Life and Death
an excerpt

One moment they were crossing a hill, which marked the border between the Middle Lands and the lands of the east, the next they were staring down on a fourth rider, who was apparently waiting for them patiently. There should have been border guards in this hilly, sparsely forested area, but those were all hidden away in their border houses or in other places. Grebo knew they were, because they had skirted one such border house an hour ago and they had been able to see the silhouettes of men moving about in the light of a hearth fire and hear laughter and the chink of glasses, even above the moaning of the wind. Later, Grebo would muse that the laxity of the regular guards was probably due in no small part to the great efficiency, success and influence of the Gemstone Knights. Ordinary men did not expect true danger to arrive, with such magnificent guardians looking out for them. Nor did they believe that any mistake they made could possibly spell calamity; the Gemstone Knights could surely fix any mistake that ordinary men made. How could their actions have an influence profound enough to flummox the very chosen of the Great Mother?
Even if the three riders hadn't had such evidence as that provided by their own eyes and ears at the watch house, they would not have believed that they had been found out. Clearly, the person waiting for them was clearly no border guard.
Bolk and Marco said nothing when they spotted the stranger, but they did rein in their horses. Grebo's pony stopped because their horses did, of course, so the three riders all stood and stared down at the fourth for a few minutes, rain pouring down out of the west all the time.
He wore a tunic and trousers of greyish fur under a brilliantly violet cloak, with the hood drawn up. A harp hung on the left side of his belt, a great sword on the right. Both the harp and the hilt of that sword were a glittering dark blue in colour, like bright pieces of the night sky over the capital of the east.
"Hell," Marco sighed after a few moments of silence. Bolk just spat, then spurred his horse on to trot down the hill, towards the waiting stranger. It occurred to Grebo that there was a certain similarity between Bolk and the stranger; he couldn't see even a hint of either's face within the shadows of their hoods. He hadn't caught so much as a glimpse of Bolk's during their whole journey.
"A word to the wise, master gnome," Marco said, tapping Grebo's shoulder for attention. "Don't mind him."
"Is he a friend of yours?" Grebo asked, curious. "Were you expecting him?"
"Don't mind him," Marco repeated, his voice suddenly extremely businesslike. "Do not speak to him nor about him, do not object to or so much as recognize his presence. He is not your problem to deal with, so don't make it so."
"But why -?" Grebo started to ask. He stopped because it's very hard to talk when someone has just slapped their hand over your mouth and is gripping you by the jaw. Marco's face was hanging but an inch from his and he suddenly seemed very dangerous, indeed.
"For your safety," the Knight said, speaking in a plain, even bleak tone of voice, "your sanity and possibly even your soul, if you still have one, do not mind him. I will not be responsible for the results if you ignore my advice, Grebo Daegrel, who so enjoyed our hospitality that he hung around our castle like a tick on the belly of a sheep. Truly, I will not."