Woman of Sorrows-The Black-Veiled Woman

The Apprentice

The man moved along the ridgeline without a sound. He was tall and slender, though well-muscled and conditioned for battle. His long, deep green cloak he hide him from the prying eyes of men below. They searched for him, yet they would never find him. He had the upper hand. He was born and bred for this. It was his life, his entire world. His people before him, almost every one of them had followed the same path. The path of the warrior. Yet the warriors had faded. Most of his people had died. He was one of the last of his kind, yet he was not even fully of that kind. He was a half blood. The mixed blood of a Dendä and a man. Rendered powerless from the diluted blood of men, yet granted immortal life from the mystic blood that pumped through his veins. He had never known his mother, nor his father, yet he knew his master. The one whom had taught him everything he knew. And they had taught him well.

Staying low, so to keep his wiry frame hidden from view, he dashed from tree to rock, ducking behind as quickly as possible. The moon was but a sliver, shedding hardly any light over the land. It was the perfect night for the attack, just as his master had intended it to be. As he dove behind a rock formation, his black hair bouncing against his shoulder blade and his arrows clinking in their quiver, he paused for quick glance around. He was safe, no one had noticed him. For a brief second, for he could afford no more, he tried to regain his breath, to steady his pounding heartbeat. His master was so conditioned to battles, to the endless attacks on men, that the bloodshed and the running hardly fazed them. Though he himself was in good condition physically, he was not yet strong enough to behave in the same manner. Attacks such as these drained him dry of all energy, though he never once complained.

Now that he was behind the rock formation, as he had been instructed to do, he set an arrow to the string. Though his sight was not as keen, nor his aim quite as true as his superior, he was a fairly good shot on his own. Taking a deep breath to steady his hand, he found his target and loosed his arrow. The arrow found its mark, and from the ravine below, he heard the cry of agony from one of the men. His master and he had been tracking these men for nearly a week. They had evaded them until now, though he believed his master was simply toying with them, as a cat toys with a mouse before locking its deadly jaws around its prey. They would go down without much of a fight, for they were hardly a match for him and his master. The two of them could easily take on twice as many men without breaking a sweat. Bringing eight men to justice was hardly a taxing attack, even for him in his inexperienced youth.

A second arrow found its mark before one of the men knelt to return fire. Immediately, he pulled himself back behind the rock, making it impossible for them to find a target. The icy grip of the stone clawed at his back, but he did not care. He would, and could, endure far worse in battle. Several arrows hit the ground around him in quick succession. He could wait it out, but that was hardly showing valor in battle. If he was to prove himself, he had to react to the fire. Setting another arrow to the string, he briefly popped up to return fire. Another arrow found its mark, sending a third man down. He saw his teacher had already begun to reign down their terror, for his master's arrows never missed their mark. Instead, they intentionally fired around the men, disorienting them and causing panic. It was intentional, so intentional. For his master was not a kind person any longer. They had grown cruel and hard, taking pleasure in the pain of others.

Then the pain shattered through his thoughts. He had lost concentration, if only for a brief second, and it had bought him an arrow to the lower arm. The surprise caught him more than the pain, causing him to yelp a little when he felt the arrowhead sink into his flesh. Instantly, he pulled himself back behind the rock formation, knowing his master would take care of the rest. His youth had been proven. His teacher would not be pleased. He never should have allowed his concentration to break, even for a second, nor should he had cried out, for now the men knew his exact location. If he were alone, he would likely be killed. It was only because of his master that he would be saved, permitted to live another day, though he would feel dead inside after the tongue-lashing he would later receive. Humiliated more than in agony, he slumped against the rockface and clutched at his arm. The arrow was not in deep. It was a shallow flesh wound. Biting his tongue, he yanked it out and cast it aside. From his deep green cloak, he ripped a length of fabric and wrapped it tightly around his arm. Then, from below, he heard their screams of terror. His master had waited no longer. They had decided to end the mice's misery and kill them quickly.