Chapter Text
Early the next morning Galadriel woke to a loud and persistent banging at the door. A dull, unrelenting ache pulsed behind her eyes, each throb keeping rhythm with her unsteady heartbeat. Her stomach churned - not just with the remnants of last night’s ale, but with something deeper, something rawer. Then, the memories flooded in.
Halbrand.
A sharp breath left her as her stomach twisted violently. She groaned and buried her face in the pillow, as if she could smother the thoughts clawing at her mind. But it was useless. She remembered everything. The way he held her close as they danced, his hand tracing the curve of her waist, his warm breath against her ear. The way he had looked at her - open, unguarded - as if she were something precious. The way she had hurt him.
She squeezed her eyes shut, shame crawling up her throat like bile. The ache in her chest tightened. She had convinced herself that keeping him at arm’s length was necessary. That she couldn’t afford… whatever this was. That it was better to push him away than to risk - risk what? She didn’t want to answer that question.
Another sharp knock at the door made her flinch. She forced herself upright, scrubbing a hand over her face, but the weight in her chest remained.
Irritation burned through her as she yanked the door open, words of protest ready on her tongue - only for them to die instantly. Shyâl and Lorgìr stood before her, their expressions grim, skin pallid. No remnants of festival joy remained in their eyes. Between them, Shyâl clutched a sack, his knuckles white against the heavy fabric.
We’re sorry, Gal," Shyâl murmured, shifting the sack in his hands. "We thought you’d want to see this."
Shyâl’s eyes drifted down to the sack at his side. Lorgìr shifted uneasily, his usual steady gaze flickering away from hers. Neither of them spoke at first, but the sickly pallor of their faces told her this was not just the effects of a long night. Something was deeply wrong. She stepped aside, her stomach tightening. “Come in,” she said, bracing herself. “Tell me what happened.”
“Well,” began Lorgìr, “we’d drunk a bit too much last night, and thinking it would be funny, a group of us went for a walk out into the woods. Bit of a midnight adventure, y’know? Scare some of the younger lads and that. We hadn’t gone very far, we must have only been walking for around twenty minutes, when we came across… this.”
Shyâl hesitated before upending the sack onto the kitchen table. Something heavy tumbled out, landing with a sickening thud. A dismembered arm, thick with muscle and slick with congealed blood, rolled forward, stopping just inches from Galadriel’s hand. Her breath hitched. She stumbled back, bile rising in her throat.
Her stomach, already unsettled, churned violently now and she had to swallow hard to hold back the surging vomit. She looked up at the two of them expectant of a more forthcoming explanation.
“This isn’t all of it.” Said Shyâl, grimly. “There looked to be enough body parts for two whole people scattered around up there, just about. I came upon them first, told Lorgìr to keep the others back. They didn’t see anything.”
“Where did you find it?” She asked.
“About a mile up the north road, a few hundred feet into the wood on the right.” He paused pensively. “Ain’t wolves. Wolves would’ve eaten them. These were just torn apart and left. As far as I can tell, nothing’s eating them, not even the worms.”
A cold, creeping unease came over Galadriel. She covered her nose with the back of her hand and went to inspect the limb more closely. The exposed end was ragged as though it had been bitten off or torn away. The flesh had turned a fetid purple, and there was a dark black ooze expelling itself from the putrid tissue giving off a rancid stench; a corruption that was dispersed all along the limb, visible under the skin as bulging black tendrils groping to spread their filth across every muscle and sinew.
“No animal would eat this. The flesh is poisoned.” Said Galadriel as she scanned down the arm now to the hand and fingers. Her eyes stopped suddenly at the forefinger, where she noticed a glimmer of gold pinching into the bloating flesh that swelled around it. Taking a knife from one of the drawers, she swung at the finger, much to Shyâl and Lorgìr’s dismay, who were also trying desperately not to be sick. Holding it up, she wriggled the ring free from the meat. The ring was flat and round on one edge and bore the emblem of shield. Galadriel came to a morbid realisation.
“This happened less than three days ago.” She said, bleakly, tossing the finger back onto the table. “This is one of the men that came from Éoroskeld to collect their lord’s tribute. And I’ll wager the rest of the body parts in the forest belong to him and his friend.”
