Rôg’s first impulse was simply to flee. He did not care for combat, save by ink, quill, and paper or by words spoken within the agreed boundaries of debate. No hint of warrior blood informed his actions when faced with clashes of the physical sort. Weaponless, he backed behind Bear who seemed about to run himself. ‘What’s happening?’ he whispered.
‘That Carandû fellow . . . the one what went down,’ he heard Bear say, who now seemed rooted to the ice as he watched the events unfold ahead. ‘He’s bleedin’ awful bad. You can see the red spreading out on the ice. ‘His brother’s shootin’ at the Corsairs and now it looks like the other Elves and my people have joined in.’
‘What about that Elf that was leading us?’ he said, peering around the Lossoth’s shoulder.
‘Can’t say. Can’t see her in all the hubbub.’ Bear shifted his spear to his right hand in preparation for joining the fight. ‘Come on. We can’t leave them to fight by themselves.’ He pulled Rôg forward, shaking his head at the man’s empty hands. ‘Do something, or your friends will be slaughtered!’ Bear took off running to join the fray.
And probably so will I!’ squeaked the skinchanger to himself. He shrugged his shoulders, thinking wildly. The image came to him of the
goshawk he’d seen earlier in the year, a snow-hare plucked easily from the ground as it ran for cover; long, strong, sharp talons of the raptor sunk readily into the flesh . . .
Flap . . . flap . . . glide . . .
The wings of the blue-grey bird pushed him over the heads of the combatants. From his vantage point he could see the Corsair still had Andtuariel in some sort of a grip. As the bird drew near, he dropped lower, his long legs extending toward the man’s head. Talons finding purchase, he dipped his sharp hooked beak and sank it deeply round the man’s nose . . . giving it a strong, hard nip.
There! That should give the Elf a fighting chance!
With a rapid flutter of wings, he flew off seeking other suitable “prey” . . .