‘Now?,’ he said, turning to Tenzin, and motioning him closer, ‘Now we gag him. I don’t want his cries alerting anyone.’ Tenzin pulled his knife and cut cloth from Ranchard’s clothing. Shoving a wad of it in the protesting man’s mouth he bound it in with another strip tied securely at the back of his head.
Rhûnnaro crouched down close to Ranchard. His face expressionless, no hint of mercy in his eyes. Tenzin and he turned him to his stomach, and wrenching his massive arms behind his back, bound them together, his thumbs caught painful in loops that sent stabbing pain through him if he moved them overmuch. His ankles were bound tightly with rope, and once done, they hauled him to a sitting position, propping his back against the rocks.
Tenzin leaned in and spoke quietly, in their own language, to Rhûnnaro. The older man’s head nodded once as Tenzin drew away, walking rapidly toward his horse.
‘He will brew a little draught for him, something to tame the beast that rides him. Ranchard will sleep while you eat,’ he told the cluster of slaves that stood a little way off, frightened.
He held his hand out for the sword that the girl still clung to, its point resting on the ashy ground. ‘You know my name, Lady, do you not? But I have quite forgotten yours. My apologies.’ He smiled at her, his eyes glinting with amusement in the moonlight . . .
*^*^*^*^*^*
‘Here,’ Tenzin said, throwing a kindling flint to one of women. ‘Gather some sticks, get a small fire going. I will need hot water for infusing the herbs. . .’
[ May 20, 2003: Message edited by: Envinyatar ]
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‘Many are the strange chances of the world,’ said Mithrandir, ‘and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.’
– Gandalf in: The Silmarillion, 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age'
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