Panic was a frantic drumbeat in Grishnak's chest.
He scrambled through the mire, slipping on slick roots and crashing through grasping vines.
Behind him, his last two kin, Grol and Snark, followed with equal terror. They leaped over a mossy hollow.
Grishnak heard a soft groan, then a sickening, wet crunch from behind. He risked a glance over his shoulder.
Snark was gone. Vanished. As if the swamp itself had swallowed him whole.
A fresh wave of terror, stabbed through him.
He didn't dare stop. He pushed harder, his lungs burning, his eyes fixed on the dark maw of a cave he knew offered some semblance of safety.
Almost there. Almost—
An agony bloomed in his leg, and the world tilted.
He hit the mud with a pained grunt. He twisted his head, his eyes widening at the spear sticking out of from his thigh, pinning him to the ground.
Fear compelled him to look back.
Through the tangled undergrowth, he saw the Elf child. He was on top of Grol, straddling his chest.
