His waterskins full, Aranuir had guided Naron up the steep valley slope. The ridge top was in sight its line now appearing between the sparse firs. Naron continued his heightened awareness. The scent of wolf had not diminished. Aranuir loosened his sword from its scabbard.
And then Naron cantered over the lip of the ridge. They beheld an irregular region of rock and sparse grass, the union of three mountain buttresses. In the middle distance a small upthrust of stone formed a small semicircle. Naron froze. Aranuir saw it. A horse, standing, watching them. A dark smudge lay in front of him, unclear.
He scanned the near ground for movement and saw none. The distant horse made no move.
Aranuir eased forward slowly, but steadily, on heightened alert. The horse had not moved. The smudge resolved itself into the figure of a man, sprawled face down. Aranuir nudged Naron to speed, hooves clattering over the rocks as they quickly closed the gap. Aranuir drew his sword.
A hundred yards out the horse moved closer to the fallen man, pawing the ground in front of him. Aranuir noticed another shape now, 20 yards to the right of the man. It was black, fur covered and bloody, rent open by grievous wounds. And dead. Aranuir slowed Naron to a slow walk, then paused.
It was clear to him now. The wolf had surprised the man but he had fought back, hacking the beast to death with his sword before succumbing to his own injuries. The horse guarded him instinctively.
Aranuir dismounted and walked with open hands to the skittish horse. It too had wounds, raw gouges along its side. The wolf had leapt onto them from one of the rocks in the semicircle. He was close now, talking gently to the horse, trying to calm it. Naron edged closer, nodding his head, conveying safety to the trembling stallion.
The man on the ground had long blond hair, wore a finely crafted leather curiass, scored deeply with claw marks. Blood was seeping from his arm. Aranuir edged closer. The man’s hand twitched.
Heedless of the stallion looming over him, Aranuir rushed to his side, turned him over. His left arm was mangled by a wolf bite. The side of his young face was ripped, leaking blood. His forehead bore a darkening egg sized bruise.
Aranarth quickly opened his wound pouch. He applied a poultice of athelas to the ravaged face and arm. He wrapped the arm with a bandage, applying pressure, staunching the bleeding.
To the face, he gently pushed the ragged edges of the claw marks together, pressing the sides of each gouge together to hasten healing. A longer length of woven bandage he would around the man’s head, under chin and over forehead. The egg would diminish of its own accord in due time.
Naron by now had eased alongside the injured man’s horse and calmed it considerably. It was powerfully built, like Naron, but golden in color with a snowy mane.
Aranuir examined the young man more carefully. His limbs were still regular, no broken bones or dislocations. There was an embossment on his belt buckle, the figure of a man on a horse. Aranuir had seen it before, the insignia of the Eotheod. What was this horseman doing at distance from his homeland?
Aranuir stood, walked over to the carcass of the wolf and retrieved the horseman’s sword. A fine gleaming blade with a strong brass pommel and hilt engraved with the figure of the horseman once again. It was no common blade. One well born would carry this.
He brought water from his pack, splashed the man’s face. He groaned, then cried out as the pain tore through his emerging consciousness. Aranuir held the back of his head, gently eased the waterskin spout to his mouth. His thirst quickly took him, the skin half empty before he’d yet opened his eyes.
When he did he saw an old man before him, long haired and bearded with weathered skin and large shoulders.
“You will live.”
“The wolf?” he grunted out
“Did not live”
The young man smiled.
“You seem far from home.”
“By the look of you, home is far away as well.” The young man managed to prop himself up with his elbows to a sitting position.
“I am Aranuir from west of the Misty Mountains”
“Wulfric, son of Cenulf, chieftain of the Eotheod”
“What brings the chieftain’s son to mountains far from horse and field?”
“A rite of passage. Two fortnights in the wild to show I am worthy to lead.”
“No doubt. But now you require rest and careful attention to your wounds, lest they fester. You have lost much blood. Many men would have died from such wounds. Two days, and you will be well enough to travel.”
Wulfric knew the old man was right. His body felt battered and sore. His mangled arm and torn face were bellowing with pain, despite Aranuir’s ministrations. Blood loss had left him faint and weak. Common sense overrode any youthful pride.
“I will heed your counsel. While I heal, perhaps you can tell me more of the world west of the mountains and what brings you here.”
Aranuir smiled. The young man was indeed a chieftain’s son, wondering about what might lie not far from his own realm and to what purpose a visitor might have.
“More tales than you might believe.” Aranuir replied, then set about organizing their camp, home for the next two days. He set up two pack tents, helped Wulfric into one, to rest on his bedroll. Then he rode Naron back into the valley, gathering firewood to last the night.
Upon his return, Wulfric had drifted into sleep. The sky was losing its bright blue as the sun waned in the west behind the mountains. Aranuir sparked his flint into some evergreen branches. Soon he was feeding a flame in the huddle of rocks that made a hearth.
He saw to the horses, putting on their feed bags. Then saw to himself with some nuts, dried fruit and smoked venison. He knew Wulfric would sleep for hours. Dawn would tell if his wounds had been cleaned soon enough to heal.