Mac gasped against the pain in his chest and staggered under Gerid’s weight. It was just a little farther to the healing tents, but he didn’t know if it would do any good. Blood caked Gerid’s temple and ran down his neck, soaking into his borrowed leather jerkin, while more seeped from the gash in his side down his leg.
“Come on, boy. Just a little farther.”
Gerid mumbled. His head raised a faction, but his legs buckled.
Black specks dotted Mac’s vision. He staggered forward. Just a few more steps. Damned mace. He should have seen the stupid hunk of metal coming. He would have in his youth. Of course, if he hadn’t been on his knees desperate to breathe, he wouldn’t have seen Gerid fall. A hilt to the temple and a blade through the chest.
Jillyn rushed from a tent. Blood smeared her face and smock, and wisps of hair haloed her face. She gasped and wrapped Gerid’s other arm across her shoulders, taking some of his weight–but not nearly enough for Mac’s aching chest. They staggered into the healing tent and laid him on the closest cot. Mac sagged to the ground beside it. God and Goddess, he couldn’t breathe.