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

by Paul Yoder

  “Those aren’t praven,” Lanereth whispered, dread thick on her voice. “Those are greyoldor.”

  As if in reaction to the name spoken aloud, the ones closest to her hissed out, their sunken eyes and mummified mouths widening as they jittered closer to the pair which had been raiding their water source.

  “Run,” Malagar said, nudging Lanereth behind him, facing the little demon children to keep them at bay while Lanereth did as commanded and sprinted away from the hellish cocoon city network.

  The three closest greyoldors lunged towards Malagar, teeth sharp and promising to shred any flesh they latched onto.

  Though they were fast, Malagar’s fists moved deftly to intercept the little malnourished creatures, slamming one aside, kicking another in the gut, and grabbing the other by the wrist, spinning around with it, launching it back into the water well behind them.

  The rest of the greyoldors hopped in a frenzy, the action setting off the whole alcove nearby, many springing down out of their cocoons, rushing in at Malagar’s position.

  The move had bought Lanereth a precious few seconds to get some distance from the horde, and now Malagar turned and sprinted to catch up to the fleeing saren.

  “To the bridge!” Malagar yelled ahead, Lanereth correcting course to make for the land bridge far ahead of them, the fog lightly rolling back in as the pursuing blood-thirsty squabble skipped along behind them, slowly closing the gap.

  Malagar made his way up beside Lanereth just as a fog cloud drifted through, slowing them slightly, the path ahead becoming more obscure, their breathing becoming labored as the air peppered their lungs with harmful fumes.

  Greyoldors bounded through the mist in hot pursuit of their prey, catching up quickly as Malagar snatched Lanereth’s hand, turning her around to defend themselves against the horde before being overrun.

  “Your amulet,” Malagar called out, transitioning into a defensive stance, watching as a dozen or so little figures in the mist skittered about in a tight perimeter around them.

  Malagar calmed his breath, exhaling slowly, raising his hands in a defensive stance as he kept eyes forward, watching and listening for the figures that irritably jumped all about them, threatening to lunge in at any moment.

  Claws reached for Lanereth at her side, and she stepped back just as Malagar smashed the backside of his gauntleted hand into the little corrupted praven’s skull, tumbling it back into the obscuring fog.

  The violent assault set the rest of the greyoldors into a frenzy, all in the surrounding cloud skipping in at the two as Lanereth took her necklace off, holding it in her hand, snatching a lunging greyoldor by the wrist and slapping the talisman to its chest as it wriggled and writhed, screeching horribly as smoke issued from the metal’s touch.

  A quick snap of Malagar’s foot kept the creature to his right at bay, but as three greyoldors to his left bounded in on him, he had to step back, giving up ground that left Lanereth vulnerable, which the little devils quickly took note of, two of the assaulters leaping for her now instead of Malagar.

  Lanereth was tackled by two small bodies, toppling her over on the hard, ashen stone, the two greyoldors clawing at her ferociously, quickly leaving gashes along her arms just as Malagar slammed his foot into the side of one’s head, dropping it unconscious as he snatched up the other one and tossed it into the fog.

  No sooner had he gotten them off Lanereth than three more leapt onto his side and shoulders, causing him to stumble and fall, balling up his defenses around his neck and face as the little claws and teeth began to rip into his arms above his gauntlets, splattering blood everywhere along the white rock beneath him.

  A blur of fur and illusions slammed into the three figures atop Malagar, knocking them momentarily senseless, giving Malagar a moment to collect himself after the onslaught that had quickly left him badly battered.

  Looking over his shoulder, he saw Wyld. The touch of the Seam had expanded, almost covering half of her body now, flickering it in and out of existence, the other corporal part of her badly scarred and burned from the caustic environment they had been subject to.

  She was feral, heaving; a wild thing that looked upon the small greyoldor as prey. She gave them no time to recover.

