He collapsed after maybe a quarter mile.
One moment his legs were moving, the next they weren't, and then he was on his hands and knees in a small clearing, dry-heaving nothing because his stomach was already empty.
The pain in his shoulder had gone from sharp to a deep, nauseating throb that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. He couldn't feel his left hand anymore. That was probably bad.
Don't think about it. Keep moving.
But his body had other ideas. His vision was graying at the edges, his breathing coming in short gasps that didn't seem to pull in enough air.
Shock. He was going into shock.
Twenty years of medical training screamed at him through the haze: Assess the wound. Control bleeding. Treat for shock.
Cadarn forced himself to sit back against a tree trunk. With his right hand—the one that still worked—he reached across to his left shoulder.
His fingers found the arrow shaft immediately.
It had punched through the meat of his shoulder, just below the collarbone. Entry wound in the back, exit through the front. Clean through-shot—which was simultaneously the best and worst thing. Best because the arrow wasn't lodged inside. Worst because he had two holes leaking blood instead of one.
He pulled his hand away. His fingers were dark with blood.
Okay. Okay. Think.
The arrow needed to come out. The wounds needed to be packed and bound. He needed to stay conscious long enough to do both.
With shaking hands, Cadarn grabbed the arrow shaft where it protruded from his chest.
On three. One... two...
He pulled.
The scream that ripped out of him sent birds exploding from nearby trees. White-hot agony tore through his shoulder as the shaft came free, bringing fresh blood with it. He dropped the arrow and pressed his right hand against the front wound, gasping.
Pressure. Need pressure on both wounds.
But he only had one working hand.
Think think THINK—
His belt.
Moving with agonizing slowness, Cadarn unbuckled his belt one-handed and pulled it free. He worked it under his arm and across his chest, positioning it so it pressed against both the entry and exit wounds when he cinched it tight.
The pressure made his vision white out for a second, but when it cleared, the bleeding had slowed.
Not stopped. Just slowed.
It would have to be enough.
Cadarn let his head fall back against the tree, breathing hard. The forest spun slowly around him. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear shouting. They were still looking for him.
Have to move. Can't stay here.
His body disagreed. His body wanted to sleep. Possibly forever.
No. Move. Now.
He leveraged himself upright using the tree trunk, leaving a smear of blood on the bark. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else, but they held his weight.
Barely.
Cadarn stumbled forward, using trees for support. No idea which direction he was going. Just forward. Away.
The forest was old-growth here—massive oaks and pines that blocked out most of the light. Underbrush thick enough to hide in but hell to move through. His boots—already falling apart—caught on roots and vines. Every step sent fresh jolts of pain through his shoulder.
He lost track of time.
Might have walked for ten minutes. Might have been an hour.
The shouting behind him had faded. Either they'd given up the search, or he'd gone far enough that he couldn't hear them anymore. Neither option felt like victory.
His right boot caught on something and he went down hard, landing on his injured shoulder.
The pain was exquisite.
Cadarn lay in the leaf litter, gasping, waiting for his vision to come back. The belt across his shoulder was soaked through now. He could feel blood running down his chest, pooling under his back.
This is it. This is where I die.
Part of him—a large part—was okay with that.
Twenty years of running, and it ends face-down in a forest, bleeding out from an arrow wound while strangers hunt him for a secret he wished he'd never learned.
There was poetry in it, maybe.
Terrible poetry, but still.
The boys you couldn't save would laugh at this.
The thought came from nowhere, carried in a voice he hadn't heard in twenty years. Sergeant Marcus, his first field surgery supervisor. Gruff bastard who'd taught him that sentiment got people killed and hesitation got everyone killed.
Get up, Doctor. Dead men don't get to quit.
"I'm not a doctor anymore," Cadarn whispered to the dirt.
Then die as one anyway. Get. Up.
His right hand found purchase in the earth.
He pushed.
His body screamed objections.
He pushed harder.
Inch by inch, he got his knees under him. Then one foot. Then both.
Standing.
He was standing.
Now walk.
Cadarn walked.
One step. Another. And another.
The trees began to thin ahead. He could see lighter patches between the trunks—probably a clearing or maybe a road.
Road was dangerous. Clearing was exposure.
He had no choice. The forest was spinning now, and if he didn't find somewhere to hole up and properly treat the wound, he'd be dead in an hour.
He stumbled into the clearing.
Not a clearing. A village.
Small—maybe a dozen buildings clustered around a central well. Thatched roofs, mud walls, vegetable gardens behind each house. The kind of place that appeared on no maps and contributed three silver in taxes annually if the collectors remembered it existed.
Smoke rose from two of the chimneys. A dog barked somewhere. Otherwise, it seemed quiet.
People. Help. Or death. Coin flip which.
Cadarn staggered toward the nearest building. His vision was tunneling now, everything going dark around the edges. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears—too fast, too weak.
Almost there. Just a few more steps.
The door was closed. He tried to knock but his right arm wouldn't cooperate properly. Instead, he sort of fell against the door, which swung inward.
He collapsed across the threshold.
Voices. Surprised. Frightened.
Hands on him—pulling him inside or pushing him out, he couldn't tell.
"—arrow wound—"
"—blood everywhere—"
"—could be dangerous—"
Cadarn tried to speak. Tried to explain. But his mouth wouldn't form words anymore.
The last thing he saw before the darkness took him was a woman's face—middle-aged, weathered, staring down at him with an expression caught between horror and pity.
Then nothing.