Paul stumbled off to obey. Hunter laid out Chekwe’s unconscious body, checking for wounds. He had a lot, but besides the shoulder none seemed too serious. “Sorry, friend,” he mumbled, took hold of Chekwe’s shoulder, and jerked the broken bone back into place with a sickening grate. Chekwe came out of his unconscious state long enough to scream a soul-chilling blasphemy before passing out again.
Hunter walked to the scene of the goblins’ party and picked up an amphora that felt and sloshed like it was still a quarter full. He carried it back and began pouring rum into Chekwe’s wounds. The little greenie came awake again, whimpering and cringing.
“Hush,” Hunter said. “Let me clean you up.”
“Let me see that amphora,” Chekwe asked.
“Let me clean and bind your wounds, and then you can drink