Galadriel exhaled slowly, then squared her shoulders, shaking her head as if casting off a heavy weight. She inhaled again, deeper this time - steadying herself, hardening her resolve. “Wake all those handy with a bow and axe, we need to put together a hunting party. As many as possible. We’ll meet at the west entrance to the village in an hour.” She hesitated, just for a moment. Halbrand. He was the last to see them alive. “And fetch Halbrand. Tell him to bring his sword.”
“Sword?” Asked Lorgìr. “What are we hunting with swords and axes?”
She looked at him, stern and grave. “Werewolves.”
The word hung heavy between them. For a moment, Shyâl and Lorgìr remained still, exchanging an uneasy glance. Then, slowly, they nodded to Galadriel and turned to carry out her orders.
Galadriel hurriedly dressed herself for the hunt. She donned a burgundy dress and hood, black trousers, and her brown leather bodice. She tied up her hair in braided crown, incorporating a green ribbon that covered the tips of her ears, and strapping her sword to her waist, she picked up her bow and quiver, and strode purposefully out into the street to meet the hunting party.
Brynneth had obviously been waiting for Galadriel to pass by her house and briskly met her in the lane, perturbed. She had noticed Shyâl and Lorgìr calling on various people along the street; she knew something was up and was quite offended she had not been included in whatever it was.
Galadriel recounted the brief version of Shyâl and Lorgìr’s story from last night and the conclusions they had come to about the severed arm, as well as the decisions to go hunting for the werewolves, or signs of them at least.
“And why wasn’t my door knocked on?” Asked Brynneth, her sense of offence redoubled now she knew the defence of the village was at stake.
“You’re not a hunter, Brynneth, and there is Cedric to consider.” Replied Galadriel, dismissive.
“No, I’m not a hunter.” Protested Brynneth, “But when it comes down to defending my home you can guarantee I’ll put up a good fight. And the best thing I can do for Ced is to set the best example I can. We all need to fight together, and I’m not about to sit back and wait for an invitation to do my part. No offence, Gal, but if we’re fighting for our lives, our homes, our families… well I’ve lived here a damn sight longer that you and I won’t be left out.”
Galadriel smiled at her and then bent suddenly, removing a knife from her inner boot and offering to Brynneth. “I’d expect nothing less.” She said.
Brynneth smiled back with a knowing glint in her eyes. “Got my own.” She said, and uncovered a large butcher’s cleaver that she produced from the folds of her cloak. “I figured whatever was going on would require a weapon of some kind.”
Galadriel laughed, more so at her own naivety than anything else. Of course Brynneth had come prepared. “Then we best get moving.” She announced, and together, they strode for the western edge of the village.
When they reached the west gate, a small group of seven was already waiting. Shyâl and Lorgìr had gathered four others - men who sometimes joined the hunts or were simply strong enough to swing an axe, even if their usual target was wood. The seventh was Halbrand.
When her eyes landed on him, something in her chest tightened. A breath caught in her throat before she could stop it, and she forced herself to exhale, slow and measured.
As herself and Brynneth approached, she stole a glance at him, searching—something, anything. A flicker of hesitation, a tightening of his jaw, the way his hands curled into fists when he was holding something back. But there was nothing. Just the same calm expression, the same quiet attentiveness as the others. As if last night had never happened.
She straightened, forcing her voice into its usual, steady rhythm. She was not speaking to him, she was speaking to all of them - but still, she felt his presence, a weight at the edge of her vision. It took effort to keep her eyes from straying back to him.
"Two men lie dead.” Galadriel’s voice was steady, but it carried the weight of command. "All signs point to werewolves - fell beasts of Angband. They are no myth. They are no distant terror. They are here. These are not mere beasts. They are the shadow of Angband itself, creeping back into the lands we call home. Halbrand told us of Ost-Heryn’s fall - proof that they are no longer content to lurk in the dark. Until now, they have spared Arnad-Dûn. That mercy has ended. They are here, watching, waiting. Do not mistake their silence for absence. We cannot wait for them to strike first. We will not cower behind walls and pray they pass us by. We hunt them now - before they hunt us. If you wish to turn back, do so now. None will think less of you."
She looked across the faces of the eight hunters before her. All were grave, yet none moved.
"Then let us begin."
They had not walked far up the road when Galadriel signalled to Shyâl to take the lead, and she dropped to the back of the group where Halbrand was intentionally lingering. As she fell in next to him she realised that though she knew what she needed to ask, she was not entirely sure how to start of the conversation. She walked next to him for several paces in awkward silence, her eyes focussed on the ground in front of her. She felt as though the air between them was fizzling.
