“Go without me,” Krujha said, shaking his head. “I can’t—I don’t want to hurt him. I’ll follow slowly.”
“The path is going to be swarming with rebels in a few minutes, once they realize Zesh is gone,” Brugo growled, his eyes wild. “I can’t leave you behind.”
“I’ve got my crossbow,” Krujha replied. “The path is defensible enough. I can find a better hiding place and wait for the worst to pass, then join you in the camp. I know you need to get down there now, but if there’s any way I can get Alwyn out of this alive—I have to try.”
Brugo stared at him for a long moment. Krujha held his gaze, his heart hammering. Usually, he was quite good at reading other people’s faces, but at that moment, Brugo’s expression was entirely inscrutable to him. He couldn’t focus on anything but Alwyn.
“Just get back down into the camp as soon as you can,” the orc finally said, though he still looked clearly conflicted. “If you can’t—I’ll try to get a healer up to you. No promises.”
“Understood,” Krujha said, then added, “Thank you, friend. Truly.”
Brugo nodded sharply, then dug his heels into his horse’s side, and they went galloping down the path and disappeared around the bend. Krujha took a deep, steadying breath, and hefted Alwyn’s limp form into one arm as gingerly as he could manage, then he mounted his own horse. As quickly as he could, he settled Alwyn’s form in front of him, pressing the elf’s chest to his own and letting his arms dangle—using the tattered remains of his cloak and belt to secure the elf to his own body, so that most of the pressure was on Alwyn’s back, which remained mostly unscathed.
“What in all the hells did you do, Alwyn?” he whispered, still unable to entirely make sense of the scene. He set his horse out at a trot, not daring to move any faster for fear of jostling Alwyn too hard and worsening his injuries.
He didn’t make it very far down the switchbacks before he heard the sounds of hoofbeats and shouting getting steadily louder. Swearing, he hefted his crossbow up with one arm; his eyes darted around in search of a more defensible spot. With his other free arm, he tugged the reins to pull them off the dirt path and into the brush.
There wasn’t enough cover to fully hide; but if he was far enough down the slope, and if the rebels were coming up the path in a hurry, they might not notice. He ducked as low as he could, cradling the back of Alwyn’s head like a newborn’s, until the sound of thundering hooves reached its peak. He could see them rushing by on the path, eyes fixed forward, not even looking in his direction. Part of him wondered how Brugo avoided their attention, or if they took him as an ally, passing each other in a rush.
“We’re never going to make it down the path,” he mumbled. “You didn’t make this easy for me, spitfire.”
Too many rebels would be coming up the mountain before long; he would have to find a place to wait it out. Easier said than done, but he couldn’t think of a better option until Brugo sent someone up to help him—if that happened at all.
The horse lurched back onto the path at a trot, and Krujha kept his eyes searching for any defensible location: a tall rock to hide behind, a ledge to duck under—
He spotted it as they were rounding the hill, the camp just beginning to come into view in the valley below. A large tree grew out of the hillside, its expansive roots creating an opening in the earth; it might have been a den for a bear or wolves at some point, but was empty now. It was not quite a cave, and there would barely be room for him and Alwyn; but it was hidden from view, while still allowing him to monitor the camp down below. He doubted he would find anything better, so he tugged the reins in its direction.
First, he gingerly laid Alwyn down at the very back of the den, grateful that the earth there was entirely shielded from the sun, cold and hard. The elf’s eyes had slipped closed; he wasn’t sure if it was better for him to be unconscious, but there wasn’t anything more he could do here.
Krujha then pulled two quivers of bolts from off the horse, clipping them to his belt, as well as the waterskin, which he slung around one shoulder. After a beat of consideration, he opened the waterskin and gingerly poured some of the cool water on Alwyn’s hands, where the skin was a deep, worrying red. From his tattered cloak he ripped off a long strip of cloth, soaked it in water, and rested it across his forehead, hoping that the cold air and water would keep his burns from worsening over time.
“Best I can do until the healer shows up,” he murmured softly, kneeling beside Alwyn’s still form.
There would be no hope of hiding the horse. Once he had his things, he smacked it on the haunch to send it darting away back down the path, neighing in discontent.
He pulled some dead branches in front of the cave opening and knelt down just within, crossbow at the ready. It wasn’t perfect, but it was defensible. He had two daggers, his crossbow, and fourteen bolts. He would have to make them count.
The sound of another explosion rumbled through the air. He craned his neck to peer down into the camp below, where a tent near its center—the prison tent—had burst into flame, pieces of wood and singed canvas still showering down to the earth below.
“Brugo and the elves,” he whispered, this time more to himself than to Alwyn. He sucked in another steadying breath before ducking back into his makeshift shelter. There was nothing more he could do but survive whatever came next.
When he knelt beside Alwyn, he could hear the elf breathing—labored and shaky, evidence that he was truly still alive. Hisdamp clothes were cool to the touch, and Krujha hoped he had done the right thing.
“Just hang on a bit longer, little spitfire,” he murmured, gently touching a hand to the cool rag draped over the elf’s forehead. Then he forced down a laugh and added, “Maybe I won’t call you that anymore. We’ll see how you feel about it when you wake up.”
It should have felt impossible to laugh at a time like this—and about something so morbid. But his mind was still reeling from how quickly everything had happened. Zesh was dead and his forces were on the verge of crumbling; it made him feel strangely light-headed. He very much wanted to live—but even if he didn’t, he could die knowing they had somehow pulled off their nigh-impossible task.
“You did it, Alwyn,” Krujha sighed, considering how the elf’s pride in his ability was clearly well-deserved. He had never felt anything like the tidal wave of raw power that had surged through him when Alwyn finally cut off the flames; if he’d had that kind of strength, he surely would have been just as haughty about it. Even now he could still feel the faint echo of it, like static beneath his skin. “Just leave the rest to me.”
Distant shouting pulled him back into his surroundings. He scrambled closer to the opening of the den, peeking over the pile of brush that disguised it. He could hear hoofbeats again, this time coming from the hilltop—the party that had gone up must have discovered the dead bodies in the clearing, now returning to the camp to report their grim findings.
Not if Krujha could help it—the longer the rebel forces were left in confused disarray, the more likely it was that Brugo and his plan would succeed. Krujha slipped out of the den, crossbow in hand, and hid behind a tree near a bend in the path.
Two orcs came galloping by. As they passed Krujha, he aimed his crossbow and fired. The bolt whistled through the air beforeit punched through the lead orc’s back and sent him careening off his horse, which bucked and screamed as it kept galloping. The one behind him shouted in surprise, wrenching back the reins of his horse; but Krujha had already reloaded and fired off the second bolt, catching this orc in the junction between his neck and shoulder.
“To me! Get in formation!” he heard another orc shout from further up the path. “Archer! Archer!”
He turned around and stepped into the path, reloading the crossbow as he moved. Four orcs had come to a stop on the path up ahead, scrambling off their horses. Krujha managed to fire at two before they could fully dismount; the final two came sprinting toward him, weapons drawn, and he sidestepped back into the trees as he unsheathed his own blades.
