The stocky man clapped his hands and then folded his arms. ‘That wouldn’t be... horses... would it?’ he said, laying a mocking and ponderous emphasis on the word. ‘It’s nice to know you’ve got one or two left. We thought they’d all gone south.’
More laughter greeted this remark. Someone shouted. ‘Fresh meat at least, lads!’ The stocky man smiled and gave Tybek an apologetic shrug.
‘It seems that horses don’t worry us like they used to,’ he said. Then his face changed, the smile vanishing. ‘Anyway, my men are getting cold standing about like this. We’ll have to be on our way. We’ve a camp to find and burn; a murdering sneaking night thieves’ camp. If there’s horses — or riders — in it, so much the better.’ His voice rasped with a viciousness that was like the drawing of a sword. Tybek mad
