Page 32 of Mountain Summons

Tristan unclipped his harness and sucked in a breath—the moment he did, a dull ache in his side sharpened into something deeper. He grimaced and pushed it to the back of his mind. He’d deal with that later.

“Alex! Lorenz!”

There was no answer.

First things first.

The radio.

He flipped the emergency switch. “Mayday, mayday. This is Lieutenant Devallé. Aircraft down near the Refuge des Conscrits.” He glanced at the cracked screen, forcing his blurry vision to focus on the coordinates. “Requesting immediate help. Three crew, two may be injured. Coordinates transmitting now. Over.”

The reply was immediate. “Copy that, Lieutenant. Stay put. Sending rescue.”

Stay put.

Tristan turned, sidestepping the tree branch, and climbed into the back, ignoring the protest in his ribs as he did so.

He reached Alex first. Alex, who wasn’t moving. Blood dripped from a cut on his forehead, all the way down to his chin.

“Shit.” Tristan blinked, leaning against the door for support. A shadow appeared in his peripheral vision, reaching Alex before Tristan could. His face was pale, one wrist bent at an unnatural angle, but he looked otherwise unharmed.

“We have to get out of here,” Tristan said.

“I’ll get him,” Lorenz gritted out, his right arm cradled uselessly against his chest as he lifted Alex against his shoulder, half-dragging him toward the exit.

Tristan forced himself to move. He opened the side door, shaking as the wind howled against them, kicking up clouds of loose snow.

“The refuge,” Lorenz said. “We’ve got to get to the refuge.”

It was there, right there, but might as well be miles away. Tristan placed his arm against the right side of his ribcage, where the pain was worse. He wondered if he’d broken a couple of ribs. But the pain was wrong. Nausea struck him. He swallowed it down. They had to get Alex somewhere safe.

He forced himself to follow Lorenz’s footsteps, one foot after another, until, finally, they were indoors.

“Fuck. It’s not much warmer in here than outside,” Lorenz muttered.

Not much warmer, but at least they were out of the cold. Tristan fell down on his knees beside Alex, pressing two fingers to Alex’s throat. “Pulse is good, and his breathing is steady.”

“I think he hit his head against the wall.”

Fuck. His friends could have died back there.

“It was a good landing, Tristan,” Lorenz said, as if reading Tristan’s mind. “Best anybody could have managed.”

Tristan’s skin felt clammy. Maybe it was the sight of the gash on Alex’s temple. Jesus.

“You okay, Tristan?”

“I … I’m not a big fan of blood when it’s … all over the place,” he said.

Lorenz laughed. “You know what I’m not a fan of? Breaking my wrist again. The same fucking wrist.”

Tristan winced. “Sorry, man.”

Alex stirred. Tristan breathed a sigh of relief. “Let me go find a blanket,” he said, standing up. He was barely upright when pain ripped through his side like a serrated blade.

His vision whited out for half a second. No way this was a broken rib.Something worse.

He braced against the wall, sucking in short, shallow breaths.

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