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. It was
obvious that he did not trust either of them. Closer now, he
studied Garrick's battered armor, the chipped and bent
weapons, his pale and sweating face.
"Aye, you look like a terror that will frighten away the
dark ones. Frighten them into conquering the world, I'd
say!"
There was more laughter, though much more muted
than before. The looks the villagers gave Garrick were ugly,
full of hate. Hate for his not having been there when it
counted. The leader shifted closer, his intentions clear. Pull
the knight down into the mud where he belonged. The
knight drew his well-worn blade with a speed that belied his
weary appearance. He kept the group at bay with the
weapon, allowing no one within arm's length.
"For your own sakes, move on."
Muttering, they did so, much more quickly and
complacently than Garrick would have thought possible for
them. He realized why with a sadness that sank him deeper
into the darkness he had ridden in since Standel's death. He
was nothing to them. If anything, they were disgusted with
him. Disgusted with all the knights.
It hurt Garrick that they had good reasons for their
hatred.
The few huts he passed now were stripped of anything
worth carrying
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