He had the surity of a mountain goat as he traversed the shale littered, craggy face of the mountain, hurdling smaller obstacles and effortlessly picking his footing. It was like he knew this path, and knew it well.
He heard her and seemed to pause with a reluctance that ate at Maeryn. The comforting weight of presence suddenly threatening to tear away from her and leave her to Gerald, Koreshian and the Orcs.
"Leave your gifts, they slow you..." His voice didnt' carry well on the wind but the flick his hand was enough to suggest she discard her burden.
It was a command, and what choice did she have. He'd outrun them all, including her. She was worn down by her ordeal, he could see it written across her face, and there was pity there at having to drag her through this last part. The image of her licking the blade flickers behind his eyes and recognises the thirst which steels her, again.
"We'll run until dark, Maeryn, they'll be far behind, and then we'll hide. "
And with he leads their descent into the thin scrub of the mountain side. It only rakes his ankles and knees at first, but soon thickens, becoming a tangled, hive of thorns that is several men high. Even the death mage bleeds as he continues to set his ragged pace into hell.