The sound of running water met the scrape of steel against bone as Tancamir crouched by a small streamlet. He held an enormous curved horn in one hand, scraping flesh and fat from it with the blade of his dagger. It was easily the length of his forearm, cruelly ridged and with a pointed curl at one end. But it was surprisingly light and hollow, weighing only a fraction of what it seemed. He grinned to himself as bits of flesh fell off the end of the horn, until it was polished and clean. Swiftly he plunged the horn into the ice-cold water, then drew it out and laid it on the snow.
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Roving Threat
