"Kill them!" the leader shouted, his voice filled with desperation rather than bravery.
The order came like a bolt of lightning, breaking the brief spell of fear that had paralyzed the group.
The bandits charged with a dissonant roar, shouting too loudly, trying to hide their cowardice behind their practiced fury. The shadows of their cloaks fluttered in the wind, and their weapons—cracked spears, bent iron clubs, dull axes—rose against the gray sky.
The first came charging with a raised club, his gaze fixed on Damon.
But the black horse, as if sensing the intention, raised its front hooves with a thunderous neigh. The impact against the man's chest echoed like thunder. The grotesque crack of breaking bones reverberated through the gorge. The body was thrown backward and fell lifeless, blood staining the snow in jagged patches.
Damon barely had time to breathe. Another was already coming from the side, a makeshift spear in hand, the rusted metal aimed straight at his throat.
