Page 53 of Halfling
Don’t just stand here!
With a gasp, she grabbed the rope from Orek’s pack and tore off along the riverbank, rocks scraping under her boots. She wove between trees to get past the outcropping, picking the river up again around a sharp bend.
She scrambled over rocks to the water’s edge, chest seizing when she didn’t see either of them.
A huge body breached the water, grasping for something to stop himself, only to disappear again.
“Orek!”
She raced parallel, waiting to catch his dark head again.
There!
His head surfaced, a snarl on his lips as if he cursed the river itself. The water snatched at him, but he stayed anchored, one of his limbs grasping at something as the current eddied around him.
Taking her chance, Sorcha waded into the water, shouting to him, “Orek! Catch!”
She saw his eyes focus and widen in shock before the end of the rope smacked the side of his face.
“Take it!”
He grasped the rope, and Sorcha pulled with all her might.
All her might meant nothing against the rage and power of the river rapids.
You can’t have him, dammit!
Boots scraping, Sorcha leaned her weight back as Orek pulled himself, hand over hand, toward the shore. She thought he tried to call her name, but water gushed into his open mouth.
Heaving again, she fell back against the rocky ground, backside smarting. She scrabbled for purchase, digging her bootheels into the earth, andpulled.
Her hands blistered and burned against the rope, water dripping from the fibers pulled taut, but Sorcha wouldn’t let go. She bared her teeth like Orek had andpulled.
Finally—she didn’t think she imagined it—the rope went just a little slack. She heard Orek grunt and saw how close he was to shore, finally out of the current. Scrambling up again, she put the rope over her shoulder, faced the forest, andpulled.
Orek climbed on hands and knees out of the river, water and blood sluicing off him in thick rivulets. His mouth hung open, fangs bared as he gulped air.
Arms shaking, Sorcha fell to her knees beside him.
“Orek…” Words clogged her throat, and she choked when she saw the blooming red on his side. “Oh, fates!”
She filled her arms with one of his massive ones andpulled.
Together they stumbled from the river into the small safety of the trees.
Clutching his side, Orek slumped against a tree trunk, lips pulled back in a grimace of pain. Already viscous blood seeped between his fingers, and Sorcha could smell the coppery tang of it. Blood ran down his face from the deep cut to his left cheek; starting at his temple, it cut his left brow and ran down in one clean slice just below his left ear.
Her stomach flipped to see all the blood. She’d dealt with wounds before, but nothing like this. She’d only ever had a passing interest in Aunt Sofie’s healing craft, and she could just kick herself now for not paying attention, not asking more questions.
When his knees buckled, she helped him ease to the ground. Terror rang in her ears, just audible over the thundering of her own heartbeat.
“Sorcha…” he groaned.
“Stay here,” she told him. She threw off her own pack, pulled Darrah out of her pocket to put on his lap, and raced through the forest again.
She found his pack where she’d left it. Whatever gave her the strength to lift and carry it then, she didn’t know nor care. Arms still trembling, breaths coming in heaving gasps, she hauled the pack to where Orek sat with his back propped against the tree.
“Here,” she said, letting it fall near him. Her hands trembled as she began to root through it, to find something to stop the bleeding.
