyond opening up into a great chamber, tall, thick pillars holding up the great hall’s ceiling that towered fifty feet above.

  Deep into the chamber, they could see very little, but to the left of the room shone a bright light that illuminated just enough for them to see how far the chamber spanned.

  None spoke, all in awe of the structure’s grandeur, and of its ominous stillness.

  The high-pitched hum was easily located now that they were within the chamber, and just as Lanereth had said, the noise was calling out from a room off to the left along with a bright light that shone from the doorway.

  The group slowly made their way along the wall, inspecting the emulsified sand glaze that was smeared along the structure’s roof. The whirring came from within the room which drowned out all other sound.

  Lanereth looked to all thirteen comrades that stood at the ready, each willing to brave the darkest threat the Southern Sands had seen in many years head on.

  Fin, Malagar, and Wyld stepped up, nodding that they were ready to enter at her command, Yozo holding back with the other knights.

  “He’s in there. I can sense him,” Lanereth whispered, the slightest tremble in her voice, and Fin couldn’t tell if it was one of fear or excitement.

  He slipped his hand in his vest, drawing something out of it, though, what it was, Lanereth could not decipher.

  “May Sareth be with you this day, High Priestess,” Malagar whispered to her side, breaking her attention away from the oddity Fin held.

  “May she be with us all,” she affirmed, and with that, she entered the room, Fin and the others close behind.

  They walked through the plastered entrance to see a dozen black slate slabs, standing out of the ground with two shining quartz rods, rubble, and destroyed structures to the left of the room.

  She stopped and so did everyone else that now looked at what Lanereth had set her eyes to. At the end of the long room stood two figures. She knew who the tall one was; she could feel the taint emanating from his presence. He had the touch of a devil upon him. She immediately knew that this was the arisen lord that they sought.

  They made no move, and as the cascading light of the crystals continued to shine, enveloping everything in the room in a blinding light, the buzz continuing to drown out anything they could want to say, she stepped forward, and all followed her advance.

  Every step was heavier than the one before, and those at her back could feel that in that room, fates and futures would be made, or cut short, everything they had trained for their whole life, leading up to the peak of this moment.

  She passed four screeching crystals, coming to a slab bright with blood along its black surface. She stared, transfixed by the imagery for a moment before a slithering voice cut through the wall of noise, penetrating their minds.

  None understood the harsh language, but Fin and Malagar had heard it before, and as Wyld’s posture hunched, as though ready to pounce, Malagar grabbed for her wrist worried that Denloth was attempting to, once again, hypnotize the kaith through some dark means.

  She lashed out, throwing Malagar’s grip from her just as the bloodied slate opened into a rift, the Planes of Ash appearing before them.

  The harsh voice called again, and Wyld tackled Lanereth from behind, knocking her off-balance, tumbling towards the rift as the mind-controlled kaith drove her into the hellish realm.

  Malagar made one last attempt to snatch at the two, but they were thrown into the ashen realm, and without a second look back, he lunged in to attempt to retrieve them, but as soon as he entered, the rift stone shattered, blowing apart beside Fin and two of the other saren, the slate shrapnel cutting them badly and throwing them to the ground.

  Fin’s ears were ringing from the blast, an even shriller pitch than before. He opened his eyes wide, blinking, trying to regain use of his faculties quickly before Denloth and his master could take advantage of the vulnerable state he was in.

  One of the saren knights further from the blast rushed up to him, helping him up, dragging him back away from the exploded rift that Malagar, Wyld, and Lanereth had disappeared into.

  Fin looked around and saw a priestess and knight, that had also been close to the blast, were equally staggered and were being drug back to the entrance of the room in an attempt to regroup, the two figures at the end of the room leisurely moving up to their location.

  Fin stammered, trying to shout a retreat, but his words came out garbled. He did not know the extent of the two saren priestesses’ abilities, but he knew with their leader, their High Priestess gone, two of his troops gone, and having started down two comrades to begin with, the odds had gone from dire to nonexistent with winning the fight.

