Númenórean Blood Runs Black RPG

[piosenniel]

The point of Chakka’s knife slid easily through the corsair’s chest, piercing his heart and sending his shade to howl with the damned of ukruza. Chakka pressed his hand over the man’s mouth to still the rattle of death and deftly slipped the corpse out the opened hatch. He dropped it like a stone directly into their wake so that the splash would not be noticed. Like a shadow disappearing into the night he climbed through the hatch after the dead man and crawled along the side of the Fame and Fortune, making less noise than the wind amid the rigging. The moon was only a sliver in the sky but there were no clouds and he had to trust to his luck that no one would look over at the sea. The conversation of the watch drifted down to him from the deck as Chakka rounded the stern below the captain’s window and made his way forward on the port side. The sea rushed beneath him and for a moment he thought of simply letting go and falling into the water. They were not too far from land, there was a chance – a slight chance – that he could make it to shore: if the current were not too fast, and if the tide co-operated and if the shoreline was not a jagged mass of crushing stone. He remained clinging to his perch on the side of the ship. He had a plan already, one that offered at least some hope.

Achieving the hatch he slipped out his knife once more and used it to gently pry open the casement. The quarters were empty, as he had known they would be, for the first mate kept the watch this night and the quarters were his. Chakka dropped to the deck like a cat and swiftly found the door. He peered out. Just down the corridor were the two corsairs whose unexpected presence had necessitated his unusual manner of moving from starboard to port. He waited until they moved to the other side of the lantern, where the light from it would be before their eyes should they look his way, before sprinting through the door to the ladder.

This, he had known all along, was the most dangerous part of his plan. Escaping his chains had been simple. One of the first things he had learned after being made a slave all those years ago was how to pick a lock with any slender piece of metal. In this case, a nail that he had pried loose from the rafters during his first night on duty before the captain’s door. They were still in harbour then and he could have escaped that very night, but for the captain’s devilish poison. They had brought Chakka to the captain’s door and shackled him there, explaining to him that he was to watch the night and to prevent anyone from entering the quarters. The captain had come then, a tall, wolfish looking man. They had stared at one another in silence for a while, each sizing the other up. They were the same height but Chakka’s frame was larger. It had impressed him that the captain had not been intimidated. Without a word and with the speed of a striking viper Rakin had flicked out his hand and Chakka felt a sting in his arm. He looked down and watched as the captain pulled a small thorn from the flesh. Chakka wondered what had just happened and the captain, smiling coolly, was quick to explain the ingenious nature of Chakka’s enslavement.

The thorn, he learned, had been coated in a poison of the captain’s own making that would slowly work its way to Chakka’s brain. By dawn he would be dizzy. By the time the sun was above the horizon, he would be blind. By noon, he would be dead but only after suffering through an excruciating period of burning pain. The captain’s smile never wavered as he explained this to Chakka. Rakin then explained, in equally even tones, that in the morning he would make a small dose of the antidote to the poison that he would administer to Chakka. With that, he went to sleep and Chakka was left to wonder at the brilliance of what the captain had achieved. There was nothing more that Chakka would like to do than slit the captain’s throat and run – anyone coming to assassinate the captain in his sleep would have found Chakka a willing accomplice. But now the slave’s life had been yoked fully to that of his master. For Captain Rakin to die in the night meant an agonising death to Chakka in the morning. He did not doubt that Rakin was telling the truth about the poison, or about the antidote to which the captain alone knew the recipe. There was something in the man’s bearing that made it impossible to believe that he would stoop to fabrication merely to obtain the services of a slave. So Chakka stood guard that night, and in the morning – when he was indeed beginning to feel a bit dizzy – he drank the vile tasting antidote that the captain gave him when he emerged from his quarters. The next night and morning were the same, and thus had he been forced to stand outside the captain’s door, night after night, keeping alive the one man in all creation whom he most wanted to see dead.

Chakka raced down the short passage keeping his breath quiet and even, and achieved the top of the ladder without being seen. He dropped through the trap and lighted upon the lower deck on all fours, his eyes glittering like a predator’s. He held his breath and even his heart slowed as he made himself as a stone, listening and alert. When he was certain that he had not been seen, he moved to the flimsy door that separated the aft hold from the slavedeck. He opened the door by a sliver and looked through. The slaves were sleeping in their chains, hunched over their oars or leaning back upon one another. His eyes narrowed and he sucked in a quick breath with the violence of one who knew what it was like to sleep like a chained beast. Quiet as moonlight he crept toward the guard.

It had taken him weeks of careful study and spying to learn the secret of the antidote. Using the nail he had prised loose on his first night, Chakka had first chipped a small spyhole through the wall so that he could watch the captain at work in the morning. He had studied the procedure of mixing and stirring until he could have performed the acts in his sleep. When that was accomplished he had slowly gathered what he needed to make the antidote himself. Some of what was required was easy to come by from the galley or the crew, but one or two compounds were to be found only in the captain’s quarters. He had fashioned a crude key to the captain’s door and each night he would slip in and quietly take one or two drops of the compounds he needed – never enough that the theft would be noticed – and hid them behind the loose rafter he had found. Eventually he had enough of what he needed to make the antidote himself and as soon as the captain had fallen asleep he had set to work removing his chains and making a dose of the antidote. But being free of his bondage meant little on a ship in the middle of the Sea – for where could he run? But running was not his plan…

Chakka seized the corsair, stifling his cries with his hands. His arms were iron bands about the man’s neck as he struggled to be free, but within a few moments the man’s motions became feeble and then ceased altogether. Chakka knew that to kill the man all he need do was hold on a few moments longer, but as soon as the guard was unconscious he let him drop to the deck. Some of the slaves in the aft ranks had come awake at the violence and they stared in disbelieving hope as Chakka fell to work on the mighty lock that fastened the chain to which they were all bound. As he sought to force the lock with his knife he spoke to them through clenched teeth: “Slaves, listen! I am here to set you free, but you must not run like animals. Do not think to throw yourselves into the Sea for you will die. We must become the hunters instead. We must kill and destroy and make this vessel our own. When the corsairs are dead we can take this ship where we please.” He spoke quietly but those who heard him passed his words back to their companions.

He concentrated on the lock once more. The first two latches had fallen and he was about to trigger the third when from behind there came the heavy tread of booted feet. With a curse in his own tongue he spun up from the deck and flew at the two pirates who had come below. He threw the first into the wall, his weapon not even yet drawn. The other pulled forth his cutlass and aimed a cleaving blow at Chakka’s head but he easily sidestepped the blade, in the same motion bringing his hand down on the man’s arm. He cried out in pain, and Chakka dropped him with his fist.

There was a cry from above as the corsairs became aware of the commotion. Chakka raced the length of the deck, hissing to the other slaves as he went, “I am sorry I failed you my friends. I shall lead them away.” The slaves knew what he meant: if the corsairs were to find out that a slave revolt had almost begun, they would all pay in blood.

Chakka pulled himself up the ladder to the foredeck and came face to face with three startled pirates. They lunged with their swords, but Chakka evaded them, crumpling one with a mighty kick. He leapt from the foredeck to the main deck and raced to the side, but there were too many pirates about now: they fell from the rigging like insects and swarmed about him. Ropes were thrown about him and soon he was dragged to the deck bellowing and raging like a beast. When he was tied fast the boatswain was sent for, and when he arrived there at his heels like a cur was the guard Chakka had choked into unconsciousness. The guard was raging, “Hang the rat, I says! String him by the neck until he knows what it’s like!”

“Stow that talk of hanging!” the boatswain replied sharply. “He’s the captain’s personal slave, so unless you feel comfortable explaining to him why you’ve killed his property you’d best take him to the brig unharmed. Leave him for the captain to deal with in the morning.”

“He near killed me,” the guard growled sulkily.

“Aye, and if he had then we could make use of that gallows. As it is, you’re more like to be whipped for negligence. A common sailor is cheaper and easier to replace than the likes of him!”

So Chakka was taken below and clapped in irons. He sat in the brig the rest of the night and throughout most of the following day, wondering what his fate would be aboard the Fame and Fortune…


-- Fordim Hedgethistle

[piosenniel]

The Perky Ent's post

Tall ships and tall kings
Three times three
What brought they from the foundered land
Over the flowing sea?
Seven stars and seven stones
And one white tree

Telumehtar thought over the words, while he surveyed his lands. The view was always nice from the seventh tier of Minas Anor. With the wind blowing his brown hair across his brow, he could see lands his fathers had defended hundreds of years ago. Many times in the passing days had Telumehtar considered his heritage. When times of great trouble came, he would walk to the edge, and contemplate his actions. During this time, none were allowed to walk the level, except for the guards constantly stationed by the tree. It was in this hour that Telumehtar looked long and hard across his land, watching his troops muster at the port of Harlond. In the deepest part of his heart, Telumehtar wished he was a lone sailor of the sea, for Telumehtar was a mariner at heart.

It was a quiet day. The citizens of Minas Anor had been dreading the day for quiet some time after they heard that they would go to war. In homes, families were close and savored the time they had. Each day, Gondorians could see ships on the horizon, heading from far off lands. From Cair Andros to Dol Amroth, men had gathered to answer the call of war. Unlike tales of heroism and courage, the men of Gondor did not treat the Corsairs of Umbar like mindless orcs. Corsairs were a powerful force that required constant vigilance to be held back. Being pirates, they held no loyalty to any save themselves. But the pirates were not what scared the Gondorians, for they gave little heed to mindless brigands. It was the Black Numenorians, those corrupted by Sauron during the second age, that instilled fear in the very heart of Gondor. Just like the dunedain of Arnor, their numbers were rapidly decreasing, yet the remained the strength that their master had taught them long ago.

After meditating for quite some time, Telumehtar gave a sigh, and turned from the pinnacle. When he was a boy, his father would sing him songs of the Kings of Men, and their tree that stood on their island. It was from the story of the Akallabêth that Telumehtar learned to revere the sea and its power. But he was not meant to follow his hearts desire, as he was a descendant of the great kings of Gondor, and his fate was bound from his inception. When he turned his eyes to the White Tree, a sense of calm overtook him. Even after over a century of viewing it, the White Tree of Gondor was a sight. The sun’s light glistened on its branches perfectly, emanating beauty in its most radiant form. Telumehtar dared not touch it, a fear that he had held ever since he saw the death of the tree. “This is not a time for sorrow, for death smiles at us all.” Telumehtar said to himself as he walked away from the tree and smiled. “And all we can do about it is smile back”. He turned from the outdoors, and walked to his throne.

It was silent in his hall. The arrangements had been laid, precautions set, and edits degreed. The quiet was almost haunting, and it was for this that Telumehtar was glad when he heard whispers from behind him. Two men walked out from behind him, swords drawn. Without even registering the faces of the men, Telumehtar leaped from his throne and unsheathed his sword. In front of him, Telumehtar found none other than the Steward of Gondor, and his son Narmacil.

“Relax father. We are not here to usurp your authority.” Giving a slight chuckle, the steward added “Nay. In fact, we are here to make sure you are ready for the usurpers. Your son wanted to make sure you would stay on your toes. “Giving a cross look, Telumehtar slowly put his sword away. “When have I not been on my guard? Are you ready for my departure? As you should know, I am not much for goodbyes.” Narmacil nodded, and started to walk out of the hall. “I’ll have you know-“the steward interjected “That Arciryas sends his father his best wishes. Rest assured that he is safe in Annuminas. And I as well. I shall await your homecoming”. And with that, the steward and the heir left the room, and left Telumehtar to silence.

Telumehtar took a final look at his hall, and then marched slowly down the levels of the city. As he walked, groups of women and children parted to a side, creating a clear-cut path. One by one the gates of Minas Anor opened, until Telumehtar found himself upon the second level. Taking a right at a forked path, Telumehtar walked over to a large building with smoke billowing through its windows. Telumehtar opened the doors, and watched as all the men in the room bowed their heads. “Is it time my lord?” a man in the front said to the king, raising his head. Telumehtar gave a slow nod, and all the men watched as the king walked to the center of the large room. Along the walls, weapons and armor were laid, and golden tapestries of battles were hung from the ceilings. Telumehtar was presented with his armor, which had laid in the building for many years. Slowly but strongly, Telumehtar equipped his gear and left the building. Mindorlonn, Telumehtar’s chestnut horse, was waiting for his master outside the armoury.

Fixing the crown upon his head, Telumehtar rode to the gates of Minas Anor. Standing in front of an open gate, Telumehtar found a large group of mounted men waiting outside the city. Inside, a large cluster of people had gathered in a circle, engulfing Telumehtar within the entrance. Sweat started to pour down his face as Telumehtar started to cloister himself from his people. His horse, knowing him all too well, started to buck, bringing Telumehtar away from his claustrophobia. There, Telumehtar shouted, “People of Gondor! Fear not! The blood of Numenor shall be spilt this day, but it shall run black like their hearts! The corsairs will plague you no longer! For glory and Gondor we ride!” And with Minas Anor roaring in triumph behind him, Telumehtar grabbed Mindorlonn’s reins, and rode out to Harlond.

Quickly Telumehtar came to the port, and found it filled with ships and men. Throughout the port, Telumehtar spied flags from all distant lands of Gondor. Telumehtar started taking a mental note in his head of the lands that had come to his call. “Dol Amroth, Anfalas, Lossarnach, Morthond, Pinnath Gelin. Good, good, good! We are almost ready to make war. Now if only I could find - “You rang? Do not think I would not be here before you left!” came a voice from behind Telumehtar. “Menelcar! Trusty as ever! We will have time for pleasantries later, but I have more important matters to attend to. Where are my men? Where are my captains? My soldiers? My kingdom?”

[piosenniel]

Firefoot's post

It was with great impatience that Menelcar had awaited Telumehtar’s arrival. His impatience was not with the king himself, precisely, but he had been at the harbor since early that morning overseeing the muster and organization of the troops while the king took care of last minute preparations inside the city. He cared for this part of his job the least, for he disliked, nay, despised, dealing with people. This sentiment only compounded with so many people needing instructions at the same time. He had to direct the many captains to the ships that would transport them, as well as answer any questions that they or the ships’ captains might have. The job was necessary but tedious, and Menelcar had long since wearied of it. His mount, a restive bay stallion, seemed to concur.

The king’s arrival heartened Menelcar greatly; it meant they would be departing soon, and he would no longer be plagued by the many questions and problems of the soldiers. He nudged the horse forward to meet the king, threading his way through the busy harbor as quickly as he could manage. However, he was interrupted before he could get very far by yet another inquisitive captain; his uniform proclaimed him to be from Dol Amroth.

“Yes?” asked Menelcar curtly.

“I am Captain Baranor, out of Dol Amroth,” said the man, clearly unsure of how to take his brusque manner. “It seems that we brought a few more men than we had originally estimated; our assigned ships will be loaded full and there are still about twenty more men than the ships’ captains say that the boats will safely hold.”

Menelcar barely stifled an irritated sigh and dug out of his pocket the little book in which he was keeping the details of the attack. He scanned the ship assignments and wrote a note of the captain’s situation. “There should be some extra space with the soldiers from Anfalas. If not, check with those from Morthond. Do so quickly; we will be departing soon now that the king has arrived.”

“Thank you, milord,” said the captain with a salute. Menelcar paid no heed; he had already begun to ride off, scanning the harbor for Telumehtar, whom he had lost sight of while speaking with the captain. The king would be looking for him by now, no doubt. The soldiers milling about had parted to let the king pass through, and Menelcar took advantage of the more open space, nudging his horse into a dignified canter to catch up. The stallion took the extra rein eagerly after having stood around for so long.

“You were looking for me?” asked Menelcar as he drew even with Telumehtar. “Do not think I would not be here before you left!”

Telumehtar turned in recognition of the voice: “Menelcar! Trusty as ever! We will have time for pleasantries later, but I have more important matters to attend to. Where are my men? Where are my captains? My soldiers? My kingdom?”

“I should hope you know where your kingdom is by now,” commented Menelcar, smiling in spite of himself. “As for the rest of it, many of the soldiers are already aboard their ships. These rest ought to know where they’re heading by now, or their captains do.” Quickly he outlined the organization of the soldiers – where the units from the various regions of Gondor were situated and so on. “We will be traveling in that ship, there-” Menelcar pointed to a fine ship a short way down the harbor. “I have spoken with the captain of the ship; he seemed very eager to make sure all was in line for your arrival,” he added with a hint of contempt. The captain had spoken with him several times that day, to the point of being bothersome. “It should not be much more than an hour before we are ready to set sail; they mostly await your order.”

[piosenniel]

Folwren's post

Captain Hereric stood on the deck of The Cuivië, his hands folded behind him, and his eyes watching the bustle of his men below. The muscle in his jaw slowly clenched and unclenched and a constant, grim expression lingered on his face. The last day before setting sail was always hard enough without the extra stress of greeting a king. It would have to be his ship, wouldn’t it? But then, she was very fine, wasn’t she? He glanced up at the ropes and rigging above his head. The fine lines against the clear blue sky, and the proud Gondorian flag fluttering slightly in the breeze. She was a gorgeous ship, and her crew one of the best. He had little nor no doubts of her performance, and he would not have had any worries in the least had it not been for the condescending manner of the king’s own advisor.

Hereric’s jaw tightened again and he looked towards the pier. Of all people, he thought he disliked the condescending sort. The very thought of being looked down on by anyone on his ship was extremely annoying and entirely intolerable. He’d have to work on that if the two of them were going to be stuck together for more than a few days.

The approach of his first left-tenant brought his attention back to his ship and he watched as the young man mounted the steps to his side. ‘Sir, the last of the water is on, and the meat. That should be the last shipment on board from the port. The last attachment of soldiers, also, will be arriving shortly, no doubt.’

‘Yes, I should imagine so,’ Hereric replied. He glanced over his shoulder at the sun and back down. ‘Prepare my barge. You will go to the landing and greet his majesty the King.’

In a few moments, the boat was by the ship’s side and the left-tenant with the Captain’s coxswain climbed over the side and were rowed towards the landing. The Captain remained where he stood, giving the last orders, and preparing the ship for the king’s arrival. It would not be long.

Hereric kept half an eye on his men on shore. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. The wait at the docks and the stress of making certain that everything was bought and delivered to the ship always made him impatient and peevish. The counselor had likely been under stress himself when he had spoken to him.

‘Forimar,’ he said, turning to a man walking past below him. ‘Get all this squared away and prepare the deck for the king’s arrival.’

[piosenniel]

Alcarillo's post

Captain Vórimandur paced his office in the Ráca's stern impatiently. He and his crew had woken up before sunrise to prepare for this voyage. For long hours they packed all of their food, weapons, clothing, sea charts, and other necessities into the ship. Then they checked for sails for tears, and then the decks were swabbed until the Ráca was the cleanest ship for leagues in all directions. Captain Vórimandur had put forth all of his effort to ready the ship, but now the only thing to prevent them from sailing to victory and glory was the King of Gondor himself. It was now nearing midafternoon, and King Telumehtar had not arrived. Thrice already had Captain Vórimandur asked the king's attendant on the pier when the king would arrive, and each time the answer was the same: soon.

He could barely wait any longer to sail off. The thrill of a new voyage pounded in Captain Vórimandur's heart. He opened the stern windows wide and searched the docks for any sign of the king, but there was none. He sighed and leaning against the window frame watched the sailors of the other ships prepare. Maybe we shouldn't have began so early.

"Sir?" a sailor stepped through the open cabin door, and Captain Vórimandur turned his head from the window. It was Caradhril, a trusted navigator, and a member of the Ráca's crew for nearly three years now. Caradhril cleared his throat and said, "Sir, the sailors are getting bored. There's nothing more to do. Some of them are wandering the docks and the other ships."

"Really?" Captain Vórimandur was surprised and had not thought about what the sailors were doing at the moment. He sat at his desk, ornately carved with nautical symbols. "Tell Morgond to round up the sailors. I want all of them back on the ship by the time the king arrives." He considered for a moment what sort of punishment should await them. Then a silver trumpet blared somewhere on the pier.

"The king has arrived! Caradhril, hurry!" Vórimandur said. Caradhril turned and ran into the deep hallways of the Ráca. It was all those new sailors from Lossarnach, unused to how life on a ship worked. Vórimandur moved back to the stern windows to catch a good look at the king, and to keep an eye out for his wandering sailors.

[piosenniel]

Dunwen's post

Nimir was tired, sore and thirsty. Captain Vórimandur had ordered that everyone on the Ráca start preparing the ship and its equipment before sunrise, and it was now midafternoon. Nimir had first helped to load his company’s weapons on board, carrying box after box of arrows, short spears, small bows, and knives down into the holds. Only after this was done were morning rations passed out, and pretty thin they were, too: a hard roll, a pint of small beer, and a completely inadequate (in Nimir’s opinion) ration of cheese and bacon. He tried not to think of home too often, but he never missed his family so much as at mealtimes. Gnawing his bread and cheese, Nimir had thought longingly of his mother’s generous table back home. Why, there would be fresh bread and butter, plate-sized slabs of ham or platters of sausage or fried fish, porridge and cream, eggs, and fruit turnovers, all washed down with good fresh buttermilk or spring water. And that was just breakfast! His reveries of venison sausage and eggs were disrupted when Nimir’s company was ordered to start swabbing the decks.

What a disaster that had been. Nimir didn’t think he would ever get used to living on board a ship. While hurrying with a bucket of clean water toward the end of the ship, (“Stern”, he reminded himself) he had run face-first into a rope anchoring one of the Ráca’s spars in position. He had not cut himself, but he now sported a painful, raw rope burn along the right side of his face, along his cheekbone down to his jaw-line, and a smaller matching scrape along the side of his neck. The officer in charge had ripped into him for not watching where he was going and wasting good clean water, then sent him off for another bucketful. After putting him on report, of course. As punishment, Nimir was not allowed his midday ration of drink. He had ground his teeth and made the only permissible reply under the circumstances. “Yes, sir.”

However, when his company was released from any specific duty, the practical seventeen-year-old had simply left the ship and headed for the Seagull, a dingy tavern not far from the Ráca’s berth. Now sitting on a rickety bench outside the Seagull’s weathered wooden walls, Nimir took another drink of ale, feeling the liquid wash away the lingering dryness in his throat. Resting the cool pewter tankard against his aching face, he sighed. Days like this, he wondered why he ever left home. Back in Lebinnin, listening to the recruiting officer, joining King Telumehtar’s expedition against the Corsairs of Umbar had sounded like a grand and glorious adventure. Sergeant Nillendion had declared that with his skills as a bowman, Nimir would quickly advance and earn both commendations and wealth, and Nimir had been eager to believe the wily recruiter. How splendid it would be to return to his village as a war hero, or better yet, a decorated officer with a sword at his hip. Nimir had imagined arriving home on a great horse, with a purse full of gold...which he would then share with his bossy older brother, provided of course that Kalisuz humbly apologized for trying to order him, Nimir, around for all those years. And wouldn’t Meliel be sorry she’d dumped him for that old man, Dolgor. Nimir spent many pleasurable hours imagining his former sweetheart’s regret at letting him go for an ancient man of thirty years. He’d show her. He’d show them all that he was capable of great things.

That had been the idea, anyway. But the training camp in Lossarnach had put an end to that dream. While the officers running the camp had been visibly impressed with his marksmanship, they had nevertheless insisted that he take his place among the other recruits and learn such military skills as following orders, saluting his superiors and maneuvering in the field. Nimir had enjoyed the latter. He had learned to hunt at an early age, and by the age of 12 years spent entire days alone stalking game in the meadows and woods near his home. Unfortunately, his training had not included anything about ships.

Coming back to reality, Nimir sighed again and took another pull at his ale. He choked suddenly as Morgond, one of the Ráca’s officers, appeared before him and bellowed, “You! Soldier! Who gave you permission to debark? Get back onboard ship!” Nimir groaned inwardly, expecting to be put on report yet again, but Morgond merely hurried down the wharf, bent on rounding up more wandering recruits. Deciding that the officer hadn’t told him to return immediately, the young recruit hastily finished his ale and stood up. Returning the empty tankard to the barkeep, he saw a pile of meat pies and bought two to take with him. Then he hurried back to the Ráca. Once on deck, he stopped and leaned on the gunwale, munching a pie and observing the bustle all along the wharves at Harlond. Off in the distance, Minas Anor gleamed white against the dark mass of Mount Mindolluin.

A stir on the docks below caught Nimir’s attention. Further down the wharf, he saw a tall, dark-haired man wearing a crown and a fine embroidered tunic walking toward the fleet’s flagship, accompanied by several nobles. His ears caught the cries of “The King! Make way for the King!” The second pie fell unnoticed into the water below as he hoisted himself onto the gunwale and grabbed a rope to steady himself, craning his neck to see. There was the King of Gondor before his own two eyes! What a tale for everyone back home. No one in his village had even been to Dol Amroth, much less seen the King himself. Wouldn’t they all be jealous!

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Kath's post

Curamir stepped onto the walkway with a sigh of relief as the world stopped rocking. He had never been on a ship before and the constant swaying had him falling over at every turn. Fortunately Vórimandur the captain had been busy with the preparations for departure and had not seen the somewhat deplorable skills his newest soldier had. Unfortunately, the crew has. The sailors laughed as he stumbled past them trying to keep his balance and even the other soldiers had shared amused grins at his lack in sea legs. Still, he’d had some time to get used to the movement now, and as long as he didn’t watch the horizon dipping up and down he was able to prevent himself from throwing up.

He had been on board since the early morning as the captain had requested and he had intended to ask the crew some questions about his father, as he had assumed that while the ship was in the harbour they would be less busy. He had been wrong, as he had found out when he tried to nab a passing sailor and had received a few choice words once the man realised Curamir only wanted to talk.

“Don’t you realise we’re preparing for a voyage boy? If you’re not going to be helpful then don’t be here at all!”

And he had disappeared without another word. Chagrined and not daring to try again with anyone else, Curamir had stowed his meagre amount of personal items in his bunk and gone up on deck to find Lingwë, his friend from his training days who was also on the mission. He hoped being with would stop him asking foolish questions and disturbing the crewmen, as Lingwë had heard a lot about his father over the years, and was sick to death of it. Once Curamir had found him the two were soon put to work making sure all the necessary supplies were on board, and as they carried box after box to it’s rightful place they chattered eagerly about the upcoming encounter.

“Do you think we’ll actually get to fight?” Lingwë had asked.

“I don’t know. Don’t they usually try to negotiate first? You know, sort it all out without fighting.” He had replied, wondering as he did so just how this mission was going to end.

“Oh maybe. In that case I hope we get to go aboard the Corsair ship, what a story to tell back home!”

“If you live to tell the tale.” Curamir had said with a grin, and received a thump on the arm in retaliation.

Once they had finished the chores that had been set the two friends decided to go ashore and explore the town a little. This was a new place for both of them and as the ship would be leaving soon they were keen to see as much as they could. Curamir was also keen to get onto some dry land, as he knew this would be the last for a while! Now though he was thinking less of what was to come and more of what was around him. The fishy smell that permeated everything was all around, and the stalls in the market place that they had just entered seemed to be the centre of it, holding every kind of fish Curamir could think of.

They walked on and wandered down a back street, looking for something more interesting that wouldn’t be seen by anyone in the more open areas of the town, but just as they found a promising looking street a call rang out from the market square they had previously been in.

“Captain Vórimandur orders that all soldiers serving aboard his ship return immediately!”

Turning to look at his friend Curamir sighed.

“Another time, perhaps”

“When we come back,” answered Lingwë.

They turned and walked briskly back to the ship.

[piosenniel]

Thinlómien's post

As Lingwë an Curamir walked the street back to the ship, Lingwë thought of the war. He wasn't as optimistic about it as he had been before. Despite his ignorance of Curamir's comment on dying along the way, he had actually started to think more about that possibility. Maybe this was the last ship he'd ever sign up to? Maybe this was the last summer he'd ever see?

He was returned to the reality by a friendly tuck on his side. "Look, Lingwë, it's the king!" Curamir whispered to him, excited. Lingwë looked around, trying to catch a look from the man he regarded as the most powerful man in whole Middle-Earth. "Not there, idiot; on the docks", Curamir said.

At last Lingwë caught a little look from the man he admired. The king stood tall and proud in the middle of the crowd. He had an aura of power around him. He was talking with his advisor. His crown gleamed golden in the sun. He is my king, Lingwë thought, I will follow him.

Reluctantly Lingwë turned his gaze from the king and said: "Curamir, I think we should be going." His friend nodded and they continued their way to the ship.

"We're going to be late", Curamir pointed out.
"Yes, we are. We're going to get extra chores", Lingwë said.

[piosenniel]

Anguirel's post


“And now, my dears...play, play.”

Sangalazin, illustrious descendant of the King of Gondor known uncompromisingly in Umbar as Castamir the Great, was stretched out on a silken couch in his black ship’s cabin, his considerable full length languidly extended. A small table stood nearby; on it was positioned a silver instrument, from which a pipe crawled, coming to rest in Sangalazin’s long golden hand. He placed it into his mouth and took another gulp at the hookah, exulting at the relief at the fumes quenching the thirst of his lungs. Truly, the hookah was a potent sign that if one rejected the ways of the East and South, one would never find civilisation.

The supine Lord was attended by twelve men. Nine were monumentally tall-like Sangalazin himself-but, and here they differed from their master, also well-muscled and armoured all about in black iron. Those who were bare-headed displayed cold, impassive stares from grey Northern eyes. Their hair was dark, but bleached yellow, in contrast to their arms. Their weapons were all forged in the Gondorian fashion; straight longswords, triangular shields, visored helms. This, then, was the feared bodyguard of Sangalazin, which he had formed when still a child; its soldiers cradle Gondorians, but in their hearts fanatical servants of the Castamirioni, and Sangalazin in particular, who knew he owed his survival to them.

The other three men in the richly furnished cabin, below the forecastle, were of quite a different sort. It was these Sangalazin had addressed. One was of the Haradrim, and beat upon a set of small drums. Another was an Easterling, and toyed with a delicate stringed instrument, which he called a sitar. The third was a youth from the North, one of the shadow dwellers, a blonde boy with a flute. Sangalazin smiled at him.

“I find your strains particularly moving, child. You touch me. To think that one such as you replaced our line upon the throne of Meneldil...but I bear no grudge. Indeed, as long as you and your people confine yourself to our music-rooms and our pleasure-chambers, and don’t mess with power, the reserve of true men...why, then, you are quite endearing.”

The Lord of Half of Umbar leant up from his position and felt the youth’s cheek. The beard would not come for some time. A pretty specimen, indeed. And how strange and yet lovely the three combined tunes had sounded, to his own composition, intermingled. That was the way of culture, of beauty, of perfection. When he sat upon the Throne at Minas Anor-for he took little account of his cousin and rival, Azaryan-his court would be ordered thus. Tedious warring would cease, benevolent peace would embrace all the lesser nations, to be guided under his command. And civilisation would prevail.

His harmonious thoughts were interrupted by the Southron striking a false note. Sangalazin raised an eyebrow, and whispered something to a guard. Two of them led the musician out. He would not be killed; not yet, for the guards would wait for him to be strangled later at their master’s whim.

It was then that a black-robed, well-spoken lordling of Azaryan’s train arrived in the cabin. Sangalazin was called to his cousin's side. He took a last, regretful drag on the hookah, tousled the blonde boy’s hair, and followed the messenger. His cousin was powerful and proud-spirited, and it would do no good to anger him now...

[piosenniel]

Hiriel's post

A tortured wail rose up from the ribs as Lord Azaryan paced. He sighed slowly, closing his eyes and letting the wooden moans relax his muscles. A terrible headache churned within his temples, and so he allowed the groans to wash over him, a rough but steadying chorus. He had always liked the sound of waves belowdecks better than on shore, the clash of water on wooden shield. It was like some grand ancient battle.

He loitered in the relative solitude of the armory, liking to take ease in unusual places. It took longer for anyone to interrupt him, and it gave the greenhand ensigns a good scare to have to look for their lord and captain from mess to forecastle, wardroom to deepest hold, not knowing what corner he would be waiting around to yell at them. He smiled at the thought, glad to be back at sea again. All matters of supplies, gold, crime and court were put aside, and only important things left were stealth and wind and tide. It had been too long.

But, then, there had been much to plan for this voyage. Gondor, the tiring old eagle, usually ventured some response to the corsair raids that were rapidly becoming a way of life along the coast. In the last few months, however, the gnats of Dol Amroth and other coastal garrisons sat silent, suffering any abuse from his fleet without retaliation. Azaryan started pacing the squat room faster and found himself knocking into stacks of spears and quivers in his fiendish glee, half tripping over the toppled weapons in his energy.

They must be weak. There is no other reason why Telumehtar would not protect his own. They must be panicked. Nay, deperate. Ha! I may yet see the White City.” Twitching, he licked his lips and his thoughts skipped, leaping from one glorious picture to the next: This raid raising Pelegir, corsair ships landing up and down the coast, Dol Amroth in flames, the great fleet the Haradrim were still clamoring payment over pulling into Harlond, Telumehtar knelling, weeping before him at the base of the white throne. Feeling more elated than he had all day, Azaryan now bit his lip and began running over the plans of attack on Pelegir over again in his mind. If the river town was neutralized, then, only with greatest speed could he move the fleet to Harlond and Osgiliath. The army of Umbar was too small to take on Gondor’s in a pitched battle, but an assault on the Harlond and Osgiliath might cow it. The thought quickened his breath.

“Enough strategy, Azar,” A warm voice chuckled, rolling like a swell, and knocked him out of his reverie. “I have done nothing to suggest that was what my mind was turned to,cousin.” He recovered, recognizing the voice of Lord Sangalazin, his own like the crack of a spar. “Why else would a sea lord cloister himself for three hours in a cramped armory?” The man framing the doorway asked with mock innocence. “I see no reason to explain myself or my actions to you, and indeed I have no need to.” Azaryan cut back airily. “How goes it, then?” “There are a lot of ‘ifs’ yet, and the mouth of the Anduin is our most pressing problem at the moment. Telumehtar knows the river, and so we must evade the eyes he plants its coast.” His face dimmed, frowning at as his problems and dragging down his features.

