“What can I do?” I asked the bird-costume.
“Leg,” he said, voice strained, “Help me stand.”
His left leg, I realized, was smashed into pulp from the knee down.
Ouch.
I crouched, helped him get his arm over my shoulders, and used my legs to heave both of us into a standing position. The bird-costume was below average in weight for a teenage guy, but it wasn’t exactly easy. He was wearing armor.
Historical armor is supposedly lighter than one would expect, but it’s certainly not weightless. Besides, this is probably not historical armor.
I might not have been able to get both of us up to a standing position like that if it weren’t for my weeks of running.
Hey, training is paying off!
He leaned on me heavily with each step forward, and we retreated from the front lines. Someone with the ability to fly landed not far from me to pick up the man with the gaping wound across his torso, flew off with him.
Good to know he’s at least being taken care of by someone.
Two seconds later, a teleporter blinked into existence near us, touching two fallen capes, and disappeared with them and a bathtub’s worth of water.
Beep beep, the hearseaporter’s here.
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