‘Shit,’ he cried in a frustrated rage. ‘Shit, Mark, where are you? Goddamnit! How the hell can I have been so stupid? I’ve seen enough sodding movies-’
The gurney stopped.
Steven’s heels rested quietly in the snow and he tried to anticipate what would happen next. Terrifying images flashed through his brain: he would be thrown, still lashed in place, into the freezing river, or run through with a sword, or ripped, limb from limb, and fed to a pack of ravening grettans…
The stretcher was lowered to the ground.
As he strained to see, Steven felt cramp building at the base of his neck and was forced to relax and try to will the pain away. In the seconds that followed he heard the sound of something being tossed to the ground nearby, then unhurried footsteps. He started shaking, cold and fear combining to rob his limbs of strength; if he were not so dehydrated, he knew he would have lost control of his bladder. He was helpless.
Steven gritted his teeth and awaited his captor, but at the sight of him, the shock was too much for Steven to bear. He burst into unexpected tears.
‘Lahp.’
The Seron warrior grinned a crooked smile, gave a grunt of genuine concern and patted Steven gently on the chest.
‘Lahp hep Sten.’
‘Lahp, oh Lahp.’ He was so overwhelmed he could scarcely speak. ‘Oh yes, Lahp help Steven. You have helped me, you have saved my life.’ Overcome with emotion, pain and fatigue, Steven laughed out loud, a disconcertingly maniacal chuckle.
‘Thank you, Lahp. Thank you, thank you, thank you-’
‘Lahp hep Sten.’
‘Yes,’ he said again, gaining a little control, suppressing his tears, ‘yes, Lahp hep Sten.’
The Seron had been huddled in the underbrush when they had first met, and Steven had no idea how large and powerful his new friend really was until now. Looking up at him, Steven estimated that Lahp would stand a full head and shoulders taller than Mark: he was perhaps a shade over seven feet tall, barrel-chested, with enormously powerful arms and thighs. Steven suppressed a grin: next to Lahp, he was a puny dwarf. No wonder the Seron had been dragging him up and down the steepest slopes of the Blackstones so effortlessly, even with his injured leg.
Lahp drew a wineskin from a large leather pouch at his belt and offered Steven some water. For the first time since he had awakened, Steven realised how thirsty he was. He drank deeply as the Seron held the skin carefully for him.
‘Thanks, Lahp,’ Steven said, smiling, ‘Lahp, can you untie me? I have to move. I’m too cold here.’
The giant considered Steven’s request for a moment, peering into the distance as if the correct response would babble by in the river. He turned back and answered, ‘Na, na, na,’ shaking his head furiously to help make his point. ‘Grekac ahat Sten.’ He placed one hand gently on Steven’s injured leg.
Steven felt nothing. ‘Yes, Lahp. I understand; the grettan hurt my leg, but I must move about. I am cold here.’ He pantomimed shivering, aware that it wouldn’t be too long before his teeth would be chattering for real. ‘It’s too cold. I cannot feel my hands or my feet.’
‘Na.’
‘Lahp, I promise I will not run away. I will not move far. I just have to get some blood flowing through my feet.’
‘Lahp a Sten Orindale,’ the Seron countered, pointing northeast along the river.
Steven smiled again. Mark had been right. The river did flow through the mountains to Orindale.
Falling snow was collecting in his eyebrows and lashes and he blinked them away before trying again to convince the Seron to untie his bonds. ‘Lahp, I know you are taking me to Orindale and I thank you for saving my life, but I will not make it to Orindale unless I get warm. So, please untie me. Let’s make a fire and both warm up, and we can continue later today or tomorrow morning.’ Using his eyes to gesture towards his leg, he added, ‘And I must have a look at my leg as well, Lahp. Please.’
Begrudgingly, the Seron drew a hunting knife, gave a long sigh to show he was giving in against his better judgement, and sliced through the leather thongs holding Steven’s injured body in place.
Steven slowly brought his hands to his face and felt his cheeks and mouth. He ran his fingers through his hair: his beard was thicker now, and his hair had grown quickly. He longed for a steaming hot shower, and then a long, long soak in scalding-hot bath… shampoo, and soap, and bubbles, a razor… and a comfortable bed near a blazing fireplace.
His shoulder ached fiercely, but despite the pain, he planted his palms on the ground beside the gurney and lifted himself to a sitting position. Lahp, worried, tried to support Steven’s lower back with one of his enormous hands. Steven was absurdly grateful for the help.
With Lahp’s aid he levered himself so he was sitting upright and took stock of his condition. His ribs hurt, but less than they had. They were bound tightly with a length of cloth that looked as if it had been torn from a blanket. His shoulder was stiff and cramped, but when he raised his elbow he could feel the dislocated joint had been expertly replaced.
Turning his attention to his legs, Steven flinched as he brought his healthy foot up under his body. He made no effort to stand but spent some time rubbing feeling back into his thigh and calf. Wiggling his toes, he felt the familiar sting of wintry cold, but he was heartened to see that the limb responded so well despite having been immobilised for several days in the freezing cold.
He blew several warm breaths into his hands, steeling himself, then reached down to unwrap the blanket around his injured leg. Methodically, like an archaeologist unravelling an Egyptian mummy, he removed the blanket bandages that wrapped his leg from ankle to thigh. He felt strangely detached, as if he were viewing the scene from behind glass, but even so, he gasped as the full damage was revealed. All of a sudden he was back in the real world, swallowing hard to keep from throwing up. It was far, far worse than he could have imagined, even in his worst nightmares.
His leg was a putrid mess of brown, rotting flesh, moist and dripping. In shock, he touched the horribly discoloured skin and nearly passed out when it stuck to his hand and a fistful of noisome tissue came away.
He fell backwards in the snow, screaming, and Lahp quickly pushed one hand down on Steven’s chest and grabbed his left wrist with the other.
‘Querlis, querlis,’ the Seron warrior said, ‘querlis! Lahp hep Sten.’
Fighting to regain his composure, Steven cried, ‘What’s happened to my leg?’
Releasing his grip, Lahp pulled several pieces of the rotting flesh from Steven’s hand and repeated, ‘Querlis.’
‘Querlis?’ Steven echoed, still shaking, ‘what is- What are you talking about?’ Now he examined the contents of his fist more closely, and found that instead of a handful of rotting flesh, he was actually holding dark-brown leaves.
‘Leaves,’ Steven said, nearly weeping with relief. He could have kissed the Seron. ‘ Leaves. They’re just leaves.’
‘Querlis.’
‘Querlis,’ he agreed, then asked, ‘So what is querlis? Why is it all over my leg?’
He painfully hauled himself up so he could see Lahp had entirely encased his lower leg in the damp brown leaves. As he peeled the layers away to examine the wound he asked, ‘Is it some kind of medicine? Is it healing me?’ Lahp nodded, but Steven didn’t notice. His exposed injury had answered the question.
Though the leg was pale, and thinner than the other, that was the worst of it: the limb was intact. The bones that had been snapped like twigs by the angry beast appeared to be set. Where Steven had expected to find irreparably damaged, badly infected flesh, he saw only long thin scars running the length of his calf, as if the grettan had run its claws from knee to ankle. Each wound was meticulously sewn up with crisscrossing stitches. Steven ran his hands along the limb gently, as if to reassure himself that the relatively healthy-looking appendage really did belong to him.