“Then drain your stirrup-cups well, my friends, for it’s the last you’ll taste of good northern koumiss for many days. We ride to serve a feast of pain and blood in far Louchébem!”
The warlord’s fierce gaze passed from the horizon to the faces of his thanes. It was the last hour before dawn. The silence was broken by the whinney of a restive horse.
“I thought we were going to Lossibahn, my lord.”
“Isn’t it Louis-ci-bom?”
“No, no, the accent indicates a long vowel. Le-see-bun.”
“My mam always pronounced it Lossy-bum.”