Shadows of Time: Shadow Maiden (4 page)

“So we can eat him, yes?” Maggot poked his
out from behind Fanger, rubbing his eager hands together.

The Chief tugged at the braids of his bearded
snout with the tips of his fingers, contemplating the
suggestion.

“He would be of better use locked up with the
rest of his kind instead of rotting in our bellies. Chain him up
with the others. Don’t forget to take any weapons he may have. I’ll
have both your heads if the slaves start another rebellion. And
Maggot—” the creature turned his gaze toward Fanger’s whimpering
companion, “no
tasting
, either! I want him in one
piece.”

Fanger and Maggot rifled through his
clothing, taking anything of interest or that looked somewhat
dangerous. The flesh-hungry Maggot slid his knife from the sheath
and eyed it with a greedy smile before tucking it away into his own
belt. He did nothing but lay there until they dragged him to his
feet and herded him to another nearby campsite.

They finally shoved him along to a large
wooden structure with enormous metal spiked wheels. Chains and
gears glimmered in the torch light. A great gleaming stove stood in
the center, cold and uncaring as if it was carved of stone. He
marveled for a moment at the size and craftsmanship, wondering what
hands could have built such a thing.

The feel of cold metal against his skin came
as a shock, sending shivers down his spine. The creatures locked
manacles on both wrists, taking time to spit their disgust at him
before departing back to their nighttime duties.

He took a moment to observe his new
surroundings. He could see now that the structure was more intact
than he imagined. Inside were an assortment of ropes and pulleys
crisscrossed the ceiling like the web of a giant spider. Below,
still bodies lying in bundled heaps were scattered across the
machine’s floor, all silent and uncaring since his arrival. All of
them, however, except for one. He could feel its eyes studying him.
Its breath stopped short when he suddenly turned his body toward
the attentive silhouette.

“H-hello.” She sat up, flustered and sounding
embarrassed, rustling the scratchy hay beneath her with jerky
movements.

“Hello.”
Oh Gods, a female.
That’s
the last thing I need.

“My name’s Amaeya.” Straw clung to her dark
hair as she brushed loose strands from her face with a shaky
hand.

“Charmed.” He leered at her as he gathered a
clump of brittle hay for his pillow and lay in the corner. He
flopped over onto his side with a grunt, turning his back toward
her and trying to ignore the sharp smell of piss and sweat that
tore at his throat.

“Wait, please don’t. It’s been so long since
anyone’s talked to me. The others will have nothing to do with me.”
Desperation crept into her voice, clinging to it like walking
through mist.

“Can’t imagine why,” he said, “You seem peppy
enough for all of us.”

“At least tell me your name.” Her voice was
raspy. He wondered how long it had been since she had tasted water
or even eaten.

He hesitated, not knowing whether to bite
back a bitter response or surrender to her pleading. The turn of
the day’s events left him hollow and spent, yet a soft kind voice
in a strange land can ignite even the smallest flickers of
hope.

“It’s Merrick.”

She was silent for a moment. He imagined her
smiling at her small victory over him.

“Goodnight Merrick. And… Merrick?”

“Yes?” His voice was barely a whisper to keep
the pain at bay.

“Thank you.”

He shut his eyes tight, swallowing the guilt,
trying not to catch it in his throat.

“Any time.”

Lestel watched in horror as his body leapt
through the air from rooftops to spires and back again. Luthen
snickered and cackled with glee, showing off his power over him
like a wicked child pulling at the puppet strings. He finally
stopped high on the very top of the tallest tower and directed
Lestel’s attention toward a distant amber glow.

Do you know what lies over there, my dear
Lestel? No, of course you don’t. You know nothing of the world
outside these walls. That, my darling little friend, appears to be
a Phookan war party, a group of the deadliest warriors you could
ever hope to meet. They don’t kill because of necessity, like most
of these pathetic races. Oh no, they kill because they love it.
They lust after the spilling of blood. Now those are my kind of
people. We should introduce ourselves.

Lestel’s body leapt from the tower, his arms
stretched wide as his heart burst from his chest. However, instead
on falling straight down as he expected, he zoomed throw the clouds
as if he was carried on an unseen wind. Suddenly his world went
dark, his consciousness pushed aside, like a candle blown out by a
hiss of wind.

