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Scene #9
Merasien warriors poured through the isolated village along the northern borders to Ciberia, killing and maiming in a mindless frenzy. The male villagers tried valiantly to prevent the onslaught, but were struck down. Their weapons, puny farming tools, dropped useless to the blood-soaked ground.
Grace Delamorte squatted and slid to the edge of the stone slab protruding from a bluff overlooking the village. With her movements, loose rocks cascaded over sandstone below her. Ignoring the pattering sounds, she focused against the reddish glare bordered by the night sky. The massacre called forth memories of her home village eons ago.
She stared unfocused, lost in a time and place where the terrified screams from love ones and dear friends tore at her heart. Her betrothed, the one man she loved above all others, died before her eyes and she had been left for dead.
A tear slipped down her cheek.
The breeze gusted over her, forcing her focus to the present. She tensed, hating her role here. Bound by her oath to not interfere in human lives, she remained frozen, watching. The heat from the inferno devouring the buildings stroked her face. The intense odor of burned wood, mingled with scorched flesh and fresh blood carried a tinge of demons.
Nostrils flaring, the foul smell prominent in her senses, she increase her observations, intent on discovering the attackers' purpose here.
The absence of a protective wall surrounding the homes signified peace here. The people expected the isolation and the difficulty in reaching their village to keep them safe. Idiots. Their complacency had admitted death into their lives.
Grace searched the groups of warriors, seeking for signs of which warriors were the despicable creatures from the nether world. The need to seek out and destroy the evil threatened to override her orders not to meddle.
She could stop the killing, but unless she knew without a doubt the attackers traveled with demons, she could not come to the villagers' aid. So, she stayed from the fighting; this battle belonged to the humans until she found the Keeper. Only then, she would have justification to halt the attack.
Her gaze skimmed over the flaming structures, fallen bodies, and scarred ground until frantic movement on the eastern side of the village snagged her attention. A flash of flaxen color caught her gaze. Three Merasien soldiers dropped to the ground. Through a fire-gutted gate, a tall man sprinted toward another small group of soldiers. Desire speared her heart.
She gasped in surprise, caught unawares by the sudden appearance of something long dead in her soul.
Courage.
This one has too much.
"Fool."
The low word spoken without thinking made her blink. She narrowed her gaze and studied him. His height and hair declared him different from the other villagers. Broad-shouldered and slim-hipped, he radiated a deep-seated strength. He didn't belong among these dark-haired, tawny skin people.
Curiosity grew to an obsession. She stood, and stepped off the slab, over the edge, free falling for several feet. She landed with a grunt on the sharp slant of the path. The decision to join the fray never entered her thoughts while she moved toward the burning village. She wanted to see and speak to this man. By the time she reached the base of the bluff, she'd lost sight of him.
Running through a small orchard on the village's southern side, she dodged from tree to tree, fallen leaves and branches crunching under her light step, until she reached the outer edge of the village. Hope for his survival decreased with each passing moment.
Most of the attackers had departed the village not long before she noticed him. They'd ridden out with several captives. The remaining warriors were stragglers left behind to finish the destruction.
Reaching a smoldering house, Grace skirted the side, ignoring the rancid smoke mixed with burnt flesh odor. She sprinted across an open alley to the next charred frame. Determined, she worked her way through the ruined maze, wanting to reach the man before the soldiers killed him. She desired to see him while he yet lived. This need, absent for many hundreds of years, grew and forced her forward in her search.
Through the smoke, ash, and embers filling the air, she saw him. He lived, and the soldiers lay dead on the ground between them. A rush of relief flowed through her. She watched him kneel next to a fallen villager. Low murmurs and gasps from the dying man greeted her ears as she eased closer. Squatting behind a fallen wall, she observed the flaxen-haired man place a gentle hand over the villager's heart. Broad shoulders sagged and his bright head lowered. When he rose, a life-vacant stare in the other man's eyes greeted her gaze.
Death had struck close to his heart.
The one she sought twisted around toward her.
She stiffened.
The beat of her heart stopped for a second before accelerating.
He looked like...she clenched her teeth and shook her head. No, her love had been thinner, shorter, more scholarly. This man...he possessed power.
Raw rage mingled with sorrow poured from a gaze as black as the soot coating the wood next to her. Dark brows slashed above the ebony eyes, severely contrasting with the dirt smeared white blond hair flowing around his face and shoulders. Blood and ashes marred the sharp lines forming his features. He was a warrior, born to protect the innocent.
But still young, no more than twenty and five winters, Grace judged. He bent and picked up a blood-smeared sword beside the dead man. Muscles stretched under the sun-darkened skin covering his right arm. Tanned leather pants clung to lean hips and molded over long legs. The tight leather vest covering his chest and shoulders stopped a fraction above his abdomen. Sleek belly muscles glistened in the light from the flames.
She licked her lips, wetting them. Her nipples tightened and hardened to diamond points, burning, tingling with each touch to her shirt.
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