"Why must I?"
"I—uh—I...” Frantically, she thought of a way to freedom. “Because ... I am with child.” Behind his hood, she saw his gaze flash to her belly. She pushed on. “Let me go, I beg of you!"
"No.” He did not even bother thinking about it. “Come with me."
He turned his head slightly, and she saw the loose ponytail of his long, dark hair fastened with a brown leather cuff at the back of his neck. Reaching for his hood, he pulled it off. Aislan backed away, stars in various colors dancing in her vision, making her light-headed.
She stared at the phantom that had haunted her dreams throughout her life.
As a sleeping child, he had appeared to her as a menacing figure, his dark cloak billowing behind him as he chased her relentlessly, hunting her down. As Aislan grew into womanhood, she began to romanticize him, imagining him to be her knight, albeit an unconventional one, who would come and rescue her from her imprisonment.
The man who stood before her looked like a dark angel. He had a high forehead and a classically high-bridged nose, his cheeks strong and sharp, his mouth firm and wide. The square jaw was shadowed with dark stubble, and a cleft etched his chin. The silvery eyes shone steadily, somehow both bright and chilly, but darkness lurked beneath their stony surface. Physically, he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. Beautiful, but cold.
His expression changed as he saw her reaction to him, and something flashed in the depths of his metallic eyes. She realized now he originated as her tormentor, and only her girlish fantasies had romanticized him into her savior. Her imagination ran wild.
Aislan ran.
Chapter 2
The Dark Lord
She knew him. He saw recognition in her eyes, along with disbelief and fear. Lucien watched her take flight. Again, he went after her, catching her by her cloak. Shrieking, she turned around, her arms flailing. When he grabbed her slim hand, her soft skin vibrated beneath his fingers, and a shocking sensation spread up along his arm. Deep in his soul, something sparked to life. Even his heart gave a sharp tug, and he caught his breath. His rage and anger evaporated instantly. Lucien let go, backing up a couple of steps.
"Halt, milady,” he said calmly, making her his responsibility with his next declaration. “I'll not harm you."
He waited until she registered his words. Her glorious, dark blue eyes glistened from her tears, causing his heart to pull in his chest for several beats. The Witch of Damnation existed, or did she? His gaze moved over the frail woman, who looked ready to break in two.
What would he do with her now?
"Come along,” he said almost gently. There was no need to frighten her needlessly. For a moment, he thought of letting her go, but she would be as good as dead without protection. She would head straight back to Templeton Castle, and one of the king's emissaries would finish what Lucien could not. “You have nowhere to go, so come along,” he told her matter-of-factly.
"My home—"
"You have no home. Not anymore.” The king had reclaimed all of Templeton's holdings, and from the lack of comprehension on her face, she seemed clueless about Hayton Temple's treasonous activities. Yet, he sensed something simmering in her, like a cauldron of water the moment it started to boil.
"Come. Let us go.” He nodded in the direction of her dead husband's body. She refused to move, so Lucien took a step towards her. Dodging his outstretched hand, she began walking. He followed a few paces as he studied her, watching the long braid of her light-gold hair swing slightly.
They soon returned to the scene of the execution. Lady Aislan halted on the edge of the clearing upon the sight of Temple and refused to move further. When Lucien took her by the lower arm, she tried to pull free, but he held on. Keeping his strength in check, he pulled her along, allowing her enough lax to twist her arm inside the manacle of his fingers, but he would not let her break his hold. He turned to look into those arresting, indigo eyes, noting again how lovely she was with her luscious, rosebud mouth and the full bottom lip he wanted to suck on and—
Lucien let go of her immediately. He had slain her husband in cold blood right in front of her. Hell waited ahead once he regrouped, and all he could think about was touching a helpless and defenseless woman.
Despite the violent path of his life, Lucien held onto a few rules of conduct. Even when he crossed the line of decency, numb to compassion, he would not use his physical strength or his sorcery power to subdue anyone weak or helpless.
It was his last shred of humanity, and he refused to let it go.
