Tentatively, I pressed a hand to my latest wound and suppressed a curse as a new wave of pain shot through my ribs.� My hand was sticky with my own blood and my leather, which had done little to protect me, was in tatters around the wound.
In the dark, as best I could, I sliced my shirt and wadded it into a crude bandage.� I did my best to avoid spilling any more blood.� Partly because I�d heard horror stories about magical tracking using blood and partly because I�d prefer my blood on the inside.� I�m old fashioned like that.
Making my way down the corridor, in the dark proved to be complicated.� With one hand I kept pressure on my wound, hoping that the balled-up shirt would keep my insides where they should be.� This left my other hand free to check for another trap.� Progress was slow and every time I moved too quickly I was rewarded with more pain from my ribs.� The upside was that I was still moving which meant that in some regard I�d been lucky.� The bolt hadn�t been poisoned.
The care that I should have shown in the first place paid off.� The end of the corridor ended in a door guarded by another crossbow trap.� I�d been expecting a trigger wire to be head height, since the previous one hand been low.� As it turned out, this one was also low down.� I wasn�t sure if the trap setter was lazy, a fool or if this was a double bluff.� I shrugged slightly as I triggered the trap, careful to stay well away from the bolt�s possible path.� The intentions of the trap setter didn�t really matter.� What was important was not getting shot again.