But, as he narrowed his eyes and studied her, something about this elf caused him to hesitate, made him think of her as more than just an enemy, a tool of Satan deserving only destruction. Her eyes, green and deep and wide-set, stared at him with an expression he allowed himself to believe was awe. They followed him as he walked slowly closer. He was certain that his first impression was correct.
This woman, this elf, was different. Her beauty choked his breath in his throat, sent the blood pulsing through his temples. Her eyes were almost hypnotic, and the gold of her hair was like an angel’s halo.
Caution whispered a warning: Was she merely another temptation? Or had God at last sent him a true angel? He would find out, and quickly.
“Your gown,” he said, mesmerized by those eyes. “It is like a witch’s… yet you are no witch.”
“No, I am not,” she agreed, her voice level and those eyes as intent as ever. “I am a sage-ambassador of Argentian.”
“But you are not like the others, “Sir Christopher said fervently. “For you know of the glory of God, do you not?”
Her expression was puzzled. She paused, then spoke carefully. “I know of many glories… and I know of the Goddess Worldweaver, who dwells at the Center of Everything.”
“You must know that is blasphemy!” Christopher growled, shaking his head, clearing away the fog that had been settling over him. Maybe she was evil, as wicked and vile as any of the others. Or even worse! He saw it now: The witch had been spellbinding him even as he talked to her. It was the only explanation that made sense. But her eyes… they drew him in so.
Abruptly he reached under the throat of his tunic, clasped the stone on its golden chain. He pulled it forward and saw her gasp, an expression of fear that confirmed his suspicion. This woman was not here to test him-she was an angel of purity, a vessel of his reward.
“You know the power of the Holy Cross,” he said. “Do you yield to me?”
“What is it you wish of me?” she asked, her eyes never leaving the stone.
“I wish your help in bringing the true word to this pagan place… Help me share the joyous news of our Savior’s reign! And scour the stain of Satan from every tree, every cursed house of this forsaken land!”
With obvious effort she tore her eyes from the talisman, and when they fixed upon his face they were full of anger and scorn.
“You are the stain on the land!” she retorted with surprising vehemence. “You are the evil that should be scoured!”
He raised the staff, ready to drop the wood to the floor, when something, that glimmer of vitality in her eyes, once more stayed his hand. She was teasing him, taunting him with the illusion of wisdom-as if she were the one who understood him.
“You think to tempt me… to be granted a rapid death. But I tell you now, witch… you will suffer-you will suffer as only the chosen few of my captives suffer!” He turned to Gawain, who still loomed just inside the entrance. “Leave us-I will be alone with this captive.”
With a flick of his black tail, the big centaur quickly ducked out.
The roaring in Christopher’s ears was a thunder as he seized Belynda’s small body in both his strong hands. Her beauty taunted him, another magic trick, he knew, as he tore away her gown to reveal the revolting contours of her body.
“You could have been an angel!” he croaked. “Instead you are the serpent, disguised with lips of seduction, eyes of deceit!”
He threw her down. Death was too merciful, a relief from the suffering that a righteous God desired, nay, demanded. She would pay dearly for her deception.
And then his own tunic was off, and he fell on top of her. She screamed and struggled, but she was like a child and he was a powerful man-a man blessed by the strength of a Holy God, given the tasks of an Immortal Avenger. She twisted frantically, but he tore the rest of her garment away, roughly parted her flailing, kicking legs.
He used his weight to hold her down as he penetrated her. His own body was a weapon, a sword and a spear and a knife. He pushed and cut at her, relishing the sounds of her pain, laughing as she shrieked, wailed, and sobbed, cherishing the agony he inflicted upon her. By the time she lost consciousness, he was nearly finished with his punishment, and when the moment of release came he saw the full glory of his righteousness, and he knew that vengeance was his, and would be complete.
T he small figure pushed through the underbrush, making a careless racket, moving like a thing that feared nothing-or else was so intensely panicked that all rational caution was overwhelmed by the press of unspeakable dread.
Nistel was alive, though he couldn’t quite believe it himself. His head remained sticky with blood-blood!-and one eye had swollen shut. The other stared wildly straight ahead, and the terrified gnome gave no thought to anything other than a path to escape the danger certainly lurking behind.
He had been running for only a minute or two, the time since he had awakened in the forest to find himself lying in a pool of his own gore. The shock had spurred him to his feet, and then set those feet into motion. But now, as his lungs strained for air and his bloodshot eye revealed only a tangled expanse of bramble and woods, he stumbled into a walk, then finally halted, sitting on a stump while he very slowly caught his breath.
And only then did he remember Belynda.
“Oh!” he cried. He popped to his feet, and then began to cry. Soon he was sobbing uncontrollably, even his swollen eye leaking big tears.
What could have happened to her? He tried to remember… he was pretty sure that she hadn’t been anywhere in sight when he woke up. Of course, he remembered with a pang of guilt, it’s not like he had thought to look around very much.
He knew then that he had to go back to that awful place, to see if Belynda was there. If she was not, he had to… to do what? How could he decide? There was no one to ask, and nothing like this had ever happened before. What could he do?
The gnome decided to worry about that part later.
It was pretty easy to see the path he had taken through the woods. Broken branches, trampled ferns and smashed flowers all left an indication of a gnome-sized tunnel bored through the entangling growth. Nistel retraced his steps, tripping over vines and roots, pushing branches and thorns out of his way, wondering how he had ever been able to run through such a thicket.
Many minutes passed before he saw the glimmer of daylight ahead, and then stepped out of the brush onto the forest road. He shuddered as, once again, he saw the dark pool that was his own blood. Searching up and down the road, he peered into the underbrush, kicked through the tall grass in the ditches flanking the track. He returned again to the place where he had awakened, having seen no sign of Belynda. Despairingly he looked down, saw the black patch of gore on the ground, and shook his head.
“I must look a mess!” he realized, with a gasp of dismay. He quickly pulled out his handkerchief, but now, the blood coagulated and caked with grime, he couldn’t really do much to clean off his face.
Squinting upward, he decided that he could see a little bit with his swollen eye, but only if he was looking directly at the sun. It was then that he realized that full daylight blazed around him.
“How long did I lie here?” he wondered, asking the silent shrubbery. “It was getting dark, but just, when…”
And finally his thoughts came hard against the reality of the previous evening. Belynda and he had been attacked, violently, in the Greens of Nayve! He, Nistel, had been nearly killed by a centaur’s club. As to the sage-ambassador, he couldn’t think what had happened to her. He knew that she wouldn’t have run away and left him there-though he remembered with a moan of despair that, in his initial panic, he had certainly been ready to run off and do just that to her. That memory triggered fresh sobs, and raised horrible questions in his mind. Where was Belynda? Was she hurt? The possibile fates of his friend were terrible to contemplate, but they all involved her being taken away by the centaur and those two giants.