“Well, lad?”

“It—it’s still bleedin’, Mal. I don’t think it’s goin’ tae stop by itself. Ye’ve got to have help.”

Mal lay back and sighed. “Ah, ’tis nae good, laddie. I cannae travel like this, and I dinnae think ye can get anyone t’ come out here, wi’ night fallin’. It’s that bit o’ steel that’s causing the trouble, it is. Mayhap ye can get it out yerself.”

“Me?” Royston’s eyes went round and he trembled at the thought. “Aie, Mal, I cannot! If I even loosen the tie, ye’ll start bleedin’ all over again. I cannae let ye spill out yer life because I dinnae know what I’m doin’.”

“Now, don’t argue, lad. There’s nae one el—”

Mal broke off in mid-sentence, his jaw dropping in amazement as he stared over Royston’s shoulder, and the boy whirled on his haunches to see two riders silhouetted against the sunset not twenty feet away. He rose cautiously as the two men dismounted, gripping his dagger just a bit more tightly. Who were the men? And where in the world had they come from?

He could make out little detail as the two approached, for the setting sun was directly behind them, turning their steel helms to red-gold. They were young, though. As they drew closer and bared their heads, Royston could see that they were scarcely older than Mal—certainly no older than thirty or so—and one was dark and the other fair. Steel-gray falcon cloaks swung from the shoulders of both men, and each wore a longsword at his hip in a worn leather scabbard. The fairer of the two tucked his helmet in the crook of his left arm as he stopped a few yards away and held his empty hands away from his weapons. The darker man stood back a pace, but there was a kindly and concerned smile on his face as he watched the boy’s reaction. Royston almost forgot to be afraid.

“It’s all right, son. We won’t hurt you. Is there anything we can do to help?”

Royston studied the men carefully for an instant, noting the gray cloaks, the several weeks’ growth of beard on both men, their apparent friendliness, and decided he liked them. He glanced at Mal for reassurance and found the wounded man nodding weakly. At Mal’s signal he stepped back to let the two men stoop down across from him. After a second’s hesitation, he, too, knelt at the side of the wounded man, his eyes dark with worry as he wondered what the two strangers could do.

“Ye be Warin’s men,” Mal observed, managing a trace of a smile as the darker of the two men put down his helmet and began stripping off his riding gloves. “I thank ye for stopping, what with th’ darkness sae near an’ all. I’m Mal Donalson, and the boy is Royston. That steel’s goin’ t’ have to come out, ain’t it?”

The darker man probed gently at Mal’s wound, then got to his feet and returned to his horse.