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... ered over the cobblestones, filling the road with a web of tiny rivulets that flooded into the gutters. Pieter Hoying shivered in the damp confines of Engelfurt’s southwestern gatehouse. He hated the winter. It wasn’t as cold in the city as the uplands in the east, but it was wet – the sort of wet that stole one’s warmth away no matter how many layers they wore.
He wiped the rain that slicked his forehead with a trembling hand, shaking off his soaked cap with the other.
“Hoying!” ...
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