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

by Paul Yoder

He had been leaving, even as she reached out for him, his organs having been smashed so badly by the violent blasts and impacts that they were slowly shutting down, returning to lifeless matter within him.

  She latched on to his spirit, urged its return, and began to draw life from her essence and filled what voids she could within his physical self, working on knitting together vital functions to a sustainable place.

  The healing sapped her quickly, and the two saren knights at her side had to hold her as she withered under the constraints. They could see she would die soon.

  Without communicating on the matter, both began to perform a healing on the priestess, all lending their life force, siphoning it through each other to give aid to Revna.

  Revna returned, sitting up as she received the burst of energy from her sisters, finishing the healing on Fin, mending his broken arm just as she released her hand from him, falling back into the arms of Jezebel and Alva who caught her.

  Fin sat up, coughing violently as breath came to him. His eyes were wide, looking to Yozo, who looked as if he watched a ghost, then looking to the three saren who kneeled next to him.

  “I was dead, wasn’t I?” he asked, looking around at everyone watching him, smiling.

  “I caught you, just as you were leaving,” Revna tiredly said, smiling warmly that their efforts had paid off, and that she was still there to enjoy the moment.

  Fin smiled back, wanting to embrace everyone, thankful to be alive, but having to lay back down, extremely spent from the traumatic night.

  “I’m glad to see you all,” he said, accepting the pillow of cloth Yozo placed under his head as he caught his breath.

  “Where are the rest?” he asked, attempting to get back up to look around for the others.

  Their smiles faded, and Fin knew the answer as the weight of the defeat began to sink in.

  “We were not meant to fight him,” Fin whispered, eyes now skyward, gazing at Kale’s green light.

  The momentary silence was broken by Revna who said, “No, I think we were—though we may not fully understand the reasoning of this night now. Sareth would not have ordered this assault without a purpose.”

  The mood lifted somewhat until Yozo broke the quiet of the night.

  “That purpose will not bring back your sisters. The cost was great, regardless.”

  “This is true,” Alva agreed, though not as defeated as Yozo in her resolution, adding, “and we will mourn their brave ends. But this night, let us be thankful that there are a few of us left alive to carry on the fight.”

  The group rested a moment in the desert night’s light breeze, collecting their thoughts, recovering from the traumas of the day.

  Yozo stood up and disappeared back into the shadows of the temple without a word.

  22

  The Paths Ahead

  Their rest had been fitful, reflecting over the allies that still lived, each looking to each other in the light of the moon, sharing in each other’s sorrow, having born witness to so many of their comrades ended in the most violent of ways. When they were able to nap for an hour or two, they often jolted awake from the aches and flashes of memories of the previous day.

  It had been a day they would not soon forget, and they knew they would have a great deal of trauma to sort through, even years down the road from the event.

  Yozo had come back from the shadows of the temple an hour after he had left. Everyone assumed he had checked for survivors, seeing how he was the only member of the group without injury and able to make the trek back into the darkness. He had returned only with a staff and a strange dagger enshrouded in illusion that Yozo was handling carefully, clearly aware that what he held was no typical knife.

  He said not a word as he handed Revna the staff that she had dropped deep in the temple when she had gone unconscious, the saren graciously accepting the sleek white pole.

  With the rising of the pink sun, the group began to slowly stretch out, gathering their things, the sarens coming together for their morning prayers.

  Yozo had handed over the obscure dagger carefully, saying nothing about the rare weapon, but his eyes lingered on it as it disappeared from view as Fin tucked it in a fold of his outfit.

  Fin thanked the man for retrieving it, speaking quietly to Yozo, asking of details of what had happened after the explosion that had knocked him cold. Yozo described shortly the events that followed after Fin had gone unconscious and how both Denloth and Sha’oul had made an escape after that point.

  Revna finished her prayer, dropping Alva and Jezebel’s hands and gathered with the two men to discuss what was next to come.

  “Few would have been as brave as you two standing against an Avatar of Telenth. Sareth recognizes your valor.”

