[Lalwendë]

Marreth’s obvious satisfaction with the task Nilak and Tarn had carried out had filled Tarn with exhilaration and energy. He had joined the Corsairs as they set off in a great rush to attempt their rescue of Hilde. They were a pack of wolves slipping through the white shroud of the blizzard. The snow came down relentlessly, and soon the party were all so thoroughly covered that they were indistinguishable from their surroundings.

As they stood in the deserted market place, struggling to see anything in the storm, the voices of the Elven party came out of the white sky, muffled but close, and the signal was given to attack. Hilde was defended closely and keenly, and Tarn failed to make any difference to the attack.

Standing back and sighing with exasperation, his exhilaration began to turn to anger. He was as determined as the Corsair captain to rescue the captive, but more than anything, he wanted to continue to make an impression. Nagging at him was a slight sense of surprise that a Corsair should be so keen to save one of the Lossoth, although this was a feeling he could not quite explain.

Tarn impatiently scuffled at the ground with his frostbitten foot to keep the blood flowing, something he was always careful to do when standing out in snow; the old injury still troubled him. He looked down for a moment and saw the sharp edged stones he had uncovered by stamping in the snow. Without pausing to think, he stooped, grabbed a handful of the quartz stones, and began to stuff them into snowballs.

Someone shouted angrily that it was no time to be playing childish games. One of the Lossoth guards scoffed as he saw what looked like a huge man made of ice trying to start a snowball fight. But Tarn, barely able to conceal the laughter rising inside him, hurled the first of his deadly snowballs and it glanced off the head of the guard; his mocking quickly turned to dismay when he felt the blood running from the gash in his brow to his mouth.