***

Merrick squeezed his eyes shut, trying to
recreate the vividness of his vision. He could still see her face
and how her deep green eyes begged for help. He had to find her,
but first he had to escape.

He could hear Amaeya’s shallow breathing
behind him, along with the occasional grunt or soft clinking from
one of the huddled bodies. Mere hours had passed since he had
landed in this strange land and he was already longing for home.
Strong, icy metal clung to his wrist, making the skin clammy and
raw. He peeled off his worn gloves and to feel each link for any
signs of weakness. Rust scratched against his fingertip but he
could find no gaps in the metal. His fingers dashed further down
the chain, searching for its source.

“‘Ey you! What the hell do you—”

Merrick stiffened like a corpse. The wall
above his head exploded into millions of rotting splinters, shaking
the machine with a thunderous crack. Warm liquid dribbled down
below, spattering on his rigid body. The hollow glint of yellow
eyes hung overhead.

He could hear the pounding of heavy boots
against the soft soil and the slither of many blades being pulled
from their sheaths, ready to strike. Now was the time to move.

His fingers danced along the wet, sticky
chain, coming to an unexpected end. It had been blasted loose. He
slipped the manacles off with extreme care, his strained gaze
shooting around the interior of the machine like sparks. He
stripped the mangled Phooka of its weapon without hesitation. It
may not be his trusted bone knife, but it was sharp and would give
him a fighting chance. He slid the curved blade into his thick,
leather belt, its exposed metal hungry for blood. Amaeya’s round
pale face shone up at him through the darkness. Though he had never
seen her, he knew it was her. She said nothing, but her eyes begged
for freedom.

Merrick crawled over to her, careful to avoid
rattling the chain. He could feel the festering wounds around her
wrist as he fed the manacles through. Her skin was soft and cool,
reminding him of flying with the clouds brushing past his face. She
pulled away, shaking her head. He didn’t understand. Had living in
such a place driven her mad?

“Please,” her voice was a rough whisper
cracked with sobs. “Just go—He’ll hunt me down. He always finds me.
Please! Go!”

His breath stopped short in hesitation. She
was his only ally in this strange place. He knew nothing about the
layout of the land, or even if there were any other dangers besides
the creatures outside the splintering machine’s walls. His strong,
rough hands reached up to touch the tears on her face.

“You’re coming with me,” Merrick said, eyes
flashing madly, “I’m going to take you far away from these
monsters. But you have to help me.”

She shook her head faster, struggling to pull
away from him. His hands gripped around her wrists. He pulled her
close, silencing her sobs against his chest. The manacles slipped
off their chain, falling onto the soiled hay below.

Merrick looked around at the surrounding
prisoners. None had so much as moved. They lay like corpses,
enslaved not only in body but in spirit. He pitied them, but not
enough to change their accepted fate.

The torchlight coming from outside hushed to
a dull blue. Screams twisted their way through the darkness, making
Amaeya clutch at him, her sobs suddenly silenced.

Time to go.

He rushed toward the door with Amaeya’s hand
clasped in his, the sounds of chaos swirling around them like
vultures. They ran past whimpering and gasping shadows, past thorny
claws tearing at their heels. Upon reaching the edge of the camp
where the clearing melded back into forest, a soft, raspy laugh
floated after them, taunting their frantic escape.

***

Chief Al’Rul ripped open the tent’s flap,
gripping a gleaming mace tight in his clawed hand. The howling had
jarred him from a deep sleep. He was prepared to have the
disturbance repaid fully in blood.

“Fanger! Maggot! What in the hell is going
on!” Raging breath poured from his curling lips as the Chief jabbed
his wicked mace into the air.

The fire had died down to sickening blue
embers. Something was wrong, something was very wrong. He could
taste the bitter, metallic taste of old magic teasing him in the
air.

“Chief?” The Phookan soldiers were cowering
behind the tent, wide-eyed and panting.

“You cowards, I’ll have your heads stuffed
for this!” He spat his disgust, raising the menacing weapon high
above his head.

“We… my, my Lord, we were outnumbered!
Clearly outnumbered! PLEASE DON’T KILL ME!” Maggot squirmed on his
belly like a worm before a hungry bird.

