By Charlotte Boyett-Compo
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Betrayal always hurts more than physical pain,” Iden observed. He too was bootless, sitting with his ankles crossed over the rail, relaxing in the rocking chair, the cool breeze ruffling his dark hair. ” Phelan asked. Iden laced his fingers together over his flat belly. “Aye, I believe so. ” “Poor Eanan with three women,” Phelan said, shaking his head. ” His fellow Reaper chuckled. “I still can’t believe any man would be so foolish, yet Eanan is a bit different,” he said. ” He wiggled his bare toes.
Phelan reined in his horse and sat there with his head cocked to one side, listening. There was a rustling along the ether between where he was and the fortress of the Reapers but no words were being spoken. He felt his heartbeat accelerate. ” he asked. Still there was silence and Phelan could imagine the High Lord conferring with the other two Shadowlords. When at last Lord Kheelan spoke, there was heavy anger in the sorcerer’s voice. “We were unaware of his existence but we have him now,” the High Lord snapped.
Glad I’m not in your boots, hound,” he drawled. He clucked his tongue and Ulchabhán started forward again, pricking its ears as its rider laughed. By sundown, Phelan had reached Haxton Cove, but he had heard the ruckus from the booming mining town long before the serpentine road led him into the settlement. The pop of gunfire, the rinky-tink of a piano, the hoots and the curses of drunken men, the rattle of harness and wagon braces echoed off the mountains. As his horse clip-clopped down the dusty street, he was stunned at the activity of a large city rolled into the tight confines of a small town where men walked shoulder to shoulder amidst the bustle.