"We will have the tusks off him." Indeed, in the wild light the wounded man, with his flat face and forked beard, had the look of a boar cornered by hounds.
"'Ware his teeth," said the one they called Gil.

"He has a knife in his trotter." The evil faces of the four were growing merry.

They were worthless soldiers, but adepts in murder.

Loot was their first thought, but after that furtive slaying.

There seemed nothing to rob here, but there was weak flesh to make sport of.
Gil warily crept on one side, where he held his spear ready.