Carefully, he shifted Jane over to the other man. Giving her away like that hurt, hurt worse than any other pain he'd ever sustained in his life. It was like giving away a part of himself; the best, most precious part of himself.
He stood, walked the couple of steps to her horse, and took hold of the sword that was lashed to her saddlebag. It was a very special, very unique sword that could, when the circumstances required it, fulfill a very special and very unique function. He didn't know if it would work. He didn't know what the distance limit was on using the dragon sword to summon Jane's faithful friend, if there even was a distance limit. But he knew he had to try, and he was cautiously optimistic that Dragon would receive the summons. They really were pretty close to home, all things considered.
A moment later he re-secured Jane's sword, not to her horse this time but to his own; he was fairly certain that he'd need to use it again soon. Then he turned back toward Jane, praying with every fiber of his being that his summons worked and that Dragon would even now be winging his way toward them.
"Jane's horse," he said without preamble to the man who currently had Jane in his arms. He was holding her awkwardly, as if unsure quite what to do with her, and Gunther literally ached to feel the weight of her in his own arms again. He hunkered down and held them out for her, gathering her close.
"It will be the least tired because Jane weighs the least of us. Mount up. I am going to hand her up to you and you are going to ride for the castle, faster than you have ever ridden in your life. Hopefully Dragon will be heading this way, and he travels much more quickly than any horse, so God willing you will encounter him soon. He should stop when he sees you; he will recognize Jane, even from high above. Have him carry her the rest of the way home, but you have to tell him – you have to tell him – that as soon as he delivers her to the castle he must fly my back-trail and find me. He will not want to leave Jane but you tell him – make him understand – if he wants her to live he has to come after me. I am going to require his speed; it is essential."
The man got to his feet. Gunther did likewise, bringing Jane up with him, resettling her in his arms.
"And after?" the man was asking. "After I give her to the d –"
"Turn around and head back this way, to assist with getting the prisoners to the castle." Gunther looked over at the other men. "Which is what you will be continuing with, meantime. Understand?"
They nodded, looking grim. The man who would transport Jane swung up onto her horse; settled himself; reached down to take her.
Gunther almost couldn't find it in himself to give her over a second time, however necessary it might be. He glanced down for a moment. Jane was hanging almost entirely lifeless, now, in his arms. Her breathing had become so shallow he could barely track it anymore. He shifted her, bringing her face up close to his own, and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to her lips. They were dry and cracked and wholly unresponsive.
He started to hand her up, then paused and brought his lips to her ear. "I love you, Jane Turnkey. I love you and now you need to wait for me. Wait for me to come and do not give up, do you hear me? You keep on fighting this and do not give up, only weak little girls give up."
There. If there was anything left of Jane at all that was able to hear and understand his words, she would find the challenge he'd just issued far more compelling than any lover's plea.
He gave her over then, his movements jerky and disjointed because he was forcing his body to comply with an order it wanted nothing to do with; on a primal, bone-deep level there was only one thing he wanted and that was to hold onto her forever, to never let her go. But doing that would cost her whatever slim chance of survival she might still have. So he let her be lifted away from him, and a bare second later the horse was galloping off, raising a dust cloud that swirled briefly, but chokingly, around him. He had never felt so desperately, hopelessly bereft in all his life. When the dust settled, the horse was out of sight. He turned then, walked to his own animal, and mounted up.
"Sir Gunther!" called one of his remaining men as he turned his steed, facing back toward the woods, the clearing, the place where the skirmish had taken place, where everything had changed. Where he was deathly afraid that his life, in any meaningful sense, had ended. "Sir Gunther, what are you doing? Where will you go?"
"I am going," he said with flat resolve, "to get that goddamned arrow back."