Howard knows he should lunge for it. He knows that should.

But no matter how many times he tells himself that, he can't get the thought to translate into his muscles. He can't get up and reach for the knife, even as his brain screams that he should jump to his feet, snatch it and plunge it into Aunamee's snake face. Bleed him the way he bled Howard all those Arenas back...

"Please. Please give me the knife." His voice is so small it nearly disappears into itself, like a mouse scampering back into its hole. When he cringes his spine makes little imprints into the mud under him.