Page 11 of Cursed Shadows 4 (The Dark Fae)

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Enough time has passed for my heartbeats to steady in my chest and for the murky grey of the skies to lighten with the faint glow of the faraway sun.

Dark ones will be in hiding now.

And here I am, sprawled over a fallen tree in a river.

I’m wasting time.

Time that I need to eat and find shelter.

My reluctance is in the huff that deflates me. My movements are stiff, frozen solid, as I shuffle the front of my body, legs and chest, around the rugged bark, until I find an angle that I can push myself up to straddle the trunk.

My legs dangle, water rushing over my boots— thank you, Aleana, for the foresight of waterproof leather —and my hands are flat on the bark.

I turn my weary gaze around.

There is no mudbank this far down the river. No shore, no pebbles, no sand, no stone. The river ends where a forest begins; and all that fringes the seam is grass that reaches up to my waist, even perched on the log.

I frown on the grass for a beat before I squint up at the forest. Rusty brown trunks rise up, the lush green heads of the trees reaching such heights that they seem to graze the clouds.

I could make it across the fallen tree to the tallgrass, get a grip on the dewy earth, then pull myself onto land.

But before I do, I lean to the side and look down at the agitated, foaming waters. Bunches of colours rush under the log.

Riverfish.

Soaring past my boots, swarms of them are caught in the violent current.

I drag my backpack to settle on my lap. My gaze remains suspicious, cautious, as it cuts around the riverbanks and the forest and the tallgrass.

I tug out a bunched-up net from the bag.

It’s silk to the touch.

Lowering the spider silk net to my side, I rattle it apart from its wrinkles. It unfurls into a netted bag. Not too big. I’ll be able to keep whatever I catch in my backpack.

And I must catch something, even just a single fish before the sun goes down again, before another litalf finds me, or several more. I need to use these little hours I have to fish, clean and gut it, cook it, eat it, then find shelter.

I tug the string that pinches the mouth of the netted bag. It opens, wide, and I lean my front onto the log.

I dangle one hand over the foam of the river.

And I watch.

The only thing stopping me from toppling over the edge and into the violent river is one hand gripped onto a sturdy protrusion that must have once been a solid branch, a leg hooked around a wet bough, and my aching middle pressed into the thickness of this fallen tree.

I lean far over the edge and watch as fish are thrown into my net by the current. Not many, but I count at least three before I heave the thrashing bag from the river.

I would stay for more, dangle for longer, if I could afford to. But I can’t afford the time, to be out in the open for so long, and physically, I feel like I’ve been shredded inside out.

The netted bag leaks from the bottom in small streams.

Exertion has got me in its firm grip. It’s in the hoarseness of my breaths, the grimace of my weary face, and the sag of my posture as I struggle to push myself upright.

I stuff the net—and the suffocating fish—into the backpack, then hook the straps around my shoulders.

My pace is cautious as I turn to look around at the boulders, the exposed tangled roots of the tree in the sludge of the riverbank, undisturbed tallgrass and silent rust-brown trees that reach up to leaves the same deep shade as damp moss.

Beyond the commotion of the roaring river, silence surrounds me.

If it weren’t for the death-drop-waterfall, this little pocket on the Mountain of Slumber might actually be… pleasant.

It is quiet.

There are no signs of any nearby warriors, not in my scanning gaze. Only the one who chased me downhill, away from the others who landed in that area, but the current took us further down the mountain.

No one else seems to have reached this area.

I consider the hopeful possibility that the river has taken me far from where most contenders landed. It carried me downhill, too far for any other warriors to stumble upon me. If there are any this far down the mountain, then they won’t be this close to the waterfall—they will be further along the river, back the way I came, headed upwards for the summit.

I need to figure out my direction, fast.

I scoot along the fallen tree towards the tallgrass.

The backpack shifts to press against the curve of my spine. There, I feel the slight tickle of fish as they flail their final moments of suffocation.

I pause at the edge of the tallgrass.

It would be easier to crawl along the trunk the rest of the way towards the forest floor. But between me and the safety of land is the tail end of a slippery, slimy greyish creature submerged in the water. The tail protrudes, leaning over the fallen tree, and it sways side to side. There’s a translucence to the flesh that reminds me of kelpies—and I know exactly what this creature is.

