[Regin Hardhammer]

Lalwendë's post

Three elves and two Lossoth men were fighting hard against three Corsair men, and were slowly driving them back towards a hidden hole in the ice. The Corsairs knew the hole was there but they were losing their strength and their opponents had blocked any chance of escape. Tarn saw the look of panic on the faces of the men and struggled through the battle towards them.

As he got close to the men, he brandished his harpoon and shouted “Come and get some of this!” Then he stood firm holding the weapon ready as one of the elves and both of the Lossoth men turned towards him, grimacing. “Tarn, what a surprise to see you here,” said one of the men sarcastically. “This man might look high and mighty, but I can assure you, he’s no better than a mangy dog” the man said to the elf.

“And you are nothing but a stripling and a coward” Tarn sneered at the man, who was barely out of his youth. “Think you’re something special out here with these elves do you? Nothing but the fifth son of a pauper who pickles pilchards for a living, and still you think of yourself as better than me. You could not fight your way out of a barrel of vinegar!”

The young man’s face turned red with anger and he ran at Tarn, a reaction the older man had been hoping to provoke. With a wry look on his face, Tarn whipped out his knife and stooping quickly, shoved it into the back of the man’s shin as he ran past, missing Tarn’s manoeuvre in his haste. The man stumbled with a cry and Tarn whipped out the knife, jabbing it in the air before the other Lossoth man, who had now come forwards, furious at Tarn’s actions.

“You too? You want to taste this knife?” yelled Tarn, rushing towards the man, who turned and ran away. He shouted at him in derision as he loped off, and kicked the younger man who lay groaning, unable to get up.

Two of the Corsairs had managed to draw off one of the other elves and were driving him back to the shore, and one remained in combat with the remaining Corsair, the biggest of the southerners. But the first elf, who had come forwards with the two Lossoth men was now facing Tarn, and he looked unruffled. He held a slender sword outstretched and did not move. Tarn sidestepped around him holding the harpoon ready. He was not going to make the first move, but he jerked the weapon slightly as though he were about to thrust it towards the elf, who responded by jabbing the sword at Tarn’s stomach. Tarn jumped back and quickly swung the harpoon down at the elf, who sidestepped nimbly.

To his alarm, the elf quickly came behind Tarn and locked his arm around his neck. As he was about to thrust the sword into the man, Tarn jabbed his elbow back hard into the elf’s stomach, winding him. He used all his strength and took hold of the elf, almost as tall as he was, and threw him down. The elf dropped his sword with the force of his landing, and as he struggled to catch hold of it, Tarn saw it lying there.

He went to grab the weapon but the elf was there first and though he was still prone, he took the sword in his hand and slashed it towards Tarn’s shoulder. Tarn ducked, throwing his weight down onto the prone elf, and though he did not receive a fatal blow, he felt the sword slash at the skin on his upper arm, and felt the hot gush of blood swelling up. His head filled with a seething rage, he took hold of the collar of the elf’s jerkin and staring him in the eye, overflowing with vengeance, he bashed the elf’s head with his own.

The elf lay still and Tarn got up too quickly, feeling dizzy with the loss of blood to his arm. He stumbled on the ice and went back down to his knees. As he caught his breath, he saw the elven sword, stained with his own blood, and grasped hold of it; luckily the injury had been done to his left arm. Wincing as he tried to stand again, he looked for the big Corsair man who was nowhere to be seen. The elf he had been battling was now engaged with another fight. Tarn’s eyes widened as he realised where the man must be. The pain in his arm briefly forgotten, he rushed across to where he knew the hole to have been, and crouched down at the edge of the break in the ice.

The Corsair was grimly hanging onto an axe which he had thrust into the ice sheet. Tarn could see his face, turning blue with the cold, but the rest of his body was under the ice sheet, unable to resist the strong pull of the swift current. The man’s eyes were still open and they flashed a look of panic as he saw Tarn; he was unable to talk. Taking his harpoon and quickly working the hook in the blade under the man’s collar, Tarn heaved as hard as he could and managed to draw the man back closer to the opening in the ice. He took hold of the man’s other arm and winced as he felt the cold water yet kept a firm hold. With his injured arm he removed the harpoon and flung it behind him then took hold of the hand which still held the axe, and dragged the man up and out of the water.

Tarn looked at him briefly. The battle was far away from them now and he could afford a few minutes to make sure the Corsair was going to live. He liked the man. He had been more friendly than some of the other Corsairs, and they had spent some time talking about their shared interest in hunting on the previous day. He wanted him to live. Remembering the flask of fiery spirits the man had offered around, Tarn searched his soaking pockets for it. The drink was not frozen, and Tarn poured a little onto the man’s lips. He spluttered and motioned thanks. Finding a fur from a fallen elf, Tarn placed it onto the man in the hope of warming him up, and headed off to find a sled for the man’s rescue.