"What of this child? Where are his kinfolk?"

The man picked at a scab below his lower lip. "Mother's dead. Has none else."

"None to take charge of him?"

A shake of the head gave him his reply.

"Who cared for him?"

"None cared. He ate what scraps he could reach. He'll be dead in a few days more."

"If none among you cared whether this child lived or died, then truly it's as if you have turned your back on humankind. We must be compassionate and look each after the other."

"There's not food enough for all." The man gestured with an elbow. "You've somewhat in your sack. Do you mean to share it or keep it to yourself?"

"I've bones for my hounds, nothing more. I've myself not eaten since this morning."

"I'd eat what I could gnaw off a bone. I'm that hungry. I beg you."

Over the last few days he had fed all but two of the bones from the dead deer to Sorrow and Rage. Alain rose and, crossing the clearing, gave one of these to the man. The strip of flesh and fat and tendon still attached gave off the odor of meat that is turning bad. The man grabbed it out of his hand, grunting and slobbering in his haste to choke down what he could. As he ate, half a dozen ragged souls crept out of the woods with gazes fixed on Alain as on a gold talisman held dangling before avaricious eyes.

"Please, please," they said.

The boy braced himself on his stick arms and, panting and snuffling, dragged himself toward Alain. His legs trailed after him, and now it was possible to see both had been broken and healed askew, so he couldn't use them. Alain scanned the clearing. A trio of men crept up behind him and a woman approached with a stout stick raised in one hand.

"Told you," said the man with the bone. "Best give us the rest of it and your cloak and clothes if you want to walk out alive."

Desperate men cannot be shamed.

Rage and Sorrow rose, growling. Alain hoisted his staff.

"You may choose now," he said clearly. "I do not want to fight you, but I will not be robbed."

"If you will be merciful, then give us all you own for we need it, I pray you, master!" called the woman with the stout stick. She was so thin and ill looking that at first glance a decent person would pity her, yet she crept forward with lips pulled back in a rictus grin that was no smile.

Best to move swiftly.

He whistled. The hounds loped toward him, and once they moved the folk scattered back, fearing those teeth. He grabbed the little boy and hoisted him up and over his back, and with Sorrow and Rage at either side strode into the forest. All the way through the woodland he heard them shadowing him to either side, waiting for an opening, but none came; the hounds were vigilant.