Guardians of Tarnec, Book One
Two things happened at once. I heard the harsh snort of the Troth somewhere above my head, higher up on the ridge, and then I heard a step that was much closer—a soft, leather-shod step that I was not meant to hear, as if the foot was versed in creeping quietly to the attack. I felt my shoulders hunch protectively in surprise, and, as I started to turn towards the noise, a voice roared in fury so loud that it echoed through the whole valley.
I knew who it was. I knew it was my final breath. Even so, I could not help that my body pulled back, and my head whipped around in shock and fright, so that I caught his eyes with my own. And there was the timeless moment of my dream hanging suspended between us, eyes locked. Half a breath was all it was, yet it lasted an eternity. His beautiful, beautiful face was contorted by rage melting into some sort of frigid horror. My own expression, I know, was the shock of recognition. I was unbalanced. I fell hard back onto the ground, and over me he seemed impossibly huge.
"Trespasser!" The voice was hoarse this time, and I saw him close his eyes.
Yet he lifted his enormous sword in a graceful arc, and there was no hesitation as it struck down.
Return to the Books page
© Sandra Waugh