One to be avoided.

The river eel.

One flick of that ghastly tail at me, and a shock will jolt through me, powerful enough to throw me off this log and back into the river, unconscious.

I choose the tallgrass.

I lie flat on the tree, then slide, slow and careful, off the edge. My cheek is smushed against the rough bark as my boot points and sways as it searches for the boulders. The touch comes with a sudden spray of icy water, and I know I’m close to the rush of the river again.

One wrong move, and I’ll be swept away to the waterfall.

The scrape of bark along my cheek is the tree’s farewell to me. I twist away from it, then manoeuvre myself onto the boulder.

Slowly, I lower to a crouch.

My mouth puckers as I bite down on the insides of my cheeks. I eye-up the riverbank.

From this angle, I get a better view of the mud beneath the tallgrass, soil that’s soaked to the core of the earth from the river water.

I push up just a smidge. Half-crouched, half-risen, my knees ache too quickly. Hands splayed at my sides, I watch the tallgrass, watch it sway and crackle and whisper.

Then I lunge for it.

I tell myself that this is a dance.

And so I dance.

One leg kicks ahead of me, pointed. I am performing, there is an audience, and this is mere dance, it is ceremony, nothing more.

The lie carries me.

It carries me across the waters to the tallgrass, where one boot comes smacking down on wet soil—

And the mud slips out from under me.

Face-first, I crash down on the sludge of the riverbank.

Damp dirt fists into my mouth and forces its way up my nose. I am fast covered in mud.

The toes of my boots dig into the wet earth, the pressure keeping me in place. I don’t slip any further down, the river doesn’t steal me away.

A breath of relief grunts through me.

Still, I twist my face against the smear of dirt.

I push up onto my elbows, then spit out a chunk of grainy mud coating my tongue.

I loosen a weighted sigh.

If anyone saw…

I scoff.

Everyone probably saw that.

I forget, even if only for some moments, that the whole of fucking Comlar can see me. Those damn portals-turned-windows. Pools of ink betraying me and my shame.

It won’t be like the caves in the first passage, hidden from view. The second passage reveals more than the contenders on the mountain, but perhaps the depravity of our souls, too.

Every spectator on the stands will be watching the contenders fight for their lives—and for the deaths of others.

Father is among them.

He will have watched me. He will have seen the litalf male chase me to the river, and how I evaded him, and how I survived the water, and even took the opportunity of my survival to fish, then got myself out of the dangerous current—and still, even then, I don’t think he would be proud .

Relieved, yes.

Relieved, because the longer I survive, the more I survive, the better the chance I return home. To him. To his ownership.

And then he can sell me off.

But that isn’t going to happen.

Because I am proud.

And it shows on the watery smile hidden beneath the mud caking my face.

I flop onto my back and, blinking up at the muted sky that is closer to white now, I let the mud soak into my sweater.

The sun is tucked behind the thick clouds masking the skies, the clouds that haven’t moved since I first landed, and that was maybe two or three hours ago.

Two hours of sunlight.

That’s what Dare told me.

I wasn’t exactly keeping track of time while I fought the river and the rapids and the drops. So I am not certain on how long the daylight has been above me, not certain on how much longer I have left until the skies are grey again, and the threat against me expands to the dokkalves who will come out of hiding.

I stop wasting time.

No matter how achingly my body begs for more rest, I must move. There’s too much to do.

Forcing myself onto my front, I push up with a strain.

My shoulders sag as I huff a tired breath and face the forest.

The fleeting thought to wash myself in the edge of the water passes my mind, but of course I would rather the mud stays caked all over me to mask my scent.

I shove my body weight onto my left leg and start the hike through the tallgrass for the forest line. Once my boots tread on foliage, on drier earth, and I’m sheltered by lush green and rusty brown, no longer slowed down by mud, I break out into a run.

If I can find some dried wood, fallen branches not too cold, then I can maybe start to gut and cook these fish, like Dare taught me, or dry my clothes, or warm my prickled flesh and soothe my shuddering lips.

Now that I think on it, the cold feels wetter than it did when I was on the dead tree, and the hunger eats away at my gut like churning acid.

I should have eaten breakfast.

Amateur mistake.