“That may not be so. We’re in sight of land, Azar, inside the very mouth of the river and not even a fishing boat to great us.” Azaryan started; This was news that stabbed at his gut. “Than either he either he is a fool or an ungracious host.” He frowned deep, his grip on his settings slipping as he absorbed this information. “Well, I think we would both rather him a fool. Indeed, he and I would have something in common, I agreeing to come on this silly venture.” The wry comment brought him back to the armory. “Stop trying to be witty. I can dismember you at will for demeaning the importance of our military endevours this day.” Sangalazin only gave lopsided grin to the terse threat.
“That’s what makes it so fun, cousin.”

Azaryan growled in the back of his throat. Ever had Salgalazin been petty and lacked the proper focus for a lord of Umbar. Only his sharp intelligence, far greater than any other of his family, redeemed him. Not willing to be sidetracked by his cousin’s foolishness, Azaryan plodded on. “We know at least that Telumehtar is not one. But perhaps he falters. Perhaps Umbar’s threat has undone him and he sweats and frets on that great marble perch of his. I can think of no other reason he does not act against us. Regardless, we will give him something to fret about, pompous Eldacarioni.” He spat the last sentence out, a solemn vow.

“Then we should begin by going ondeck.” Azaryan nodded, bared a quick, vicious grin, and followed the beaconing figure out of the ships’ bowls and into the fresh sea air.

[piosenniel]

Amanaduial the archer's post

Even from a birdseye view, from far above the choppy waves, the Fame and Fortune made a striking image: on a clear day, proudly bestriding the waves that lapped against the side, as if daring the mighty Ulmo himself to make some challenge, when the wind leapt and blustered into those unusual, triangular sails, propelling the striking, slim silhouette forward through the waters…and with what speed! She cut through the waters so fast, so easily, the chopping motion mimicking the jolting laughter of such a ship whose pointed features were like a wicked laugh embodied. A more arresting and, aye, and more handsome ship, in its own way, was not to be found on this side of Arda. Stealthy, fast and fair. And the captain of this ship, a corsair as famed as his ship, since her very establishment as a pirate vessel loved it.

Standing on the forecastle of the ship, leaning casually against the foremast with one arm somewhat affectionately thrown around it as if around the shoulders of a loved one, Captain Chatazrakin Telmenzar stared out at the open waters, the feel of the wind caressing his neck, face and bare arms more familiar and enjoyable to him that any human touch. A corsair as infamous as the striking silhouette of the ship he had commanded for a decade, this was the life that Rakin had been born for – and after a life of sailing on his precious ship, the corsair wasn’t best disposed to the likes of that silent, unsmiling snob and the debauched fop who called themselves the Lords of Umbar trying to order him around on his own ship. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the salty air, tipping his head back into the wind as the sounds of the ship’s daily life flowed around him, each sound as familiar and easily identifiable to him as his own breathing. The seabirds squabbling as they flew above, a V of them making for the Anduin, racing Fame and Fortune to it, the crewmen talking, calling to each other all the way from the Crows’ Nest to the lower decks, snatches of song and laughter, interspersed with shouts and angry voices, the cries of a slave’s pain…these vibrant patchwork of the ship’s life reverberated through her ribs from tip to tail, and the Captain drank it all in, each sound bringing memories and things to do. The sound of the slave, for example… He sighed irritably, clenching his jaw tightly as he opened his eyes once more to glare angrily out at the sea.

“They must be weak. There is no other reason why Telumehtar would not protect his own—”

“Cousin, cousin, please, let me get my breath first before you begin to batter me once more with your tactics…”

The first voice, harsh and solemn though with a controlled energy, was another sound which, even after a relatively short time, seemed to belong to the ship: a voice that Rakin could reason with and understand, despite its cheerless and dour owner. But the second voice, that amused drawl....well, it was a voice whose origins were familiar to Rakin’s very genetics, but one which most certainly did not belong on a ship as he did. Azaryan and Sangalazin, Lords of Umbar – and the only pair of men on this ship to whom Rakin himself was directly accountable. And Rakin did not like to be under another’s power…

“Good afternoon, my Lords,” he began, half turning his head towards them although his arm remained slung as it was around the mast. Azaryan nodded curtly, but such a simple greeting could not be enough for Sangalazin.

“Morning,” he replied simply. Rakin turned his dark, narrow eyes further towards his half-brother, raising one eyebrow carefully. Sangalaz in had his arms crossed and a smile on his full, girlish mouth. “It is still but morning, Captain Chatazrakin, give her her due and do not steal from her a good hour. You wouldn’t rob the day of a full hour of her bounty, would you?”

Ah. It was going to be one of these conversations then. How he regretted not sharing a childhood with his half-brother…or not. Apparently being an unrecognised scion had some advantages – namely the lack of comments such as these from the his inbred, spoilt, fop of a brother. Rakin bit back the reply which leapt to his tongue and instead gave a very slight smile as he straightened up and turned towards the two Lords of Umbar. “Ah, but is that not what our very aim is, my Lord Sangalazin? Thievery from even the highest powers?”

Sangalazin’s expression seemed to freeze for a split second between a sneer and a smile, then he simply shrugged and gave the Captain a lazy, infuriating grin. In order to keep up his respectfulness towards Sangalazin, the easiest response to this was simply to ignore it. After all, it was a damn sight more respectful than the sneer he would usually award to such a… Turning to the older of the two, Rakin inquired as to Azaryan’s expression of worry. “How goes, my Lord? You seem troubled – no bad tidings I hope?”

“None except that one of your slaves is potentially about to be thrashed to death belowdecks,” Sangalazin interrupted unhelpfully. His mouth contorted into a cruel grin which sat uneasily on his fine features. “Although whether that is indeed a bad thing is quite debateable.”

Azaryan did not respond to his cousin, turning expressionless eyes on Rakin for a moment with a look that made the Captain feel like a particularly unwholesome weevil. Then he looked away, glaring, as Rakin had done, over the sea. “It is nothing, Captain,” he replied shortly. Ever eloquent, the corsair commented mentally, then felt the usual stab of guilt. His loyalty must lie with the Lords of Umbar, always, no matter how surly – or superficial – they were… Deciding not to try to get water from the stone on this particular afternoon – or, let Sangalazin have his way, this morning – Rakin excused himself from the pair and, bracing himself, started down the stairs to the lower decks, from whence he would go to the slave deck. This morning he had other affairs to deal with – namely, the dawn escape affair of the previous night. A slave escape, now of all times, and from Chakka – hardly surprising, bearing in mind the brute itself. But I thought I had him under control… He fingered the vial of bitter, mustard-yellow liquid in his pocket: in an hour it would become useless to its intended drinker. Unless the slave was more devious even than Rakin gave him his due for; but then, in the mind of a desperate man, even the best formulated plan often had a slip up - and in this case, one slip-up was likely to make the slave very uncomfortable indeed... A grim smiled twisted Rakin’s handsome features and his hand clenched tight over the vial. Well, if Chakka intended to make life difficult for him now of all times, he had better stop by his own apartments to retrieve a few items from the vicious little armoury of his coat pockets…

[piosenniel]

dancing spawn of ungoliant's post

The hot air below deck smelled of sweat and blood. Jagar gasped and felt his heartbeat pounding in his throat. A man sitting next to him had collapsed onto the oar unable to force his tortured body to work any longer. Although it was gruesome, the sight made him chuckle. The limp body of the man swung to-and-fro with every pull making him look like a puppet and making rowing even harder. Was he dead? No, not yet. "Will be soon", Jagar mumbled to himself. "Isn't this something! Great ships with crimson sails, wasn't that what you wanted to see?" a little voice jeered inside his head.

When Jagar was a mere boy, he had travelled north to the coast with his father to inspect their tribe's lands. He had seen proud ships setting off from the harbours, the sun dazzling on foaming waves and screaming flocks of seabirds that circled above docks waiting the fishermen to clean their catch. As time passed, Jagar didn't forsake the sight of the glimmering sea and he longed for the freedom that the life on the coast breathed. Getting captured was not part of the plan.

During these months aboard Jagar had learnt that by keeping up with the pace and holding your tongue you could keep the whip away. The man sitting next to him had done neither. Rankling wounds run across his back making his remaining clothes sticky with matter. Jagar thought of his family. They had kept slaves, too, people from scattered and weak tribes who had chosen thralldom over death.

A whip of lash whizzed past Jagar's ear hitting the man next to him on the back and spattering blood drops around. The poor man moaned hoarsely as a new wound ripped the old scars open and coloured his ragged shirt carmine red. There was a time when this sight would have made Jagar feel sick but now he just stared forward squeezing the oar. The man was detached from his chains and dragged away. A few rows from Jagar another man was being beaten for dropping his oar.

Jagar moved quickly to the seat beside the oar hole and breathed the salty air. Finally he could see a glimpse of the swelling sea and boundless sky. How free the seagulls were! He wanted to wring their necks, shoot them down, so they couldn't fly around the cursed ship as though mocking him. No, he wanted to be one of them and ride with the breeze that blew from the vast ocean and hailed a new dawn. But here Jagar was chained in a ship and going to war against Gondor.

Harad was an enemy of Gondor as was Umbar. Jagar had learnt that long ago. If he was a free man, he would have gone to war gladly but not like this, not as a thrall trapped in an Umbarian ship. They made slaves row under pain of torment and death, but if he ever reached Gondor, what would the battle be but torment and death? Maybe he would die pathetically as an old man holding an oar after wasting his years rowing Numenorean lords from war to war. They would just throw him overboard for the sport of different sea creatures and keep conquering the world. This thought made him chuckle again. But why would he have been so eager to go to war against Gondor? He had no personal reason to hate that land. Jagar tried to reminisce an old song his mother had used to sing but the words escaped from his mind. Something about wind and horizon...

[piosenniel]

Eorl of Rohan's post

Ferethor couldn't keep count. Beneath the ship, days and years were as one in their miserable condition. A few went mad. Most died. No one lasted more than a year in the service at the oars, no one sane… but him.

He might have lost the consciousness too, if he hadn't that to spark the flame – hatred. He deliberately nurtured it. From the instant when he realized to his horror that he'd go mad if he didn't do anything, he had fed and coddled this hatred of his until it became his driving force. And they knew it. What 'they' were here but the damned Corsairs, the enemy? They knew that he survived. He ate whatever they brought it, he built his strength, and his muscles continued to ripple and move as he strained his chest against the oar to the bending point, under the shadow of the whip of the master, and behind the master, the South, behind it still, the fundamental hatred between the West and the South. He held on. Every minute, he held on. In the pitch-darkness, relieved only by faint lanterns and the cracking sound of the many-lashed whips, he held on with one purpose in mind and one desire – to take vengeance. He had watched impassively as people dropped like flies around him. He knew he could not help them, no matter what. What he could do was escape – escape, and sink the ship with the whole cursed population! He would remember the blank faces of the dead comrades that fought beside him in the fray, the screams of the tortured thralls, and the feel of the lash on his bare back. He would remember, and the blood will be on their heads. Ferethor knew he was thinking in circles. But a thread broken in the train of continuous thought might douse the flame of hatred that was the only thing that kept him sane against all odds. So he pulled the oar. And hated steadily.

There was no source of light other than that which trickled through the hole where the oar handles were thrust in. The lantern that the sentry guard held didn’t count. He bent against the oar, letting his weight do half the work in moving forward the massive ship whose only part he knew was beneath the decks, the mold and the dark and the whips. It was then that he heard the shouts outside – there were always shouts, but this was of a different nature – and the call to arms. They were going to war. War… He strained to hear the next word. War against Gondor. Gondor. He froze. The oar fell from his hands, clattering against the floor. Let them react to that. Was it on purpose or an accident? He didn’t know. He was tired. So tired.

The slaves working around him flinched, and shied away as if the whip might descend on them by mistake. Ferethor straightened up and lifted his head, knowing that soon he'd whimper and beg for mercy like any other slave under the stinging blows of the whip – maybe the racks, even – but he wanted to show them that he was not afraid. No, that wasn't it. He was afraid, but he was not going to let that fear run away with him. He was still a Gondorian, if nothing else. He was a captain of Gondor. He knew that the Corsairs have always hated him more for all that, wanted to see him break under their hands, more than all others - because he was the material realization of the strength and power of Gondor, the City of Stone. He wouldn’t give them the pleasure so easily – he clenched his teeth at that – he owed that much to his heritage, if nothing else. If he had more strength… If he had… If he could contact them… But no. It was futile to dream.

The guard woke from his doze and looked over. The thralls shrank away still further, as much as the chains would allow, and made it a point to not look at his way. They were chained just so that they were forced into a kneeling position, unable to stand or to sit, with the chains interlinked with other slaves that one slave's mishap might affect all others. The arms were free to work the oars, and some had misshapen arms because of being chained in one place with only one arm used for exercise, for so long. Not that the length mattered. They were all mindless and timid, all of them. He wouldn’t get any help from them. He had tried to spark their spirit before, but they moved away, as they did now, afraid. There was some that had a remnant of spirit left, he knew, but they were chained too far away. Ah, here it comes. A guttural remark, then in barest rudiments of Common as the two guards approached – but he didn’t pick up the oar. When the guard grabbed him by the thrall collar, gaggling and choking with the blood that filled his lungs, Ferethor instinctively brought down the metal end of his cuffs hard on the man’s wrist, noting its sickening crunch with mixed feelings of satisfaction and terror. Terror soon gained the upper hand. Usually he would not do anything so stupid – he would let himself be sworn at and beaten around some without unnecessary defiance, which would doubtless bring the steel-tipped whips into play. But… War. War against… Gondor? He couldn’t help shuddering convulsively. One, two seconds passed? The man fell. He was dropped by the first man, so that he was left in the position of half-kneeling along with the rest. The one he had hit recovered in a moment and sat up from the wooden plank, gesturing angrily at Ferethor and reaching for his weapon. No. Please. Can’t take it anymore… The whips cracked in the air, an ominous sound at best, but worse if you heard it cut into flesh and sinews. Especially your own. He moaned, falling onto his knees, and before he could brace himself came one blow and another time after time in quick succession. Usually these stopped after a dozen, or the slave might be rendered useless for the day – but it went on and on – enough that blood and flesh splattered all over, some of the weaker slaves covered their eyes, and he soon lost consciousness hanging limp by the chains.

Gondor. What did it mean? Gondor, and… and…

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

He felt rather than saw day crawl over the ship as it rolled on the waves, for in the blackness of this pit there was no light to see by. As the sun climbed the sky it warmed the wood of the mighty vessel and the hull creaked about Chakka as though it were an old woman coming awake. As much as he might hate the Corsairs, their skill in shipbuilding had always been a wonder to him. Even here, in the lowermost decks with naught but the bilge beneath him, the deck was dry and solid. He waited, and planned.

Chakka knew that the captain would come for him soon, as the final moments of the poison’s effects – were the poison still in him – fast approached. Chakka lay back upon the deck and tightened his entire frame into a rigid pole. He held that tightness until he could feel his muscles beginning to cramp and the false agony slowly became real. Still he held on, forcing his body deeper and deeper into pain. He knew that the captain could not be fooled by dumbshow. When he came, he expected to see a slave in the throws of genuine agony and Chakka was determined that this is what he should see. On cue, Chakka’s body became a tightened knot and he felt control of his muscles slip from him. His limbs were on fire now, but still he held on, his teeth clenched with such ferocity that he felt them grinding together, and from the palms of his hands there came trickles of blood as his nails pushed their way into his flesh. Ever more tightly did he clench his mighty frame, wrapping it about the white heat of his desire for freedom, and soon the pain had carried him away to the place where his spirit walked when dreaming.

Divorced now from the physical reality of his self-inflicted torture, he considered his options. The captain would not be so foolish as to trust him again with any measure of freedom, but what he meant to do was as yet a mystery to Chakka. The oars were his most likely destination and escape from there would be well nigh impossible – well nigh he reminded himself. It was unlikely that Chakka would be put to death for he was a valuable commodity. The captain may suspect him in the loss of the guard he had killed, but as there was no way to produce a body there was no way to prove that the man had not simply fallen over the rail in a drunken stupor. At any rate, Chakka doubted that the captain would rate the loss of a common seaman over Chakka.

His mind turned once more to thoughts of escape. He had learned much of the people aboard this ship in his time before the captain’s door, so he was aware of the tension between the mighty lords and Raka. He could tell that there was distrust there, and possibly enmity – perhaps, if the situation arose, there would be a way to exploit that? If he could get close enough to the lords to speak with them, perhaps he could offer then ways of getting at Raka that they did not suppose existed. On the other hand, both of the lords made ample use of the slaves – perhaps he could insinuate himself into their service to help Raka…at least until he could manipulate circumstances and enable his escape.

A new spasm through his ribs brought him back to reality. His muscles, he realised, were beginning to tear under the immense pressure he had brought to bear upon his body. Still, he willed his body to continue in its stance. He had to convince the captain that the poison was still upon him; he had to convince the captain that he did not possess the secret of escaping his control…

[The Perky Ent]

“It should not be much more than an hour before we are ready to set sail; they mostly await your order.” said Menelcar, pointing to the ships in the dock. Each was a fine example of the craftmanship of Gondor, their great masts pointing to the heavens. "All that I have expected are here. The men of Ethring, I believe, were ambushed by raiders and needed to tend to their wounded. I heard word that the ships from Ras Morthil were not ready, but that they would send their ships for Umbar as soon as possible. We have what we will need for the voyage, but I doubt not much more." Telumehtar said, handing the list back to Menelcar. "Oh, and Menelcar, there's one more thing I wanted to talk to you about. In the event that-" but Telumehtar was interrupted, as a tall man walked over to him and quickly saluted. "My lord, I bring word from Captain Hereric. The Cuivië is ready for you to board." said Hereric's left-tenate, as he gave another short salute. "Thank you soldier. " Telumehtar said, as he walked on to the ship. Behind him, Menelcar lingered for a moment and approached the left-tenate. "I trust my cabin is to my specifications?" Menelcar said, giving an almost unapproved glace at the soldier. "Yes" the soldier said dully. Taken apack, Menelcar retorted "That's yes sir. For your sake, don't make that mistake again on the ship. We're fighting a war that requires constant vigilance" and quickly walked over to Telumehtar, who had now boarded the Cuivië.

At the very stern of the ship, Telumehtar met Hereric. Hereric seemed rather stressed, but calm enough to greet the king warmly. "My lord! Your presence is most welcome aboard my ship. I trust my left-tenate assisted to your needs. I have everything ready for departure, and the men only await your orders" Hereric said, showing his approval of the king's presence. "Very well" Telumehtar said, walking over to the very stern of the ship, where he held onto a rope to get better leverage. "Soldiers of Gondor!" Telumehtar shouted, drawing his sword and raising it into the air. "Man your ships! We sail now for Umbar!"

Throughout Harlond, there was a crowd of men boarding the ships. It really was a sight to see how so many men could fit into the ships stationed. A strong wind east for a while down the harbor, but then dwindled until it dissapeared into the cool summer's air. Once all the men had boarded the ships, Telumehtar walked up to Hereric and whispered "South, if you please" giving a wink. Slowly, the ship was removed from the harbor, and sailed slowly for Umbar. There seemed to be a bit of confusion in the boat behind Telumehtar, but the ships all pulled their acts together and followed his lead down the long Anduin River.

[Alcarillo]

Captain Vórimandur watched the king move down the pier to his flagship, speaking with his assistant and the ship's captain. Vórimandur soon became disinterested and turned his attention to the last report on the Ráca's supplies. It sat on his desk, and Vórimandur moved from the window and to his cushioned stool, and his eyes passed over the last paperwork before sailing to Umbar. Written in the neat, tight handwriting of the purser was an account of every single nail to sail aboard the ship. His mind drifted away from the dull matter at hand and soon he was thinking of the great naval battles he would take part in, how he would avenge the sinking of the Telpelingwë, and how he would bring undying glory to him and his crew, and how the name of the Ráca would one day be immortal, forever read about by schoolchildren in their history lessons. Yes, they would one day read about how Captain Vórimandur burned the Corsair flagship and slew its cruel captain, and reduced the Lords of Umbar to client kings, paying golden tribute to Gondor each year in their shame. They would read his great tales and his memory would never be forgotten.

A horn blew somewhere on the docks, and men began to shout. Captain Vórimandur was knocked out of his reverie and hastily signed the supply notice with his favorite pen. He stood and adjusted Sercendil at his side. This was an important occasion that required one to look his best. He took a deep breath and left his lavish office at the stern, moving through the ship. Sailors and soldiers saluted as he passed. Oh, it was good to be sailing again, to have the wind at one's back and adventure laid before your feet. Captain Vórimandur climbed a flight of stairs, and emerged into the sun. He stood on the quarterdeck, and the crew seemed to know now to sail and only anticipated his command. He gave it:

"Set sail!"

With that the sailors leapt into the rigging, moving as deft as spiders in a web. Captain Vórimandur always secretly envied their skill, for when he was only a sailor of the lowest rank he was assigned to duties on and below deck, and never could climb like his peers. But he was a captain and would not let such desires get in the way of his duties. He saw Caradhril, who instantly took his place at the helm. "Follow the King's ship!" He called. "Aye, sir!" was the reply. By now sails were unfurled, and the ship sailed from the pier, part of the great armada to Umbar.

Captain Vórimandur saw Morgond about to go below deck. "Morgond! Come! Have you gathered the sailors on the docks."

Morgond approached. He was a tall man with a large build, larger than Vórimandur and most of the other crewmembers. Vórimandur trusted him; he had been the Master-at-Arms for some years now and had never erred. "Aye, sir," he said, saluting, "About ten or so sailors and a few soldiers. Caught some by the tavern."

"Good, Morgond," Vórimandur gazed towards Harlond receding behind them, "Bring them to my office in an hour. I want a word with them."

"Aye, sir."

[Eorl of Rohan]

Ferethor had been awake for some time now. He had shifted himself into a sitting position, painful as it was, his back against the wood-paneled walls damp with mold and the dark breath of the sea. The chill of the darkness closed around him as if a burial shroud. He was almost thankful for the intense pain that seared his awareness now and then, a stark relief all the more brutal because he knew the reason for his fear - he dreaded being left alone with his memories. Linvail. No, control yourself. Not now. How had he come here in the first place? He raised his hand to the brow where a cold sweat of agony had broken out, and then he remembered. Faintly. He was released from his chains, after a skirmish with a guard that resulted in this - Here he wryly smiled - and thrown into this clammy confines of the slave quarters where he was left to recuperate as best as he might. Little chance of that. He had slept less than half an hour. Worn out as he was, there was something else that persistently demanded his attention - war.

Assuming that he was sane, e.g. not hearing imaginary voices, he had heard that war was afoot. Not the small raids, pirating, or some such, but a real war on a larger scale than ever before, against Gondor. The land of stone… What memories had he kept of his motherland? Minas Anor, twin to Minas Ithil, where he was born and raised. Its tall battlements. The massive harbors that sparkled with thousand dancing flames at every sunrise. The soldiers, strong and faithful. He remembered the sound of their swords clashing against their shields, the troops raising their voice as one in the ancient battle cries. And… His king. Telumehtar, wise and great, and remembering him, he again told himself that Gondor could not lose. But… If it does… What then? If he was free, at least he could throw himself upon the blades of his enemies and die a valiant death, even though there would be no one to sing of the valor of the last soldiers of Gondor. But here, bound by chains both material and invisible, the latter being the sea – nowhere to escape to even if he was free – what could he do? He asked himself this question again and again, although there was no answer forthcoming. What could he do, restricted in his every movement, alone?

Perhaps - Ferethor let the last sentence dangle unfinished as he involuntarily stole a glance in the other prisoner's direction. For there was another thrall, other than he, although he did not stir the whole time he had been here... Who was he? Liquid illumination seeped through the cracks in the boards, alighting for a moment on the closed eyes of the thrall before winking away. It was enough to reveal the features of his countenance. His name was what... Chakka? Could he use him to his advantage? Ferethor considered for a moment, and decided that this matter could wait. He had patience enough.

The most pressing of concerns was to assess his injuries. He gingerly ran a hand over his wounds, which had scarcely closed and bled afresh at his touch. Trivial. He had earned worse at their hands. But then, ha. The circumstances were different. The worst hiding that he could remember was when he stabbed their captain, Rakin, with a shard of his dead comrade’s bone – aiming for the heart, too, but he had blocked it in time with his wrists. If he, Ferethor Steele, remembered the wrongs done him, it was not likely that he would forget who gave him that jagged scar on his left wrist. His laughter was abrupt and brutal, and very short-lived.

Then, silence, his hand frozen over his shoulder wound, which was deeper than he had expected. A lot deeper. The guard’s dagger had knifed cleanly through his muscles, and laid the flesh open to the horrifyingly white shoulder-bones peeking through the torn muscles. Blood was welling out of it like a hot spring, frothing and bubbling, so that for no reason whatsoever he suddenly remembered a half forgotten rhyme – where the noldor slew the foamriders and stealing drew… His whole body was shaking with unexplainable cold. The scalding blood poured down his shoulder and stained the rough planks on which he crouched, making a rich, deep red stain that the planks soaked up gladly. His touch, he realized too late, had torn open the half-closing wound. A mistake. Should have been more careful. Too late. The blood disappeared into cracks between the coarse flooring, drip, drip, drip. Just beneath the slave quarters was the workplace itself, and the blood might be dripping down on their heads, the methodical, melodious drip, drip, drip… He was hallucinating, he knew, and tried to wrench himself away. But he had lost too much blood, from the whipping and now this. He couldn’t even move.

The persistent melody recurring over and over in his mind was the song of the kinslayers and the death of Felagund.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"You removed them from the company of the other slaves, I presume?"

"As were your orders, Captain; they're in 'ere..."

If the two slaves in the small, darkened room heard the voices in the corridor, they didn't let on - as Rakin peered through the grating in the door, he registered only two ragged lumps. Focusing on the larger of the two, the Captain peered at Chakka through narrowed eyes, gazing at him unblinkingly for several moments, but the giant slave could have been a bundle of leather and rags for all the life he displayed. Rakin watched him for a moment longer, then stepped back and, somehow lazily, kicked the door open.

The other slave, sprawled on the opposite side of the claustrophobic room from Chakka, flinched at the sudden light, blinking against it as Rakin slowly stepped down, knowing full well the striking silhouette he would make against the darkness that the two slaves had been kept in since the night before – a dank, swaying, fishy sort of darkness. An altogether unpleasant abode, without windows, a sealed, handless door and a floor that was often up to two metres under water – and a flooding cell always made an interesting prospect, certainly, for bound prisoners who had displeased the captain. Maybe, to that extent, he was like his brother – make the children sing, my darlings, make ‘em sing… As Rakin stepped forward, the other slave made a clumsy lunge towards him, but seemed to sway back as if disorientated from his target almost immediately – the boatswain grabbed him immediately, pulling him back and shoving him unceremoniously against the wall, his head striking it with a thump that Rakin seemed to ignore entirely: his eyes were focused on Chakka’s muscular frame as he approached like a wolf stalking his prey.

“Chakka.”

The single word, softly spoken, was a command – a command to which its intended did not respond, his eyes closed and body as stiff and motionless as a corpse already in the grip of rigor mortis. The boatswain grimly started forward, but Rakin held up a hand, fluttering the other corsair to a halt. He took another step forward and tried once more. “Chakka, look at me.”

Again, the words provoked no response from the slave. Rakin sighed gently, his expression almost regretful as he half-turned away – then swung around once more and viciously kicked the slave in the ribs, his fine features contorted into a twisted animal glare. Both the boatswain and the now groggy Ferethor flinched slightly despite themselves – despite the former having known Rakin for nearly a decade, he had never got quite used to the Captain’s sudden vicious changes of mood; it was like working for a wolf, and no matter how well you would trust him with his life, as he tracks down his prey you can never be quite sure whether you’ll be the next to end up on his plate. The slave barely moved, but at least this time Rakin was greeted with a reaction – a long, low groan, the sound of an animal in pain as he slumped over onto his side. Rakin seemed about to lash out again, but at the last minute held himself in check and, almost delicately, he stepped over the prone form of his victim and squatted down in front of his face, pushing his coat back casually as he did so – something in it clinked mutely, a concealed threat under the Captain’s fine clothes. Pushing back the slave’s head distastefully with one long finger, the Captain tilted his head to on side, and the boatswain thought he saw a smile flickering in the glitter of his eyes in the dim light. Looking up, he smiled wickedly at his fellow corsair.

“Well, my dear, if you won’t look at me, we may just have to take those pretty eyes out altogether? What do you think, Master Steele?”

Ferethor looked across, vaguely recognising his name even through the fog that settled its weight more heavily on his mind with every further drop of blood that leaked from his shoulder and back. Rakin regarded him for a moment, his lip lifting into a sneer once more as the barely concealed threat lay between them, then he snorted slightly and looked away. “A slave revolt by a dimwit and the gentle giant here…” Straightening up, he prodded Chakka experimentally with the toe of his boot. With half an hour until midday, he knew what Chakka’s condition should be like under the influence of the poison – as the sun rose to ascend the peak of the sky, if it worked correctly, she would steal away the slave’s sight as her coronation prize. If it worked correctly… But Chakka had not been that stupid, surely. Head still tilted to one side, Rakin tapped two fingers against his lips thoughtfully, then jumped the few steps into the corridor ahead of the boatswain. “Blindfold him, Master Boatswain – blindfold him and take him to my rooms.”

“You wouldn’t like me to rectify his attitude a little more permanent, like, Captain Rakin?”

Rakin smiled angelically back down at the other man, his face the picture of innocence with a halo of light from behind it. “Oh gods, my dear man, no. No, myself and Chakka will enjoy a…a little drink together. And when she sun rises to her peak, then we’ll see if he’ll look me in the eye.”

[Hiriel]

Ink slunk down the fleshy canals of fingerprints as Lord Azaryan finally shook off his cousin and retired to his cabin to attend the state business that had been forced on him ere the Flame and Fortune set sail. Crinkled, tense ledgers, maps, and memorandums sprawled across his desk, and if looks could kill, Captain Rakin’s ship would be aflame. Azaryan felt the hairs on his back wilt slightly as old debts to Haradwaith, some local holdups in the courts, a conscription problem clawed for his attention and Sangalazin’s bountiful morning wasted into true afternoon. Only the first item was truly important. Most of the ships being fitted in his harbors had started their life thanks the coffers of the desert clans, who were know clamoring for repayment and spoils. Thus, Pelargir.

There were some times when he wished, at the very least, that Sangalazin had beat him into the world. Duties of administration worked in much the same manner as a shattering rain, he found. It brought out the ache in his old wounds. Feeling his head begin to swell, Azaryan quit the cabin, oddly twitchy and impotent since the ship he paced was not under his direct care. His frown firmly entrenched, clearing his throat with a coarse “Ha’hrmph” at intervals when the sound would startle members of the on-watch as he passed, Azaryan watched the calm waves of the Anduin’s mouth with a quiet sense of helplessness.

Just as he was about to return to the his cabin, perhaps to tackle the courts or perhaps to glare at maps of Harlond, Rakin and his boatswain climbed out from the hold, tugging behind a bound Southron slave towards the captain’s cabin. Ahh, the incident belowdecks from the dawn, he thought, nodding in slow sagacity to the man’s back. “A word, Captain,” He called and enjoyed Rakin’s look of surprise when he tensed and turned around. “My lord?” His reply was respectful, if restrained. “Is that the slave responsible?” Azaryan gestured at the thing doubled over and breathing heavily under the hard grip of Rakin’s boatswain. “Aye, my lord.” The captain’s voice even further bridled, Rakin seemed to be searching his face for something, approbation or curiosity or disapproval. Azaryan allowed a flickering grin to dart across his face when the captain found nothing.

“You will deal with it privately and as you see fit, of course.” Azaryan broke the silence smoothly. “Yes, my lord, I plan on –“ Rakin started, but Azaryan held up his hand. “Tis your affair, not mine, Captain. But my advice to you is this,” He knelt down to the level of the slave and gripped its bescared cheekbones to turn it to face him. The strength in his hand, or the weakness of the slave’s current state, startled the thing and brooked no resistance. “Deal with this not just in private. If I were this ship’s captain, I would bring the lot of the wretches chained ondeck, flog one to death in front of them all, and quarter it. Leave the limbs tacked inside the slave decks as a reminder. It need not even be the one at fault. They must needs learn that disobedience,” And here he spoke to the shivering creature beneath his grip more than to Rakin, “will hurt not only the impudent, but also the innocent.”

Straitening up, he released the slave and turned to face the master, whose short frown showed he was not keen to make an example of his own property. “I will consider your wisdom, my lord.” “Do.” The Lord of Umbar nodded in stern condescension. “There will be fresh slaves aplenty at Pelargir, and soft farmers make good dociles.” Rakin merely forced a quiet, “Indeed, my lord,” and with a bow continued on his way. Azaryan was beginning to like the young captain, so clearly bristling with aggravation at a higher power holidaying in the world he ruled. Perhaps he would find a way to keep himself busy after all.

[Folwren]

'South, if you please,' the king said, stepping towards Captain Hereric.

Hereric glanced at King Telumehtar and bowed slightly before speaking. ‘South, sir,’ he repeated. ‘As soon as we are underway.’ He stepped to the rail. ‘Forimar - send the men up and make sail.’

‘Aye, aye, sir,’ his bosun replied, saluting him at the same time. He turned about, and called out the orders. The men on deck sprang to the ladders to obey. Calls were sent below deck and more sailors came up - some going to the windlass to bring up the anchors, and others to the ropes.

