Hellrien found a small stream after a couple of hours ride roughly northwest from the fortress. With a groan she slid off the back of her horse and limped to the bank of the stream. She sunk on her knees and doused her head into the cool water. She drank as long as she could, then rolled over and lied on her back, staring at the white clouds slowly drifting eastwards. She was exhausted and disoriented and only wanted to sleep. As she was drifting away she suddenly stood up. The pain in her hip kept her awake. She managed to undress her coat of mail and dress and examined the wound. The spiked club had shredded her skin above the hip bone. The wounds were ugly but relatively harmless. Hellrien washed the wounds in the stream and managed to make a bandage from the hem of her dress and a handkerchief. She located the wound in her head with her fingers. When she touched it she could feel the pain shoot down all the way to her toes. She made a little tourniquet after she had cut the hair from around the wound with a knife. It was already coated with thick coagulated blood. She had also a flesh wound in her right thigh. She washed and bandaged it too and crawled into the shade of green trees. Her body was aching and hours passed by in painful torpor. Every once and a while she forced herself down to the stream to drink and to wash the blood off her bandages. When darkness came she managed to release her saddle bags and blanket roll. She ate half a bread and wrapped herself in the blankets. She sunk into a restless slumber and woke up many times, trembling of the wound fever. In the morning she drank more water and crawled back into her shelter like a wounded animal. She lied in the bushes for another day, forcing herself to drink and chew on the hard bread every once and a while. She washed her wounds often and noticed that they showed no signs of infection. The following night she slept more peacefully, but her whole body was still stiff. Now her thoughts began to clear up and she knew the wound fever was gone. But she couldn’t ride to the Forsaken Inn or the Great East Road. The half-orcs in the fortress would be in a state of alert. Hellrien had seen what was in the crates they had been purging in the courtyard. They were full of weapons. What were they for? What was the link between the half-orcs, Harmon Rushes, Joan Darkhand and the Créoth in the east?
Hellrien noticed that she had no doubts that the weapon traffic and the Créoth aggression were all connected somehow. But she still had no idea what was going on. Now she had to keep going… keep going…
The following evening she had run out of food. She filled her canteen, arduously packed up her things and mounted her hors. She rode cautiously southwards. This area of the Lone-Lands was infested with orc encampments, and an encounter with orcs in her current condition might turn up fatal. Slowly she struggled towards south. Her pains rendered her half-unconscious and she was riding instinctively. But she managed to stay in the right direction, and when she finally reached the Great East Road she rode straight across it and kept going south, towards the mountain range in the horizon. When she reached the foot of the mountain range she turned east. She found a dried-up riverbed of what had once been a waterfall late in the afternoon, after having sat in the saddle for almost twenty-four hours straight.
She was swaying on the saddle and almost blind with pain. As she rode up the riverbed she thought she was hearing voices. It was not until she saw the tents and people did she realize they were actually real. Then she noticed a mop of red hair… Eglain tunic… blue eyes staring at her…
”Orcs”, Hellrien groaned. ”Orcs attacked me…”
The Eglain caught her as she slid down the saddle.
