Abandoned in Maelbrook….

Was this what Valhalla was like? He was surely dead, for there could be no other explanation. Norgren’s vision was blurred and the world about him seemed foggy and un-focused. Gradually though, he began to see through the fog as his sight returned. He blinked water out of his eyes and realised it wasn’t fog, but the rain that had returned and was now numbing his chest. The defensive wall of the caern that had been his goal came back into focus and he turned his head to see what was taking his killer so long.

He wasn’t there… in fact there was no one there that he could discern. Abandoned and left for dead on the battlefield, he knew the demons would soon return to scavenge the carcases. He had to help himself or await certain doom where he was.

With the pain in his chest throbbing, Norgren could barely move his upper body. He raised his knees to draw up his feet and then pushed gently against the ground to test the effect. His back slipped gently across the sodden grass and he found he could move himself a little with greater ease than he had dared to imagine. He tried again, less fragilely than his first attempt, but still with ginger trepidation. He moved a foot, his bad arm dragging limply beside him. Again Norgren drew up his feet and this time he pushed with vigour… at least eighteen inches. Over and over he had pushed, inch by inch and foot by foot he slithered. Initially exhilarated by his new found control over destiny, he soon fought with despair as his exhaustion grew and he realised his progress was tediously slow.

He didn’t know how long he had pushed his pitiful journey, or how far he had travelled, but finally, on the brink of succumbing, he had reached the edge of a trench. He held his injured arm to his chest and, with almost his last sap of energy, pushed against the sodden earth so that he slithered the final half yard over the edge of the drainage ditch. He rolled down the embankment and came to rest with an undignified splosh in the muddy waters. Pain seared through his chest and arm as if a red hot poker had been thrust into him. He knew he could not scream out for fear of being detected, but the guttural cry erupted from his throat despite himself. Only the rushing of the rain water against the strewn boulders in the bottom of the gully masked his noise.

His arm was plainly broken and blood still oozed from the slash across his chest. It felt like he had broken some ribs also. He couldn’t do anything about that now, but he new he had to quell the bleeding before he slipped into a deep sleep from which he would never return. With his one arm he fumbled for the medical pouch on his sword belt. Fighting the intense pain, Norgren eased out the sewing needle and thread. He paused to gather his stamina and then slowly began to seal the gash together. It didn’t have to be skilful or tidy and it certainly wasn’t going to be pretty, but he had to complete it. The pain of each incision was nothing like the pain he had felt when the blow was inflicted, but non-the-less each and every one bore deeper into his reserves.

Finally, laying half in the icy waters, the needle between his fingers and the sewing thread still protruding from his chest, he could pull it through no more. It would have to be enough, or fate could take its course. Drained, cold and with no more fight left in him, Norgren allowed his eyes to close… maybe for the last time!