The broken, undulating ridges kept her from
his sight, and tried to impede him. But he did not need to hear the
sound twice to locate it, or force his hammering body to respond.
And by the time he reached the final crest, his anger had turned to a
rage that bordered on madness that ANYONE, EVER, would DARE to attack
his woman. All his pain and frustration now found release in thoughts,
soon to be acts, of violence. The sight of them struggling, of William
again throwing her down and glowering over her, knife in hand, undid the
last thin strands of mercy and restraint. He all but flew down the
hill, and from atop the same mound of slag, leapt out like a panther
with a savage cry.
An instant later their bodies crashed together, as Sylviana crawled back
against the shelter of broken stone, drawing her torn blouse shut
against the maelstrom.
William was stunned, the knife sent flying from his hand. For all the
hardships of his life, he had never before faced the merciless onslaught
of an animal defending its own. Blows rained upon like a landslide, and
he knew that his death was at hand. He backed away in desperation,
crawling on his elbows, pushing with his legs.
But Kalus was already on his feet, the sword seething from its scabbard.
He lofted it high above his head, both hands hard on the hilt, as his
eyes chose the place that he would strike, a thundering blow to cut his
enemy in two.
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