The black rider stiffened as the dismay swept over him like a wave. They had captured Aritka! His stomach flipped as a picture of her and the baby being ripped to pieces flashed through his mind. He jumped down from the barn loft – not bothering with the stairs – and ran outside. He knew the direction of the scream – he just barreled in that direction.
The Jargrar’s den was not far. The rippling back muscles stuck out of the hole in the ground and the black rider ran at it, screaming and waving his pistol. He shot in its general direction, too blinded by nausea and hatred to bother with aim. The bullet went wide but the creature jumped out of its den, immediately covering the opening with dirt. It ran at the black rider, but it had no chance. The black rider aimed and fired – when he was aiming, he was a perfect marksman.
The black rider spared no time for the dead Jargrar. He fell to his knees outside the den and scraped at the loose dirt. Frantically, he hauled handfuls of it out of the hole, preparing himself for what he’d find there. He knew it was hopeless – by the time he’d arrived, the Jargrar had had plenty of time. Still, she had a right to be treated properly in her death. He dug on.
No matter how hard he tried, the black rider could not picture her lovely face marred by the vicious fangs of her murderer. He could not bear to think of it. Still, he knew how it would be. Her curled hair would be strewn about in clumps. Her dress would be stained too deep a red to ever be repaired. But, most importantly, her large, clear eyes, which were a delicacy to Jargrare, would never look reproaching at him again. They would never have a chance to look on him with favor. Even if, by some miracle, they were still in her skull, they would be lifeless.
He had reached the bottom. Three feet down, the pit ended and the den curved away, underneath the ground. He bent down into it and, with twisting stomach, forced himself to reach out. He pulled the corpse out into the light and felt himself go dizzy. It would not be so bad, he thought, if the vision of her as she should be was not haunting his imagination. But it was.
The body had not yet been torn into pieces, but it was badly mangled. Eyes already gone, there were no distinguishable features to it, except that it wore a dress, which was bedraggled and torn.
But then it struck him. Now he was grateful for the vision of Arikta that persisted to haunt him, for the body before him was not quite right. Firstly, the hair was not the right shade. But what really assured him was the dress, torn as it was – for it was not the right style, nor the right color.
Everything that was the black rider sighed in relief. Of course, it was disgusting that an innocent girl had found death in such a way – he always found it sickening when he even heard the stories of victims – but this was not Aritka.
And so where was she? And where was the child she carried with her? They must be safe – surely, they were safe.
To Be Continued....
The Jargrar’s den was not far. The rippling back muscles stuck out of the hole in the ground and the black rider ran at it, screaming and waving his pistol. He shot in its general direction, too blinded by nausea and hatred to bother with aim. The bullet went wide but the creature jumped out of its den, immediately covering the opening with dirt. It ran at the black rider, but it had no chance. The black rider aimed and fired – when he was aiming, he was a perfect marksman.
The black rider spared no time for the dead Jargrar. He fell to his knees outside the den and scraped at the loose dirt. Frantically, he hauled handfuls of it out of the hole, preparing himself for what he’d find there. He knew it was hopeless – by the time he’d arrived, the Jargrar had had plenty of time. Still, she had a right to be treated properly in her death. He dug on.
No matter how hard he tried, the black rider could not picture her lovely face marred by the vicious fangs of her murderer. He could not bear to think of it. Still, he knew how it would be. Her curled hair would be strewn about in clumps. Her dress would be stained too deep a red to ever be repaired. But, most importantly, her large, clear eyes, which were a delicacy to Jargrare, would never look reproaching at him again. They would never have a chance to look on him with favor. Even if, by some miracle, they were still in her skull, they would be lifeless.
He had reached the bottom. Three feet down, the pit ended and the den curved away, underneath the ground. He bent down into it and, with twisting stomach, forced himself to reach out. He pulled the corpse out into the light and felt himself go dizzy. It would not be so bad, he thought, if the vision of her as she should be was not haunting his imagination. But it was.
The body had not yet been torn into pieces, but it was badly mangled. Eyes already gone, there were no distinguishable features to it, except that it wore a dress, which was bedraggled and torn.
But then it struck him. Now he was grateful for the vision of Arikta that persisted to haunt him, for the body before him was not quite right. Firstly, the hair was not the right shade. But what really assured him was the dress, torn as it was – for it was not the right style, nor the right color.
Everything that was the black rider sighed in relief. Of course, it was disgusting that an innocent girl had found death in such a way – he always found it sickening when he even heard the stories of victims – but this was not Aritka.
And so where was she? And where was the child she carried with her? They must be safe – surely, they were safe.
To Be Continued....
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