"Pack up camp! Cannibalistic Wild Men are headed this way!" Tareth heard Turthol's voice cry out from where from where he lay. He scrambled up, rolling up his blanket roll, the only thing he had taken out, and gathered up his things. Then, to his dismay, he heard the order that they should stay and fight. He wasn't about to argue, but...why? Honor and glory. Tareth snorted. So foolish!
Tareth sighed and took up his bow, standing near the rest of the company. He drew an arrow, aiming into the darkness. He saw a flicker of light on steel among the trees, and, hoping the man was right handed, shot to the left. He was awarded with a startled grunt, but nothing more. A man emerged from that point in the trees. Ducking under a slash from the man's short bladed sword, Tareth sliced upward with his axe. He had gotten a deep cut in the swarthy man's leg, but still he came.
Another chop from the cannibal skimmed Tareth's arm, drawing blood. With a growl, Tareth swung his axe to meet the man in the face. He didn't return the attack. The corpse fell to the ground at Tareth's feet. The young blacksmith stared at it in surprise, in anguish. He had killed a man. A cannibal, perhaps, but a man. He looked at his bloody axe and back to the body. His stomach churned. Tareth sank to his knees, staring at the body. He cursed himself for being a coward, for being weak. But he couldn't help it, couldn't help the sadness he felt. It felt like a part of him was gone, and he thought it probably was. The peaceful part of him. The simple blacksmith from Bree. This was what you wanted. Wrong. Thought he wanted.
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