* * * *
Because he released her so suddenly, Aislan nearly lost her balance again. He brushed past her, pulling on his gloves as he went. Looking about, she pondered her escape even though running had proven futile.
Stealing another glance at Hayton's body, Aislan turned away just as quickly. His blood soaked his entire chest, and he stared overhead. She should cry like a dutiful wife, but tears refused to come. If Father Anton could see her, he would damn her already cursed soul straight to Hell.
Aislan turned to her captor to see him watching her, his handsome face stony, his pale eyes expressionless, completely disconcerting her. Her heart pounded madly in her confusion. He terrified her, and yet, he fascinated her, with his swinging moods, first cold, then hot, and then cold again.
Taking the reins of both Lord Temple's black steed and her gentle mare, he led them towards Lord Temple. Effortlessly, he lifted the huge, blood-soaked corpse and threw it face down across the saddle of Aislan's mare. He used the hunting rope to strap Hayton to the mare, and once finished, her captor mounted Lord Temple's black steed. With one gloved hand holding onto the pommel, he bent slightly and stretched out his other hand.
"Come, milady."
She realized he intended for her to ride in front of him on his lap, so she did not budge.
"Your other option is to ride with your husband."
The thought of riding on top of Hayton's body made Aislan want to retch, but she did not want to ride with a cold-blooded killer, either. Visions of silvery sword, fangs, flying heads, and blood spattering everywhere flashed in her mind. Even though Aislan could not control her vision at will, she trusted whatever she saw.
With an impatient sigh, he reached down, parted her cloak, and grabbed the front of her tunic. The bodice of her shift tore under her weight as he deposited her so that she sat sideways across his lap. He felt like a stone boulder, and his erection, as hard as a steel rod, pressed against her thigh. It terrified her to think of rape on top of everything else, so Aislan struggled and nearly fell off the horse. His hard arms forced her back across his lap. He trapped her with one arm across her back and the other across her front. Grabbing for a steady hold, she had to pull her hand back when the fine steel needles along the arm of his armor cut into her fingers.
Gasping in pain, Aislan looked down at the bloody scratches. They amounted to nothing compared to the blade Hayton had received through the heart. Pressing her stung palm against her lap, she resolved not to give in to crying over mere cuts.
Her captor tied the reins of her horse to the saddle pommel. His gloved hand brushed against her thigh as he doffed a glove. She flinched when he took her hand, his strength unrelenting, his fingers like steel and yet oddly gentle as he turned her hand over to look at her raw palm and fingers. She tried to hide her exposed wrist, but he saw it. Brushing the sleeve of her tunic back, he observed the rest of the long-faded scar from a knife slanted across her wrist. Ashamed, Aislan tucked her chin against her body. Why should she care what a killer thought of her slit wrist?
He held her injured hand by the wrist. With his other bare hand, he pressed his large palm against her tender one, his fingertips against her own. Threads of fire tingled through her body, and Aislan shook in response. Alarmed by her acute awareness of him as a man and not just a killer, she struggled against his steely hold but could not break free as he held her immobile. Aislan felt a sharp current, a different kind of
energy, biting into the flesh of her palm, and she immediately stopped struggling. A surge of power emanated from him to her, like a life force, and she caught her breath, her fear disappearing with this newfound discovery. Something came alive within her and reached out, trying to grasp the energy flowing from him into her. Concentrating on the energy, Aislan reached for it, trying to grab hold. Before she could connect with the life-force, he let her go.
Checking her palm and fingers, Aislan found all the cuts had closed up, without even a trace of a scar. Startled, she looked at his implacable face. A killer with the ability to heal?
Why had he bothered to waste his energy to heal her insignificant pain?
