Miklos nodded at Tharivol and fumbled at his belt for the healing potions he carried. The rage that had fueled him in battle was ebbing. A thick grief was rising to replace it.
It seemed only a few moments ago the little two-legs had been underhoof, pestering him with questions and calling him "horsie". Now Miklos looked down at the boy's motionless form while the lamentations of his mother still rang in his ears.
Miklos knew death. He'd seen famine, disease, and cold take their toll. Whether death was the whims of the gods or just fate, he was never sure but he took peace in that it came for all, regardless of age or rank. Even war's cruelty had a comforting indifference. But this, this was difference. It seemed so palpably evil. The boy's death was as deliberate as it had been unnecessary.
Without much hope, he knelt down, prised the boys mouth open, and poured in the viscous green potion.
[Potion of cure moderate wounds]