Within minutes, the ship swayed free of any bonds to the earth and her bow turned towards the open water under the skilled hands of the coxswain. Captain Hereric stood before the wheel and watched the Cuivië spring into action. He felt the slight, excited quiver in her joints as the sails filled with air and caught every ounce of wind that past them and he shared her joy. The last sail was loosed and the ropes at the bottom bound. Hereric lifted his face slightly and watched with piercing concentration as the crew finished setting the sails and came back down to the deck.

‘Bring her into the wind, Bregin,’ he said, turning his head a little to the side.

‘Aye, sir.’ The wheel turned and her head moved towards the South. The Cuivië sprang forward, like a dog having been kenneled for too long, and the water before her bowsprit flung up foam. Hereric smiled slightly and turned.

‘If your majesty will, I can show you your cabin,’ he said. The king’s eyes were tracing every sail and curve of the ship. Hereric admired the bright eagerness in them. ‘My lord...’ he said quietly.

‘Yes,’ Telumehtar said, lowering his gaze from the sails to the captain. ‘Show us.’ Hereric turned at once and led them down the steep stairs to the deck. He opened the door of the great cabin and stepped back to allow the king and his attendant to enter before him.

‘Due to the circumstances, sir, we couldn’t quite settle you with as much room as on a normal voyage.’ Hereric indicated towards the adjustments that had been made to the cabin. ‘I have taken the liberty of assuming that you would like your counselor here to be nearby.’ A section had been walled off and the hammocks hung in such away to give both men the privacy that land men expected, but seamen never received. It took up half of the regular cabin and the remaining room was occupied with a small table, filled with neatly stacked papers, and two chairs. ‘It will do, I hope.’ He didn’t present it as a question, but as a closed statement. Satisfied or no, both the king and his counselor would have to make do.

[Eorl of Rohan]

Fever is a terrible illness in that it destroys both the body and the living mind. The inflicted is forced to re-live the most traumatic of his half-forgotten memories, hereto locked away by the unconscious mechanism of mind to prevent misery and madness. Often this process is painful not only for the victim, but for those who are tending him as well. However, like all things beneath heaven and on earth, even fever-induced hallucinations may be surmounted by violent emotions the like of which Ferethor held for Rakin…

He had been whimpering and tossing about restlessly before he came in. Ferethor’s sleep, broken now and then in moans and mutterings, was interrupted at that moment by a creak of the doorway and a voice that he thought he recognized… Could it be Rakin? Consciousness flickered in and out. He would be suicidal if he thought anyone had seen him like this, and when it was that man… Come on, at least sit up, say something, for Eru’s sake, to reveal any weakness of his… Ferethor curled into a shivering ball, the countenance deathly pale, his breathing weak and punctuated with wet coughs that soaked his sleeve with liquid blood. There was his name mentioned, wasn’t there? Or was it just his mind playing tricks on him? It all made little sense to him. Overlapping all sounds and thoughts were the drip, drip, incessant drip of his blood, soaked up by the thirsty planks that thrived on pain and death and blood and… and… hate. A hard feeling, like a steel rod, and enough to jerk him to a brief awareness. The last sentence he caught was as follows – take him to my room. Everyone knew what that sentence meant, and for an instant Ferethor managed to capture a wisp of pity for Chakka. It disappeared as quickly as it appeared, though. In his profession, there was no room for anything other than the primal instinct of survival. Those who couldn’t rouse it died. Now it was time to try his limits –

“Oh gods, my dear man, no. No, myself and Chakka will enjoy a…a little drink together. And when she sun rises to her peak, then we’ll see if he’ll look me in the eye.” He heard, and it took a moment for it to register.

THAT was definitely Rakin. It is not certain that any other emotion would have roused Ferethor who was so far into the state of lethargy, but these last words were enough to snap the last ties to the unconsciousness that held him fast. Ferethor’s eyes opened, unfocused for a moment on the rough-shod planks that lined the ceiling of the slave shelter, wavering, like a half-drowned man recovering from the throes of death... Then he closed it for a moment in pain, and when he opened it again, it was the cold gray eyes of a man who could make a decision and act on it on the spur of the moment. And that was what he did.

When Chakka and the two others went out, it didn’t take long for Ferethor to slip a piece of plank in the sill of the door to serve as a wedge against the door closing completely. Then he was out – a bloody mess, certainly, and weak enough to cause little harm, but free. Now, if that trail of blood didn’t show, it would be a lot better to hide – there was no place to hide in this small ship, he knew, but he needed only to hide until he had Rakin pitted on his own spear. Although he wasn’t going to be able to when he was this weak – was there any place to go? Always go to the least place the other would think of searching for you. The answer immediately supplied itself. The sailor’s barracks. Half an hour later, before any alarm has been aroused – and why would there be an alarm, when Rakin has just been and the slaves still at the oars? – Ferethor had easily dispatched an unwary sailor, threw his body to the waves, and had slipped into the uniform with the very wholesome and natural intention to kill Rakin. The ship was big enough that no one would notice the disappearance of a sailor or the appearance of another – at least, not for something more than two hours hence. Therefore, no one took notice of the sailor-clad man leaning on the wall of the captain’s room, as if tired, with his eyes closed, and listening with mingled tension and curiosity. Rakin was inside – that much he could gather – but the sentences were fragmented and hard to hear.

He let his guard down after a while in his desire to hear more, confident that no one could hear him, another mistake that could cost him his life or not. But he was beyond caring.

[Anguirel]

Sangalazin strolled from the foredeck where his dear, dear cousin was beginning to pontificate to Captain Chatazrakin on one of his favourite themes-the treatment of galley-slaves. The younger Lord smiled as he heard the familiar, brash sentences lash his back as he retreated. Making an example...really, cousin Azaryan had no grace, no nobility, nothing of Numenor about him at all, Sangalazin thought with a wide grin. The chance that this brutal ape, with a mind that scratched jarred tunes with the versatility of a rock, that this leaden Lord would ever ascend Gondor's throne...

No. Azaryan was not a King, but a Kingmaker. Sangalazin would use his cousin's falchion, the respect of his cousin among the Corsairs, to win Minas Anor. Any Castamirion who seriously sought Gondor needed the ships; and the ships would not obey Sangalazin, the perfumed stranger with the slimy tongue. He knew this too well. They would not obey him until the game was his.

Sangalazin had gone below into his own quarters; a part of the ship which rendered all else common and brackish, furnished at the Lord's expense. Where solid beech formed floors outside, Sangalazin trod on rosewood. Around him wall-paintings, frescoes after the style of Numenor, flowed like some divine stream, convincing, captivating, slightly chilling. One cycle was devoted to the gifts of the Sea, ever a friend to Castamir's line. The Gods of the Ocean stood arrayed in all their might; Ussun the Terrible, Master of the Sea, and Vineth, his beauteous consort, bearing their names first in the tongue of Umbar, then in Haradric, and then in Sindarin, tongue of the Faithful-

~Osse and Uinen~

Sangalazin was a scholar in all of these languages and more. He had learnt Quenya to an elegant standard from an ancient, diminutive tutor as a boy; he had studied the Silvan accent Sindarin acquired in the fabled forests to the North; he had paid a fortune to a trader to obtain a parchment with three words of Khuzdul; he could speak like a native in Westron, Southron, Easterling...

For Sangalazin realised that if the Castamirioni were to prevail, it was crucial that they be identified with the Faithful in the minds of the people, not the servants of Ar-Pharazon the Golden. They must stress their heritage as the truest, purest line of descent from the Lords of Andunie. Their cause was legitimate, just. But they had more than battles on land and sea to win. Eldacar and his progeny had increasingly propagandised them as foreigners, traitors, swarthy men who worshipped foreign demons, Corsairs who rode black ships and spared none. But they were the heirs of Elendil. And Sangalazin would show that, when he ruled his vast, humane, benevolent and civilised Empire.

The Lord raised one of his long, slender, aureate-skinned hands and caressed the hilt of the longsword he carried. It was emblematic of everything he hoped to achieve. Its style of Gondor, the blade straight and true, double edged for slashing, sharp-pointed for a lunge that such a lovely weapon would never, if its owner could help it, perform. Its scabbard wound in gold and silver, telling the story of lovers from Umbar. So it would be; and the culture in the south mated with the martial tradition of the north would be Sangalazin's gift to Gondor. The Twilight Men would be accepted as vassals, servants, and they would be treated with kindness, content with their proper station. Learning would flourish. Civil war would be at an end; the sensible Black Numenorean custom of putting cadets of the King's family to sleep on a new King's accession would instantly be instituted.

Glowing once more with confidence, Sangalazin's eyes travelled along the painting, leaving the Sea Gods, and landed on a figure that had always puzzled him, at the piece's rim. It was exceptionally well done; Sangalazin suspected that the master artisan must have employed a more brilliant apprentice for this section. It showed the sea ending below a great white cliff, upon which stood a cloaked man...or perhaps an Elf...Sangalazin had often been inclined to think so. His grey eyes stared out across the water, peerless in mourning. The depth of his sorrow made the majesty of Osse and Uinen look tawdry. But it was interesting to Sangalazin for another reason. It reminded him sharply of his father, Sangahyando...and so of himself...and so of...

Captain Chatazrakin. Yes, Sangalazin could deny it no longer, having seen the Captain at close quarters so recently. His father's...mistake...the insult to his beloved mother...had lived. And had grown into the Captain Sangalazin had just left; the only one of lousy sea-captains he had encountered ever to have impressed him. "Rakin" had quality, courage, wit on his own level, he sometimes felt. And such loathing and contempt within that proud spirit...Azaryan was quite another matter, a pompous megalomaniac, but Rakin...Rakin was what a great part of Sangalazin wished he could be. His blood could be a hidden weapon, whipped out from his overcoat like an envenomed thorn, to challenge Sangalazin with one day.

No, he must be...neutralised or conciliated. Sangalazin rang for Andlang, the commander of his black-armoured bodyguard. When the blonde giant stood before him, Sangalazin laid out his commands.

"You were prompt, Andlang, excellent. I know I can rely on you. First, bring me the Easterling musician, and leave us alone. Then send word to the Captain that...when he has a free moment, I should like to play a game of chess with him."

[Firefoot]

Menelcar was still thinking about the left-tenate as the captain led him and the king off to their quarters. His lackadaisical attitude had put him off for several reasons: the sailor had been blatantly disrespectful not only towards him, but also to his ship and his country. They were going to war; the left tenate ought to be proud of his duty, proud and ready. His actions would never have been accepted back when Menelcar was serving in the army. It also reflected poorly on the ship’s captain; Menelcar was not impressed.

His attention was brought back to the present as they approached the cabin. Hereric held open the door, and he followed Telumehtar inside. The room was not tiny, but the cramped cabin was certainly far from spacious, containing only the sparsest of furnishings. Menelcar figured irritably that the captain’s own quarters were probably twice this size.

“Due to the circumstances, sir, we couldn’t quite settle you with as much room as on a normal voyage,” explained Hereric. “I have taken the liberty of assuming that you would like your counselor here to be nearby. It will do, I hope.” Clearly, the statement was not a question, and Menelcar did not intend to sink so low as to argue it as such - certainly not to a man who seemed determined to ignore his presence except as an appendage of the king. Instead, he made a slight noise in the back of his throat that left in no uncertain terms his opinion of the lodgings.

“Certainly, this will be fine,” answered Telumehtar smoothly. Menelcar glanced at him critically, recalling suddenly the king’s claustrophobia and wondering if the cabin really would be “fine.” He could see no indicative signs one way or the other, however; perhaps he would ask later.

Menelcar looked around the cabin once more before his gaze returned to Hereric. He sighed inwardly; this was going to be a long journey. Why the king enjoyed sea travel so much, he would never understand.

[Folwren]

Hereric turned his attention abruptly to Menelcar after the king had replied. The slight clearing of his throat had caught his ear and the look on the man’s face confirmed Hereric’s suspicion of his sincerity being doubted.

‘If you care, sir,’ he said, addressing Menelcar, ‘step across this way and look out. The view is really quite excellent.’ He led the way to the very end of the cabin where the great bowed windows looked out over the blue water. ‘Out at sea, the view is really quite impressive,’ he said, leaning against the wood framing. He studied Menelcar carefully and changed the subject suddenly. ‘I hope that you will be able to enjoy yourself on my ship, while the peace lasts. We really have done our best to make things most comfortable and welcome to you. The circumstances now may become worse as battle takes place, and coming up river will be more difficult than going down it. Better let yourself be comfortable while you may, if you see what I mean.’ He gave him a very pointed look before turning back around. ‘My lord,’ he said to the king. ‘I am returning to the deck to see things carried out. You, of course, have free range of the entire ship.’ He saluted and bowed in navy fashion and left the cabin. He quickly made his way back up to the deck.

‘Well, if he’s going to have troubles sleeping where we’ve put him, then by heaven, I’m sure we can find him a place below.’ The captain couldn’t keep the dark thoughts out of his head, even in the bright sunlight. Menelcar’s cold reaction to the apparently tight quarters had shown Hereric only too clearly how little he understood of the ship’s life. ‘What did he expect? An entire gallery for himself? What’s eating him, anyway?’ He couldn’t account for the counselor’s behavior, and he really didn’t want to try. He almost hoped that a direct affront would come quickly, so that he could deal with whatever difficulties they were going to have at once, instead of beating about the bush. ‘In time,’ he promised himself, ‘but you are a captain of a king’s ship, and what’s more, you have the king here, too. . .you’re not going to come up with the disagreement yourself. If he chooses to confront you on a problem of his, so be it. But he is the king’s right hand man, after all - there must be some good use in him.’

He dismissed the thoughts from his mind and did not think of them again - for the time being. His ship asked for his attention, and he gave it to her.

[Dunwen]

The gulls cried as they danced with stretched wings among the wind-filled sails above Nimir’s head. The Ráca was underway. He was truly going to war; there was no turning back. At least he felt a bit less alone now. Two other strays from the Ráca had barely made it onboard before it slipped smoothly out of its berth after the King’s flagship. Nimir had congratulated them on their safe return with a hesitant smile; he knew them by sight as more experienced soldiers than he was, although they were not above him in rank.

One of the two, Curamir, had made a friendly reply and introduced himself and his companion, Lingwë. Before long the three young men were swapping stories about their backgrounds. It turned out that Nimir wasn’t the only soldier who was unfamiliar with ships. Curamir had never set foot on one before coming to the Ráca , either. The slightly fish-faced Lingwë, on the other hand, was familiar with ships and claimed to be a good swimmer as well. Both Curamir and Lingwë had had at least two years of training compared to Nimir's scant months of basic drill, and both bore swords. Nimir would have been tongue-tied in the face of such experience, had it not been for a chance reference to one of his brothers’ more annoying habits. It turned out that Lingwë also had an irritating older brother also. Curamir said only that he had no brothers or sisters.

Nimir was glad of a chance to finally become better acquainted with some of his fellow soldiers. Inevitably he asked what they were all thinking. “How long before we’re in a battle?”

Curamir speculated that there would some attempt at negotiating first. Nimir brushed such a paltry thought aside. “Negotiate with the Corsairs? King Telumehtar would never do that! Not after all their attacks on Gondor over the years.” His normally friendly eyes snapped with anger at the idea. “The size of this fleet means he's going to war, and I hope I can shoot down a dozen Corsairs myself.” Seeing the startled expressions on his companions’ faces, he took a breath to calm himself. “Sorry,” he apologized. “My father was killed when Corsairs raided our village.” He couldn’t bear to mention the loss of his sister at the same time, even after all these years. He forced himself to smile and ask if it was true that the ship’s Cook used rats in the stew.

Curamir and Lingwë laughed and the conversation turned to the long list of unappetizing foods that were reputed to be served to the sailors and soldiers on Gondor’s ships. As the other two talked, Nimir gazed at the sun-glittered waters of the Anduin as the Ráca sped south. His village was a half-day’s walk northwest of the great delta at Anduin’s mouth. He wondered if they would go by any part of the river he knew. Unlikely, he decided. He wondered if he would ever see his home again, but mentally shook himself out of such dark thoughts. ‘We’re on the best ships and we have King Telumehtar. I have my bow. I'll get back all right.'

[Thinlómien]

"Of course you will, Nimir", Lingwë replied quickly, without thinking the phrase. Silence fell. Then he frowned. Would Nimir actually get safely back home? Would he himself? Would Curamir? Only Eru Ilúvatar and Mandos know that, he thought. Maybe we won't. The thought of dying so young was unbearable. For the king and the country, he reminded himself, and for everything I love and appreciate in this country. If we don't crush the traitors, there'll be a day when they'll crush us.

No one of them said anything. Lingwë supposed that Nimir and Curamir were also thinking about dying. Lingwë tried to think of something to say to lighten the atmosphere, but nothing came into his mind. He had never been good in that kind of things; how hard he ever tried he usually ended up being pessimistic. Better to get ready for the worst and rejoice if it doesn't happen, he thought.

Though they remained silent, there was still noise. Seagulls cried. Men chatted with each other while working. Fresh sea wind blew. Great to be on a ship again, Lingwë thought and despite the fact he was going to war and maybe even to death, he smiled.

Curamir noticed his smile. "What is it now, Lingwë?", he asked, clearly wanting to talk about something else. "It's the ship", Lingwë said, smiling. "He's a bit crazy, you know", Curamir said to Nimir with a friendly tone. "You know, it's great to be sailing again. I love the sea", Lingwë said. "It was such fun aboard the Gaerandir."

Encouraged with a few questions from his companions, Lingwë started to tell about his "adventures" aboard the Gaerandir. He had never been a man of talking, but he kept on telling things to banish the ghosts of the former discussion. "Did you ever get to a fight aboard the Gaerandir?" Nimir asked suddenly, when Lingwë had paused after telling about the cook's fancy on turnips. "Twice. Our ship was so well-protected, that many didn't dare to attack it. In the first fight the more experienced soldiers kept us novices at the background, we mostly used bows or were positioned at defense. They said that the first fight was a big enough experience without even getting to fight by self. Back then I wondered why did they do so, but now I understand they didn't trust us enough; they thought we would only be on their way and make things harder. After all, the battle was such a little cratch. No one of us died, and only five got wounded," Lingwë said, smiling to his memories.

"And the other?" Nimir asked. Lingwë got serious. "The second time was a bigger battle with a pirate ship. It wasn't nice and it wasn't glorious. Many died, on both sides. I myself only got lightly wounded, worse things happened to many others." He paused. "I didn't kill anyone", he said, "but a few of my friends did. I heard them speak about it. It wasn't glorious, they said. They said they had had nightmares about it." He didn't add that he himself had had nightmares about the battle, though he hadn't killed anyone. "Well, glorious or not, I will do it if I have to", Curamir said. Nimir nodded. After a while, Lingwë said: "So would I."

[Kath]

Curamir had been pleasantly surprised at how quickly he had begun to like his new acquaintance, Nimir. He thought that maybe it had something to do with the similarities they shared. He had been glad to find someone else who was as unfamiliar with ships as himself, knowing now that at least he wouldn't be the only one to make mistakes and be laughed at by the experienced soldiers and sailors. was no help. He found it hilarious to watch Curamir make a fool of himself, though he did always help to right whatever wrong had come of it afterwards.

The revelation that Nimir had given about his father though had been more of a disturbing similarity. Curamir knew of the pain of losing a father, but he wasn't sure that he would be able to share it with such readiness. It had taken him almost a year to tell Lingwë, and he had only really done so with the intent of recruiting him to relay any information he might hear. Nimir though seemed to have a deeper sadness, something even worse than losing a father, though Curamir could not imagine what it might be. He wondered if maybe he should talk to Nimir about it at some point, seeing as his father had obviously been in the army, but he felt it would be insensitive to press for information about it when it was such a sad event.

Realising that a sudden silence had fallen while he had been thinking, Curamir looked up and saw his companions looking a little uncomfortable. Trying to lighten the atmosphere he picked on Lingwë, who began to tell one of his tales. The subject soon turned to fighting again though, and the true horrors of it.

"Well, glorious or not, I will do it if I have to" he had said, and Lingwë and Nimir had agreed.

As they were standing and contemplating the reality of their words, the captain's Master-at-Arms appeared before them with a small group of men behind him. None of them looked too pleased and Morgond wasn't smiling. Ordering them to follow him he marched off. Falling into place behind him Curamir shot a questioning glance at the other members of the group, but they simply shrugged and motioned to keep quiet. Curamir continued to wonder what this was all about, until Morgond stopped outside Captain Vórimandur's office, and he realised that everyone in the group had been off the ship without permission. It must be time for the consequences.

[Alcarillo]

Captain Vórimandur stood for a bit beside the mainmast, surveying the sailors' work. They moved high up in the rigging as tiny black splotches against the sky, adjusting ropes as needed to move the ship in just the right direction. "Move the ship a little to the left," Vórimandur alerted the crew, and Caradhril would move the wheel slightly to the left, and the ship would lean and creak ever so slightly. The sailors far above might encounter an unforeseen wind, and know what to do to keep the Ráca moving along at an even pace. The ship inched its way past the others, moving towards the head of the long line of ships. There was little room to maneuver, but the crew managed to squeeze the Ráca between the Anduin's wooded banks and a ship, or perhaps between two ships, always moving to the front. Captain Vórimandur watched all this happen with satisfaction and pride.

The sun moved across the sky, and the hour until the errant sailors would meet in his office was drawing to a close. Captain Vórimandur nodded to Caradhril to keep the ship in motion and made his way back to his office. He passed down a set of wooden stairs and into the Ráca's wooden belly. Sailors and soldiers saluted as their captain passed. He saluted back and continued walking through the wooden hallways to his office, which lay at the ship's stern. He passed the carpenter and his small gang of assistants nailing together a new door, and the finely dressed surgeon from Lamedon. All gave their polite, quiet salutes to their captain, who returned the salute together with a courteous nod of the head. He soon came to his office's red door, and drawing a golden key from a pocket, unlocked it and entered.

The office was roomy, and ran from wall to wall across the entire stern. The walls were painted red to match the door. It was very well lit by the same large windows from which Vórimandur had watched the king in Harlond, with white curtains drawn back and a single window open to let a fresh breeze inside. The floor creaked comfortably under Vórimandur's shoes as he walked across the room to his dark, wooden desk, with papers strewn across its surface. He sorted these into piles of no particular subjects. The desk faced the red door, flanked by bookcases with lattice-work doors. They contained works of numerous topics: law, naval tactics, the workings of ships, histories of Númenor and other seafaring powers, and the Ráca's logbooks written by Vórimandur himself. Underneath the two bookcases were sets of drawers, within which lay sea charts, half-empty bottles of wine, letters to family on shore, a wooden flute, a spyglass, the sabres of defeated captains, and numerous other personal mementos and belongings. All of this furniture was nailed to the floors or to the walls, in order to prevent it from sliding out the windows in stormy seas. And on the furthest edges of the room, between each bookshelf and the walls, were two more red doors, one of which led to the captain's small cabin, and another which opened to reveal a closet. In the center of the room lay a red and gold rug imported from Dorwinion, an expensive centerpiece to the already opulent office.

There was a sharp knock at the door, announcing the arrival of Morgond and the errant sailors. Vórimandur stood quickly and straightened the sword at his side. "Come in," he said, and the door swung open, and Morgond led several sailors and soldiers into the office. Captain Vórimandur winced as they stepped across his rug. There was not much room left once they were all inside. There were about fifteen or so sailors, and about five or four soldiers. All of them were youths, unaccustomed to how a ship worked and what was expected of them, and their eyes avoided the captain's gaze by wandering across the floor and the walls. Morgond prodded them into a rough line, and Captain Vórimandur began:

"When we were moored in Harlond, I wanted the Ráca to stand out from the other ships, to be the best ship in the fleet. That's why we cleaned the ship so early in the morning, and loaded all the supplies aboard before the captains of the other ships were even awake. I wanted all of us to be aboard to greet our king, and show His Majesty the true quality of the Ráca. Unfortunately, not all of you were present. Instead of staying aboard like a good sailor, you were off gallivanting on shore!" Captain Vórimandur paused for a moment to consider what punishment should await them. It would be a light punishment; they were young and new to the ship, after all. "I shall punish you with extra chores. I assign you-," and now he pointed to two soldiers, "-to helping Cook wash dishes after each night's meal for the next week. I assign you-," now he pointed to the other two soldiers, "-to cleaning each sword in the aft weapons room." Now he began to assign groups of sailors, "You are to scrub the quarterdeck every day at midday for an hour for the next week, and you are to do the same with the forecastle, and the rest of you are to have your grog rations halved. You are dismissed." And with a salute from Morgond they shuffled out of the room.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Contrary to what the two lords thought of their own luxurious apartments, decorated and lavished with all the frivolities that Rakin had suffered Sangalazin to load onto his ship, the Captain nonetheless held to the opinion that his chambers, not theirs, that were the finest on the ship. Not that he had yet had a good look what exactly the two lords had chosen to do with their rooms – but Rakin had had nearly a decade with the same ship, unusual for any captain but for a corsair especially, and, although Rakin was not naturally a particularly frivolous man, his rooms were…well, they were exactly how he liked them. It was not, after all, unheard of for superior nobles of Umbar to move into the rooms of the Captain of a ship on voyages such as this – but neither Azaryan or Sangalazin had so much as paid a passing interest around Rakin’s rooms. Whether this was a slight, or whether the two Lords simply considered themselves too good to take anything second-hand, this was just fine with him. Based to the front of the ship, under the main deck, Rakin’s quarters, which consisted of a generous two rooms, allowed him a fine view over the sea ahead of them and to both sides – a fine view 180 degree view over his watery domain.

Originally the rooms had been furnished sparsely – what was the point in lavishing too much time and energy on what would probably only prove to be a temporary residence? – but as time had passed, the rooms had picked up ornaments and items apparently of their own accord, Rakin’s personal barnacles. The desk, for example, brought aboard from a raid of a particularly affluent merchant’s village stop, by some whim of the captain’s, made of fine, heavy oak and subsequently screwed to the desk to prevent it shifting its dangerous bulk in stormy weather, was cradled by the curved, windowed side of the room that surveyed the sea; or the floor to ceiling shelves worked into the wall on one side of this, it’s locked doors hiding the captain’s secrets. But scattered around the room were more ornamental items – a rich, dark rug, seemingly woven of a hundred different shades of black, covered the boards; wines and spirits from a dozen different plundered parlours and offices; and, crossed above the door, above his bunk, elegantly adorning spare wall, were the Captain’s special collector’s items – his swords. Rapiers, long swords, daggers, blades curved, straight and serated…they hung, secure and seemingly sedate, but with every edge gleaming with unmistakable malice, around Rakin’s rooms. Deadly yet elegant, the finest blades from a score of shores - undeniably beautiful, but unsettling nonetheless.

It was in his parlour of stolen treasures, sipping a particularly fine red wine, that the Captain now reclined, his boots casually crossed on another chair as he watched with detached interest the figure, bound only at the wrists, that was sprawled on his carpet. The room was almost silent, now the boatswain had left, leaving Chakka and Rakin alone to ‘have a drink’ together, and indeed the Captain gave an air of a gentleman in his club, settled back watching the sun, a drink in his hand. But as the sun rose further, flooding the room with bright sunlight, Rakin turned his head to Chakka and gave him a bright smile, his canine’s glittering fiercely. “Well well, Chakka, looks like the sun is almost at her peak – nearly midday. Will she be leaving with an extra pair of eyes, or are you planning to hang onto your sight for a while longer?”

Chakka did not respond, sprawled tense and still on the rug where the boatswain had left him, his eyes closed tightly shut as in tormented sleep under the blindfold. Rakin gave the prone slave a slightly puzzled look, then took another sip of his wine and set the glass down on the desk. Turning away from Chakka, Rakin faced the windows, surveying his kingdom with satisfaction, his hands gently running over the little vials and instruments that lay on his desk, some apparently designed for medicine making, some for darker means – sharp blades, needle sharp incisor blades, a set of brass knuckles. “And we both know what will happen when midday comes, don’t we? Or at least, we know what should happen…”

Raising his eyes from the dangerous, glinting array, he shaded his eyes against the sun, then nodded slightly to himself – and as if on cue, Chakka gave a long, low groan of pure agony, twisting on the carpet. Rakin raised his eyebrows and nodded once more to himself, like a critic on a performance – had to hand it to the boy, he wasn’t going easily. He’d keep the façade up to the end – if a façade it indeed was, as Rakin suspected. Or knew, rather. For no matter how calculated his imagined demonstration of the poison’s potency, Chakka had one disadvantage against Rakin: he had not actually seen it at work. Rakin had – and while the slave wasn’t exactly a picture, once the poison got to work, it really wasn’t pretty. His eyes, for example—

Rakin turned, an inquisitive scientist, and advanced almost excitedly towards the slave, grasping Chakka’s chin and, turning his chin eagerly from one side to another. There was no response and, under the light coloured blindfold, no blood either. But despite this, Rakin almost began to doubt himself. Chakka was, after all, very strong; maybe the poison would affect him in a different way to the scrawny creature that Rakin had seen the effects demonstrated on previously. But…well, there was only one way to test, wasn’t there? Rakin held Chakka’s chin up, mentally counted to three, then in a quick, vicious movement, ripped the blindfold off, and scrutinised the slave’s face. Despite himself, despite all his self-will and strength of mind, twelve hours in almost pitch darkness followed by bright sunlight even across the eyelids could only yield one result for Chakka, if he still had his sight: his eyelids flickered and, under them, Rakin saw the tell tale glimmer of white. With a triumphant yell, Rakin dropped Chakka back to the floor, resisting the urge to clap his hands in vicious delight, before he retreated a step or two to squat down before the slave, a wide smile twisting his fine features

“Blind man’s bluff, eh, Chakka? Oh, very clever, very clever indeed – although I never really did like that game.” Rakin’s smile faded as quickly as it had come, his mood altering abruptly, and he moved forward, sliding the knife from his boot and pricking it against Chakka’s throat, his eyes narrowing and his face closing up angrily. “Open your eyes, boy, and tell me exactly how you managed to get out of that one.”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Seeing, quite literally, that his deception had been pierced Chakka took control of his body once more. It was difficult to tear his muscles away from their agony, but with a few deep breaths he stilled his pounding heart and smoothed away the tortured spasms of his sinews. He focused on his heartbeat and his breathing, becoming oblivious to all else, and went deep inside himself to the still point from which his energy came. He observed his legs and arms relax, then his mighty chest unknitted itself, and finally his neck and shoulders loosened, and with a sigh he relaxed against the deck. He lay there for a time, taking in great draughts of air allowing his body the moments it needed to return to life. He felt Rakin’s cold blade against his skin but it did not concern him: had the captain wanted him dead he would simply have thrown the slave overboard in his chains.

He opened his eyes and met the malicious gaze of his captor. He could not help but admire the man and his perceptions. Chakka had seen death in all its moods and tempers and had long practiced the art of mimicking them. His facility with the art had been the gift of his first master in the arts of gladiatorial combat, for there was no knowing when faking a death might not be the best way of escaping the arena alive. Heedless of the knife, Chakka pulled himself erect and sat upon the deck, meeting the captain’s piercing eyes. He did not speak in response to Rakin’s question, but glanced over his shoulder at the wall. The captain, following his gaze, moved to the wall and quickly found the small spyhole that Chakka had bored through it. He turned once more and surveyed his room: he saw the table where he prepared the antidote each morning and Chakka watched as full illumination dawned on Rakin. The captain smiled, and it was not a happy sight. “Well my lad, it would appear that there is more to than meets the eye. I am impressed – and I am not easily impressed. But how did you get the materials…” a delighted light came on behind his eyes. “Ah! I thought that a couple of my vials were being depleted somewhat too quickly. You are clever. Tossed your makeshift key overboard already have you, or…no…” He stepped out into passage for a moment, and when he came back he had in his hand the small store of equipment that Chakka had fashioned and hidden above the loose rafter. “More and more impressive. Impressive indeed.”

Rakin sat himself down once more and sipped at his wine. There was a long silence and Chakka knew that his fate depended on what he said next. Pleading, he knew, would mean his instant death, as would justifications or anger. There was only one thing he could say that would save his life, and even though it tore a hole in his pride like a jagged dagger, he said it. “You have defeated me, Captain. My life is yours to do with as you please.” A slow smile crept across the Captain’s face like a viper. Chakka saw that he had bought his life, but that he was soon to be consigned to an existence that would make it barely worth living. He spoke again, seizing on the one hope that yet remained. “You can send me to the oars, Captain, and leave me there until fatigue and the whip destroy me, but perhaps there is another way. You and I have been enemies, and as enemies I sought to destroy you, and you have thwarted that attempt. I accept your mastery, but I will never accept my enslavement.”

“I do not think that you are in any position to deny that fact,” said the captain.

“True. You have proven that I cannot escape – perhaps we can strike a bargain of some sort?” The captain was intrigued, but he said nothing. Chakka continued. “You admit that I have impressed you. I should, for I am unlike any slave you have seen. I am trained in the art of combat: this you know, it is why you selected me as your bodyguard. But I have shown myself resourceful and determined. Would it not be better to have me as an ally than as an enemy, even if only a defeated one?”

“An ally against whom, slave?”

“You forget, Captain, that I lived outside that very door for weeks. I know the state of your relations with the lords who are aboard this ship. I know that you feel uncertain of them: why else would you have secured my services as your guard? I can be of use to you with them. Send me back to the oars as punishment, but speak highly of me to the lords. Tell them how much you paid for me, and how impressive I am. Say how you wish for me to rot in the hold until I die. Let them know how much it would grieve you for me to ever see the light of day again. I have seen enough of these lords – of that one peacock in particular – to know that they will not pass up the opportunity of amusing themselves while annoying you. They will send for me. I will entertain them, I will please them – I will gain access to their chambers as I did to yours. Would it not be more…comfortable…for you knowing that you had an ally in that position?”

“And what,” Rakin asked, “would be the price of such an alliance?”

