Hama dragged in late that night, empty handed as far as Archim could tell. A light sleeper made even lighter by his grumbling, empty stomach, he sat up on his bedroll at the guard’s return. Strain his eyes as he might, he could see no great haunch of some delectable meaty thing hanging over the back of the horse, nor could he see where Hama might have pulled his kill into camp behind him with a rope.
He watched as Hama dropped quietly down to his bedroll near him, then he hissed at him in a contemptuous tone. ‘It’s no wonder Heldór escaped so easily with the likes of you set to watch over him!’ He dropped back down onto his own bedroll in disgust. Hama’s patience had worn thin and he barked back a few comments of his own, prompting another volley from Archim.
‘Shut yer beak, Crow!’ came the snapped command from where Fréa lay. Archim’s bad mood escalated out of control with this remark, and he waded in to tell his brother just what he thought of his hare-brained scheme. By this time Graitwa had woken up, and joined in with his comments . . .
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Eldest, that’s what I am . . . I knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless - before the Dark Lord came from Outside.
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