The Sauron's raids in the past had always been quick in and quick out—snatch what they could and leave. When had they ever needed to carry so many tools, clearly meant for long-term construction and agricultural production? This march south seemed different from any one before.
But that unease was soon diluted by another, far stronger emotion: the exhilaration of ambition's first taste of satisfaction, and a greedy longing for a better life to come.
The brief and bloody fight on Wintersburg's walls in the small hours yesterday—especially when, at the end, he had locked his arms around that Broomflower defender and rolled down the stairs with him in a ferocity that seemed ready to perish together—had won him the approval of many veterans, Einar included, though he had not died.
After the battle ended, amid the chaotic, unrestrained looting, Einar, for once, had not looked only after himself. Instead, he had tossed Thomas several still-serviceable pieces of leather armor stripped from the garrison officers, a decent saber, and a small pouch of clinking silver coins.
What made Thomas's heart race even faster was the promise Einar made to him in private. "Kid, you did well this time. You looked like a real Sauron warrior! When this war's over and we get back, I'll keep my word! I'll give you at least three acres of good land, and assign you two sturdy slaves! If we're lucky enough to grab some pretty, pleasing Broomflower wenches, you'll get first pick of one too!"
Land! Slaves! Women! These things, once utterly beyond the reach of a runaway slave like him, things he had not even dared dream of, now seemed almost close enough to touch.
Managing these seven or eight trembling slaves was tedious, but it let him taste "power" and "domination" for