“My freedom, Captain. My freedom.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Rakin surveyed the slave for an instant, then sat back, his eyebrows arched cynically. "You must think me mad, slave. An 'ally in your position'? You have already tried to take my ship over, kill my crew and, naturally, kill me as well - and this is just counting the most recent twenty four hours." He raised one eyebrow, narrowing his eyes, and stood abruptly, turning away from the slave. "Oh yes, Chakka, a most inviting prospect."

"You cannot pretend, Captain, that it is not without appeal to you.”

Rakin turned sharply, his hand tightening on the knife as he searched for cheek in the slave’s face, but found it only impassive – not submissive, certainly, but then he had not expected it. The Captain didn’t make a habit of paying particular interest to individual slaves – maybe one might catch his eye and he might amuse himself with it for a few weeks, or a few months maybe, but eventually, inevitably, they would slip up in some way – try to escape, get to big for their boots, make an open attempt on his life. Poor fools. Sometimes the warder could allow the prisoner the sight of the sun from his tall tower, but when he tried to fly for it, the same fate always resulted. But this one, this Chakka…Rakin remembered buying him, not long ago, a slave fighter, one who fought for the entertainment of watching crowds, usually comprised of nobles. A mercenary of the masses. But one could not deny his strength – he was roughly the same height as Rakin himself, but built entirely differently, broad and thick in the chest where the captain was lean and muscular in a different way. In a fair fight, he mused, it would probably depend entirely on what training Chakka had with weapons, and on whose terms the fight came about… But idle musing was all it was. This was Rakin’s corsair ship: if there was to be a fight of any sort, it was very unlikely that it would in any way be fair.

“What did you do in your previous life, Chakka?”

There was a pause, then the slave replied, “I was a bodyguard.” He hesitated, then added, “I do not jest, Captain, to try to further my argument; I was a king’s bodyguard.”

“Maybe it is exactly that fact that worries me,” Rakin murmured in reply, raising an eyebrow although he was facing the window rather than Chakka. Raising his voice slightly, he replied, “You judge that to be your previous life, Chakka? What about before you became a slave?”

There was silence, not simply a pause this time but the adamant, stubborn absence of any forthcoming answer. Rakin nodded slightly to himself, then turned around, indicating one of the swords on the wall, an unusually long, two handed broadsword, pitted and scarred all down it’s extensive length. “You see this sword, Chakka? See it?” The slave nodded warily, his eyes never moving from the Captain. Rakin nodded once more. “It is a fine weapon indeed; it belonged to a warrior I fought once, on land rather than sea – a fine man, he fought exceptionally well but, rather than let us capture him, his last act of defiance against me and my crew was to take his own life with his very weapon. Pity, really – he would have been one who I would offer a place aboard my ship, for he truly was an excellent fighter.” He tilted his head to one side, his eyes dancing over the blade as if he was watching some movement across its silver blade. Behind him, Chakka didn’t move – wisely, bearing in mind the reflective nature of the metal surface that faced into the room. The Captain continued after a moment, “Anyway, some of my crew warned me against taking such a weapon on board – they said it would be cursed, that the man’s soul might be trapped inside it. Well, if it is, it would be an honour, I replied, for to be able to harness his strength within a weapon equally fine…a fine thing indeed. And this sword...it has been in many fights already, it is experienced and made specifically for that purpose, for it is superbly weighted so as to make the best of the strength of a strong enough man to wield it; and what’s more, it is intimidating enough, combined with the warrior who holds it, to make any adversary with any common sense wish to make for the open sea as fast as the winds will bear them.”

He darted forward, moving briskly across the room and grabbed the sword hilt with both hands, wrapping his long fingers around it and giving a sharp, hard tug. The blade didn’t move and, maybe for the first time, Chakka noticed the clever arrangement of screws and rope that secured the weapon almost invisibly, to the wall. Chained.

“An excellent weapon? Aye. But rather too heavy for me, as you might see – I could fight with it, I could use this weapon of a dead adversary for my own means, and make no mistake, I would fight well with it. But if I was to lose control for one second, this blade could be my undoing – too heavy, really, too long in the blade. It could slip in my grasp, the length could prove too unwieldy and be too slow to bring up in my defence, its weight could act against me, why, even the blade could finish me. And if the soul of its previous owner truly is trapped there, he would be laughing all the way. And so I prefer, rather than running the risk, to keep it here, where I can see it – but chained there.”

Rakin turned back to Chakka. “What do you say, Chakka? It is a perfect blade, really – but would the risk that I run be using it be worth what I could gain from it?” He paused, his eyes searching the slave’s. “Would you trust a thing made for the purposes of an enemy?”

Chakka did not respond immediately, and just as he was about to, Rakin waved a hand dismissively, looking away. “Call the boatswain – he takes my dismissals rather liberally, he will not be too far down the corridor, waiting to hear either your death cries or mine.” Turning to his desk once again, he slid the knife back into his boot and took his glass, selecting another bottle and pouring himself another glass. As for Chakka, the slave didn’t move immediately, frozen – his hands were still bound, but there was nothing between him and the door, in a room full of weapons that could potentially be seized for his own needs, and with the Captain himself currently not holding a weapon and with both hands occupied. After a moment, he moved to the door, then hesitated once more.

“Unless I am very much mistaken, or the breadth of this room has extended to at least three times its usual length,” Rakin prompted calmly, without turning. “You are both still here and not yet treating boatswain to an impending seizure at the sight of your face around my door. Go, shoo, get out.” He waved a hand lazily in Chakka’s general direction, taking a sip of the wine, his eyes still meditatively fixed on the sea. A second or two later, he heard the boatswain’s startled cry, his feet thundering down the corridor and through his doorway, and then the man’s feet almost comically skidding on the rug as he saw that Rakin was indeed still very much alive. He half turned his head to offer the other corsair his profile. “Takad, take him back to the oars and chain him back in his usual position. The other slave as well – the one who was with in him in the subsequently not-so-aptly named solitary confinement.”

“You will not punish him further?” the boatswain replied disbelievingly.

Rakin sighed, replacing the glass very slowly on the table, the clink of glass against wood somehow menacing. “Takad—”

“It is done, Captain, it is done,” the boatswain interrupted hurriedly, taking hold of Chakka and pushing him ahead of him through the door. But as he did so, the slave turned back in. “Captain Rakin, will you not…consider what I have said?”

Rakin didn’t need to turn: he could imagine the panic which would be glimmering, however faintly, in the slave’s eyes, although barely a hint of it was audible in his voice. Turning slowly, glass in hand, he smiled lazily. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous; why would I do a thing like that?”

Chakka’s face closed up like a clam, his teeth gritting, and, seeing the violence in the slave’s expression, the boatswain gave him an almighty shove that, without his hands, caught Chakka off-balance and stumbling through the door. But as they went, Rakin called the pair back suddenly. As Chakka’s wary face appeared once more by the doorframe, the boatswain standing out of sight, Rakin indicated the sword once more. “It is a very fine weapon indeed. A very useful item indeed to have use of – if I could be assured that it would not backfire. Certainly it is a prospect that I would need to…consider. Could go either way, really…”

As Rakin dismissed Takad once more, Chakka resisted the other man for a moment before he was pulled roughly away and all but thrown down the corridor towards the oars. But in the instance between calling to the boatswain to take him away and the order successfully being carried out, Chakka saw an extraordinary thing: briefly, roguishly, the Captain smiled and gave the slave a quick wink.

Hearing Takad’s stream of abuse and Chakka’s stumbling, resentful footsteps fade away, Rakin allowed himself another indulgent, wolfish smile. Now it was off to see the peacock, as the message had come to him – the mighty Sangalazin wished to play chess with him. Ye gods… Rakin stared ruminatively into the glass of wine, then threw his head back and drained it in one quick movement, the midday sunlight winking off the blood liquid through the crystal and scattering the refractions of the droplets across the weapons on the walls, before he strode out of the door to see his dear – unwitting – half brother.

[The Perky Ent]

"Menelcar," Telumehtar said, taking a blank paper from the table in his quarters. "Do you know my plan for attack?" Menelcar gave a sigh that could have been mistaken as an insulting jesture. "No Lord Telumehatar. You have yet to inform me" Telumehtar gave a small grin and began writting quickly on the paper. "A mistake that I shall soon rectify, my friend. Come look here, and you'll see. Now, obviously, here is Gondor. The river runs here, and Umbar is down here. Now, here are our forces, and here are the Umbarian raiders. I've created a small blockade to guard the coast in the event of their arrival. Should they arrive, I've set up a small flare system for the word to travel. We can assume that so long as we have no heard word via flare, the Bay of Belfalas and the River Anduin are clear of enemy ships. We then go down the river, and gather in Tolfalas. It's a long journey, and I have no doubt you'll pick up many things on the open seas. Once we reach Umbar, I will send my men to the harbors, and to the main capitol building. Once the capitol is taken, we secure the city, and light our beacon atop the lighthouse in the harbor. This plan should work so long as the seas on our journey are clear. It's a rough outline, of course, and will take much more planning."

Telumehtar took a small dagger from his belt and secured the paper to the wall with it. The bottom of the page blew as Telumehtar opened the adjacent window and let the salty air in. "I have no doubt" Telumehtar continuted, "that you had a plan yourself for the attack. What's your plan?"

[Eorl of Rohan]

Ferethor had been running on adrenaline. When the feverish tension that spurred him on began ebbing away, the cold surface of the planks pressed against his cheek bringing back a measure of awareness, dead weariness set in. It was a miracle that he reached this far without mishap. He shouldn’t have. He couldn’t have. But here he was, leaning on the very walls of the Rakin’s infamous quarters, clad in a sailor’s uniform that did little to staunch the flow of blood down his back, and at a loss what to do.

Beyond the walls, Chakka and Rakin were immersed in earnest speech although he couldn’t make out most of the words. He frowned, trying to concentrate on listening, and then the very incongruity of it struck him. Talking together? If Ferethor was the one in Chakka’s place, he’d be raising hell with that miserable dog of Umbar by now. Seized with a chill of doubt that he dared not explain even to himself, he inadvertently drew closer to the doorway and heard Chakka finishing his last sentence – cannot pretend… not without appeal to you. So that was it. He was selling them all out. To think he thought of trusting that barbarian thrall… Reeling from what he had heard, Ferethor swayed and covered his mouth with his hand. When he took it away, the palm was covered with blood. Damn it, not at a time like this!

No help to be gotten from Chakka, apparently, who had evidently swapped sides if he heard them correctly. Ferethor swore silently; things weren't going well. Pulling himself away from the wall, he asked himself the question that had been gnawing at the edge of his mind ever since - where to, now?

Ferethor knew he should have made provisions for such an event. As it was, he had no resources at his disposal for such a chance as this, merely because he had thought it too unlikely that he’d ever get free. He felt his lack of forethought more keenly than ever as he started walking aimlessly across the deck. The first resolve to kill Rakin seemed ridiculous to look back on, now that he thought of it. He was with Linvail the last time he tried, and that ended a failure. For Eru's sake, too, he was in no condition to kill anyone other than himself. Which he seemed to be hastening. No reason Rakin would leave him alive after this - unless, of course, he wanted to play. The man was perfectly capable of that. In fact, he was capable of anything; even leaving him alive. Although, and here Ferethor's thought took on a tinge of bitterness, should that be the case he would probably wish he was dead. Well, if he went, by Elbereth he wouldn't go alone! With that thought tingling in the back of his mind, Ferethor made his way to the bottom of Fame and Fortune, where the slaves were hard at work at the oars.

“What in Mandos are you doing around here?” Was the reply that greeted his appearance, as one of the guards looked up. It was an automatic inquiry, given with nothing more alarming than a hint of surprise, and Ferethor realized that the sentinel did not recognize him. If the man's tone was surprised, it was because the sailors kept away from this place as much as possible, it being the dismal place it is. Not the place for your afternoon stroll. But no, the surprise wasn’t the kind of alarm that would be upon seeing a slave on the loose. He thought of it for a moment, and it made sense. No one looks clearly at a slave. Besides, even if the guard knew him, there was so little illumination in the place that it wouldn't have made a particle of difference anyway. He was hard put to quell a sigh of relief.

Ferethor swallowed and said casually, “Just trying to stay out of captain’s sight. He’s been furious since he got closeted with that Chakka fellow, and I wouldn’t want to be the one to get the brunt of his anger.”

The other seemed to buy it, and lapsed into his usual lethargy, but Ferethor's eyes caught a startled movement in the least quarter where he expected trouble – the slaves. Someone had recognized his voice. Who? Damn it, who around here knew him? But there was no disbelieving his senses. A moment to slip a word to the indifferent guard about checking the fetters, then he went down to the slave ranks. Those nearest him pulled away, except for one who stared at him directly and unbelievingly – a newcomer. One less naive would immediately feign indifference, but the boy was still young. Jagar, wasn’t it his name? The one who took Linvail’s place at the oars. Seeing that the man moved as if to say something, he quickly leaned down and grabbed his wrists hard to stop him.

“Keep quiet and listen. Yes, I am the one you think I am. And yes, again, I am an enemy of the corsairs. Aren’t you?” here Ferethor waited for a reply, but it did not come, and he took it for an affirmative and continued. “Jagar, your name is, right? Anyway, I have something to ask of you. I didn’t think that you’d be the one that I’d be talking to, but it’s just as well. I have no options left now anyway. Since I.. no, wait.”

Ferethor stood up, and called out to the approaching guard that he thought the shackles were twisted and that it needed fixing, and that he’d do it for them if they wouldn’t speak of him hiding out here. A brilliant piece of acting, pulled off so well that the guard turned away with all misdoubts in his heart quenched and filled with thanks for the newcomer. He even offered a drink from his flask, but he refused. When he came back to Jagar, he had something in his hands. “The guard was stupid enough to lend me his knife to fix the shackles. Here, take it. No, better…” With a deft twist, Ferethor jerked the shackle locks open. “A skill that every slave learns after a time, so don’t look so surprised. The time might come when your chance at freedom might turn the tides. Make sure that you keep the knife close at hand, but don’t waste your chance at sheer bravado. Don’t try freeing the other slaves; I’ve tried once to raise their spirits. Take it from me, they’re worthless. Just keep yourself alive.” His voice faltered for a while as if seized with strong memories. Linvail… It was as if he was talking to him, once his most trusted lieutenant… Then he recollected himself and went on. “Not enough time to explain why I’m telling all this to you, Jagar. Maybe it’s because I would hate it if Rakin killed me and then all the plans I’ve made to kill him went to Mandos with me…”

“The strength of this vessel is that it’s isolated, so that there’s nowhere to run, but that can be also its weakness. It’s made out of wood, darn it. It’s not fireproof.” Ferethor quickly laid out his plans, afraid that his time was running out. “I know it’s soaked with brine, but if we could steal strong liquor from the captain’s own cabin to fuel the fire… That’s where you come in. I’d do it myself, but I have the feeling that Rakin’s not going to leave me alive after this, so I’m entrusting this to you… If you can steal it, our work will be half done. You can’t start it now, though, when it can be easily put out. In the heat of war, we have more chance of torching the damn ship without much interference than we would now… And then we can go over to the other ship. They’d take us in. Do you get what I’m saying?”

It was verging on madness to entrust all this to a young slave he’s never even talked to until now – but he was out of options. This was it, or nothing but the void.

[dancing spawn of ungoliant]

The thralls aboard The Fame and Fortune were growing restless. None of them knew for sure, what was about to happen, and below deck, the frustration and worried thoughts of the ship's crew materialized into merciless beating.

Rain, pain, dream, scream, cry, sigh... Die! Die would rhyme better. Breath, death... The seat next to Jagar was empty. Shivers ran through Jagar's body as he tensed up his muscles to do the work of two rowers alone.

“What in Mandos are you doing around here?”

Jagar lifted his head to see, what was going on. A sailor. "Well, that is a bizarre sight on slave deck. Unless he has ruffled the Lords' temper, and we're getting a new slave", Jagar snorted to himself. He leaned forward to hear if the man had brought any news. Wait- there was something strangely familiar with the sailor. His voice... Jagar tried to catch a better glimpse of him. He was the spitting image of... Don't be stupid! Salty water has softened your brain.

The sailor had noticed Jagar's stare and hastily strode towards him. Is it... It is! That man should be dead by now, Jagar gaped. He had heard colourful rumours of Ferethor's attempts to wreak havoc onboard, and last time he was taken away, Jagar had been sure that he wouldn't see Ferethor alive again.

“Keep quiet and listen", the man blurted out.

And before Jagar even knew, Ferethor had manoeuvred his shackles open and filled his head with something that sounded like a daring plan. Images of a wildfire, massive sails in red flames, danced in front of Jagar's eyes.

"Do you get what I’m saying?”

"Look... Ferethor", Jagar whispered, "You suggest that I take a little walk around the ship and have a drink in the Captain's cabin? I might as well ask those guards to give me a day off - it's a sure way to end up killed." A look of contempt arose upon Ferethor's face. "You disappoint me. You're as bootless as any other slave here", he hissed. "I'm just telling the truth. We stand no chance", Jagar replied calmly. "I never said that I wouldn't be up to it, though", he added with a slight grin.

Bells tolled somewhere up on the deck. "What is happening? Are we going ashore", Jagar asked peering out of the oar hole and trying to see if they were approaching a harbour. "Sounds like an alarm to me", Ferethor retorted, and with that he turned on his heels and left.

[Firefoot]

As Telumehtar took the paper from the table and pinned it to the wall, Menelcar leaned back in his seat. Though far from luxurious, the wooden chair was at least reasonably comfortable, and he did not mind taking advantage of what comfort he could on the swaying ship. In private, at least, he and the king held few formalities with each other.

I have no doubt," Telumehtar was concluding, "that you had a plan yourself for the attack. What's your plan?"

Menelcar paused a moment before responding. What thoughts he had given to the attack had not been nearly so broad in scope, concentrating instead on individual segments of the expedition. “I think,” he began, “that it would not be unlikely that we should meet Corsair ships before we reach Umbar. We need to have a plan ready and known among the all the officers and ships’ captains before we encounter them – once we see them, it will be too late to coordinate any kind of counter.

“Also, I do not think it unlikely that we will find the harbor mouth at Umbar held against us,” he said, rising from his seat and pointing to the narrow mouth at Umbar’s harbor on Telumehtar’s map. “It is the logical place for them to make a stand – easy to defend, and removed from the city itself – and it would be foolhardy for us to believe that they will have had no word of our coming. What we need is something they will not expect, something…” He tapped speculatively at the harbor as his voice trailed off. An idea came to him. “This coastal region is hilly, providing cover, is it not? The Haven of Umbar is a port city, ill prepared for an assault from land, and however well the Corsairs fight on sea, our army is superior to theirs. What if we were to send a small force over land, over this narrow strip of land here? With any luck at all, they should reach the city at about the same time we do. They would have to go quickly and secretly for it to work; their best weapon would be surprise. What do you think? Would this work?”

[Eorl of Rohan]

The alarm resounded through the vessel like wildfire. The decks swarmed with half-roused sailors and curious soldiers, all pressing each other for information as the crowd multiplied and the alarm continued. The rumors, diverse as they were, and each more far-fetched than the last, more or less agreed that there were an escapee on the loose. As if to verify this, the emergency patrol stalked the hallways in anticipation of any false move. The hunt was on.

If there were hunters, there was the prey; such was the situation that Ferethor was pressed into. It was only a matter of time before they counted heads and found a sailor unaccounted for. Then, of course, his sailor’s clothing wouldn’t help him at all. He thought of all this with a sinking feeling that he couldn’t shake off. To make it worse, by the time he had scrambled out of the trapdoor that led to the ‘rower’s pit’ as the place was called, the emergency patrol was already out scouring every hallway. No chance of hiding, then. Drawn by a sense of strange desperateness, the like of which every animal possesses when cornered, he mingled with a group of sailors heading for the deck. There was nowhere he could go without attracting immediate notice. And he wasn’t ready to face Rakin again, so soon.

But Ferethor hadn’t prepared himself to see Rakin himself hurrying out to the deck, and every fiber strained to catch the man’s words. If he knew what Rakin’s orders were, he might stand a chance in getting away.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Chakka was taken to the slavedeck by his guards, but he barely noted the trip so full was he of his interview with the Captain. That he had walked out of the Captain’s quarters alive and on his own two feet was a greater victory than he had dared hope for. That he had been able to get the Captain thinking about his insane plan was beyond his wildest dreams. That one quick look the Captain had given him as he left remained in his mind’s eye – what had it meant? Was it a cruel game or some small recognition that they could be allies… Such a petty cruelty seemed so far beneath Rakin that Chakka could not believe it of the man, but was it any more believable that Chakka’s ploy had worked? His mind went back to the Captain’s homily upon the sword, and he realised that while Rakin was brilliant – brilliant and ruthless – he was arrogant. And arrogant men can make mistakes. The Captain knew that he could never trust Chakka, that the slave’s proposal had been nothing more than a gambit. He knew that to put Chakka in contact with the lords would be to play with ruin. But a man like the Captain, an arrogant man, might actually welcome the danger…might actually see it as some kind of game. Chakka imagined that the Captain thrived when challenged, that he was at his happiest when engaged in a contest with a worthy opponent. If Chakka had proven himself such an opponent, then perhaps the Captain would be willing to play. Chakka reminded himself that any game with the Captain would be unfairly stacked in his favour however.

An alarm rang out through the ship and Chakka’s guards hurried their steps. They soon achieved the slavedeck and Chakka was led to an empty bench. A few of the slaves recognised him from his attempt to free them, but they were quick to hide that recognition for fear of drawing the ire of the guards. One or two of the braver men reached out to brush their fingers upon Chakka’s sable skin by way of silent gratitude as he passed. He was roughly put down upon the bench and the long chain which held them all was undone, brought back to where Chakka now sat, threaded through his leg irons and then refastened at the front of the line. The slave master hit Chakka on the back with the but of his whip and ordered him to row. Chakka bit back the desire to seize the man an kill him with his bare hands – something he could have easily done in a moment.

He fell to rowing. As soon as the slave master moved away the man beside him spoke to him in a whisper. “I know what you tried to do for us last night. Thank you.” Chakka made no reply other than to nod – it was not a rude gesture, just minimalist. “I’m Jagar,” the man said.

“Chakka,” he replied. “Do you have any idea what that alarm is about?”

Jagar nodded and quickly explained what had transpired with Ferethor. Chakka was incredulous. “The fool! He wishes to set fire to this vessel? Where does he suppose we are to escape? Does he think the corsairs are going to set us free, give us boats with provisions and let us row away? If he succeeds we’ll roast alive at our oars!” He shook his head at the foolhardiness of the plan. Not only was he dancing upon the knife’s edge with the Captain, now Chakka had to contend with a clearly insane slave. He drove these thoughts from his head, for at the moment, there was nothing he could do about either of them. “I am but new to the life of a galley slave, Jagar. Tell me, is there any hope for us?”

[Folwren]

The mainstay sail slackened and fluttered slightly. The captain's eyes caught the movement and he watched it keenly. For a moment, it bulged obediently, but then fell slack and limp again.

“Top man!” Hereric called, walking towards the rail. “Take in that mainsail. Bregin, mend your course.”

“Yes, sir,” the man at the wheel said, rather apologetically. He kept his gaze ahead, though was certainly very aware of the Hereric’s quick, sharp glance. The captain’s poor humor was felt by everybody. His very stance showed him to be as stiff and uncomfortable as a boy in a roomful of girls. No one cared to run the risk of his anger.

The mainstay sail was quickly adjusted to where it was supposed to be and once again she billowed out prettily with the others. Hereric nodded with satisfaction and turned and walked back towards the stern. The Gondorian fleet spread out behind them like so many white birds. It was a fine sight, the white sails spread widely and reflecting the bright sunlight from above. Captain Hereric smiled grimly and turned to look back over his own ship.

His eyes clapped to a young man stepping out from the cookery forward. In his hands he held a bucket of ash. Hereric watched with amusement as the boy went to the leeward rail. Clearly, the young man was new to the ship. Brand new. The ash left the bucket in a strong, confident fling towards the water, but it came back almost at the same instant, over the immaculate deck and into the poor recruit’s face.

Captain Hereric didn’t have to say a word as the bosun leaped on the sad, but rather honest mistake. It happened at least once to every new man aboard ship who helped the Cook. Take the ashes, or slops (which was worse), windward and he’d have a mess on his hands. There were several sharp words given before the unfortunate young man could rush into the safety of the galley again and then a group of swabbers were called up on deck and before five minutes had passed, the place was set to rights and looked as though nothing had happened.

“By jove,” Hereric muttered to himself, containing in his chest a quiet chuckle. “I should appoint new men to the galley every voyage just for the show.” Of course, he didn’t really mean it. It was humor at another’s expense, and he knew it. But he wondered if the old Cook himself didn’t have a hand in it. One would think that the experienced fellow would give his assistants some advise as to which rail to toss the remains of the fire over.

[Anguirel]

Sangalazin was in a splendid mood. He had returned to his habitual divan, and his full, incongruously tall length was stretched across it. In front of him a table had been positioned; but it did not hold the customary hookah. Instead, it was topped with a chess board, the individual squares of well-polished ebony and ivory shining. The pieces were all laid out; King, Queen, Mumakil, Knights, Galleys and Pawns. This arrangement was a strange compromise of Sangalazin's devising between the chess of Umbar and Gondor; a Queen instead of a Vizier, Knights instead of Captains, and Pawns instead of Corsairs.

The Lord stretched, smiling contentedly. He always felt satisfied after a strangling; it was a civilised way of releasing the atavistic energy that made men beasts, just like indulgences of the flesh and the table.

"The Easterling put up a poor performance, Your Majesty," the bodyguard Captain Andlang commented. The guard of Sangalazin were trained to address him as though he were already undisputed King of Gondor. "Even though in your nobility you allowed him the use of a blade."

Sangalazin laughed; a pleasant, ringing sound. "He'd scarcely handled a dagger in his life. He fought even worse than he played his footling little instrument. Truly, he deserved the garotte. Quite laughable."

Andlang and the two other guards shared their master's mirth. Sangalazin admired them. What wondrous creations, perfect sycophants and courtiers, things of beauty, and unequalled warriors.

"Will Captain Chatazrakin be joining me soon?" he queried.

"Oh, directly," replied Andlang. "He's just having to deal with indiscipline among the slaves. Most degrading for a Captain of his rank..."

[Eorl of Rohan]

“If you have any better ideas, I’d like to hear it.” This dry remark was from Ferethor, who, taking advantage of the darkness of the rowing pit, had slipped back just in time to hear Chakka’s words with Jagar. Even the guards were called up to the deck – for a moment, the time was his to make use of it as he will.

“This coming from the man who cut a deal with Rakin?” His voice was hardened as he directly addressed Chakka. “Deny it as you will – I’ve heard your conversations. If you weren’t planning to sell us all out, and protect Rakin to boot, then what was all that fawning about? What, are you going to tell me it’s all a clever ruse to get him to trust you, so that, oh, I’ve mistaken your intentions, you can go and free the slaves? At least, my plan gets Rakin killed, if we die, too.”

Ferethor drew the knife that he had plundered from the dead sailor. He couldn't let this one go. “I’ve heard you say that you were once a King’s bodyguard, Chakka. Let’s see if you live up to the reputation.”

[The Perky Ent]

"But can we spare the men, Menelcar? Yes, they are masters of the water, but if we spare some men for a land assault, will we be able to make a stand in their home city? No, I think we'll just have to hope reinforcements can take the land. Our main priority is stopping that armada. I’m sure they know we’re coming, and there is a good chance they will send an attack force. However, I do trust that our blockade can get rid of any that approach. The river should be sound, and once we’re on the water, we can deal with any that approach.” Telumehtar said as he picked up an apple out of a bowl on the table and took a large bite. A small breeze was flowing though his hair; he could smell the salt brushing his skin. Menelcar however paid no attention to the wind as he looked over the battle plan and starting writing small notes on the page. “If you’ll excuse me, Menelcar. I’d like to take a look around the ship” “Of course, my lord.”

Telumehtar pushed the door open and walked out onto the deck. It was fairly busy considering their conditions. The sun was starting to sink beneath the hilly horizon. The men aboard the ship were making sure everything was running safe and sound; no one even noticed the king’s arrival. Walking slowly, Telumehtar paced to the back of the ship in search of Hereric and some good company.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Chakka eyed Ferethor’s knife coolly, and if he felt any fear, none who looked upon him could tell. He looked away from the Gondorian, refusing to rise to the bait. The slavedeck was indeed empty of guards, but that – Chakka knew – was but a momentary lapse. Even as he moved his eyes from off the madman he could hear shouts and boots upon the steps leading down to the slavehold.

Chakka’s indifference only made Ferethor wilder. He stepped down from the gangway into the rowing pit and grasped Chakka by his arm. “You are a traitor!” he hissed at him, his eyes rimmed with creeping desperation. “I heard you speaking with the Captain!” Beside Chakka, Jagar tensed at the revelation but said nothing.

Chakka chose his words carefully. “Listen to me very closely Man of Gondor. Even now our masters are on their way, do you not hear their cries? There can be no escape for you now – was not I myself unsuccessful in just such a bid last night? And I had the security of darkness and quiet to cloak me. If you want to save your life, you will shed those stolen garments and throw that blade into the water.” Corsairs burst through the doors and cried out in even greater alarm to see the unguarded slaves. Two men remained behind while a third ran off for re-enforcement. Chakka let go his oar and seized Ferethor by the scruff of his neck. The Man was powerful, but no match for the might of Chakka. He stuffed Ferethor beneath the benches, hiding him from the view of the two guards. Chakka spoke quickly now. “You see? You are doomed – be it to the oar or the blade, I care not, but doomed you are!”

For a moment it seemed as though Ferethor would continue in his madness, but whether it was the force of Chakka’s words or of his hand upon the man’s gullet, he relented. Quickly, he shed the sailor’s clothes and threw them out the porthole, but the knife he kept, attempting to hide it beneath his shift. Chakka said nothing, but as Ferethor emerged from his hiding place, Chakka’s hand flew out like a viper and snatched the knife to him. Ferethor’s cry of protest only gained the guards’ attention. Even as the cry went out for his capture, the re-enforcements poured into the hold. Soon Ferethor was surrounded and taken once more.

Chakka, for his part, kept his head low and attracted no attention in the frenzy. But the knife he had saved from the madman he quickly slid beneath his bench where he wedged it between the boards. It was far from an ideal hiding place, but unless someone was intentionally looking for something it would escape detection. As though nothing had happened, Chakka turned once more to Jagar. “I believe,” he said, “you were about to tell me about the life of a galley slave…”

[Eorl of Rohan]

If you want to save your life, throw off that stolen uniform and the blade, and throw it into the water. Now.

Chakka’s advice made sense. Ferethor, driven as he was by a fit of desperation, had retained enough of his reason to see that indeed he had no other choice. He was always the headstrong one. Linvail had been there to check him until now, but this time… He compressed his mouth into a thin line, but did as the man suggested. A simple procedure, casting off his seaman’s uniform and bundling it so that it wouldn’t float, the knife buried in it, and dumping it in the blue seas.

“Linvail,” Ferethor said quickly, hearing the pounding of the steel-tipped boots getting closer, and completely unaware that he just addressed Chakka as Linvail, “If you are on the other side, then why?” Why save his life? Because they’d have killed him where he stood if Chakka had not urged him to take the right measures at the time. He was forced to acknowledge this, despite his pride. But then the guards came, and he gave up without the slightest bit of resistance – by blade, or by oar, he was not one to give up – just change tactics.

[Firefoot]

Menelcar stayed for a bit inside the cabin after Telumehtar had left, jotting down some notes in the record book. Or rather, he was attempting to do so. He might jot down a phrase or two but then find his own pen stilled. His thoughts were simply too scattered to attend to business. With a sigh, he closed the book and tucked it back in a pocket. There would be plenty of time to take care of it later.

Restlessly, he stood up and paced the small cabin a couple times but found the space too confining. With no particular destination in mind he left the quarters and found his feet taking him towards the bow of the ship. The decks were busy, with sailors heading here and there, but no one paid him much mind, for which he was glad. Upon reaching the foremost point of the ship, he stopped and leaned on the rail, noting the pleasant breeze that ruffled his hair and clothes. The sun was beginning to set, casting a soft golden light over the long sloping hills. The dark shadows created a sharp contrast that only enhanced the landscape. Menelcar smiled slightly at the beautiful sight, but he did not focus much on it.

After a few minutes, he took out a pen and book, but not this time the record book he had been using all day. This one was his personal journal. He wrote slowly and thoughtfully, recording most of what came to mind. Why Telumehtar enjoys traveling by ship so much I don’t think I’ll ever understand. The occasional military campaign is rather enjoyable; it breaks up the steady routine of life in the city, but I should much prefer to travel by horse, or even on foot as the case may be. There is little of any interest on these rolling, cramped ships, though it is of course unavoidable on this mission.

He continued with thoughts about the morning, then captain and ship. And then as his thoughts started to drift once more, so also did his pen. Eventually, his pen stilled and he simply enjoyed being alone for a bit. Long ago, when it was his brother who had been the friendly one and not the king, he had been envious of his easy way with people, but Menelcar had long since learned that there was little to be gained from such company – they never understood him, though he had quickly come to understand them, fickle and simple as they were. He had long since learned to make his own way, and now delighted times spent alone without being lonely. And he remained there for a while, watching the golden light fade as the sun set beyond the horizon.

[Kath]

Grateful to have got off so lightly, Curamir and Nimir were quick to go about their new duties. They made their way down to the weapons room and found all the cloths and polishes they would need to clean the swords. Deciding it would be quicker to make a sort of production line, with Curamir cleaning the swords of any stains and Nimir polishing them to a bright shine, the two set up work areas close together and got down to work.

