Stutely had barely slept. The whole night, he'd lain shivering in his bed, the wounds on his back burning hot as he'd grappled with thoughts of goodbyes.
Death had never been a game. Not the way the gods seemed to treat it. For him, for the Merry Men, it had always been bloody and brutal and ugly. But it had never been permanent. This one... this one just might be. Even if he did claw his way back, Jesus, who could say how long it would take him or how much of him would make it?
And just in case he didn't, there were things he ought to say. Robin, Marian, all the lads, Clio – they needed to know, he was so bad at telling them what they were to him. They deserved to hear it. They deserved to hear it right, but all the words he composed in his head sounded weak and hackneyed.
He was still struggling with it when Tuck started yelling. The words didn't penetrate at first, and he raised his head above the blanket, confused. "Whassat?"
Someone outside? Someone... no. Tuck had to be imagining things, they were all that desperate. Bloody coyote or something, that was all. But Stutely climbed atop his own bed anyway – and through the thin slit of the window, he saw what Tuck had seen. A passing shadow... a boot, mayhap?
He joined in the shouting. "HELP! HEY! HELP US, WE'RE LOCKED DOWN HERE!"