[This post is from Thom’s point of view.]
There were three riders coming toward him. Thom took a deep breath as he watched them draw close enough for him to start making out more than just general features. The three were all clad in dark clothing—it almost looked likes some kind of military or police surplus tactical gear—and rode horses like they’d been born to the saddle.
Who the hell knows. Maybe they were.
A chill washed over him. He rested his hand on the pommel of his sword, drawing himself up a little straighter. He was aware that he wasn’t all that impressive of a sight all things considered, but he was all they had at the moment.
Even Seamus at my shoulder would have helped.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. He took another deep breath. You can handle this. This is nothing compared to job interviews. Just treat it as another class debate. The stakes are higher, but you can negotiate a way out of this for everyone—or impress upon these people that you’re not something to be trifled with.
It was one of the men carrying the white flag, a stern-faced figure with a long scar marking the side of his face, a second marking his throat. His eyes glittered a cold blue in the fading light, cold enough that Thom imagined that he could feel them even from this distance. The lead rider was a big man with a shock of pale hair and eyes as dark as pitch. Riding alongside him was a slender woman with red hair falling in waves around her shoulders, her chilly beauty matching the flag-bearer’s eyes for cold.
They stopped maybe ten feet away from where Thom stood. The lead rider swung down from his mount’s back, passing the reins of the destrier to the woman before he took a few steps toward Thom—then stopped.
“You lead them,” he said. It was not a question.
Thom squared his shoulders. “I do.”
“Then we will have words,” the man said, his voice deep, dark—like the chill of a tomb, like the grave. “I am Pluton, and you have things that we want.”
