With a crash, he fell, too winded even to cry out. Restag, his grip lost by the sudden collapse, stumbled forward another few steps before stopping to turn around. Breathing heavily, he staggered back to his master’s heaving form, his legs giving out part way back as the excitement-driven strength drained away. Witheric, too exhausted for fortitude, wept quietly to himself from the pain and relief. Meanwhile, Restag stared up at the moon, feeling as if the clouds that filled his vision were not his own huffing breath but steam rising from his burning muscles and sweating skin. Then came the pain. Feverish pain that spread from his arm with such intensity he doubled up, biting his good arm till he drew blood to muffle the agonized scream. At some point, he blacked out, and when he awoke, Witheric sat beside his prone form, trying to wrap his throbbing arm in the last of their fresh bandages with cold, trembling hands.
Restag watched him absently for a while then croaked, “Put on some mittens.”
Witheric shook his head. “I can’t tie it if I do.”
“...Woe or weal?”
Laughing sardonically, the thane said, “It probably feels worse than it looks, though that is no honey-speech…. It is… Halsk’s hounds snapped, but you slipped between their jaws. They have left their mark, but I think you shall hold a shield again, my friend.”
Releasing a long, heavy breath, Restag gasped, “Thanks be to Svanril!”
Again, Witheric laughed, though this time it was a softer, more natural sound. He said, “Her father counts no new shield-men among his war-reapers tonight. Not from us, at least.”
Not yet, anyway, thought Restag, shivering in the hoarfrost-light. Despite the pain and weariness pulling his body to the earth like an anchor, as soon as Witheric tied off the bandage and began searching his travel sack for mittens, Restag forced himself up. Witheric did not waste time or energy protesting, instead helping his friend to stand so they could find kindling and clear a space for a fire. Neither man had the stomach to eat that night, so they simply took turns slowly sipping from a water skin, curled up close to the fire, and fell asleep.
One of the first thoughts to cross both men’s minds the next morning was the fact that they were utterly lost. They did not know which direction they had run the night before or how far. They knew they must go east to reach the river, but the pain throbbing up his arm and the way it worsened his existing fever prevented the shieldless shield-man from focusing enough to activate his Sight. Pulling out the large map, they estimated their location and searched through Restag’s collection of local maps to find one that might tell them something of the land, but there were no distinguishing landmarks besides tall oak and ash trees splintering the gray sky. In the end, they simply chose a direction, hoping to find elevated ground from which to either place their position on the map or see the Reinor.
It was slow going for the wounded men. Witheric had reloaded his gun but had lost much confidence in his ability to use the weapon after his unsteady hand had caused him to take so long to aim his one good shot the day before. If he had only been faster, perhaps Restag’s arm… he shoved the thought away. Until they reached a shelter, they had not left the battlegrounds, and he was High Thane. He must not lose heart. Not while he still had one man who followed him.
After wandering for hours through the endless mass of wood and dead leaf, they stumbled upon a house sitting in a small clearing. It was shocking in its suddenness. The two men had neither seen nor smelled the wisps they now saw rising from the smoke-hole of the building that seemed to just appear from between the trees. A hushed argument ensued, with Restag saying they did not know if the owner was friend or foe while Witheric, noticing his friend’s sweating brow and heavy breathing, insisted they at least investigate. A few heated moments later, Restag finally agreed on the condition that he take a look around before they got any nearer, to which Witheric readily agreed. Soon after, Restag reluctantly reported that it seemed an ordinary house. He had seen only one person, a young woman sweeping up leaves at the back of the house, too focused on her task to notice him. He still did not wish to approach, but Witheric was more than satisfied.
They decided it best to go around to the back of the house and approach in view of its owner, so as not to startle her. As they neared the back corner, still traveling through the trees, the woman Restag had seen rounded the corner. She was a pretty girl, her dark, waist-long hair braided away from her plump, youthful face and bright green eyes. She was dressed in a simple hangerock dress and carried her broom lightly as she quietly hummed to herself. For a moment, she did not notice them. Then, her eyes happened in their direction, and she gasped. Witheric rushed out of the treeline, though remained a good distance, reassuring her that they intended no harm.
“We’re lost, you see, and my friend, he’s terribly hurt!” he said.
The girl looked to Restag, and her surprise turned to concern. “Oh dear!” she gasped. “How ill you look! Yes, please, come in. Come in. I don’t have much, but perhaps… anyway, I won’t know till I get a proper look. Come.”
