“Come,” he called.

The knocking was repeated, more insistently this time, even as Paul strode quickly to the door.

“I doubt they can hear you, Lord. This room is well soundproofed. I’ll let them in.”

As Paul reached the door, the knock was repeated, even more urgently, if that were possible, and as he drew back the latch, a sergeant in the garb of Warin’s militia almost fell into the room.

“Lord, Lord, you must help us!” he sobbed, dashing across the room to throw himself at Warin’s feet. “Some of my men were stacking stones near the north rampart, when the entire pile collapsed.”

Warin sat upright in his chair, staring at the man intently.

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Yes, Lord: Owen Mathisson. Everyone else managed to get out of the way in time, but Owen—his legs were caught under the slide, Lord. His legs are crushed!”

Warin stood as four more men shuffled in through the still-open door carrying the limp form of the unfortunate Owen. As they entered, the sergeant grasped the hem of Warin’s robe and touched it to his lips, crumpled it against his chest as he whispered, “Help him, Lord. If you will it, he can be saved.”

The four men paused uncertainly in the center of the room, and Warin nodded slowly, motioning them to lay the injured man on the state bed at the other side of the room. The men quickly left their limp burden where they were told, then withdrew at Warin’s signal. As Warin moved closer to the bed, he motioned Marcus to close the door behind the departing soldiers, gazing down at the man with compassion.

Owen Mathisson had been a strong man, but that had not saved him when the rocks began sliding down on him. From the waist up he was still intact, no mark upon him to show that he had suffered any injury. But his legs inside his leather leggings were twisted and contorted into angles never meant for human appendages. He groaned as he became aware of his surroundings again, and Warin motioned for Paul to bring the candles closer, laying his hand on Owen’s forehead as the man’s gnarled face grimaced in pain.

“Can you hear me, Owen?”

Owen’s gaze wandered slightly, then focused on Warin’s face. A whisper of recognition flitted past, just before he closed his eyes again.

“Forgive me, Lord. I should have been more careful.”

Warin glanced over the man’s battered form, then returned his attention to the man’s face.

“Are you in great pain, Owen?”

Owen swallowed hard and nodded, jaws set tight against the pain, then opened his eyes to stare at Warin again. There was no need for verbal confirmation of what Warin saw in those pleading eyes.

Warin straightened and glanced down at the man’s legs again, then reached his hand toward Paul.

“Your dagger.”

As Paul handed over the weapon, Owen’s eyes widened and he looked as though he might try to rise, but Warin pushed him gently back on the bed.