Roland does so, wrapping it around his arm as best he can. More chance of injuring his one good arm by hanging all his weight on the forearm like that, but it's all he can do, so he does it. And then he waits. No going back to get anything they'd left on the ground, because any excess movement now risks making the thing lunge. No putting out the fire, either, which had not been large, but neither had it been small. All he does is stand still, keeping his hand near the long cooking knife at his waist, and watches Alain try to make his way up.

His headache, he notes vaguely, is dimmer now. Well, no, it's not that it hurts less, it's that the pain of it is muffled; the old red curtain has not quite dropped over his thoughts as it does in battle, but there's something about that growl, about the light that reflects every few moments off the thing's eyes, that sparks some deep, instinctive fear in him, and all the physical sensations that come with it. The growl, the eyes, and the quiet voice in Roland's mind pointing out to him far off the ground those eyes are. It is Cort's voice, but his old teacher seems to know as well as Roland does that there's nothing for it. If Alain can not find a spot far up enough they may both die, but if he does not find a spot quickly, Roland definitely will.

Fear pumps through him and Roland keeps his body still, keeps his good hand near his knife. He keeps one eye on the circling thing, and one on his old friend.