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,
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
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.
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 – ?
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.
This was fucking ridiculous. Wasn’t it?
His brain was doing a wall-of-death, spinning and chaos and noise. Some part of him wanted to jump screaming from the window and just pray that he’d land with a splatter on the south bank of the Thames...
...wake up in a nice, safe hospital. White walls and blankets and shit. He’d even deal with the intravenous happy juice, at least until they came to get him.
And the window was right
Right.
But that would be quitting. And if there was one thing Ecko wasn’t, it was a quitter.
He paced the length of the pattern-woven rug, kicking angrily at bits of broken table. He spooned more stew. The rocklight slid over him as if it were trying to make him welcome, and his skin shifted with its colour.
The stew, whatever it was, was unexpectedly good – he found himself cleaning the bowl with the breadcrust. It was rich and warm, and it left a feeling of fullness, a luxury that seemed to uncoil through muscle and nerve. He’d been a child the last time he’d eaten anything like it.
It slowed him, helped him clear his head.
Think.
His frenetic pacing eased, then stopped altogether. He put the bowl back on the tray, and tried to focus.
He turned back to the window, to the starless sky and the batshit moonlight. The urge to jump had faded, but the smoulder of resentment had not.
From somewhere outside, there came a throbbing of hooves, a squeak of wheels that retreated into the night. He groaned.
For a moment, Ecko had a horrible vision of trying to ride one – he could ride a bike, but anything with legs was taking the fucking piss already.
Without warning, he was hit by a return of his claustrophobia, a rising, panicked mental shriek.
