Disconsolate Hearts

The Alumrof raced over the waters toward the continent Iifa, on which Elysium, Malariel, Dubulai and Omnisia took refuge. Dalin, the captain stood on the bridge passing out commands like birthday presents. He was legion leader of considerable rank, but was only a servant to the Tavoltai; the masters of his kind. He had two on board, a prince, and an ancient warrior, who just so happened to be brothers. Unlucky for him, he thought. The ancient warrior, who was known as Maderan, had a fierce, even sadistic temper, and wouldn't think twice about shredding you, and then eating what was left of you. And the other was a great leader; a winner of supporters, a true democrat, but he too was of fighting blood. In general the Tavoltai were brutal, sadistic Necromancers who didn't care much for their people. They weren't just any necromancers however, oh no, they were much worse than that. Far worse. The spotted congregations of Necromancers around the Nearth were nothing in comparison to these ones. Cisse Attera was in kindergarten compared to these post-graduates. The other Tavolta on board was Icrathis Alumrof, who intended to tear Cyrus out of his office and brutalize him for the shame he had brought to the term Necromancer.

They weren't far either. The Alumrof could cross the seas within three hours, a trip of about twelve hundred miles. Harvested souls powered the ship, built of soul canisters and life essence. The turbines to each side of the central cabin (between the tail and the nose) oscillated at six thousand rotations per minute, and could propel the aircraft at around four to five hundred miles per hour, but Dalin didn't enjoy pushing it. Souls weren't the most cost-effective power source available and they weren't always reliable either, but that was an opinion he should always keep to himself. Aside from the pleasure of killing to gain souls, the Tavoltai preferred ancient methods of soul extracting rather than the newer conventional methods of steam, et cetera.

Where are we? A cold, cold voice slithered across the air like oil on water. The captain nearly jumped out of his skin. It was Maderan. He slunk from the hatch on the back wall to the deck, dragging his clawed fingers across the wall. They screeched like nails on a blackboard, except worse. He smiled through razor-sharp teeth, seldom blinking his blood red slits of eyes.

Ah, ah, ah, we about a half an hour away, stuttered Dalin. The blood rushed to his face. A wave of heat rushed over him, as the magic of Maderan greeted him. His heart thumped loudly, and Dalin was sure Maderan was enjoying hearing it. We will see land soon, Lord, said Dalin earnestly.

Good, because it has been a while since I have seen so much fluid, of course, spare blood. I didn't come all this way to be engulfed in water, Dalin. I want blood. Maderan whispered softly; menacingly.

And blood you shall have in Theolossis, Lord, rivers of it, mumbled Dalin pathetically. Maderan traced a claw down Dalin's front, splitting the garment he wore and his skin like a scalpel. Soft bubbles of blood splattered on the floor.

I hope, for your sake at least, answered Maderan, licking his claw, and stalking away silently. But before he left, he made sure to depart with the screech of his claw on the wall. It was a habit of his.