Chapter 90
Dragging an unconscious cyclops through the outskirts of Emna was somehow even less glamorous than it sounded. It wasn't the sort of heroic image bards write ballads about unless the ballad included groaning muscles and an obnoxiously disgusting amount of monster drool.
The makeshift cart we "borrowed" (liberated from behind someone's shed, with the vague intention of returning it someday) creaked with every step like it was threatening to fall apart out of spite. It leaned dangerously to the left, rattled ominously over every rock, and kept losing its wheels.
The first time one of them came off, we spent twenty minutes searching through the underbrush before realizing it had rolled downhill. The second time, Finn kicked it so hard it lodged itself in a tree.
