Carl stared at him first; only after a long moment did he nod. "That is... ah. Cruel." The young lord glanced around. "So—did you find a doctor?" Carl shook his head. "Thought not. Hnh. What sort of place would have a doctor? I'd say your friend is too far gone, to send you here chasing one. Hnh. Oh—he told me to fetch you back. Under the tree. You hadn't forgotten, had you?" He peered at Carl with a show of concern. "Why do you look as bad as your friend? Don't tell me you're wounded, too?"

  "I am." The voice that came from him was dry and scouring, like sand moving across the vast, arid flats of the Flottant de la mer. "I am wounded."

  "Ah." The noble regretted his tongue. "Unlucky... You must know," he began to trot out the old line again, "if Little Bitch were still alive, I could haul you both back. But, as you see, this mare's a mad dog—won't mind, and runs herself at corpses. So..." He broke off, as if a hand had closed on his throat. "Is that a Friez!?"

  "Yes. He was a Friez." Carl did not know why he still had the heart for wordplay. "By the Triad!" the young lord cried—or keened. "What's a Friez doing here?" He dared not dismount for fear the mare would bolt, so he forced her toward the heap. The reek of blood set her balking, nostrils flaring. "Gods, it is a Friez." He levered the body with his sword. "Wah!" He screwed his eyes shut. "And what's that underneath? Who could do this—fuck."

  "Friez."

  "He killed them, didn't he? He killed the whole family?"

  "No." Carl marveled that he could still speak so evenly. "The Friez killed the farmer and his wife."

  "Oh. I see." Either he missed the strain beneath Carl's words, or he had guessed and chose not to show it. "And then... ah... the Friez died in their fight?"

  "I killed him."

  "You?" The young lord clutched his sword. "Don't jest, Carl."

  "Every word is truth, stranger. I killed the Friez."

  "That's killing an ally—you understand?" His voice shook. "You'll face a military tribunal!"

  "I don't care." Carl Clawyn's hand had gone to his hilt again. "I've no knowledge of the rest of House Friez—but this Friez had to die. No reason needed. He simply had to die."

  Even the dullest could not miss the meaning in that motion. "Easy, brother." The noble's hand was on his own hilt; the sapphire in its pommel threw sparks of sun. "I only wanted to be sure the beast was dead and to know which hero put him down." He trembled in voice and flesh both. "No, listen, you should know—I loathe the Friez! Vile beasts! Many in our legion, we... we talk about it! Always talking about putting a knife in one of their backs, doing the realm a service. Just talk, you know, to sound brave. No one ever dares. But you... you did it, Hero Carl. You actually did it." The young lord flashed that neat white smile. "You culled a Friez—vermin that they are. A true service to the people. I've never counted them among Imperial soldiers, so, mm, you see. No tribunal in it at all..."

  Carl did not soften.

  "I mean it, brother—truly." Seeing Carl's grip firm, the noble dared not loose so much as a finger. "I hate them as I hate the Cynthians." He spat several times on the Friez corpse. "Animals. Unfit to be called men..."

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  "Go," Carl said.

  "Hm?" The noble missed it. "What?"

  "I said, go."

  "Go? Uh... oh. Oh!" He loosed his hilt in the same beat as Carl let his go, matching him note for note. "But you don't look well, either. To leave you both here—feels... remiss..."

  "Don't make me say it a third time."

  "Of course. Of course!" He would have greased his heels if he could. The mare did it for him. At the first hint of leave she shot away; in a heartbeat the noble was a streak vanishing from Carl's sight.

  Carl Clawyn, a fallen knight, looked down at the remnants beneath the noble's horse-hooves—once-living flesh. The dam broke, and tears came. "I don't even know your name, child," he murmured. "I might have saved you—given you all I had. And I did not." No one heard his confession. "The strangest thing... the moment I reached out to her, I had this flash of... knowing. A premonition that it must end in tragedy. Is this Your design, O Triad? ... I only know that all things run toward their worst possible end. Order, in the end, will always collapse into chaos."

  While Carl Clawyn raved in the saddle like a madman, Farone, the wounded knight, hovered at the edge of sleep and sense. He had long since given up on his eyes; all he had left was a muddled sense of smell and hearing that faded in and out. He had kept his ears open for any sound that might be Carl's return. He did not want to die alone.

  Hoofbeats again—less urgent than before, set and orderly. "You're back?" He heard the sound from the wrong quarter for Carl, but hope clung on. "Well? I told you—no doctor out here."

  The horse stopped—just ahead of him. "You're not Carl, are you?" Farone sensed the rider had no wish to answer him, perhaps hadn't understood the words. Another Imperial knight, maybe, like the young lord, he thought, forcing hope. "Brother, as you see, I'm hurt." He pulled his hand off the wound. "And, ah, I've a companion—he went for a doctor." He lifted an arm with effort and pointed toward the farmhouse that seemed to have swallowed two knights whole by some sorcery. "Hnh. No doctor in there, right? A lone knight much like you promised to fetch my friend not long ago. But... hnh, he seems to have let his promise blow past his ears. So—friend—go and bring my companion back, will you?"

  The other stayed silent. Farone felt wrongness mount. Without sight, all his remaining senses sharpened at once. Most of all—the heavy reek of blood. (He's bleeding?) He sniffed. (Maybe it's my own blood...)

  Leather creaked; cloth rasped. (Dismounting...) He longed to open his eyes, to fix the man's colors—friend or foe—but something in him, deep and wordless, held him back. (Damn it... likely a Cynthian, hnh. These damned lids feel nailed shut—I can't force them open. Else I could see my foe—my enemy—my death—so I might curse him in Hell, fuck.) He swallowed, ready to ask the man his name.

  "Are you badly hurt?" The other spoke his first words—and they were sharper than steel, nearly stole Farone's breath. He knew the voice.

  "..." Farone gripped his longsword. "Impossible." He bit his tongue; the taste of blood could not chase the fear. "Impossible. You cannot be here—you cannot..."

  "I could never climb out, could I?" The boy's Common Tongue was as fluent as before, still holding the lilt of his homeland, but all the music was gone from it. "And yet, here I am. I climbed, Imperial." He gave a low, wet laugh that was more terrible than a scream. "That well is not all smooth stone. There are places to grip. A ledge to set a foot."

  "You lucky little shit."

  "Yes. Lucky to reach the light alive..." He crouched before Farone. "But it was no easy work, knight. Come," he patted Farone's cheek, "open your eyes and see what it cost."

  Farone coughed. "I'd sooner you'd rotted in that well, boy."

  Fingers forced his lids up. Sight swam; only a man-shape, crouching, red from head to heel. "Look," the rider said, leaning closer. "Do you see?" He waved an arm before Farone's face; the blood-stink choked him anew. "Look at the blood. Look at me." "I must thank you, knight," he whispered, smearing the wetness from his palm onto Farone's cheek. "You were so kind... to strip that heavy leather from me. It made the climb... possible." The blur gained lines. Farone saw the boy at last. The cuts and raw abrasions that covered his arms were worse than if a naked man had dragged himself through a mile of briar-thorns. "I fell. Many times." He touched the split that ran from one nostril to his chin. "Many times, knight. So many I lost the count."