They pounded along the road to the north with as much speed as the horse could muster. Garinor held on as best he could while Song reached around him and worked the reins. But as they went, Garinor could hear Song gasping and moaning in pain. He grabbed the reins and steered the horse off the path and into a line of trees nearby. He tethered the horse to a tree near a brook and then he helped Song to dismount.
The man was badly hurt. Garinor helped him out of his tunic and saw a deep gash across his side. If the flow wasn’t staunched soon, Song would not survive.
“As long as you’re safe,” Song gasped, “then it doesn’t matter.”
Garinor ignored the comment and searched for something to use to clean the wound. To his relief, the prince’s horse still had a saddlebag attached to it with some supplies. The prince’s banner was rolled up inside the bag and Garinor thought at least one good use would come of the cloth. He tore it into shreds and soaked some of the pieces in the brook. He dabbed Song’s wound and was able to give it a decent cleaning, but it hurt so terribly that Song screamed in agony.
When he could, Song guided Garinor’s hands in tying a makeshift bandage. He needed something more permanent than that, but at least it would keep him alive. As night fell, Garinor rummaged through the saddlebag and found some food, which they shared in silence.
The next day, Garinor redressed Song’s bandages and helped him to mount the horse. Song held tightly to Garinor as the boy managed the reins and kept the horse plodding along their way. Song knew of another Daggerfist encampment not far off, and if they could reach it, then he could be treated properly. It wasn’t easy for the injured man to ride the horse with the constant jostling, but he couldn’t have managed to walk.
They kept hidden that day, veering slightly off course in order to keep out of sight, for surely the prince’s men would pursue them. The only grace was that they had taken the only horse among them, but they weren’t able to push the horse into a run for fear of damaging Song further. In a pinch, however, they would kick into high speed.
Song’s skills were vital as they went. He guided them to various patches of fruit and berries and he kept them always near the brook. Garinor did all the running around while Song remained mounted on the horse. The less he moved the better. Yet as the day waned and the sun sank down, Garinor could see that Song was struggling. His face was ashen and he looked beyond tired. He feared greatly for his friend.
“Not far… now,” Song breathed. “Could… go in the… morning.”
“If it isn’t far, then let’s go now, Song. I can’t let you die. Hold on to me.”
And off they went, making one more foray onto the road. Garinor abandoned caution and kept to the flattest road for that stretch of the journey. His friend’s need was too great to be concerned with stealth. Soon after, he saw glimmering lights on the horizon and he knew it was the other camp. They were almost there.
When Garinor pulled into the camp and called for help, the watchman sprang to attention. He recognized Song and woke the camp healers. Song was carried to a tent where his wounds were administered to fully.
The watchman returned and clapped Garinor on the shoulder. “Thanks for bringing him. We’ll tend to his wounds. And yours as well, I might add. Let’s go.”
Through his concerns for Song, he hadn’t paid any attention to the scrapes and cuts and bruises he had earned in the battle. None of them had mattered. He was brought to the healer’s tent. They had already stripped off Song’s bandages and were pouring wine down his throat to deaden the pain. Garinor watched one of the women heating up a long needle in a flame and then attaching a very thin line of cord to it. When she approached the large gash in Song’s side, Garinor realized what she meant to do and he turned his head away, unable to watch.
Song’s screams echoed through the camp as his wound was sewn closed. Guards outside the tent calmed the rest of the camp, who had woken in a panic. Garinor was set onto a bedroll and a healer tended to his wounds. The young man was skilled in what he was doing, and by the time Song’s cries dissipated into fitful sleep, Garinor was cleaned, his wounds were dressed, and he had a muddled sensation from the wine he had been given to drink. Blissfully, he fell asleep.