The Soul Collector - By Tamela Quijas Page 0,1

of his heated branding irons, and the sting of the lash. He governed with a heavy hand, and the thirst for battle weighed more on his mind, instead of the welfare of the people.

King Alphonse’s beautiful daughter, the fair Princess Anjelie, became a spoil of war. Her compassionate innocence and kind heart meant naught to the new ruler. The usurper did not grant her the slightest touch of gentleness.

Granted, the barbarian had taken her as his lady wife. Alas, for those delving deeper into his actions, the deed demonstrated his absolute dominance. His brutality was not held in check for fair Anjelie, for she suffered the wrath of the daemon ruling the province.

As the precious land crumbled and vanished into a barren wasteland, as people died, the princess became a fragile whisper. Swollen with child, she remained locked away in a tower of the crumbling castle.

As the palace and the land wasted, as the precious Anjelie languished, all experienced an overwhelming sense of loss. Instead of the joy fuelling the people's hearts, whenever they heard the thundering hoof beats of their monarch's steed, their fear escalated.

This selfsame dread drove the old witch forward, despite the threat of brewing thunder and brilliant lightning. Her ragged breath wheezed from aching lungs as she hobbled along, her crippled gait a difficult wobble. From time to time, she stumbled and fell, her crooked legs protesting the swiftness in which she traveled.

Ancient beyond imaginable years, the gray-headed woman had observed many a long winter. There were innocuous whispers she was older than the memories held by those hovering around meager campfires. They recalled the woman from their youth, as did their parents.

When glimpsed, fanciful and muttered suspicions abounded, for her weary body resembled a gnarled boundary oak. Her features were nearly indistinguishable, disappearing into the heavy lines mapping her face, and her hair spun in a wild cloud of brittle grays and whites.

The unruliness of her locks served a purpose, shielding all from the unsettling milky opaqueness of sightless eyes.

The old woman stumbled again. She fell on swollen and bloodied knees before righting with a muttered curse. She grumbled, yearning for the slightest fragment of vision, anything to aid in her perilous trek. Cautiously, she picked her way past sharp rocks, abandoned wagons, and the carcasses of decaying livestock. Gasping for breath, she scrambled on, filled with desperation and fear.

She needed to reach the boundaries dividing the D'Angel the Destroyer's land from those of his more erstwhile neighbor.

Panting, her chest heaving, she halted. She swept away a tangle of hair, her blind eyes seeming to scan the moonlit landscape. Although her vision had abandoned her many years past, she appeared to rely on a mystifying sense of guidance. She muttered beneath her breath and shook her head in amazement.

“Even those plaguing my life forsake me in my hour of need,” she wheezed, the words escaping a toothless mouth. The shadows, the entities so prevalent throughout her long life, remained hidden. She shuddered with unfamiliar discomfort and hitched the threadbare material of a shawl closer to her hunched shoulders.

She knew the loss of the shadowy figures for what it was--a sign of forthcoming doom. She could not fault their desertion, for even the dead sought sanctuary from the demonic lord of the land.

Her twisted hands plucked agitatedly at the threadbare fringe of the shawl, knowing her time was at an end. Whether her demise would occur tonight, tomorrow, or the following eve, she did not know, as lost as the glowing light once gracing her treasured land. Her body was far too weary, and she could not outdistance her vicious monarch. The speed of his warhorse and the wickedness resting inside his sinister heart were set with purposeful intent.

As if on cue, her sharp ears heard the thud of approaching hooves, and the ground trembled beneath her. Loud jeers filled the air, followed the jangle of harnesses and heavy armor. Another ribald cheer erupted from the horde of merciless knights surrounding her, their merriment similar to a hunting party.

The snorting breaths of the mounts echoed about her. The stillness of the night filled with the loud sound of jingling saddlery and the sporadic pawing of hooves on the hardened ground. Contemptuous mirth, followed by vehement curses, caused her to shudder with dread.

“Halt, witch!”

The shouted command stifled the raucous laughter, and the dreaded voice belonged to none other than the remorseless lord controlling St. Lorraine. A tremor of terror coursed through her crippled body as the weight