They left the inn, their cloaks drawn tight against the wind, their footsteps crunching in the snow. The pale light of day still didn't warm anything; even the air seemed wary. They headed toward the stable, where they'd left the horses. It was a short walk—long enough for Damon to inspect the spear, slide his fingers around the shaft, feel the familiar weight in his hand again—and long enough for Esther to compose herself, her expression unwavering from the morning's humiliations.
When they reached the stall, the scene stopped them in their tracks.
Around the animals was a lively circle of bodies—men in hoods, faces covered, eyes shining like wet stones. There were eight of them, maybe ten; their numbers changed as the snow and smoke wavered. They had knives strapped to their boots, daggers, and two of them wielded shortbows. A third held a hand crossbow. The tip of a spear caught the light.
