Lost in the Light Ch. 03

A magic glow enshrouded his body. Riyarra felt connected to him then in a way physical touch could never accomplish. But she wouldn't let herself be tempted. This would not be the end of Gayne, she decided defiantly. There was a power greater than her ability that could bring him back. But all she could do for now was to preserve the soul. The same soul that was now visible in the soft pale blue glow around the body. She pulled it into her being, and held onto him tighter than any lover's embrace.

When the ritual was done, the glow was gone, and Riyarra felt him inside her mind. There he slept in her consciousness until she could find a way to repay his sacrifice. The Warrior and The Princess leaned down as one over the corpse of Gayne and placed one final farewell kiss.

"Until we meet again," she whispered with the bitter tears threatening to overtake her again. So she fought them back, but this was the single greatest pain she had faced thus far, and it brought with it all the other terrible sacrifices, embarrassing tortures, and suffering she had felt at the hands of her brother's agents. Her hands clenched into fists until the nails bit into her palms. Her shoulders shuddered silently in rage and despair and it threatened to boil to the surface. Tears were shed, but they held no sorrow or grief, only anger. She needed to get away, she needed to run! Both The Warrior and The Princess understood this and they willed her to get up and move. But something else made her stay; something else pulled her into the other direction. The internal conflict broke free of her disciplined restrain.

Riyarra threw back her head and screamed. The torment of her soul erupted into the air. Birds everywhere panicked and took flight. Small animals bounded from branch to branch and along roots and grass fleeing the monster suddenly released.

The Eltharians froze in their routine and watched the exodus all around them. They had never heard such a wail and seen such a gut wrenching effect. Fear immobilized them and made the color run from their cheeks. They had the same instincts of the animals fleeing the area, but their reason told them not to follow their lead. Instead each face looked to the source and the tent where the wail had come from.

A soldier came running to investigate, his thin curved swords were already in his hands. All the elves held their breath and watched and waited. He threw open the flap of green canvas just as an arrowhead exploded out the back of his skull.

The unspoken alarm spread in that same moment; Eltharians scrambled to gather their weapons to deal with the attacker. But three more had already fallen to the storm of arrows leaving that tent. A hornblower was taken out by a shot to his throat in mid puff, blood gurgling out of the wound as his powerful lungs released their charge. Two stewards preparing the roast were shot in the chest and collapsed. They clutched the shafts out of fear and tried to pull them free. Something invisible sapped their strength and made their faces turn cold and eventually very still.

Up above the camp in the trees, three sentries loosed their own shots at the tent. Their arrows pierced the fabric everywhere a person could hide. Their adversary jumped free at the last second and they filled him with arrows before he hit the ground. Five shots protruded from his naked body, and a fatal one in the neck left him very still. The deadly attack was over and the few that survived the onslaught cowered in their safety, unsure if this was truly the end.

One of the sentries climbed down and silently padded over to the arrow riddled corpse with his knife and sword drawn. Like a hunter cat testing a prone animal he made swift progress across the camp but circled the body in case it moved. He kicked the bow away with his boot, and for good measure, he loped off the head with one clean stroke of his sword.

"He's dead!" The sentry shouted. He sheathed his weapons into their leather homes on his belt, and too soon. A blur of bare skin and blonde hair appeared from the air beside him - he caught but a glimpse before something hit him. What he saw next made no sense, it was his own body twirling through the air as the ground rose up to meet him, and then he thought it was funny it was way over there. The morbid conclusion never reached his dying brain cells.

The remaining two sentries drew quick shots at the ghost that suddenly decapitated their comrade and then vanished. Their shots passed through empty air. This was their true enemy they realized too late, and she was more skilled at magic and tactics than they were. In a few bloody moments this ghost killed every Eltharian in the camp except these two and the cowering steward under the large fallen tree trunk below them. These two shared the same tree, but perched on opposite branches of the thick old oak. Below them the bodies lay still and the cook fires still crackled. The camp was eerily quiet now with no sign of the ghost.

"Look for movement. She might pick up a bow." One shouted to the other as he scanned the bodies of the fallen. His partner was trembling in his perch; the vibrations could be felt through the trunk of the tree.