  She grabbed the nearest one by the neck and bit into its throat, ripping the life from it as it dropped, pouncing on top of the other two, slashing with her much larger claws into the chest of the little creatures, leaving deep gouges that began to show bone white, their ribs being exposed within moments of the assault.

  Lanereth and Malagar stood up, eyeing the wild kaith as she turned, bounding back past the two, slapping another approaching greyoldor so hard across the face, that the two could clearly hear its neck snapping as it then proceeded to slide across the ashen floor.

  “Wyld!” Malagar called, extremely happy to see his old friend, but as a dozen more childlike figures hopped through the fog towards them, he grabbed her bloody wrist, hesitating for a moment as she snapped her deadly gaze upon him.

  She considered the man for a moment, and Malagar was instantly uneasy as she scanned him, deciding if he were friend or foe as the shadows in the mist came closer and closer.

  Her eyes narrowed slightly, and Malagar knew her well enough to see some reason had come back to her just then in the midst of her bloodlust.

  “We need to get to the bridge,” he called out, starting the charge in the direction he hoped the land bridge was in, Lanereth running to keep up, and Wyld turning from the horde of greyoldors closing in on them just as they started to clearly come into view through the fog.

  Just as Lanereth began to tire from the full-on sprint, Malagar stiffly held an arm to her chest, stopping her just before bounding blindly off the cliff’s edge into a bottomless depth.

  Quickly looking around in the fog, he pointed to her right, and she could see not but a hundred feet or so along the ledge jutted out a bridge of rock that continued on towards the amber light of the angry sun they had yet to see clearly through all the clouds and haze.

  Calling back to Wyld to watch out for the ledge, Lanereth led the three towards the entrance of the land bridge, the greyoldors still chasing behind, slowly catching up to the group, and this time, in greater numbers, dozens joining the chase by that point.

  Lanereth stumbled out onto the ledged bridge that jutted out over a drop that was thousands of feet down, the clouds clearing up the further along the bridge they ran.

  Malagar caught Lanereth just before she stumbled dangerously close to the bridge’s edge, guiding her to crouch further back, Wyld catching up now to the two, taking a rest to reassess how close the greyoldors were to catching up to them.

  Along the line of fog at the base of the bridge stood dozens of greyoldors, standing in silence, watching the group from the shroud of mist that lined the ledge of the plateau.

  Blood dripped from all three, staining the ash-white stone, Malagar helping Lanereth up as they scanned the scene before them.

  The fog rolled down a sharp cliffside into a valley that stretched out into the distant haze of blood-red mist, miles and miles of endless tangles of large, red thickets, gently pulsating as though the network of vines wasn’t just a bramble, but something more…alive.

  Above it all was a slit in the sky, and both Malagar and Lanereth only blinked in confusion at the surreal sight, the rend in space boggling them at first.

  Shadows, images of entities stood on the other side, looming hundreds of feet tall, giants among another plane of existence far off in the tear in space.

  They could not turn away, and they watched as the gods in the rift shuffled wispily through the red nebulous world beyond the one they inhabited.

  A slumped figure, shrouded in bending light and shadow, stood still, the other titans flickering about it. They could not see its features, but Malagar and Lanereth could feel its attention, and they trembled as they watched, naked before its vision, their presence beholden to the god in the sky that looked down upon thei
r diminutive lives.

  A flash across the plateau on the other side of the land bridge snapped the two from their shock. What appeared as daylight split the tinge of perpetual atmospheric haze, shining like a beacon miles in the distance.

  “Move,” Wyld ordered, the two gazing at the light several moments before snapping out of their daze, wiping tears from their eyes. If they had been weeping from the horrible vision of the god above them, or just having a reaction to the acidic air, they couldn’t tell, but they obeyed the kaith’s order, and they both got to their feet and managed to stumble along as Wyld jogged ahead, leading the two as her Seam scars split and fractured, then reknitted themselves over and over again.

