August

Issue 35

        When he opened his eyes, a donkey stood over him in the moonlight.

         "Agh—saints and shadows..." He lifted his hand to an egg of flesh on his brow, which throbbed as if its pain would hatch.  He winced and, looking at the beast again, his breath caught.

         "You—you're not Gorhaun!  Where is my horse?"  He sat up and clenched his teeth.  His entire skull felt like an egg, pressured in a bone-troll's fist.  The donkey lowered its head to nuzzle him, but he grunted and turned it away.  His hand, returning, came to rest on his thigh.  Through the cloth of his breeches—breeches?—he could feel his hand.

         "No!" he whispered.  He touched his chest and felt, above his breastbone and homespun shirt, the prodding of his fingertips.  "Ah, my armor!"  His hand flew to his side.  "Volbrin!  My sword!"