[Envinyatar]

Rhûnnaro urged them more deeply into the thick scrubby forest that outlined the margins of the foothills. There would be more cover for them, more opportunity to hide if needed, or to attack.

Tenzin led the group, Turos mounted behind him. Rhûnnaro brought up the rear of the ragged column. Five young women and one Elf. The going was slow, they were weary, growing more tired by the moment, their steps stumbling.

His horse arched his neck and shook insistently at his bridle, pulling his head to the left. Rhûnnaro reined him in and lifting his head, took in the scents carried on the south wind. The rich green smell of trees overlaid a myriad of other odors. Next came the thick deep smell of the forest floor - a mixture of decaying leaves, and the scents of animals marking their territories, and dark rich dirt. Something faint broke through briefly here and there. A fresh scent. He took a long deep breath and closed his eyes to sort it out.

Water! Nearby and to the south. He whistled sharply to Tenzin, motioning him to turn left.

The women were nearly done in by the time they reached the small stream flowing out of the base of a rocky hillock. Tenzin signaled a stop and they stumbled toward the water, kneeling down on the bank, scooping it up to slake their thirst.

‘’We’ll rest here for a while. Fill the waterskins, and get something from the pack that Tenzin hands round to take the hunger from your bellies. We’ll push on again soon.’

They were silent, their remaining energy bent on chewing the dried meats and hard waybread. Footsore and hot from their exertions, they sat for the most part with their feet dangling in the little stream.

Rhûnnaro watched as Tenzin took round a small pot of herbed unguent for their sores and blisters, speaking quietly to each one, most hesitant still at taking something from an Easterling.

When he was done, the older man called the younger to him. ‘While we have time, we should tip the arrows. We may need them soon.’ Tenzin, nodding agreement, went quickly to fetch the quiver of black fletched arrows and the sealed crock he had brought, carefully wrapped in layers of thick cloth.

While he was doing this, Rhûnnaro called for the group’s attention. ‘You saw, from the map that Fionel has, where Tenzin and I are bound. I need to know who will choose to go with us to Minas Tirith and who wishes to strike out on their own.’ He looked from person to person, meeting their gaze with his own. ‘I have no wish to keep you with me if that is not your choice. Though I must tell you I think it unwise to leave the group. There is safety in greater numbers should we have to face the Hunters.’

The expressions on the faces of the young women were guarded, and they said nothing as he spoke.

‘You are not my slaves,’ he continued, ‘and I will no longer be your master. Make your decisions and come to me within the hour. We will arm those who wish to go in another direction and give you some food. And after that is done, those who are still with us will leave, traveling south and west, further into the mountains.’

He withdrew, leaving them to talk among themselves, and came to where Tenzin sat on the ground, a distance away, dipping the heads of the arrows into the black oily liquid in the jar, and resting them carefully on a flat rock to dry.