[piosenniel]

Rôg

With his right hand he dipped into the box, taking a pinch of the spicy powder, and sprinkled it on the small piece he had broken off from the flat round of bread. 'Delicious!' he thought, feeling the pleasant sensation of warmth burn in his cheeks as he chewed. A trail of warmth spread from his belly with his first swallow, and he could feel the concoction heat his blood, driving the cold from his limbs.

As he bent to take another bit of bread, the one called Narayad began firing off questions to his companion, cautioning him at the end with a wag of his finger to be wary of how he answered Rôg. Narayad’s cheeks had gone red with his speech, and even one who did not understand their dialect could see that his anger was beginning to build. Another bite of the spicy mixture set Rôg to wondering if Narayad had perhaps eaten a little too much of it.

Surinen’s answer was an interesting one – a tattooist. He would have to tuck that away for future use. Though, he had seen someone tattooed once; a barbarous custom he thought recalling the blood that pooled along the line of needle pricks. His stomach began to feel a bit queasy at the memory. Diverting his line of thought, Rôg broke in on his hosts’ conversation. ‘Your friend seems upset,’ he observed. ‘Is anything wrong?’ There was no answer as Surinen continued to speak with his friend.

His eyes flicked from one face to the other – Surinen with his furrowed brow and Narayad with his ill concealed contempt for the ‘guest’. Tribesmen were reclusive, he knew, but he could not fathom their seeming fear, and loathing at least on the one man’s face, of him. He had been gone too long. What was happening here in the southern lands? Lost in this line of thought, he almost missed Surinen’s question.

‘What would you have me do with him then?’

‘We could kill him,’ his companion offered, in a much too rational tone. ‘And then worry about him no longer.’

Rôg’s throat constricted with these words and he coughed loudly, turning quite red in the face. He waved off a brief look of concern from Surinen, pointing to the spicy mixture on the bread as he gulped some coffee. ‘Kill me!’ he squeaked silently to himself. His thoughts were whirling as he sat the mug of coffee down, spilling a bit on the mat with his shaking hands.

Bind him and lower him into the collapsed well, he heard next. ‘And how gracious!’ he thought on the brink of hysteria - they would be leaving him some water and the few stale rations in the in the wooden box. Though, if the angry one had his way Rôg was sure he would be left nothing. Rôg’s eyes went wide at how calmly they discussed the disposition of their guest, his brows creeping high on his brow. ‘Think’ he silently commanded himself, a myriad of unacceptable solutions springing to mind.

It was then that Surinen turned back to him, speaking some words he did not hear, smiling as the phrases tumbled from his lips. The last word punctured the fog of Rôg's thoughts as he stared into the man’s face. ‘Eat!’

Two, or perhaps it was three, pieces of bread later . . . slowly eaten . . . and still he was unbound. More cups of coffee to accompany the mouth drying morsels. His two hosts sat on the side of the tent opposite him and watched. 'There’s only so much more I can eat,' he told himself. Already his stomach was beginning to protest the load he had put in it.

Rôg pushed the decorated box to the side and made to stand up. Surinen and Narayad started to rise with him. ‘Please, don’t get up,’ he said, facing Surinen. ‘Too much of your good coffee. I just need to step away from the tent for a moment.’ He pulled the grey shawl close about him, pushed back the door flap and stepped through, the sound of their voices low behind him.

‘Give him his moment,’ spat out Narayad. ‘Then we will take him.’

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was the hissing they first heard as they threw back the flap at a run, lances in hand, a coil of rope looped across the chest of Narayad. To their left, several yards away, stood a large brown bird. Its red, bare-fleshed head wove sinuously as it eyed them, sharp-hooked beak clacking a warning. The clawed feet stomped hard on the grey shawl beneath them, making the fine white feathers of the legs riffle as if with barely suppressed anger. A fine show, except for the fact that the bird was not angry, he was frightened.

Extending his great wings, he stood up, stretching his head toward them. He needed more room for a take off than the now more slowly approaching men afforded him. He wove his head back and forth and hissed once more warning them off. They paid no heed.

And,then, as vultures do when they are frightened, he drew back his head and vomited . . .

The stinking, corrosive, fluid projectile sprayed out, catching the men from the waist down, stopping them dead in their tracks as fumes from the reeking scent assailed their noses and eyes. They dropped their weapons, waving futilely at the wretched stinking cloud that enveloped them as they ran for the well.

His escape now assured, Rôg leapt up into the grey dawn light, his long wings flapping furiously. Taking advantage of the thermals rising with the sun, he soared rapidly back toward the area he thought the caravan might have gotten to. Ah! There it was. His sharp eyes caught the sight of the snaking line from a distance. And there, still at the rear of the slow moving procession was his wagon.

Rôg dropped down rapidly from behind to the rear of the wagon with a thumpingly ungraceful landing. Both Aiwendil and the driver glanced back to see the source of the sound. But there was only the tired face of Rôg peering forward at them, his shoulders shrugging, as if perplexed himself . . .