  Looking back the way they had come, Malagar no longer saw shapes in the fog bank, all greyoldors having dispersed, leaving him to wonder if the whole encounter with the little terrors had been nothing but a feverish dream, the slashes along his upper arms dismissing that possibility as soon as it had entered his head.

  They doggedly ran along the mile-long bridge, and as they made their way towards the other side of it, flecks of ash began to flutter across their path, a gentle breeze of soot falling down upon them as they stepped out of a land of acidic rain and into a blizzard of ash.

  20

  The Dead Host

  Thousands marched tirelessly forward, guided by a giant shrouded figure, lumbering south down along the land bridge that spanned several miles wide from each side of the ravines that bordered it.

  Four figures stood directly in line with the massive host, waiting for the army to come to them, led by the shrouded giant, antlers slightly smoking in the sunlight as it loped towards its master.

  It came to a halt, kneeling before Sha’oul as he stood, scarred, armor broken, with his head raw and fleshy. Even though he seemed beaten down, he stood tall, his presence still commanding fear and respect from those that followed him.

  “Lunt,” Sha’oul called, looking over the large mess of rags that kneeled before him. “You have done well to carry out my orders.”

  The vast army of the dead stood, motionless as the desert winds played with the pestilence-ridden body of troops.

  Lunt let out a stag’s grunt in recognition.

  “We have new orders from Telenth.”

  At the mention of the one they all served, and feared, the wendigo looked up, meeting eyes with his temporary master, the one that he was tethered to in this new realm.

  “We make for the ruins of an old ritual site to the west of here. There we await word from the Ashen One.”

  The creature bowed its head in obedience, accepting the command before Sha’oul turned and began to lead the army forward on its endless march through the scorching desert.

  “What of this man that follows at your heels?” Denloth asked as the day grew long, night slowly coming as they continued their march. He had been wary of how he looked upon them ever since first meeting him.

  “He is my dog,” the large man huffed, not terribly interested in the matter as he had grown tired after the long day’s hike, still attempting to recover from the wounds he had suffered at the hands of his enemies the day prior.

  “He looks at you with wicked eyes. I am surprised you trust him so readily,” Denloth mentioned, eyeing the man that walked close behind them.

  Sha’oul gave a humored chortle, looking back for a moment to consider the nomad.

  “I know who’s control he is under, and there is little hope of him breaking free from that leash.”

  The two walked a bit further before Denloth repeated, “Those eyes…,” still uneasy with his master’s unconcerned demeanor to the man.

  Nomad’s bloody eyes shot to Denloth now, watching him like a hawk, unblinking, his eyes dried from the desert winds.

  “What…do you plan to do with him?” Denloth asked, doubly concerned as the man’s dead eyes locked onto him, refusing to leave him.

  Sha’oul looked to the man once more, giving Denloth’s question honest consideration before answering, “He once destroyed nearly a hundred arisen before my warlock came to stop him.”

  He allowed that fact to sink in before continuing. “In combat, he was mighty in life. In death, I suspect he will be a vital part of the war that is about to take place. I feel a struggle within him. He is only newly turned, but our lord’s influence embeds itself in his mind deeper and deeper by the day. He will become a husk, a puppet of our lord. A vehicle to carry out our lord’s designs here in Una, until he is no longer needed.”

  “A swordsman is weak. Constrained to the weaknesses of the flesh and primitive tools of war,” Denloth argued, discounting the faith Sha’oul seemed to place in a warrior’s might.

  “Surely manipulation of the hexweave is a superior asset to utilize.”

  “It was a brute that cut in half my former warlock—” he contended, silencing Denloth. “—Simple muscle, raw and focused. Do not underestimate the strength of sinew, or the skill of a master of the blade.”

  Denloth looked to the man once more, shaking his head of the subject, seeing he was not helping his master to see his reasonings.

  His feet ached, and long had been the last two days, and though he seemed in better condition to continue the march than his master, he begged the question, “How far are these ruins?”

  “A day, maybe two,” Sha’oul answered shortly.

