Henry stole a glance toward her again and frowned. Edlewine raised an eyebrow, then ducked her head, concealing a smirk. She set her eyes on the neck of her new steed. Her palms rolled gently across its stiff tendons. The stallion let out a low neigh even as it galloped.
From the front of the party, Prince Luther announced, “Gretmot lies near. A mile separates us from a pack of blood-thirsty hill trolls. Ready yourselves. They have an ogre amongst them.”
The greying man behind him, Baron Raymond of Timberbridge, chuckled. “An ogre?” he said. “I haven’t fought one of those half-wits in years.”
Edlewine spit off to her side. “He’s not one to laugh over, Baron. He’s a fully-grown, northern brute with more war-marks than the Archtroll.”
The Baron twisted to display a deep scowl. “So I cannot handle him, you reason?”
“Not without the full of Aramel’s grace,” she replied. Her eyes were cold. “And I doubt the Luck God cares much for an old, cocky tracker.”
“Your grace,” the Baron said to his prince. “Do you teach nothing to your sellswords of respect?”
Prince Luther shrugged. “All is lost on her, I fear. But the Lady Edlewine is the most adept hunter in my court. You must forgive her crude speech. Talent is far more valuable than tact, in her profession. She’ll prove an asset soon enough. The fortress lies just beyond this ridge.”