“Take its life, little lady,” the creature said. “Show you understand.”
“Or you’ll take mine?” She found there was an edge in her voice.
In the pale light, the great bow flexed and loosed.
Feren gave a faint cry. His hand was gone from hers as he fell.
So sudden. So utterly final.
The flickering of her defiance drowned in total incomprehension, she shook her head. No. Instinctive, pointless denial. No.
Her chearl shifted, snorted at the metal smell of blood.
“Leave the male to die, bring this one.” The great creature ran a hand though his mane of hair – a disturbingly ordinary gesture. “There is need of a healer.”
Reeling from shock and nausea, the blow to her head somersaulted her forwards into the dark.
* * *
His face itched.
When he moved his arm to brush the grass away, other sensations shot through him – sickness, cold.
Pain.
He stomach lurched and he retched – a dark, liquid splash on the grass stalks before him.
Inanely, he heard Amethea’s voice, ...told you not to guzzle it all, and it came with the realisation he wanted water.
He retched again, a thin stream of bile and blood.
Above him, the air was cold.
With an effort that spilled tears down his cheeks, he got his hands under him and pushed his face and chest away from the bloodied grass. He looked up.
Far, far above him, the sky glimmered faintly – it was almost dawn.
Across from where he had fallen, the body of his poor chearl still bore saddle and panniers. Black specks buzzed sluggishly about its eyes.
Fighting the urge to retch yet again, he tried to sit up.
And collapsed, biting his lip against a scream.
The pain was in his belly, just over one hip, focused about the arrow shaft that had spiked him front to back. One hand found it; carefully explored it. It was a broadhead, he could feel the point. At such short range, that monster bow had simply punched it straight through him.
Okay – the Gods were with him. He knew how to deal with this.
Chearl, panniers, healers’ kit.
Apothecary, heal yourself.
Stupidly, he started to laugh.
His laughter scaled upwards and he found himself fighting for control. He was shouting, shrieking, “Thea, help me!”, yet knowing that the creatures had taken her. He raised his hands to cover his face and sobbed.
He was going to die out here, under the haunted mountains, and the insects would eat his eyes.
Yet the tears subsided and, oddly, he felt better – calmer. Chearl, panniers, healers’ kit. Swallowing nausea and mindful of the arrow shaft, he tried again to sit up.
As he moved, white anguish seared up his leg and he felt a muffled, sickly grinding.
He stopped, panting. Using his arms and hands to support his weight, he forced himself into a half kneel, his right leg out before him.
His foot was badly twisted. Breathing hard, now – focus, focus – he slowly tried to move his knee, his ankle, his toes.
Distantly, a high-pitched yammering was echoed by a second, closer by. Realising he must stink of blood, he tried to order his thoughts.
His ankle was broken. His tight, laced-up boots – a gift from his cousin – would hold the injury, but he needed a crutch if he was going to move any distance.
Distance...
It was then that Feren realised he was going to try for the trade-road. Surprised for a moment at the clarity of his resolve – and at the impossibility of crossing the plains, alone, injured and without water – he looked down at his tough, dusty boot.
“It’s not about courage,” Redlock had once told him, “it’s about necessity. When you have to face something impossible, you’ll find you will – because you don’t have a choice.”
Chearl, panniers, healers’ kit.
Moving with incredible care, he shifted on his hands and backside over to the poor, dead beast that had carried him from Xenok. The insects rose resentfully at his approach, several larger things scampered – and slithered – into the grass. He didn’t want to think about it. In the uppermost pannier: road rations, empty waterskin, spare foot coverings, herb bag, dry kindling.
Javelins.
Dried fruit took the taste of blood from his mouth; its sweetness gave him a sudden rush of energy. He had a momentary flash of Amethea, passing him a piece only hours ago, but blinked back the image and turned instead to tearing his linen foot bindings into long, narrow strips.
The last strip he tore in half, folded into two pads, and stuck both between his teeth.
One deep breath.
Two.
Snapping the front of the shaft was easy – it just hurt. The wound was wide and ragged. Snapping the back was awkward and had him sobbing, grinding his teeth into the linen.
But he did it. Leaving the centre of the arrow still in his flesh, he took the pads from his teeth and added a scattering of herb to his own saliva.
Oh, yes. Graduate me now.
Carefully, he bound them, front and back, to hold the arrow in place.
Then, shaking, he retched again, pieces of bloody, half-chewed fruit.
As his coughing subsided, he wiped water from his eyes and focused instead on his ankle. He needed a piece of wood long enough to make a crutch, but the javelins were too short and, this far from the river, what trees that grew were stunted and bent by the endless wind.
The distance to the trade-road was suddenly tremendous. Despair threatened him – he couldn’t walk, he had no water. How – ?
Necessity, Redlock had said.
But what he did have...
He and Amethea had both been carrying small bundles of dry firewood. The trade-road sites were tended and deliveries regular – but out here, wood was difficult to come by. Only a little – just enough to cook on – but maybe...
They had been going to make camp in the Monument itself – a kids’ adventure. Funny how crazed that now seemed.
Bound across the back of the chearl’s saddle and covered by a length of waxed calico, a small bundle of wood. A couple of pieces were maybe the length of his arm, but again the Gods were smiling – one piece provided him with a forked rest for his armpit and if he was careful, he could bind it to the javelin shaft...
It wasn’t perfect – the wood was too dry to take his weight for long – but he bound it as tight as he could with what remained of his linen and prayed that it would hold to the road, at least.
By the time he was done, the sun was rising into a clear, bright summer sky.
His mouth was parched. He drained the last drops from his waterskin and slung it over his shoulder, just in case. Then he took his fruit and his herb bag and bade a farewell to his silent chearl.
He knew he would never make it.
5: LIVING THE NIGHTMARE
THE WANDERER, ROVIARATH.
With a final reminder of his offer of help, the Bard left Ecko alone.
To think.
Ecko waited until the door had closed, then picked up the bowl of food. For a moment, he was tempted to sling it across the room, but his belly grumbled again and, gracelessly, he started to shovel it down. He’d probably give himself indigestion, but he was fucking starving, and twenty kinds of freaked out, and frankly, he didn’t care. Hell, for all he knew, his stomach wasn’t even real.