The task was repetitive and soon became boring, with the only excitement being caused by Curamir, who nearly cut off a finger when the sword he was holding slipped and just missed the hand he had resting on the bench. Still, once they had done a few swords, they knew what they were doing and soon turned to conversation to keep themselves entertained. They began with the usual topics, what the weather was like and how long each of them had been training for a mission such as this and what they thought of the captain. Eventually though they ran out of small talk topics. By this time Curamir was feeling that he knew this new friend reasonably well, having heard most of his family history and events from his past, and felt confident enough to ask the question that had been preying on his mind ever since he had learned that Nimir's father was in the army. Carefully bringing the topic up, Curamir was pleased to find that Nimir seemed able to speak of his father without too much pain and went ahead.

"I hope you don't mind my asking, Nimir, but I'm just curious as to whether your father would ever have known mine? I mean since they would have been in the army at about the same time it might be possible. His name was Ferethor Steele, do you remember your father ever mentioning him?"

He looked at his fellow soldier, but the hopeful expression on his face began to fade when he saw that Nimir was shaking his head.

[Thinlómien]

After dinner Lingwë sought the man who was to be washing the dishes with him. The man was a young, sturdy sailor with chestnut hair. Lingwë remembered that the other sailors had called him Arron.

When Lingwë caught him and reminded him of their duty, Arron looked miserable. "I hate washing the dishes", he commented as they approached the kitchen door. "You're not the only one", Lingwë assured him, opened the door and pushed the faintly objecting sailor into the kitchen. Then he stepped in and closed the door behind them.

The kitchen was a quite small, ugly cabinet. Except the dishes from the dinner, it was remarkably tidy. On a chair beside a table sat a man. Unlike other cooks Lingwë had seen, this man was thin. He had dark hair and a moustache, but no beard. His skin was nearly pink, and his eyes were something between green and brown. At the moment, he was smiling maliciously to the young men entering his kingdom. "Ah, my dishwashers. Welcome."

Very soon in turned out that 'helping the cook washing the dishes' was actually the same as 'washing the dishes'. The cook pointed them the dishes, gave them a few buckets and a big pot full of hot water and sat back to his chair. When Lingwë looked at him with a puzzled look, he said with a sugary voice: "Sure your mom has taught you to wash the dishes?" Lingwë said nothing and got to work. Soon the cook started whistling a merry tune.

"I'm Arron", Arron presented himself,"I don't believe I know your name, soldier." "I'm Lingwë", Lingwë answered briefly and concentrated on rubbing a nasty stain on a plate. "You're new, aren't you?" Arron continued. Lingwë nodded and continued rubbing the stain. "Don't worry, I'm quite new also", Arron said. Lingwë looked up from the plate and smiled.

"Stop grinning, boys. You're on a serious duty", the cook said with a bored voice. Then he continued whistling merrily.

The endless rubbing and the hot water made both of the dishwashers short-tempered. Lingwë decided he had had enough of the silly whistling. "Begging your pardon, sir, but if this a serious duty, why are you whistling such a merry tone?" he asked the cook, trying not to raise his voice, though he was angry. "Because I'm not in duty, boy. You are", he answered as merrily as ever. Then he continued whistling.

"You're swimming in dangerous waters, my fish-friend", Arron whispered, "never make the cook of the ship you're in dislike you, or even worse, hate you." "Have you never been told that speaking behind one's back is very rude?" the cook asked with a sweet voice.

Arron and Lingwë washed the rest of the dishes in silence.

They had finally washed the dishes and were leaving, when the cook stopped whistling. "What a pleasure was that you helped me with the dishes tonight. I hope I'll see you soon", he said. They wished the cook goodnight.

When the door had closed, Arron said: "I don't wish to see him soon." Lingwë nodded. The cook was the first person onboard he had met and had not liked. He wondered how many other unpleasant acquintances he would have.

[Folwren]

Captain Hereric still stood on the quarterdeck when King Telumehtar came out from the cabin. He watched as the king mounted the steep steps to the deck and paced towards the stern rail. The few men that stood there, officers and a couple soldiers, moved silently away, giving him room as they would for the captain. Hereric walked towards him.

“Hello, my lord,” he said, drawing closer. “I hope you found everything to your liking below.” The king turned and looked at him, and then smiled slightly.

“Yes, thank you, captain. It should do well for us.” Hereric nodded and glanced downwards at the deck briefly before lifting his eyes to look back over the water and Gondorian ships. Telumehtar’s gaze followed and for a minute, they both silently looked out over the fleet, saying nothing.

“If you care, sir,” Hereric said, turning back abruptly, “I could show you about the ship, and if you did not mind the climbing, take you up into the rigging itself.” He didn’t know if the king would accept the offer. Some landmen disliked heights and would not set foot to a rope ladder if they were on ship only for transportation, as his majesty was. But others were eager to climb up and sit high above the deck and water to feel the breeze in their faces, stronger than on deck. He waited for Telumehtar to answer. . .

[The Perky Ent]

"The riggings?" Telumehtar said as if shocked. "Do you think that a king such as my self would stoop so low as to even dreaming of climbing up your putrescent ship? " Hereric was mortally shocked. The grimace on his face could not be contained even for the king. In the past, anyone aboard the ship who used such insolence to the captain would surely face an unforgettable punishment. Hereric even went so far as to caress the handel of a knife sitting nearby. “My Lord….if you-“ but Hereric stopped, for Telumehtar was nowhere to be found. Hereric did not react as he would have had the king not had insulted his ship. Swaying a little, Hereric gazes around the deck looking for any sign of the king. Walking down a small stairs, Hereric stepped down and felt something hit his head with a great velocity. Above him, Telumehtar stood clinging to the riggings with a bushel of apples in his hand. “It was only a joke.” Telumehtar said, as he slowly climbed back down the riggings. Not knowing if he should laugh or be disgusted, Hereric perplexedly walked over and gave the king a hand down. “Well…” Telumehtar said with a small grin on his face “…shall I be given a proper tour then?”

[Alcarillo]

Captain Vórimandur remained on deck the rest of the day, surveying the sailors as they worked and guiding the ship down the river. Slowly the sun slipped downwards towards the western horizon, and Captain Vórimandur stepped down into the Ráca's lower decks. This was the first night of this new voyage, and so there would be a feast awaiting him and his officers in the wardroom. It was a tradition aboard the Ráca that the first meal of each voyage should be the best. It was a rather reasonless tradition, but Captain Brithion had began it long ago and it was deeply ingrained in the hearts of the crew, who carried it on to each new set of sailors that came aboard, reminding them of Ol' Brithion's generosity. And now was surely an appropriate occasion for a grand dinner in the wardroom. This voyage would surely be the voyage that would mark the beginning of Umbar's downfall, and the rise of Gondor's glorious dominion over the high seas, like Númenor of old.

The wardroom was located directly below Captain Vórimandur's office, and was furnished similarly. The walls and the door were painted crimson red, and the back wall consisted of great windows overlooking the water below, which at the moment reflected the early sunset to the west. To the sides were cabinets of the ship's finest china plates, which would be used on this occasion. An Elven rug even adorned the wall, a handsome piece of booty taken from a corsair ship. In the center of the room was an old oak table, at the moment set with a white tablecloth (or perhaps a sheet of sailcloth, it was hard to tell) and the aforementioned china plates. A silver candelabrum stood in the center. As Captain Vórimandur took his seat he was pleased to see that his plate was without any crack or chip, as some of the plates had. One must understand that when aboard a ship a feast is not the same as a feast on the shore. On a ship, such meals often seem mediocre to landlubber eyes, but they are as grand as the crew can make them.

And so it was that the officers of the ship entered the wardroom and took their seats at the table. Soon the food arrived on silver platters from the cook, and after a short toast to Telumehtar and Uinen, they began their work upon the food before them. Vórimandur had not eaten anything all day, and it was only now that he realized his deep and gnawing hunger. With each bite his stomach only seemed to want more, not less. An occasional weevil was found hiding in the hard biscuits, and once picked out crawled for a bit upon the silver platters until a servant would step forward and pick it up in a handkerchief. The conversation was chiefly made up of tall tales told-one-time-too-many and brief wisecracks. There were also stories of the events of the day and the day before, including everything from one-eyed seers to starving sharks swimming up the Anduin. It was a jovial, informal dinner, with many laughs between courses and hearing of others' lives since the last voyage out to sea. Fortunately, the talk did not decrease with the food, and after dinner as the servants carefully carried the precious china down the hall to the cook the conversation still lingered in the air like a thick fog.

Caradhril excused himself for a moment in order to take a trip to the roundhouse. An empty seat now lay between Captain Vórimandur and Dagur the bosun'. Dagur was young, thin and pale, with shining black hair and an introverted, daydreaming demeanor. But he kept meticulous accounts of the ships stores and Vórimandur doubted that the king's accountants themselves could do better. Dagur also lacked Númenorean ancestry, which set him apart from most of the other crew members. It was said that during his youth he was often looked down upon for this, but with a cold glare he could easily change the minds of his belittlers. He now stared out the windows behind Vórimandur with a dreamy gaze, his chin in his hand. "Dagur," said Vórimandur, "Have you received a list of those I punished today, for the defaulter's list?"

"Yes, sir, I've taken note of them," Dagur said. He shifted his body into a more attentive posture.

Caradhril returned and took his seat between Dagur and the captain. "Well, I have great news: our king is crazy." This was a rather unexpected comment, and the looks from the officers plainly told Caradhril that some sort of explanation was needed. "Saw him dunk a basket of apples on the captain of his ship. Strange, hanging in the rigging like the monkey."

"How irreverent! I certainly don't believe that, especially after those stories about seers and sharks you told during dinner," said Sergeant Nillendion, a fervent lover of the king. He sat across the table from Dagur and frowned with his arms folded. "And how could you see that when it's so bleedin' dark out?"

"The sun has barely touched the horizon! There's still sunlight. I just rested for a bit by the railing at the bow, and beyond the Númenna I saw the king's ship, and the king was dumping a bucket of apples upon the captain while swinging in the rigging," said Caradhril. He knew that his story was strange sounding, despite its truth. "He's crazy, or something . . . wonko . . . "

"Maybe more like Wonko the Sane, if you ask me. Nothing's wrong with Telumehtar," said the sergeant, "I cannot believe he would do such a thing. Really, he's the king, would he do something like that?"

"Well, I saw him do it," Caradhril said, "No joke."

"If it concerns both of you that much, I can send a messenger in a rowboat to the Cuivië tomorrow. In fact, if the Ráca catches up to the Cuivië, I will personally ask the captain if the king is, indeed, insane," said Vórimandur, "Does that sound fine?" They nodded and said aye. "Now, it is getting late and I must write down the ship's log." With a salute he bade his men good-night and left the wardroom. The sergeant's gruff voice drifted from the door.

"Oh, Caradhril, I think you're the crazy one . . . "

[Folwren]

“Well. . .” Telumehtar said, “. . .shall I be given a proper tour then?”

Hereric paused a moment to collect himself and then looked the king full in the face. “Yes, sir. Clearly you seem quite able to climb the ropes. Shall we go up first, then? There’s not much light, I’m afraid, and may not be able to see below decks anyway until at least tomorrow.” He led the way to the mainmast and then asked the king to climb first.

“Great stars above, did you see that?” whispered a sailor aft. His companion nodded - soberly, perhaps, but turning very red as he kept back his laughter. “‘Do you think that a king such as myself would stoop so low as to even dream of climbing up your putrescent ship?’” The laughter broke from both of them, but the speaker stifled his. “Hush-sh!”

“But the cap’n turn’d nigh red!”

“Aye, he did,” the first sailor muttered with a chuckle. “An it were not the king, there might’ve been some mighty sharp words given.”

“Silence on deck!” came the bosun’s furious order. The two sailor’s obediently ducked their heads, and silenced their words as they continued their work, but the amusement did not leave their faces, nor the picture of their captain’s look their minds.

Hereric and Telumehtar mounted up farther and farther towards the sails until they came to the top head, a wooden platform about mid mast, where they stopped. Standing much higher now, they could still see the edge of the sun over the horizon, whereas down below, it was quite out of sight. The wind up here blew harder and more refreshingly. Hereric wrapped his arm about the mast and leaned comfortably into it.

“Have you sailed often before, my lord? I understand that this is not your first voyage.”

[Dunwen]

Nimir began shaking his head when Curamir asked him if their fathers might have known each other. “Forgive me, Curamir,” he said sincerely. “I didn’t mean to give you the idea my father was a soldier. He was only a farmer, a smallholder. There wasn’t a garrison near our village, so when the Corsairs attacked, he and the other men in the village did their best to defend it themselves. I never met a soldier until I was recruited.”

Sensing his new friend’s disappointment, Nimir fell to polishing the next sword. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he said quietly, “I’m sorry I can’t help you. Your father must have been very brave.” He hoped he had not offended his companion.

Both young men silently cleaned and polished the last few swords. Despite the awkwardness caused by their conversation, Nimir examined the weapons curiously. He had no sword of his own, for a good one cost more than his family could afford. As a hunter, bow and arrows had always served him well, as had good steel hunting knives. He wished there was someplace on the ship where he could practice shooting, but common sense told him that he was unlikely to have lost his skill as an archer in the short time that he had been assigned to the Ráca.

After putting the last sword away, he and Curamir collected the polishing cloths and oil and put those away also. By this time, it was dark, and both of them were hungry. Nimir cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Let’s see if we can find something to eat,” he said tentatively.

[Anguirel]

Amanaduial the archer's post


After Chakka had left his rooms, barely moments had gone by before Rakin himself had been forced to follow the slave out of the door, but this time up to the deck, accompanied by the sound of the clanging alarm bells. A slave escape – no, a second slave escape, the second within twenty four hours. Finding himself in exactly the same position as he had been a quarter of an hour ago when he had dismissed Chakka from his presence, Rakin ground his teeth and glared once again out at the sea, rather more venomously this time. Of all the sheer bloody inadequacies! Forget the slave who had escaped: after two escapes within two shifts, it was his corsairs who’d be answering for this one…

“Captain, there…” The corsair who had entered thoughtlessly through the open door trailed away uneasily as Rakin failed to turn. Hesitating for a moment, he then rather belatedly shuffled a few steps back out of the door and, almost comically, knocked hesitantly. Rakin squeezed his eyes shut, then rolled them up to the ceiling and sent a vengeful prayer up to whichever god it was who was laughing at him. Give me clowns, give me jesters, but for gods’ sakes, give me strength – and don’t dress them up and pretend they’re able-bodied seamen!

Scowling darkly, Rakin swivelled around wordlessly to face the hapless messenger, a scrawny boy of about sixteen who quailed somewhat in the face of his sullen-faced captain. His adam’s apple bobbed uneasily as he mustered the words which had slipped out so carelessly a few moments previously. “C-Captain Rakin, there…” he swallowed and composed himself. Poor boy, Rakin thought, eyeing him critically: he only joined up to this ship a few weeks ago, and there were fully fledged corsairs aboard the ship who would quake to face Captain Chatazrakin when in such a foul disposition towards his crew. He raised an eyebrow darkly as he waited for the boy to stammer out the line. Am I simply getting old, or are we now to become a child-minding service? Finally, the corsair stammered out the words: Sangalazin was waiting.

“Lord Sangalazin? Well, we wouldn’t want to keep Lord Sangalazin waiting now, would we, hmm?” he replied, viciously. The hapless corsair in front of him, apparently unsure of whether to give a reply or not, bobbed his throat and quaked silently. Trying to contain his anger, Rakin ran his tongue around his teeth and took a deep breath, and strode towards the door. No…he would remain calm for now, he would keep his composure in front of Sangalazin. But after that… Rakin paused and turned elegantly in the doorway, only about a foot from the messenger, and snapping his fingers as if just remembering something, a noise that made the boy jump.

“Tell me, boy- name?” he snapped shortly. Gathering that yes, it was to him that Rakin was speaking and not to the walls, the boy replied, and Rakin continued. “—Menash, then. Tell me, Menash – do you know…who was on duty belowdecks with the slaves at about midnight, and then again at midday today?”

Menash hesitated, then replied slowly, “Well, last night it would have been…why, I’m not sure, one o’ them who—” his eyes lit up as he remembered. “Ah, it was Tachkan, wasn’t it? He’ll be resting at the bottom of the sea now though…”

Rakin treated Menash to the full glory of his cold fish stare, unblinkingly waiting for the boy to elaborate. “Well…I mean, after that slave escaped last night, he was found missing, along with another – the slave did for them, we reckon…”

Why, Chakka, you little- Chakka’s ancestors received a serious mental clouting from Rakin as he poured forth various vengeful thoughts upon everything to do with the slave from his forefathers to his fingers.

“…and then this morning, about midday – well, Cap’n, that would be me.”

“You, Menash? You were on duty at midday today?”

The boy nodded innocently. “Aye, Captain Rakin. Why, I just got off duty now…” he trailed off as Rakin gave a slow, grim smile and shook his head very slowly, his expression wolfish as he leant in towards Menash. “Oh, Menash, you have no idea how much that was the wrong answer.” And with that last threat, the Captain swept out of his chambers.


Anguirel's post

The board had long been perfectly set out when Sangalazin at last heard the knock he had been expecting. He motioned to Captain Andlang to open the door into the opulent, perfume-tinged quarters. The bodyguard silently obeyed, and Sangalazin saw the man he had been waiting for. The Corsair Captain, who he had to admit, now, was something more. A curse from the past risen anew; a powerful new factor, which might destroy him; or might be manipulated in his favour.

"Welcome, welcome, Captain Rakin," Sangalazin exhorted. "Come further in. What do you think of these frescoes? I've been told your taste is remarkably developed, among your many other...accomplishments..."

The tall-tall as Sangalazin-handsome, dark Captain remained impassive. "How gratifying," he answered, non-commitally, as he walked towards his host-or was Sangalazin his guest? It was his ship, after all...

"Oh come now, don't be like that," Sangalazin reproached him. "Andlang-leave us."

The bodyguard goggled, staying rooted to his post. Sangalazin bit his cheek, stared hard at his subordinate, and said once again, "Leave us." This time, he was obeyed.

"Now, before we start our game of chess, I thought you'd be interested in this fresco...the Gifts of the Sea..."

Sangalazin's slender hand moved from Ussun the Terrible, to Vineth the Lovely, to the melancholy figure at the side; and he smiled as he saw Rakin recognise himself.

"The model, I believe, was Lord Sangahyando of Umbar, my father." He left the our father unspoken. Rakin-Chatazrakin-would understand well enough.

***

Sangalazin held a black and a white pawn behind his graceful back.

"Left or right?"

"Left," Rakin said curtly. "Bastard's prerogative," he added with a thin smile.

Sangalazin raised an eyebrow. "You're black," he murmured, passing the pawn to his opponent. "The more challenging colour, though it can be rewarding..."

Without further conversation, they began the game. Sangalazin tried to trick Rakin early on with the celebrated Corsair's Ploy.

"Alas, my lord," Rakin needled, "your King's Mumak has sadly strayed..." He took it with one of his Knights.

The game became drawn out and gruelling. Rakin took one of Sangalazin's Towers, only to lose his Queen. Each player avenged losses speedily.

"It is clear," Sangalazin quipped, "that my father was skilled at chess." Again, our father left to implication...

After an hour King and King were locked in stalemate, little left to either.

"The signs are clear," Sangalazin concluded, his voice softer and more genial than ever. "We should work together." He held out his hand. Chatazrakin hesitated, then took it, his expression betraying curiosity, a little scorn, and much interest.

"How would you like to be sole Lord of Umbar?" Sangalazin asked.

***

And so a conspiracy was forged. A course of action determined. Vile treachery planned. The consequences of Sangahyando's infidelity were to spell death to Angamaite's line...

It was when all was decided that the alarm was sounded above. The Captain rushed up to attend it. He returned with a predator's smile on his rugged face.

"Pelargir is in sight. Call your guards...my lord...and have our Corsairs issued with their livery. As for me," Chatazrakin finished, "I shall...get my armour on..."

[The Perky Ent]

The sun rose swiftly over the horizon of the ship. Telumehtar took several short breaths before sitting up to face the light. There was a vague sense about Telumehtar, almost in the form of a hangover. Next to him, he saw Menelcar in a deep sleep. Telumehtar tried to go over last nights events, but a migrane was keeping him from thinking about anything other than the sun. It's warmth caressed his skin as the ship skimmed the calm river waters. At the very tip of the horizon, Telumehtar thought he saw a small amount of black smoke, but dismissed it for just a normal cloud.

Slowly getting dressed into a casual royal garment, Telumehtar walked out of his quarters and onto the deck. There was no sound, but all over the boat there was motion. Men were tieing ropes, opening crates, and putting out lights. Along the coast, large white birds flew parallel to the ship. Telumehtar took it as a good sign. "Ah, what a peaceful day this is. Let us hope it remains peaceful" he said, as he searched the deck looking for the captain. A calm day indeed.

[Folwren]

Captain Hereric, his arm wrapped about the sturdy wood of the foremast, shaded his eyes against the rising sun. He, too, had seen the plume of smoke as he had come on deck and, as the king had, mistook it at first to be a normal, small cloud. Almost at once, Winmar, his left tennant, had approached him and told him that the look out had spotted what appeared to be smoke, and the captain had run aloft.

Now from this new vantage point, he could see more clearly and understood the look out’s uncomfortable feeling. It was smoke after all. An uncomfortable amount of it. With a sigh, he leaned against the mast and dropped his hand from his eyes. Really, he could do nothing about it, except make more sail. That much he would do.

His hand swung out instinctively to grasp a hanging rope and he gently let himself slide down to the deck. Landing squarely on his feet, he released the rope and hurried up to the quarter deck.

“Good morning, my lord,” he said, seeing the king on the deck. “Excuse me for a moment, sir. Winmar, have the topgallants set. Make full sail.” The left tenant gave the correct answer of ‘Yes, sir’ before turning to the rail and giving the orders. Hereric turned to the king. “I apologize, sir. You had a good night, I trust? You’ve risen early. I hope it wasn’t due to an uncomfortable sleep.”

[Firefoot]

When Menelcar awoke, the king was already gone. He stood up, stretching stiff muscles unused to the hammock and the rolling of the ship. The night had not been uncomfortable, precisely, but in no way did this change the fact that he strongly preferred solid ground. He dressed quickly before leaving the cabin to find Telumehtar.

He soon spotted the king talking with Hereric up on the quarter deck. Though he did not particularly care for the company of the captain on this morning, he went to join them anyway. After all, if he would not go anywhere that the captain was, he would be letting the captain control him in a backwards sort of way.

“Good morning, m’lord,” Menelcar greeted as he approached. After an almost unnoticeable pause, he added with an acknowledging nod, “Captain.” A subtle gesture, though one the captain might not miss.

Abruptly, he noticed the small dark wisp on the horizon – a cloud? No, the day was clear and sunny, and this was but one dark cloud. Smoke then? Smoke – Pelargir… Menelcar felt a slight sinking in his stomach that did not come from the ship’s rocking. “So help us,” he murmured. Then slightly louder, “Is that smoke?”

[Alcarillo]

The soft yellow light of a Gondorian sunrise glowed through the tiny window of Captain Vórimandur's cabin. It was a small cabin, but still larger than what his sailors had. A chest of drawers lay nailed against the wall under the window, and next to it, between the drawers and the opposite wall, swung the captain's cot. It was a rectangular box, like a coffin, but it was painted yellow and swung from the ceiling by several ropes. It was filled with a thin mattress, a creamy-white pillow and blanket, and with the sleeping body of Captain Vórimandur. He stirred as the sun lit his room. With a tired groan and an agile roll over the edge of the cot he landed on the floor, catlike, on his feet, standing there in his nightgown. He changed out of it and donned his stately captain's garb, every piece with its own special place in the drawers. And finally, with a flourish he wrapped a black cape about his shoulders, to add an air of authority. And with this final touch, he stepped out of his cabin, into his office, and then out onto the deck of the Ráca.

The deck gave a wonderful view of what was left of the sunrise. Orange and red clouds drifted lazily in the East as the golden sun rose higher and higher into the sky. The rigging of the ship was sharply silhouetted against the fiery eastern sky. Men gazed from their views high up among the sails, captivated for a single moment from their work by this fire in the East. Captain Vórimandur paused for a moment to reflect upon the sunrise, but soon he turned to Caradhril.

"Caradhril, how far are we from Pelargir?" Pelargir was the closest major city, and also a great port. Hopefully the fleet would take a short stop there before sailing to Umbar.

Caradhril stood by the wheel, supervising a young sailor turn it this way and then that way to follow the curves of the Anduin. "We're not far, sir! We'll reach it later today, no doubt." Captain Vórimandur gave a nod of satisfaction. "And, sir, if you don't mind me askin', you will, if it pleases, ask the Cuivië if the king's-" here Caradhril stepped closer and whispered, "-crazy, won't you? I'm nearly certain . . ."

Captain Vórimandur gave a glare that told Caradhril to not speak of the subject again. "If we happen to pull alongside her, I shall make sure to bring your story up with the captain. Now I think your little student there is steering the ship a little too starboard." Caradhril turned to adjust the ship's course. Vórimandur had completely forgotten last night's story in the wardroom, and doubted its authenticity, but still, Caradhril would not lie. It must've only been a trick of the light.

[Anguirel]

As the Corsair Captain hurried to put the next stages of the plot into action, Sangalazin speedily began to return the chess pieces to their drawers, his long fingers nimbly grasping a Mumak here, a Knight there...and the hapless Pawns, in their masses...his stray left hand struck a silver bell hanging to one side. It was the call for the black-armoured Guard of Sangalazin to attend to its lord.

Andlang, eager as ever to demonstrate his loyalty, arrived first, but many others followed him quickly. Before the last peals of the bell had died away, the forty bodyguards, every man assembled, stood ready to act.

"Lord Azaryan and Captain Chatazrakin are marshalling their Corsairs and preparing to disembark," Sangalazin explained smoothly. "Bring me my armour."

The guards designated Sangalazin's personal squires, grooms and armourers, four in number, the youngest who had most ethereal Numenorean beauty about them, came forward with the steely intricacies of the Lord of Umbar's battle-garb; cuirass, corselet, grieves, helm...fully equipped at last, he looked something akin to the part he played, his longsword at his side, and his great height, at least, befitting a warrior.

"Now you are armed, my liege," Andlang asked, "are we to depart? The Lord and Captain have launched their assault already. Pelargir is in flames...they met with almost no resistance. The plunder will be rich."

"Patience, my boy," Sangalazin answered slyly. "Patience. We shall move onto the deck of the xebec; but we shall not join the attack until I give the word."

The yellow-haired, dark-plated soldiers filed on deck, their blades flashing in the last splutterings of the evening sun. From their vantage point, they could see all the devastation being wreaked. A few fighters of Gondor, scattered and ill-prepared, lay spread-eagled in attitudes of death. Beyond the docks, warehouses, mansions by the coast, even the bastions of the town were licked by a choking caress of smoke and fire. Now and again a loose band of Corsairs would stagger by, cutlasses out, overlaid with booty.

"I think our friends are scattered enough," Sangalazin remarked. "Andlang, keep fifteen men to guard the vessel with the remainder of those paltry Corsairs. I am going into town to requisition the spoils from the ill-disciplined poltroons..."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordim Hedgethistle's post

The slave drivers ranged along the catwalk striking at the bare skin of the slaves left and right, roaring at them to row harder, faster. Chakka pulled his oar over and over again, his great muscles tirelessly sending their force through the wood to attack the ocean. Sweat glistened upon his ebony skin which shone with a deep lustre. From above came the hammer and pound of armoured feet as the corsairs made ready for some brutal act and Chakka's heart grew hard with rage that he was being made to help such men in their evil. The slavedriver passed him by and struck him with the butt of his whip, and for a moment the vision of the dagger that Chakka had hidden flashed behind his eyes. The satisfaction of seeing the dying look in the slave driver's eyes as he slid to the floor was almost worth it...almost.

Chakka felt Jagar begin to flag at his side, so to cheer the man he began one of the innumerable rowing songs that he had learned in this hellhole. The song was taken up by those around him, and soon the slaves were all singing, using their music to give form to their agony.

When the sun comes back and the first quail calls,
Follow the Drinking Gourd.
For the old man is waiting for to carry you to freedom,
If you follow the Drinking Gourd.

The river bank makes a very good road,
The dead trees show you the way,
Left foot, peg foot, traveling on
Follow the Drinking Gourd.

The river ends between two hills,
Follow the Drinking Gourd.
There's another river on the other side,
Follow the Drinking Gourd.

Where the great big river meets the little river,
Follow the Drinking Gourd.
For the old man is awaiting to carry you to freedom if you
follow the Drinking Gourd.

Another blow to the base of his neck silenced him and the men's song faltered and failed. There was another alarm from above and the drum that beat out their lives again increased in tempo. Chakka and the others bent to their work, driving their oars into the water and the corsair's vessel toward some innocent land...

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Dunwen's post


Breakfast for Three

The soldiers and sailors of Gondor had not been allowed to sleep in quite as late as their superiors. During the night, only those on duty had been awake, moving on their rounds as King Telumehtar’s fleet slipped quietly down the Anduin. However, in the hour before dawn, the fleet had started to come to life.

Sleepy sailors coming off midwatch had rousted their replacements out of their hammocks and crawled in themselves. The rest of the troops woke up and prepared for the new day. The low buzz of conversation below decks moved up into the open air as men dressed and began to haunt the galleys for morning rations. It was a bright calm morning and many brought their breakfasts up onto the decks to eat before reporting for duty. The great ships were crowded close on the river, near enough for men on different ships to hear each other. Among the shouted orders of the fleet’s officers and captains there could be heard a fair amount of ribbing as the seamen took turns exchanging good-natured insults and jests about each others’ ships.

Aboard the Ráca, Nimir had found Lingwë and Curamir ahead of him in line for breakfast. After he’d been handed his bit of rations, he saw that the other two were waiting for him. Happily joining them, he and Curamir listened to Lingwë’s description of working for the ill-tempered ship’s Cook the night before. Lingwë did a wickedly good imitation of the Cook’s surly tone that made the other two laugh merrily. They finished eating quickly, and compared notes about their duty stations for the day before they had to separate. Nimir was assigned to the hold again, as the Master-at-Arms wanted to move some of the weaponry closer to the main deck, making it easily available in battle. The young archer was glad to have had a chance for a little time in the fresh air today, and to see Lingwë and Curamir before they went to their own assignments. The three agreed to look for each other at dinnertime, then each went to report in for his day’s duty.

[Folwren]

You had a good night, I trust? You’ve risen early. I hope it wasn’t due to an uncomfortable sleep.”

“No, no, not at all,” Telumehtar said. “The sun woke me, that’s all. Shining in. I swear, one of the first shafts of light must have reached my face and woke me directly.”

“I am sorry, sir,” Hereric replied. “I’m sure we could fix that. Board up the window at night, possibly, if you so wish it.” He glanced forward. “At the time, though, my lord, if you looked forward - do you see that cloud of smoke? Aye, it is smoke, sir,” he added, as the King turned.

“I saw it. You are certain that it is smoke, and not merely a cloud?” Telumehtar turned piercing eyes towards Hereric. The captain nodded.

“I’ve gone aloft to make certain and there can be no mistake. We’ve increased sail to be there as quickly as possible. I don’t know what you want to do.” He trailed off as Menelcar stepped up onto the deck and came towards them. He greeted them both and the captain bowed his head slightly in return and then watched as the Counselor’s eyes were caught by the plume of smoke on the horizon.

“Is that smoke?” he asked, after a shocked pause. His eyes turned towards the king and Hereric, and Telumehtar answered him.

“The Captain believes that it is and has added sail in accordance.”

“I assumed,” Hereric said calmly, “that we would want to get there as quickly as possible and fight off whatever corsairs are abusing our people. I fear, though, that however quickly we may sail down the river, much damage has already been done.”

[Firefoot]

“I see,” answered Menelcar simply. Even he could recognize that there was little else Hereric could have done – but that did not mean that he would laud the captain for it.

“The other ships will have to be alerted, of course,” he continued, speaking more to Telumehtar than Hereric, “and a plan of attack must be made. The Corsairs will probably know of our coming ere long, but we must give them as little time as possible to prepare for the counter-attack.”

His gaze strayed once more to the ominous wisp of smoke on the horizon. Time – all the problems came back to this. They needed time to slow down while the boats made their woefully slow way down the river. They needed time to plan their attack. After all, they had not expected battle nearly so soon, not until they had reached the sea, at least. But they could only work with the situation as it was and the time and resources as they had.

“Come,” he urged the king. “Have Hereric pass the message on to the other ships, and let us go and work out a battle strategy.” Then, so as not to appear too eager to be rid of Hereric’s company, he added to the captain with a hint of skeptical derision: “Unless, of course, you have anything to add?”

[Folwren]

Hereric bowed slightly at the counselor’s recognition, as cold as it was. “I take orders from his majesty, or yourself,” he replied quietly. “But I know the river, and the lay of Pelegir on the edge of it, and how to use my ship to the best of her advantage - in assault or defense. You may plan the battle as you see fit by yourself, though if I am of any use to you, I am at your convenience.

“If my lord thinks it is best,” he went on, addressing the king, “I will hail the other ships and explain the added sail. On the other hand, I doubt that they will not spread more sail of their own accord when they see us going on at a swifter speed. It will be necessary to let them know that we will be entering into battle by late afternoon (very likely entering into battle, anyway) so that they can prepare themselves as necessary.”

He waited for the king to reply to his question, or for Menelcar to make clear his intentions of the planning of battle.

[Firefoot]

Menelcar nodded impatiently at Hereric’s response. “That would be well,” answered Telumehtar.

“We will be in touch,” said Menelcar, his tone suggesting that it may or may not be so. They separated, the king and Menelcar heading for their cabin and the Captain off to communicate with the other ships.

