There was a crowd of people gathered upon the platform in the construction site. Hellrien strode up the stairs and pushed her way through the small crowd. Ingrandor sheathed his sword and crossed his arms. He shook his head and remained silent.
Foreman Rosethorn spun around on his heels. His teeth were revealed into a cruel grimace. When he saw the sellswords he managed to control his emotions and beckoned them to come closer.
”This here is George Quince.”
Hellrien’s gaze met the small, expressionless child’s eyes. Tears had rinsed white streaks into his small, dirty face.
”We figured as much”, Ingrandor said. ”Tell us what we don’t know.”
Hellrien took the boy’s hand. It was small, cold and hard as a rock.
”George, do you still remember them?” Hellrien asked softly.
”Yes I do…”
”Oh, I will kill them”, Ingrandor muttered, pacing up and down the platform hurriedly. ”All of them.”
”Tell us everything, George”, Hellrien said.
”One of them was blond, very blond. His hair was almost white. His eyes... I think they were blue.”
”Ingrandor… that sounds like Seyton Redweed!”
Ingrandor stopped and turned to face Hellrien, his face blank. ”Then it's about time he tasted some steel.”
”The other one was blond too, but older. He was grinning all the time. The third was young. He had little bells in his hat, and a yellow scarf around his neck. He was the one who went inside, to tear up mom's curtains and break her things...”
The little boy curled up, exhausted by grief and fear, and Rosethorn wrapped his long arm around him, giving the sellswords a chilly glance. ”We have had quite enough of this!” he fussed. ”Let's all go to finish them off!”
”Did you see where they went?” Ingrandor asked.
”The Dogwood farm, of course - where else?”
”Tell us where it is. I am not from here to know where every single farm is.”
Hellrien turned to look at the crowd gathered on the platform. There were about a dozen of them, and more than half were women. One of the men was clearly a blacksmith, for he was wearing a leather apron and small burn marks on his blackened arms. He had to be at least sixty years old. Another man could have been a woodworker, for he had sawdust on his shirt, hair and eyebrows. The three other men could have been anything by profession. All they had in common was their fearful expression and shy fiddling of their trouser legs and pockets. The rest were women with scarves and tired, bloodshot eyes.
”It’s the damn farm south of us!” Rosethorn shouted.
”Good”, said Ingrandor. ”Stay here.”
”We have to report to the Bree authorities”, Rosethorn said. ”We have to do something!”
”We’ll do something now”, said Ingrandor. ”I just need my armour. That's all I need. You can report to the authorities three hours after we've went to finish it.”
