The man at their head was the biggest, ugliest man Michel had ever seen. He wore a faded Fatrastan cavalry jacket and rode a black warhorse with a black and brown mottled neck. His face was pitted and scarred, his back slightly bent in the saddle, and he rode ahead of a standard flying an image of a lance through a skull. The same skull that was on the ring that Fidelis Jes wore. Michel didn’t have to ask who that was. “Jes!” Ben Styke roared, throwing himself from the saddle before his horse had even come to a complete stop. “You’re a dead man!”
