13
Taking Stock
The sword against his throat increased its pressure ever so slightly and Julian cringed back. Or he would have, had there been anyplace further back he could have cringed. He could not move his throat further from the sword than it was, not without doing something incredibly stupid and easy to anticipate. As it was he lay prone, his hands raised in surrender and his eyes fixed on those of the man holding the sword.
Those eyes burned with hate and bloodlust. That did not make Julian feel good about the odds of him surviving the next few minutes.
Around him, the rugged men - he was beginning to think of them as brigands in his own mind; maybe they were the leftovers from Isenholf’s band - were taking stock, licking their wounds. And those wounds were extensive: three dead
