Garinor watched as Ilion sprinted toward the shouts of pain and clattering of crossed swords, but he could not imagine himself joining in. Perhaps Ilion was brave, but Garinor could not handle himself in a fight. He wasn’t even used to walking around with a scabbard attached to his hip. There was no way he could survive a full-scale assault. So Garinor retreated to the trees in the west, hoping he would find a way to skirt around the combatants and then find his way to the king.
The copse of trees was not particularly dense, but it was good enough cover for his needs. He scanned further west from the trees and saw plenty of open plains stretching out before him. If any of the hunters were nearby, he would be an easy target. He scrounged around looking for a place he might be able to settle into for a few hours until evening started to fall.
His best option was to climb up into one of the trees. He jumped and grabbed a branch that was just out of reach, then he pulled himself up onto it. He reached outward and found another purchase upon which he climbed. Hand over hand, he made his way higher and higher into the canopy of leaves. A few times his scabbard caught a branch and nearly sent him falling to the ground, but with a few quick grabs he managed to keep himself moving upward.
He looked down and could scarcely see the grass, which was what he wanted. If he couldn’t see down, then any passersby weren’t likely to see him if they looked up. He climbed a few more branches then searched for a place to curl up against to wait out the afternoon.
He felt bad about deserting Ilion like that, but he had to admit to himself that the man was a few petals short of a flower. And Garinor really could not have managed walking into a battle right now. His sword practice with his friends was no match for actually carrying a sword.
The sounds of battle echoed through the air and Garinor shifted around, feeling uncomfortable that people were probably dying not too far from him. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on something else, anything else, to take his mind off the noise.
He didn’t mean to, but Garinor dozed off for a few hours. The sound of voices awoke him and he strained to listen, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. He was completely startled awake when an arrow thudded into the tree, right over his head. He moved around and tried to get out of the range of fire, but another arrow came flying up soon after.
Garinor scrambled from one branch to another, but it was hard to see in the waning sunlight, and the arrows kept coming. Desperately, Garinor leaped to a branch that was out of his reach. His hand brushed against the bark but he couldn’t hold on to it. He slipped and fell.
His body dropped several feet and then he smacked into a bough. His hands grabbed frantically for purchase, and though they didn’t find one, they did slow his fall. He swung his feet around and aimed for another branch below him. He hit it with bent knees, after which he pushed off and tried to grab another branch nearby. He caught it, but it wasn’t strong enough to support him. It cracked near the tree and he swung down with it.
Braced for impact, Garinor touched the ground and let himself fall into a roll, which eventually landed him supine. He couldn’t move for a moment, but it didn’t matter. The archers were standing right over him.
“‘Ello, boy,” said of them. “Thought ye were a birdie, we did. Ye all right?” He held a hand out to Garinor and pulled him up. “Come on, then, inta camp wit’ ye.”
The led him toward the north a short way and soon Garinor noticed a campsite. It was nestled along a shallow ridge and a few fires were lit around the place. From the sounds, Garinor could tell that there were injured people here, and they probably had been involved in the battle earlier that day.
One tent caught Garinor’s eye as he was guided into the camp. It was a richly made tent that shimmered in the firelight. A certain dread swept over him as he assumed whose tent that was. His deepest suspicions were confirmed moments later when a tall man strode forth from the tent.
“‘Ey, yer ‘ighness!” called the archer who had helped Garinor up.
The prince looked over and when he caught sight of Garinor standing there, his face lit up like a beacon. “Greetings, friend,” he said as he approached. Then he looked at the two archers and welcomed them warmly, “Excellently done, you two. Steaks for you tonight.” He smiled, then he turned back to Garinor. “Are you well? Come, let us make you more comfortable.”
Garinor was taken aback. He’d had the impression that the prince was set on killing him, but now he was being welcomed warmly into the prince’s own camp. As he thought this, he realized that the prince was guiding him to the large, lush tent and bringing him inside.
“You will please pardon my absence while you dine tonight, as I have some preparations to make after a difficult day today,” he bowed his head and stepped out the tent.
Food was brought to Garinor by the prince’s chamberlain, though the man did nothing more than bring forth Garinor’s meal and check to his general comfort. With all the substandard meals Garinor had endured along his trek, the venison stew and thick steak were like a lavish feast. He devoured everything and drank the cool wine that was left for him, his mind spinning at this strange turn of events.