It was already the second day. The shadow mage crouched on the long branch of the golden willow. The enormous tree leaned greatly towards the river making the branch to hang low over the great river, just a few feet over it.
He was at his limits already. Based off of his calculations the King's body should be around here somewhere. No one comes here, not that he know of. Even if the fishes had gotten to him there should be at the very least a clue, a piece of fabric, anything.
A section of the great river caught his eye. His brows knitted. He had noticed eddies forming in the otherwise steady flow of the river but he didn't pay much mind to it, but now--he stood up on the branch, holding his support properly to avoid falling into the river.
"...doesn't it seem like that area is darker than the rest?" he muttered to himself.
He studied the patch curiously for a few moments. The shadows on it seemed distorted too. He considered his options and hated the idea he settled with. Even if it is what he thinks it is what does it matter? It wasn't enough to convince himself against it because it was all he had. He made up his mind to go with it. After this he will go back. He had already been recently allowed to see his parents so he needs to spend as much time as possible with his mother because who knows when he will get another chance.
He took in a deep breath. All he needs to do was look to prove himself wrong, and so he jumped into the river fully clothed since it will be brief. He swam fast towards the position, and when he reached he dived under immediately.
As he swam deeper the water ahead began to darken, it's temperature noticeably dropped and within a minute of going deeper he glimpsed boulders ahead, appearing out of place in the river bed. His breath caught in his chest as he hovered, suspended in a moment of hesitation then continued down faster, just to take a look to see if it's something to go back for sea-grass for. The light above dwindled, swallowed by the depths below, leaving only faint glimmers to guide his path.
The mouth loomed before him, it's weathered edges spoke of aeons passed. Tendrils of seaweed swayed in the currents, their delicate forms brushing against the ancient rock with a soft, graceful dance. He knew he was upon ancient secret, and that excite him but he was without sea-grass and going forward was a risk because he will soon be at his limits. It will take 3 more days to get the sea-grass. He can't wait that long. He has 5 minutes. He will take it. All calculations within moments and he swam through into the old cave mouth.
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The death of the king threw the capital into great despair. They were already getting used to a good life. Since his death none but the cleaning maids have step foot into his room, and when they do they don't linger. Just past midnight, when many have retired, a shadow lingered. It came through underneath the locked door that leads to the king's balcony. Like a dark phantom it moved and even before it had fully materialize as a man in dark robes it was opening the dead king's desk drawers quietly in search of something in the darkness. Just when he touched the first book he thought he noticed another presence in the room. Behind him! But it was already too late. A hand clasped on his head and smashed his face in the hard oaken desk in quick succession. He managed to slip away, becoming one with the darkness. He hovered a few feet away from his attacker, nursing his broken nose, his heart thumping in his chest. That scared him. He looked at his attacker. It was a one arm black skin elf. She seemed calm in the darkness, unthreatened. Did she think he left? No. She was alert, listening.
He can't leave, not without what he came for. He has the advantage, he thought. Complete darkness. He would have to make it quick before she brings the attention of the knights.
Just when his hand touched the hilt of his dark blade she disappeared. His eyes went wide. It was instant. His eyes darted frantically, looking for her then all of a sudden his blood ran cold! She was there, directly in front of him, so close he could feel the faint stir of air as she appeared from nothing. His breath caught in his throat, and she looked him straight in the eye. The problem was--he was still within the shadows!
Her hand shot up and grabbed a fistful of his shirt. To the ordinary eye she was grabbing air but he felt the contact and saw his cloth wrinkle. He was stunned. How was he to know the worst opponent of a shadow mage in the dark is a Huntsman dark elf.
She began pulling him towards her and a terrible pain seared through his mind to the point of almost madness. He was screaming in the shadows, though muted outside. She was forcing him through a narrow opening, the shadows splintering as it reluctantly yielded to her persistence and soon he found himself flying out and overhead and smashing heavily into the unforgiving ground.
It was followed quickly by a pitch-black aetherial spear which was aimed at his head but smashed into the ground because he rolled away just in time out of instinct. He wasn't out of danger yet for the one-armed elf was quick to pursue. She was incredibly skilled and though he was faster he could barely dodge or block her relentless attacks. He made an attempt into the shadows again to recover but she quickly let go of her spear, which dissipated immediately, and caught him. Just like before he couldn't move and she pulled him out and threw him away. He crashed into the king's table, almost splitting it in two. He struggled back to his feet, she wasn't rushing at him again but the castle already knew of his presence and are closing in on them. The mission was a failure the moment she appeared but now it got worse.
He stared at her. She was trembling slightly. Mana exhaustion? It would be better to take advantage and take her out, but she might still have a fight in her and the knights are near. With each cautious step he took backward, she remained still, her gaze unwavering. In a sudden burst of action, he pivoted and lunged toward the glass door, the sound of shattering shards echoing through the room as he crashed through it and vanished into the darkness beyond.
As the pieces of glass scattered across the floor and balcony, knights stormed into the room, ready to fight but found only the dark elf, with the king's room thrashed. She was staring at the balcony door that was smashed like something big jumped through it.
"What happened?" a knight approached her.
