The Gods of Garran
Slowly, Moorhen made his way toward the group. It sounded like ten or more people. He readied his bow.
The band of men stopped moving, perhaps to camp for the night. Moorhen heard raucous laughter. Would expert warriors be foolish enough to get openly drunk in an unprotected place, even if their spirits were high because of a good hunt?
As Moorhen peered out from a new vantage point, he froze. These men were no clansmen. They weren't even Garran--but Chanden. His heart pumped faster. What were they doing so far from any city? Men like that seldom ventured this far out, except to seek out trouble.
They hadn't seen him. He'd make his way back to the ravine--then he could leave unseen. The Chanden were not good hunters, but their weapons were deadly.
As Moorhen started back, he heard a cry amidst the laughter, a word or two in Garran. Moorhen turned, recognizing his brother Norbi's voice. Quickly Moorhen climbed to a vantage point where he could see the men clearly. In their midst Moorhen saw his little brother struggling against them. Two of the Chanden men hit Norbi and kicked him. From the shape his brother was in, the Chanden must have had him for awhile.
Moorhen's blood grew hot. Without stopping to think, he aimed his bow at the tallest man who was tormenting his brother and shot. The arrow hit and the man fell. Realizing they were not alone, the Chanden looked around.
Moorhen shot again. Another Chanden fell.
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