was firm—but not his footing. As he
pulled backward, his feet slipped out from under him. But he held on to the
fletching’s tail as he fell backward. It was like hanging onto an ill-trained
guard dog’s collar when the dog wanted to bite something. The bird’s muscles
rippled as it fought against him, stretching its neck out and snapping its beak
at Giorge. But he held on.
Why isn’t it biting me? Angus wondered, chuckling
again. It was funny, wasn’t it? The bird wasn’t trying to bite him, and every
time the bird lunged at Giorge, it dragged Angus a little closer to Giorge.
Giorge drew his short sword, and swung.
The bird suddenly snapped back, and Angus fell backward onto
his back. The bird’s momentum carried it over him, and he let it go. It landed
at the opening, flopping around and spraying blood in all directions. Then it
flopped over the edge and was gone.
Angus lay there for a few seconds, and then sat up slowly.
He blinked and took several deep breaths to try to clear his head. By the time
he noticed Giorge grabbing at his blood-soaked leather tunic but not quite
getting a grip on it, he was almost himself again. Then he chuckled; Giorge looked
like a puppet whose strings weren’t working properly. Or was he grabbing at the
strange green thing eating his chest? Angus frowned. He had seen that green
thing before, hadn’t he? Yes, that was right; Giorge had opened a pouch—
He took another deep breath, and his vision cleared
considerably. “How bad?” he gasped, shuffle-crawling toward Giorge.
“I’ll live,” Giorge rasped, “if you stop the bleeding.”
Angus reached for Giorge’s tunic, but Giorge shook his head.
“My arm,” he said, gesturing at his right forearm. “It needs
a tourniquet.”
“But your chest—”
“Superficial,” he said. “They barely got through the
leather.”
Angus shifted position and picked up one of his stilettos.
He made a slit up the sleeve of Giorge’s tunic and peeled it open. There were a
number of short, deep gashes in his forearm, and they were bleeding a lot. “It
kept biting me while I was killing the other one,” Giorge said. “I couldn’t let
go or the other one would have gotten my eyes.”
Angus cut a strip of cloth from Giorge’s sleeve and slid it
under Giorge’s right arm, past the elbow and well above the wounds. He tied a
firm knot and twisted it tighter.
Giorge grimaced, and Angus said, “It will have to be
bandaged before we climb back up.” Could he climb back up? He was still woozy,
and his balance was off. What if he lost consciousness? At least it was a good
sign that he was thinking about the possibility; before, he wasn’t thinking
clearly at all.
“Ortis can stitch it up,” Giorge said. “But you’ll have to
get me up there first.”
“Or bring him down,” Angus said, looking at the harness. “Can
you keep this tight while I go get him?”
Giorge nodded and lifted his hand to the knot. When he had a
good grip on it, Angus let go. “I can climb if you get me into the harness,” he
said. “My legs aren’t too bad. The leather is thick there, like on my chest. It’s
thin on the arms so I can maneuver.”
Angus looked him over and shook his head. “No,” he said.
Giorge’s arm was the worst of it, but it wasn’t the only injury. There was
blood seeping through the cracks in the leather covering his chest and thighs,
and his short black hair was streaked red where the fletching had bitten him. Part
of his left ear was gone, and there was a gash on his left shoulder. He would
need a lot more than the stitches on his arm. “It will be better to bandage you
down here. I’ll be back with Ortis soon.”
He cleaned the blood from his stiletto and put it back in
its sheath. Then he picked up his other stiletto and did the same. When he went
to pick up the other harness, he noticed that one of the scrolls was resting
against it, and he picked it up, too. Then he gathered up the other scrolls.
The box and
pulled backward, his feet slipped out from under him. But he held on to the
fletching’s tail as he fell backward. It was like hanging onto an ill-trained
guard dog’s collar when the dog wanted to bite something. The bird’s muscles
rippled as it fought against him, stretching its neck out and snapping its beak
at Giorge. But he held on.
Why isn’t it biting me? Angus wondered, chuckling
again. It was funny, wasn’t it? The bird wasn’t trying to bite him, and every
time the bird lunged at Giorge, it dragged Angus a little closer to Giorge.
Giorge drew his short sword, and swung.
The bird suddenly snapped back, and Angus fell backward onto
his back. The bird’s momentum carried it over him, and he let it go. It landed
at the opening, flopping around and spraying blood in all directions. Then it
flopped over the edge and was gone.
Angus lay there for a few seconds, and then sat up slowly.
He blinked and took several deep breaths to try to clear his head. By the time
he noticed Giorge grabbing at his blood-soaked leather tunic but not quite
getting a grip on it, he was almost himself again. Then he chuckled; Giorge looked
like a puppet whose strings weren’t working properly. Or was he grabbing at the
strange green thing eating his chest? Angus frowned. He had seen that green
thing before, hadn’t he? Yes, that was right; Giorge had opened a pouch—
He took another deep breath, and his vision cleared
considerably. “How bad?” he gasped, shuffle-crawling toward Giorge.
“I’ll live,” Giorge rasped, “if you stop the bleeding.”
Angus reached for Giorge’s tunic, but Giorge shook his head.
“My arm,” he said, gesturing at his right forearm. “It needs
a tourniquet.”
“But your chest—”
“Superficial,” he said. “They barely got through the
leather.”
Angus shifted position and picked up one of his stilettos.
He made a slit up the sleeve of Giorge’s tunic and peeled it open. There were a
number of short, deep gashes in his forearm, and they were bleeding a lot. “It
kept biting me while I was killing the other one,” Giorge said. “I couldn’t let
go or the other one would have gotten my eyes.”
Angus cut a strip of cloth from Giorge’s sleeve and slid it
under Giorge’s right arm, past the elbow and well above the wounds. He tied a
firm knot and twisted it tighter.
Giorge grimaced, and Angus said, “It will have to be
bandaged before we climb back up.” Could he climb back up? He was still woozy,
and his balance was off. What if he lost consciousness? At least it was a good
sign that he was thinking about the possibility; before, he wasn’t thinking
clearly at all.
“Ortis can stitch it up,” Giorge said. “But you’ll have to
get me up there first.”
“Or bring him down,” Angus said, looking at the harness. “Can
you keep this tight while I go get him?”
Giorge nodded and lifted his hand to the knot. When he had a
good grip on it, Angus let go. “I can climb if you get me into the harness,” he
said. “My legs aren’t too bad. The leather is thick there, like on my chest. It’s
thin on the arms so I can maneuver.”
Angus looked him over and shook his head. “No,” he said.
Giorge’s arm was the worst of it, but it wasn’t the only injury. There was
blood seeping through the cracks in the leather covering his chest and thighs,
and his short black hair was streaked red where the fletching had bitten him. Part
of his left ear was gone, and there was a gash on his left shoulder. He would
need a lot more than the stitches on his arm. “It will be better to bandage you
down here. I’ll be back with Ortis soon.”
He cleaned the blood from his stiletto and put it back in
its sheath. Then he picked up his other stiletto and did the same. When he went
to pick up the other harness, he noticed that one of the scrolls was resting
against it, and he picked it up, too. Then he gathered up the other scrolls.
The box and
Similar Books