  Fin nodded his head slightly, moving past the pleasantries, but Yozo’s eyebrows furrowed at the remark.

  “If that were true, she would have healed Fin last night instead of forcing you to do it,” he said, an edge on his voice that clearly had been building the night through.

  “Was she even in there with us while we were getting slaughtered?” he pressed, wanting to say more, but figuring that his point was made seeing how taken aback the priestess was by the remark.

  “Even Sareth cannot simply irradicate any and all evils that ever walk Una. Her power, like all the gods, is connected to the faith of her followers. We can do but what we can do.

  “Yes, we failed last night. We lost many loved ones at the hands of a wretch, but we only truly fail if we cease to make the attempt. His vile presence in this realm will not stand, and Sareth will continue to bless our mission.

  “I have seen his defeat in vision. Sha’oul’s days on Una are numbered.”

  Revna’s speech rallied the other’s hopes for a moment before Yozo mumbled out, “And so are ours. So are everyone’s.”

  “Do you mean to give up the hunt?” Fin asked plainly, stopping Yozo’s brooding in his tracks, the question forcing Yozo to look away down the canyon for a moment, considering the simple question.

  “Malagar had vowed to kill Denloth, or die trying, as we all vowed. Most are dead. We are not. Nothing about that vow has changed for me. I’m seeing this to the end. Denloth, and his master, they need to be stopped, Yozo. There’s going to be losses, but it’s like Revna said, if we stop now, then yeah, why did we even try in the first place?”

  Fin’s words were uncontested and Yozo remained silent, but Fin wasn’t having his friend’s ambiguous loyalties this time. He needed a solid answer from the man on if he was committed to the cause.

  “Do you respect Malagar’s vow, or are you turning your back on them? Choose now. Remain by our side in this fight, or walk out of this canyon alone. Whatever choice you make, make it with conviction—and I don’t want to see that conviction waver from here on out if you remain with us.”

  Yozo snapped back to Fin, staring him in the eyes, inches from his face, frustrated with the man he had mixed feelings towards, frustrated with the goddess that seemed to allow her children to be brutally slain, and frustrated at himself for not having the unwavering credo that everyone around him seemed to easily hold.

  “The only companions I have known these last few years were just murdered before my eyes. What do I have left to fight for? Nomad is out of my reach, those I was coming to know are dead; I step, and tragedy befalls me everywhere I roam—”

  “I’m still alive, Yozo,” Fin said, cutting into his rant. “Revna, Alva, Jezebel, they’re all still alive. We’re united to a just cause that’ll bind us far beyond these short days of war. You’ve saved my life. In battle, you are the most reliable person I know. It’s outside of the fight that you struggle. You must decide if you are committed to this fight, but I fear that if you leave now, untethered from a purpose again, you’ll wander land after land, searching for something that you could have had, right here, right now. A cause to give your present focus, to make right your past, and a future with friends that care for you enough to fight, and die,
alongside you in battle.”

  Yozo stepped back, closing his eyes, aswirl with emotions and responses that he worked at calming. The man with all the daggers and the old brawler had always had a way of disarming his fury.

  “How could we possibly hope to strike Sha’oul again now that our surprise is blown and with only five of us?” Yozo sighed out.

  “Well, that’s what we need to discuss. I have some ideas, though we’d be splitting up,” Fin said in an easier tone, seeing that Yozo had softened, coming back to the group for the time being.

  “Go ahead,” Revna prompted, curious as to what Fin had in mind.

  Fin nodded, launching into the plan he had been mulling over since he had woken up. “It’s clear now no strike force is going to have a reasonable shot at Sha’oul or Denloth, especially now that an assassination has already been attempted. They’ll likely be tighter with their guard.

  “It’s been too long since I’ve checked in with Sultan Metus in the Plainstate. He’s sure to help if I can get him the information of the arisen army’s size and location. On horseback I can be at the borders within a day, to the capital, two, at the latest, three. If I return with an army, we may have a chance at facing the arisen threat head on.”

