The world cartwheeled. 

The horse screamed.

Dayton’s fingers scrabbled her shoulder, her shirt, her ankle—anything to hold on to. 

And then he wasn’t there anymore, and Cara was still spinning.

She tried to ignore the chaos, tried to pick a single point and focus on it, as she’d once overheard festival dancers telling a young protege, but she failed. 

She vomited. Mucus and stomach bile coated her face and hair.

Still, Cara rolled down the hill, trapped in the chariot-wagon’s compartment, tumbling with all the boxes and bags they had so carefully packed that morning.

Finally, Cara rocked to a shuttering halt at the edge of the wood. A happy gurgle of water told her there was some sort of moving body behind her, blocked by the bulk of the chariot wagon. It was probably the small river that flowed past the village and toward the marshland; that was the only bit of running water she knew about in the area. 

If there were animals in the area, they were quiet with the passing of the tumbling, hurtling chariot-wagon and the wyverns’ attacks.

Cara knew she needed to get up, get into a defensive position, but the need felt like someone else’s problem. 

She moved one leg, and a wave of fire overtook her. She felt down her stomach, her thigh, her knee—and there it was, a slick spot. 

Her fingertips circled each other, and stuck together slightly. Tacky. Sticky. Oh gods, no. 

Her stomach heaved again, but there was nothing left in it to come back up. 

A tremor wracked her body. She stilled it with sheer force of will and made herself look down.

The broken hilt of her sword lay not far away from her, its edge coated in green ichor and dark patches of blood—her blood, she realized.

During the fall, the broken sword had been loose and had—she swallowed—had sliced her shin open to the muscle, at the very least. 

Not now. Oh, lords and ladies, she couldn’t be injured like that. Not now. 

Cara tried to move her leg again, and a spurt of red quickly made her stop.

Up on the road, the wyvern bellowed—a warning, she thought, not a hunting cry. Odd, that. Though.. Wait a moment. 

She twisted from her semi-prone position, trying to see the wreckage. The poles that had once held the chariot-wagon to the horse’s harness were snapped completely. The mare was nowhere to be seen.

Another low growl came from the road, along with a wet ripping squelsh. 

So injured and no way to get away quickly. At least the prime wyvern would be distracted for a little while. 

She readjusted her back to lean against the side of the wagon-chariot and reached for the nearest leather sack. She clawed the drawstrings open and thrust a hand inside. 

Soft fabric met her questing fingers—the first bit of luck they’d had all afternoon. She pulled the fabric out, discovering she’d found a rather nice dark navy undershirt made of some soft fabric. Cotton, perhaps? It didn’t matter; it would make a fine bandage. 

With a bit of painful wiggling and two more minor eruptions of blood, she managed to grab the hilt of her sword. The live edge cut the undershirt into manageable pieces. She wadded the remains of the shirt and pressed it firmly to the gash in her shin, using the strips to secure it in place.

Finally, no longer immediately concerned with bleeding to death, she looked around for her marque. Dayton was nowhere to be seen. 

A chill went up her spine. Had the wyvern…?

But no. A rustling to her left made her look back up toward the road. Cara watched Dayton stumble to his feet—dazed, but relatively unhurt. 

The monks’ pendant of Cern swung on his chest as he made he practically fell from tree to tree, making his way down the slope toward her. Maybe that amulet of his is really worth something.

He fell against the chariot, panting. “Are… are you alright?”

“Yes.” No need to make him fret about something like the scratch on her shin. She quickly looked him over, relieved to see no dark patches of blood. His nose was running, though, and his lips were covered in clear saliva. He was probably sick, too. 

“We need to get out of here while… well…” Another moist wrenching noise came from the road.

Dayton turned paler still, a ghost in Acolyte’s robes, but only nodded. “Any ideas?”