7
Yseult
A voice cut through the throbbing in my head. A dark bearded man was speaking to me, brown eyes probing mine. I was surrounded by warriors, wearing helmets of beaten metal that glinted dimly in the sun. Rough hands held me fast.
“Answer us,” someone growled—the blond one holding me. I was trapped between two warriors, one with long blond hair, the other dark and swarthy, with a close-cropped beard.
“What?” With relief I found I still had a voice.
“What are you doing here?”
I licked my lips. “Please, I mean no harm.”
“Make way for the commander,” someone cried, and the warriors before me parted for one taller than all of them, wearing a shining helm and a red cloak. All but the men holding me saluted, with the fists to breastplates.
“Look what we’ve found,” a warrior crowed
