The liner was enormous in size, as it should be. It was one of the few craft to ferry people and cargo through three systems. It was a continental-sized vessel given birth by the best dwarven engineering could offer. Even this behemoth felt small as it passed between the two moons; the brown and dead Verdiga and the blue and green paradise of Lo’tul, orbiting the home planet.

For over millennia, the two celestial bodies had been central to the religious beliefs of the races. Even now, the twenty elven guards fell to one knee in prayer as the radiation blasted surface of Verdiga, filled the twelve-meter-tall viewing port of the Shrine. Each one of them was a male of the purest bloodline and a zealot of the Goddess. They were the ones, handpicked by Igo himself, tasked with guarding the mortal body of the Asai. Each one prepared to lay their body to make sure no harm would come to the Voice of the Goddess, while she transferred from the liner to the homeworld.

As the others continued their silent devotion to the Eye of Purity, as the moon was known in their faith, their captain stood up and crossed the twenty meters separating him and his men from their charge. It was the furthest they were allowed to be from the Asai, while outside of the safety of one of the Temples. The man prostrated himself before the obsidian altar, in deference to the figure, hidden by the shadows, meditating on it.

“Blessed one, we have passed the line. Within hours You will be able to breathe the cleansing air of Mardaar.” His voice was just above a whisper lost to the emptiness of the Shrine.

There was a noticeable tap on the obsidian altar, indicating that he was allowed to approach his charge. Without hesitation, the elf stood up and came as close to the Asai, as he was permitted, his eyes glowing in rapture. He could smell fresh pine and soil as he lowered his head a hair’s breadth away from the figure’s feet.

“Igo, your devotion knows no limit,” The Asai’s soft voice made him shiver in delight. It had been too long since he last heard it. “I fear that it will need to be tasked further, by my request.”

“Name it blessed one! It shall be done!” The captain responded without wasting a second.

“So eager.” A faint chuckle escaped the figure. “It is a blessing and a curse to be so young.”

The man’s cheeks darkened as he blushed. By all accounts he was a man of considerable age, nearing his third decade in service to the faith and fifth of his life. Yet, he was but a sapling before the Asai. All he knew was that he had served the Asai for all his life as had his mentor. By any reasonable account, the blessed one should be nearing the end of her second century.

Elves were gifted with a long life, but even the most blessed amongst them could barely reach three hundred years, before expiring. It would not be long before a new mortal body had to be chosen for the Asai. The ceremony was an utter mystery to him and not even he knew who it was behind the silver mask mimicking the Goddess’ face, or if it were even the same person. However, he knew, from the ancient texts and his teachings, that all who had donned the mask of Voice of the Goddess shared the same memory.

A few years back, he would have found the very notion of the Asai dyeing to be sacrilege. But now, all the signs were clear to see, and there were already rumours circulating among the guards. Of course, Igo had stopped them all and had the appropriate people punished, demoted or discreetly killed, and stored in secure containers to be dumped as soon as they reached the planet. However, there was so much he could do, and the constant coming and goings of the priestesses of the Order of Healing into the Asai’s Sanctum could not go unnoticed.

“I am afraid the time has come, my dear Igo.” The Asai caressed his cheek with her hand, hidden beneath a white silk glove, confirming his worst fear. “My time is coming to an end. The Great Dragon is calling for the soul of this mortal body.”

The captain of the guards froze. It was the one moment he had feared all his life. True it was an honour without comparison to be tasked with finding the new mortal body for his charge. But it also meant that he would be responsible for allowing the blessed one to die.

“How much time do we have, blessed one?” Igo asked in a shaking voice, too late realising that the others may overhear his words.

“I am afraid it will not be long. The call is strong.” The Asai’s response struck him like a blow and he fell to his knees unable to hide his tears.

“I warned you, Igo.” She spoke in a steel voice after giving him a minute to cope with his emotions. “Your devotion is to be tested once more.”

He had missed the gesture which had summoned the two women hidden in the deepest darkness of the altar. They were dressed in dark green ceremonial robes with a mask of the Goddess hiding their faces. Where the Asai’s was silver with eyes the colour of frozen water, theirs were copper with a black satin cloth covering the eyes. They were not of the Rath’ar, Igo was sure of it. He had only heard their names spoken by his predecessor once, done in a hushed voice laced with paranoia. And yet, there was no mistaking the Esk’ra, spies and assassins, eyes and ears of the Voice.

“Vediga and Lo’tul.” The Asai pointed to the one to her right and then to the one to her left. “They are my eyes. Their agents have found two potential candidates. One is in New Tristan and the other is held by the GS by my request.”

“The humans have one of the candidates in their hands?” The captain could not hide the venom in his words.