Alone together in their cabin, there was little else for them to do but begin discussing battle tactics in earnest. It was difficult to plan a battle, as they had woefully little information to use – they did not even know whether the battle would be fought primarily on the river or on land, though it was hoped that they would be able to move off the ships, as the Corsairs’ superior ship skills would give them the advantage. Without knowing more, they decided fairly quickly that a straightforward attack would be best, but that if they could swing some of their ships around to the southern end of the city and flank the Corsairs, then they would. All this and more Menelcar printed into his small book, and for a while he was almost able to forget that they were still on board this infernal boat.

“We will still want this to be as surprising as possible,” said the king after a while. “Hopefully, they will not be expecting us so soon – news of this would not have reached Minas Tirith for a while yet, and it would have taken us longer to muster the troops.

Menelcar nodded. “Of course. Although it may be a rather futile wish, we might hope that they are lax in their lookouts. But more likely they will know of our coming all too soon. It is difficult to hide a fleet so large.”

“Yet maybe the river itself will help us, as the captain suggested,” said the king. “His help may be invaluable.”

“It could be so,” responded Menelcar neutrally.

“In fact, why don’t you go talk to him now?” continued the king. “I’m sure he would appreciate all the time we can give him – and you are certain not to forget any details, what with all your records, as I would be sure to do.”

“You underestimate yourself,” he answered, returning the king’s easy smile. Inwardly, however, he protested the prospect of more time spent with the dull captain. He rose to his feet. “I will return when I have heard what he has to say.”

He let himself out of the cabin to find Hereric. Here we go with Round Three…

[Anguirel]

The Lord Sangalazin's statement to disembark at last was greeted by a clattering scrape of iron, as the twenty-five of his Guard chosen to accompany him seized up helmets, longswords, and halberds, their shining black armour reflecting the gleam of their confident, brash stares, before the visors were lowered over their eyes. The others, led by Captain Andlang, looked more sullen; they guessed from the look in their master's eyes, so soft and yet so cruel, that they were missing out on more than left-over booty. But they had been given a command to garrison the xebec; the slaves, it was rumoured, were restive; and they did not gainsay it.

The Black Guard's Hornblower raised his instrument; a vast and imposing Mumak-Horn, from a creature slain in the Death Arena by Sangahyando, the father of Sangalazin. He blew a long, clear, chilling note, and the fighters marched over the pier in perfect order, in ranks five abreast. At their head strode a warrior of Sangalazin's height, and in Sangalazin's armour, as it seemed. But Sangalazin in truth stood in their centre, protected by a square of blades, and smiled beneath his visor.

"Now," he whispered, quietly but forcefully so that all his attendants heard quite clearly, "remember that the Corsairs of House Sangahyando, and Rakin's lackeys, are wearing a strip of purple silk at their helms. We shall know by those strips to leave them inviolate. But if you see Corsairs of House Angamaite, without the purple cloth and ill-disciplined...slay them without mercy!"

Educative examples were, in fact, on their way. As the black-armoured swordsmen passed a still-burning warehouse, a party of Gondorian towndwellers, a rich old woman, two maids, and a burly but injured manservant, were running back. The four people saw the squadron of tall Numenoreans in armour of antique Minas Anor style, and thought themselves saved. Sangalazin's guards stood motionless as the fugitives halted, thanking the mercy of fate; stood motionless as Corsairs, complete with purple scraps like macabre ladies' favours, overtook the Gondorians and cut them down.

"Most efficient," the false Sangalazin at the front cried out, and passed a pouch of silver to the Corsair leader. The true Sangalazin wished to be thought munificent on this crucial day.

The marauders passed on, to another ruin, and more easy pickings. The Black Guards passed on, to another party of Corsairs...and more easy pickings.

"These are Azaryan's scum," Sangalazin hissed. "You know what to do."

"Halt in the name of Umbar!" the pretend Sangalazin called out. The Corsairs, bemused, did so, their step unsteady; they were clearly heavily intoxicated. The Guards drew their swords and fell on them, hacking about them, silent in their charge, eerily free of warcries. Soon the eight unfortunates lay dead.

"Take their spoils and any weapons of passable quality," Sangalazin said coldly.

So it was as the evening wore on into night. Without losing any prey, or sustaining any casualties, Sangalazin's bodyguards butchered Azaryan's men, and used the plunder they stole to reward the Corsairs who were minions of their own Lord, or of Rakin.

***

And all the while, a little ahead-increasingly little ahead-of the skilled traitors, Lord Azaryan strolled, gazing on the city he had burned, hearing the shrieks of the fallen (unaware they were his fallen now!), smelling victory for the last time.

"Hail, cousin! How goes the battle?"

The proud Lord stared darkly upwards upon his fop of a cousin, playing with his black Numenorean armour. He had blood on his sword, true enough. He'd probably stabbed a corpse several times to look more impressive. Azaryan spat.

"It's gone. You've missed it, as you may have noticed. Not that we needed your..." he sneered at the foreign western equipment Sangalazin so loved to parade, "...longswords." Quite unconsciously, he patted his sheathed falchion.

Sangalazin shook his visored head. "Oh, no, I think you do, cousin. You need these swords."

A slight, awkward, pause.

"Because these swords, cousin dear, are fated to end your short-sighted, brutish existence."

The true Sangalazin grinned. He had composed a beautiful script, and his double was doing a better job than might have been expected of delivering his lines. Out flashed the steel again. Oh, what a joy it was to see Azaryan goggle so, when his servants pointed their blades at his neck, his chest, and his groin!

"Base treachery! You cannot, even you, filth, sink so low!" Azaryan bellowed, maddened at his own impotency in this situation. He had sunk fleets of the West. He had enslaved tribes of Haradrim. He would not die to his degenerate young cousin's ploy. It was against all reason!

"No one man can rule Umbar, by the laws of the Lordship! To await the day when we reign in Gondor once more, there must be two of us! Bad enough when one of us is a feckless sybarite, but you alone? Unthinkable!"

"That is resolved," pseudo-Sangalazin said calmly. "Chatazrakin, second son of Sangahyando, will rule as Supreme Lord of Umbar and Master of Corsairs. Sangalazin, eldest son of Sangahyando, heir of Castamir, will rule as King of Gondor. And Azaryan, son of...what was your father called again? Ah well. It is of no account."

Down slashed the longswords at the man who had such contempt for them. Again, and again, and again. When the body was quite unrecognisable, Sangalazin rose up a hand to stop the slicing.

"Let word be given out that Sangalazin and Chatazrakin are the new Lords of Umbar; that Chatazrakin is accepted as a son of my father; and that we now return with all speed to Umbar!"

As the Guards stepped back from the maimed once-Man, Sangalazin approached it and caressed the ruined face. He knelt down and kissed the bloody mess where the mouth had been.

"Goodbye, cousin dear."

[Folwren]

Having ordered signals to be sent, and flags raised, Hereric had gone below to the officer’s room. An open hatch above him permitted light to pour in, allowing him sight as he bent over a map. A pin marked where he and the Gondorian fleet was now, and another where the Umbar ships must lay. But there was a problem there. . .he didn’t know how many enemy ships there were.

With a look of disgust, he threw the last pin down on the map and stood up. From this higher, and direct vantage point he studied the map slowly and carefully. After a moment, his eyes lit up and he sat back down, pulled from beneath this first map another three, glanced at them, and then chose the one he needed and placed it above the first.

This second map was a larger scale and far more detailed than the first of the section of river just above Pelargir. Again he studied in silence, drawing imaginary lines with an empty pen.

“If you please, sir, but the king’s counselor is looking for you up deck.” Hereric lifted his head and turned his eyes to the young seaman addressing him, and then stood up.

“Thank you,” he said. The man saluted and went out. The captain paused again over his maps before turning to follow. ‘The counselor is looking for me, what?’ he thought to himself. ‘There’s an awful jab to his pride. Likely sent by the king.’ An amusing thought, but Hereric didn’t laugh, or even smile. He climbed the ladder and came up on deck and walked towards the quarterdeck where he saw Menelcar waiting.

“Sir?” he said, when he had reached him. This was getting ridiculous. The counselor showed little pretense of respect in either his words or behavior towards him, and yet he must put up with it without a word. Well, so be it. “You were looking for me?” Menelcar turned slowly and half nonchalantly towards the captain.

“Yes. His majesty wanted me to tell you what we had thought up and to see if you had any better ideas.” Ah, so it was the king. His suspicions turned out correct. A smile threatened to turn the corner of his mouth and he looked down brieftly.

“What were the plans?”

Menelcar told him as briefly as possible what he and the king had gone over in their planning together. Captain Hereric followed perfectly, knowing, as he had said earlier, the lay of the river. When the counselor had finished, Hereric nodded and then stood silent for a moment, considering.

“Well? Have you anything to add?” Menelcar asked after a pause.

“That will work. . .provided there are few enough ships,” Hereric said immediately, looking up at him. “I doubt that their entire fleet is being set into this attack and there are only two. . .maybe three. But if there are any more, we will have to consider waiting and landing some of our troops on the ground before going in, and even attacking in darkness. We can only attack with so many ships and no more. Yes, we do have the entire fleet at our back, but we can’t use them all in this river. However,” he went on, once again nodding, “as I just said, I don’t think there are going to be many ships at all, and landing men will be unnecessary.”

[Alcarillo]

The Ráca sailed peacefully along the Anduin. The Númenna, a swifter ship, had sailed between the Ráca and Cuivië, and Captain Vórimandur, with his competitive nature combined with the idle hours of sailing, wanted to pass the Númenna and resume his position behind the King's ship. He leaned casually against the foremast, eyeing his unknowing opponent. Occasionally he would take a walk around the deck and point out where the deck-scrubbers had missed a spot, or he would tell Caradhril to steer the ship a little closer to the riverbank, or order the sailors to move around some sails. Captain Vórimandur returned to the foremast to watch the Númenna and the curious plume of smoke over the horizon (a sign of Corsiars?). The day went on in this half-idle way for hours.

It was sometime about noon that the Cuivië ran up a collection of flags. All of the ships in the fleet paused for a moment to watch each flag hoisted into the air, and everybody on deck paused to watch. All eyes were upon the Cuivië. Finally, the full set of flags were fluttering in the sky, and Captain Vórimandur's heart leapt to see that they spelled out war. Finally! The first confrontation with the Corsairs was soon to come! Captain Vórimandur leapt from the foremast, and standing upon the forecastle, shouted to the crew, "All officers to the wardroom!" The entire ship was buzzing with the news, and sailors climbed the masts, trying to peer into the distance and catch a glimpse of the enemy. The relaxing voyage down the Anduin had turned in an instant into a busy hurry. Captain Vórimandur ducked below decks, and made his way to the wardroom.

He was pleased to see that many had arrived before him, and that a helpful servant had already laid charts of the Anduin and of Pelargir on the table. The windows were opened to let as much sunlight as possible enter the room. After another minute, Sergeant Nillendion arrived, completing the set of officers. "I've already set the soldiers to work gathering arms on deck, sir," he said.

"Excellent! Now, down to business," the Captain said. He leaned upon the table with one arm and his free hand traced along the curving Anduin on the maps. "We are here?" He said with a glance towards Caradhril, who nodded. "Hmmm . . . well, the Corsairs are almost certainly at Pelargir. We have some time before we reach the city. Sergeant, after gathering arms, put your best archers up in the masts. Tell them to fire as soon as we're within range, and tell them to try not to hurt the slaves. If we board a corsair ship they can make excellent allies. Many times I have seen the slaves rise up against their masters during a battle. I tell you, they are a force to be reckoned with, able to turn the tide of battle like the hand of Eru!" Captain Vórimandur cleared his throat and straightened his body. "Anyways, I would like Berengar the carpenter, Arundel the sail-maker, and the surgeon to be notified that we will be entering a battle soon. And please make sure the rest of the sailors are notified and that all weapons are placed within reach. I also want buckets of water available to quench any fires. You are dismissed." And with that the officers filed out of the room, and Captain Vórimandur left to don his shining breastplate in his office.

[Firefoot]

With no other choice than to endure this conversation, Menelcar found himself studying the captain closely, half wondering whether he might find some new angle of the captain’s dull personality. What he saw rather amused him, but also bored him, as it was nothing new. While never disrespectful, Hereric unsurprisingly did not appear to like him very much. Rather than paying close attention to their conversation, Menelcar mentally reviewed their previous encounters, and from the slight changes in the captain’s demeanor, Menelcar thought he detected some resentment. Yet Hereric never seemed to do anything about it, leading Menelcar to the conclusion that the man was weak-willed: able enough, perhaps, to lead his own ship, but not so bold as to take his own actions while under the command of those higher up.

Menelcar stopped his meanderings as he realized that Hereric was replying at length, and that he probably ought to know what the other man was saying if he was to respond appropriately and, more importantly, report it back to the king.

“…However, as I just said, I don’t think there are going to be many ships at all, and landing men will be unnecessary,” concluded the captain. A rather over-confident assumption, thought Menelcar, even if it was likely enough to be so.

“And how close to the city will we have to be before we know for sure? Right up upon the city?” asked Menelcar. “More specifically, will we know before they know that we are coming?” He thought he already knew the answer, having looked at several maps with the king just recently.

“Well, it depends on how good their look-outs are, but I would guess probably not,” admitted Hereric. “The river is mostly straight approaching Pelargir.”

Having received the answer he was looking for, Menelcar sighed slightly as if this was the fault of the captain. Such a plan as approaching in the darkness – Menelcar thought that was what Hereric had said – would then be little good, since their coming would be expected. “I see.” A pause stretched out, designed to be just long enough to make Hereric wonder if he was supposed to say something. Just when he looked like he might, Menelcar said, “Very well. We will have to hope that there are few ships and plan for a quick, heavy strike. If not – hopefully we will know sooner rather than later.”

[Arry]

Bahir’s toes grasped the thick rope with an accustomed ease. He climbed a little further upwards to a place where he might sit comfortably and watch the troops go ashore. The Captain’s men had left in their usual disorderly fashion. In the tumult of their leaving he noted that all wore a strip of purple cloth affixed to their helms as did the men of Sangahyando’s House. And what did that signify, he wondered, especially since those troops of the other Lord went unadorned. His eyes flashed as Lord Sangalazin’s men came last, well after the others had gone. Tall and shining in their black armor, they marched with precision across the pier in perfect order. Bahir smiled in approval.

Not that he would want or even could be one of those warriors. They were handsome in their tall, northern paleness. He knew though, even if he were of the age to be such a man, he was too much the Southron to fit that role. Still, there were other niches he could fill. He looked down toward the deck, his lip curling at the meanness of his little world. Not for long . . . not for long . . .

As Sangalazin’s troops drew out of sight, Bahir’s consideration turned toward the Lord’s quarters. Some of the guard had been left, he could see. One of the captains and a dozen or so men. There were none, he noted, on that small section of deck just off the quarters where the Lord often took his leisure on fair evenings as he watched the sun set across the sea’s surface. Bahir looked closer at the little piece of sheltered retreat. His dark eyes glinted in a calculating manner at the person who’d just come out the door and was now wrapping himself in a silk coverlet as he lay down on one of the couches.

The blond haired boy! What right had he to be there in such ease and in the midst of such favor and bounty? ‘None!’ Bahir rasped, spitting out the bad taste of his own situation. A thought which had been brewing for some time, since first he’d seen the blond haired Lord’s pet, resolved itself in his mind to action. Were the boy to be gone, there might . . . no, he would see to it there would be . . . room for him to take his place.

-o-o-o-o-

It was not much trouble to ease his slender form over the side of the ship and walk carefully along the lines that looped along the ship’s side. They were docked and the only movement was the gentle pitching of ship in the calm waters near the pier. Then up, like a nimble monkey, to the deck. And a quick look between the railing and the deck edge to see who moved about in Lord Sangalazin’s private retreat. No guards were stationed there, nor in what he could see of the quarters beyond through the open door. And the boy . . . his form was still upon the couch, his head resting on a tasseled pillow.

Bahir slid quietly onto the deck, his eyes and ears alert for any danger. The boy was sleeping; he could hear the soft rhythm of his breath. And peeking over the raised edge of the couch he could see the long blond lashes resting against the pale cheeks. In a quick motion he took off the braided strip of silk cloth that was tied about his turban for ornament. He whispered a few soft words to the boy as he slid his hand beneath the boy’s neck. The boy’s eyes fluttered open, expecting to see his master’s face. With an economy of motion, Bahir was astride him, pinning down the boy’s arms with his knees. His hands pulled the silk braid tightly across the blond boy’s neck, as tightly as he could. The blond boy’s eyes went wide and he struggled briefly; but his fair form was no match for the wiry attacker. His muscles went slack; his chest stilled, no longer drawing breath.

Bahir leaned back, considering his handiwork. Shall I leave him here? It would be amusing to see the Lord berate his men for allowing this to happen. He grinned, thinking of Sangalazin’s cold fury. Oh, better yet! He pursed his lips in thought and nodded at the new idea. Let him be found in the captain’s cabin . . . that should prove an interesting exchange.

He rolled the body in the silk coverlet, knotting the ends, as if it were simply some large, overstuffed sausage. ‘Oof!’ he murmured, slinging the limp form over his shoulder. ‘Too many sweets, my dear. A few more years and you would have run to fat like some greedy, overfed pig.’

-o-o-o-o-

The body was left snug beneath the captain’s quilts, as if the blond boy were sleeping. He’d wrapped the cold fingers of one of the boy’s hands about the neck of a half empty bottle of spirits, moistening the cold lips with some of the alcohol. The silk coverlet was removed, the ends untied, and the whole of it left in a rumpled heap at the end of the captain's bed. Pillows and covers were strewn about on the bed so that the body was not immediately noticeable.

Bahir had entered the quarters with a key he’d fashioned nearly a year ago from some thick wire beguiled from the carpenter’s mate. Bahir had been delivering messages to the captain’s quarters, deemed trustworthy enough to be allowed to do so . . . and he’d taken the key and returned it, but not before a passable likeness had been made.

He looked about the room, noting as his eyes slid past the porthole, that it was nearly time he was to bring the bucket of fresh water and the dipper down to the rowers’ benches. They would be thirsty and he would be missed, reported if he did not show up at his usual time. Bahir slipped out of the captain’s room, locking the door securely behind him. He lowered his eyes as he met one of the Lord’s men near the hatchway going down to the slave deck.

-o-o-o-o-

‘Water!’ he called out as he began his pass down the aisle between the benches. His face was smooth, his hands steady as he dipped the ladle and handed it round to the waiting rowers.

[dancing spawn of ungoliant]

The thralls who had been onboard long enough, understood to take advantage of The Fame and Fortune laying anchored, and many of the slaves in the rowing pit dozed leaning to each other and to the walls of their floating prizon. A few talked to one another in whispers- it hadn't been so quiet for a long time. Footsteps crossed a room somewhere above and climbed stairs every now and then, waves swashed licking the sides of the ship and seagulls wailed dejectedly. Or maybe they were happy. "Why shouldn't they be?" Jagar snorted, "flying around oblivious to what it is like not to be able to follow fresh sea winds wherever your sould would yearn." Shouts and distant clattering from shore were carried with a gentle breeze to the slave deck while the Númenórean Lords and their troops rampaged through some seashore town, probably killing and plundering everything that passed on their way. "Funny how much you can hear when it is silent enough."

Other slaves who weren't sleeping squirmed restlessly on their seats not knowing what would happen next, how soon and how it would affect their miserable lives. Jagar leaned on his right and reached to stick his head out of an oar hole. He saw black smoke drifting over the city and thought of Ferethor's plan. “The strength of this vessel is that it’s isolated, so that there’s nowhere to run, but that can be also its weakness. It’s made out of wood, darn it. It’s not fireproof.” That's what Ferethor had said to him, “I know it’s soaked with brine, but if we could steal strong liquor from the captain’s own cabin to fuel the fire…" It was an intriquing thought, "and now would be a perfect opportunity to start following the scheme", Jagar muttered.

Jagar glanced at Chakka who was asleep and drooped against an oar. Jagar hadn't kept him very good company; he hadn't been able to tell much about the life of a galley slave and most of the time they had sat quiet staring forward and concentrated on rowing. When Chakka had tried to lift their spirits with a song, a few hard blows on the back had restored the silence. Jagar felt slightly bad about this although he wasn't quite sure, why. "Left foot, peg foot, traveling on, follow the Drinking Gourd", Jagar hummed half whispering and eyed Chakka, but the man didn't show any signs of hearing his hoarse singing.

On the spur of the moment, Jagar shook off his shackles that Ferethor had conjured open and stood up. No one seemed to notice when he stepped over his bench and turned to leave towards a door at the front.

"And where exactly do you think you're going?" a voice demanded behind Jagar. He turned around and saw Chakka staring at him wide awake and vigilant, and a few other slaves had now raised their heads, too, to observe these two men. "I've said this before and I'll say it again: it's folly to even think of setting this ship on fire. We'll all die", Chakka said firmly. "Do you want to die?" he added as Jagar did not answer. "I don't know yet. I let the fortune decide and I'll just play along", Jagar grinned and walked to the door accompanied by bewildered shouts and whispers.

Jagar had barely walked out of the slave deck when he heard steps on a staircase. At once, he crouched into shadows behind a barrel in a corner before a young boy came down carrying water and a dipper. The boy stopped for a moment to take a better grip of the heavy water bucket. He gazed around narrowing his eyes and paused to look at the barrel behind which was Jagar's hide-out. Jagar felt his heart pounding faster; he had been seen and the youngster would hurry away to sound the alarm. But insted, the boy picked the bucket up again and wended his way to the rowing pit. As Jagar slowly emerged behind the barrel, he heard the boy waking up the slaves and calling them to take water.

Jagar wandered along corridors and climbed up stairs. He didn't know, where the quarters of any of the men of high rank would be, but he assumed that they had to be somewhere a good measure above the slavedeck - "and somewhere where it's cleaner", Jagar noted as a skinny rat darted past him.

The fortune seemed to have decided to be favorable to Jagar, for shortly after he had climbed up yet one stairs, he halted in front of a door that was more decorative than the ones he had seen thus far and it had a keyhole of different colour and shape than in other doors. There was no one in sight- after all, it was a serene day and the few guards who had been left to the ship were probably loafing on deck. It was until then Jagar realised that he had nothing for a picklock with him. There was a knife, no, two knives hidden under his bench down in the rowing pit and he had forgot them completely, but he wouldn't go down to fetch the knives anymore. Jagar sweared silently through his teeth and grimaced at the pompous door.

[Folwren]

“Very well. We will have to hope that there are few ships and plan for a swift, heavy strike,” Menelcar said, as though summing up the plans. “If not - hopefully we will know sooner than later.”

“Depending on your outlook on time,” Hereric said, “we will know sooner than later. But for now, perhaps it would be well for you to go and tell the king what you’ve decided.” He bowed slightly and withdrew a couple paces, turning his back and walking to the rail. Menelcar seemed to pause half a second before Hereric heard him walk slowly from the deck. He watched him silently from above as he paced the distance to the cabin door and disappear inside.

He shook his head slightly and looked up. He considered for a moment to hail the tops man, but then decided it would be just as well for him to look and see for himself. He mounted the foremast and stood at the highest cross tree and swaying slightly in the wind he looked out again towards the Pelargir. The cloud of smoke had almost disappeared, but he could see in his mind’s eye the city still reeking in the fumes of recent fire with thin but constant wisps of the smoke still rising to heaven like a burnt offering.

And the Corsair’s ships would still be in the bay as the men ravaged the streets, killing and raping at will. He felt his blood grow hot and he turned his eyes away and he looked back at the ships behind him, and then down at his own deck below.

They would be ready for battle, when the time came. And perhaps, just maybe, they would catch these enemies on unawares, drunk with the spoils of war, and unprepared for Gondorian avengers so soon.

The thought assuaged his fury and he let himself down onto deck. He called the officers to him and began to give orders in preparation for the upcoming battle.

[Arry]

Curiouser and curiouser . . . Bahir’s eyes narrowed as he made his way from the rowing galley hatchway across the top-deck. He was bound for his perch on the main mast, having been given instructions by one of the mates that the tear in the topsail needed repair. What’s this? An unfamiliar set of legs and raggedy clothes was just disappearing around the corner of the captain’s quarters. And where had he glimpsed those sweat hardened clothes? Just recently, he thought.

The man on the stairs . . . yes, that was a possibility. One of the rowers had slipped his shackles off, somehow. Brave little mouse – to play so dangerous a game while the Cat was away. Bahir’s brows rose; he gave a half smile. But then who was he to condemn another’s . . . adventure? And perhaps he could turn the man’s intentions to his own use.

Bahir shouldered a small cask from one of the lashed piles on the deck. For all intents and purposes he looked the part of someone delivering something somewhere as ordered. His head was down and he trudged along . . . just Boy, on some errand, they would think.

He slipped into the shadows afforded by the overhanging eaves of the captain’s cabin and sat down the cask he carried. He wiped at his face with his sleeve, his eyes darting about for any who might be watching. Assuring himself there were none, he darted around the edge of the cabin, just in time to see the man he was following, standing before the captain’s door. The man grimaced as he gazed at the locked entry way.

And did he think that the great Corsair ship’s master would leave his door open for all to visit as they wished?

A multitude of thoughts scrambled in the young man’s head. He could turn this to his advantage and be rid of the one token of his trespass. Bahir stepped forward, making a small sound so as to draw the man’s attention. He looked carefully at the fellow and then at the door. From a fold in his turban, he pulled out the key he had so recently used. And bending down, he slid it in a quick motion toward the man.

It clattered over the wooden decking coming to stop at the man’s feet. Bahir rose up and nodded toward the door, his face breaking into a conspiratorial smile. ‘Friend . . .’ he whispered, he eyes crinkling with amusement. ‘Good hunting!’

He did not stay to see what the man had planned. He did not wish to know. Bahir hurried back to where he’d left his little barrel and carried it with him to the main mast, leaving it there as he climbed nimbly up pole and onto the riggings at the top.

[dancing spawn of ungoliant]

"Good hunting!"

A key laid at Jagar's feet and as he dumbfounded stooped to pick it up, the boy who had tossed it had already gone off. There might have been something behind the sudden kindness of the stranger, but Jagar decided to worry about it later when he had completed his mischief. Jagar turned the key in the lock opening the door, stepped over the threshold and entered a room that was furnished with beautiful cloths and maps. There was a dark wooden table and a bed covered with soft cushions; it was the finest room Jagar had ever seen and he closed his eyes and let his fingers slide through the long pile of a shag rug. He paced across the room to a small cabinet and opened it revealing a more or less dusty collection of bottles full of liquor. "Perfect", Jagar whispered and took two bottles out of the cabinet, arranged the remaining bottles so that his thievery wouldn't be easily noticed and turned around to return to the bare and dim slave deck while his good luck lasted.

Jagar gave a final longing look around the luxurious room and as his gaze swept over the pillows on the bed, he let out a muffled cry and one of his liquor bottles slipped out of his grasp and fell on the floor shattering into pieces. There was someone lying under the heap of cushions. It looked like a blonde boy had been slumbering holding a bottle of spirits in his hand, but there was something odd about it; the boy hadn't even moved despite all the noise Jagar had made. For a moment Jagar held his breath staring at the boy, took a few steps toward the bed and burst out laughing. He saw that the boy had a glazed look in his open eyes and a bluish streak on his neck. "You really got scared over a dead body? Dead men don't rat on you", Jagar chuckled as he tucked the bottle he had left under his rugged shirt. The plank floor was sticky with liquor, but it didn't matter. A nice little riddle for the Lords to solve. Jagar walked out of the room, locked the door behind him and returned back to the slave deck humming cheerfully.

"For the old man is awaiting to carry you to freedom if you follow the Drinking Gourd."

[Folwren]

The sun was before him and still almost a hand’s breadth from the horizon. Captain Hereric paced the quarter deck, unable to stand, still just as it was likewise impossible to keep him below. The wind had dropped around noon, an agonizing factor that he hated. The sails were trimmed accordingly, but even so, their speed had dropped dramatically.

Trips up to the masthead had been frequent all afternoon, and each time he hoped to be able to catch sight of Pelargir and her captured bay. But every time he had been disappointed. He had known that they wouldn’t be in sight until later, but hope always bears up at times like these.

The entire ship’s crew felt the excitement growing. Their captain’s pacing the minutes away caused their eyes to look forward at least as often as his, and their blood to pump with the anticipation of up coming battle. Swords were drawn and sharpened. Arrows checked for straightness and keen tips. Bow strings changed. And still there was extra time.

The minutes of pacing turned into an hour. The sun continued slowly on her path towards the horizon. “Deck!” hailed the watchmen. Hereric sprang towards the rail and looked up.

“What is it?” he called.

“Pelargir in sight! Can’t see the ships yet in the bay. . .”

“Very good,” the Captain said to himself, turning back towards the stern. “Very good.” A movement on his right caused him to turn again. King Telumehtar stepped up onto the deck, the counselor behind him. Hereric approached them. “Good afternoon, my lord,” he said. “The watchman has just spotted Pelargir. In a few minutes, I’ll warrant we’ll be hearing the number of ships that lie in her bay, and in about an hour, we shall be there.”

A faint smile came to the kings face as he paced to the edge of the deck and looked out over the ship and at the water stretched before them. “Good! Good,” he said. “In an hour, then, we shall begin to punish these Umbarian pirates for years of unchecked murder in our waters.”

The captain stood behind him, and at his words, his eyes glowed. An old thought and remembrance came back to him, and he felt a sudden and abrupt stirring in his chest. He had fought the Corsair’s before, but never behind the king, and never with the knowledge that this would be the greatest battle between Gondor and Umbar ever to be fought. The time to pay them back for his father’s death was coming quickly to hand, and soon. . .very soon, he’d be able to say that that goal was fulfilled.

“Captain.” Hereric shut his eyes and braced himself mentally as he turned towards Counselor Menelcar. “I note that our speed has slackened since this morning.”

“So has the wind, sir,” Hereric answered calmly, but in such an expression of voice that he knew, had one of his crew spoken to him thus, would have brought certain trouble onto his head. “Around noon, as a matter of fact. I marvel that you did not mark our lack of speed earlier.”

[Firefoot]

Menelcar’s eyes glinted at Hereric’s remark. Just who did this man think he was? “And I, Captain” – the word was a meaningless appellation – “marvel that you should think that simply because I did not promptly bring the matter to you, you think that I had not noticed.” In truth, he had not immediately noticed the slowing in speed; it had been more of a slow recognition, known but not wholly realized. He moved as if to step past the captain to stand next to Telumehtar at the rail but paused, leaning closer to Hereric. “Do not think that I would bring all of my concerns and observations to you.”

Hereric was saved from responding – or perhaps Menelcar was saved from his response – by a shout down from the watchman. “Four ships in the bay!” Four! So much for his “two, maybe three,” mused Menelcar, now standing beside the king. “That should work out,” commented Menelcar.

Telumehtar nodded, taking his eyes away from the horizon. “What we will have to do,” he said, speaking more for Hereric’s benefit than Menelcar’s, as they had already discussed this, “is try to prevent their ships from leaving the bay – otherwise they will be able to take news back to Umbar.”

“Of course,” answered Hereric, showing a deference that Menelcar had never been given, and Menelcar did not understand it, though it had always been this way. Even before Telumehtar was king and he, counselor, Telumehtar had always been the friendly, magnetic one, while Menelcar was either disliked or tolerated, or occasionally respected for his position but never himself. And while most of him did not care, a small part of him reared up against this injustice and, a malevolent spark in his eyes, his gaze settled on Hereric for just a few moments.

He forced his train of thought back to the coming battle, the far more important issue at hand. Personal vendettas could wait till later. While he felt some anticipation, his feelings were not nearly as intense as the excited tension throughout the ship. Battle was a necessity and little more. He did not relish the killing and the blood. He had heard the stories of the Corsairs; many were true, but just as many were not. What was more, it was not the common soldiers and the slaves that needed to be killed but their cruel and merciless leaders, yet he knew that to get at the latter, the former must be killed. A pitiless evil circle was war, yet a necessary one.

The king finished explaining the final pre-battle tactics to Hereric, who in turn departed to relay the instructions to the officers. Menelcar and Telumehtar both turned again to face the front. Any time now, the alarm would be raised in Pelargir and their approach would be known. Then it would be a race against time, yet all they could do was wait…

[Dunwen]

This had been one of the strangest days of Nimir's life. It had started out with a cheerful breakfast in the bright morning with his new friends Curamir and Lingwë, laughing at the Ráca's Cook. He thought of their tentative plan to find each other at dinner this evening, and smiled grimly. His friends were surely standing with their own squadron, while he was with the rest of the ship's archers, waiting...nay willing the King's fleet toward Pelargir.

Certainly the first part of the day had been routine. He had headed from the bright breezes of the deck into the depths of the hold along with several other strong men and lads in the crew. Before coming on board a ship, he had never realized how much he disliked cramped spaces, but once Morgond, the Master-at-Arms, set everyone to work, there wasn't time to think of anything but his orders. Not only were weapons being moved to the upper decks in the ship, there were less necessary stores of goods that needed to be moved to accomodate them. Soon two lines of men formed, one carrying weapons up and the other moving extra stores down. The Master was apparently bent on getting every last spear, cutlass, arrow, rope and knife stored somewhere closer to the topdeck. Nimir wasn't the only one nearly decapitated or crushed in the bustle, and he lost his footing going down some stairs and nearly knocked over the two men in front of him. He'd tried to apologize, but in the noise and movement, his words were lost. Luckily, Morgond and his officers were too busy to mark him down. It was the usual day-to-day drudgery involved in keeping a warship ready to fight.

Then word filtered down from the decks that smoke had been seen over Pelargir.

The Master had not needed to order the crew to move faster. Of his own accord, each man doubled his effort, straining under the weight of weapons cases, boxes and barrels, knowing that battle would be joined within the day. If anything, Morgond ordered the men to move with greater care so that everything would go in its pre-determined place. Some of the younger lieutenants were ordered to start carrying right alongside the common men. At one point Nimir found himself teamed up with a young noble from Minas Anor moving barrels of dried fruit down one level. The lordling's fine uniform was filthy and his High Numenorian features were as grimy and sweaty as everyone else's. He didn't look much older that Nimir's own seventeen years, but neither boy had the breath to ask personal questions. At the end of their task, they'd clapped each other amiably on the shoulder and separated with a wave.

