***Here we go, finally. Sorry about the delay and all that :) I'm experimenting with html formatting, so forgive any mistakes I make - if it works, I'll do the other chapters too. All suggestions and criticisms welcome, as usual. Muchos Grazias to Ewa for lending me a source for the html :)***
Lora stood, unable to breathe, with the feeling that the world had suddenly dropped away from underneath her. She stared at Aragorn, not daring to move in case he dropped away and disappeared too, gripped with fear that the new look in his eyes would crack and vanish, and never return. They stood frozen for what seemed an eternity, before with a crack time started again, and Lora flinched away a second too late from the new black branch that had sprouted next to her head.
She staggered backwards, still dizzy, but Aragorn had already seized his hand-made staff and was running, half pushing, half dragging her before she could order her limbs to move. Then she only ran, seeing nothing but the path before her and hearing nothing but her own gasps for air, until he put out an arm to stop her, and pulled her down to the floor. "No noise", he whispered harshly into her ear, as she tried to catch her breath. As the thudding of her heartbeat quietened, Lora could hear the crashing of approaching footsteps, garbled voices drifting towards them. Aragorn suddenly was shimmying off his cloak, still crouching, and picking up his staff. He looked at her, and mouthed 'don't move'. She nodded silently, and sat back on her heels, hugging her pack to her like a comforter. Then he was gone.
From where she was, Lora could see the ranger creep through the trees, crouching low, moving like an animal. He slid through the shadows, sharing their colour, becoming as still as the trees they belonged to. A speck of dust made her blink and she lost sight of him for an instant, and could not find him again. Careful not to make a noise, she shifted a little, and could suddenly see what he was making for. Three… four men, not far away, but far enough to be indistinct from each other, talking amongst themselves - obviously wondering where their quarry had got to. As she watched, they decided to split up, and the three without bows walked cautiously in different directions from the clearing, looking more at their feet than around them. Lora shrank down beneath the thicket hiding her, and waited.
Aragorn stopped, just a few hundred yards from the men, but invisible to them, and stood, calming his breathing, clearing his mind. He must be a ranger, through and through; he must become a hunter, and bring down those who hunt him. The staff was rough and warm in his hand, heavy, but not unwieldy. He could feel, rather than see, the trees above and around him; he could hear the men ahead of him talking in low voices, in a speech he could not make out. Then the group split, three spreading outwards, and one staying, an arrow fitted to his bow. Good, thought the ranger, alone they will be easier. Like a dark breath of wind through the trees, he was gone.
They had found the pack the previous morning, empty of food or water, containing only a leather pouch filled with herbs, obviously discarded as useless, and some scraps of material. They had not touched this, fearing magic. Later, they had found the strong sword, the leather strap eaten away, the marks that had been on the blade indecipherable. This Raklav took, being the leader. There had been little traces of the pair they tracked, only a burnt stick here, a broken path there. The wanderer and the girl had escaped the dark things. When Raklav caught up with them it was accidental, although Raklav claimed not. But then Dak, the fool, had shot the man and missed, and they had run, disappearing among the trees. And now Perut is afraid. He can no longer see or hear his companions, or his brother; the woods are silent, and he knows the trees watch him.
He hears a cry suddenly, close to his left, and runs towards it - he sees nobody, and is gripped with terror. His feet meet with something hard, and he falls abruptly, the air knocked from his lungs. Turning over, he sees his leader's white face staring past him, blood trickling across his forehead. Something in Perut snaps, and he struggles to get up, shouting for Dak, Keb, anybody. There is no reply. He begins to sweat, and wheels aimlessly around, seeing no obvious path. Then he sees him, the wanderer, holding Rakver's bow, his eyes the hard colour of the desert sky before a storm. Something hits, and Perut staggers back, and stares in disbelief at the black arrow sticking from his chest. He raises his hands with difficulty to avert any curse the mage may send with him to his death, but the dark-haired man makes no sound. The last thought that passes through Perut's mind as the blackness encroaches upon his vision, is that he will never see the sands of his homeland again. And that his slayer is also far from home.