"We need to move her," Ollie said, his voice steady despite the fear and uncertainty that churned in his stomach. "Into the trees, near the stream. I need running water and living wood if I'm going to have any chance of saving her."
Cynwrig looked up from where he knelt beside his wife, his face haggard and pale, but he nodded without hesitation. He knew that there was very little hope, but he clung to what little chance Ollie offered him like a drowning man clinging to a branch in a flood.
"Just tell me what to do," he said.
Working together, Ollie, Cynwrig, and Harrod fashioned a makeshift stretcher from Cerys's own riding cloak, spreading the heavy fabric out on the frost-covered ground and carefully positioning her atop it. The cloak was fine wool lined with fur, warm and sturdy, and it would serve as both transport and cushion for the dying woman.
