Chapter 63: The Shadow of Despair
"Carry two each!" shouted Krag, slinging the most critically injured warrior’s arm over his shoulders.
The squad broke into a frantic sprint through the night forest. They ran at top speed through the snow, tripping over frozen roots and navigating the gloom while the wounded men’s blood left a red trail across the white ground. Time was running out; every breath from the dying hunters grew fainter and more distant.
Upon reaching the cave, they laid the four men down on fur blankets near the fire. Grok, startled by their sudden return, scrambled to his feet to help, but seeing the severity of the gashes, helplessness seized everyone.
The lacerations were far too deep, and the blood kept pooling out, soaking through the improvised cloths. Marty pressed both hands against a wound on Brak’s abdomen, but the crimson liquid leaked straight through his fingers.
"It won’t stop, the blood won’t stop!" shouted Marty, his voice cracking.
"Apply more pressure, damn it!" shouted Krag.
Krag paced in circles, wiping his blood-stained hands across his face. His eyes reflected a panic he had never shown to his men before. As the leader of the hunting unit, watching his warriors agonize without a shaman nearby to channel healing energy tore him apart. They were at a loss, basic field remedies were useless against tears of that scale.
Amidst the chaos and muffled cries, the sound of rushed footsteps echoed outside the cave. The third hunting squad burst into the shelter. They came back completely empty-handed, panting from exhaustion, but their fatigue vanished instantly the moment they witnessed the scene.
"What... what happened here?" said the third squad leader, freezing at the entrance as he saw his comrades on the brink of death.
"Looks like their prey overpowered them and almost shredded them to pieces!" shouted Lupar, without letting go of the blood-soaked bandage. "That’s what happened!"
"There’s no time for explanations!" shouted Krag, turning toward the newcomers. "Help us carry them, we need to set off back to the village right now!"
"You’re crazy, Krag!" shouted the third squad leader, stepping forward and pointing at the fallen men. "It’s a full day’s march at a steady pace! With this cold and the rate they’re losing blood, they won’t last two hours on the trail!"
"Then what do you suggest we do?! Leave them here to die?!" shouted Krag, confronting him with clenched fists and bloodshot eyes.
"If we move them, they’ll bleed out faster!" shouted the hunter, refusing to back down. "Besides, what about the Great Crocodile? If we try to carry them while dragging that beast, our pace will be twice as slow! It’ll be fatal for everyone!"
"To hell with the crocodile! The lives of our hunters are worth more than some damn prey!" shouted Marty, leaping into the argument with a distorted face.
"It’s not just about the crocodile, you idiot!" shouted Lupar, raising his voice above the rest while trying in vain to stop Brak’s bleeding. "They’re right. If we take them out into the storm in this condition, the movement of the march will tear the wounds open even more. They’ll freeze and bleed to death halfway through the trip. There’s no way they make it back to the village alive!"
The cave devolved into a hotbed of shouting, accusations, and utter desperation. Opinions clashed violently while the lives of the four men slipped away second by second within the shadows of the shelter.
Amidst the chaotic shouting and the veterans’ paralysis, Kellar stepped forward. He knew he couldn’t heal them, but if they didn’t stop the main flow of blood, all four men would die before anyone could make a decision.
Kellar pushed his way firmly through the hunters and knelt beside the most critically injured warrior. Without hesitation, he grabbed one of the leather straps from the wounded man’s own gear and wrapped it high around the torn thigh, pulling it tight to improvise a tourniquet.
"Get away from him!" shouted the third squad leader, grabbing Kellar by the shoulder with brute force and shoving him back. "What the hell do you think you’re doing, brat?!"
Kellar shook off the grip with a quick motion of his arm, keeping a cold glare on the hunter.
"I am stopping him from bleeding out in the next three minutes," said Kellar.
"These are my hunting brothers! You are not going to come play with their lives!" shouted the third squad leader, stepping between them with his face distorted in rage. "I won’t let some rookie start messing with their wounds without knowing what he’s doing!"
"Shut your mouth and let him act!" shouted Krag, shoving the hunter aside with his hand. "If you keep getting in the way, you’ll be the one killing them."
Kellar didn’t waste a second. He picked up a piece of wood from the ground, slipped it under the leather strap, and began twisting it hard to tighten the tourniquet until the arterial bleeding from the leg slowed. Then, he used a torn piece of the wounded man’s own fur tunic to apply direct pressure to the abdominal cut.
"I am not going to heal them, I am only buying time," said Kellar, looking up at the others with resolve. "Marty, hold pressure right here with all your weight. Lupar, grab another strap and do the same on Brak’s arm. Prop their legs up on some rocks so the blood keeps flowing to their hearts."
The hunters, seeing the immediate effect of the improvised tourniquet, followed his commands without question. The measure was no miracle or cure—it was crude survival tactics that left the third squad leader in silence as the massive bleeding finally slowed to a drip.
Once the bleeding was under control and the wounded men’s legs were elevated, Kellar let out a deep sigh and stood up, wiping the blood off his hands with a handful of snow near the entrance.
"Let’s move out, they are stabilized," said Kellar, gesturing toward the exit.
Immediately, several of the crude hunters rushed over and grabbed the wounded men by their arms and legs to haul them up by brute force, causing the recovering warriors to let out agonizing groans of pain.