[piosenniel]

The four hunters were gathered round another dead horse. Archim shook his head in disgust. 'Trust to the luck of that blighted Brytta! We have found none of their bodies.'

‘They’re on foot now,’ he continued. ‘There were only five of them, as far as we’ve pieced together from the drunken reports of the guards and the ones that Fréa himself saw in the locks.’ He stood up from where he and his companions had been looking at the last horse carcass found. ‘There are five dead horses here plus the two dead draft horses found in the forest.’

The wind from the west had picked up, blowing little clouds of dust up from the vale’s floor. Archim shaded his eyes with his hand and looked westward. Footprints in the soil would soon be erased, and if the escaping band kept near the foothills, their prints would be hard to find on the rocky ground.

‘How can we know whether they’ve gone south or north from here,’ someone asked. Archim eyed the man, a crafty look on his face. ‘Were I them, and on foot, I would want to make for the nearest settlement of Men – real Men, not these swarthy Dunlendings who pass for Men.’ He spat on the ground to emphasize his point. ‘On horse, the escapees could easily elude or fight the shepherds on these plains, but on foot, they could be easily overcome.’ He looked at Fréa. ‘Isn’t there an old road just north of here that leads up to one of the trading post towns. There’s a ford there. The road would make it quick traveling for them. That’s where I’d go.’

Archim whistled for his horse, and mounted up. ‘We should easily catch up with them there.’ He waited for Fréa to give the signal for them to be off. He had had enough of stinking flesh and gore, and he wanted to put distance between himself and any wargs still hunting in these hills.

[ August 07, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]