“You brought Brynneth along.” Mercifully, Halbrand broke the silence.
“Brynneth brought herself along, there was no refusing her.” Galadriel stole a glance at Halbrand, who was also concentrating on the road ahead. “If you’re worried whether she can look after herself, between her and a wolf… I wouldn’t want to be the wolf.”
A small laugh escaped Halbrand’s mouth, and Galadriel could not help but smile slightly in response.
“Halbrand, when you escorted the Skeldings out of the village, did anything seem… strange?” She asked hesitantly.
“Stranger than you managing to take down a man twice your size?” He tilted his head, cocking an eyebrow at her.
She made no response.
“But no…” He continued, “I didn’t notice anything that would explain what happened to them. I doubt Skrúgar saw anything either – he came with me, along with a couple of others from the square. Everything seemed normal.”
Galadriel nodded, satisfied with his answer, but still trying to puzzle out the situation.
“It’s no surprise really, that the wolves chose to prey on them.” Said Halbrand, guessing her thoughts. “They were isolated, and easy pickings in the state they were in.”
Galadriel stopped suddenly at this. “What are you saying? That that they’re dead because of me?” She was obviously offended.
“No.” he said, taken aback by her sudden prickliness and a little insulted himself. “You couldn’t have known what would happen to them.”
“But you think if I hadn’t done what I did they would have stood a better chance.” She stood there obstinately, bristling.
Halbrand studied her, his jaw tense. “I never said that. And truth is if you hadn’t struck him someone else would have. I would have.” Then, without quite meaning to, he stepped closer.
“When I saw him hurt you…” His voice dipped lower, rougher. “Nothing - except you - would have stopped me from beating that man to within an inch of his life.” His hand moved before he could stop it, his forefinger hooking hers, the touch featherlight. But his thumb traced a slow, deliberate arc across her skin, as if memorizing the shape of her, unsure if he would be allowed this small connection. “Whether by your hand, or mine, their fate would be unchanged. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”
She looked down at where his fingers were stroking hers. The idea of him defending her with such violence frightened and excited her in equal measure, which in itself, frightened her all the more. His touch, however small, was a tantalising pull against everything sensible and wise, a step toward something she could not - should not - want. But her resolve wavered, just for a moment, wanting to lean into it.
Instead, she looked up at him, eyes wide and hesitant and nodded faintly. She should have let go. She meant to. But instead, her fingers curled, just slightly, around his, and before she knew it, she was holding on. A breath. A beat too long. Then, with a sharp inhale, she pulled away, as if she feared what might happen if she lingered any longer.
As she walked away, Halbrand smiled quietly to himself and moved to catch up.
After ten more minutes on the road, Lorgìr beckoned them to turn off to the right, leading them north-east up the slope through the woods. The trees stood still and bare, their skeletal branches reaching toward the dull sky. Only the smallest ones had begun to bud, and the ground beneath them was scattered with violets and primroses. Yet the air held no scent of spring - only the stale weight of earth and something else, something faint but rancid.
They climbed steadily for fifteen more minutes, pausing now and then to examine broken branches or disturbed patches of earth. There was little birdsong, just the crunch of their boots and the occasional creak of the wind shifting through deadwood. Then, cresting a shallow rise, they came to the lip of a dell.
It lay scooped out of the earth like an old wound, around seventy yards across. No trees grew within. The ground was dark, damp, and curiously sunken in places, as though the very soil had tried to recoil from what lay at its centre - the remains of two men. Or what was left of them.
The bodies had been torn apart, limbs wrenched free at unnatural angles. Entrails coiled in glistening loops over the ground, the flesh blackened with a sickly corruption that seemed to pulse in the dim light. Hair, skin, and chunks of meat had been strewn across the dell, as if something had feasted messily and then abandoned its meal. Yet nothing had come to scavenge. No flies. No maggots. No carrion birds.
The air was thick with the iron tang of blood, but beneath it lurked something worse - a stench not just of rot, but of something unnatural and lingering.
Breathing through their mouths, the hunters descended, their boots squelching softly in the damp soil. They moved with careful steps, each one aware of the silence pressing in around them. Even the trees seemed mute, as though the forest itself refused to acknowledge this place.
