[Envinyatar]

An Elf, five young women, and a crippled man. Rhûnnaro shook his head at this group. They would need all the favors the gods could grant to escape with their lives. He wondered who would pick up the lead for them. All had been slaves so long that even now, with death staring them in the face, they looked about as if to find an overseer to tell them what to do.

He fingered the light coil of rope that hung across his chest. The smoothness of its tight weave pushed his thoughts to memories of his wife and children. His wife’s cheek was smooth to his lips as he bent down from his horse to kiss her in farewell. And the soft fingers of his sons and daughter played against his palm as they reached up softly to say good-bye, their brown eyes entreating him not to go.

Rhûnaro pulled himself back to the present, and watched the expressions on the faces of this year’s hunters. Not much different than other years. There was a feral gleam in their eyes, and he half expected them to lick their lips in anticipation of the blood yet to be spilled. He wondered if the Dark Lord picked servants such as these whom he could keep glutted with promises of carnage and wanton viciousness because they were so easily placed under his thumb by the desire for such license.

The flag whipped down, cutting the clear morning air.

He stood at the far outskirts of the slavering crowd of Easterlings, watching as the slaves ran toward him helter-skelter to the outskirts of the town. His hand slipped to his belt and he drew out something small. He whistled sharply, catching the attention for a brief moment of the short haired, grey eyed girl who led the pack. He tipped his chin up as she neared, flipping the object in a tight arc to her.

She caught it deftly, and ran on . . .