  The figures approached their front line and the curtain of light that clouded the room began to ripple and wave in space, right before a dark knight ripped into existence between the group. Fin beheld the golden wings shooting up out of the knight’s formfitting helm, a beady red glow emanating from within, the light penetrating its inner shadows, showing a blood-slicked skull housed within the black steel.

  “Oathbound,” Fin uttered, just as two more dark-plated knights ripped into being next to the first.

  He looked around to the door behind them, looking for their escape, but Yozo and the two saren knights that still stood on the other side of the doorway had their backs to him, and looking past them, he saw why.

  Little figures lurked in the dark just beyond the light. He would have looked past them but for the many pairs of moving glimmers in the dark, bobbing and twitching in agitation, waiting for those at the door to leave the light for them to pounce.

  They were flanked and without their leader.

  12

  Striking the Match

  “We will attempt an audience with them. Tau, Undine, come with me. All others, stay here and await our return,” Hathos ordered, the three promptly riding off towards the hundreds of horsemen riding towards them.

  They rode at a leisurely pace, not wanting to press their horses’ and dolingers’ health, knowing full well that a good deal of galloping was in their future.

  The sun marked the riders, their polished armor gleaming in its light, and from the opposing force, five riders broke ranks to meet them.

  The eight men slowed, pulling up as their horses nickered, pulling at their reins, seeming desperate to continue the charge as they showed their large teeth and eye whites.

  The two groups sized each other up, each waiting for the other to begin talks amidst hoof stomps in the dry desert dirt highway.

  Hathos broke the agitated silence with his calm, collected voice, announcing, “Our company was hunted down and attacked yesterday by a High Judge named Set. His forces came upon us unprovoked, and we did defend ourselves, killing many in his command. We bring back the remaining prisoners in an attempt at finding some measure of peace between our two states.”

  The lead horseman listened patiently while reigning his horse in, holding Hathos’ eyes intently the whole time. In a stern voice, he warned, “You will return our men to us at once. We will escort you to Rochata-Ung for further talks.”

  “Talks? You mean sentencing. We have no interest in being accused of war crimes by a corrupt court of which we are not guilty to. Accept your pris
oners and be done with us,” Hathos spat, not in the mood to mince words, rearing up his horse in a frightful display, as he turned and galloped off with Undine and Tau following close behind, leaving the officials in their dust.

  With both sides returning to their attachments, the opposing forces waited in the hot desert heat as their leaders rejoined, barking out orders as they rode up.

  “Leave the prisoners, we ride south through the dunes,” Hathos shouted to his crew, dolinger and horse riders leaving their posts around the Tarigannie survivors they had been closely watching.

  Seeing that they were being freed, the remaining Rochatans cheered, rushing down the highway toward the large cavalry unit far down the road.

  Hathos watched the freed men run for a moment longer, looking back to his men and women, offering a silent prayer that luck would be on their side that day, waving an arm for all to follow his lead, starting them off with a light gallop towards the endless dunes south of them.

  By the time they had made it to the first of many sand ridges, Hathos turned to see if they were being followed, waving Undine and the troops onward as he ordered his horse to a halt along the first dune’s peak.

  The prisoners had been collected, and they had lingered in the same spot for a while before eventually turning back, heading down the road to Rochata-Ung.

  Hathos released a held breath. If they had pressed an attack there and then, he was not sure their tired forces could fend them off or outrun them for long. They needed time. They needed some distance—at least temporarily.

  He did not doubt Rochatan officials would respond poorly to the news the prisoners would give them of their massive defeat. There would be retaliation; and now, they had a direction, a heading to hunt for them. South—where the arisen army lay—or so he hoped.

  “So much hope. So many ways this could end in disaster,” he murmured under his breath as he turned to catch up with his company that had now well passed him.

  Rarely did he operate on such an elaborate risky network of gambits, but he had been given little choice. Though as loyal as he was to Sultan Metus, and as well-meaning the sultan had been in taking up with the company on the mission, he had put his leaders in difficult situations and had asked the world of them. If he was to dig them out of the hole they had been led into, he knew a few miracles would be necessary, which was the leading reason for his insistence on bringing the prophet with them. Even with his head injury, he knew the power the man held in swaying the tides of fortune and fate.