  “What of us then?” Alva asked.

  Fin nodded, continuing with his plan. “There is a fort west of here. The Tarigannie people are skeptical of foreigners, but perhaps you can bring news of the arisen army on the move in the area. They’re stubborn, but they’re not lazy. They will send scouts if a report of a nearby threat is announced. Once they validate the information, they can send word to Rochata-Ung of the invasion force and with the aid of both the Plainstate and Tarigannie, we may have a chance at meeting Sha’oul directly on the battlefield.”

  “Let’s hope our horses are still tethered to the shrubs back at camp,” Jezebel said, everyone looking to Revna who stroked her soft chin in thought of Fin’s scheme.

  “Yozo,” she said, grabbing the man’s attention, “what did you see when you returned to the temple’s interior? I must know for certain.”

  Yozo’s expression was grim, shaking his head as he said, “This is indeed their final resting place. None survived within.”

  “At a later date, the monastery will pilgrimage here and properly put their remains to rest. Until then,” Revna said, gripping her white staff, holding it up as it began to glow faintly, “Sareth, protect these grounds from any whom seek to defile it. Keep it shrouded from all passersby until thy children may reclaim the remains of their sisters.”

  The staff glowed bright, and then blinked out, and they all could feel a quiet fall upon the temple steps.

  “I accept your plan, Fin, and we will raise the alert in Tarigannie. I hope to meet you again on the battlefield once we have gathered our armies to the cause,” she said hopefully, the other two knights standing stoically at her side, a show of resolution.

  “And what of me?” Yozo asked, stepping up, Fin looking to the man with a smirk.

  “Though I wouldn’t mind the company on the road, I think it would be best if you traveled with Revna. Tarigannie can be an unforgiving country. If Fort Wellspring does not welcome you with open arms, I’d rather you be with them in case something were to happen. Is that agreeable?” he asked, looking to the two groups.

  “That is acceptable,” Revna agreed, “but watch your tongue when speaking of Sareth as you were. I can only overlook blasphemy for so long and not have a bad taste in my mouth about you. She is our light, and even if you do not follow her personally, please have the decency to respect those who do.”

  Yozo looked rather abashed at the reprimand, bowing slightly, apologizing for the offense he had caused.

  Fin slung an arm around both Yozo and Revna, breaking the awkward tension between the two, looking up the cliff they had come down from.

  “We’d better get to work on getting up that canyon wall. We’ve got a long day of riding ahead of us.”

  23

  Totems and Spires

  The ash fell thicker, slowing their pace as they trudged in the direction of the rays of light they had glimpsed earlier from the bridge. They didn’t know if they were headed to salvation, or to their doom, but both Malagar and Lanereth had felt something of hope in the light all those miles ahead of them.

  “The ash had coated their ripped-up arms, and for the most part, the bleeding had stopped. Lanereth had no energy to heal them of their lacerations. The sting of agitated flesh was a constant reminder to them that all this was no nightmare that they’d soon wake up from. They were living in an actual hell; a place neither of them ever dreamed of visiting.

  Lanereth hacked up blood-specked phlegm, bending over to cough through a raw-throated episode. Malagar soothed her back as he looked around the ash cloud they were in, hoping no creatures lurked just out of sight.

  Wyld had followed them. She drifted out of sight from time to time, but generally was around. Malagar worried over his long-time companion. He had known her for years, and the Seam scar she wore, that continued to grow, seemed to be untethering her sanity, bit by bit. He did not know for how long they would be able to rely on her.

  The kaith was fixed on something ahead, and as Malagar helped Lanereth up from her knees, the two of them walked forward, curious as to what Wyld had such interest in.

  A massive figure stood motionless before them as they made their way closer to Wyld, and they hesitated at first, ready to bolt, but Wyld was not on alert, and Malagar trusted her instincts more than anyone.