He clicked the horse, and they started moving. His muscular arm braced across her back as he held the reins, while his other arm rested with an infuriating familiarity across her legs. Her arm bounced against his hard chest as the horse cantered along. Aislan tried to huddle into the warmth of her cloak, well aware of his gaze resting on her averted face, blatantly studying her. Her skin prickled, and she shivered as if he still touched her. She lifted her head to look at him. She saw the long thickness of his dark lashes. His masculine face was barely lined, the tanned skin smooth. Because of his height and his solid build, she had thought him older, but now up close, she realized he could be no more than thirty years old.
He returned her stare, the silvery depths unfathomable but no longer cold as he looked her over, lingering sensuously on her mouth. Drawn to him beyond reason, mesmerized against her will, Aislan could not look away, her pulse racing madly even as she wondered if she had lost her mind.
Finally, they returned to the scene where the attack on the hunting party first occurred.
Aislan stared in disbelief at the carnage. They had slaughtered everyone.
Her captor dismounted. He lifted her off the horse, his hands hard about her waist, keeping a hold on her until she had steadied her quaking legs. When he finally let go of her and walked away, Aislan looked about her in shock. They had lined the bodies alongside each other, all lying on their backs, blood everywhere. Her captor stopped beside each body to look at the faces.
Locked up most of the time at Templeton Castle, Aislan had very little contact with these people. Even though she had no attachment to any of the victims, she became violently sick. She clung to the pommel of the saddle, bent over, and vomited on the horse's leg. When she could focus again, Aislan wiped her mouth with her sleeve while blinking tears from her eyes. Two men headed in her direction, and she shifted out of their reach. They swept past her towards Lord Temple. They untied Hayton and carried him the short distance before they tossed him alongside the other bodies. The unceremonious handling of the Lord of Templeton snapped Aislan out of her foggy confusion and back into the reality of death and the horrors waiting ahead. She found the nerve to rush forward.
"What are you doing?” she cried.
The man glanced at Aislan's captor before answering, “The Dark Lord ordered them buried."
Aislan glanced at their imposing leader. What an appropriate name.
"Lord Temple was a military baron who spent his life serving His Majesty,” she protested. “He cannot be buried like a commoner. They all must have the last rites."
"We cart no priest with us on missions,” the Dark Lord intervened.
"Missions! You slaughtered innocent men!"
Eyeing her without expression, he shrugged. “If it matters to you, give him the rites yourself.” He walked away and directed his men to start digging.
Aislan knelt next to Hayton's body. She did not know how to perform the last rites. She had stopped praying a few years ago, since God would not heed what she had to say. However, under these circumstances, she was not praying for herself, so she hoped praying for other souls should be acceptable. Having reasoned so with herself, Aislan closed her eyes and asked God to forgive Hayton for the sins he had committed and to admit him into Heaven. Going to the remaining nine bodies, she performed the same impromptu prayer for each.
Meanwhile, several men were digging a hole, which became larger with each passing moment.
"You mean to bury them all together?” She gasped, staring in disbelief.
A burly man apparently thought she had gone too far with her impertinent questions. He was gigantic, with bulging arms and a mean face covered by a bushy, dirty-looking beard. Aislan had been aware of his lustful appraisal ever since he first saw her. He came straight for her.
"Whore!” His dark eyes gleamed as he grabbed the braid of her hair, pulling her to her feet. “You do not demand or question us. You only beg for mercy."
She shrank away from him, terrified and revolted. The disgusting lout leered as he looked at her face, his beady eyes focusing on her mouth.
"Start begging now!” He pushed her back to the ground, sending her sprawling on her backside. One moment, the Dark Lord stood across the way, and the next, he was beside her. He caught the other man's hand as he reached for Aislan again.
"Enough, Colen."
The much larger man looked at the Dark Lord in surprise, as if not expecting interference. Then he smiled, nodding in understanding. “Of course. You fuck her first. I'll wait my turn."
The Dark Lord's expression remained impassive. “Lady Aislan is under my protection."
Colen looked taken aback, his eyes widening. The other men in the party had stopped to watch the confrontation, wearing the same surprised expression as Colen's. Scrambling to her feet, Aislan backed away. She watched their reaction with a sinking feeling of dread.
