jaw, and when his cry finally faded he passed out.
In the distance, a snarling could be heard.
When he came to his senses for the first time, he saw a frog spying on him, its eyes blinking rapidly and its throat swelling in fits and starts.
When he opened his eyes again the frog had gone and he was alone with the tall grasses which seemed to be advancing across the marsh in slow waves. Raindrops formed craters in the black mud. The world was dark, but it was brighter than the blackness that engulfed him once more.
His eyelids fluttered slowly. The tall grasses were sparkling, bathed in blazing sunlight. And somehow he was . . . dry?
‘Bloody hell . . .’ he croaked, his voice terribly hoarse, his throat on fire.
He winced as he raised his head as far as he could. His neck was as stiff as an old piece of wood, but that was nothing compared to the rest of his body. He saw that he was stretched out on an old blanket, full of holes, spread over a patch of cracked earth at the edge of the marsh.He was shaded by an old cart lying on its side, propped up by two big wooden logs. A makeshift splint made from branches and twisted grass supported his broken leg, wrapped in a blood-stained cloth. How had he got here? Who had brought him? And how long ago?
‘Don’t move too quickly,’ a childlike voice said. ‘Your leg is far from being knit back together. I did what I could, now only time will heal it.’
Seated beneath one corner of the cart, his legs folded under him, was a boy. Arms crossed on his knees, he stared at the knight with grey eyes and a solemn expression.
‘Your leg was a really ugly mess,’ he commented.
‘As bad as that,’ murmured Dun-Cadal.
‘There were bones sticking out in places,’ the boy said very calmly.
‘And you . . .’ His head ached and he had trouble moving, his body numbed by days of inactivity. But little by little, he regained his senses. ‘ You brought me here . . . ?’
The child nodded without revealing the lower part of his face, hidden behind his arms.
‘The horse,’ he said. ‘With the help of a horse.’
He had a round face, just barely out of childhood, with tousled hair and a pale complexion. Dun-Cadal let himself fall back, short of breath. His head felt heavy and his vision was studded with tiny, fleeting stars. The blue sky rippled in his vision for an instant and then grew still.
‘You need to go easy,’ the boy continued. ‘You’ve been lying there for eight days.’
‘E-eight days . . .’ stammered the knight.
He tried to swallow but his throat was too dry. Seeing him so, with his head tilted back, gasping like a fish out of water, the boy seemed amused. He stood up and approached Dun-Cadal slowly.
‘I left you something to drink, there,’ he said, pointing to a small flask made from a sheep’s stomach placed next to the knight. ‘It’s all I could find. There’s more salt water than fresh hereabouts.’
Still eying his rescuer, Dun-Cadal sat up on his blanket with some difficulty, holding his injured ribs. He did not know what age to give the lad. Twelve, thirteen . . . perhaps fourteen years old, but not more. He was wearing a plain beige shirt, open at the collar, worn-out black trousers and boots held together with pieces of string. Brown locks floated across his brow and his face was so smeared withdirt he might have plunged headfirst into the mud.
‘Thank you,’ Dun-Cadal mumbled as he took the flask with a shaky hand.
He drank a gulp and almost spat it out immediately. It tasted foul but his thirst was so great he forced himself to swallow, grimacing. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his sword planted in the ground, not far from a pile of weathered crates half-covered with an old dark green cloth.
‘You’re a knight, aren’t you? A knight of the Empire,’ said the boy, his smile vanishing.
Dun-Cadal nodded carefully. His neck was too stiff to move it normally.
‘And you are?’ he asked.
The boy did not reply. He looked
In the distance, a snarling could be heard.
When he came to his senses for the first time, he saw a frog spying on him, its eyes blinking rapidly and its throat swelling in fits and starts.
When he opened his eyes again the frog had gone and he was alone with the tall grasses which seemed to be advancing across the marsh in slow waves. Raindrops formed craters in the black mud. The world was dark, but it was brighter than the blackness that engulfed him once more.
His eyelids fluttered slowly. The tall grasses were sparkling, bathed in blazing sunlight. And somehow he was . . . dry?
‘Bloody hell . . .’ he croaked, his voice terribly hoarse, his throat on fire.
He winced as he raised his head as far as he could. His neck was as stiff as an old piece of wood, but that was nothing compared to the rest of his body. He saw that he was stretched out on an old blanket, full of holes, spread over a patch of cracked earth at the edge of the marsh.He was shaded by an old cart lying on its side, propped up by two big wooden logs. A makeshift splint made from branches and twisted grass supported his broken leg, wrapped in a blood-stained cloth. How had he got here? Who had brought him? And how long ago?
‘Don’t move too quickly,’ a childlike voice said. ‘Your leg is far from being knit back together. I did what I could, now only time will heal it.’
Seated beneath one corner of the cart, his legs folded under him, was a boy. Arms crossed on his knees, he stared at the knight with grey eyes and a solemn expression.
‘Your leg was a really ugly mess,’ he commented.
‘As bad as that,’ murmured Dun-Cadal.
‘There were bones sticking out in places,’ the boy said very calmly.
‘And you . . .’ His head ached and he had trouble moving, his body numbed by days of inactivity. But little by little, he regained his senses. ‘ You brought me here . . . ?’
The child nodded without revealing the lower part of his face, hidden behind his arms.
‘The horse,’ he said. ‘With the help of a horse.’
He had a round face, just barely out of childhood, with tousled hair and a pale complexion. Dun-Cadal let himself fall back, short of breath. His head felt heavy and his vision was studded with tiny, fleeting stars. The blue sky rippled in his vision for an instant and then grew still.
‘You need to go easy,’ the boy continued. ‘You’ve been lying there for eight days.’
‘E-eight days . . .’ stammered the knight.
He tried to swallow but his throat was too dry. Seeing him so, with his head tilted back, gasping like a fish out of water, the boy seemed amused. He stood up and approached Dun-Cadal slowly.
‘I left you something to drink, there,’ he said, pointing to a small flask made from a sheep’s stomach placed next to the knight. ‘It’s all I could find. There’s more salt water than fresh hereabouts.’
Still eying his rescuer, Dun-Cadal sat up on his blanket with some difficulty, holding his injured ribs. He did not know what age to give the lad. Twelve, thirteen . . . perhaps fourteen years old, but not more. He was wearing a plain beige shirt, open at the collar, worn-out black trousers and boots held together with pieces of string. Brown locks floated across his brow and his face was so smeared withdirt he might have plunged headfirst into the mud.
‘Thank you,’ Dun-Cadal mumbled as he took the flask with a shaky hand.
He drank a gulp and almost spat it out immediately. It tasted foul but his thirst was so great he forced himself to swallow, grimacing. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his sword planted in the ground, not far from a pile of weathered crates half-covered with an old dark green cloth.
‘You’re a knight, aren’t you? A knight of the Empire,’ said the boy, his smile vanishing.
Dun-Cadal nodded carefully. His neck was too stiff to move it normally.
‘And you are?’ he asked.
The boy did not reply. He looked
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