He shifted from foot to foot, trying to escape the newfound pain of his sword wound. While Millvale’s men had him on the ground, they’d delivered some ruthless kicks to that tender area. No doubt they’d had direction. Now blood trickled down his thigh, making his breeches stick to the wound. No time to worry about it now. He stared through the open doorway of Millvale’s study, hoping to catch a glimpse of Isolde. Being torn from her was giving him a frenzied feeling, even if he had chosen this path. As he waited, he took stock of his surroundings. Four high, windowless stone walls. A single exit. A fire blazed in the hearth spanning the length of one wall. Above the fireplace hung the usual array of weapons for any respectable household—sword, battle-ax, mace. If the zeppelgongers would allow him to move an inch, he could reach the handle of the mace. His palm itched to feel the weight of the weapon, to heave it over his head and bring it down upon Millvale’s skull.
