Chapter 11
"Still sometimes I get a strange pain inside ... Durnae if you're hurting, so am I" - Concrete Blonde, Joey
Oovie wasn’t the fastest member of his race, nor was he the slimmest. But, if he sprinted, he found he could run upright at the end of the rope that was securely tied around his wrists. These exhausting bursts of speed bought him a minute or so of respite from being dragged and tortured by the rough ground beneath him. It was during these fleeting moments of peace that he worked to earn his escape.
He was a crafty halfling and had learned countless lessons from many harrowing captures and miraculous escapes. He always carried several knives and tools hidden on his body for situations just like this. Speck’s snake-servant Zyn had found those hiding places fairly quickly. It had failed, though, to notice the tiny sword point sticking out from the front of Oovie’s right boot. Oovie’s first action after he hit the ground was to click his right heel to the ground twice to trigger the one inch blade’s release.
It took several minutes, and he fell to the icy tundra many times as he tried to maintain his balance, but he was eventually able to saw his way through the thick ropes that bound him. The rope finally gave way and Oovie bolted off to the side of the road, hands still tied but a rush of adrenelin welling up inside of him. He was free!
Immediately surveying the area around him, he found a hiding spot behind some rocks and struggled for a moment to cut through the binds on his hands. He peeked back over the rocks to see that the wagon was still bouncing at a steady pace ahead of him.
Before Oovie had earned his freedom, Zyn had opened the back flaps of the wagon several times to observe the halfling bouncing and scraping at the end of the rope. He would stare at the captive with uncaring but curious eyes, head tilted to the side as if in contemplation. Oovie resolved to cut the creature’s throat someday soon.
Knowing he had only a few minutes to escape before Zyn looked again, he hurried from rock pile to rock pile, looking for a secure place to hide.
Finding no suitable hiding place on the empty expanse, he resigned himself to running back to Valls. They had been in the wagon less than a full day. That put him, by his estimation, two days of hard running before he could reach safety and warmth and a huge dinner.
Resting when he could in safe locations, Oovie ran as fast as his little legs could carry him, puffs of labored breath escaping as frosty clouds into the bitter night.
Meanwhile, out on the frontier…
His first sensation as he drifted back into the conscious world was an acidic burning in his veins so intense that he wanted to scream in agony. Unsure of his surroundings or whereabouts, though, he bit his tongue as quick as he could to stifle a whimpering cry. He felt hands prodding his side below the ribs and became aware of a putrid stench as he took his first breath since waking. Strangely, despite not knowing what had become of him since the tundra storm or who was touching him, he felt an odd sense of comfort and safety. He was certain, without knowing why, that he was going to survive this pain and that he would not die in this horrid country. Durnae slowly opened his eyes.
He was laying on the ground, wrapped in a filthy, blood soaked blanket made of canvas. Sitting directly next to him was a human he had never seen before, dirty and unkempt. It had a hideously bent spine and crooked shoulders. Uncut hair hung down to completely cover its face from view. It was wearing ripped clothing similar to the rags Mirny wore, speaking of a life spent on the unforgiving tundra.
The creature was leaning forward over him, frail arms reaching under the blanket, unseen hands tending to his wounds with care and attention. Wherever its hands touched him, Durnae felt pain ease and disappear.
“He stirs again” it said with a voice as gravelly as the ground beneath him. “He will fully awaken soon, I think”
“Well that’s damn good news.” Durnae heard Mirny’s familiar voice from somewhere behind him. “Thought maybe I had killed the boy. He’s not as hardy as folk around here,” the dwarf said with some relief.
Durnae opened his mouth to speak, but before he could formulate any words he was wracked by a series of coughs that brought with them incredible waves of pain, both from his boiling blood and the stab wound in his stomach. He convulsed a few times and screamed. The comforting hands were suddenly upon him again, clutching his temples, and he drifted back into a painless world of darkness and relief.