Chapter 18: What the Marsh Doesn’t Bury
The reaction was instantaneous: a hiss, a steam of acrid smoke, and Thorin’s scream, which didn’t fully crest the wet, willow-shadowed air before collapsing into a fit of hacking.
Apollo dropped the flask onto the grass, only distantly aware of the way his hands shook, of the way the chemical burn feathered the edges of his tongue and nose.
His vision tunneled down to Thorin’s face, spit-flecked beard, the brow knotted in a hatred higher than pain.
The caustic caught, hissed, and the wound sloughed off old blood and tissue in a runnel of gray-green. It smelled like the end of all things.
Nik held Thorin’s arms, one across the chest and another pinning the legs.
Lyra stood back, eyes on the marsh, a single knife held loose behind her thigh, like she expected this scene to summon demons all on its own.
Thorin growled, slammed his head back against the barrow’s rim, then barked, "Again!" His voice jerked the dog from its post near the willow roots and made Apollo’s own pulse screw tight into his ear canal.
He splashed more caustic, watched the wound foam and collapse inward, then pressed a strip of boiled cloth into the ruined flesh and tied it off. It wasn’t medicine, it was a bet, and not even a particularly hopeful one.
He looked up at Nik, who just nodded, no comfort, no words, just the bleak efficiency of men who’d long ago learned how to watch a friend suffer.
Thorin passed out, which was a relief all around. Nik and Apollo bundled him back onto the barrow, Lyra slung another flask, this one unmarked, thank the gods, into Apollo’s belt as they moved.
"If we’re lucky," she muttered, "he’ll make it to noon. If not, at least it’ll be on our terms."