headed toward us, they dropped way behind.
Robin and I each got off another arrow, although we ended up shooting the same wolf. Cornelius, who could only use his Wizards' Lightning a limited number of times each day—depending on how much energy he put into each one—held back when he saw the wolves had given up the chase. As though on a command, they wheeled around from watching the man they'd been pursuing, from watching us, and disappeared into the forest.
The man we'd rescued kept looking over his shoulder. Once the wolves were gone, he slowed to an unsteady walk. He had his hand pressed to his side. As we approached, he dropped to his knees, looking exhausted. Then he coughed, and spat up blood.
"Thank you," he said with what little breath he had left. "Thank you. Friends. You saved my life."
"Don't try to talk," Mom warned him. She didn't look like she should be talking either. Now that the excitement was over, she looked like she might fall out of her saddle. Suddenly I thought she
was
falling and reached out to grab her, but then realized she was simply dismounting. I hid my movement by getting down also.
Mom knelt by the man. He had the look of someone who'd been around. Our kind of people perhaps, a mercenary, an adventurer. His hair was that color people call salt-and-pepper: the same amount of white as dark, which put him at about Mom's age—her real age, not Felice's. But he looked strong—at least a head taller than Robin, the tallest of our group, and his shoulders were about as wide as any two of us put together. He wore a leather breastplate which had seen better days, and he had on a wolfskin vest. Maybe the wolves had recognized it for what it was. Maybe that was why they'd pursued him so intently.
"Your arm," Mom said. "You've been hurt." She tried to push his bloody sleeve up his arm, but he pulled away from her, pressing his arm against himself. He wiped his other arm across his face, smearing the trickle of blood that came from the corner of his mouth.
"I'm all right," he assured us. "If you hadn't come when you did..." He shook his head and didn't finish his thought. He didn't need to.
Cornelius said, "What happened? Were those your companions?"
The man looked up sharply.
"Cornelius," Thea said in a warning tone. Then to the man, "Sorry. Sometimes he doesn't stop to think before he talks. I'm Thea Green leaf, of the Greenmeadow Clan. This model of discretion is Cornelius. This—"
"The Magnificent," Cornelius interrupted.
"The Magnificent," Thea added. "This is Robin. Felice. Harek Longbow."
Each of us bowed or smiled in turn.
The man looked at us somewhat warily. "My name is Wolstan," he said, just when I was beginning to suspect he had no name. Slow-witted or in shock? In shock, I hoped.
Thea licked her lips, no doubt wondering how to broach the subject delicately. Good old Cornelius took over for her. "So, were those your friends up there on the road?" At least he didn't add, "Mangled and lunched on by the wolves."
Wolstan gulped. "Yes," he said slowly. "The wolves..." He glanced away.
"The wolves killed them?" Thea asked gently. "Or did something else?"
"The wolves. It happened so fast. One of the wolves jumped—landed right on my horse's rump. The horse panicked, bolted. I panicked," he admitted with another quick glance at us. "I could hear my brothers screaming ... There was nothing I could do..." He buried his face in his hands.
"Your brothers?" Mom asked, her voice hardly more than a breath.
"How terrible," Thea said.
"Then my horse threw me, and I started to run." He shook his head and looked up. "It's all my fault," he said. "If I'd handled things better, been braver and quicker, my brothers might still be alive."
I could sympathize with that feeling. I patted his shoulder but didn't know what to say. For a moment I even wished that pain-in-the-buns Marian was still with us: she seemed to have a knack for comforting people.
Not like Robin who, somewhat callously I
Robin and I each got off another arrow, although we ended up shooting the same wolf. Cornelius, who could only use his Wizards' Lightning a limited number of times each day—depending on how much energy he put into each one—held back when he saw the wolves had given up the chase. As though on a command, they wheeled around from watching the man they'd been pursuing, from watching us, and disappeared into the forest.
The man we'd rescued kept looking over his shoulder. Once the wolves were gone, he slowed to an unsteady walk. He had his hand pressed to his side. As we approached, he dropped to his knees, looking exhausted. Then he coughed, and spat up blood.
"Thank you," he said with what little breath he had left. "Thank you. Friends. You saved my life."
"Don't try to talk," Mom warned him. She didn't look like she should be talking either. Now that the excitement was over, she looked like she might fall out of her saddle. Suddenly I thought she
was
falling and reached out to grab her, but then realized she was simply dismounting. I hid my movement by getting down also.
Mom knelt by the man. He had the look of someone who'd been around. Our kind of people perhaps, a mercenary, an adventurer. His hair was that color people call salt-and-pepper: the same amount of white as dark, which put him at about Mom's age—her real age, not Felice's. But he looked strong—at least a head taller than Robin, the tallest of our group, and his shoulders were about as wide as any two of us put together. He wore a leather breastplate which had seen better days, and he had on a wolfskin vest. Maybe the wolves had recognized it for what it was. Maybe that was why they'd pursued him so intently.
"Your arm," Mom said. "You've been hurt." She tried to push his bloody sleeve up his arm, but he pulled away from her, pressing his arm against himself. He wiped his other arm across his face, smearing the trickle of blood that came from the corner of his mouth.
"I'm all right," he assured us. "If you hadn't come when you did..." He shook his head and didn't finish his thought. He didn't need to.
Cornelius said, "What happened? Were those your companions?"
The man looked up sharply.
"Cornelius," Thea said in a warning tone. Then to the man, "Sorry. Sometimes he doesn't stop to think before he talks. I'm Thea Green leaf, of the Greenmeadow Clan. This model of discretion is Cornelius. This—"
"The Magnificent," Cornelius interrupted.
"The Magnificent," Thea added. "This is Robin. Felice. Harek Longbow."
Each of us bowed or smiled in turn.
The man looked at us somewhat warily. "My name is Wolstan," he said, just when I was beginning to suspect he had no name. Slow-witted or in shock? In shock, I hoped.
Thea licked her lips, no doubt wondering how to broach the subject delicately. Good old Cornelius took over for her. "So, were those your friends up there on the road?" At least he didn't add, "Mangled and lunched on by the wolves."
Wolstan gulped. "Yes," he said slowly. "The wolves..." He glanced away.
"The wolves killed them?" Thea asked gently. "Or did something else?"
"The wolves. It happened so fast. One of the wolves jumped—landed right on my horse's rump. The horse panicked, bolted. I panicked," he admitted with another quick glance at us. "I could hear my brothers screaming ... There was nothing I could do..." He buried his face in his hands.
"Your brothers?" Mom asked, her voice hardly more than a breath.
"How terrible," Thea said.
"Then my horse threw me, and I started to run." He shook his head and looked up. "It's all my fault," he said. "If I'd handled things better, been braver and quicker, my brothers might still be alive."
I could sympathize with that feeling. I patted his shoulder but didn't know what to say. For a moment I even wished that pain-in-the-buns Marian was still with us: she seemed to have a knack for comforting people.
Not like Robin who, somewhat callously I
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