Lady Antonia Blackthorn barely glanced at her little sister. “I don’t know.” A low groan and a ripple of agony undulated down the warrior lying in front of Antonia. “Get the canteen from the saddle,” Antonia ordered. Lady Ashlyn Blackthorn nodded. She pushed up from her kneeling position beside her sister and hurried to her sister’s horse. She grabbed the canteen and ran back, handing it to Antonia. “Take my horse and ride back to the keep. Tell Arbra to bring a cart. We need to get this man help if he is to survive.” At the ripe old age of twelve—today being her birthday—she would at last get to ride the Arabachian stallion that was her older sister’s pride and joy. Running to the mount, she had trouble getting her foot into the stirrup but Corbeau stood very still—his black coat gleaming in the moonlight—as though the beast knew she was but a child. Grunting as she threw her spindly leg over the mount, Ashlyn drummed her little heels into his sides. “And tell Arbra to bring the healer with him!”
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