by Anna Elliott
IT WAS AN ARROW WOUND; Dera could see the broken-off wooden shaft poking through the wool of his tunic after Lady Isolde had jumped up, reached the man’s side, and lowered him onto the floor. No time to get him into the infirmary. He was half fainting, his eyes rolling back in his head. And he was big, too. Broad-built and tall, with a neck like a bull’s and his belly rounding out the front of his clothes. Too heavy for them to carry.
Lady Isolde had already taken out her knife and was slicing the bloodstained shirt away from the arrow shaft. The man groaned and thrashed, nearly knocking the knife from her hand—and Dera realized she was still sitting at the worktable, gaping like a fish.
“Do you want me to—”
Dera had started to kneel down so that she could keep hold of the man’s wrists, but Lady Isolde shook her head no, even as she put the knife down and started wiping blood away from the wound. “No, it’s all right. I can manage. We have to get word to Gwion—the captain of King Madoc’s guard. I don’t know who this man is or where he’s come from—but he’s wearing Madoc’s colors, and this arrow wound is less than an hour old. If the fortress’s outer defenses are under attack, the guard has to be warned.”
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