[Amanaduial the archer]

"You'll pay for that, boy..." the low, threatening mutter caused Callath to spin around, furiously, ready to run the corsair through...but his sword was still buried in the neck of Sedal's attacker. The corsair gave an ugly laugh and, with the strange, many-tailed whip he was holding, thrashed Callath across the side of the face.

With a shout of pain, the boy fell sidewards and backwards, his hand coming to his face as he felt the blood began to well from three gashes across his right cheek where the whip had lashed him. To his fury, he felt tears welling up in his eyes as he propped himself on his elbows, running his tongue around the gums on that side, tasting blood where the force of the lashes had caused the gums to bleed. But looking up, he saw the corsair standing over Sedal, the whip raised to strike the surgeon as another corsair held Sedal's arms. Not that they needed to really: Sedal's face was pale and sweating, his teeth gritted and eyes closed against the pain. In a second, Callath registered what was wrong: the wound had split again and the broken rib may even have splintered, either of which would be causing the surgeon excruciating pain. This man had treated illness and hurt all his life and was now suffering some of the worst....

"Get away from him!" Callath yelled, springing to his feet. As he did so, he felt a strange heaviness swing against his ribs. His hand seemed to guide itself to his jacket and, feeling into the insie pocket, his fingers closed on the heavy object. He took a precious second to recognise it: the brass knuckles. As the gashes on his face burned, his resolve strengthened – what choice did he have? – and he tore them from his jacket pocket. Jamming them on – and they fitted surprisingly well – he stood in a lithe motion and covered the small distance between himself and Sedal’s attacker, who had now grabbed Orda. The man turned towards him, his face ugly, cruel mouth twisting violently, and he held up Orda by his shirt front to Callath, daring him to attack whilst the corsair held the boy. He looked down at Callath’s hand and sneered as he realised the boy apparently held no weapon.

“What, we’ll play for fisticuffs –” he sneered, but was cut off sharply as Callath drew back his fist and with snake-like speed punched him across the face, the brass gleaming on his fist. The man yelled in pain and fell, blood flowing from his mouth and from the gashes which now scarred his cheek. Callath nearly savoured the irony of it: now he had paid him back for the lashes quite fittingly. Shaking his fist more from habit than from hurt (the metal protected his fingers, although he would have bruises tomorrow), he knelt beside Orda where the man had thrown him. The boy was grimacing in pain, but opened his eyes and looked up at Callath.

“I’m…I’m ok,” he murmured, but the way he shifted jerkily told Callath otherwise. It was possible his wrist had fractured from the looks of it, and what about the blood flowing all the way down one side of his face…Callath raised a hand quickly to Orda’s cheek to examine it, but the boy flinched from his touch. Or rather, from the touch of the cold metal against his skin. Realising, Callath drew back quickly, disgust at having used the weapon now catching up with him. But instead of pulling them off he stood quickly, hearing another shout, shielding his eyes against the sun to see…

Devon, stepping into Avershire’s place. About to fight Doran.