Shadows of Time: Shadow Maiden (11 page)

Merrick whipped his head around, his face
flooded with terror. He quickly fastened the levers with twine from
his pocket and leapt to the rumbling stove. He tossed in what was
left of the meager pile of stools and crates, slamming its door
shut.

The elven girl stirred from her sleep.
“Mama?” Her pale face shone from beneath the hood of Amaeya’s
cloak.

Merrick strode over to Amaeya and pulled her
to her feet. She fought against his grasp. “Amaeya! You need to
stay with the girl! Whatever happens, keep her safe. Do you
understand?” She sobbed and turned her face away from him. “
Do
you understand?”
He shook her. She continued her defiant sobs,
weakly struggled in his arms. She felt him stroke her face with his
rough leather gloves. He curled his fingers underneath her chin and
pulling her face to his. He pressed his lips onto hers, filling her
with warmth. She melted further into his arms, hungry for his
touch. He tasted of sand and sweat, of sadness and hope. He pulled
away, leaving her empty and longing for the warmth of his lips. “Do
you understand?”

“Yes,” she said, sounding small and distant
like a shadow cast by star light. He slid his arms from around her
waist and disappeared through the door.

Amaeya stood swaying on the open floor,
feeling more alone than ever before.

***

Merrick pulled himself to the top of the war
machine, wondering if his luck had finally run out.
Well, it
hasn’t been a good life. An interesting life, perhaps…

His thoughts were interrupted by a great
crash and shower of splinters. Chief Al’Rul met his gaze, his teeth
gnashing and mace brandished high over his head. Skeleton steeds
pounded their hooves at a hastened rhythm, trying to keep pace with
the speeding war machine. Six other riders were spread out all
around the hulking craft. Merrick felt an arrow buzz past his head
as he stood gazing at the attacking Phooka. More soon followed. He
could hear them ricocheting off the bent metal smokestack. He
crouched down near the slender neck of the trebuchet, his mind
straining to think of an idea.

While thinking, his eyes wandered to the
trebuchet above him. Though most of the machine was covered in
thick canvas, it was still partially assembled. It was similar to
the ones perched atop the walls of Limra, the only city foolish
enough to border the Great Desert.

He may not have had anything to load the
trebuchet with, but he was still left with plenty of debris to
knock the beasts from their horses.

He pulled the wicked Phookan blade from his
belt and cut off the canvas. He peeked over the edge of the war
machine, searching for the archer of the party. The Phooka had
ridden closer, his bow outstretched and waiting for Merrick to
reappear.

Merrick tossed the outstretched canvas at the
Phooka, tangling him in the weighty material.
That should take
care of the furry bastard.

Al’Rul swung his mace at the elf’s feet.
Merrick jumped back, a spray of wooden shards stinging his skin.
The Chief growled, readying his mace for another swing.

Another Phooka had leapt onto the opposite
side of the war machine. He crawled his way up to the top and stood
gripping a bloodstained war axe. Only one yellow eye shone from his
black furry face, a gleaming scar staring out from where the other
eye had once been.

Merrick scrambled to his feet, ready to rid
himself of yet another Phooka.

The beast hurled himself at the elf, war axe
raised above his twisted horns. Merrick slid to the right, nudging
the Phooka slightly with his shoulder, knocking him off balance.
The mercenary stumbled, driving the weighty war axe deep into the
wood. He tugged at it with a mighty roar, but the weapon refused to
loosen. Merrick pushed himself up from where he was crouched and
whirled around, driving his blade into the Phooka’s back and up
into his ribcage. He twisted the blade deeper, feeling the beast’s
life seep away with every turn. Feeling no more struggle against
his sword, he pulled it free and let the Phooka tumble off the war
machine to the blurred terrain below.

Merrick gazed over his shoulder to see where
the rest of the party had gone. Three of the riders had fallen
behind. Two empty mounts rode with them.

Perhaps they’ve given up
, thought
Merrick, feeling his body relax.
Perhaps my luck is
returning—

Pain exploded in his head, sending him
crashing into the trebuchet. A deep growl rumbled behind him as
heavy boots echoed against the wooden top with each step. Chief
Red-Tooth Al’Rul grabbed the elf by the neck, bringing his face
close to the Phooka’s snout. The beast blasted him with foul hot
breath through his flared nostril. He laughed as Merrick
winced.

