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Brodda
Brodda and Ruadan rode together through the streets, searching in vain for the old man. Brodda kept up a long string of curses, bitter with his ill luck. Ruadan rode in miserable silence beside him.
“This might cost us our heads, you know, you miserable dog,” Brodda said in Ruadan’s direction. “Yours at least.”
Ruadan had nothing to reply with.
“Keep searching,” Brodda snapped abruptly. “I’m going to go back to him and feel things out before I break the news.”
Ruadan cast him a baleful look before nodding and turning his head away. Brodda reined his horse about and cantered off down the street. Once he had left the crowd of houses behind, he slowed the horse again to a swift walk and continued on his way, brooding silently over what he was going to say, what to expect, and how to deflect his lord’s displeasure.
Lost so in thought and consideration, Brodda did not spot the old man in the road ahead until he was withing twenty yards of him. His eyes lit up suddenly with recognition and an unfriendly smile twisted up the corners of his mouth.
“Holla! You, old man!” he called out, and spurred his horse forward into a canter.
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