For a second, there was no reply and Will felt a dreadful darkness steal into his heart. Then it was instantly dispelled as the bearded Ranger rolled over to face him, his right hand clenched over his left forearm, partially stemming the flow of blood. Halt grimaced in pain.
‘I’m all right,’ he said, through gritted teeth. ‘That damned bolt only scraped my arm. But it hurts like the very devil.’
Will went down on one knee beside his master and eased Halt’s hand away from the wound.
‘Let me see,’ he said. He moved Halt’s hand, tentatively at first, afraid that he’d see the jetting, pulsing spurt of blood that would tell him a major artery had been severed. He gave a sigh of relief when he saw there was just a steady welling of blood. Then, reassured, he took his saxe knife and cut the Ranger’s sleeve away from the wound. He studied it for a moment, then reached into the wound pack that every Ranger carried on his belt and took out a clean piece of linen, wiping the blood away so he could see the extent of the damage.
‘He nearly missed you,’ he said. ‘A centimetre to the left and he would have missed you completely.’
There was a shallow score across the skin of the forearm – about four centimetres long but not deep enough to cut muscles or tendons. Will unstoppered Halt’s canteen and flooded the wound with water, wiping with the cloth again and clearing the blood away momentarily. It quickly welled back again and he shrugged. At least the wound was clean.

Halt's Peril, Chapter 23