“You flat-faces are all the same.
Weak
,” he said, throwing the elf down onto his face.
“
Cowards,”
he kicked Merrick in the side, cracking ribs as
easy as snapping twigs. “
Fools
.” Chief Al’Rul raised his
black jagged mace above his head. Merrick, still clutching his
sword, sliced the blade just below the Phooka’s knee. The Chief
howled, his knee giving way, knocking him over onto his back.

Merrick crawled away on his belly from the
thrashing Phooka, wincing with each breath. He had to get to
Amaeya. He had to keep her safe.

He made his way to the edge of the war
machine’s roof near the door. Without warming, the door burst open.
The Phooka he recognized as Fanger hung from the frame with a
screaming Amaeya flung over his shoulder. The mercenary met his
gaze for only a moment before jumping from the racing machine.

“AMAEYA!” Merrick clawed at empty air. He
heard hollow laughter floating in the air from behind him.

“It’s too late for you, flat-face. She’s
gone. And the only place you’re going is straight to hell.” The
Chief laughed again, pulling himself close to the edge. Merrick saw
him roll off the side, landing with a
thud
on the rocky
ground. Confused, he lifted himself up to peer over the bow of the
war machine. The rocky landscape melted into open air.

They had reached the cliffs.

And they were moments away from flying off
them.

Merrick swung himself through the open door
and stumbled to the child, wrapping her with extra chain. She sat
silent as stone, staring into the darkness. He wrapped the
remaining chain around his waist and gathered the girl into his
arms. He gripped the chain tight in his hands, waiting for when the
great crashing wheels met nothing but air.

***

Anya sat in her dead mother’s throne, tracing
her fingers over the craved wooden leaves. She scratched her nail
over its glistening paint, sending flecks of gold fluttering into
the air. Glossy black wood peeked at her from underneath the gaudy
exterior. She smiled, scratching away more of the gold.

“My queen,” said Luthen, brushing her hair
from her face. “We’re going to have a visitor soon, an old friend
of mine. She is a very powerful and important person so please do
be polite.” He flashed a toothy smile from his new dimpled face.
She nodded, drawing her hands into her lap. He patted her on the
head and folded his hands into his cloak.

They waited for only a moment before a thin
shadow slipped through an open window. The rising sun had turned
the ashen sky a bloody red. The shadow slithered toward the center
of the throne room. There, it thickened into a black figure. A
willowy silver scythe unfolded with a soft click from the figures
side. The being strode forward, its wicked scythe clanging on the
stone floor. As it reached the throne, it pulled back its hood,
revealing the narrow white face of a hollow-eyed woman.

“Ah, Wilhelmina,” said Luthen, stepping
forward to embrace the shadowy woman, “our plan seems to be going
beautifully. How do things fair from your side?”

She stopped him short with a long boney
finger jabbing at his chest. “You were to have killed
all
of
the royal family! What other parts of our plan have you neglected
to fulfill?” Her voice was shrill and venomous. Anya could feel the
woman’s cold black stare slice through Luthen’s body and into her
own.

“My dear Shadow Maiden, you’re not seeing the
gift this girl is to us,” he said, wrapping his soft tanned hands
around her outstretched fist. “She is the key to the city’s power,
which is the key to
our
power.”

Wilhelmina stared at Luthen, her sunken eyes
squinting. She sighed, shaking her head. “I suppose you are right,”
she said, “but I still don’t think having her around is wise.” She
looked over Luthen’s shoulder and right into Anya’s eyes. The girl
shrank down in the throne, her gaze dropping to the floor.

“Give her time. She will prove her worth. In
fact, she will prove it now.” Luthen turned and beckoned Anya with
his hand. Not knowing what to expect, she slid down from the throne
and onto the cold white stone. Luthen smiled and took her hand. She
could see a pang of jealousy flash across the strange woman’s taunt
face. Wilhelmina smoothed down her closely cut black hair with a
boney hand, her eyes never leaving Anya.

