Part 2/4: The Vanquished
She'd been working late, carving runes into lumps of polished wood. It was more for practice than anything, as her storerooms were already stocked with enough of the magical augments to last a month or more. Runes carrying the most basic building blocks of magic were stacking up on the floor beside the sorceress' crude workbench, a neat pile that reached almost to her knee.
As her chisel dug a vertical line, halfway through a rune of propulsion, she felt a presence. Not just a rat or raccoon, creatures that liked to frequent her lair, but larger, more intelligent, and much more numerous. A group of humans. With a sharp breath she extinguished the candle she used as her only light source, then ducked around the corner of the L-shaped workroom. She listened intently the creaking of floorboards and the moaning of doors coming from above, until after a few moments, there was silence.
***
The door swung open gently, silently, without trouble.
Darkin gulped, slowly making his way through the aperture. A flight of stairs leading to a basement greeted him beyond the mysterious door, though how far they led down was obscured by pitch black darkness. Whether it were an enchanted shroud hiding the room or simply a lack of light sources, the inky black put the warrior chieftain on edge.
On stair at a time, his right hand gripping the hilt of his still-sheathed weapon fiercely, Darkin made his way into the basement. Whether is fellows were behind him or not was no longer material; nerves were drawing him forward, fear forcing him to greet the unknown willingly. If he ran now, the lack of closure on what threats may be lurking down here would haunt him for weeks.
As his vision left him in favour of dark, Darkin felt concrete replace wood beneath his boot. The ground here was solid and continuous: he'd reached the bottom of the stairs. Looking over his shoulder for a moment, he saw the dim outlines of his warriors, following in single file, silhouetted against the moonlight peeking through the hallway above.
He turned back to face forward, sensing a presence ahead of him. As he squinted to peer through the black, his eyes were suddenly assailed by orange light. Candles flared up around the perimeter of the room, illuminating every corner with comparatively blinding light. Flickering shadows danced blurrily as Darkin's pupils tried to adjust to the newly brightened environment, and as his vision gained focus he saw
her.
A tall woman, looking to be somewhere in her thirties, stood proudly in the centre of the space. Her raven hair collapsed over shoulders that were bound in hard leather padding, a style that followed down her torso in panels, covering bare, pale skin. Covering her head was a dark hood, silver designs that glimmered in the candlelight shining inconsistently across it. Her face was obscured by a thin cloth, the only feature visible being her piercing eyes, black where they should be white and fiery amber in colour. Yet perhaps her most striking feature, however, were her 'legs': inhuman constructs of energy kept her erect in place of human limbs, their ethereal forms shimmering as arcane force flowed through them.
As Darkin took in the appearance of the lair's resident, her voice rang out from beneath her facemask, raspy and yet enticing on a level above its sound.
"What brings you to my dominion. Be you a thief, seeking my power? Or perhaps a murderer, a witch hunter?"
The woman's brow furrowed as anger filled her eyes. It was obvious to Darkin that she did not welcome visitors, no matter their purpose. The cold steel of his sword was ever more apparent in his grasp, and he twisted his wrist to be ready to draw the weapon at a moment's notice.
"A thief, perhaps," he spoke, decades of practice giving commands letting him the ability to cover his nervousness with a firm tone, "Though not one who comes unprepared, witch."
The sorceress threw back her head, cackling as if Darkin's words were some great joke.
"Prepared? For me? Do you have any clue what you have stumbled upon, barbarian?"
Darkin simply grinned menacingly, his blood pumping adrenaline into his attitude.
"Speak your name, and perhaps I can answer you that."
Her laughter ceasing, the woman stepped forward, covering the distance between the two gracefully. When her face was barely a foot from Darkin's she spoke once again, this time her voice clearer, gentler. In a way, the musical tones with which she greeted him now were even more mocking.
"You were a fool to think you could rob the Shaman of Sin. Your warriors have followed that foolishness to their dooms, Darkin Warbander."
She winked, and a screeching sound filled the room. Runes carved into the walls glowed golden, magical energy filling their particularly designed grooves.
His sense of self-preservation kicking in, Darkin realised what would happen next a moment before it occurred. He ducked, dropping to the concrete floor with his forearms covering his face, as a searing heat erupted forth from the walls. Screaming echoed around the stone basement as fire spread through the air. Darkin felt rage building inside him as his warriors were scorched alive.
After a few seconds that felt far longer to the chieftain, the screams stopped and the flames subsided. Agony was replaced with nothingness as eleven bodies - or at least their charred remains - collapsed to the floor. Slowly, Darkin looked up, his back stinging viciously with fresh burns, but the pain was enough to tell him would survive. He drew his blade, now red hot as the grip branded his hand, and threw himself into the Shaman, steel against her exposed throat.
Her facemask fell away to reveal a wicked grin. Sin Shaman knew she had the warrior defeated. Ignoring his unspoken threat, she placed her hand on his right shoulder, and her eyes flashed a bright orange. The propulsion rune she had been carving when the Wastelanders made their appearance rolled down Darkin's sword arm, and as it reached his hand its magic activated. As magical force blasted outward between his fingers, his weapon was ejected violently from his grip, launching itself upward through the charcoaled wooden ceiling, and off to god-knows-where.
Darkin froze. His usual keen senses had been obscured by this lair, which should have been a warning not to enter, but he had ignored it out of confidence. Now, his loyal warriors had paid the price, and he was surely soon to follow.
"What now, sorceress. Will you murder me too? I trust you'll find something suitably agonising to kill me with."
Sin Shaman's wicked grin changed slightly, almost to amusement.
"No, you get to leave."
Shock spelled itself across Darkin's face, his fear subsiding for a moment to be replaced by confusion.
"But first..." the Shaman continued, drawing forth her other hand. Dangling by a golden chain was a heavy amulet, obviously occult in its nature. Swiftly, before Darkin could react, the Shaman had lifted the metal ornament and pressed it against his face.
The world swirled as the amulet became his entire focus. Nothing else was important anymore, the dark emerald that adorned its centre drawing his attention inward. Slowly, his world turned green, then faded to black. Darkin collapsed to the floor, his breaths short and desperate.
Sin Shaman gave the chieftain's side an amused kick, then returned to her workbench.
"Sweet dreams, Warbander." she said mockingly, although Darkin could no longer hear her words. Satisfied with her work, she drew another lump of wood from a nearby chest and reclaimed her chisel, returning to work.