[Envinyatar]

Turos lay half turned on his stomach as the hunters approached. Ekatran, a cautious man, had stopped just inside the clearing, sending Kherug in to see to the fallen slave. Turos moaned, moving the nearly useless finger of his right hand at the approaching Easterlings. ‘Masters! I will tell you where they’ve gone.’ He whispered. ‘Only take me back with you.’

His voice, barely audible, drew the sneering hunter closer. Kherug kicked at the downed man, and crouched down close to him, spitting on Turos’ face. ‘You will tell us everything, carrion! And then you will die.’ Kherug pulled his sharp point knife from the sheath at his belt and bent very close to Turos’, his mail shirt clanking as he did so. The point of his knife touched the slave just beneath his chin, and he grinned maliciously as he did so.

With a quick motion Turos rolled up on his right side, freeing his left hand which had been hidden beneath him. The glint of his knife caught the tree filtered sun, flashing as he drove it deeply into the surprised Easterling’s neck. A gurgling gasp and Kherug’s hands flew to his wound, his eyes wide with wonder at Turos. Blood ran in rivulets between his fingers, and his eyes clouded, staring fixedly at nothingness. His lifeless body keeled over, the life’s blood slowing to a trickle.

Several of the women rushed out now to surround Turos as Dorlas charged forth, his sword drawn. Faces set with grim determination, they held their spears ready, and challenged him from three sides – like a wild boar, he was, caught in a trap of determined hunters.

Turos, grasping his ribs where Kherug had kicked him, retreated from the battle arena, knowing he would only be an impediment. His arms bled from little knicks Dorlas' blade had given him before the women had driven him off. Taking the club from Rhûnnaro's nearby horse, he stood well away from the action, his eyes sweeping the small battle, looking for the opportunity to strike a blow if needed.

Rhûnnaro could see that Fionel had challenged Shivana and for the moment was holding her own against the ghastly apparition. His eyes darted to the rocky rise where Tenzing now stood, his bow drawn trying to make a shot. He could not afford to be careless with the arrow he had nocked, and waited until he had a clear shot of an Easterling.

Ekatran had remounted his horse, thinking to charge the slaves, his long sword flying in deadly arcs. Rhûnnaro ran out from behind the bushy cover, coming quickly up behind the back legs of the rearing stallion. He swung his arms in a short, powerful motion, bringing the edge of his blade powerfully against the hocks, severing the tendons. The horse screamed and fell heavily to his side, Ekatran, rolling off him, weapon in hand.

Scrambling up, the Easterling Lord brought up his sword in a defensive posture, facing the man from Rhûn. The world narrowed in - to just these two, the sounds of the other combatants fading in the ring of steel against steel . . .

[ June 18, 2003: Message edited by: Envinyatar ]