"Shut it! You'll draw attention!" the timid archer hissed back. The first one wanted to argue but stifled it, he couldn't argue with the logic of silence. They moved their aim slowly, sweeping their bows back and forth over the carnage. Below them the steward sobbed fearfully. Long, dreadful moments passed with no activity. It was all the trembling soldier could stand.

"She must be gone! She would have killed us or her by now." He hissed. "I'm climbing down!" he shouldered his bow and started to descend. Slowly and cautiously at first, but as nothing came at him he grew quicker and more anxious until his feet touched the ground. His partner watched him below with his arrow trained on him to catch anything that might appear nearby. Once on the ground, the Eltharian soldier ducked under the fallen, moss covered oak.

"Shh!" he hushed the crying steward. She was a pack master; he remembered she was quick in setting up tents and tackle, and good at organizing their gear. She had a thing for numbers and could tell anyone where anything was at a given moment. But she was also the biggest coward in the whole troupe, and often prone to crying. "Shh!" he repeated. "Or I'll cut you myself to silence you!" he hissed viciously. The girl clamped both hands over her mouth to muffle the panicked sobs of growing hysteria.

Frustrated, he turned his bow to the calm, quiet campsite. Nothing stirred, nothing moved. Whatever it was seemed to be gone. He approached each body and checked for survivors, those that weren't slain outright, died of survivable wounds. He pulled an arrow shaft out of a steward and sniffed it -- faintly acrid. The bow had been discarded, when the decoy was tossed from the tent. So there was no more fear of poison arrows. But she still had whatever she used to kill the scout.

"She's gone!" he called up to the branch. But his partner wouldn't respond he just sat there with his bow trained on him. "Come on down! If she wanted to kill us she would have." he called again. His face crumpled up in confusion as to why they wouldn't move. "Damn you, stop being a coward and get down here! The captain will be back soon and we need to get this place secure!" His partner didn't respond, but he could see him shake his head slowly 'No' at him. Frustrated he lifted his hand up in an obscene gesture and went back over to the hiding steward.

"Come out of there!" He commanded. She shook her head 'No'. "I'm tired of everyone telling me no!" he growled, and pointed his sword at her. "Get out now!"

A crash in the trees above snapped his attention skyward as a body came falling down towards him. He covered his head at the last moment, as his partner's corpse landed a few feet from him. The steward screamed. Once he realized the danger he drew his blade and stepped out from under the tree and kept his eyes skyward.

Two arrows came down from above and ended him through the heart.

The young girl kept her eyes closed when she heard him gasp in pain and fall. She didn't want to see anymore. She didn't want to hear anymore. She just wanted it all to be over. She wanted to be back in Elthair, safe and secure from these awful missions. She wanted to scream and to run, but her legs just wouldn't move. She cursed her cowardly heart; it had paralyzed her when she needed to be able to move. But as her mind tried to fight off the fear, it told her that she was the last one alive... because she was still, and quiet. She believed it.

Long slender legs touched down on the leaves in front of her hiding spot. A cold chill ran down her spin and she could suddenly feel her toes again. Her body had made up its mind to run. And she wanted to very badly before those toned, womanly legs turned around. Soft drops of blood fell from the person hidden by the top of her trunk. The servant girl knew that if she moved now they would see her, and she would die just like all the rest. She held her breath. This monster wouldn't hear her. They would go away. Then she could run.

The person crouched down. And she found herself staring at two fierce green eyes that locked in on her. She screamed into her hands as the paralysis lifted and she knew she was as good as dead.

"Come out." The lady said only three feet away. She held a hunter's long knife thick with blood in her hands. The command registered in her brain and she found her body complying against her will. She crawled out on her hands and knees, but looked up to the naked woman before she dared to stand.

"Rise." She commanded. And so the servant did. Their eyes met, and she immediately shied away. Her eyelids closed shut to block out the face of the monster that had attacked her troupe. She sobbed and wailed, hysteria had taken over, and there was nothing more to do but to let it out. She cried.

Hands touched her face but she wouldn't move. It wasn't until arms wrapped around her body and pulled her head down to the woman's chest in a loving embrace that she let the sobs out. She wasn't being attacked, she was being consoled. Gentle hands stroked the back of her head and held her tightly as she let the fear and horror run its course.

