Armand looked up at the path than ran past his homestead. A goat was running and bleating, and more importantly, bleeding. Armand stopped beating the rug that his tired and pregnant wife had hung up, and went out to catch the goat.
“Whoa there!” he cried. “Whoa!” He finally caught it and calmed it, and looked at the wound.
He frowned. It wasn’t an animal attack, it was to regular a cut, more like a puncture that angled in wrong. He then realized that he had seen a wound like this on a friend of his down at the front, shortly before he was released from duty to go take care of his wife.
“Javelin wound,” he whispered.
He looked east, to where the trees grew thicker. None of the fishermen had passed by his property today. Not that they always did. In fact some of them loved the fact that they never went more than a hundred paces from the sea. But still…
Armand went in to wake up his wife. She was due with their first child in two months, and it was not the time for a wagon ride, but he had a feeling there was more to this than a wounded goat, and someone had to tell the mayor.
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