CHAPTER EIGHT
Leading his old nag by foot through the woods running along the base of the mountain range, Ezra Soames wished, not for the first time, that he was not alone. But then again, he thought, sniffing the air loudly, he stank like a rotting clam, rank enough to push any companions far away. The urge to stop, change his shirt, perhaps wash in the river was strong. However, the river, he reminded himself, was all dried up now. No rain had fallen for a good few years. The last time he was here, with the rest of them, on a jaunt to shoot up the town and feast upon the flesh of its women, it had been not much bigger than a trickle. Not even a stream. He’d washed himself after his horse had thrown him when it stumbled over a hidden tree root. He’d landed so hard he’d busted his arm. Th
