Padaver rolled over in stages. Any movement at all, sent ripples of pain throughout his ribs.
On his knees, he stole a few rapid breaths.
“Help me,” he whimpered in prayer to the unknown god.
He pushed himself to his feet, where he hovered on the point of unconsciousness. A moment later, his head cleared, bringing with it, the pain in his side. Leaning forward, he allowed his mail shirt to slip from his body, almost taking his tunic too. Removing it completely, he looked at the wound. It bled freely from a short slit in his flesh. It was deep, but at least, it had not punctured any vitals.
With a hand clamped on the wound, he foraged through every saddle bag available. He found the supplies he needed, and as much food, water, and extra clothing that he could carry. Binding up his wound as neatly as he could with bandages he found in a Vindavian saddle bag, he climbed onto his mount. The concentration caused his teeth to crack audibly above the falling rain.
Minus his mail shirt, he dressed in an extra tunic and clasped a cloak about his shoulders. He was in no condition to fight, even if he wore mail. Peering through his brows, he assessed which direction he should go. East would take him back to the army of the southmen. North was cut by the river, and south would take him into the heart of Vindavia. Tugging on his reins, he trudged the horse west, the only direction left to him.