Brandon Sanderson
SHADOWS FOR SILENCE IN THE FORESTS OF HELL
“The one you have to watch for is the White Fox,” Daggon said, sipping his beer. “They say he shook hands with the Evil itself, that he visited the Fallen World and came back with strange powers. He can kindle fire on even the deepest of nights, and no shade will dare come for his soul. Yes, the White Fox. Meanest bastard in these parts for sure. Pray he doesn’t set his eyes on you, friend. If he does, you’re dead.”
Daggon’s drinking companion had a neck like a slender wine bottle and a head like a potato stuck sideways on the top. He squeaked as he spoke, a Lastport accent, voice echoing in the eaves of the waystop’s common room. “Why … why would he set his eyes on me?”
“That depends, friend,” Daggon said, looking about as a few overdressed merchants sauntered in. They wore black coats, ruffled lace poking out the front, and the tall-topped, wide-brimmed hats of fortfolk. They wouldn’t last two weeks out here, in the Forests.
“It depends?” Daggon’s dining companion prompted. “It depends on what?”
“On a lot of things, friend. The White Fox is a bounty hunter, you know. What crimes have you committed? What have you done?”
“Nothing.” That squeak was like a rusty wheel.
“Nothing? Men don’t come out into the Forests to do ‘nothing,’ friend.”
. . .