Nimir was amazed to see that despite the confusing masses of men going all directions with every concievable kind of container, the weapons were being placed precisely where the Master had determined they would be most needed. On a trip below, he noticed that everything belowdeck was being arranged just as carefully, with the Quartermaster's assistants writing down list after list of what could be found on each deck. He was impressed, guessing that this task had taken a great deal of forethought and cooperation between the two Masters and their respective subordinates. In a way, he was proud to take a small part in such a well-organized task, working under such clever officers. He was sure there wasn't a ship in the King's Fleet with a better crew than the Ráca.

Incredibly, what had seemed a gigantic job that morning had been finished by early afternoon. Coming up on deck, Nimir had noticed the slack sails on all the ships. He'd vented his frustration in a curse that would have earned him a box on the ear from his mother, but it was so unfair. He was pleased to see that Captain Vórimandur had been able to find enough wind for the Ráca's sails to keep her right behind the Cuivie, but the entire fleet was slowed by the weaking breezes. The afternoon had worn on and on, and still there was no sight of Pelargir. Only the ever-growing smudge of black smoke to the south indicated that they were truly moving closer.

Nimir had had time to wash the muck and sweat off his body and even managed to get some rations for a late lunch. He and the rest of the ship's archers had been ordered to form up, but with the failing winds, they had been permitted to take their ease until the fleet was ready to take battle stations. Morgond and his officers had no such luck, for once the last crates were in place, they were responsible for distributing weapons among the crew. Noticing his erstwhile companion of the fruit barrels working with the Master's officers, still covered in grime and sweat, Nimir unobtrusively obtained a second round of rations. He made a bundle of them in a middling scrap of torn sail, then moved toward the young Numenorian and caught his eye. He tossed the bundle and the other lad automatically put his hand out to catch it. He grinned at the boy's dawning recognition of what he held. With a wave of thanks, the lieutentant took a piece of bread out and voraciously bit into it. Walking away from the busy knot of men to collect his own bow and arrows, Nimir wondered idly if he'd ever get a chance to learn the other's name.

[Thinlómien]

Lingwë had never been waiting for a battle, and it made him nervous. The few battles he had been in had been pirate attacks; they had started and ended suddenly. Lingwë wished that it had been so this time also. But no, this was a real war, where tactics where used, not a mindless little clash between two little ships. The battle starts soon, but not soon, he thought.

Memories of the old fights flooded to his mind while they were making preparations on the Ráca's deck. He remembered strange frenzy that had overcome him when his friend was hit, he remembered the cries of the dying. But worst of all was after battle, seeing the deck red with blood and dead or wounded men lying on it. And now this isn't just a little battle with a few men dead. This is going to be a slaughter, he thought. He hoped that he wouldn't be one of those who would die.

The working men were mostly quiet and some where trying to hide their anxiousness behind rude jokes. He heard his friend Curamir laugh at them along many others, but his laugh was a fake laugh. Lingwë looked at him. He saw that Curamir was as nervous as he was. Or maybe even more nervous, he thought, this is his first fight. With a sudden pang he realised how worried he was about Curamir, and Nimir too. I'm not that much older or more experienced, he reminded himself. Still, he felt slightly big brotherish and remembering his own big brother he considered that a big fault. I have enough worrying, if I worry only about my self , he thought.

[Folwren]

Arry’s post

Bahir spent most of the day on the crossbar of the mast. The deck below seemed far away, the figures who moved about on it like little ants. He settled his back against the mast pole, letting his feet dangle freely. There was a good view up and down the river, and to each side he could see the flatter areas near the water’s edge give way on each side to low lying hillocks amidst the grassier areas. A pretty enough land, but nothing like the sandy beauty of his homeland.

The ship rocked gently at its moorings, soothing him . . .

‘I must have fallen asleep!’ he grumbled to himself. The wind had grown chill.’ His belly grumbled in response, reminding him he’d had nothing to eat since much earlier in the day.

And here it was late evening, already. The sun just ready to sink below the horizon.

Bahir got up slowly and stood tall, stretching his muscles before descending the pole. He took a last look about at his airy world just before leaving the crosspiece. ‘What’s this,’ he said, frowning as his eyes scanned up the river. There were ships moving down the river at full sail. He shouted down to the guards who stood along the pier-side of the ship.

‘Raise the alarm! Many ships! Just upriver!’

He shouted his message again as he scrambled onto the deck and went running to take his position as message boy. Behind him, as he made for his spot, he could hear the large curled horns blaring out their warning to retreat to the ship And the orders of the First Mate to cast off the lines and bring the ship about. Already, the sailors were scrambling to position the sails as ordered . . .

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[Folwren]

The sun sank below the horizon. Light still filled the world, flooding it with a reddish tint. The water rippling about the ship’s bow flowed back like a red bird, flying swiftly before them, as though a herald of battle and blood shed.

Hereric with his officers behind him or on the deck below, stood on the edge of the quarter deck. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, still sheathed, and his dark eyes stared forward from a face set as stone, grim and hard and ready for what came. Archers waited above on the masts, standing on maintops and foretops above. Their bows were strung and arrows waited on the string for a word of command from below.

Ahead, the Corsair’s ships were in sight. There were four of them in all, and on their decks and on the piers of the city, men ran and scrambled to get to their places. The alarm had been given, and Hereric could hear the harsh horns blazing out their warning. He smiled grimly. They had been on unawares, it seemed.

[Kath]

Curamir had spent the day doing one task after another and was glad of the chance for a rest when it came. Hauling boxes from one place to another was an easy enough task for an hour or so but the morning had dragged on and for a while it had seemed like they were never going to get everything into it's rightful place.

He had spent the beginning of the day with Nimir and Lingwë, but hadn't seen the former since he had been taken away to join the archers. He was worried about his new friend, and just hoped this battle would go well enough that they would all be able to meet up at the end. He had no idea of what lay ahead, he'd never been in battle before and only had Lingwë's stories to go from. He knew Lingwë had been shielding him somewhat from the truth with what he said, holding back details that were frightening, or that he just didn't want to remember. Nevertheless he had gleaned enough from what was unspoken to know that this was not going to be pretty, and he was glad to have someone with at least a little experience by his side.

Just as he was beginning to get a little tired of all the waiting around, and the jokes that were being told to try and relieve some of the tension, there was a shout and everything seemed to happen all at once. The remaining weapons were distributed without care for who they were going to and how and everyone was ordered to their feet and positions. In seconds Curamir found himself squashed between Lingwë and another soldier as their orders were bellowed to them. Standing in silence, he waited.

[Alcarillo]

Captain Vórimandur strode upon the deck in shining armor, reflecting the red rays of the western sun. Across the river stood Pelargir, now grimly smoking. Several Corsair ships prowled the waterfront. The Captain summoned a spyglass, and, leaning over the railing of the ship, peered at his adversaries. His eyes recognized those crimson sails, but this was the furthest he had seen them from the sea. His spyglass turned toward the city, where Corsairs stood on the shore, drinking and gambling or roving through the streets and looting the homes of Gondorians. A silent fury welled up in Vórimandur's heart. He fondly remembered his visits to the city and his strolls along the piers where ships from up and down the Anduin laid anchor. The ships at the piers were now either looted and burnt or captured. And what hurt Vórimandur's heart most was to see a small group of young lads loaded onto a xebec, to be forced to labor at the oars, or worse as rumor in Gondor's cities told. They would spend their lives aboard those ships, and only to eventually be killed by a drunk Corsair one night.

Vórimandur's wandering spyglass paused upon a handsome xebec. It was an elegant ship. It's red sails, unfurling at the moment, were like cascades of crimson water, and Vórimandur could easily imagine them filled with wind and speeding the ship across the sea swiftly and smoothly. And he hated the Corsairs even more that they should own such a ship. The spyglass moved onto the banks of oars, propelled by slaves, and the opulent stern, where the rich masters lived in luxury with their Gondorian slave-boys. It would've seemed almost comical if this were not a time of war that the few masters easily took up a majority of the ship's space while the many slaves were packed together as tight as bricks in a wall. And neatly across the stern was painted the xebec's name: the Fame and Fortune, a most enticing name to a man such as Captain Vórimandur.

Captain Vórimandur handed the little spyglass to a nearby sailor and turned to face his crew. Before him stood Sergeant Nillendion and his soldiers in a squarish formation, bearing swords and spears. Around them stood the sailors, armed mostly with little bows and knives. Above Vórimandur's head, the best archers had hidden themselves among the sails, ready to fire upon the enemy. All eyes were on the captain. They wanted a before-battle speech. So Captain Vórimandur cleared his throat and in a loud voice said:

"Almost two-thousand years ago, Elendil and his sons escaped the Downfall, and they landed in Middle-Earth, and established kingdoms where the people of Númenor could live in peace and never fall to the sins that drowned Mar-nu-Falmar. But our nation, our kingdom, our peace is under attack by these rebels," he gestured toward the Corsairs and raised his voice, "These pirates do not deserve to be counted among the Númenoreans! If Elendil lived today, he would bury his face in shame at a single glance at Umbar, that city of thieves and beggars! They have dishonored all those who claim descent from Númenor, including our just king and our kings from the past! So, let us reclaim the honor of the Númenoreans, and show Elendil that not all of his sons have strayed down the path of Tar-Calion!"

[Anguirel]

After the elimination of Azaryan, Sangalazin had approached the man who had struck the deathblow-the man of his own height and proportions, in his own armour-as the other bodyguards were occupied finding and marshalling the Corsair plunderers.

"Well, Lord Chatazrakin, how does it feel to be Master of Corsairs?"

"It feels..." the former Corsair Captain replied, raising his visor, "quite adequate, my royal brother."

"As it should be. You have come into your just desserts, and not before time. Now, we have the morning to spend in celebration and carousal! We celebrate the triumph of the Castamirioni! The revival of the eldest, purest line of Elendil! Come to my quarters, Chatazrakin. I have sweet music...and musicians sweeter still..."

Sangalazin's laugh had always been a pleasant sound, like a dancing brook, an accepting, warming, soothing, enveloping aura of cheerfulness. And ten thousand murders would not change that.

***

But the exultant Chatazrakin and indolent Sangalazin both leapt up in alarm when, a few hours later, they were awoken from their opulent beds with dire news. News that the fleet of the Eldacarioni approached. That Telumehtar was not, after all, as weak as Azaryan had supposed.

Sangalazin quickly sank into despair. In his brief sleep, he had dreamt of nothing but vast waves, rising and falling. He poured himself a goblet of a rare rum from the east, and demanded that his hookah be brought from the adjoining room.

The slave who came with it was not one he had seen before; he had a strange, ruthless beauty about him, hard liar's eyes...Sangalazin gave orders that from now on the slave, named Bahir apparently, would answer to him alone. As Rakin busied himself with preparing the escape of the Corsair vessels, Sangalazin pleased himself below deck, immersed in a slothful, hedonistic world of perfumed smoke, of refreshing wine, and willing, dark flesh.

What he did not know was that Rakin had another unpleasant surprise to deal with-the discovery of the murdered Rohirric musician's strangled cadaver...who in the meantime, with Bahir on hand, he did not miss.

[Durelin]

His appearance that of a man slumped over in exhaustion, Chakka forced one eye open to peer over the top of his arm that rested on the oar. He had heard footsteps, and had guessed who they belonged to. The young man had returned from his little escapade. Chakka kept still as Jagar cautiously made his way back to his place next to the colossal man, even though his muscles ached, desiring a good stretch and considerably more space. He was a giant dark lump that few who passed by paid much mind to other than noticing his great size, particularly in the night, scrunched up as he was amongst the oars. Jagar certainly spared his seeming sleeping form only a glance, though he seemed more doubtful than before he had left that Chakka was really asleep. Though the large Southron seemed relax, he was more the animal prepared to pounce, once its prey is settled, and unsuspecting. So he waited until Jagar crawled into his place, prepared to hide away his prize and rearrange his chains to appear untouched.

“Perhaps it is unlucky that you have returned alive,” Chakka said as he raised his head up to stare at the young man, his eyes practically glowing white in deep contrast with his skin. Though his words seemed so, there was nothing menacing about his tone or the look in his eyes. He stated simple observation. His gaze traveled down to the bottle still gripped tightly in the young slave’s hand. This boy, by the looks of him, seemed to be just as insane as the other one, that Ferethor. Perhaps it was the oars, the sweat, the blood, and the smell that had done it to them. But did either of them really expect to gain anything from this? Or did they simply not care any longer? They would secure their fate, as well as his own, and Chakka would not let that happen. After all he had done to try and gain his freedom, and even to attempt to help the others to freedom, they proposed to burn them all to ashes along with the accursed ship, and let the ocean swallow what the flames did not.

He had truly expected the boy to be caught in his folly. He doubted that the slave had any way of getting into anyone’s cabins, and doubted that he would find them completely empty, even though the ship was docked and most of its usual occupants busy. But somehow Jagar had returned, obviously with what he had sought to get. He could not remain unnoticed for long, though. Stealing did not escape notice, and everyone would pay for it if a culprit was not found. And luck truly was against the slaves, for chances were that Jagar had procured the alcohol from Rakin’s cabin. Surely such would not escape Rakin’s notice, and, if he discovered the bottle anywhere near where Chakka was chained to the floating mass that was his prison, the slave knew that any progress he had made with the Captain would be lost. It was as if the knife lodged in the planks beneath him had risen up to strike him in the stomach, creating a piercing pang of a mix of anger and hurt. To think that this was what his efforts might come to…

“Please, Jagar,” he began again, his voice low but clear and fervent; his voice revealed no kind of anger, which was replaced by an intensity that reflected importance of his words. “Throw it into the sea. If it is discovered, we are all doomed, as we are even if Ferethor’s plan unfolds as it is meant to. We can yet have freedom – do not give in to a last hope. Not yet.”

Whatever the Fame and Fortune was getting involved in, if it fell, then so did the slaves chained to it. Chakka would not seek to aid those despicable men, who even at that very moment were most likely plundering and slaughtering to their hearts content, but there was no sense in seeking his death before it came. He could hope that Rakin at least would die in some kind of skirmish, but that most likely would do only to hurt him further. The Captain at least knew his name, and he hopefully would not be forgotten and left to rot in the slave deck as long as the man, as black-gutted as he was, was alive. There was time, yet, and there was a chance. Chakka would be a free man; no oars, no chains, no whips could tame him.

[Arry]

‘Give me the pipe,’ Bahir ordered the drunken servant who had stumbled to comply with Sangalazin’s orders. ‘You will spill the water the way you are lurching about. The hoses will get wet; your master angry.’ He looked at the man closely, sweeping his gaze from toe to head. ‘And what will your master do to such a clumsy, clumsy chit such as yourself.’ He smiled in a beguiling way, as if to sympathize with the sot. ‘Others have gone missing, have they not, who displeased the Lord. And perhaps he keeps a tally of little mistakes one makes . . . and perhaps when the sum grows large enough he will zero it with a quick word to his most trusted retainer.’

The servant’s eyes went large with fear as his befogged brain processed what the boy was saying. Still, he was the one commanded to bring the pipe.

‘There are no marks against me,’ Bahir continued; his voice gone soft and sing-songy as he wove his words, back and forth, much in the same way as a cobra mesmerizes his prey before the strike. ‘Go back to your quarters; let me take the pipe to him.’ He smiled again, his face going soft as if in sympathy with a close companion. ‘You will be spared his ill humor from the recent news of the Northmen’s fleet.’ Like a great, dumb beast, the man complied, his unsteady hands giving over the pipe. With a nod toward the chest where the spiced tobacco was kept, he staggered off.

Bahir sniffed the leather packets of tobacco, the shisha, as it was called, in the chest. He picked one smelling of honeyed apples, mixing it with one of a heady rose; the mixture sat mounded in a pretty enameled bowl. He placed the bowl along with the rest of his necessary equipment on a black lacquered tray, and into the base of the pipe he put two fingers’ width of fresh water. ‘And what’s this,’ he smiled, finding a flannel wrapped silver box beneath the tobacco. Several small, resinous balls, waxy, brown. ‘Ahh!’ he took one along with him, the largest.

‘The preparation of the pipe and the lighting of it, the offering of the hose, and the maintenance of the smoker’s pleasure is as elegant as a dance,’ the old smoking master of the Sultan had taught Bahir. ‘Your movements are like so,’ he would say,’ showing the boy the movements of hands and torso; the way to tuck his legs as he sat upon the cushion. ‘And your gaze should always be on the face of the one smoking. Read his expressions; alter your actions to enhance his enjoyment of the experience. Every time can be the very first, if you are attentive, boy.’

And Bahir had learned to be attentive . . .

Between the lightings of the pipe, there were silvered cups of wine and stronger spirits. And music . . . and other such pastimes as the Lord commanded with but a twitch of his finger or a smile. Bahir kept his eyes close on Sangalazin, watching how the man commanded, and demanded, and caused the others in the room to swirl about him like so many pretty scarves caught in a whirlwind. On the third lighting of the pipe, when he felt the Lord’s attention turn too much toward him, he placed the resinous ball on the heady tobacco and put the burning charcoal to it with the tongs.

On the deck above his sharp ears heard the command for the sailors to turn out; to take their positions for battle. ‘Breathe in deeply, my Lord,’ his soft voice said, as Sangalazin’s eyes began to dilate and grow dreamy. ‘My other master commands me, and I am bound to his service. I must take my place on the riggings . . .’

His voice faded out as he slipped from his cushion and made for the hatchway to the deck. Sangalazin, or perhaps it was another in the shadowed quarters, reached out to grasp him by the ankle as he stepped away. But Bahir slipped free, and ran quickly to answer the call to arms.

[Dunwen]

...So, let us reclaim the honor of the Númenoreans, and show Elendil that not all of his sons have strayed down the path of Tar-Calion!

As Captain Vórimandur ended his speech, Nimir joined the Ráca's crew in a roar of approval. The archers had not yet ascended all the way up to their battle stations, having been ordered by their leader, Sergeant Angaden, to stay low enough in the rigging to hear the captain's speech. Now their leader gave the order and the archers scrambled the rest of the way up the ropes and spars to their positions. Nimir had been told to take a place toward the bow. He was near two veterans, Dimion and Gimil, and had been told to pay attention to them. Thankfully, neither of them seemed to mind overseeing a novice, although they weren't exactly talkative.

Like all the archers, Nimir had a plentiful supply of arrows tipped with heads in a variety of shapes. He had chosen to use his own longbow, and over the sleeve of his padded black jerkin wore his own arm shield. He saw that on either side, his companions each carried a few pieces of their own equipment, too. Sergeant Angaden was an archer himself, and knew that in battle men needed weapons they could trust. Additionally, he ordered the archers to carry a few strips of cloth to bind any cuts with, and each man in the rigging had extra bowstrings wrapped up and stowed under their helmets. Nimir had thought it was silly to wear his extra bowstrings on his head, but had wisely refrained from expressing his opinion and obeyed the order. Just in case, he had slipped a third string into his belt pouch, where he thought it would be easier to get to.

Having checked once more to see that he had everything he was supposed to, Nimir made sure he was securely in position and looked around. If he wasn't about to go into battle for the first, and perhaps only, time in his life, it would be a glorious evening. The sunset was a beautiful explosion of gold, red and orange. The ever-present gulls wheeling in its light looked as if they were exotic gilded birds from the far-off West. Even the breeze was pleasant, neither too warm nor too cold. Below him, sparkles of gold from the setting sun danced across the dark green waves. He was certainly more comfortable swaying in the rigging than he was belowdecks.

"Don't gawp, lad! We're closing fast and there may be precious little time to make our arrows count. The Southern scum will try to cut loose and run as quick as they can." At Gimil's words, Nimir peered ahead toward Pelagrir and felt his first pangs of fear. From here, he could see not only smoke, but some of the fires that still burned in the city. And he got his first sight of Corsair ships. Large, sleek, bristling with oars near the waterlines, with huge blood-colored triangles for sails, they sat arrogantly on the water as if taunting any enemies. He was reminded uncomfortably of a wolf pack laying in wait for prey.

"Are they all that big?" His voice cracked, betraying his fear.

"Nay, these are the biggest Corsair ships I've ever seen," replied Dimion, the younger of the two. Although he answered calmly, Nimir could hear awe and even a trace of fear in the other man's voice.

Gimil, in his mid-thirties and scarred many times in battle, chuckled grimly. "I think we've stumbled on the cream of their fleet, boys. If we can sink those, Umbar'll be sore hurt." He ran his hand tenderly down his own longbow. "And I think we've got the ship to do it."

Nimir took a deep breath. To take his mind off his pounding heart, he once more checked over his equipment. There was nothing else to do until the fighting started.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Having been roused by the boatswain from his quiet musings downstairs, happily swimming in a glass of fine red wine, Rakin sprinted through the corridors of his ship and up to deck, pushing aside the hapless messenger as he emerged onto the deck - and saw the fiersome sight before his eyes. Gondorian vessels, a small fleet of warships, broad and sturdy, perched boldy astride the water, a hundred eyes on each watching his ship and the two other corsair vessels, the Tarkos between his ship and the fleet, the Castamir nearer to Pelagir. Two fine ships: together with Fame and Fortune, these were three of the largest vessels boasted by Umbar, making them a matched attacking force on this enemy fleet - or, Rakin added mentally, grim faced, an immeasurable prize for the Gondorians should the battle not go their way.

Striding across the deck, Rakin started to bellow orders left, right and centre, every word clear and steady with the practised confidence of a man who was all-so-used to commanding battle - after ten years as Captain of one of the finest ships on Ulmo's domain, he couldn't afford to let any amount of wine dull his brain, and his wits were wolfish and ready.

"Get every man on deck, now! Takad, is every man equipped? How many have we lost in Pelagir?"

"Less 'n a dozen, Cap'n Rakin, from a crew of four and a half score-"

Rakin cut off the boatswain sharply, nodding curtly in approval. "How many do the other ships have? Tarkos...that's Parataan, isn't it? Close to a hundred hands...?"

"Just over, Cap'n, and the Castamir the same, although I reckon Captain Parataan's losses in Pelagir were a little more than our own - still the better ship, aye, Captain?"

Rakin grinned quickly at his boatswain, raising an eyebrow, the adrenaline and excitement beginning to kick into his veins as his crew scurried around preparing the ship. "Aye, you can be sure the Fame and Fortune will always have that title, Master Boatswain - and let's prove it now. Or at least we could," he continued, his voice rising once again to a roar as he jumped up to the forecastle to survey the ship, "if only these scurvy dogs would get themselves moving and act more like the crew they are than a bunch of nit-ragged street-urchins! Archers: a score of you-- or would you say a score and a half, Takad? Right then - a score and five of you into the rigging, double sharp, be prepared to watch for my orders in case we need...alternative ammunition. The rest of you: I ain't anticipating a boarding, and I want to avoid one. Get as many of them as you can from here: we're aiming for casualties, and we're aiming to take at least one of those beasts down, right? Fire, gentlemen, reel out the fire!"

A roar of approval granted the last statement and Takad bared his yellow teeth. "Fire, Captain? What about-"

"Stick with fiery arrows for now, Takad, I want to save the wildfire." He smiled briefly, clapping his boatswain on the shoulder briefly. "Save the wildfire for later, eh? Give 'em a real fright when we need it."

As the boatswain darted away, calling out his own orders and details, sending the crew running hither and thither above and below deck, from the slave deck to the topmost rigging in a fashion of chaos perfectly engineered from a thousand attacks before, Rakin turned to face the boat across the waters, one hand twisting in and out of the ropes that fell from the sails. Confidence he could project, and had done every day since he was born, so that the brashness and boldness he claimed had become a very part of the Captain - but watching the Gondorian fleet, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of worry: ten years of battle on the seas against one of the most powerful nations in Middle Earth was a helluva lot of luck, even for the most skilled of Captains. And Rakin's whole life had been governed by luck, having risen as he had from a street urchin, an illegitimate orphan...

...to the Supreme Commander of the Corsairs.

The fact and his earlier conversations with Sangalazin steadied Rakin. Watching the ships across the waters, he gave a small smile and lifted his chin in small defiance against them. Aye, maybe he only had so much luck - but see if he couldn't make it last the day. His fingers tightened fiercely on the rope wound around them, squeezing so the blood pumped around his knuckles warmly. Then, with a last look, he was gone, belowdecks to prepare himself for the battle ahead, leaving the Gondorian ships, as alive as his own, seething across the water that, in the dying light of the sun, flashed as bright and red as the finest wine - or the darkest blood.

[Arry]

‘Stick with fiery arrows for now . . . I want to save the wildfire.’ Captain Rakin had given the order and now Takad rasped out his orders. ‘You! Boy!’ he called to Bahir as his eye fell on him. ‘To the firing line, where you belong! You’re not there by the time I’ve blinked my eyes, it’s down to the benches and chains for you.’ He gave the boy a wolfish grin. ‘And wouldn’t that be too bad for those pretty little hands of yours . . .’ Takad snapped his fingers and one of the sailors came to stand by him.

Bahir knew better than to answer back or for that matter to even look the boatswain in the eye. He simply mumbled a “Sir!” and ran for his post. Behind him he could hear the mocking laughter of the two men.

‘I’ll feed your livers to the gulls someday,’ he muttered as he entered the small room where the arrows were kept. Bahir took up one of the racks of arrows with the tips wrapped in oil soaked strips of linen and slung the carry strap over his left shoulder. In the brazier that stood just out side the room’s entry way, he lit the thick punk sticks he held in his right hand. He flew up to the deck where the archers were gathering, lining themselves up for the coming skirmish.

‘Arrows at the ready, Sirs,’ he called out to Azar and Balak, the two bowmen he served in the battles. He took his place behind and between them, waiting for the orders to fire.

[Durelin]

The boards creaked and rattled overhead under heavy footfalls, and shouts could be heard, the entire ship sounding alive with a feeling of anticipation and great haste. Chakka sat listening, most of the sounds all too familiar, and thought of how much he loathed the ship that was his prison, as if it really were a living, breathing thing. At these times, he counted it among his enemies, as if it was not simply a tool of Rakin, but was his accomplice in all of his abhorred crimes. Chakka could picture the Captain standing up on deck, giving orders, drunk with the feeling of command if not simply drunk with his many wines. And he could almost see the ship smiling contentedly as the corsair’s boots clunked across its deck, and his voice reverberated off its boards.

They were preparing to kill, and both man and ship relished in the thought.

“What’s this all about now?” Jagar asked from beside the Southron surprisingly lazily, seemingly roused from some kind of light sleep by the many noises. Chakka did not bother to look at the young man, and shook his head slightly. His muscles were tense, but he concentrated hard to relax them, resting them with the ability to spring them to action at any time. If this boy planned to go on with Ferethor’s plans, they were both mad. If they felt now was the time for their foolishness, then Chakka would be doing something about it.

“They are preparing for battle. They must have run into trouble with the Gondorians.”

Jagar’s eyes opened much more widely than before, and Chakka could almost here the young man thinking furiously. The large man knew what was on his mind: freedom. He thought it could come this day, perhaps through fire. The boy’s eyes seemed to flit down to where they both knew the stolen alcohol was hidden. “Do you really think we can be freed through fire?” Chakka asked, keeping his voice at a fervent whisper audible only to Jagar’s ears. The younger man avoided his eyes. “Fire will be used to defeat the Gondorian ships that are now our allies, and if fire does the same for this ship, we will surely be consumed by it, and if not by it, then by the water that makes this doubly our prison.”

Men ran through the slave deck, crewmembers of all sorts, all hands needed to loose death on the Gondorians. One remained to keep an eye on the slaves lanky, looking ill-bred and ill-fed almost as much as most of the slaves did, and noticing Chakka and Jagar, strode over to them, chuckling as he looked down at them, swaggering because he knew the slaves were safely in chains. He was also used to having other corsairs to call upon should he need any help. Perhaps he was foolish enough to assume that he would have that kind of help during a battle, as well. He spat at the two slaves, and a considerable amount of his fluid landed on Chakka’s head.

The huge man tried with difficulty to restrain himself from reaching up with a large black hand and ending the corsair’s life right there. He had trained himself to keep from acting immediately, even when spat upon, kicked, or otherwise meant to be humiliated, especially since being placed on the slave deck as a simple rower. But in the second that followed, Chakka looked up at the man and considered what it would feel like to see him dead. But more so, his calculating mind reasoned out the chances of there being help for the man, and the odds against Chakka of being caught.

When everything was added up, he smiled, and before the man could move, or call out, or strike back at the slave, a muscled arm of the Southron shot up to squeeze with a death grip on the corsair’s throat, cracking and popping sounds reverberating as the man’s throat collapsed in Chakka’s hand. His own hands shot up to try and force the slave’s away, but his thin arms and hands, nowhere near as strong, left him able only to claw at Chakka’s hand and arm. The corsair tried to scream, but all that came out was a small screech and gurgling. When his body stopped shaking and his arms fell limp to his side, the huge Southron let the man’s weight take him to the floor in a heap.

“Are your chains still unlocked?” Chakka asked, turning to Jagar as if nothing had happened, with no edge to his voice but a slight feeling of hurry. If he and hopefully all of the slaves could be freed from their chains, if anything happened to the ship they would not be left to die. He planned no heroic escape during a heated battle – that would surely mean death for most of them, if not all. And he would not risk his life in such a way. There would be no point to any attempt if it was to end with his death, having never gained his freedom. He simply wanted everyone to be kept alive, for a chance to escape.

Of course, his first action would be to place the body somewhere inconspicuous, so that, hopefully, it would simply be seen as a casualty from battle when found. Chakka almost regretted his actions, thinking of how the slaves could all be punished for what he had done because they could not pinpoint him, but he had no time for that. And he would not regret it; for it was better that they be whipped than drown or perish in flames, dying with the very ship that was their prison.

[Folwren]

Only a few minutes had passed since they had drawn in sight of the Pelargir and its Corsair attackers, but those minutes seemed to take hours even to the Captain, used to waiting and biding his time.

They could see the Corsair ships now, and they were fully manned and rigged, turning about and pulling out into the main stream, wheeling about swiftly and plunging upriver. A grim, very unamused smile pulled at Hereric’s mouth. The Corsairs. . .rash idiots. . .always flirting and playing with danger and taunting death. So be it. He and his men and all the ships behind him were ready. Men swarmed and stampeded across the decks of the Umbarian ships, and from this distance, Hereric could see little order. The men on his deck stood perfectly still, waiting, and longing, for an order to be given. Soon enough, but it wasn’t yet time.

The time was drawing near, though. The red light dimmed and paled. The first Corsair ship came abreast the Cuivië almost a furlong to their starboard side, but the Captain let her pass - she would be dealt with by the others behind him.

A second ship was coming up on his larboard side and Hereric set his attention on it. “Tack sheets and hard to larboard!” the captain called. The men at the sails instantly obeyed and the wheel spun beneath the skilled hands of Bregin. The Cuivië spun about and bore down suddenly on the Corsair ship. The water foamed at her bow beam and a murmur ran over the deck of the ship as they came closer and close to their quarry. The men gripped their weapons tighter and a tension and excitement rose.

“Let fly!” the captain shouted. Calls echoed across the decks and up into the rigging, and the arrows whistled as they left the string. But the Corsairs were no less prepared and they immediately answered with the same sort of volley, and some of their arrows blazed with fire. The captain nodded, as though his mind was made up and he turned his head slightly towards Bregin. “Take us straight at them. . .catch them on their larboard beam before the galley.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Bregin replied.

This was not a difficult maneuver, for the Xebec turned towards them, as though also wishing to ‘catch them’ on their forward beam, too. The rams scraped and a shudder passed over the Cuivië. The Captain half winced, hoping his ship was spared a couple holes at least. But Bregin’s hand was steady on the wheel and though he missed his mark and both ships edged away from each other, they were near to their enemies side. The oars extending from the galley bristled before their bow now, and the next instant their was a crackling and popping as they snapped before her.

The arrows whined from one ship to the other. Men fell on both sides, wounded, and a few dead. But as the Cuivië drew beside the enemy ship, the men rushed to the side with a shout of excitement and eagerness. The grappling hooks were thrown and the ships brought side to side. The broken oars were still extended parallel above the water. The ship’s side met them, and for a minute, their progress was stilled.

In that moment, as the slaves’ oars kept the Cuivië away from the edge of the Xebec, a single Corsair, eager for battle and blood shed, swung across the empty air and water beneath to the Gondorian ship and dropped onto her deck. A roar of a mixture of anger and disgust met him and he was immediately assaulted on all sides. And at that moment, the oars gave in, some brok to useless stumps, and others receded, there was a surge as the Cuivië plunged sideways and game up with a shudder against the other ship’s side. Cheering swept over the decks and the men surged forward, their weapons in hand.

Hereric grasped a rope and with it, he steadied himself and leaped up onto the rail. The King stepped up beside him and a smile flashed between them. Menelcar joined them after half a second. They stood together, their swords drawn, and before boarding the Corsair, Captain Hereric turned to his crew, and raised his sword.

“Now men!” he cried, his powerful voice raising above the shouts and cries for battle. “Forward and across! For Gondor! And for your King!”

There was a rushing cry and the men surged forward. Hereric swung across and landing on the opposite rail, he descended into his enemies with a great sweep of his white sword.

[Anguirel]

Amid the turmoil on board the Fame and Fortune as Corsairs seized up their cutlasses, spitting on the blades and licking the edges for luck, or dipped wickedly sharp knives and cunningly-fletched arrows in venom, a band of eight figures, imposing in black armour, barged through the press. No one wanted a fight with Sangalazin's guards, no matter what they thought of the new Castamirion King of Gondor himself, so the knot of tall, fair fighters were yielded to even by the savagest of Corsairs.

