"A woodsman. But it's August so he'll be in the woods by Earith. These are his winter quarters." He leaned forward, lowering his burden, as Honoria flipped the blanket out along the bed.

"Wait! He'll be more comfortable if we remove his coat."

Those unearthly eyes held hers, then he looked down at the body in his arms. "See if you can ease the sleeve off."

She'd been careful not to catch the coat when she'd secured their improvised bandage. Honoria gently tugged; the sleeve shifted inch by inch.

Her rescuer snorted. "Silly clunch probably took an hour to get into it."

Honoria looked up-this time she was sure. His voice had shaken on the "clunch." She stared at him, a dreadful premonition seeping through her. "Pull harder-he can't feel anything at the moment."

She did; between them, by yanking and tugging, they managed to free one arm. With a sigh of relief, he laid the body down, drawing the coat off as he eased his hands free. They stood and stared at the deathly pale face, framed by the faded blanket.

Lightning cracked; Honoria shifted and glanced at her rescuer. "Shouldn't we fetch a doctor?"

Thunder rolled, echoing and booming. Her rescuer turned his head; the heavy lids lifted, and his strange eyes met hers. In the clear green-timeless, ageless, filled with desolate bleakness-Honoria read his answer. "He's not going to recover, is he?"

The compelling gaze left her; his black mane shook in a definite negative.

"Are you sure?" She asked even though she suspected he was right.

His long lips twisted. "Death and I are well acquainted." The statement hung in the suddenly chill air. Honoria was grateful when he elaborated: "I was at Waterloo. A great victory we were later told. Hell on earth for those who lived through it. In one day I saw more men die than any sane man sees in a lifetime. I'm quite certain-" Thunder crashed, nearly drowning out his words. "He won't see out the night."