Thirty-two
Brice walked on, because the only other option was to stop, and if he did that his legs would not want to move ever again.
The cold and the rain didn’t register now. The burning of his muscles was a dull throb, constant and insistent. Sharp heat rose when branches scratched his arms and face, but the pain cooled as quickly as it rose.
The mud river was no more. Whether it sunk into the ground or turned off somewhere, Brice didn’t know. He hadn’t been watching. All he knew was that he was moving downhill, and that he was following some kind of path, little more than a trail of downtrodden ferns. He refused to think about what he was following.
His boot slipped on a root, and he gave a sharp cry as his ankle twisted. But that was more in surprise than anything else, and althou
