Pain. It is not a clean fire. It is a white-hot,tearingagony. The jump has ripped the wound in my shoulder wide open. I feel hot, thick blood pouring down my back, soaking my tunic, the coppery smell sharp in my nostrils even over the stench ofthe bog. The numiscu venom is a cold,crawlingfire, spreading, claiming my limbs.
I look down. Aurora is a small, pale shape, tangled in the thorns, her eyes wide with shock. She is alive.
That is the only thought.She is alive.
"Get... clear," I grunt, the words torn from my throat. She scrambles off me, onto the small, precarious ledge, her hands bleeding from the thorns.
I try to pull myself up after her. I push with my good hand. I try to use my left.
Nothing.
I try again, my teeth bared, a roar of effort lost in the waterfall's thunder. My left armdoes not move. I stare at it. It is a slab of meat, a dead thing still attached to my body.
Panic, cold and sharp, cuts through the haze.I cannot... I cannot move my arm.I am a one-armed, unarmed orc. I amuseless.
"Othic? Othic, your arm... Gods, you are..."
I hear her voice. It is high and thin, terrified. I cannot see her clearly. She is just a pale, blurry shape in the dark. I need to tell her to be quiet. I need to tell her to run.
Liar,my mind snarls.I am dying. I am a clanless fool who got myself poisoned, and I have dragged her here to die with me.The shame is a physical sickness, worse than the pain.
Imuststand. I will not die here, on this rock, like a trapped animal. I force my legs under me, my good hand gripping the rock. "I am... fine," I lie, the word a raw grunt. "We move. Now."
I push myself to my feet. A wave of black, sickening dizziness washes over me. The deafening roar of the waterfall becomes a gray, spinning void. I stumble, catching myself on the cliff wall, my vision narrowing to a pinprick. I am not fine.
I am failing.
I smell it. Through the cold, clean air of the cliff, I smellhay. Old, dry hay and animal musk. My head snaps toward the scent. Fifty yards. A dark shape against the trees. A rooftop. An abandoned farmstead.
Shelter.
Then I smell something else. Under the hay, carried on the wind from the bog below...worg. And the hot, coppery tang of myown blood.
They will smell me. They will be on us.
"Worgs," I gasp, the word a puff of steam. Her eyes go wide. "Shellter.Now."
I lurch toward it, grabbing her arm with my good hand. It is not a fifty-yard walk. It is a crawl. A desperate, agonizing journey. I am not just a warrior; I am a wounded animal, seeking a hole to die in. I am stumbling, my wounded shoulder screaming, my body going cold.
I fall.
I land hard on my knees, the impact jarring my teeth. "Get up!" she cries, pulling at my tunic.
She is not just following. She is... she ispullingme. Her small hands, gripping my tunic, trying to keep me upright. She is... dragging me? The humiliation is a fresh wave of agony. A seven-foot orc being dragged by a human half-ling.
But the smell of worg is closer, a rank, predatory stink under the mud. I do not care. I use her as a crutch. I heave myself up, my one good arm thrown over her small, fragile shoulders, leaning on her. I am a dead weight, but I force my legs to move.
We reach the barn. The door is off its hinge. It is dark. It is dry. It issafe. The smell of hay is thick, rich, a promise of rest.
I use my good leg to shove, to help, but I am a dead weight. I crash through the broken door hinge, into the dark, safe-smelling shadows, and fall to my knees. The worgs howl, distant. They are too late. We are safe.
I am on my back, in the hay. I do not remember climbing to the loft. I remember her pulling, me shoving, a blur of agonizing, shared effort. Now I am here. It is soft. It is warm.
But I am fading.
The venom is winning. The fever is coming, a white-hot fire to match the cold numbness of the poison. I am shaking, my tusks chattering. My body is a warzone. I am failing her. I am dying, and I am leaving her alone in a barn, surrounded by worgs.
I hear her scrambling away. The rustle of hay.
