Follow the river southwards, against the current. The rivers all flowed north, from the mountains to the cold sea. He had no idea where he was, but he could follow the river. He was on his own, in woods crawling with Flatheads. You could never have too many knives in Logen’s experience, and this was a good one, but the outlook was still bleak. He still had his knife in the sheath at his belt, and he was mightily glad to see it. He’d need his foot, if he was going to get out of this. It hurt bad, but his foot still moved well enough, and that was the main thing. Tender to the touch, and no mistake, but it didn’t feel like anything was broken. His side was covered in bruises from the fall. He pulled up his wet shirt to take a look at the damage. He scraped the dirt out of his nose, his eyes, his ears. He tottered to his feet, leaning against the nearest tree trunk. Alive he might be, but staying alive, that was another question. Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers, say he’s a survivor.Ī cold wind blew across the rotting river bank, and Logen’s laughter slowly died. Soaking wet and flat on his back, he started to chuckle.
Still alive, in spite of the best efforts of nature, Shanka, men and beasts. “I am still alive,” he croaked to himself.
He lay there for a moment, staring up at the grey sky beyond the black branches, breath wheezing in his raw throat. He groaned, flopped over onto his hands and knees, dragged himself up out of the river, gasping through clenched teeth, rolled onto his back in the moss and slime and rotten sticks at the water’s edge. He tried to take a proper breath, choked, coughed up water, spat out mud. This was death? Then why did it hurt so much? His whole left side was throbbing. The lapping of water, the rustling of trees, the odd click and twitter of a bird.
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