He hauled her from her bed by her hair, snarling incoherently about her sister’s betrayal and the audacity of his mount to die during a race for safety. Heart pounding, tears flowing, she watched mutely as he proceeded to destroy her tent in a fit of unholy rage, snapping the wooden poles like matchsticks and tearing great holes in the canvas walls. She shivered in the center of the misty plateau, wondering whether her time had finally come. Slipping her hand into the purse she had worn to bed, she felt for the sharp points of her sewing needles. If he came at her, she would use them, puny or not. If nothing else, they might incite him to kill her with a single blow instead of punishing her with a lengthy torture. But to her surprise, there was no need for desperate measures. As the tent came apart in his meaty fists, Giric’s rage subsided. Only moments after his tirade began, he stood in the center of the destruction with his eyes closed, breathing heavily.
