A bull’s-eye lantern opened its baleful eye in front of him, the powerful oil lamp all but blinding him. “Who are you, then?” asked the annoying young voice. “I’m the fucking King of Alba,” Harmodius snapped. “I’m an old man on a done horse and I’d love to share your fire, and if I was a horde of boglins you’d already be dead.” There were chortles from the darkness.
