One of the heavy destriers nearby snorted , and reared up onto its hind legs, its shod hooves striking at the morning air as if seeking to splice it.
Laedio watched the beast with a low whistle, fascinated for a second or two by the raw fury of the animal, a faint smile lingering on his lips.
Basil, however, kept his eyes on his uncle. He could not bring himself to deny the man's words; in a grim, practical sense, Laedio was right. Oizen was a den of brigands, and the common folk there were likely suffering for it. Yet, it unsettled him how much stomach his uncle had for the work. He had to remind himself that when he spoke of vermin, he meant the murderers, the cutthroats, and the outlaws who hid behind smallfolk skirts, not the innocent. Were it not for that distinction, Basil would have turned his back on him then and there. No matter the love he bore his uncle, cruelty for its own sake was a draft he could not and would not stomach.
