The air froze in a fresh rawness, refusing to move. So still, so quiet, only the priest chanting in the back corner of the hut could be heard. The men’s eyes were raped by every corner of the hut as their anxiety grew. They, too, waxed still, becoming finally convinced of courage to defend all they had remaining in the world. They resolved to spit in the face of this evil, even if it was their last defiant act of flesh. They listened, quieting their breath to hear, raising their weapons, leavening to the ready.

Irony’s twisted sense of humor sang out, as a nightingale’s voice in the distance accompanied the priest’s chant. Their last stand paused hearing the bird complimenting the singsong chant of their priest. In the foreground of stillness, upon the background of melody, the memories of real life: its loveliness, its purpose, its beauty, were coded in the refrain. The song of life weaved sweet memories into their mind. Although invisible to them, Abielle gripped her hands tightly into fists and shook violently in silent rage…and modulated her shields to prevent detection.  “Damn you,” she pressed from her lips as tears took her eyes. She squeezed her lids tightly and turned her head away from them.

With the sound of a blasting wind, the black dragon’s tail whipped like a sword through the hut, shredding and killing every man standing in the gathering, except the distant priest. Only seconds ago, what once were men, were now the intestines of their fortitude. Their guts hung from the broken roof supports of the shattered hut, like sausages drying in the sun. The faces on the severed heads seemed oddly peaceful, snapped from their fear, no longer held by its sway. Their spattered blood painted the constitution of demon-kind. On the tapestry of their blood was written no bill of rights for any human.

Chapter Five  "The Power Trio"   (1983)