Chapter 8Antyr threw his wringing cloak on to the floor, dropped into his chair and let out a pitiful groan. His back was aching, his legs were aching, his feet were burning and he was soaked to the skin and chilled to the marrow.
He sat motionless, gazing blankly up at a familiar smoke stain on the ceiling immediately above a lamp. Acute self-pity at his physical plight had long since driven all other concerns from his mind and it was some time before coherent thoughts began to seep back again. When they did, they were rudimentary and primitive and he was moved to speak them out loud.
‘I’m dying,’ he said to the smoke stain. ‘If not dead. Tarrian, wherever you are, don’t come back, there’ll only be my exhausted corpse waiting for you. You faithless hound, leaving me to die of exposure.’
