The pain had subsided some time ago.
He had been unconscious for days. Bedridden for more.
His body had weakened, but his mind was more focused than ever.
Arnon de Sant gripped the haft of his spear, aiming for the target in the distance. The boy kept moving it too close. He thought about simply aiming for the stupid boy instead.
The thick pink scars across his tattooed chest rippled angrily in the bright morning sun.
Snow was on the ground, almost up to his ankles, but the sky was a clear, deep blue; the colour of his eyes, Arnon thought, turning to the side, feeling the balance of the spear in his hand. And dropping his weight onto his right leg, he brought the ash shaft back to his ear, launching it at the target. Imagining it was the man who had taken his wife.
Reinar Vilander.
He’d heard of him. The Lord of Ottby.
Reinar Vilander and his brother had taken everything from him. His children were gone too. And as soon as he was strong enough, as soon as he was ready to kill with his bare hands again, he would leave Ullaberg behind.
It was time to get his family back.
