Rodry's grip on his dinner knife tightened until his knuckles turned as white as his stained cloak. The bodies of some of their men were scarcely cold out in the mud, and already the man who had spent the entire skirmish in the safest position imaginable was the one most vehemently arguing to tuck tail and run.
Perhaps I should just drive this blade straight into his bony neck, Rodry thought, his eyes tracking the pulse jumping in the architect's throat. Then I can march back to the capital and hand my sincerest apologies to the King.
