[Child of the 7th Age]

There was something in Rog's voice and demeanor that stopped Aiwendil from responding in his familiar cranky way. For the first time since returning from the far side of camp, the wizard took a hard look at his friend. He was concerned by what he saw. All worries about the rescue and the children's arrival were temporarily pushed to one side. Rôg was hurting badly despite the mask of cheerfulness he was still struggling to hold in place. Aiwendil chided himself for having been so unaware of his friend's problem. The young man was not the type to complain and preferred to keep problems to himself, which made his reference to "licking wounds" even more surprising. Aiwendil suspected that Rôg's consition was considerably worse than he was admitting.

The wizard spoke in a firm, gentle voice that left little room for contradiction, "You're right. We do need to help these poor wretches escape. But you are in no shape to race ahead to the slave camp. I should not have suggested that. Take care of yourself, my friend. Return to the knoll and let Athwen dress those wounds before we ride out." Not bothering to wait for an answer, Aiwendil explained to the others, "Rôg is hurt. I'm not sure how badly but he is no condition to fight."

Lindir looked up at the two young slaves and then glanced back at Rôg. Despite Azhar's brave demeanor in the tunnel, it was clear to the Elf that she was not well. Both the girl and Rôg needed to be led from the camp as quickly as possible. Neither were strong enough to defend against an attack. The Elf weighed his choices and then resolved, "Aiwendil, you and Rôg and the girl must leave immediately. What I would give for two horses! But we will have to do without them. I don't think the slavers will approach from the west. If anything, they will be at our backs. Carl and Vrór and I will follow a little ways behind. If a problem develops, we will stand our ground and hold off the slavers long enough for your party to cross over to where Athwen and the horses wait. Aiwendil, if anything should happen....if any of the slavers should get through, you must defend Rôg and the girl by using whatever means you can. I will leave that to you. And if our party does not make it back to the knoll within a few minutes of your own arrival, you must all mount up and take off for the slave camp together."

Aiwendil nodded as Lindir replied, "May Varda protect us all until we meet again at the grassy knoll or the lands beyond.."

The slave boy was last to speak to the Elf, "But what am I to do?"

"You are not a child. Neither you or the girl. I was wrong to think of you that way. You are free to choose. Go with Aiwendil or stay with us to fight if that is needed. Either way, you will need a weapon."

From inside his belt, the Elf drew out a dagger, a stout silver blade whose hilt was emblazoned with an intricate pattern of leaves and vines. "I crafted this blade when I was your age. Take it. It's yours. You've earned this weapon by your bravery and endurance." Then he walked over to where Carl and Vrór stood. "We'll let the others get a head start and follow a short distance behind: not too far, but enough that the slavers will take us as the bait and not be tempted to look too far ahead."

*************

Just before they left, Aiwendil yanked a limb from one of the bushes beside the stream and handed it to Rôg to lend him some support. Then he offered his arm to Azhar who quietly took it. Finally, he beckoned his group to start walking as quickly as they could. The others remained near the stream bank, crouching in the bushes.