  Twenty-foot tall before them loomed a spike jutting out of the ground, adorned in bone, covered in ash, dried blood lining the cracks between corpses, many which Malagar could identify as greyoldor, the other corpses being foreign to him.

  “An effigy?” Malagar asked in a worried tone, the sight of mangled limbs so horribly tacked to the structure caused him to hope that whatever had made the scarecrow, wasn’t close by.

  “Perhaps this is why those greyoldors didn’t follow past the bridge,” Lanereth hoarsely whispered, her skin taking on an unhealthy yellowish tone.

  Moving past the towering structure, fresh ashfall padding their footsteps, more communal crucifixes came into view, each seeming to hold a certain number of fresh bodies along its spire.

  “Sareth help us,” Lanereth gloomily uttered as the haggard group of half-clothed, badly injured outlanders made their way through the fields of corpse trees.

  A shrill screech high above split the hush of the ash fall, large wings flapping slowly over them in the clouds as the unseen winged beast flew past them to some destination ahead.

  Crouched by a crucifix, the three huddled, waiting for the winged predator to pass by before Malagar broke the silence once more.

  “Its wingspan—sounded massive,” he said, trembling as he considered if it had been wisdom to enter this new land that the greyoldors had refused to follow them into.

  “There are horrors here I hope we do not have the displeasure to discover,” Lanereth whispered, trembling as she wrapped her arms around her cold body.

  Wyld began to prowl once more, and Malagar gently tugged on Lanereth to keep moving, worrying for her, seeing that she was looking worse as time wore on.

  He reached in her vest, taking what scant rations he had stored away in his jerkin, and gave them to her, indicating for her to eat.

  She looked at him hesitantly at first, but he kept his eyes on Wyld. He knew she was the one that needed the energy. Though his stomach was shrunken from hunger, their time in the distant realm at that point running long now, he was no stranger to fasting. He knew how long he could go without food and how to handle functioning without sustenance; and, by the looks of it, especially after her first healing, Lanereth had become much more exhausted over the course of their damnation.

  She ate the mix of dried crackers, berries, nuts, cheese, and meats, savoring every salted morsel as they made their way through the ashen fields, Wyld keeping them at a slow but s
teady pace through the endless grey that surrounded them on all sides.

  Though it had been hours since passing the morbid effigy towers, the group had kept diligent about their march. They had not heard or seen any further signs of life, but the ash fall had begun to lessen slightly, and in the distance, they could see more silhouettes of structures up ahead, though these structures loomed much greater than the totems they had passed earlier. These seemed like actual buildings, hundreds of feet high, stretching well up into the thick clouds above.

  “The Fallen Towers,” Wyld said, breaking her usual silence.

  Malagar and Lanereth looked to the kaith, many questions coming to mind, the ominous structure before them bespeaking of countless horrible fates sealed away in its otherworldly cinder and bone walls.

  “The Fallen Towers? You speak like you know this place, Wyld,” Malagar probed, not sure how in the hells she would know of the structures they had come up upon.

  “Kaiths have not forgotten, though man might have. Man is very forgetful, but kaiths…we remember all the way back to the end of the New Dawn, when man brought many others here for the first time, and the last time, to try to conquer the God of Ash.”

  “The New Dawn?” Lanereth whispered, considering Wyld’s words now more seriously. “That was part of the First Age, tens of thousands of years ago. There’s not much written of that time in the record.”

  “As I said, man forgets easily, even with his books. Kaith remembers through memory and the spoken word. A history we keep close to us in our blood, and here, my people suffered, as did man and all those who crusaded in this hell, though remnants of that war seem to still linger as you saw with the structures above the greyoldor nests.”

  “Then what are these fallen towers, Wyld? What’s in them?” Malagar pressed, both him and Lanereth looking to the structures that loomed silent and lifeless ahead of them.

  Wyld stared blankly, reflecting on the stories of the past that had been passed down to her from endless generations before her. She spoke from a mental distance that Malagar knew not whether it came from a deep pit of reflection, or from a disconnect from the Seam that invaded her mind.