[Amanaduial the archer]

Callath shot up the stairs on with Luc at his heels, and almost immediately came into contact with a corsair blade. The stable hand didn't quite jerk out of harm's way in time, and the tip of the swinging blade scored a fine line across his cheek, only an inch or so below his eye. The youth didn't pause, stabbing unrestrainedly straight forward with the knife he had absentmindedly picked up from Sedal's table on the way out. Being a very short blade, less than Callath's handspan, the wound it made wasn't very deep...to start of with. Something about the brass knuckles he had seen in the man's hand, ready to be put on, gave Callath the ruthlessness he needed and, gritting his teeth against the sick feeling that welled up inside him, he twisted the knife viciously around the the man's stomach. With a shuddering, desperate groan, the corsair collapsed to his knees. The medical knife ripped out as he fell and Callath couldn't help staggering backwards slightly, but as he saw the rest of the corsairs still mustering against Avershire's crew, he was sharply reminded that there was no room for hesitation.

"I'll take them, thank you," Callath muttered to the dead corsair, stooping quickly to take the brass knuckles from the man's limp grip and stowing them in his pocket. Standing fluidly, he spun to kick a man approaching the trapdoor beneath which Sedal had set up his room sharply in the back of the neck. The boy's high boots were made for wear and although they weren't metal tipped as many were, they did the job of rendering the man sufficiently unconcious, falling to the floor. Kicking him aside, Callath wrenched the trapdoor open to be greeted by a pale-faced Orda, weilding a knife. Stepping back hastily from it, Callath hande the boy the bloody knife by the handle.

"Here, it's Sedal's - tell the doctor he'd better bloody well appreciate it," Callath shouted over the growing noise of combat, shutting the door hastily. There was no sign of Luc, but the stable boy didn't have time to dwell on it. Unsheathing his sword with his right hand and picking up a long, serated knife from the deck where it lay with his left, he stood with one heel on the trapdoor, his back more or less covered by the mast, every muscle in his body tense. Already there were more corsairs approaching.

"Come on then! Lets see whether you'd survive the bar brawls of Gondor!" Callath yelled as his blade whipped out to clash with the foremost corsair's.