She just looked at her trembling hand like she didn't hear him.
"...damn surface world" she cussed under her breath in disgust. The accent was so heavy none of them recognized the slurred words. They let her be as she walked to the center of the room and knelt down like she has done since the dead king left.
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A swift crashing of horses through the tall reeds; a heavy fall, a despairing cry. From the dying steed there staggered up its rider, a slender girl in sandals and girdled tunic. Her dark hair fell over her white shoulders, her eyes were those of a trapped animal. She did not look at the jungle of reeds that hemmed in the little clearing, nor at the blue waters that lapped the low shore behind her. Her wide-eyed gaze was fixed in agonized intensity on the horseman who pushed through the reedy screen and dismounted before her.
He was a tall man, slender, but hard as steel. He wore a sleek ensemble of supple leather, tailored snugly to his form. His mocking brown eyes peered out from under a tousled mane.
"Stand back!" her voice shrilled with terror. "Touch me not, Nicholas Fitzwalter, or I will throw myself into the water and drown!"
He laughed, and his laughter was like the purr of a sword sliding from a silken sheath.
"No, you will not drown, Nita, daughter of confusion, for the marge is too shallow, and I can catch you before you can reach the deeps. You gave me a merry chase, by the gods, and all my boys are far behind us. But there is no horse west of Drakoria that can distance Godberd for long." He nodded at the tall, slender-legged desert stallion behind him.
" Let me go!" begged the girl, tears of despair staining her face. "Have I not suffered enough? Is there any humiliation, pain or degradation you have not heaped on me? How long must my torment last?"
"As long as I find pleasure in your whimperings, your pleas, tears and writhings," he answered with a smile that would have seemed gentle to a stranger. "You are strangely virile, Nita. I wonder if I shall ever weary of you, as I have always wearied of women before. You are ever fresh and unsullied, in spite of me. Each new day with you brings a new delight.
"But come – let us return to camp, where the people are still celebrating the death of the miserable king; while I, their chief, is engaged in recapturing a wretched fugitive, a foolish, lovely, idiotic runaway!"
"No!" She recoiled, turning toward the waters lapping bluely among the reeds.
"Yes!" His flash of open anger was like a spark struck from flint. With a quickness her tender limbs could not match, he caught her wrist, twisting it in pure wanton cruelty until she screamed and sank to her knees.
"Whore! I should drag you back to camp at my horse's tail, but I will be merciful and carry you on my saddle-bow, for which favor you shall humbly thank me, while—"
He released her with a startled cuss and sprang back, his sword flashing out, as a terrible apparition burst from the reedy jungle sounding an inarticulate cry of hate.
Nita, staring up from the ground, saw what she took to be either a beast or a mad girl advancing on Nicholas Fitzwalter in an attitude of deadly menace. She was lithely built, naked but for a girdled loincloth, which was stained with blood and crusted with dried mire. Her black hair was matted with mud and clotted blood; there were streaks of dried blood on his chest and limbs, dried blood on the long straight sword she gripped in her right hand. From under the tangle of her hair, bloodshot eyes glared like coals of blue fire.
"You nature's filth!" mouthed this apparition in a beastly accent.
"Feline beast?" ejaculated Nicholas Fitzwalter, recoiling. He was confused. "Which slave house let you loose?" Then his eyes went wide when he saw she wore no collar.
The stranger's bloodthirsty joy was terrible to behold. Her jaws champed spasmodically, froth appeared on her blackened lips.
'Keep back!' ordered Nicholas Fitzwalter, watching her narrowly.
Her voice rose to a maddened scream, and she charged.
In spite of the terror of her wild appearance, Nita looked to see her fall at the first crossing of the blades. Mad girl or beast, what could she do, naked, against the chief of the black circle bandits?
There was an instant when the blades flamed and licked, seeming barely to touch each other and leap apart; then the stained sword flashed past the sword of Nicholas Fitzwalter and descended terrifically on his shoulder. Nita cried out at the fury of that stroke. Above the crunch of the rending pad, she distinctly heard the snap of the shoulder-bone. The bandit chief reeled back, suddenly ashen, blood spurting over his leather; his sword slipped from his nerveless fingers.
'Mercy!' he gasped.
'Mercy?' There was a quiver of frenzy in the stranger's voice. "Mercy such as you showed us, you swine!"
Nita closed her eyes. This was no longer battle, but butchery, frantic, bloody, impelled by an hysteria of fury and hate, in which culminated the sufferings of battle, massacre, torture, and fear-ridden, thirst-maddened, hunger-haunted flight. Though Nita knew that Nicholas Fitzwalter deserved no mercy or pity from any living creature, yet she closed her eyes and pressed her hands over her ears, to shut out the sight of that dripping sword that rose and fell with the sound of a butcher's cleaver, and the gurgling cries that dwindled away and ceased.
She opened her eyes, to see the stranger turning away from a gory travesty that only vaguely resembled a human being. The girl's breasts heaved with exhaustion or passion; her brow was beaded with sweat; her right hand was splashed with blood. She was a demon if Nita ever seen one and when her gaze fell on her she knew she was next.