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The light from their small cooking fire had burned low. A large pot of stewed squirrel laced with bitterroot had appeared at the Captain’s table, keeping him well occupied for a good while, and then drowsing after. A small skin of wine from the larder of the main force had enhanced the effects of the heavy meal and soon the sounds of deep snoring issued forth from the reclining figure of Gâshronk.
Gromwakh and his companions withdrew some distance beneath the scrubby, twisted trees that grew in patches in this area. Their meal had been light . . . strips of some dried meat, a few of the dried tubers they had brought, and a few mouthfuls of water. There were grumblings from the little band of Orcs, soon quelled by glares from Gromwakh.
‘This place makes me uneasy . . . we’re too much out in the open for my taste. I want you alert and ready to move should something happen.’ He shivered a little in the warm night. ‘Feels like there’s eyes on us. Can’t see ‘em though.’ Snikdul nodded, recalling for them the story old Kreblug had told of scenting the other Elves in the other campsite. ‘Stands to reason,’ Gromwakh said, ‘that they’d come after their own kind, don’t it. Unlikely they missed seeing the battle, don’t you think – and us dragging the three live ones off with us.’
Gromwakh looked out from the cover of the trees and low-lying bushes to where the Captain dozed by the fire. Three of his specially chosen Orcs sat opposite him, their bellies full of his leftovers. The remaining four Orcs had been stationed round the wagon, weapons in hand, as if the prisoners might escape their bonds and jump out at them. The Elves, he noted, now lay face up, their arms bound behind them still. A few drops of water had served for their meal, nothing else save the jeers and pokes of their captors.
Late evening was moving quickly into night. And soon only the embers of the small fire glowed in the deepening dark.
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