“It’s okay, it’s okay.” He lowered himself out of his saddle, kneeled, and took the boy by the shoulders.
“Brother!”
“A moment, Brother Marcus.” He turned his attention to Bear. “I don’t want you to watch this.” Bear made no sign that he did or did not hear. Oliver tried to wipe some of the blood off the boy’s face with the heel of his palm. “Can I have your knife?”
Bear shook his head.
The old crone’s voice dwindled to weak moans. All she said, over and over, were two words: “Pity me. Pity me. Pity me.”
“Okay. Stay here. Don’t go back in that hut. I have to take care of this.” He walked over to the men, now circled around the dying crone, swords drawn. Bear counted. There were seven. Seven men in gleaming white robes with seven gleaming swords.
Brother Marcus barked something at Oli
