Maldred nested Dhamon on top of the bags in the wagon bed, using their stolen clothes to pad him. Fortunately, the wagon had received little damage. Maldred sagged to his knees and closed his eyes. He sat back, opened his mouth to say something, then passed out and fell onto his back.
"Mai!" Rikali struggled to pull him up, but he was dead weight and too much for her. Fetch deposited the bag of gems he had somehow managed to hold onto, then scurried to Maldred's side and began tugging on his shirt trying to help. "Worthless," the half-elf spat at the kobold. "You had a hard enough time with the sacks of gemstones. Ain't possible for you to lift Mai." Undaunted, the kobold put his effort into pinching the tight flesh of Dhamon's face and chittering at him in his odd native tongue, which he knew the human found irritating.
Dhamon's eyes fluttered open as he softly moaned. "What…" Fetch nodded toward the back of the wagon.
"Help me," Rikali urged him. "C'mon, you can do it."
Dhamon shook off the dizziness and reached over the back of the wagon, wrapping his arms around Maldred's chest. Muscles bunched and his jaw tightened as he tugged the big man into the back of the wagon. "Heavier than he looks," Dhamon huffed, his arms momentarily numb from the effort. "Much heavier." He slumped next to Maldred and his fingers felt about his own forehead, finding the gash and pressing tentatively on it.
"Get us out of here, Fetch," Dhamon snapped. "Before we have more company."
The kobold scampered to the front of the wagon and put his shoulder against the boulder blocking it. He grunted and cursed, his muscles straining. Rikali joined him and pushed hard. The earth helped the pair's efforts, rumbling slightly with another aftershock and providing just enough impetus to budge the rock. It rolled slowly down the mountainside, careening into natural pillars, sending shards of crystal into the air and breaking apart as it went.
Panting, the kobold climbed up onto the wagon, his feet dangling. Rikali passed him the reins, then scrambled up and ripped open Mai's shirt, tearing the sleeve and fashioning it into a tourniquet for his injured arm.
"I can't feel my arm, Dhamon," Mai said, his voice so hoarse and soft he had to lean his face over to hear. "I can't move it."
Rikali offered him soothing words as Dhamon searched about beneath the canvas sacks and found a jug of hard cider. He poured some on the wound, and Maldred shuddered at the stinging sensation.
"There, you can feel something," she said. "That's a good sign." Softer, she said, "Isn't that a good sign, Dhamon?"
Dhamon didn't reply. Holding his forehead, he was scrutinizing his big friend, his eyes unusually wide and sympathetic, but he was frowning. "I hope so," he finally whispered.
Rikali regarded Dhamon for a moment. "Perhaps this should be me layin' here instead of Mai," she said too softly for him to hear.
Then she returned her full attention to the big man and tried to blot some of the blood away with a section of her own tunic. "Where should we go? Someplace to get him help. Someplace. Dhamon, I don't know what to…" she started.
"We have got to get away from here," Dhamon said, wincing slightly as he poured more cider onto Maldred's arm. "Toward Bloten. Fetch knows the way."
Four nights later they sat around a fire roasting a large rabbit. Despite the late hour, the air was still hot. The ground was so starved for water that it had become powdery like ash. Fetch risked a few sips from his last water-skin and grumbled that they'd be even richer if they could find a way to make it rain in these mountains.
Many of the clothes they had claimed from the merchant wagon had been fashioned into bandages for Mal-dred, replaced as they were needed.
Dhamon refused Rikali's attempts to bandage him, saying he wanted all the available cloth saved for Mai. He convinced the half-elf that he looked far worse than he felt-though he was certain he'd either bruised or broken a few ribs. He moved carefully, and breathed shallowly. His oily hair was matted with blood, and it was badly tangled and streaked gray and brown with dust and dirt. The stubble on his face was becoming an uneven and unsightly beard, and his clothes were soiled and tattered. He'd managed to save one shirt from the merchant haul, tucking it away beneath a sack of gems so the others wouldn't find it and rip it into bandages. But there was no reason to wear it now-it was for later, he decided, when he reached Bloten and needed to look better.
All their clothes were dark with sweat stains and dried blood. Fetch had fared the best, escaping with only a few scrapes, though his clothes were riddled with holes. He was playing nursemaid to the rest of them, inspecting the cuts and bruises they'd picked up from their ride down the mountain, and serving as their sentry.