"Shhh." The woman said. "I will not harm you." It whispered soothingly into her ear. Despite herself, a part of her believed this monster's words, and her hands timidly released their clenched white knuckles and held the naked woman in return. She cried out of fear, and terror, but also out of loss for the so many dead. Then she cried out of shame, for being the only one alive, and then out of joy for being the only one alive. During all the time that her hysteria ran itself dry this murderous woman held her tenderly. Her hands soothingly caressed that back of her brown haired head as her mother did when she was a child. They were sad caresses, subtle and calming, but tender to the touch.

"Don't look anymore," the woman said. "Close your eyes. Wait until help arrives." She did as she was told, scrunching her eyes shut tightly as the woman broke off their embrace slowly. "Cowardice is not a sin." She said softly a few feet away.

"What in the hells...?" A raspy, out of breath voice said as it approached the camp. It was her captain's, and she opened her eyes with jubilation at being saved. But it was cut off as the monster stood between him and her. Suddenly she didn't look so monstrous. She was still naked, however.

"REPORT!" He barked angrily as he surveyed the carnage of their camp. Suddenly the steward found her voice had abandoned her at his sharp reprisal. She opened her mouth to speak but the words choked in her throat and wouldn't come out.

"I killed them," The woman said plainly.

"I knew you weren't Eymara," He sneered and leveled his weapon to strike. The woman had something hidden in her hand, her long blonde hair covered it and her back as she circled the captain back and forth. "Tell me, whore, who did you sell your people out to? Was it the Zecairin? Humans? I should just execute the both of you." She didn't answer. Her green eyes were as cold as glass and they never left the captain.

"Any last words, bitch?" He said as he reared back to strike.

"Before this is over, you will call me... My Queen." She sneered at him, and put her blade up between them in a defensive stance. Her body leaned back as her muscles fell into their old routines. Her words and her stance suddenly gave the captain doubt.

"I'll admit, you are formidable to have killed so many, but these were prisoner slaves and barely out of training." He said more calmly as he fell into his own attack stance.

"I know," she said coldly. "One of them was a dear to me."

"You killed your friend?" he said suddenly horrified and distracted. But then dawning comprehension came to him. "You're more corrupted than they reported, Riyarra."

"I am not corrupted." Riyarra said defiantly, as her knuckles tightened around the hilt of her knife. "I was betrayed by my own brother. I loved Gayne! It was the mark that killed him." Tears of bitter anger started to well up in her eyes. Her lips snarled viciously at the painful memory. The visions of Gayne dying in her arms and that of this captain overlapped each other in her mind. Something vicious deep inside her rose to the surface again, and this time she didn't fight to restrain it.

"You...," The servant girl finally found her voice. "You're Princess Riyarra?" she fell to her knees at understanding of what she and her troupe was out here to do. "No..."

"She is no longer our princess!" The captain shouted.

"I will hear it from your lips before you pass on into oblivion," Riyarra snarled as she took a step forward. "MY QUEEN!" She shouted as she lunged. The captain moved to riposte the strike with his sword, but at the last step right before their blades met Riyarra kicked up a stone at his face. The captain was forced to duck out of the way as their blades collided. His evasion put him off balance, and the impact knocked him off his feet to the ground.

Riyarra was on top of him in that instant. Her knife missed the mark and embedded into the dirt just as her opponent rolled away in time. His sword flung out in maneuver that cut a red line across her naked side. She roared viciously in response and cut out wickedly with that long knife. It caught his rolling ankle and cut through leather, cloth, skin and tendon in one clean strike.

The captain screamed and kept rolling away. He got to his feet, but his wounded ankle was useless. He was lamed, and the fight was all but concluded now. Riyarra circled him, ignoring her own wound as the blood ran down her side and leg to the ground.

"You would murder your own princess at an order?" she growled. "You deserve an Yvarna of your own." She sliced at his chest, but the captain still had some fight left in him and brushed it aside with his weapon. His sword had more reach, but her knife was quicker. She was quicker.

