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Summary
He’s lying on his back on the ground, one knee propped up. Naked. There is a gaping wound between his thighs. A deep messy gash carved through everything, weeping watery blood. No, not blood. Thick watery fluid, slick, tinged pink, pouring out of him like a river. So much of it, a trail in the sandy dust, ridges and whorls as it flows downhill and pushes the sediment aside.
I can’t move. The muscles in his abdomen don’t work. His legs, his legs won’t obey him. He curls and uncurls his hands. Mankira is sleeping; she won’t wake up.
Jabber has a strange dream.
Series
- Part 8 of Crouching Jonkler Hidden Zonkler