Galadriel swallowed against the rising unease in her throat. “We should look for signs of where the demons went.” Her voice rang out against the quiet.
They fanned out, picking their way through the wreckage. In the centre of the dell, thick black ooze had pooled into a sticky mass, sluggish and glistening like old oil. It clung to the earth in a way that made Galadriel’s skin crawl, as if the land itself was rejecting it.
To the east side of the dell tracks were spotted. Deep gouges in the earth. Clawed footprints - large, irregular. The hunters followed them uphill, treading carefully. The prints led them through thickening trees, turning north, deeper into the woods. And then, they stopped.
Galadriel frowned. The gouges ended abruptly, as if the creatures had simply vanished.
Halbrand had already solved the puzzle. He tapped her shoulder and pointed upward.
Above them, several branches were broken, jagged against the pale sky. Splintered limbs littered the ground, stark against the dark earth.
“They climbed from here,” Galadriel whispered. A grim silence followed. “We fan out. Search for fresh signs. Keep each other in sight. Don’t stray more than fifty yards apart.”
The hunters fanned out into a staggered line, each crouching low, bows drawn. They moved with practiced silence - a slow, relentless advance like a creeping fire, smoking out their quarry.
To Galadriel’s right was Brynneth, and to her left was Shyâl. Halbrand took his place at the far end of the line.
The higher they climbed, the heavier the air became. A rank, damp scent rose around them like rotting leaves left too long in stagnant water. It clung to their throats, thickening. Somewhere ahead, a shadow shifted.
It started as a whisper. A thin curl of mist wove between their boots, lazy, unthreatening. Then, without warning, the mist fell. It came like a slow exhalation from the earth itself, curling around their feet, rising until the world beyond a few yards blurred into shadow. It drew in unnaturally fast, consuming the trees, the sky, even the ground beneath them.
Galadriel stopped, heart pounding. The others were gone. The mist had swallowed them whole.
She stopped in her tracks, quickly turning both left and right, straining to see Brynneth and Shyâl. Nothing but shifting tendrils of mist. The silence pressed in, thick as the fog itself.
She crouched low, whispering into the damp air, “Bryn… Brynneth…” But the mist devoured her voice, smothering it against the earth. Even the usual sounds of the forest - the creaking of wood, distant bird calls - were gone. The world had shrunk to the space around her, and something about that emptiness made the hair on her arms rise.
A deep, rhythmic throbbing began to pulse through the air. At first, she thought it was her own heartbeat hammering in her ears, but no - this was external. The ground trembled with each step, a dull, percussive force that set her teeth on edge, as if something vast and heavy was pacing just beyond sight.
Her breath quickened. Her fingers tightened around her bow. A low, guttural vibration rose from the darkness, a breath too vast to belong to anything human. It rolled across the trees, deep and rasping, the sound of something vast inhaling… waiting. The sound was coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.
Then, silence.
She stayed frozen, barely breathing, the mist curling cold around her skin.
“Lorgìr! Galwen!” Shyâl’s voice came echoing, distant but urgent, cutting through the deadened air. Galadriel turned, ready to call back, but too late.
The wind rushed about her; a sudden, violent displacement of air. Then came a scream - high, ragged, yanked upward into the sky.
She loosed an arrow blindly, the twang of the bowstring lost beneath the scream’s final, harrowing note. The arrow vanished into the mist, swallowed whole by the nothingness above.
‘Brynneth. I must get to Brynneth,’ she thought and bolted forward, but the ground no longer felt steady beneath her feet. The mist played tricks on her vision, twisting shadows into threats, branches into reaching fingers. Her breath came hard and fast, her chest tightening.
Another sound - faint, metallic. The ringing of steel, then the wet, sickening slice of flesh, followed by a snarl that twisted into a scream, like a wolf choking on its own fury. It reverberated through the mist, scattering in every direction, impossible to place.
Halbrand. Her stomach lurched.
Then a shadow lunged at her. Huge and swift, the mist shredded in its wake, revealing the monstrous silhouette hurtling toward her - muscles coiled, claws outstretched, jaws gaping wide, ready to tear into her throat.
Galadriel sprang sideways, rolling into a crouch as the creature’s claws raked the ground where she had stood. She loosed an arrow mid-roll, the shot hissing through the air towards its face. The creature twisted unnaturally, avoiding the strike, but the arrow still grazed its shoulder, dark black blood welling from the wound.
