Garinor awoke from a chilly slumber when it was still dark outside. He had opted to leave off the blanket in order for the cold air to awaken him. It worked. He was shivering all over. Rubbing his hands along his arms, he tried to warm up without making noise.
Below him, the hunters were still sound asleep, emitting rumbled snores and dream-fringed words. He made his way toward the ladder and climbed down, wincing as it creaked under his weight. None of the sleepers stirred. His feet touched the ground and he padded softly outside into the predawn air.
Everything was quiet and peaceful. The hunters hadn’t posted a watchman, which made getting around much easier. He saw the wagon, unmoved from where it had been left yesterday. He didn’t want to spend another day cramped under tents and sacks, but unless he broke off on his own to wander aimlessly, he didn’t have much choice.
His stay with the hunters had taught him some things. He knew he was wanted and that several teams were out looking for him. They had a sketch of his face, apparently, which was how they knew who to follow. And all of this was orchestrated by the prince.
He needed to find and stop the prince before any other innocent lives were jeopardized. He hoped Elder Dorin and the rest of the villagers had escaped without harm, but there had been no sign of them.
He was a few steps away from the wagon when a piercing cry split the air. Dread filled him, for he should have expected the call and not dallied about on his way to the wagon. The rooster trilled again and all the hunters muttered and groaned from the barn. Wasting no more time, Garinor dashed toward the wagon and dove underneath the canvas. He shuffled around until he was buried under the supplies again, trying to ensure that this time he would be a little more comfortable than before.
The hunters weren’t in any apparent hurry, for breakfast took an unbearable amount of time. Garinor remained still in the wagon and willed himself to think of pleasant things to help the time go by. The painfully long wait and the lack of any stimuli led to Garinor dozing off.
He woke with a start when the wagon sprang into motion. He hadn’t heard anyone coming near the wagon, but they were underway again. The wagon seemed to have picked up speed from the previous day and he wondered if the full night’s rest had given the hunters a boost of enthusiasm for the journey. Or perhaps they were travelling downhill.
The thought of careening downhill trapped in the wagon was not a happy one and so it took a few extra moments for Garinor to recognize a muffled sound that explained the newfound speed. The clippity-clop of a horse.
Garinor remembered the two horses from the barn and realized that the hunters must have borrowed one of them to help with the supplies. He wondered how Lorrel had persuaded his mother to part with the animal. She had seemed so against his chosen profession.
The wagon practically flew along the road compared to the progress of the day before. They would reach the prince in no time. Garinor actually smiled at that. Soon, he would confront the man responsible for all the heartache and he would cause him to stop his rampage. Of course, he had no idea how he would manage to stop someone who commanded so many followers, but he knew in his heart that he would find a way.
Not much time later, the wagon slowed and came to a stop. Garinor expected to hear the usual bantering of the men and women as they doled out chores to each other. He wondered if Lorrel—or “Patch”—would take the lead again or perhaps the laughing sentry would manage to elect someone else. But none of the usual conversations broke out.
Then he finally heard someone muttering. It was a deep, gravelly voice he didn’t recognize. The man spoke only to himself and Garinor couldn’t make out any actual words. A heavy whoosh sounded and he realized that the canvas had been unhitched and tossed off the wagon. The entire cart then pitched forward and the man climbed onto it awkwardly.
Garinor didn’t know what to do. He pulled his legs toward him so he could at least give out one hearty kick before it was all over. He could feel things being shifted around randomly as if in a frantic search. They must have seen him! His whole body tensed and he was as ready as he could possibly be.
One by one, the tents were taken away and thrown to the dirt. He felt the pressure ease and he wondered if he should use the element of surprise to its fullest by leaping out before the man found him first. But he also realized that the strength of a boy compared to a fully grown man wasn’t equal, and if he sprang out with supplies still on top of him, his attack wouldn’t be very effective.
When the last tent was removed, the only thing keeping Garinor hidden was a burlap sack. He heard the hunter pause and he wondered if he’d seen a foot or something. Without waiting any longer, Garinor pounced and crashed into the man, flopping the sack onto his head.
A heavy hand flailed about in panic and slapped Garinor in the face, stunning him. The sack was pulled away and Garinor looked into a dirty, ugly face.
“Wha’ ye ‘bout?” he stammered, trying to pull himself around.
Garinor shook his head and realized that this beggar had stolen the wagon right out from under the hunters’ noses while they were eating. Someone must have gotten the wagon secured to the horse and then walked off to fetch something and this unassuming thief had come along and whisked away with everything.
As Garinor considered this, the man was also thinking. His eyes popped open wide as he stared at the boy and a light of recognition appeared. “‘Tis ye!” Excitedly, he reached forward and abruptly took Garinor’s arm.
Garinor tried to pull away, but the grip was strong.
His fingers squeezed tighter into Garinor’s arm. “Th’ boy! Th’ r’ward’ll be mine!”
The hungry look in the man’s eyes alerted Garinor to his fate. Apparently word was spreading that the prince was looking for him and if the head of the hunters had a portrait of him, it wasn’t far removed to assume that other posters could be set up in taverns. And now this beggar would snatch him and turn him in for a reward.
Garinor had other ideas. He had successfully been skulking around a group that was looking for him and they hadn’t caught him. He wasn’t about to let this haggard thief take him in. With his free hand, he grabbed for something sturdy and swung it hard. It was the last tent, which the man hadn’t yet tossed off the wagon. The hard canvas and pole slammed into the man’s face and he thudded to the bottom of the wagon, unconscious. Garinor wrenched his arm free and debated what to do next.
He felt he had two options. He could turn around and head back toward the hunters, and thereby pick up the trail to the prince again. It was a dangerous road, but he felt it would get to his goal more quickly. Or, he could take this horse and wagon along the path to the next town, try to gather information, and strike off on his own. That, too, was a daunting prospect, especially if word of his alleged misdeeds was being tossed around by even lowly thieves such as this.