The camp was quiet, but he worried that any of the others might awaken at any moment, so Garinor didn’t hesitate for long. He waited until the bowman loosed his arrow and set off to retrieve it. Then he bolted.
As quickly and quietly as he could, Garinor dashed into the camp and reached for the leather pouch. His fingers clutched around it longingly and he turned to slip back into hiding. His feet seemed made of lead and he wasn’t breathing, but he pushed himself to get out of the firelight.
As he went, though, he heard the unmistakable rustle of a tent flap being opened. Pushing himself fast, he managed to squeeze himself between the two tents that had been concealing him, but in his haste his foot cracked into the tent spike and sent sparks of pain flaring up from his toes. His ankle caught a securing rope and the tent came crashing down.
Panic alone propelled him into the darkness, his hand still squeezed around the pouch. His foot was an odd mixture of numbness and flaring agony with each step.
Noises echoed from behind him as the camp bustled into life. Angry shouts blistered the air and Garinor’s burst of panic finally ran out and the pain in his foot overwhelmed him enough to bring him crashing to the ground gasping. He hadn’t gotten far from the camp at all; he could hear what they were saying.
“I didn’t do it!” bellowed one man. “You were on watch, weren’t you?”
“There weren’t nobody near that tent but yourself,” came the angry retort.
“I already told you, you idiot, I just woke up that moment. I wasn’t even out of my tent when his fell.”
A third voice piped up, this one from a woman. “Now, now, let’s all calm down here. Has no one thought to see if someone is nearby? Surely the culprit can’t have gone far.”
Someone else sniggered then. “You do all realize, right, who’s in that tent, don’t you?” Garinor recognized the voice as from one of the sentries he had followed. The man laughed again. “Ollin.”
After a pause there was a groan from the watchman. “Ollin, right.”
“So you realize,” said the laughing man, “he probably had another of his rampage dreams and did it himself.”
“Well, it weren’t like Ollin woke up when it felled on him, didn’t he?” the watchman wondered thoughtfully. “Let’s peek in on him.”
The laughing man chimed in again, “Nah, if you listen, you can hear him growling and snoring like always.”
“All the same,” said the woman, “someone ought to check in case it wasn’t Ollin after all.”
“Ack, it might as well be me,” muttered the man who had come out of his tent. “I’m headed into the woods for a minute anyway.”
The pain in Garinor’s foot made it impossible for him for move yet. There was no chance he could get away in a stealthy manner, so he tried to curl himself up as small as possible, hoping beyond all else that the man wouldn’t spot him in the darkness.
Footsteps crunched in the ground, growing closer and closer, mingled with a disgruntled mumbling. The footsteps approached very near Garinor’s hiding place and then stopped as the man let out a note of victory.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Garinor waited to be seized and dragged back into the camp and slain. But it didn’t happen. Instead, all he heard was a distinct rustle of some leaves as the man took care of his purpose for coming into the woods. Another contented sigh later, and the sentry walked away, leaving Garinor feeling bewildered and relieved.
He didn’t move for some time, not daring to believe his luck. Whether it was five minutes or an hour, Garinor had no idea, but he finally decided he was, in fact, safe. He pushed himself upright and massaged his battered toes for a while before testing his weight on them again. He bent down and reclaimed the hard-won leather pouch, opened it, and was relieved to find clean water inside. He drank deeply of his hard-won reward.