[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Carl and the others in his group soon became disoriented with camp now covered in ashen dust and sand. They were rapidly separated not only by the blinding gale, but by the rumor of horses around them, which they heard and followed, but could not see. And as Carl pressed himself against the wind, searching for his fellows, out of the brown haze a figure dashed past the hobbit, all the while glancing over his shoulder. It was soon plain to Carl, that the runner was neither archer nor slaver, but the youngster Kwell. And the boy ran with such dispatch, that Carl whirled about, bow ready as he struggled to see in the murk, what ever it was the boy was running from, before it over took him.

That split second stretched interminably as Carl waited with dread. For he had already guessed what this bogy might prove to be, and had until this point, envisioned dealing with Hamin from the comfortably long distance a bow usually afforded, and preferably unseen as well. But unfortunately, all he could do at the moment was hope for the best, for the wind was blowing so hard, his arrows were all but useless. And being no match for the slaver, the best he might do was buy the lad some time.

The hobbit set his jaw. Out of the storm lumbered a huge figure, the silhouette of a curved blade discernable in his bandaged fist, as the man bolted after his prey. At the site of the slaver, a wave of adrenalin coursed through the hobbit’s veins, and he aimed his dart well in front of the pursuer. With all his strength he stretched taught the string and shot into the wind. The arrow sped to its mark, but proved too feeble, for the man slowed down, pulling the arrow easy from his shoulder. “The brute’s an Oliphant!” Carl muttered in amazement, quickly sprinting after the retreating figure, before he had the chance to become lost in the confusion.

He had not gone more that a few yards when he saw that Hamin had closed in once more on Kwell. Grabbing him by the shoulder he spun the boy around roughly, threatening him with his sword. With haste the hobbit stopped, taking aim again, this time targeting the softness of the slaver’s lower back. Creeping up as close as he dared, he let the arrow fly. But the arrow was buffeted by the wind, embedding itself in a more southerly region to cause less harm than the hobbit had hoped.

It was as if Carl had tapped the slaver on the back to announce himself, for Haman whipped around, quickly jerking Kwell in front of him to serve as a shield. And spying the puny archer before him he snarled, “The sand fleas are biting today, are they? But we know how to deal with them! Just squeeze ‘em until they crack open, eh boy?” The slaver gripped Kwell tighter in the crook of one arm, lifting him off the ground, and the boy shut his eyes against the pain, futilely pushing at the thickly muscled arm that encompassed him. Relaxing his hold a bit, Hamin laughed while Carl grimaced, his mind transposing on the slaver the sinister image of joy a cat might experience while playing with a doomed mouse.

The slaver raised his dark eyes, fastening them again on Carl, whose shuttered involuntarily. “Tell me boy, who is this hero shivering in front of me? This fairy orcling, who hasn’t the strength to spear a rabbit with his pathetic skewers!” Now the hobbit’s fear had been quickly overtaken by horror and indignation at the treatment of Kwell, but these words fanned a fury in his heart and set him simmering. He had to get Kwell out of the man’s reach, and he had to keep his head.

Feigning a lighter heart than was in him, for with his arrows spent Carl was at a loss what to do, but he was determined to do something. He dropped his bow to the ground. “I’ve met you before Hamin, and you can’t fool me. No, not for a minute!” the hobbit said with all the pluck he could muster. “For all your swaggering I know you’re good for nothing, not even to play nursemaid to a pair of starving children. See with all these men about, you pick on the smallest among them.”

The slaver’s eyes narrowed as he stepped forward as if to have a better look at Carl, the corner of his mouth twisting into a grin. “What a dangerous game this sand flea plays!” he sneered. Fast and gleaming Hamin’s sword suddenly cut through the air where the hobbit had stood. But Carl had many an older brother to hone his reflexes, and he ducked to avoid the blow, springing up again to attempt disarming the brute, as he followed the stroke through. But the hobbit was quickly shook off, and flung to the ground with ease. And just as Carl was recovering, a rag blown on the wind, hit Hamin's face, clinging stubbornly to his head and neck.

Immediately seizing the opportunity, Kwell rammed his elbow into the slaver’s injured ribs, gaining his freedom as clutching his side, Hamin bowed for a moment, his sword dropping to the ground. The slaver pulled the cloth from his face, and was about to set off again to recover the boy, when Carl launched himself, scrabbling up the slaver’s broad back, grabbing handholds in the foul cloths and hair. “Quick Kwell, run!” the hobbit managed to shout to the boy still standing there. But a second later he was hurtled up over Hamin’s head, landing flat on his back.

Carl squinted at Hamin towering over him, but could think of no more taunts to distract the man. For he found he could not breathe, but like a landed fish he lay gasping, helpless. The slaver put his boot on the hobbit stomach. “Who are you, sand flea?” he asked again, slowing applying pressure. Finally, Carl’s lungs filled, and he blurted out, “The fish that got away. I’m the fish that slipped through your fingers, yesterday in the pit!” The slaver growled, pushing down harder, and Carl clutched the heavy boot, hoping that Kwell had gotten away.