Churn, moving ahead of her, hummed an off-key melody in time to his careful footsteps. He kept a tight grip on his horse’s reins with one hand and used the other to hang on to whatever purchase he could find on the gorge wall. He concentrated on keeping his weight into the wall and pressed his feet firmly into the dirt, ready in an instant to support his weight, and Hannah’s, if necessary – he was quite strong enough to lift her entire body with one arm, should she slide down the slope, but he didn’t want to risk a weak foothold and end up following her into the river.
As he got closer to the tree in the path he began to feel better. He was still afraid of heights – the memory of the cottonwood tree and the carnage below was still too vivid – but helping Hannah had stopped him being paralysed by terror; concentrating on her had distracted him enough to make it through.
He didn’t even notice the ice that crusted the mud as his foot slid – Hannah had a moment to wonder if he might regain his footing – then he and his horse spilled over the edge, an inarticulate scream echoing back.
In her own mind, Hannah was screaming for Churn to find a foothold while she struggled to unfasten the knot holding the two of them together, but there wasn’t enough time. She watched as the burly Pragan tumbled down the slope and the line stretched taut, caught for a moment on a jagged outcrop, then came free and dragged her down behind him.
Hannah felt her hand close around a root, and for an instant she thought they were saved – but no sooner did she feel a wave of relief wash over her than she was torn bodily away from the gorge wall, a broken end of muddy root in one hand, to continue freefalling through the air towards the river. Just below her, Churn hit the water like a boulder, followed closely by his horse, which crashed through the surface with a resounding splash and was swallowed whole by the grey water.
Disoriented by the frigid cold, Churn flailed wildly in the current, then came to his senses: he needed to swim for the opposite shore and kindle a fire as quickly as possible if he were to survive this bone-numbing chill.
When his horse struck the water, it landed on the rope – which in turn yanked Hannah from her trajectory towards the centre of the river and sent her crashing into the muddy slope, where she slid gracelessly to a flat rock protruding into the eddy. Hannah slipped in and out of consciousness, fleetingly aware of the sound of the river hurrying by.
Then Churn, ghostly-white and shivering, was with her, holding fast to her rock while his legs trailed in the current. In the distance, a horse whinnied loudly, and Churn managed a wry grin as the animal climbed from the shallows on the opposite bank and turned to shake its head at them impatiently.
Churn tried to lift his head when Hannah groaned. Blood matted her hair and painted her face red; the heavy homespun tunic was soaked in mud and blood.
‘Shit, Churn, I’m hurt,’ she whispered, trying to roll onto her side. A sharp pain flared in her shoulder and her left arm tingled with pins and needles, then went numb. She tried to move her arm, but it lay useless at her side. ‘I broke my arm, Churn,’ Hannah said plaintively, reaching for him, ‘and my head is bleeding.’ Her vision blurred. ‘I hit it hard, Churn. I think I’m going to pass out. We need to get away from here before I do…’ She inched her way across the rock, trying to ignore the pain as she dragged herself on one hip. She focused on Churn, whose head rested on his folded arms while the bulk of his body was still submerged in the water.
‘Come on, Churn,’ she encouraged, her voice breaking, ‘let’s get you up here too.’ She grasped one of his hands as firmly as she could with her own good hand, gritting her teeth to ignore the jags of pain that radiated from her shoulder to her fingers. Even healthy, she didn’t have the strength to heave Churn onto the rock, but she hoped the power of her touch would motivate him.
‘Come on, buddy,’ she said, her vision tunnelling now. She knew she wouldn’t be conscious for much longer. ‘A little help, my friend,’ Hannah groaned.
He finally lifted his head, and as she succumbed to the encroaching darkness, she thought, he will be all right. Churn took a deep breath and pulled himself painfully out of the water. The cold bit hard; his arms and legs had begun to tingle numbly and he struggled to remain lucid as he looked Hannah over more closely. As well as the head wound, which was still bleeding, one collarbone was almost protruding through her skin and the arm looked pretty nasty as well. Hoyt would have to set and bind that one. Her knees and elbows were bleeding, but none of her other limbs appeared to have snapped. He ran his fingers over her ribs, but his own hands were so cramped with cold, he was unable to feel if any of them had broken.
Rutting mess, Churn thought, this will slow us down. We should have gone back and circled around. He made a solemn promise to himself: if he were able to carry Hannah back up the slope, he would never again return to another high place – not a ledge, nor a building, and certainly not another icy mud slope above a swirling, freezing mountain river – no matter who might be chasing him.
Churn shook his head to keep his thoughts clear: he had to move Hannah, before she lapsed into a coma. He searched the hillside, waiting for Hoyt and Alen to pass down a rope: he could climb the embankment with Hannah over one shoulder, if they pulled from the top. His main concern was to give the injured woman as gentle a ride as possible.
First things first: he needed to immobilise Hannah’s shoulder. Keeping it from moving would be critical if they were to make a safe ascent, and Churn thought it best that she remain unconscious until he had her safely out of the gorge. Jouncing the broken collarbone might wake the girl (she had looked like a sea nymph that day in Southport) and then she might jerk away and cause them both to tumble back down. Ignoring the fact that he was freezing himself, Churn started to unhook his cloak; he needed it for bandages – but as he did so, something glinted in the sun.
He crawled painfully over to the shining object – a cloak pin, holding closed a thick woollen wrap being worn by what was undoubtedly a dead man. It looked as if he had fallen, like they had, but he hadn’t been as lucky: a pace or two further and the mud would have cushioned his fall, as it had Hannah’s.
Churn peered closely at the body; he reckoned the man, a forester, maybe, judging by his clothes, had been dead for several days, though the chill air had stopped the corpse from rotting. The body rested half on and half off the rocky ledge. It looked like the man had cracked his skull, killing him on impact. Churn warmed somewhat at the notion of another dead Malakasian, then got to work pillaging the corpse for anything he might use to make safer his and Hannah’s potentially dangerous journey up the muddy embankment. The man had a knife and a small wood axe, nothing appropriate for battle, tucked in his belt. He tore the man’s cloak into strips which he used to bind up Hannah’s injured shoulder, being especially thorough, then he attended to her head, using another makeshift bandage to tie around her forehead, stopping the flow of blood from her wound. He dipped a bit of cloth into the river and used it to clean her face.
From somewhere above, Churn heard Hoyt and Alen calling, but he couldn’t call back; he could just hope they found him soon. He returned to the corpse and reached for a leather pouch, small but bulging with what he hoped was silver. It was tied tightly at the top with a wet leather thong. Churn fumbled with the tie for a moment, the cold making his fingers cramp, and then gave up and drew his own knife to slice through the leather and open the pouch.