By George Woodruff



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In the crowded hall of Trovamenth the Conqueror, amid the soft light of torches, candles and peat fires; a soft and seductive tune welled up into the vacuum of hushed silence. The sweet music of the lute was joined by a gentle beat on a tambour and the delicate sounds of tiny cymbals. Giselle stepped in time with the music, her satins and silks rustling sensuously across her athletic form.

Trovamenth set down his cup and stared at the dancer. Her lithe movements set fires in his eyes and his harsh conquering urge mellowed to lust. The tempo rose, and she danced faster, her languid motions transformed to pulsating lunges and swirls. Soft articles of clothing and thin silken veils wafted from her to settle on the floor. The audience was entranced and kept time with the tambour by striking tabletops with fists, knife pommels or horns. Others, who stood, stamped and clapped as her perfume washed over them. Trovamenth rose from his seat and stepped down to the floor.

'Who is this dancer?' he mused, wanting her, but not wanting to end the dance.

Giselle danced his way, and laid satin hands across his thighs. He grabbed for her but she was gone, and he was totally aroused. His eyes followed her half naked form as she flitted about the room, leaving silk veils and satin scarves in her wake. Again she approached, trailing a long amber sash. He lunged; she ducked and spun about him deftly weaving a knot about his left hand. His right came around and she caught it in the silken snare of sash and with a tug she had him bound.

Trovamenth sweated as lust and eroticism flushed his being. Now that he was cuffed she hovered ever nearer till her loins grazed his. Then she laid her hands on his neck and as the music rose again in tempo, danced with him in grazing brushes and passes.

Trovamenth became wild, lured by her sensuous beauty he came close to her and felt her warm moist palm slide down his back to his dagger hilt. Giselle pulled back and in a dramatic sweep, drove his dagger into his loins. His gasp echoed a repeat thrust to his lower abdomen. And as his lifeblood eased out of his stomach, she pulled the blade up and out of him, narrowly missing his heart. And in the sudden silence she rasped...

"This is for the Father thou didst betray...
This is for the Brothers thou didst sell...
This is for the Mother though didst rape...
This is for the kind Giselle!"

And before his could close with her, she buried the gory blade deep between her breasts.

Trovamenth died moments later in the chaos that ensued. His havoc had birthed his doom and he died by an assassin's blade, dishonoured at the feet of an honourable maid.


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Revenge ©1990 by George Woodruff

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