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Mabalar woke painfully and winced. It was day, though the clouds threatened rain. Or were those arrows? Plenty of both, apparently. Mabalar squinted about him and saw that he was in immediate danger of being trampled unless he got to his feet. His hands were chained still, but with no wall hampering their movement, they would make a fine makeshift flail. He rose, in the middle of a melee. Nearby were Azarmanô, Inzillomì, Thoronmir, Marsillion, Kâthaanî, Tirú, Moizandû, and another he did not recognize. They were surrounded by soldiers in the garb of the treasonous king. All this Mabalar saw in a moment. There was no time for questions, though many flew into his mind, not least of which what were his wife and daughter doing in the midst of a melee just outside the Temple of Sauron, so he set them aside and made use of his only weapon.
An arrow wielding guard did not expect such an attack against him, and found his bow and arrow entangled and useless. In a moment his hands fell useless, an arrow from Azarmanó lodged in his eye.
The leader of the guards was screaming orders from behind them. Mabalar did not recognize the man, but was happy with one thing he was saying: do not harm the horses. Well enough. However, more guards came to replace those that had already fallen. This would not do. They would be overcome later if not sooner.
"We must ride!" Mabalar yelled. "Mount the Kariborim, they will hold us!"
Mabalar was convinced that it was a futile attempt and that they were seeing their last day.
"Abârpânarú!" came a cry. It was Moizandú, who was making his way to him as he could through the melee.
"Good greeting, friend!" Though the situation was ill. Moizandú grinned.
"I shall pay my debt to you! Flee while you may and I will draw their aim!"
"But you will die!"
"My life has not been ill spent, neither will my death! Go!"
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