They had been at it for a fair space of time. Sweat glistened on their faces, and the muscles of their arms ached with the prolonged effort. Still, Rhûnnaro danced lightly on the balls of his feet, keeping his eyes on the slim figure before him.
Ekatran was twenty years younger than he, and taller, his reach with his longsword extending out in a greater arc than the man from Rhûn. The older man felt himself to be as skilled with his blade as the younger, but those advantages of youth and size did tip the scales in Ekatran’s favor, and he felt his best chance would be simply to stay alert and press his advantage when it came to him. Added to that was the fact the beneath his dark tunic, Ekatran was known to wear full armour. Rhûnnaro’s blows glanced off the metal, bruising the younger man with their force, but not cutting him.
Ekatran advanced, his blade singing in a zig-zag pattern as he pressed forward, the tip of his longsword cutting a shallow gash in Rhûnnaro’s cheek. The older man’s blade came up deflecting a second blow meant for his neck. Ekatran’s blade slid down the other, glancing off it slightly to land firmly on Rhûnnaro’s vambrace.
The solid blow to his arm caused Rhûnnaro to stagger, leaving Ekatran a clear strike at his chest. With the weight of his body behind it, he drove the tip of his blade at the older man’s torso, Rhûnnaro’s chain mail shirt caught the blow squarely, and the force of it knocked him to the ground, his sword clattering to the ground and sliding away from him.
Ekatran, his eyes never leaving his quarry’s face, moved in for the kill, savoring the moment slowly. He raised his arms high, the longsword clasped tight in his hands, thinking to bring it down on the man before him.
Two things, then, conspired to throw his plan awry. Tenzin, seeing a clear shot at Rhûnnaro’s would be slayer, drew back his bow and let fly one of the black fletched arrows. And one of the women, seeing Rhûnnaro downed, ran spear in hand to his aid.
Ekatran, his arms raised high to strike, was focused fully on the other Easterling, and took no notice as he called in a clipped fashion to the approaching woman.
‘His arm pit! Unprotected! Strike hard!!’
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‘Many are the strange chances of the world,’ said Mithrandir, ‘and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.’
– Gandalf in: The Silmarillion, 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age'
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