Daren was already running.
The others were retreating with him, their hurried footsteps and Veyr's dragging scales fading through the trees. Owen looked back, and Lena shouted something Frost couldn't make out, but neither stopped.
"You fucking bastard!" Frost managed, trying to lift himself from the mud.
He couldn't understand it. Even now, with the treant looming ahead and the other creature dragging itself farther from the water, he couldn't quite believe someone had been shameless enough to do that.
He had noticed Daren's scowls, the little snarls, and the looks of disgust whenever Frost spoke. But this!?
Was a porter's life so insignificant to him that he could simply throw one towards the beasts and run?
Frost struggled against the straps, his fingers slipping over the wet leather as the others disappeared between the trees. Behind him, the mud moved beneath the approaching roots, and a low, hungry hiss came from the edge of the swamp.
