in his chest. It had gone numb. His neck hurt, too, and badly. But his head was worse. It made him want to scream, but he couldn’t make his voice obey him. His entire body was out of his control. All it would do was lie still on its side, and hurt.
He managed to open his eyes, but his head hurt so severely that his vision was blurred. Everything was grey around the edges, and red flashed behind his eyes with every heartbeat.
Some perverse inner strength made him try to get up, and now he really did scream. The instant he moved, agonising pain crackled through his chest. He fell back down again, and the impact made it a hundred times worse. It made him black out briefly, and when he woke up he couldn’t move at all.
But the pain faded gradually, and his resolve hardened. Try again, he thought.
Very carefully, he moved his free arm. It was fine. The wrist and elbow were uninjured and his hand intact, though the shoulder hurt. He could cope with that.
He touched his chest, gritting his teeth in readiness for a resurgence of the pain. But nothing happened. His chest felt strangely . . . hard under his tunic, and it took him some time to remember that he was still wearing his breastplate. That was a relief, he decided, the thought moving very slowly through his head. It would have protected him a little.
He checked his other arm. It was also fine. His legs, too, still worked and were more or less pain free.
He paused to prepare himself, then pushed on the ground with his lowermost arm and very gently rolled onto his back. To his surprise, this didn’t make the pain come rushing back. It did surge a little, but not too badly, and he let his head drop. Instantly, pain stabbed into his neck. He winced and reached up to feel the spot.
His hand touched cold metal.
He stopped, bewildered, and started to run his fingers over the surface of it, trying to discern the shape of it. It was smooth and slightly rounded, like a ring, and it went all the way around his neck.
The realisation hit him slowly and coldly, like ice moving down into his brain.
It was a collar.
And, on the skin below it, blood had flowed and dried into a thick crust. When he slid a finger under the collar, he could feel the spikes that lined its insides, embedded in his flesh.
Panic took hold of him. He grabbed the collar in both hands and started to pull at it, trying to make it come off. But it stayed firmly in place, and his efforts only drove the spikes further in. There was a wet tearing sensation and a burst of pain, and fresh blood started to trickle down over his fingers.
Arren let go of the collar and lay still on his back, not daring to move.
He realised, eventually, that he was sobbing.
Wild rage and terror flooded into him. He forgot everything and rolled onto his side, pulling at the collar with all his might, wrenching it upwards, trying to get it over his head. It would not come. He didn’t even notice the agony of his ribs; he jammed his fingers under the collar and pulled outward with all his might. The spikes cut his fingers, and more blood ran down over his wrists. He started to scream and swear, not even knowing he was doing it, thrashing around on the floor in a haze of pain, tears streaming down his face. But nothing he did would make the collar come off. It stayed where it was, its spikes biting into him, its surface becoming sticky with blood. In the end he slumped back onto the floor, sobbing weakly, every fibre of his being screaming out.
“No . . . no . . . oh gods, no . . .”
His head pounded and his chest was agony. His neck continued to bleed, weighed down by the collar. Part of him wanted to call for help, but he knew in his heart that no-one would hear him. And if they did, what then? What would they do when they saw him?
Gradually, though, his terror gave way to rage. Burning, terrible rage, the same rage that had made him attack the two men in the tavern. It took hold of him, overwhelming his senses, blotting out the pain and giving him strength.