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The outlaw fairly laughed at Garmund’s threatening motion of the knife. Ghem enjoyed a good show of bravery and sport, especially when it posed no danger to himself. Regardless of their harmlessness, though, he slowed his advance and came on slowly and gently, as though he were stalking a shy horse.
“‘Ey, me lads, now, I haint gonna ‘urt you,” he said softly, a wicked smile twisted to get free and spring on his face. “You put up a nasty li’le foight, don’ yea?” His left hand brushed his forehead briefly, where the stone had struck him. A little blood showed on his fingertips, but he ignored it. He didn’t care.
He was glad these boys had come along. He was always left to guard prisoners and it was always the most boring job of the whole commission. Rarely had he had visitors, and rarely had the visitors been so small and promised so much fun.
And all the while the thoughts sped through his mind, he advanced slowly forward, ready to make a quick spring, capture that knife arm and put some sense into these brave, foolish, and very unlucky little boys’ heads.
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