It shrieked. A bone-rattling sound, half-snarl, half-scream, like stone splitting under immense pressure. Galadriel didn’t wait. She turned and bolted for the trees, knowing her best chance was to take the high ground. The wolf recovered fast, its heavy limbs pounding against the earth as it charged, its breath hot and ragged behind her.
She leapt for the nearest tree, gripping a low-hanging branch and hauling herself up with a fluidic ease. She was nimble, moving like a creature of the forest, scaling the trunk light and swift, propelling herself higher.
The demon followed, slashing at the trunk with its claws, trying to shake her loose.
She reached a thick, sturdy branch and pivoted sharply, drawing another arrow. The wolf was right beneath her, climbing after her. She steadied her breathing and fired. The arrow struck true, embedding deep into the creature’s thigh. It howled, its grip faltering for an instant, but it dug its claws in deeper, refusing to fall.
Snarling, it lunged upward, jaws snapping for her foot - Galadriel swung onto a higher branch just in time, its teeth gnashing together where her boot had been moments before.
She knew the trees would not keep her safe forever. Slipping her bow onto her back, she drew her sword, the steel singing as it left the sheath. She planted her feet, locking the creature’s glowing red eyes with her own.
Galadriel waited, balanced on the branch, sword at the ready. She needed to draw it into a final attack.
With a snarl, the wolf lunged again, launching itself at her with brutal force, claws outstretched. Galadriel leapt to meet it, twisting mid-air, her blade arcing downward in a flash of steel.
Realising its peril, the wolf attempted to withdraw, but it was already committed, and Galadriel was too fast. As its claws reached for her, Galadriel’s sword plunged deep into its chest, slicing through sinew and bone.
The creature let out a broken, agonized growl.
For a breathless second, they fell together, tumbling from the tree in a tangle of limbs. Galadriel twisted mid-air, kicking off its body, using the force to separate herself just before impact.
The werewolf crashed into the earth below, its body twisting upon impact as it let out a final, shuddering breath.
Galadriel landed on her back a few feet away, her breath stolen from the blow. She waited, breath coming in sharp gasps, until she had recovered enough to haul herself to her feet.
The beast lay motionless next to her. Gripping her blade tight, she stepped forward and nudged it with her boot, just to be sure. Dead.
She exhaled, and her thoughts immediately returned to her friends lost to her somewhere in the murk. The fight with the wolf had turned her about and she was unsure which way to go.
An anguished cry ripped through the dank, heavy atmosphere. It came from her left. Sprinting now, she followed the call, desperate to find the source. She knew the werewolves would be converging on it also. She had to get there first.
A sudden obstacle emerging from the gloom, caused her to pull up sharply. It was Lorgìr. He was on his knees, his back to her, deathly still.
“Lorgìr?” She whispered.
A violent convulsion rippled through Lorgìr’s body, and a stream of sobs came pouring out as he bent towards the floor.
Galadriel rounded him slowly, another figure lying dark on the ground came into view. It was Shyâl. His body broken and twisted as if dropped from a great height. Galadriel’s heart fell, and the blood drained from her face.
Lorgìr clutched at his body and began to wail.
"Galadriel rushed to his side, grasping his shoulders, forcing him to straighten up and meet her gaze. She covered his mouth. 'Lorgìr, no! Shh!'
But the low, ominous pulsing was already closing in. Galadriel sprang to her feet and spun around. Which way? Where is it coming from? It was hard to distinguish the deep, thunderous pounding of the creature’s approach from the throbbing of her own heartbeat. She closed her eyes, taking a long, steady breath. The pounding grew louder, closer. Another breath - slow, drawn out. Calm. She slipped an arrow from her quiver, nocked it to the string of her bow, and drew it back, listening. With deft precision, she adjusted her stance, aligning her aim with the direction of the relentless drumbeat. A final breath, then her eyes snapped open. She released the arrow.
It disappeared into the grey, a streak of deadly precision, unwavering as it cut through the air. A thud ended its flight abruptly, followed by a screech and the bone-shaking sound of something heavy crashing to the earth.
Almost immediately, the fog began to lift and dissipate as quickly as it came, and the forest was clearly visible again.
Galadriel could see now, not thirty yards ahead, the crumpled mess of the beast she had slain. Its ruinous fall clearly marked by the many broken branches and churned earth it left in its wake.
“Galwen!” A voice called from her left.
