He was broader of shoulders than most, even for one of the mountain clans, who tended to be more powerful of arm and shoulder than their forest-dwelling cousins. The mute warrior regarded her with the blue eyes unusual for one of his race. Besides, she had little love for any moredhel, especially one who had cut out his own tongue as a sign of devotion to dark powers. Though he was a powerful chieftain, she had sent him away, for his nature was evil, and while issues of good and evil seldom held any significance for the witch, there were limits even for her.
He had come once before, seeking magic signs for strange rites.
She knew the figure on the left, the broad, mute warrior with the shaved head and single long scalp lock. The old witch looked up, her dark eyes widening slightly at the sight of the three. Out of the evening's darkness three figures entered the firelight. Winter's ice still clung to shadow-protected pockets, ice that cracked loudly under the heels of heavy boots. The wind cut through the hills like a sharp-edged blade, as if spring were only a faintly remembered dream. From the east, indigo darkness approached rapidly. The last rays of warmth touched the earth and only the rosy afterglow of the day remained.
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