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At the little camp . . .
Veryadan swam in darkness and in pain. He could hear someone moaning in the distance, the voice was familiar. It might have been his own . . . yes, it was his own, though strangely he had no control of it. Hands lifted him up, to a horse. He could feel the movement of the best’s muscles beneath him, sending jolts of pain through his left side. His left arm, in contrast, felt numb. The blow from the Troll’s weapon swam up out of his memory. Hands bore him down from the horse after an eternity, or so it seemed. And he was at last laid down, and made somewhat more comfortable. Someone had moistened his mouth with a trickle of water; there were the flutterings of hands laying something cool against his wound and binding it securely. He drifted off once again.
It was very late in the day by the time he came round; the darkness of mind exchanged for the darkness of night. He could make out the pinpoint stars against the black sky and the flicker of the small cook-fire nearby. The soft clip-clop of hooves drew near; then, the quick light footsteps as the rider dismounted and passed by him. He could just hear the low conversation. It was Silruth, come back he gathered from a scouting mission, giving report to Tarondo and the others. There was no safe passage back to Bree from what she had found. The Orcs and Trolls, licking their wounds for now, were blocking the way west. The company would have to move east, toward Rivendell. Silruth nodded her head toward where Veryadan lay, his eyes closed. Lowering her voice a little more, she asked if he would be able to make the trip. Tarondo was about to answer when the Ranger’s voice rasped out.
‘Don’t plan my funeral yet, you two! I don’t intend to die from these trifling wounds.’ He attempted to sit up and gasped as the pain tore through his left side. Someone had packed the long gash and bound him round the trunk with strips of cloth. He fingered the dressing, noting that it was wet, sticky in places, as the blood seeped through. ‘Bring me a little tea, if you will. My throat is parched.’ Luinien had come to his side by then, assisting him to a seated position. Veryadan pressed his right hand against the wound, splinting it as he moved. ‘I heard we were cut off from Bree – the Trolls and Orcs. We’ll have to head toward Rivendell, don’t you think. There is no other choice. It will take us at least a week of long days’ riding.’ He took the mug of tea and sipped at it, holding it in his right hand. The feeling was just returning to his left arm and he could just barely wriggle the fingers of that hand. As far as he could tell, the limb did not feel broken.
Veryadan leaned his head back against the packs and blankets piled behind him. Someone had put a little poppy in the tea, masked it with honey. He just now recognised the underlying, cloying taste. The pain from sitting up was receding, but so was his grasp on consciousness. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, through closing eyes. ‘We need to make haste. We are too few. Tomorrow . . . go . . .’
He sighed as hands laid him down once again and the blanket was pulled over him. ‘So tired,’ he mumbled, slipping into welcome rest once again.
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