Seemed to take the Dogman an age to drag himself up to Threetrees. The old boy was lying on his back in the mud, one arm lying still with his broken shield strapped to it. Air was snorting in shallow through his nose, bubbling back out bloody from his mouth. His eyes rolled down to Dogman as he crawled up next to him, and he reached out and grabbed a hold of his shirt, pulled him down, hissing in his ear through clenched-tight, bloody teeth. “Listen to me, Dogman! Listen!” “What, chief?” croaked Dogman, hardly able to talk for the pain in his chest. He waited, and he listened, and nothing
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Im not fucking crying, you are.
