Oathbreaker, Book 1: The Knight's Tale - Colin McComb

around long enough for me to know what sort of man he was, if he was the sort of man worth
sacrificing yourself for.
But I guess he was, because there I was doing it without thinking about it, and I supposed
that meant that he had some effect on me. Not friendship, but… respect? But I couldn’t spend my
energy thinking. I had to fight the cold, watch the landmarks, listen for Toren and Inger and the
sheep, keep moving, keep moving. The snow was deeper now, my breath coming hot and hard
even as my toes numbed and my fingers hardened into claws. I was a fool for coming this far. I
was a fool for coming out at all. I should have let him die in this frigid blast, I was only coming
out because he’d taken my best dog with him, and I was going to turn around right… wait… was
that… it was!
At the dead tree that marked the beginning of the truly treacherous ground, near the steep
ravine, Crosh bounded forward barking at some dim shape in the snow. It was Toren, and he was
holding Inger’s hind legs over the mouth of the abyss, keeping the dog from plunging to his
death, and his own feet were slipping toward that fall. I rushed for them as well as I could,
kicking through the snow, and stepped sideways on a loose rock. It shot out from under my foot,
and I slipped sideways and my foot landed in a small gulley. I heard my ankle snap, and I had a
brief moment of dreadful clarity before agony took my sight. I fell forward on my face, and I
flung my staff out to Toren, holding an end so that he could grab the other. He chanced a grab at
it with his right hand, and at that moment his left hand slipped, and Inger slipped into the
darkness, yelping like the puppy he had been years ago.
Somehow I held onto the staff long enough for Toren to grab hold of Crosh—who had
run to his side—regain his balance, and pull himself back from the precipice. He rushed to me,
and pulled me up from the ground. I blanked momentarily as my bones ground against each other,
and came to with my arm around his shoulder, being dragged down the mountain. “Come on,
Crosh, lead us home,” he was urging the dog, and Crosh led us unerringly down the hillside. We
fought the wind and snow the whole way down, trusting in our faithful guide to bring us to safety
and warmth—two old men, one lame, herded by a sheepdog through a howling storm.
By all rights, we should have been dead, and I fell in and out of wakefulness. I had no
choice. I pressed a stud on my crook, and its head blazed into fire. Toren recoiled from me, and
I'd have fallen if not for the staff.
“There’s a cave near here,” I croaked, gesturing. “We need to get there. Can't… can't
make it in this snow. Crosh, avantis.” My faithful dog altered his course, and Toren made up his
Colin McComb Oathbreaker, Book 1: The Knight's Tale
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