Vision of Light [The Renegades 1] (2 page)

Lucien unsheathed his sword.

Temple glanced at his wife who seemed too dumbfounded by the turn of events to have the good sense to escape. Appearing unfazed, Temple spat on the envelope, crushing it in a meaty fist before throwing it on the ground.

"Caliburne bastard!” Temple sneered in reference to the king who had signed his death order. “He thinks a minion like you could kill me?"

Without warning, Temple lunged, his movement surprisingly agile for such a massive man. Lucien easily deflected the fierce impact of Temple's blade with his own sword. As an accomplished fighter, Temple could take on a lesser sorcerer, but Lucien knew even Temple was no match for him. Because Lucien never toyed with his victims, he settled the matter quickly and beat Temple's blade aside. Fire sparked with the impact, and Temple's sword flew from his hand. Taking aim for his heart, Lucien easily pierced Temple's chain mail from front to back. He had forged his own power into the weapon, and Temple's simple chain mail melted beneath it.

Lucien pulled his sword free as Temple fell dead.

As though broken from a spell, the woman finally screamed. Lucien shifted his attention to her. Leaping off her horse, she fell to her knees next to her husband's body.

"Hayton,” she whispered as her gaze ranged from his open-eyed stare to his bloody chest, her face white with terror.

Lucien hesitated. If Temple's companion had been a male, Lucien would have killed him, as decreed. He had never killed a woman before. His directive, however, had been unequivocal. The woman was also targeted for assassination.

Lucien's fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. He studied her pale face: almond-shaped, dark blue eyes a unique color of indigo, slender tilt of her nose, sharp rising cheekbones, and a curved rosebud mouth on her heart-shaped face. Very young and stunningly beautiful, she embodied everything that represented delicate, feminine helplessness.

Springing to her feet, Lady Aislan backed away. When he took a step towards her, she turned and ran. He watched but did not give chase. It would take only a moment to catch her. He weighed the sword in his hand.

Lucien hesitated at having to end her life. In the past several months, he had tracked Temple's activities in East Sharland. He could justify killing Hayton Temple, but to kill an innocent woman, the hapless wife of a traitor, was a different matter. Lucien's instinct told him she possessed sorcery power but not for combat. However, it was not his place to question the king's mandate. Pushing aside his pity for the helpless woman, he went after her.

She ran faster, and in her awkward haste along the marshy ground, she slipped. Again, Lucien hesitated. As she fell, her hood slid askew, and he caught a glimpse of pale gold hair. He froze momentarily, and then sprang after her in earnest chase. Within seconds, he reached her side, seeing the terror on her face as he stood over her. She shrank away as he roughly pushed back her hood. Her flaxen hair was swept back in a single braid, but loose strands framed her lovely face. The thin silver filigree she wore across her forehead bore tiny gems denoting the married status of a wealthy, noble lady.

Lifting the long braid off her back, he stared at the white gold of her hair before reaching for the front of her cloak. She screamed as he yanked open the material, revealing a hunting outfit underneath. Belted at her tiny waist, her long-sleeved, dark-blue tunic draped over large breasts. The supple leather braes hugged her long, slender legs, giving her the freedom to ride astride rather than sidesaddle. He had never seen a woman in braes before, but obviously, she was no typical woman.

A fierce, primal urge sprang from within that made him want to pounce on her like an angry, depraved beast with its elusive prey finally caught in its claws.

With her face and hair exposed, Lucien knew the Witch of Damnation when he saw her.

Aislan Temple stared at the menacing, hooded figure standing over her, his bloody sword barely an arm's length from her head. The silvery blade sparkled under the morning sun. He stood poised and ready to strike. Sensing the vibration of rage in the air, she cringed, her entire body shaking in terror.

The man stood motionless, dressed in black from the top of his hood to the toes of his boots. His hood had large openings for his eyes and wide slits for his nose and mouth. He wore chain mail under his tunic, the links glimmering with a strange light. An imposing figure standing well over six feet, he was powerfully built from the width of his shoulders down to his lean waist and long legs. An air of immense strength emanated from him. She realized it would take him little to no effort to kill her. Wanting to weep, Aislan somehow managed to control herself. She waited, but he did not make a move to strike a deathblow. When she could stand the tension no longer, Aislan scooted away from him on her backside and rose to her feet.

When he did not move, she continued to back away. She felt the urge to run even though she knew the futility of doing so. This man, clearly a powerful sorcerer, who could outrun galloping horses on foot, who had killed the mighty Lord Temple with a few strokes of his sword, could cut her down just as effortlessly.

"You killed him,” she whispered, surprised she found the nerve to speak. Hysteria rose within her, making her reckless and defiant. “You killed him in cold blood."

He did not answer.

"If you intend to kill me, then strike fast. Were I a man, I would kill you!” she continued heedlessly.

The hooded man laughed, a cold, heartless sound.

"Were you a man, you would be dead.” His voice emerged deep and dark from beneath the hood, sending a shiver of fear down her spine.

To her disbelief and rising hope, he sheathed his sword and fastened the scabbard to the left side of his belt, immediately below the foot-long dagger hanging there. Aislan's heart skipped a beat when she saw the inscription along the scabbard holding the dagger. She had seen those patterns before.

"Come.” He waved curtly in the direction of the horses and Lord Temple's body behind him.

Aislan would not move. “What—what do you want with me?"

He did not answer immediately, and then said simply, “I have not decided."

"Please, you must let me go!"

"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.

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.