Inching his way closer, Royston approached until he was even with the bushes that had moved, rock and dagger poised, nerves taut. It was difficult to make out definite shapes in the failing light, but suddenly he knew that it was a rebel soldier lying in the brush. Yes, there was no mistaking the falcon badge sewn to the shoulder of the steel-gray cloak.

The eyes were closed beneath the plain steel helm; the hands were still. But as Royston leaned closer to look at the man’s bearded face, he could not control a gasp. He knew the man! It was Malcolm Donalson, his brother’s closest friend.

“Mal!” The boy crashed into the brush to drop frantically by the man’s side. “God ha’ mercy, Mal, what’s happened to ye? Are ye hurt bad?”

The man called Mal opened his eyes and managed to bring the boy’s face into focus, then let his mouth contort in a strained smile. He closed his eyes tightly for several seconds, as though against excruciating pain, then coughed weakly and tried to look up again.

“Well, me boyo, it’s about time ye found me. I feared one o’ them cutthroat rascals would get to me first an’ finish me off t’ get me sword.”

He patted a fold of his cloak beside him, and young Royston managed to make out the hard outline of a cross-hilted broadsword under the bloodstained cloth. His eyes went round as the shape registered, and then he lifted the edge of the cloak to run his fingers admiringly along the length of bloody blade.

“Ah, Mal, ’tis a bonny sword. Did ye get it off one o’ the king’s men?”

“Aye, the king’s mark is on th’ blade, lad. But one o’ his kinsmen left a piece o’ steel in m’leg, curse him. Take a look an’ see if it’s stopped bleedin’ yet, will ye?” He raised himself up on his elbows as the boy bent to look. “I managed t’ wrap me belt around it ’fore I passed out th’ first time, but—aiiiie! Careful, lad! Ye’ll start me bleedin’ again!”

The cloak draped across Mal’s legs was stiff with dried blood, and as the boy lifted it away to look at the wound it was all he could do to keep from fainting. Mal had taken a deep sword-thrust to his right thigh, beginning just above the knee and extending upward for nearly six inches. Somehow he had managed to improvise a bandage before applying the tourniquet, which had saved his life thus far, but the bandage had long outlived its usefulness and now glistened a brilliant red. Royston could not be sure in the failing light, but the ground beneath Mal’s leg looked damp, stained a deeper, redder hue. Whatever its source, Mal had lost a great deal of blood; there was no doubt about that. Nor could he afford to lose much more. Royston’s vision began to blur as he looked up at his friend again, and he swallowed with difficulty.