‘It’s Björn,’ Gwilym spat.
‘Traitor!’ Björn’s hand whipped to his side, easily drawing his sword from his belt.
The small village square rang with the rasp of weapons being drawn as Björn’s cronies readied themselves for a fight. Gord, grinned oafishly in anticipation as he shrugged his huge bearded axe from his shoulder and spun it casually in his hands, sending raindrops flying from the blade.
‘I should have guessed that you’d have been involved in this damned escapade,’ Björn snarled. ‘Though I’m disappointed that the witch didn’t come back with your head, instead of having you skulking in tow, like some whipped mongrel!’
‘It’s always a pleasure to see you too, Björn, though I must admit that the manner of our meetings continues to go downhill every time we run into one another.’
T
