The sentry blinked in surprise.

One moment the approach to the town was empty, the next three figures were standing before him.  "What?" he exclaimed, bringing his old spear to something resembling a stance of readiness.

"Easy, friend," said Locklear.  He leaned upon Owyn's shoulder and looked as if he was close to death.  They had en-countered three more ambushes between the one where their horses had fled and Hawk's Hollow.  They had managed to avoid the first two, sneaking around human bandits.  The last had been a squad of six moredhel who had been too alert.  The fight had been bloody and costly.  Gorath was wounded, a nasty cut to his left shoulder that Owyn had barely been able to staunch.  Locklear had been injured again, nearly dying if not for Owyn's intervention, and the young magician himself was sporting a half dozen minor wounds.

"Who are you?" asked the confused sentry.  He was obviously a farmer or worker from town, part of the city's militia, Locklear guessed.

"Locklear, Squire of the Prince's Court in Krondor, and these two are my companions."

"You look like brigands, to me," replied the guardsman.

"We have proof," said Locklear, "but first I'd like to find someone who can help us before we bleed to death."

"Brother Malcolm of the Temple of Silban is in town, down at Logan's tavern.  He comes through here every six months or so.  He'll help you out."

"Where is Logan's?" asked Owyn, as Locklear seemed about to lapse into unconsciousness.

"Just down the street.  Can't miss it.  Sign out front of a dwarf."

They made their way to the indicated establishment, which showed a faded sign of a comically drawn dwarf, obviously once painted with vivid colors.

They went inside and found several townspeople sitting by, waiting for a priest in the robes of the Order of Silban who was in the corner ministering to a sick child.  A couple of local workers were waiting, one with a bandaged hand, the other looking pale and weak.

The priest looked up as he finished with the boy, who leaped down from his mother's lap without prompting and raced for the door.  The priest looked at Locklear, and said, "Are you dying?"

"Not quite," answered the squire.

"Good, because these fellows were here first, and I'll only make them wait if you're near death."

Mustering as much dry wit as he could under the circumstances, Locklear replied, "I'll try to let you know when I'm about to die."

Gorath's patience vanished.  He moved to confront the priest, and said, "You will see my companion now.  These others can wait."

The glowering dark elf towered over the small priest and his expression and voice left no room for argument this side of violence.  The priest looked once more at Locklear, and said, "Very well, if you think it urgent.  Bring him over to this table."

They half carried Locklear to the table and laid him out on it.  The priest said, "Who bandaged this?"

"I did," said Owyn.