[Lalwendë]

He had managed to hide from the Elf who gave him such a thorough pummelling, and was about to think himself lucky when another Elf saw Tarn crouching in the corner. ‘Come out, you craven worm!’ he shouted, brandishing a club. ‘Face your better, coward!’

Tarn laughed hard, despite the pain wracking his ribs as though they were about to crack again. He was working, and in no rush to step up to this insolent Elf. He finished what he was doing, watching the Elf out of the corner of his eye, yet confident he would not attempt to attack him in this shadowy corner. When he was done, he looked at the Elf with his slight build and club. How did he hope to brandish such a thing with any power? He really thought he was the better fighter? Tarn drew himself up to his full height, squared his shoulders and stared hard at the Elf. His laughter ceased abruptly and he became serious. His dark eyes turned to flint and glittered with real malice as he stepped from the shadows armed with nothing more than his knife.

“As you can see, I am far from being a worm,” said Tarn, moving closer to the Elf. “And I am no coward, either. As for you being better than me? Would you like to test me on that? I’m quite happy to oblige. Sir.” He bowed as dramatically as he could and gave the Elf a sarcastic grin.

Elwe was enraged, and stepped up to Tarn, swinging his club, just as Tarn had hoped he might. Tarn back stepped into the corner he had been working in, with a look of mock fear on his face. He feigned the gesture of offering another respectful bow as he looked down for a moment, to cover the fact that he was being very careful about where he put his feet. Elwe just saw an insolent Man who had decided to mock him. He did not see any trap.

The corner Tarn had been hiding and working in was under some steps, and tall supports held these up. The old rope, thin but tough, had been left under here, and Tarn had almost tripped over it when he first crept into the space. This was what gave him the idea of tying it to the supports. Blackened by tar, the rope was almost impossible to see in the near darkness.

Tarn stepped back over the rope, and bowing low again, as he prepared to jump aside and back into the open, he flung out his hand in a gesture of welcome. “And would Sir care to take a seat?”

As he said it, Elwe’s foot was caught on the rope and his body flew forwards, his head striking the hard wood of the stairs. He landed in a heap and did not move. Tarn crouched down to look at the Elf, his knife ready in his hand. Elwe still breathed, but his eyes were glazed and he would not be swinging the club again.

“Perhaps, sir, you would like the worm to get you a blanket?” said Tarn, standing up again, and leaving the Elf where he lay.

He laughed to himself as he slipped away, keeping close to the steps. Then he heard a familiar voice. Familiar, yet somehow strained. Tarn turned to face the Elf Annu and noticed the redness of his eyes and the beads of sweat on his brow.