Acwellen’s face darkened as only the face of an oaf can when insulted.

“You should be careful, gnome.” The small man with grey in his beard said through yellow teeth. “These lands belong to Thegn Kederic. You might get lost…and never be seen again.”

“I doubt it Drefan,” Deglan replied. “I’ve been riding these lands for more years than you can count. Which is to what, ten? Before you have to take off your boots and use your toes?”

“We are on the hunt,” Faabar put in loudly, drowning out Deglan’s last remark. “Same as you.”

Acwellen made a show of seeing the fomori for the first time. “And the guardian beast! My, my, this is quite the gathering. I last saw you bleeding in a shit smeared field, lowing like a calf at market.”

The pale tub of suet named Fat Donall laughed at this, his tiny pig eyes squinting with mirth. Deglan recalled this cruel man laughing when a pack of wolves ripped a lamb from its mother mid-birth. Next to him, the gawky, chinless wretch known as Poncey Swan grinned arrogantly.

“And last we saw you,” Deglan told the lot of them, “You were riding out of town before dawn, your horses’ tails tucked firmly between their legs. Least they showed some shame in leaving. Unlike you lot of cowards.”

Acwellen’s face turned red as he stood in the saddle, brandishing the boar spear. The other seven riders formed up behind him, anger on every face.

“Peace!” Faabar shouted, stepping between Deglan and the horses. “Acwellen, do you seek the husk?”

The man nodded, still glaring at Deglan. “By the Thegn’s order.”

“And have you any sign of him?”

Acwellen shot a glance at Madigan’s hounds, somewhat nervously to Deglan’s mind. “It’s only a matter of time.”

“Slouch Hat’s been gone well over a fortnight now,” Deglan jabbed. “Might want to try looking back in Sasana.”

“I don’t need advice from a herbwife!” Acwellen snapped “It’s your kind should be leaving these lands! Your damn unnatural slaves, murdering decent folk! The Thegn will see a stop to it, hear my word!”

Deglan was growing tired of this lout. “Slouch Hat was no slave of mine. But I am glad to hear the Winetongue is so grieved at Brogan’s passing as to send his men out in search of his killer. Interestingly, the same men he ordered away from Hog’s Wallow the day we found Brogan dead.”

Acwellen’s voiced dropped to a contemptible snarl. “That tongue’s going to get you killed one day, little man.”

Faabar stepped close to the man. “I have oft told him so,” the fomori’s voice was distant thunder. “But it will not be today.” Acwellen was ahorse, Faabar standing. The two were eye to eye.

Acwellen blanched and then turned his horse, giving his men the signal to ride on. He paused long enough to call back, “Go back to that sheep shit village of yours and leave the husk to us!”