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Their situation was far from ideal, but it could easily have been worse. The fact that the Witcher needed a longer rest than the mage after their surprise excitement did not bode well, however.
Gradually, Geralt had fallen sideways into a heap on the ground beside one cave wall. He looked uncomfortable with his back wedged into the corner, but he did nothing to adjust his position, not even to avoid a cluster of scraggy twigs near his head. Stubborn to the end, it seemed to Istredd.
At least Istredd had his coat to use as a pillow. Everything else they had brought with them was, for the most part, scattered about on the rocks somewhere far below, along with two broken corpses that Istredd had only barely wounded the surface of... when he had managed to get a direct blow, anyway. Geralt had been quick and efficient in handling the mutated, spriggan-like creatures when they'd attacked, but he hadn't been quick enough.
Istredd had tended to Geralt's wounds as much as he'd been allowed; Geralt had done most of the work himself before his hands became clumsy. Istredd had seen him sway when he'd tried to stand, and Geralt hadn't tried again since. That was nearly an hour ago.
Now, Geralt seemed to think it a good idea to sit up, at the very least. He shifted, lying flat on the ground with bent knees, his boots dragging through loose pebbles and dirt. Face set in determination, he achieved a forty-five-degree angle, perhaps sixty, and soon fell back down to zero with a short grunt.
"It still hurts?"
Geralt directed a withering look in Istredd's general direction, one that clearly stated, I never said it hurt at all, while also implying, I'd rather be unconscious than have your stupid questions ringing in my ears. Perhaps Istredd was reading too much into the body language of a half-numbed, half-pained former human, but he knew of a way — a few ways, to be honest — to help Geralt with his unspoken wish.
Tuning out ragged breaths and ignoring the smell of sweat and blood, Istredd concentrated his entire focus on the phrase he quietly chanted and directed toward Geralt. He slipped one hand behind Geralt's head, his fingertips pressing down in a straight line from the back of his skull to the nape of his neck. Reaching the knot at the base, Istredd paused before digging firmly into the flesh beneath it. Geralt gasped quietly, and then his eyes rolled back just before they fell closed. The tension seeped away from Geralt's muscles as he fell limp, briefly trapping Istredd's hand beneath him. Istredd pulled himself free with a mildly irritated sigh.
Although the afternoon shadows had not yet grown long, there was a distinct chill in the air sweeping into the rocky alcove serving as their shelter. Technically, there was time to retrieve some of their lost supplies before nightfall. As Istredd thought through their starting and current inventory, however, he decided it wasn't worth the effort. Geralt could easily replace the potions; Istredd could easily replace the tools. The food had doubtlessly been scavenged by now. They had enough coin between them to afford lodgings for a couple days or more, if necessary.
The main issues left were: how to make a portal in this cramped space, how to drag Geralt through it, and how to avoid more trouble upon arrival. The more Istredd thought about it, the more certain he was that he could make it work. Beside him, Geralt began to shiver, minor spasms occasionally jolting his limbs as he watched for any other worrying developments.
"Right. Back to mutton stew and salted fish it is, then." Istredd had hoped not to return to that inn quite so soon, but the beds were warm there — and definitely softer than stone, and less scratchy than dry branches of underbrush.