Darkwell - Douglas Niles [46]
His eyes widened in shock, and the world began to spin around him. With a moan, he leaned back into the crack, afraid he would faint. Mercifully, after several seconds of dizziness, his senses calmed somewhat. He felt terribly weak, but he forced himself again to look at the wound.
His foot was gone – or at least half of it. Numb with disbelief, he saw that some horribly sharp thing had ripped through the bottom of his boot and torn off the forepart of his foot. Nausea rose in his throat at the sight of the white bone, its red mass of flesh glistening, and the blood that dripped freely from the gaping wound.
He leaned forward and vomited over the side of the rock, heaving until his stomach was empty. Weakly he leaned again into the crack, not sparing a hand even to wipe his mouth. Then he forced himself again to look at the wound.
Though the heel and ankle remained intact, Daryth sensed that the wound had crippled him for life – however long that life might be. The Calishite decided he would gladly settle for one more sunrise at this point. He would make it to the dawn!
With that determination, his thoughts once again focused on his enemy. Where was the creature? The camp seemed very near now… Wasn't that Robyn stroking his forehead? How gentle…
Startled, he snapped to wakefulness. The cold rock poked into his back, and his cramped muscles tormented him. He had lost consciousness. For how long? he wondered. Curiously, the knowledge terrified him more than had any of the events of the night. Death did not cause him great fear, as long as he could die fighting. But to grow weak, to lose consciousness so that death could creep up silently and claim him while he remained unknowing… this he could not allow!
He looked down again, and again he saw nothing but vast blackness. Whether he had dozed for seconds or an hour, he couldn't know. How long could it be before dawn? He felt with sickening certainty that night's cloak would last for many more hours.
Grunting in pain, he wrapped the wound crudely, using cloth torn from his tunic. The binding quickly soaked through with blood, but it would serve as minimal protection. Next he tried to lift himself from his awkward seat. Only with great exertion did he finally pull himself free from the crack. His muscles shrieked in protest. Once his wounded foot thudded into the rock, and the resulting explosion of agony threatened to drive him mad. Gasping and choking, he clung desperately to the rock until the pain subsided.
Slowly, inch after pain-wracked inch, Daryth reached upward with his left hand. Scraping his blistered fingertips across the rock, he found another of the tiny cracks that had helped him climb this far.
Then he discovered another problem. Allowing his injured foot to dangle loosely, he tried to hold the scimitar in his right hand while lifting his other foot higher on the rock. But the tiny handhold, gripped only with his fingertips, didn't afford him enough purchase for the move.
Grimacing, he slid Cat's-Claw back into the scimitar's sheath, reluctantly realizing that he now needed both hands for climbing. Gaining a hold with his right hand, he pulled himself up until he could wedge his left boot into another crack. Once again he repeated the process.
This time his right foot crashed into a jagged spur of rock, and he cried out from the pain. Instantly biting his tongue, he clung to the sheer rock face while the world closed in around him. Fiery gouts of pain erupted along his leg, and tears flowed freely from his eyes.
Daryth's fingers began to slip from their precarious holds, and he sensed the certainty of death below him. "If I let go, I die." He whispered the words aloud, over and over, and from somewhere he found the strength to hold on. But even as his grip strengthed, a great well of blackness opened up in his mind as his pain threatened