[Child of the 7th Age]

Everywhere loud shouts erupted and the clash of blade on blade as the Elves swarmed over the deck of the Corsair vessel, trying to battle their way to the spot where Andtuariel hung suspended above the water at the end of a narrow plank. With small clusters of fighters engaged in every corner of the ship, Marreth and his men were momentarily too occupied to pay much attention to the Elf who stood shivering and alone, a blindfold covering her eyes. Yes, despite the diversion, there was little she could do to free herself. Unable to see, her arms and legs hobbled, Andtuariel clung to her precarious perch, and cried out with a pitiful voice, beseeching her would-be rescuers to redouble their efforts.

Luindal stood firm at the helm of the Spirit, wrestling with the wheel as he tried to bring the ship close enough for his men to be able to reach the other deck. The boarding party would not be enough to take the Corsair ship. More reinforcements were needed. A line of Lossoth and a few remaining Elves waited impatiently on the Spirit, most perched in the rigging, hoping that their moment of opportunity would come.

For all his years of experience as a sailor and helmsman, Luindal did not have an easy job. The wind had again picked up and blew in great jagged peaks causing both ships to lunge back and forth from one wave to the next. The mast of the Spirit was creeking and groaning under the strain. The makeshift repairs would never hold. The short stump of the main mast did not have the strength to bear the full weight of the sails: even in calm weather they should have limped back to shore. But the sea was not calm, and the weather was becoming grim. The Elf managed to get his ship within several arms's length of the other but it was still too far out for his men to leap onto the other vessel.

Suddenly feeling a stinging senation on his face, Luindal glanced up from the wheel to the sky and saw to his horror that hail was beginning to fall. At first there were only a few balls no larger than a man's fingertip, but they soon grew in size and number. Hundreds of hailballs came pelting down against the sails, ripping them to shreds and slicing into the rigging itself, leaving ropes dangling free. The main mast itself began to sway slightly back and forth under the weight of the blasts.

Jumping back from the helm, and shielding his head from the hail, Luindal grabbed an axe in his other hand and began hacking away at the largest of the ropes, the one that held the mainsail in place. He called out to his crew who were perched in the rigging, "Use your axes and daggers. Cut the ropes. Let the sail swing free. She'll give you a ride to the Corsairs." The crew began hacking away at the few remaining ropes that were still in place.

"She'll turn turtle!" one of the Elves howled.

"No," Luindal cried fiercely as he climbed up onto the mast. "The Spirit will hold true."

With that, and a final blast of wind from the north, the boom swing wildly back and forth, wholly freed from its moorings. The occupants of the rigging clung for dear life. The Spirit lurched ever closer to the pirate ship. With a final creek and a groan, the mast of the Elven vessel snapped in two and the entire assemblage, both sails and spar, swung far leeward and toppled onto the deck of the Corsair ship, carrying Luindal and his men into the thick of the fighting.

As the mast came crashing down, combattants leaped out of its way. But there was one aboard the Corsair vessel who did not leap in time. Andtuariel, the fair Elf, was swept off the plank and plunged downward to the swelling waves.