Royston froze with his hand on the hilt of his dagger for just an instant, then scuttled past a still body and continued along the narrow cartway toward home. He was only ten, and small for his age at that, but this fact had not prevented him from doing his share of the afternoon’s plundering. The leather satchel slung over his shoulder bulged with food and bits of harness and such other light accoutrements as he had been able to harvest from the fallen enemy. Even the finely etched dagger and sheath thrust through his rude rope belt had been taken from the saddle of a dead warhorse.

Nor was he squeamish about picking over dead bodies—at least not in daylight. Scavenging was a way of life for peasant folk in time of war; and now that the peasants were in revolt against their duke—indeed, against even their king—it was an urgent necessity as well. The peasants’ weapons were few and crude: mostly pikes and scythes and clubs, or an occasional dagger or sword gleaned from just such an activity as Royston now pursued. Fallen soldiers of the enemy could provide more sophisticated weaponry: fighting harness, helmets, even gold and silver coinage on occasion. The possibilities were unlimited. And here, where the retreating enemy had picked up their wounded and the rebels had cared for their own, there were only dead men to worry about. Even so young a boy as Royston was not afraid of dead men.

Still, Royston kept a watchful eye as he walked, quickening his pace to make a wide detour around another stiffening corpse. He was not timid in the least; such was not the way of the country-bred folk of Corwyn. But there was always the very real possibility that he might come upon a dead enemy who was not really dead—and that he did not like to think about.

As though in response to his growing mood, a wolf howled, much closer than before, and Royston shivered as he headed for the center of the cartway again, beginning to fancy he could see furtive movement in every bush, every ghostly tree stump. Even if he need not fear the dead, there would be more dangerous, four-legged predators prowling the fields once night fell. These he had no desire to meet.

Suddenly a movement caught his eye ahead and to the left of the path. Hand tightening on his weapon, he dropped to a crouch and let his other hand fumble among the rocks in the roadway until it could close on a fist-sized stone. He had held his breath as he hunched closer to the ground, and his voice came out hoarse and quavering as he craned his neck to peer into the bushes.

“Who’s there?” he croaked. “Say who ye be, or I’ll come nae closer!”

There was a second rustling in the bushes, a moan, and then a weak voice: “Water…please, someone…”

Royston eased his satchel farther around his back and straightened warily, easing his dagger from its sheath. There was always a chance that the caller was a rebel soldier, and therefore a friend—one could have been missed all afternoon. But what if he were a royalist?