Colen and the Dark Lord stood well over six feet tall. Colen drew himself to the extent of his already intimidating height so that both men stared at each other eye-to-eye.
"She is a beautiful bitch, so fuck her if ‘tis your reason to spare her. I'll sample a piece of her ass myself when you have finished, but her head goes with the others."
The Dark Lord's expression did not even flicker. His left hand lowered to rest against the pommel of his sword.
Colen turned red. “Have you lost your fucking mind? You would fight me for a dead whore?"
"She lives.” The Dark Lord's voice remained calm.
Colen turned to glare at her, and she felt a twinge of fear in response to his deadly look. Pure brutality emanated from him as he glowered at the Dark Lord for a moment longer.
"Play the chivalrous wittold,” he said finally. “'Twill be your head on the platter.” He stormed away angrily.
The Dark Lord gave her a glance before he left her side. “Keep digging!” he ordered his men.
Aislan stood and watched cautiously until her tenseness dissipated. After she gathered enough courage, she walked towards Lord Temple's body, and then glanced furtively at the growing hole. After what had happened, she was too afraid to utter another word, knowing she should leave everything alone. However, even though Aislan had not loved him, it still seemed so wrong to relegate Hayton to a mass grave in such a disgraceful manner.
The longer she stood looking at Hayton, the guiltier she felt. Though afraid of the people around her, her sense of obligation began to overwhelm her. She must try to give him some semblance of dignity in death because she gave him nothing but contempt in life. Mustering up some courage, Aislan picked up a shovel. The men stopped and eyed her with great curiosity. Moving several feet away, she started digging. It had rained incessantly the past two weeks, but the ground remained harder than she expected, and even after pounding and scraping, she managed to scratch only the surface. The task was daunting, but she kept digging even when nothing much gave under the shovel.
"Pray tell, what are you doing?” The Dark Lord moved to stand in front of her.
"I'll bury Lord Temple."
"'Tis taken care of."
"No! The Lord of Templeton cannot be thrown in with the others."
"I assure you, milady, it matters no longer where he is buried."
"Not to a soulless devil, mayhap, but it matters to him in the afterlife."
The Dark Lord nodded at one of the men. “Mallers."
A thin, wiry old man with expressionless eyes stepped forward. The Dark Lord inclined his head.
"Yes, milord.” Mallers moved towards the body. Another man pulled Lord Temple into a sitting position, holding his head upright by the hair as Mallers unsheathed a broad-blade sword.
"What are you doing?” Aislan shrieked as Mallers lifted the blade. Throwing her shovel aside, she rushed forward, but the Dark Lord caught her by the arm. When she struggled, he slid a hard arm firmly about her waist from behind to imprison her.
"No!” Aislan screamed.
Mallers swung the blade and separated Lord Temple's head from his body in one smooth motion.
Chapter 3
Turning Point
Aislan must have fainted. When she came around, she found her cheek pressed into the crook of her captor's shoulder. She pulled away, but he held fast, and she realized why. They had beheaded two other bodies.
His arm across her ribcage kept her upright. Hanging limply over his arm, Aislan watched as the man called Mallers unfolded a huge black cloth and spread the square on the ground. He distributed a white powder across the sheet evenly before he placed Lord Temple's head, along with the other two, in a triangular shape on the sheet. The other two men had been guests at Templeton Castle over the past few weeks.
Kneeling down, Mallers spread his palms above the heads. The powder sealed the flow of blood from the severed heads. Mallers closed his eyes and muttered chants under his breath, a ritual performed by decollators to preserve the heads for a long journey. Pulling two opposite corners of the black cloth together, Mallers knotted them, then pulled the other corners together on top and secured another knot.
Aislan struggled free, and this time, her captor released her. She turned on him. “You killed Lord Temple!” She shook her head in disbelief. “You killed these men in cold blood!"
"I killed traitors who deserved to die for betraying their king."
"Traitors? Milord served the king all his life!"
Vision of Light [The Renegades 1] Page 2