“Remember your place, Igo.” The eyes of the Asai rooted him on the spot and burned through his soul. “Two of your men will accompany each of my eyes.” She paused and give him a long stare before continuing. “And Igo, they will not be coming back. Only the dead can know the face of the Asai. E isa Neth’ra.”

“E isa Neth’ra, blessed one.” Igo lowered his head and bit back his retort. He already knew who the sacred dead were going to be.

These Hollow Gods had a strange sense of humour to have chosen Vor as the one to stop the Slayers. Of that Martell was sure, as he was sure he was going to put the thing down like the rabid dog it was. His main problem were not the orcs, the others were taking care of them, thanks to Os and Sigismund’s timely intervention. The Second would be buying Till’s weight in beer and wine if they survived this. If not for the old apothecary keeping a levelled head, they all would be already dead.

He had no doubt that the Slayers could handle the orcs. No, his main problem was Asmund. The northerner was clawing his way towards the thing that was once his younger brother. Fighting one of the berserkers would have been a challenge – both a suicide. Martell was painfully aware of this as he crushed an orc’s shoulder with the bar mace, he had retrieved from one of the dead beasts.

Not giving the grotesquely deformed monstrosity the time, it needed to heal its wound, the Second swung the weapon at its head. With his new strength, he crushed the hard skull plates and turned the brain beneath them into mashed berries. He needed time to think, but that was a luxury he did not have. Eighteen steps and two orcs, that was all separating him from Vor.

Martell could feel his flesh crawl as the distance between them shortened. It was a strange and unwelcomed sensation. He was certain it was not fear that caused it, which only made it worse. Fear he had learned to control and turn into strength. He took that awful emotion, and mould it into hatred and rage which to use against his enemies. The Second placed all his fury in his next blow and nearly tore off the orc’s leg with a single swipe. There was no time to deliver the killing strike, as a second one barrelled into him and pinned him to the wall. By now, the monsters’ moral should have been broken, or at least that’s how things usually went. But with each one the Slayers put down, it only seemed to enrage them further.

The beast was bleeding from the ice spikes which had pierced its torso. The flesh on the left side of its neck and head was burned and oozing a dark substance, far too thick to be blood. Up close, its grey skin looked soggy, as if it had been drowned before someone exsanguinated it for good measure. At the same time, the orc’s muscles were at least twice their normal size, but were somehow in all the wrong places, making the beast a parody of what it could have been.

It didn’t take long for the Second to realise that these were the failures of what the Hollow Gods were trying to achieve. The knowledge gifted to the Second by them, flooding his mind too fast for him to make sense of. But one thing he understood, this made the orcs the Slayer’s opposites in more ways than he was comfortable of accepting. And this revelation, of how the wounded monster reminded Martell of how Regis had looked after the sand storm, took a sinister hue in his mind. It was enough to stay his hand and he could feel the monstrous claws, that passed for nails on its fingers, bit deep into the back of his neck. He had completely missed the moment the misshapen arm launched forward, trying to pull him closer so that the orc could bite his head off with its massive maw.

The warrior kicked with all his might and was rewarded by the sound of splintering bones. He had managed to shatter its ribs, staggering the creature for a moment. Martell pressed his advantage and applied pressure on the beast’s elbow with both hands, the joint gave way and the arm twisted at an unnatural angle. It was too early for him to celebrate his victory, as another of the monsters picked him up and slammed hm into the nearest wall. Fortune, however, was on Martell side, since the creature chose to bellow at him like a wild animal instead of finishing him off, having been stripped of the little intelligence their kind possessed. The Second used this moment to its fullest and pushed the bar mace through the orc’s left eye. He felt the bones in his wrist pop out of place in protest for the awkward angle of attack. Without the hulking monster kipping him pinned to the wall, the warrior fell to the cold marble floor and his hand darted for the bar mace. He was not going to risk this one getting back up, he had to make sure there was nothing left of its head.

Before he could dislodge the weapon to protect himself from the coming attack, Martell was bathed in the orc’s dark blood. A single swing from Vor’s axe had bisected the monster, that had come at him, from head to groin. Clearly, the Hollow Gods had thought it prudent to increase the berserkers already impressive physical strength to absurd amounts. It was a harsh reminder that fortune and luck were fickle mistresses.

“This one is mine!” The former Slayer roared, malice dripping from each syllable. “You and I have a score to settle, little man.”

“Vor!” Asmund barked from behind his brother. “There will be time to deal with this worm. Now we need to get to the Hollow Gods and make them suffer. Such is Regis’ will.”

The younger of the two northerners turned slowly, leaving his back exposed to Martell. Baiting him to strike. Vor was a wild animal in the heat of battle, but he was as not as stupid or blinded as most of the Slayers thought him. Should the Second have taken advantage of this, it would have only served to turn the chasm between and Asmund into an abyss. A second later, Vor revealed his impatience, pointing his axe at his older sibling and gurgled a mockery of a laughter.