Brynneth was running toward her, and relief surged through Galadriel at the sight of her - safe, unharmed. Brynneth’s own face reflected the same relief, but as her gaze fell on Shyâl, she stopped short with a sharp gasp, clutching her chest. She hurried to where Lorgìr was still crouched over the body and wrapped her arms around him.
Galadriel walked solemnly over to them and placed a compassionate hand on Lorgìr’s shoulder. As she looked around trying to get her bearings, she could see now four of the other hunters approaching from different directions, converging on the sound of death and sorrow. Halbrand was not among them.
Halbrand… Her chest clenched, breath catching. A sickening dread curled in her gut. “Where’s Halbrand?” Her voice rang sharp and urgent as she turned frantically to the nearest hunters. “Did anyone see him?”
Her question was met with silence, dreadful, and suffocating. Grimly, they shook their heads, their faces solemn. She whirled around, eyes darting wildly between the trees, searching for some glimpse of him.
“Stay here,” she ordered, forcing steel into her voice even as her chest constricted. “Take care of Lorgìr. Prepare Shyâl to be moved. Cut whatever branches you need to make a stretcher.” But her own mind was already racing ahead - she had no intention of staying.
“Where are you going?” Brynneth called after her.
“To find Halbrand.”
She didn’t wait for protests. One moment she was standing among them, the next, she was gone, feet pounding against the earth. The only thing that mattered was finding him.
She leaped over the uneven ground as if she was a skipping stone on a millpond, her feet eating up the distance with a desperate haste, only stopping briefly here and there to inspect possible signs of Halbrand’s whereabouts upon the ground. She called out to him but there was no answer. Onwards she went. The trees were blurring past her, streaks of green and shadow, but she barely saw them. Her pulse hammered in her ears, loud, drowning out the sound of her own breath. The mist had thinned, but every shifting shadow, every fallen branch looked like a slumped figure.
He should have answered by now. He should have called back. But there was nothing.
She quickened - branches tore at her arms, thorns scraping deep - but she barely felt it. Every step, she expected to see him. Every second that passed without him in sight tightened the vice on her lungs. Every heartbeat stretched unbearably long, the space between each one filled with the awful thought: What if she was too late? Then - there. A flash of white between the trees. Halbrand’s shirt. And next to it a tangled mess of werewolf limbs reaching into the sky like a knot of gnarled upturned branches.
She halted abruptly, heart hammering. Halbrand lay motionless in the dirt, his face slack. Blood slicked his fingers where they clutched his side, pooling dark beneath him.
She stumbled forward, breath shattering into pieces. Her knees hit the ground hard, but she barely felt it. Her hands hovered over him, she didn’t dare to touch, afraid to find only cold skin.
“No-” The word barely made it past her lips. “Halbrand.” He did not respond. Her heart was in her mouth.
“Halbrand!” She shouted, and shook him, trying to provoke a sign of life. There was a feint flicker of his eyelids and parting of his lips, his breath desperately shallow. Her breath stuttered out in a broken, shaking sigh. Her forehead dropped to his, eyes burning. He was alive.
Then quickly she moved his hand away from his stomach. Her face fell at the sight. A large gash, a handspan in length had been ripped across his side, deep and jagged. She forced herself to focus, hands working fast. The wound gaped, dark and deep, pulsing blood. Too much blood. She pressed down hard. Halbrand barely reacted.
“No,” she whispered, pressing harder, as if sheer will could keep him here. “Stay with me.”
Her hands were slick with blood as she tore at his cloak, ripping it into strips, wrapping, binding, pulling tight. She looked ardently at him, full of worry and despair.
Back the way she had come, there came voices calling after her.
“Over here!” She cried, “Come quickly! Halbrand’s hurt!”
Brynneth and two of the other hunters came swiftly to her side. Their faces grave at the amount of blood surrounding him.
“The others are taking Shyâl back down the slope. What do you need?” Said Brynneth, ever practical and to the point. Galadriel could not be more grateful for it in that moment.
“We need another stretcher, quickly!”
The four of them worked with frantic precision, axing and strapping together two long parallel branches, with four smaller laid across them. They lashed them together with trembling fingers, every wasted second an unbearable weight. Halbrand barely stirred as they lifted him, carefully fastening him Halbrand to the stretcher. Too slow. They were moving too slow. With as much speed as they could manage, they began the descent.