  “And when will we take rest?” Denloth pressed, hoping to have time to recover his flagging step.

  “The dead do not need rest. We march until we arrive. Then the real work begins,” he answered.

  Denloth’s head slunk at the news, knowing that the dreary march had only just begun its torturous play with the man, the cool night air doing little to ease the throb of how many miles still lay between them and any sort of respite.

  21

  Under the Moon’s Gaze

  The light of Kale, the green moon, shown down through the canyon’s lip as Yozo and Jezebel dragged Fin, Alva, and Revna out on the steps to the temple.

  Breathing in the fresh air, glad to be out of the old temple’s oppressive darkness, Yozo looked over Fin while Jezebel began to perform a healing on Revna, rousing her from unconsciousness.

  Jezebel fell back, collapsing after expending all the energy she had to share with her priestess, lying on her back, breathing shallow breaths, the stars in the sky swirling in her vision as she struggled to stay awake.

  “Jez!” Revna called as she came to find Jezebel collapsed by her side.

  She repositioned her, holding her head on her lap, the saren’s silver hair spread wildly across her robes. There was blood coming from her neckline, though it was too dark for Revna to get a good look at the wound to tell how serious it was.

  She brought out an amulet and began chanting prayers to Sareth for aid.

  Yozo looked to Revna as a faint light began to form around the amulet, a neat glow reaching out to touch Jezebel’s forehead, forcing a gasp of air from the dying saren.

  Eyes fluttering, she sat up, feeling her neck where the slash had been. Finding the cut healed, she looked to Revna and embraced her briefly, looking to Alva who was resting beside them, though much worse for wear then any of them, blood staining the tabard along her midsection.

  “Alva,” the priestess called, placing a hand along her face. The saren’s skin had grown worryingly cold.

  She began her prayer once more, the amulet glowing fainter this time, but still noticeable. A light rested upon the wounded saren knight, and she too breathed in the breath of life, sitting up immediately, looking frantically about her as she took in her new surroundings.

  Jezebel patted her on the back, smiling that their goddess had deemed to answer their prayers with two healings.

  “Saren,” Yozo called, kneeling beside Fin who had not roused once since Yozo had picked him up back in the temple, his arm grotesquely positioned, indicating a clean break.

  Revna needed no further prompting, and she came over at once, inspecting the man
who had quite possibly saved what remained of the diminished band.

  “I can’t tell if he draws breath,” she whispered, worried at how cold his skin was.

  She began whispering a prayer, holding her amulet close to the man’s chest. All waited for the cold silver medallion to glow.

  The prayer continued a time longer before Revna put the amulet down, reaching out a hand, placing it on Fin’s chest.

  She flinched and released from him, glancing back to the other two sarens with a look of concern.

  “He is slipping, and Sareth has already provided what aid she can this night,” she said, turning to Yozo, adding, “and none of us are in a state to perform a healing of this caliber without risk to our own lives.”

  “This man must not die,” Yozo said, a crack of concern entering his voice for the first time that night.

  “You are sarens! I’ve heard—seen—the legends of healing your people possess. Surely you can do something for him!”

  “I will die for him,” Alva said, getting up to stand on shaky footing.

  “You’re awful at healings,” Jezebel chided, standing beside her to help steady her.

  “If anyone should perform a healing, it’s me,” she added, smiling as she helped her battle sister over to the rest of the group circling Fin’s body.

  “No. It’s my duty as a priestess. This is my jurisdiction. The burden falls upon me,” Revna said, silencing the two.

  “Come, support me,” she ordered, the two kneeling down next to her, wrapping an arm around her as she rested before her engagement with Fin.

  “If I am to slip into our mother’s arms this night, I want to be delivered to her in the hands of my sisters,” she reverently said, Jezebel and Alva squeezing her in love and support as she prepared herself for the task.

  Yozo gave her space, watching as she steadied her breathing, resting a hand once more on Fin’s still chest and began to open herself up to the death aura that hung over him like a grave shroud.