White Road

in beside them, intending to make a stand. Before he could dismount, however, Sebrahn opened his mouth and sang.
    The burst of power that emanated from that thin little body nearly threw Seregil from the saddle. It was like being struck in the chest by lightning and being on fire, all at once. The high-pitched cry drove a spike of pain between his eyes, blinding him for a moment.
    Clinging on with his thighs and one hand, he managed to stay in the saddle and follow the others as they dashed away, hoping to take advantage of whatever Sebrahn had just done. He was relieved to see Alec upright again and riding hard, even with the arrow wagging up and down in his shoulder.
    They drove their horses until the beasts were exhausted and they had no choice but to stop. The snow had ceased somewhere along the way, and the wind had come up. Looking back, all Seregil saw was a triple line of hoof marks slowly being scoured away. He reined his gelding around, looking for their pursuers. He hadn’t seen or heard any sign of pursuit since Sebrahn had sung, and he didn’t see them now across the snowswept plain. The masked bastards were probably lying in the snow, dead, just like those slave takers who’d killed Alec in Plenimar. He hoped so, anyway, though he was curious about who they were. They’d been better organized than most bandits he’d encountered. As much as he’d have liked to inspect the bodies, they’d have to backtrack for miles. Without their own trail to follow, they’d end up casting around while it got dark.
    Just then Alec slid awkwardly from the saddle and collapsed in a heap, gripping his wounded shoulder with his good hand.
    Seregil dismounted and shoved Sebrahn into Micum’s arms. “How bad is it?” he asked, pulling off his gloves.
    “Shit! Hurts like hell!” Alec hissed between gritted teeth. “Don’t think it went all the way through, though.”
    “Can you move your arm?” asked Micum.
    Alec lifted his left arm and swore again.
    Seregil knelt beside him. “Steady, now. Let me take a look.”
    The arrow had gone in at an angle. Seregil grasped the shaft and gave it the slightest tug. It moved a little and he felt it grate against bone, probably Alec’s shoulder blade.
    “Brace yourself,” he said calmly. “I’ll do this as quickly as I can.” Grasping the shaft in both hands this time, he snapped it off close to the back of Alec’s coat.
    Alec didn’t make a sound, just fumbled one-handed at the bone buttons on the front of his thick coat.
    “Let me do it.”
    When he had the coat open, Seregil reached down the back of Alec’s shirt until his fingers found the arrow shaft and the hot blood soaking the fleece lining and the wool of Alec’s tunic. Bracketing the broken shaft with two fingers, he lifted the coat free of it, then gently pulled Alec’s arm from the sleeve. Most of the blood had soaked into the thick fleece at the collar. If it had been summer, he’d have left a blood trail for their pursuers to follow—if they were still alive. That doubt was going to haunt him.
    Micum handed him his belt knife and Seregil carefully cut the fabric away from the wound. The arrowhead was lodged in the muscle between Alec’s shoulder and neck. A few inches to the right and it would have hit his spine. It was a painful wound, but not a serious one.
    It meant pulling or cutting it out, though, depending on the type of arrowhead and how barbed it was. “You’d better lie down. I can get a better purchase on it that way and get it over with.”
    Alec stretched out on his belly in the snow and rested his face in the crook of his right arm. “Just do it!”
    Micum held down Alec’s left arm and Seregil straddled Alec’s waist. The bloody stump of the arrow was longenough to get a good grip on, but slippery. He grasped it and pulled as Alec stifled a growl against his sleeve. To everyone’s relief, it pulled out clean. Instead of being barbed and triangular, the head had the long leaf shape meant to pierce a stag, or a man, deep into the organs.
    He packed a handful of snow against the wound and showed Alec the arrow. “You were lucky. Your coat must have helped stop it. Micum, would you bring some water and a cup? Sebrahn—” He paused, looking around. A trail of small footsteps in the snow led back the way they’d come. Sebrahn hadn’t gotten far, but he was going as fast as he could through the snow.
    Seregil sprinted after the rhekaro and grabbed him around the waist,