Sterling Forge's Arc

Chapter 26 of 31

Sterling opened his eyes to a sky gone purple at the edges. Linny had not moved. Her hand was still on the edge of the painting board. His own hand was still pressed against her side, and his palm was stuck to her coat where the blood had cooled. He counted her breaths. He got to four before he lost track. He needed cloth. He needed heat. He had neither, and the pocket of warm grass would not keep them past dawn. He sat up. Pain went through his ribs like a blade turning. His forearm hung wrong. He looked at his own thigh and saw the coat torn open and the wound under it still working. He was bleeding into the grass. If he went down, she went with him. He took the knife and cut the lining out of his coat. The cloth was thin and dirty. It would have to do. He pressed a strip against her side and used his teeth and his good hand to tie it around her. She made no sound, which was worse than the sound she had made before. His own wounds needed more than cloth. He looked at the grass under his knees. It was warm. It should not have been warm. He tore up a handful by the roots and crushed it between his palms. A pale sap came out, thick, faintly green. He smelled it. It smelled like nothing he knew. He pressed it into the cut on his thigh anyway. The bleeding slowed. He did his ribs next, then his arm. It slowed there too. The chipmunk crawled out from under Linny's hat. Its snow-dusted fur was matted with her blood. It stood on her chest and looked at him with round wet eyes. Then it climbed down and ran a short way toward the frostwood cluster at the edge of the pocket. It stopped. Looked back. Ran a little farther. "I can't carry her," he said. His voice came out cracked. "Not yet." The chipmunk came back. It climbed onto Linny's shoulder and pressed itself against her neck. Her breath caught, then evened. He did not understand it. He did not need to. He packed the rest of the crushed grass into a wad and pushed it under her bandage. He lay down beside her on his good side and put his arm across her so he would feel it if she stopped breathing. He set the hammer within reach. The knife too. "Stay," he said again. "Stayed," she said. Barely. He did not sleep. He watched the tree line until the sky above the ridge began to gray. Nothing came out of the frostwood. The chipmunk did not move from her neck. His blood had stopped. Hers had stopped. They were alive when the light came. Both of them. He had bought a day.