Her head was held high despite her revealing appearance, and she looked down on this faltering man with those eyes. "My...Queen." She repeated, and thrust with her knife. The Captain reacted with a side-step and a struck outward with his sword. His ankle caved in at the last moment and his blow lost momentum. Riyarra's tightly clenched fist backhanded the clumsy soldier across the face and sent him reeling. He clutched his cheek and wiped the small cut on his face. Something in her fist glinted in the light and he stared at it. She saw him looking and opened her palm... a broken off arrowhead fell to the ground.

He stumbled backwards and fell to his haunches. The poison was already taking effect as the ground rolled and swam around him, even though he sat still. His eyes searched around wildly, as if he couldn't focus on what was right in front of him. Riyarra fell on top of him and drove her knee into his ribcage.

"SAY IT!" she commanded and twisted his ribs excruciatingly. The captain gasped and groaned, but fell back to the ground.

"m-my...que.." he gurgled out before his mouth overflowed with saliva foam. His body jerked once suddenly then grew very still.

"My queen..." the servant girl repeated horrified. She now understood who the woman was that was rising to her feet before her. Princess Riyarra, branded traitor, convicted and sentenced to death. The gossip and rumors were horrifyingly true.

The woman smiled at her.

"Go," Riyarra said. "Take what you can carry -- food, arms, supplies. And make for the fort Henescia to the southwest. It should be four days on foot if you hurry." She placed a hand on the girls shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly. "Leave all this behind."

They gathered their things without another word. The elf girl watched her queen dress for combat and arm herself to the teeth. She was curious who her queen planned on fighting, but she knew the answer already -- the proof was strewn around this small spanse of forest. She didn't say goodbye or thank you, but she knew she was being watched as she left and she hoped it wasn't to put and arrow in her back.

Riyarra watched to make sure she took the right supplies. This one was good at her job, and knew exactly what to take. The intensity of the moment was wearing off, and Riyarra found herself calmly at peace now. That tranquility unsettled her terribly; she shouldn't feel so calm when she had caused so much carnage.

She paused by the blonde head of her love. Reverently she cut a short lock of hair from his head and tucked it into her bosom.

"This is just a shell now." She told herself and walked away in silence. The aftermath of all her actions followed her and settled into her conscience. Doubt suddenly made its way to the surface and she held her arms tightly as she walked. She wished Mule was here with her, somehow his strength radiated into those around him. She would never have done what she had just done if he hadn't shown her the path to resistance.

Her thoughts lingered too much on the dead human. She paused in her tracks and orientated herself by the sun above. She should deliver a message to this monastery Mule mentioned. It was the least she could do for his sacrifice.

Riyarra changed her course and continued on.

"Ry?"

"I'm here love,"

* * * * * * *

Mule

Mule ran hard. The arrows sang through the trees after him and cut nicks into his skin and clothes. Each one was a well placed shot, but Mule's reflexes were extraordinarily fast. He was closing hard on the sniper; he couldn't distinguish them from the trees, only follow the line that the arrows traveled. If he got close enough he could force them to move and reveal themselves.

The moment came sooner than later, and Mule saw movement. This archer wasn't going to let him get too close. This one was smart -- if they couldn't hit a charging human, than they didn't want to be anywhere near that human. That was bad for Mule; if his adversary got away, he'd have to dodge more arrows to get close again. He would quickly wear down against that kind of fight.

There! He spotter a bow taking aim.

Mule kicked up a rock as he ran and snatched it out of the air. The moment his fingers wrapped around it, he spun on his heels in a complete circle and hurled it up through the leaves. It was gone in an instant. A second later a sickening crunch echoed through the branches and a bright spray of red disturbed the peaceful sea of green and brown clearly marking his intended target.

Mule slowed down and caught his breath as he came upon the body. His cheeks scrunched up in distaste as he recognized the uniform as Eltharian. Their situation had just gotten more complicated. The archer's face wasn't recognizable anymore, but he could tell she was young by Eltharian standards. With his foot he rolled the corpse over and found that she wore a glove on her right hand -- her bow hand, yet her left hand was bare. Mule pulled the quiver off and smelled the arrow heads. Odorless. But as he turned one of them in the light, the metal tip gave off a crystalline sheen. He didn't need to look to the numerous cuts on his person to know he had been poisoned by those many wounds.