“Fool. All will serve the Gods. The cur Regis will be nothing but a tool in their hands.” His axe moved almost too fast to track.

The berserker let out a scream of agony as his right arm was cut just below the elbow. Vor clapped his brother on the side of the head with the butt of his other axe and sent him to his knees.

“Fret not, brother.” He rumbled; his words distorted by the mask which covered his face. “Death is not the end. It is just a new path to glory offered by the Pathari Saar.”

Martell used the opportunity and grabbed the mace with both of his hands. The warrior could feel the muscles in his shoulders tear as he delivered a devastating blow to Vor’s head from the back. The force of the strike was so great that the steel weapon bent as it made contact with the former Slayer’s scull.

The monster, that was once their comrade stumbled to its knees. The back of its head a ruin, revealing dead flesh, metal and thin sliver-like ropes. It was proof that this thing was no longer the man they had known. Unsteadily the monster rose back to its feet and roared in anger.

“You were always a coward, Martell. And you will die a coward!” Vor’s speech was slurred and laboured.

The monster’s arm shot out and the blade of his axe sliced through the Second’s stomach. He didn’t t need to look at the wound to know that it was bad. Martell fell to his knees, as his legs buckled, and feverishly pressed with both his hands, stopping his intestines from spilling onto the marble floor.

“Do not worry, little man.” Vor loomed over him ready to deliver another strike. “This will not be enough to end you. The Pathari Saar remade me as something greater and I know how much you can suffer before you expire.”

“Something greater?” Regis’ laughter grabbed the monster’s attention. “No Vor, you are nothing but a slave. Look around you.” The commander spread out his arms indicating the dead orcs that littered the corridor. “You are all that is left between me and your arrogant masters.”

“I’ve longed for this moment.” Vor spat and kicked Martell in the gut. “I am only sad that I’m not allowed to keep your head as a trophy.”

Regis gave the creature a chilling smile and was in motion within a second, he was before the berserker and delivered an uppercut that would have killed a lesser man. All it did was make Vor take a single step back and shatter his mask. The flesh behind it was loos and grey, completely dead. His teeth were blackened and almost dropped from his gums. Black and red phlegm was gathering inside his moth and made it difficult for the former Slayer to speak.

“Pathetic… You… Will… Die… Screaming…” Vor’s broken words were accompanied by hissing sounds coming from the raptured tubes connected to the mask.

The northerner’s massive fist slammed into Regis and send him crashing into the opposite wall. Martell wanted to jump and help his commander, his friend, but the wound in his stomach kept him rooted on the spot. He knew the wound was healing, but it would take time, time the Slayers did not have.

Terror gripped the Second’s heart as the seconds passed and Regis lay unmoving on the cold floor. Martell fought through the pain and forced himself up to his feet only to receive another kick from Vor. The warrior crumbled once more, unable to move or do anything to help the others.

“Your… Time… Will… Come… Little… Man…” The gruesome mixture was running freely from the creature’s mouth.

“Look… At… Your… Pathetic… Leader… None…Of… You… Can… Stop… Me…” The creature grabbed Asmund by the hair and run the blade of its axe across his neck, letting him drown in his blood. “But… First… You… Will… Suffer…”

Martell observed in horror the frozen Slayers. They were scared, an emotion new and foreign to them. Until now, Regis had ruled over them with his charm and charisma, and if need be, with an iron fist. To see their leader bested by the likes of Vor, was something no one could begin to imagine. Martell understood very well how powerless the others felt, he felt the same and that would spell their end. Someone had to take command, to act, so that the others would act as well.

A scream akin to that of a feral beast tore through the silence and a figure jumped on Vor’s shoulders. It took the Second a moment to focus his vision, but Martell recognised the figure as Cylin. Like an animal, the girl was clinging to the creature’s neck. Her feet pressed at the back of its shoulders and her frail arms digging in its eyes.

“Die! Die! DIE!” The anger-filled words came between the screams that emanated from her throat.

Lightning cascaded in the corners of her eyes and fires engulfed her wrists. The smell of ozone and burned flesh assaulted Martell as Vor’s skin melted like wax from his head. Yet the girl was not finished. She weathered the blows from the former Slayer’s fists, clinging to him like a tick. Cylin’s tenacity was both frightening and mesmerising. The Second couldn’t tell what manner of demon had possessed her, but whatever it was, it could rival Vor’s destructive nature.

The incoherent words, spewing from her mouth, became a part of her screams that were no longer human. They had become something primal, something that could no longer be called anger. A thunderclap shook the corridor and Vor exploded in a mix of flesh and metal. Green-yellowish lightning cloud had replaced the creature and, in its middle, stood Cylin. Her skin blistered and burned, she flashed Martell a lunatic’s grin before finally tumbling to the ground.