Book One – Chapter 16

It did not work.

Which, in hindsight, was not all that surprising. To be more precise, it was an utterly stupid and equally futile thing to do, given that his blood had not done the trick either, and piss was not exactly known for its magical ice-melting properties. But then again, Nagrak was not in a position to be picky about his ideas, literally. You might argue that a bad idea in a bad situation is still a bad idea, but it was not like there was anything else to do. He was, after all, just hanging around. And, well, maybe … just maybe … the next splash, that next droplet of warmth could just be the one that made all the difference.

So for a while, that was his task: collecting and applying piss in tiny offerings to the stone, all while suspended over the abyss like some stubborn icicle praying for summer. Eventually, though, even that grew too annoying, and he gave it up. Also, ran out of piss.

Nagrak was, in fairness, as much a trial-and-error kind of ork as any other — with the distinction that he oftentimes skipped the reflective part of the exercise, the bit where one recognised an error as an error, or even just understood that the trial was over, in general. The result being that, where most would pause to acknowledge defeat and rethink their approach, Nagrak simply kept trying.

And so, once again, he pulled at his arm. Twisted it. Yanked it in every direction a socket was never meant to go. And, yes – predictably, for those who made a habit of reflecting – the arm was still stuck. Very stuck.

The jagged rocks had done their work. His arm was shattered and wedged deep between a cluster of outcroppings, with the stone biting into the flesh down to the bone. It was frozen so numb he could only tell he was bleeding by the sticky heat he felt spreading across his other hand. Not that it stayed warm for long. The ice drank it up, hungrily.

There were no footholds to help him shift his weight. No nearby cave wall to brace against. Nothing to push off from, wedge into, or use for leverage. His legs dangled uselessly over the void, kicking from time to time in instinctive spasms. He could taste blood in his mouth too. Thick. Bitter. The fall had probably loosened a few teeth — at least one of his four upper canines felt disturbingly mobile, shifting with each breath, pressing against the inside of his cheek in a way that made him want to spit it out, if only he had enough spit to spare.