Even though the camp was altogether quiet, save the watchman, Garinor thought it best not to tempt his chances. He turned and took a few steps into the woods, looking for a branch he could use to pull the pouch toward him.
The search wasn’t long, even without light to see by. He grasped a good-sized branch, and he figured he would lay it on the ground and push it toward the pouch. If anyone saw it, they might think it was just lying there, and Garinor would be able to get away.
Grinning inwardly at his plan, Garinor returned to his place between the tents and started to crouch down low when the light from the campfire was suddenly blocked from his sight.
Garinor looked up to see a sleepy-faced man staggering in his direction, yawning as he went. He hadn’t seen Garinor, but there wasn’t time for him to get away. The big, burly man tripped over the boy and the two of them ended up in a jumbled heap.
“What the—?” cried the man, pulling himself up. His eyes glimpsed Garinor’s and he froze in the surprise of seeing the boy they had been searching for entering their own very camp. “Ho!” he yelled out, reaching a meaty fist out and clutching Garinor’s shirt roughly. He pulled himself to his feet and dragged the helpless prisoner into the air.
Triumphantly, the man turned back and strode toward the fire as several others woke up with the noise and stumbled out of their tents. “See here,” said the man, “sometimes it pays to wake in the middle of the night after a hearty meal!” The laughter that followed from the hunters filled Garinor with dread.
The last thing Garinor ever experienced in his life was a rough series of throws as he was tossed around from one hunter to the next, unable to claim any control over his own body. Then a brilliant flash filled his vision as one of the hunters aimed poorly and cast Garinor into the campfire, where vicious howls of laughter echoed in his mind amidst the burning crackles of flame.