The men in the village had nought but work drays. Those horses came up the road fast, a storm of dust flying in their wake. Dael ran to Ma’s side, and they shaded their eyes, watched as the horses came closer and closer.
For one moment, Dael thought the dark-haired man at the front was Bayard’s son Leofrick, but then Dael realized that the men were wearing bright red cloaks, too red to be blood, redder than anything but that worn by a king.
In the midday sun, the riders’ armor glinted, and Dael realized who they really were.
No comments:
Post a Comment