[Amanaduial the archer]

Fionel, her eyes still closed, felt the entire hall, the entire land, the entire world hold its breath as Ekatran drew out the first name.

"Number 12755, section 4. Fionel."

He said the last word with relish. Fionel felt all the breath leave her, and for a moment she didnt realise exactly what he had said. It was as if she didnt recognise her own name and, she thought with disgust, her number. But the overseer of her section looked over it, and she could hear him muttering under his breath through his fat lips as he counted, looking for number 12755. She didnt wait for him to find her. Standing, only then did she open her eyes, looking over the hall, not even hearing the murmering voices, or seeing the necks, craning upwards and downwards to see who had been chosen. Her eyes only saw Ekatran. She took a deep breath and answered in the way that had been drummed into all slaves on pain of drawn out death or beatings even more severe than usual.

"I am the first chosen, O Lord, and I shall be the quarry for your Hunt." Her voice was surprisingly clear, and throughout the echoes, the tremble in it was drowned out.

"Then come, slave, come to welcome your fate." Ekatrans voice echoed back to her. The overseer of her section grabbed her arm, dragging her out, as if she was about to try and run away - where could she run to?- but she didnt resist. Indeed, a small smile was creeping onto her face; her prayer, it seemed, had been answered. She was pulled by the overseer, and another guard, each holding an arm now, onto a wooden platform. The second easterling gave one of the ropes on which the platform was attached a short tug and, working on a pulley system from above and below, the sideless platform was lowered down, and all the way down, Fionel stared back at the one in the centre of the hall, although she felt a million other gazes on her, red hot.

As the platform landed with a slight thud, muffled by cushions underneath it, softer than any slaves bed, she stepped off, and now she almost welcomed the grip of the pair of easterlings; her legs felt weak. She stepped up onto the platform and the pair let her go. Slowly, she paced towards Ekatran until she was only a few steps away.

"Lord, I come." Her voice was barely above a whisper. It seemed like centuries since she had last seen Ekatran this close up, and his dark eyes seemed to bore into her. She was almost glad of the next part of the ritual, when her legs would have a blessed rest, but, with dignity, she lowered herself to one knee in front of him.

Ekatran didnt spare her another glance. He turned once more and drew out the second name...