Two junior priests knelt over the lifeless form and gingerly tugged at the wider part of the bundle which formed the man’s shoulders. The priests, overly careful not to defile themselves lest they should find themselves touching a dead body, ineffectually jerked at the corners of the rough fur skins the man wore for warmth. Biorkis watched the timid struggle with impatience, finally exploding, “Get out of the way! I’m not afraid of Azrael; my hands have touched worse!” He stooped over the body and rolled it into his arms.

Quentin, moving around the perimeter for a better look, gasped at the sight. The man’s face was ashen white and his lips, pressed together in a thin line, were blue. He appeared completely frozen. But even as Quentin looked on fearfully the man’s gray eyelids flickered. Biorkis, noticing the remnant of life, ordered one of the junior priests away. “Bring wine, brother. Hurry! And a vial of unction.” And to the rest he directed, “Here, now! Help me loosen his wraps. We may pull him back from Heoth yet.”

The priests fell upon the motionless figure, carefully unwrapping the layers of clothing. Their astonishment showed visibly in their faces when they had finished, and in the face of the priest who had just then returned with the wine and unguent.

There on the floor before them lay a knight in rude battle dress. His head was encased in a leather helm with criss-crossed bands of iron. His torso carried a breastplate of the same make and material, but studded with short spikes, and his forearms and shins were sheathed in studded guards.

Biorkis, still holding the man’s head, tugged at the strap fastening the helmet. It rolled free, clanking upon the stone floor, and a murmur went up from those surrounding. Quentin looked away. The knight’s head was a mass of blood. An open wound gaped just over his temple where skin and bone had been crushed by a sharp blow.