...the farmer studied the mercenary's face. He read there an exhaustion that left the flesh bloodlessly pale; Korendir presently maintained alertness on nothing at all but raw nerves. Gold by itself could never drive a man to such lengths; the possibility of that else might made hell seem merciful by comparison.
"Pity on us all," gasped Nevel. "Ye're crazed as Emmon Hillgate's son, and more like those fey things you hunt than any man born to a mother."