Anya followed Luthen through a door that
stood sheltered behind the throne. It led to a narrow hall covered
in faded and molding tapestries. The strong musty smell made her
wrinkle her nose. Luthen ran his hand over one that showed the city
before its ascent into the sky. He outlined the tall yellowing
towers with his fingers, his thoughts far away. Bringing himself
back to the present, he tore at the tapestry, sending it crashing
to the ground. A small wooden door stood out against the white
stone wall.

He pushed the door open, its hinges squealing
from disuse. Luthen lifted Anya up into his arms and plunged into
the darkness.

Anya’s head bobbed with each step down
further into the shadows. She could hear Luthen’s breath hasten in
the quiet of the stairwell. Moments later, they reached the bottom.
Luthen stepped out of the stairwell and into a wide open room lined
with large paned windows. In its center hung a humming blue
crystal, its size larger than her mother’s grand bed.

Luthen placed her on her feet. A shadow
wafted down the stairs to his side and formed into a scowling
Wilhelmina.

“You better be quick,” she said, leaning on
her scythe, “I don’t have long before I’m missed. The last thing I
need is Death breathing down my neck any more than he already
is.”

Luthen
tsked
from beneath his hood as
he led Anya to the warm blue crystal. “You doubt the power of the
Anvalin. No matter. You’ll soon be proven wrong,” he said, guiding
the girl’s hand to touch the crystal’s surface. “With this power,
you
will be sitting in Death’s throne in no time at
all.”

Anya winced at the Anvalin’s unexpected heat.
Muddled voices crept into her head. She squeezed her eyes tight,
trying to shut them out.

“Yes, good, concentrate. Don’t let the voices
take control,” he said, stroking her hair. “Now, I want you to
imagine turning the city as if turning a door knob. Simply reach
out your hand…
and turn
.”

The city rumbled and as the ground shifted
far below. Anya clenched her teeth, trying to hold on to her image
of turning the knob in her hand. When the knob completed the turn,
she relaxed, pulling away from the Anvalin.

“Very good, my queen,” said Luthen, glaring
at Wilhelmina over his shoulder, “You’ve made me proud.”

***

Merrick remembered the fall as if it were a
dream.

The war machine plummeted off the cliff,
turning end over end. The silent bodies of the slaves bounced off
the walls, limbs flailing and faces lifeless. Merrick clung to the
chain’s anchor on a hefty beam. He was beat against the wall, the
floor, the ceiling—pain and fear mixed together, tasting bitter in
his mouth, overwhelmed the taste of blood.

He sheltered the girl with his broken body.
She didn’t make a sound. Merrick feared she was dead, that her neck
had been snapped like a twig.

Finally, when he thought he could endure no
more, the war machine was ripped in two by the jagged rocks at the
foot of the towering cliffs. They landed in a pile of broken wooden
beams, tumbling to their final destination.

Merrick could only remember falling into a
calm darkness afterward. At first he thought he was dying, slipping
into death’s embrace. Death was a welcomed end from the pain.

Though he had accepted his end, the girl had
shaken him awake. Amaeya’s cloak now hung in tatters around her
shoulders.
Amaeya…
His chest heaved, fighting to keep
calm.

He winced as he pulled himself up, tasting
blood once again. He looked around at the wreckage wondering how
they could have survived something so vicious. The stove had burst
open and its flames devoured the other half of the torn war
machine.

He tugged at the girl, trying to get her to
her feet. She cried out in pain, her knees buckling. Merrick looked
down and saw a bloody gash along the back of her leg. He sighed and
lifted her up into his arms. She nuzzled her face into his chest,
her body shaking.

“I’ve never even asked for your name,” he
said, his voice a sad whisper.

“Astrid,” she said. She glanced at him with a
single dark eye. “My name is Astrid.” She buried her face back into
his battered leather jacket, surrendering to her exhaustion.

Pain crept across his chest with each breath.
It was a long walk across the desert to his village, taking him
nearly half a day if he managed to keep a good pace. He knew a well
hidden oasis that would provide a moment’s rest, but only for a
moment. He didn’t know if he was still being followed and wasn’t
willing to let his luck keep the beasts at bay.