“Quiet, you wretch! The only reason I haven’t
killed you is because you’re my damn sister’s son. A blood quarrel
with the likes of her is the last thing I need! However,” he
reached down and grabbed him by horns, yanking him upright, “that
won’t stop me from telling her you died in battle, like a good
soldier should!”

“My Lord, he’s telling the truth, he is.”
Fanger bowed before the enraged Phooka, his hands open and exposed
in the ultimate sign of weakness. “We were rendered powerless by
dark magic. Whatever it is, it’s waiting for your arrival. It says
it has a message for you.”

Chief Al’Rul snorted his disapproval, however
his grip loosened on his nephew’s horns, dropping him back on the
ground. Maggot lolled on the ground, euphoric that he would be
alive to enjoy his next meal. The Chief rolled his eyes at the
sight and pointed his mace at Fanger, using it to raise his chin to
look him in the eyes.

“Show me where this bastard is,” his eyes
burned into the lesser Phooka’s skull, “so I can show you how a
true warrior acts.”

***

“Your master seems to be taking his time.
This simply will not do.” Luthen picked at Lestel’s teeth, both
bored with the current lack of destruction and disgusted that an
elf would leave bits of food trapped in his mouth like a common
dwarve.

The Phooka before him was twisted and
disjointed, suspended in midair like a dandelion seed on a lazy
summer breeze. Luthen had perched his new body on the lowest branch
of a nearby tree. With a flick of the wrist, the Phooka was
convulsing and thrashing about, gurgling howls of pain. The fleshy
pops and cracks of tendons and ligaments ripping from their place
were music to his ears.

You hear that, Lestel? That’s the sound of a
good time.

The rest of the war party were scattered
about, trembling behind bushes and quivering in the shadows. Luthen
stroked his chin, deliberating which one should go next. The
crashing of heavy boots broke him from his amusement.

A tall, broad-shouldered Phooka burst through
the underbrush brandishing a jagged black mace. “DEMON! I am Chief
Al’Rul, greatest warrior of the Phooka. I am here for your
head!”

“So glad that you could join me,” Luthen
said, fluttering down from his branch, arms outstretched, with a
smile too big and eyes too empty to be alive.

The Chief huffed great clouds of steam from
his flaring nostrils. His amber eyes blazed in the darkness. He
twirled his gigantic mace as if it weighed nothing, his blackened
biceps shining with beads of sweat mingling in glossy dark fur.
Matted hair hung in clumps over his jet black face, his large
goat-like ears twitching in the tingling anticipation before a
fight. He lowered his head, exposing his long, glinting horns,
challenging his prey.

Luthen watched the Chief in awe, a child
admiring the mechanics of a new toy.

The Phooka charged, roaring and gnashing his
large, flashing teeth, the very ground quaking beneath each stomp
of his boots. He raised the mace high above his head, now only a
few feet from his prey. Suddenly, his muscles tensed, stopping him
dead in his tracks. Luthen smiled, extending his arm far enough to
place a mere finger on the Chief’s chest, toppling him over into a
defeated pile of flesh. The Phooka’s body twitched, but nothing
more. Only his eyes were left to move as they pleased, searching
the darkness for vengeance.

Luthen bent down to look close into the
Chief’s face. His smile stretched an unnatural expanse, like a bow
drawn back too far. Sooner or later it would snap.

“I have a deal for you, my fickle friend. A
bounty
, I believe to be the correct word for it. I assume
you’re aware of the city in the sky. Silly me, how could you not?
It’s impossible to miss. How would you like the glorious
opportunity to be the first of your kind within these walls? The
first to, how should I say this?
To spill royal blood
,”
Luthen said, leaning in closer, peering at the Chief with a hollow
gaze. “That could be quite a victory for your kind. To think, your
war party could be parading back into your filthy village with an
array of Elven heads to decorate your lodge with by this time next
week. And to top it all off, any loot, any trinket you find,
anything of value is yours. So long as the queen is mine. What do
you say,
friend
?” He extended his hand out, the empty word
friend
still slipping through his gritted teeth, and took
the Chief’s, pulling him back up to his feet as if he had only
stumbled.