[Amanaduial the archer]

"Hush now, good boy. There you are, North, there..."

Faerim's soft, soothing words to his horse, however nonsensical, calmed both himself and his steed as he stroked the black stallion's soft muzzle with his gloved hands. Taking a surreptitious handful of oats out of his pocket - handful being a generously used word for the few scrawny specimens which now resided in his palm - he gave them to the horse. North sniffed at the only once then greedily ate them, his lips snuffling against Faerim's gloves. The youth laughed softly at the tickling sensation and drew his empty hand away, smiling and patting the horse on the side of the neck solidly. Moving around to the side, he mounted North smoothly, checking that everything was in order on the saddle. His mother had been right to take a few things with her: he had not realised how practical she had been, taking a few servicable belongings for each of them, which were now strapped about Faerim's saddle or on Morn's. The boy looked across through the crowds, searching for the umpteenth time for where his mother and brother were, seated on his mother's mare: they had decided it would be better if they rode amid the other women and citizens. Along with them was the other woman, the one who Faerim had saved, he supposed: Renedwen. His eyes flitted across to her and hovered there for a moment. He frowned slightly: she sat haughtily upright, his chin held high and defiant, as if she thought she were better than all those around her. He sighed slightly. The nobles still felt themselves noble, the king still felt himself a king: what they did not realise was that when the city fell, the last thing to fall in the ruins of statues and towers, was the hierarchies.

What she also doesn't realise is that it isn't just sleeping with that sword close that's stopped anyone from taking it, he added silently, smiling to himself. He didn't know why, but since getting them out of the rubble, Faerim had felt something of a responsibility for the woman and her child: he would protect them, as he would protect Lissi and Brander. Not that he would let on. And not that it was probably going to last long either, he added, if she kept her nose in the air like that.

Clicking his tongue softly and digging his heels slightly into North's sides, Faerim rode the horse around and found where the soldiers were. Now came the trickier part...

The dilemma was as follows: Faerim was technically, as of a few weeks ago, a soldier in the army of Fornost. He had been enrolled in the desperation for new blood as the soldiers fell like flies against the black hordes of that...creature back in the city. However, while he had fought like the rest, he was missing a few slightly vital parts to becoming a soldier, such as a uniform, a regiment and, oh yes, any proof at all that he was actually part of the army. Now that they had left Fornost this shouldn't have been so much of an issue, you might think, being as an army to protect a city may seen slightly superfluous when the city no longer exists; but not so. The soldiers were guarding the rest of the civilians, like guards around the rest of the ex-citizens, and Faerim had every intention of doing his duty and being one of them. And, seventeen or not, he was damned if he was going to let anyone get in the way of his doing so.

Riding confidently around to where a group of soldiers were gathered at one side of the mass of civilians, he stopped and began to expertly check his equipment thoroughly, making sure his bow, quiver, and sword were all to hand (not to mention the long knife in one boot, but only North could feel that one); he fiddled slightly with his cloak; he flexed his fingers and patted North briskly on the side of the neck, murmuring a few words to the horse.

Altogether, he gave the impression of someone in exactly the right place, knowing exactly what he was doing.

But to be accepted just with that...it was too good to be true really. One of the men, a rather portly, slightly balding middle aged man who one might more easily imagine in a grocer's or butcher's shop, turned towards Faerim, looking up from where he was standing on the ground. He grinned worriedly but politely at the boy. "Sorry, do you need to ask something? We really must be off."

Damn.

"No, thanks, I'm...I'm just waiting for us to go. I need to take my place around the citizens: wouldn't want to lose anyone, and we need to be ready if the enemy catches up, as the Captain said." The words were delivered with a brisk informality that continued with Faerim's lie of confidence while inside, he quailed, like a little boy about to be caught and sent back to play with the younger children.

The portly soldier hesitated, then smiled almost patronisingly. "Now, I really don't think that will be necessary. There are trained soldiers already there, and civilians-"

"I am a soldier." Faerim realised his mistake in interrupting straight away, and continued hastily, his blue eyes and cleancut face the very picture of earnestness. "Apologies: I meant, I have already been enrolled as a soldier, sir."

"When?" The man was beginning to lose patience, his mood quickly souring.

"Several...months ago." Liar. "I was enrolled before the fighting began. My family are a military family, and so it seemed only natural that when the time was right, I would join up." It was hard to imagine a more earnest individual than Faerim was making himself out to be.

"When the time was right?" The portly man narrowed his eyes, ready to pounce.

"Well, when I turned eighteen, of course," Faerim replied innocently.

Liar!

But the portly soldier didn't pick up on a bit of it: he seemed to relax, looking back at the scrappily made list he had in his hands as he ran a hand over his head and nodded. "Ah, yes, yes, that's fine then. Eighteen...of course." He glanced up at Faerim, beaming distractedly. Then his smile faded slightly and he frowned a little. "...But I would expect to remember your face: striking eyes, don'cha know. Maybe I'm just...well, what's your name?"

Faerim thought fast. "I don't recall seeing you either, sir: maybe because I was training I didn't have chance to encounter you yet?" he hazarded. Wrong answer. The man's frown increased, the grooves on his expansive forehead deepening slightly. "No, no, I shouldn't say so - I would have thought we would meet. When did you say you joined?"

"A...a few months ago, not long before the fighting began..." Faerim was usually the smoothest liar around, but he had been able to sleep well over the past few nightmarish days, kept up by the crying of the children and those who had lost or thought they might have lost, sleep driven away by the worry and fear of 'what-if's and 'what-could-be's....

"When? I say, are you sure? You wouldn't just be trying-"

"I'm simply trying to do what I was told to do." Faerim's tone was curter this time, and his blue eyes were icing over in anger.

"Don't you interrupt me, young lad, I'm doing as I have been instructed, as I suspect you aren't." The portly soldier was practically swelling up with self-importance. "What was your name again, hrm? Hrm?"

"I-"

"Oh, for- Your city has already been destroyed, and if we do not move soon, the same fate is going to affect your people. Why exactly, then, do you feel the need to argue?"

The smooth, irritated voice made both Faerim and the portly man freeze and glance around sharply at the speaker: a wiry, dark haired elf seated on a horse with, most surprisingly, a small boy peering out of his cloak. Faerim did a double take: the boy was a mortal, a Dunedain. He looked at the elf's face again, alarmed, then glanced at the other who was positioned a few steps behind him. Meeting the elf's eyes, he shook his head. "I agree, I...sorry." His mature, confident start trailed away simply to a small apology. There was something about those grey eyes and the way they were glaring at him: from the laugh lines around his face, the elf did not strike Faerim as a bad character, but it was like being berated by a mermaid - completely unexpected. And a ruddy old mermaid at that: Faerim did not know much about how old the elves could live, but he had heard that they had many hundreds of times the longitude of even the Numenoreans...

Glad for an excuse to look away from those fierce grey eyes, Faerim turned his bright cornflower gaze back to the portly gentleman. "My name is Faerim, sir, the son of Carthor."

The man nodded irritably. "Yes, yes..." he muttered, looking away. Faerim pursed his lips, then looked back at the elf: he couldn't help wondering about the immortal's strange burden. "The...child, sir..." He looked from the innocent, wide eyes to meet the elf's sharp grey ones again. "Pardon my asking, sir, but...why are you carrying a human child?" he asked curiously, feeling somewhat foolish as soon as he had said it.