The Soul Collector - By Tamela Quijas Page 0,3
will be an essence of light that will overcome the darkness, and the just shall return to rule the land. Good shall prevail over the might of evil, and all shall be set right, again.” She babbled hastily, chanting the sing-song litany of the ancients, and seeking a calm she did not feel.
“Silence, woman!” D’Angel shouted loudly.
“Do with me as you will, Lord D'Angel.” She managed in a resigned voice, calming, each word choked. “I won’t serve you, or the wretched vileness you’ve set on the land. My gift won’t be used for your wickedness.”
The length of his broadsword left the scabbard with a hiss, and the sharp blade rose high. His steed pranced beneath him, as skittish as the vicious hordes, and small clouds of dust ascended upwards. An illicit and blood curdling battle cry erupted from the king, his thirst for death far outweighing superstitious fear.
“Your life ends this night,” he vowed, his declaration barely audible above the answering roar of his men.
“Not before I say my piece!” a slow smile touched her toothless mouth. The milky whiteness of her unseeing eyes lifted to the ruler and he couldn't contain his shudder. The opaqueness of her glowing orbs reflected an unhallowed shade of carmine in the firelight of raised torches.
“You have naught to say, old woman!” He snarled as the lashes tightened about her crippled body.
“Ah, but I do, my Lord D'Angel,” she persisted, each word pained. Within the all-seeing vision of her mind, she sensed his flinch and scornfully smiled.
The Daemon of St. Lorraine was unprepared for the softness of the words rising from her, the prophetic vows uttered in a voice not her own. Firm and strong, the mystical intonations lifted high on the still night air.
To you, this night, I see
two heirs born to your daemon soul and our good Queen Anjelie,
His heart full of just and might,
one soul shall be of good and light.
The other shall exist for solely turmoil and strife,
an echo of your past and deeds this night.
Neither shall be granted reprieve,
for their souls are cursed to walk the earth eternally,
forced to endure the visions tormenting me.
Your deeds of evil have damned their souls;
I vow neither heir will ever be at ease!
Like the cries of the ghostly damned, the apparitional whisper of a chilling wind resonated mournfully past, lifting the scarlet tails of royal banners high. The steeds pranced uneasily, capable of sensing something unspoken lingering in the cold night, which caused her unrelenting bonds to tighten.
The faintest coppery rich odor of blood rose on the breeze, and her nose wrinkled in revulsion. The life fluids, so redolent in the night, were her own.
The old beldame lifted her grayed head to the ebon darkness of the starlit sky. Serenity settled over her, and the bitterness of the transpiring events left her.
Instead, divinely calm, she listened to the murmuring wind. She nodded, as if in response to words unheard to all others. A frigid draft pushed past armored bodies, coy and teasing tendrils causing their reigned steeds to protest.
The gray-headed hag smiled as the soil of St. Lorraine rose loftily into the night, each precious grain drifting and dancing before vanishing into nonexistence.
For the sake of my good Queen Anjelie,
I offer solely this lone reprieve.
The eternal blessing of angel’s fire shall redeem one heir;
Enveloped in blood of his victims,
the other shall dwell in the bowels of Hell,
The soul of the daemon liar.
Her inner being separated from the shriveled husk of her mortal self as the icy coldness of expertly forged steel struck home, and she crumpled lifelessly to the ground. Incapable of uttering another prophetic word, she spewed precious life's blood into the dusty soil. Discolored by the great flow, the drought stricken land inhaled her sustenance, the dampness the equivalent of long forgotten rain. She heaved one last quivering breath, the sound slow and long before fading.
“Burn her! Burn her until there is nothing to gather! I do not wish to witness a remaining bit of hair, bone, or clothing!” The ruler commanded, sheathing his bloodstained sword.
A sense of misgiving rippled through the assembled horde, filling the minute recesses of their diseased hearts.
“Destroy her!” The monarch snarled heatedly, his dark countenance feral. His men remained conspicuously silent, torches raised, the flames flickering in the rapidly rising wind touching the valley. “Destroy her, I say!”
The cold grayness of D'Angel's eyes glowed in the firelight, and his men hurried to their task. Frowning, a muscle ticked furiously in his clenched jaw before he spat