At the edges of the Northern Wastes, in the camp of the Undregons.
Anastasia hit the ground with a breath stealing, dust
blooming thud. The air escaped her in a
quick, prematurely ended groan. The pain
in her chest distracted her from the pain in her jaw, but only for a
moment. She did not have time to take
back her breath before a powerful hand took hold of her hair, yanked her head
up, and slammed her face back into the ground.
The hand didn’t let go. It pulled
her, dragging her foot by agonizing foot toward the far side of the room. Teeth and blood spilled from her mouth
between abused, snarling gasps. She
reached at the things she hit, trying to find a handhold or a weapon. Her attacker’s other hand gripped her at the
thigh and hoisted her like a piece of lumber, only to toss her onto the raised
stone altar. She hit and her arm
shattered beneath her weight, making her roll over in a flinching jerk. One of the brutal hands grabbed the broken
limb and stopped her involuntary escape in the most excruciating way. Even through the pain and flaring lights in
her eyes, she saw the man draw a befouled, rune-etched dagger from his hip and
raise the weapon above her belly.
“In the name of the Four,” her attacker bellowed with an inhuman
depth, “you have spawned your litter and served the purpose of the whore. The Gods demand your soul.”
He raised the blade over his own head, summoning the
strength and passion that only zealot barbarians can.
Anastasia screamed.
She screamed at the fates, she screamed at the Gods, she screamed at her
attacker, and she just screamed.