The most impressively built of the armoured warriors raised his visor and called out in a voice that carried: "Where is the captain?" No reference was made to Rakin's own newly acquired title.

"On the poop deck preparing the fight," one of the more hardened and plucky Corsairs replied, his voice grudging, even a little contemptuous.

"I see," the Black Guard Captain, Andlang, replied haughtily. As the group hurried on, one of the fighters further behind raised an iron gauntlet against the pirate who had spoken so bitterly, smashing out his teeth.

***

So it was that as Captain Chatazrakin stood among the more able Corsairs of his suite, a rapier glittering at his side, an spyglass affixed to his vision as he beheld the Gondorian fleet, cursing the vessel under his command that was allowing itself to be boarded, he found himself joined by Andlang and his malcontent soldiers-a sight that at first would be bound to make him wary.

But Andlang, most unexpectedly, saluted him. "Hail, son of Sangahyando. Our crossbows and blades are at your command. The rest of the guards, and His Majesty," he sneered, "won't be joining us. The King of Gondor thought this moment an ideal one to commence an orgy in his quarters."

Chatazrakin gave a curt nod to show he understood, but Andlang had not finished. He thrust a long, slender object, wrapped in black velvet, into the Corsair Captain's free hand, and coming closer, whispered in his ear.

"The sword of Castamir, Rakin, symbol of Sangalazin's authority, the longsword inscribed with the love-legends of the Black Numenoreans. I thought it should perhaps now go to a man prepared to fight. Use this gift well."

This hurried explanation made, Andlang gave a sharp look to his fellow guards, and the eight killers dispersed about the deck, drawing their swords and unstrapping crossbows and arbalests. The vastly tall, Gondorian-blooded, hand-picked soldiers had an air of authority, and naturally drew bands of Corsairs to follow their orders with instant discipline.

Normally Rakin would have rightly resented such usurpation of his power. But he now knew from the sword swathed in its coverings in his right hand that this dissidents were his men, not Sangalazin's.

The sound of music, laughter and gasps of dubious nature drifted onto the deck from below as the last Lord of Umbar commenced his celebrations. But it would seem worlds away from Rakin's preparations for battle.

[Arry]

Bahir stood at the ready for the battle, his eyes on the archers he would supply. They would not ask outright for the flamed arrows; he had learned early that painful lesson. Instead he must watch for the subtle signs their bodies gave that another would be needed, or that he must speed up for a volley, or now slow down as the target drew out of range.

The order had not come yet to his section of bowmen to let fly. Bahir shook off the tension and refocused himself. For a moment, though, his eyes were drawn to the deck where the Captain stood. Some few of Lord . . . no . . . King Sangalazin’s guards surrounded Chatazrakin. They had given him something; what, he could not see. But now they had positioned themselves about the Captain’s deck.

His eyes narrowed and he sucked at the corner of his lip, considering what this might mean. Perhaps nothing, except that the Black clad ones wished to fight. His gut urged him to a different conclusion. There had been a subtle shift in power, he thought. And he wondered how it would play out once the King got wind of it. On the other hand, what could he do? The cream of his guards had made this choice and who would stand against them?

He ducked, only just in time, as Balak’s great fist came round to clout him on his head. ‘Eyes forward, Boy!’ the tall, burly man rasped out. ‘The Captain has signaled us to stand ready.’

[Firefoot]

As the Gondorian soldiers leapt aboard the Corsair ship, Menelcar had little doubt that this individual battle was all but won. Certainly, the Corsairs were excellent fighters, but what they really excelled at was ship-to-ship, and now that they had boarded, the battle would be fought on a more man-to-man level. What was more, they seemed to have more soldiers than the Corsairs. But that did not mean that they could slack off.

He plunged into the battle at the king’s side at the head of the soldiers. Having served in the army when he was younger, Menelcar was no foreigner to battles and began to fight his way towards the entrance to the lower decks. Slowly he and the men with him pushed through the fray, Corsairs falling before them. The rocking deck became slippery with blood. With a last sweep of his sword, all opposition guarding the lower decks was removed and he with about ten men at his back descended into the ship.

Unsurprisingly, they met very few soldiers; most men were up top fighting. They found their way down to the slave deck, where the first really prepared armed strength was waiting since they had left the upper deck. These men had clearly been charged with the guarding of the slaves. They were fierce fighters, and more than half of Menelcar’s men were slain before the three guards fell dead. The keys to the slaves’ chains were taken from them, and Menelcar left orders with one of the soldiers for freeing them and bringing them up to the main deck when it seemed most of the fighting was finished and they were ready to return to the Cuivië.

With that, he returned alone to the middle deck, searching for the Captain’s room that would contain the ship’s log and other documents that might be useful. He knew that it could not be terribly long before the horn call was sounded for the return to their own ship, so he had to work quickly. It took too long for him to find the right cabin, much too long. Once inside, he began to riffle through the books and papers on top, most interested in finding the ship’s log but also keeping an eye out for anything else that looked important. The log, fortunately, was where it should be and Menelcar found it quickly. He grabbed at a few other papers that may or may not have been important and tucked them between the cover and first page of the log.

Suddenly he heard a sound behind him, and only quick reflexes saved him from the near silent soldier that had appeared at his back. He turned and ducked, bringing up his sword just in time to save his life, but not well enough to avoid the deep gash scored in his left shoulder. Had it not been for that, the battle would have been relatively easy for Menelcar, but now the score was much evened. His two-handed sword became difficult to wield, especially in the tight quarters. Eventually, it was not his own weapon that saved him at all but a short knife laying in the cabin intended for the sharpening of a pen. In a swift moment when he pressed a slight advantage, he plunged the sharp blade into the man’s throat. Only then did Menelcar realize how light-headed he felt, how much blood he had probably lost from the deep and painful wound. Menelcar tore a long strip from the dead man’s clothing (even this small action seemed to take monumental effort), and bound it tightly around his barely useful arm. He picked up the ship’s log which he had dropped and tucked it into a pocket. He took his sword in his right hand, although he doubted he would be able to use it to any effect, and rose to his feet. It took several moments for him to steady himself before he hurried as quickly as he could to find out what was happening with the battle. But he took the stairs too fast, and with a distinct feeling of vertigo as he came to the top deck, Menelcar fainted.

[Alcarillo]

The Ráca and the Fame and Fortune wheeled towards each other, cutting crescent wakes in the river as the other ships were already clashing in battle. Captain Vórimandur stood at the starboard rail, leaning over the water and brandishing Sercendil. He glanced behind him, where the Cuivie had boarded another corsair ship, and was pleased to see that the Ráca was alone with her prey. His heart leapt with excitement as the ships neared each other within range of arrows.

"Quickly! A shield!" he shouted into the crowd of soldiers on deck. A shield was tossed to him just in time. A group of archers aboard the xebec were fitting arrows to their strings. They fired, and to Captain Vórimandur's horror, a few were aflame. He shouted a curse he normally wouldn't have said in polite company and lifted his shield along with the soldiers. The arrows mostly struck the side of the Ráca, and a few bounced across the deck. A hapless sailor was struck in the thigh and slid to his knees, and another was hit in the stomach. A couple of arrows thudded into the soldiers' shields, including a flaming arrow, which had to be drenched in water. Sailors rushed forward to the rail to douse the flames that had sprouted along the ship's starboard side. They threw bucketfuls of water over the rail, then hurried back to the larboard side of the ship to avoid the next volley.

In the intermission, Vórimandur rushed to the base of the mainmast, and called to Sergeant Angaden, "Fire at will! Kill their archers!" And as he hurried back alongside the soldiers, the archers fired a salvo of flashing arrows at the Fame and Fortune. Vórimandur cheered when he saw one of the corsair archers fall to his death over the side of the ship, and a few slump upon the railing. Foolish corsairs, lining up their bowmen in a neat little row on deck for our arrows, he thought. But the corsairs were firing another volley, completely of flames. Every soldier ducked behind his shield and every sailor hit the deck. The arrows whizzed past Vórimandur, missing him, but two soldiers weren't so lucky, and once the fire was put out they were taken below decks to have their wounds tended to. Arrows were now flying from ship to ship. The mizzen staysail had caught aflame, and the sailors were having a difficult time throwing water up onto the fire. Sailors were continuously rushing to the rail to drench the flames on the ship's side, risking the arrows of the corsairs. Sailors filled buckets as quickly as they could from the pump and handed the buckets to their shipmates. Men emptied buckets on each other, too, to keep the flames off. One sailor, hit in the leg by a flaming arrow, leapt over the side of the ship and into the river. Two more were hit and were drenched by their crewmates. Sergeant Nillendion ran through his soldiers to reach the captain.

"Sir, my soldiers can't just hide behind their shields. We need a battle! Let us board their ship and fight them hand to hand!"

"I agree! As soon as the ships come close enough, take some soldiers to the corsairs. But for now, we'll have to weather their arrows for a bit."

The two ships drifted closer together. The mizzen staysail fire had been put out, but now the corsair archers had better aim. Two more sailors were hit by arrows, one of them in the throat and bleeding profusely. The flaming arrows thwacked the soldiers' shields, and sailors from behind threw water upon the shields to keep the flames down. The two ships were even closer now. Sailors gathered on deck with cutlasses and knives. The corsairs were firing pointblank, and the Gondorian archers had a perfect view of the corsairs from their high perches. The ships were separated by a few feet of river. Sergeant Nillendion stood up, and called to his soldiers, "Now! Over to the corsairs!" And he and most of his soldiers and some armed sailors rushed to the rail, and with one great bound, leapt from the Ráca to the Fame and Fortune with a great war cry resounding from their throats.

"For Gondor and the King!"

Captain Vórimandur lived for moments like these. He was swept up by the battle, and ran to the rail, put one foot atop it, and with one great bound, leapt onto the deck of an enemy vessel alongside his fellow seamen.

[Folwren]

The fight was coming to an end. The battle had been decided as soon as the Gondorians were able to set foot on the Corsair ship. There was no chance of the pirates winning, what with the total superior number of men on the Gondorian side. Hereric stood leaning somewhat heavily on the rail of the quarter deck, speaking to Winmar.

'Have the slaves been freed?' he asked.

'I believe so, sir. I understand Menelcar, the king's adviser fellow, took down a handful of men and freed them.' Hereric looked rather sharply at his left tenant. 'That is to say, sir,' the young man quickly corrected himself, 'The King's councelor took some men and freed them.'

'I'd advise you to watch yourself, Winmar, not only for your own sake,' the captain said in a low voice. 'but that is good. I am glad that he managed to do that. Where's the captain?'

'Killed in the fray,' Winmar replied, turning and motioning where the body of the Corsair captain was being lifted up and carried away from the other dead. Hereric nodded and has eyes scanned the rest of the deck.

'Have the entire ship searched out for any remaining Corsairs,' he said finally. 'And then give an order to return to our ship at once.'

While the captain was thus occupied with speaking with his first mate, King Telumehtar walked among the soldiers and the slain. He gave a few words to the men he passed, causing a proud, pleasant flush to rise in the soldier's face that he spoke to. But as he passed through the men, his eye always searched through them, looking rather anxiously for his advisor. As more time passed and he still could not find him, his face grew serious and harder, and his kind words were fewer. The sailors and soldiers drew back silently for him and he passed quickly towards the stern.

He paused at the foot of the ladder to the quarter deck. Where would he be? Supposing he lived, he would have, or at least, he should have, come directly to him at the end of the fighting. But he had not. Was he killed then?

'Your majesty?' The captain's voice cut through his thoughts and Telumehtar looked up rather startled. Hereric stood before him, one hand resting on the ladder for support. 'You were looking for someone?'

'Yes. Menelcar. I haven't seen him since the battle started. We were seperated almost at once.'

'And he has not been seen since the fighting stopped?' Captain Hereric pressed. Yet before the king could give the obvious answer to the question, they were interrupted by Winmar. The young man rushed up from behind him, his face somewhat pale.

'Sir, sir! The counselor's body. . .' he stopped abruptly seeing the king. 'I beg your pardon,' he said quickly with a stiff salute. 'But the councelor's body has just been found in the captain's cabin below. I believe he is alive, sir, but he's been wounded.'

'Where?' Telumehtar asked at once. He and the captain were shown down at once and Menelcar was finally discovered, stretched at his full length on the floor. He had fallen on his face and a large bruise was forming on his cheekbone, but he lay on his back now, as they had turned him. A soldier stood beside him, as guard, and he did not move from his place as the captain and the king both entered with Winmar behind them Telumehtar knelt beside him, put his fingers beneath his jaw and felt for the pulse and then turned his eyes and gentle hands to the wound on his councelor's arm. 'He'll need to be carried across at once, I think.' He lifted his head and looked about the cabin. His eyes finally rested on the man Menelcar had fought and killed. He nodded, understanding at once what had happened. Hereric turned and looked as well and then at once turned his eyes back to the king and Menelcar.

'I'll see that it's done at once,' he said, and walked out to give the necessary orders.

[Firefoot]

The day was warm, the sky blue – one of the first nice days of spring. Menelcar had found for himself a comfortable spot high on the wall of the fourth circle of Minas Tirith, and, as usual, was writing in his little book. He could think of no place he would rather be at the moment, with all the fields surrounding the city spread out beneath him, and there, farther away, the mighty Anduin hastening on towards the sea.

He heard voices coming closer – one unmistakably familiar rising above the rest: his brother’s. Menelcar considered moving to a new spot, then decided against it. He had been there first, after all; why should they make him move? Perhaps they would not bother him this time.

No such luck. The voices stopped directly beneath him, and snatches of their hushed tones were borne up on the wind to be heard by him. What’s he… alone? Thinks… better than us. Never… normal people. Menelcar shut out the rest of the conversation and pretended that he had not noticed them, pretended that the words did not burn like cold iron. After a few moments, his brother called up to him, “Hey, Menelcar! We’re going out to practice some archery. Want to come?”

He considered ignoring them, but called down, “I’ll pass.” They didn’t really want him along, anyway. Menelcar was pretty sure that their father had talked to his brother about including him on things like this, and if so, he was not interested. He did not accept pity.

He was a better shot than any of them anyway. They’d probably talk about him being a show-off, then.

Dreaming – dreaming… But he couldn’t wake up. And in the strange way that dreams have, his twisted. For some reason, his dream-self craned around to watch the boys walk off, laughing and talking and already forgetting him. But one of them turned around, and it wasn’t one of the boys at all, but Hereric. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. Menelcar knew what this brother’s friend-Hereric person was thinking. You try to come off like you don’t need us, like you’re better than us, but you know you’re not, know you’re actually jealous.

And Menelcar, as he had so many times, turned away from the other boys, trying to hide the hurt and confusion that etched in his face…

Then he seemed to be swimming upward through blackness, shedding off the skin of his youth. He was the advisor to the king again. He was better, more powerful than any of them. No, they didn’t matter any more. The stabbing pain in his shoulder returned to him full force, and he recalled dimly the events of the battle. How long since he had passed out? There seemed to have been very little elapsed time. And where was he now? He opened his eyes slowly. He had been moved into the cabin he shared with Telumehtar – did that mean the battle was over? And without him, where would the king turn? Surely not to Hereric. He wouldn’t. Menelcar took stock of his freshly bandaged shoulder – it hurt like the dickens, and he knew that he had lost a lot of blood, but otherwise he felt all right. Yes, he would go to the king now. He was no weakling to be held abed. He moved to raise himself from his reclined position and felt as if his arm were ripping off. A grunt of pain escaped his lips.

“Awake now? You’re not to leave that hammock,” came a stern voice. Menelcar saw now that there was a doctor in the room with him. “You’re not in any shape to go anywhere with that wound, and the king himself has given me orders that I am to attend to your health.” Prior to this last statement, Menelcar had been considering trying to override the doctor. No chance of that now – he would have to wait till the man left.

“Tell me the news of the battle, then,” said Menelcar.

“I do not know how it goes; it may even be over, now, though I think some ships are still engaged,” he answered.

“Then what of the king? Where is he?”

“Last I saw him, he was alive and well and with the captain of this ship. I do not know where he is now.”

Menelcar wanted to strangle the man. Did he have no news at all? “You do not seem very busy. Are there no other wounded that you should be attending to?” By the Valar, it was difficult to sound commanding from such a position.

“Not as many as you might think, perhaps. But I have been commanded to see to you.” His tone was as mild as ever.

“And you have done so; I will be fine.” There was no gratitude in his terse tone. Suddenly Menelcar remembered the other ship’s log that he had saved, and pulled it from his clothing with his good arm. “And if you will not let me see the king, at least see to it that he gets this.” As the man came to take the book, Menelcar felt himself drifting back towards sleep, although he fought it. He could be doing so many more useful things right now! There were, perhaps, some disadvantages of his position. As an ordinary soldier, he might have been able to tend to his own wounds – or less specific care would have been placed on him. But he did not have the opportunity to see what the doctor did next as he faded out of consciousness.

[Thinlómien]

Lingwë could see the enemies in the twilight. Dark shapes against the night sky. Some of them were standing still and some were shooting arrows. Surprisingly few of them were on the move, except the sailors who were working to steer the ship at their captain’s slightest command.

Arrows were exchanged as the ships drew closer. Only a few men on either ship fell; they were standing side by side, their shields defending themselves and each other.

With a sudden crash the ships collided. Orders were shouted and then the command came. Lingwë, along with his companions rushed to the decks of the Fame and Fortune. “Gondor!” they shouted.

Sergeant Nillendion was on the lead. This was the moment of his glory. Starlight reflected from his helmet and his long sword. “For Telumehtar, the rightful King of Gondor!” he yelled as he charged.

What happened next wasn’t beautiful. Many men on the front line fell as they were mercilessly fired by the corsair archers. However, the arrows seemed to avoid Sergeant Nillendion and he remained unhurt.

Lingwë was among the last ones to board the Fame and Fortune. When he stepped on the enemy decks, most of his company was already fighting the corsairs. But soon he noticed there were plenty of corsairs for everyone.

“Sergeant Nillendion! To the sergeant’s aid! He is been surrounded by the enemy!” Lingwë turned his head towards the shouter. That was a bad mistake. He heard a sword swing behind him and knowing he could never be fast enough he prayed for a swift death.

But the blow never came. Lingwë turned fast enough to see an arrow sticking from the corsair’s shoulder. Someone had just saved his life. He lifted his sword to strike the man. As Lingwë’s sword cut the corsair’s side an arrow pierced his forehead. The man fell screaming.

Only a few seconds had passed, but it had been an eternity for Lingwë. The Gondorians around him were hurrying somewhere. It took a moment for Lingwë to remember the situation. Along with his companions he hurried to the sergeant’s aid.

Sergeant Nillendion fought desperately. He and his five companions were outnumbered. One by one they fell fighting beside him until only he remained alive. The sergeant heard his faithful soldiers hasten to his aid, but in his heart he knew they were too late. A colossal corsair swung his gigantic sword towards him. As he parried it, a cruel-looking scimitar hit him from behind.

That was the end of Nillendion, a faithful sergeant of Gondor.

Only a few seconds after the fatal blow the wielder of the scimitar was beheaded by commander
Darnir’s sword.

“Belowdecks! He was trying to get belowdecks! Follow me!” commander Darnir yelled. The soldiers rallied to him, simultaneously trying to parry the swords and the arrows of the corsairs.

The Gondorians started to fight their way to get belowdecks. They moved slowly; the corsairs were trying to hinder them by all means.

To Lingwë it was like a never-ending nightmare. Countless times he parried and stroke. Numbly he aimed a heavy blow at a corsair who was about to finish from behind the man who fought beside Lingwë. Lingwë hit and the corsair fell. As Lingwë glanced at the man he had saved he was shocked to recognise the face. “Don’t tell the cap”, the Cook said and grinned looking a bit disoriented, but managed to parry a blow aimed at his head. Before Lingwë could say anything he got busy with defending himself from a violent series of blows.

Slowly but firmly the company advanced belowdecks. Many fell on the way but the rest reached their destination.

[Dunwen]

Nimir’s first battle was not quite what he’d expected when he joined the King’s navy. He’d thought he would bravely avenge his father and sister’s deaths in a glorious fight like the ones in the old songs. Instead, as the Corsair ships had sailed closer and closer, his heart pounded louder and louder, while his stomach knotted tighter and tighter. He wondered if he’d ever see his home and family in Lebennin again, then shied away from the idea that he might be dead in minutes.

Gimil seemed read his mind. The weather-beaten archer at his side said gruffly, “This ain’t the time to think of home, boy. Pay attention to the enemy or you’ll be spitted like a fish in the shallows. “ As he spoke, he adjusted his bowstring and shifted his quiver slightly to make the arrows easier to reach. Nimir turned his head to watch the older archer with some surprise. He saw Gimil peer down toward the decks of the two closest Corsair ships. The man snorted in disgust. “We’ll end up spitted and roasted if we’re not lively.” Raising his voice, he called to Sergeant Angaden, “Sir, ‘ware fire. They’ve got braziers on deck.”

“Good eyes, Gimil,” replied the sergeant. “Water for the sails,” he bellowed to the ship’s boys below. Their matter-of-fact manner amazed Nimir, but he found a shred of comfort, too. If old hands like Gimil and Sergeant Angaden weren’t afraid, maybe things weren’t as bad as he thought. The boy from Lebennin took a deep breath and the knotted mass that had been his stomach loosened a bit.

Then the black Corsair ships were in range. In moments, barrages of arrows were exchanged between the two sides as the enemies tested each other for weaknesses. The Gondorian archers, most posted in the rigging of their ships, had the advantage of higher position and could see their enemies better. The Corsairs, drawn up in ranks on their decks, could fire deadly masses of arrows. As the first shafts began to whistle through the Ráca’s rigging, Nimir gritted his teeth and fired back as best he could. Trying to aim while poised on a narrow spar that swayed constantly was far different from shooting a deer in the woods, or even shooting from the ship’s deck. Movement that is barely noticeable on the deck of a ship will cause the tops of the masts to pitch in a large arc. Frustrated and scared, Nimir had a strong urge to scramble down the rigging and hide under a tub or below decks, but the presence of Gimil and Dimion kept him at his post. He gritted his teeth and simply began firing.

“Easy, lad!” Dimion spoke up from his other side. His low words were broken by the twang of his bowstring. “You’re wasting arrows. Look sharp and find a target…like that spawn of Sauron there.” On the deck of the Fame and Fortune, an archer collapsed with Dimion's arrow in his gullet. “There! There’s another one come to take his place…get him.” Nimir aimed, shot and a second archer on the Fame and Fortune fell. Aboard the Ráca, Dimion said “Good lad, keep it up. And look for officers, kill them first.” Calmed by Dimion’s directions, Nimir was able to watch the two veterans out of the corners of his eyes. He quickly grasped how they compensated for the pitching of the ship and began firing when they did. He found that the massed ranks of archers made it easier to hit them. Memories of his father and sister flooded his mind, helping him focus even more. A few minutes later, when the Corsairs began firing the flaming arrows into the Ráca’s sails, he was actually indignant. Hazel eyes narrowing with anger, he sent a steady barrage of arrows toward the deck of the great Corsair ship. He still missed some of his shots, but fewer and fewer as the fight went on. When it was clear that the Ráca and the other ship were about to collide, Sergeant Angaden called a halt to arrow fire so they could brace for the impact. Nimir, however, kept firing until the ships came abreast of each other in a scream of wooden hulls and snapping oars. He only managed not to be thrown to the deck by catching one of the ropes at the last moment.

When he’d scrambled back to his place, the sergeant was shouting at him. “Nimir, I gave an order! By Varda’s stars, I’m going to throw you in the brig when this is over!”

“He picked off their Master of Archers, Sergeant,” called Gimil.

“Did you then, boy? Good work!” Angaden was slightly less angry at this news. “You’re going on report when this is over.”

Nimir found the familiar phrase ‘going on report’ strangely comforting. “Yessir,” he replied, but the sergeant wasn’t listening. “Archers!” Angaden’s voice boomed over the din of fighting on the decks below, “Fire at will! Aim for officers, archers and swordsmen. Careful of our own men and slaves.”

The Ráca’s archers continued firing, although it was harder to find a clear target in the seething mass of fighting men on the decks below. But there were still determined Corsair archers trying to shoot fiery arrows at the Ráca, as well as cutlass-wielding sailors fiercly defending the black ship. Nimir sent an arrow into the shoulder of a Corsair fighting a Gondorian who looked a lot like Lingwë; a moment later Dimion pierced the Corsair’s head with a mighty shot. Suddenly Dimion himself was hit in the side. Nimir automatically aimed and fired in the direction the arrow came from as Dimion gasped and slid off the spar. Other Gondorians had fallen, but being near the bow of the ship, Nimir had not noticed them. His nerves started jangling with fear again as he glanced briefly at Dimion’s empty place. Momentary grief was replaced by fierce anger as he and Gimil continued firing arrow after arrow at the Corsairs. Reminded sharply of the danger he was in, Nimir wondered how much longer the battle would last.

[Alcarillo]

The sun was setting, but the intense battle was still lit by the braziers and torches the corsairs had used to light their arrows. The dense battle on the ships sloshed back and forth. The dead piled on top of each other, and still the soldiers and sailors fought on fiercely, hand-to-hand aboard both ships.

Captain Vórimandur had leapt alongside his soldiers from the Ráca to the Fame and Fortune, scattering the archers across the latter's decks like pigeons. He had killed one or two with long, slashing sword strokes before he and a group of sailors bristling with knives had came to the mainmast. They grouped together and charged shouting through the heart of the corsairs. "For Gondor and our king!" Vórimandur found himself yelling. He and the sailors pushed into the center of the deck, and began to swipe at the enemy ferociously. Two corsairs teamed up against Vórimandur, tempted by his fine armor; it would've made a perfect prize to strip from the captain's corpse. Vórimandur battered one corsair with his shield while attacked the other, slicing wildly at the man's shirt. Vórimandur's sword cut across the corsair's arm, and the corsair dropped his sword in fright and retreated through the battle. His companion, alone with Vórimandur, turned and ran to find his friend. So now Vórimandur, victorious, cut his way alone through the throngs. A corsair armed with a long black spear lunged at Vórimandur, but Vórimandur was quick enough to leap out of the way and kick the corsair in the shins. The corsair slipped and fell onto the deck, but Vórimandur could not stay to kill him, for another corsair was approaching. This one was dressed in black armor, and had long, fair hair arranged around his shoulders. There were several dressed in black armor just like his across the deck, and Vórimandur assumed they were members of some special order of corsair warriors.

The corsair struck first, giving Vórimandur's shield a dizzying blow with his fist, sending Vórimandur wheeling. Then the corsair lunged with his sword. Vórimandur wasn't fast enough to duck away, and the long sword tore into Vórimandur's upper left arm, now unshielded. The pain was at first very sharp, but soon it dulled into a throbbing sort of stinging. Warm blood began to drip from Vórimadur's arm. His shield suddenly felt very heavy to hold. Vórimandur ran through the crowds to escape from this warrior and to find an ally in the fight. He came out the other side of the battle at the Fame and Fortune's port rail, where he found an old sailor friend, Malengil, standing over a heap of dying corsairs, a spear in one hand and a long knife in the other.

"They put up quite a fight!" he said, grinning with his yellowed teeth, "But they couldn't take old Malengil!" He then frowned, seeing Vórimandur's wound, and said, "Cap'n, sir, you're bleedin'! Which ever of those dirty scoundrels did this…"

"I'll be fine," Vórimandur said. He leaned against the railing to catch his breath. "There was a fair-haired corsair, one of the black-armored ones. Just take my shield for me; it's feeling awfully heavy. And fight with me! I'll need some help fighting with one arm wounded."

"Aye, sir," said Malengil. He helped Vórimandur remove his shield, and they traded shield for knife. "Though I'm not sure how many you can kill with that arm," said Malengil. He grinned again.

"Captain, Captain Vórimandur!" a young soldier shouted, interrupting the Captain's brief rest. He emerged from the battle, slipping through the blood on the deck and stumbling over a dying body. "Captain, sir, I have grave news! Oh, you're bleeding…" Vórimandur waved his hand to tell him it was nothing. "Ah, yes, sir. Well, Sergeant Nillendion has been killed! I saw it myself. He took a big sword in the back."

The unwelcome news gripped Vórimandur's heart like a cold fist. So Sergeant Nillendion had finally met his end! There would be time later to grieve, and Captain Vórimandur pushed his sorrow aside for more important matters. "Tell me, soldier, what is your name?" said Vórimandur, "And what of the other soldiers? Is Commander Darnir leading them, and have they gone below decks yet to free the slaves?"

"Yes, sir, I think so. I was separated from them when Sergeant Nillendion was killed, sir. Oh, and my name is Nimlang, sir, son of Nimfang."

"Good. Nimlang, you can fight alongside us. This is Malengil. You two are to stay at my side in the battle. There's strength in numbers, and I've been wounded. Now, it was one of the black-armored corsairs that did it. I suspect they're part of some special guard, so be on the lookout for 'em! Now come, back into the battle we go!"

Vórimandur, and Nimlang and Malengil, readied their weapons and charged back into the fight, shouting battle cries into the clanging din of battle.

"For Gondor!"

[Kath]

Curamir had leapt aboard the Corsair ship with the others full equally of anticipation and trepidation. This was to be his first real clash with an enemy and while he was not looking forward to the possibility of death, the chance to prove his abilities was very tempting. Leaping over a body already on the floor he charged forward sword raised, hoping the arrows flying over his head from his own ship would miss him. They were hitting people just ahead of him, and he feared less for his own life as he saw the near perfect marksmanship being demonstrated.

Following the pack of soldiers through the ship Curamir found opponents on every side. Swords, daggers and even a few handheld arrows were thrust at him, and at times it was all he could do to block them, never mind deliver a blow himself. He realised then how inexperienced he was, as he could see those veterans ahead of him cutting a path through the enemy fighters with more skill than he could ever dream of having. Thankful to be with them and not against them he brought his attention back to those attacking him.

As he did so a sword came slicing through the air toward him. He caught it on his own and pushed against the latest foe. The other soldier fell back into a wall. At least he had thought it was a wall, but as the mans weight hit it part of it opened, and Curamir realised that it was a door. On second glance it wasn't well hidden, but he had been so concerned with staying alive that his eyes had just swung straight past it.

His opponent had just headed through this door and Curamir followed, worried that there were more soldiers on the way. He knew he wouldn't be able to stop a whole group of them, but he could at least stall them. As he ran through he found himself on a flight of stairs going down. Slowing down he moved cautiously, quietly, hoping this would allow his to catch his enemy by surprise. Rounding a corner he caught a glint of metal behind him out of the corner of his eye and turned swiftly, bringing his sword up and down with him. He heard it strike metal, but it certainly didn't feel like the clash of sword upon sword, and the following yell didn't sound like that of a man wounded.

"Freed! Sir you have my thanks."

The language was not coarse as Curamir would have expected of a Corsair, but refined and polite, if mysteriously exuberant. Reaching out he grabbed what felt like a ragged shirt and pulled the stranger into the light reaching down from the stairwell. The sight that met his eyes shocked him so that he was bereft of words for a moment. The man before him was certainly Gondorian, but filthy, dressed in rags and covered in what looked like marks from both whip, fist and boot. He stood simply staring for a few moments, before a crash from above caught his attention and he snapped back to reality.

Hissing to the newly freed slave to follow him Curamir raced back up the stairs and found the door fortunately still open. Running through it he moved back in the direction of the Ráca, ignoring shouts that he was going the wrong way. Reaching the line where Gondorain and Corsair fighters had clashed at the small gap between the ships Curamir cut his way through from behind, surprising both sides alike. Pushing the slave across onto the Ráca he yelled to the soldiers on board to keep him safe, and fought his way back through the crowd to continue the battle.

[Alcarillo]

Captain Vórimandur leapt back into the slaughter, slinging his shining sword through the air and laughing at his foes. By his side were Nimlang, a young recruit killing his first men, and Malengil, a seasoned veteran of the wars against Umbar. Captain Vórimandur was wounded, but ignored the warm blood flowing freely down his arm, and slaughtered just as fiercely as before.

"That is for the wreck of the Telpelingwë!" he shouted as he beheaded another corsair, "And that is for the boarding of my ship three years ago at Tolfalas! And then near Cape Caran, and all the other times! And that is for the death of Nillendion!"

By now the soldiers below decks spilled back out, with a few rescued slaves in tow. Behind them came a mob of corsairs, scimitars glistening, and they came roaring across the decks. The battle thickened. Men were shoved overboard and into the black river below. More Gondorians leapt across to the Fame and Fortune to compensate for the losses, but more corsairs leapt to the Ráca. Both ships were tangled in a deadly mob of crew and weapons, surging back and forth, from one ship to the other. At times the Gondorians were shoved back to their ship, and at times the corsairs were routed and pursued across the Fame and Fortune's blood-stained deck. But now the corsairs were gaining the upper hand. Their nimble seamen leapt upon the ropes and climbed like agile monkeys up to the sails, risking the Gondorians' arrows for escape. Their wily captain had seen his dangerous position. One of his ships was captured, and the other fleeing, with a dozen more enemy ships approaching. If his ship escaped, the battle would be over. The Gondorians would scramble panicked back to their own ship, or else be caught alone on a corsair vessel, to be shut in a prison cell and slowly tortured to reveal imagined Gondorian secrets.

"Up the masts! Get this ship moving!" the corsair captain shouted as he tried his best to keep out of the throngs of battle. "I want to see these Eldacarioni scattering back to their ship like ants!"

They heeded his words with a curt nod and the most nimble corsairs leapt to their work, leaving the fighting to the stronger veterans below. The deep red sails unfurled and caught the slight breeze. The Fame and Fortune inched forward.

Nimlang caught Captain Vórimandur by the arm. "Captain, sir, the ship is moving! We have to get back to the Ráca!" he shouted over the noise of battle.

"What? No!" Vórimandur shook Nimlang's arm off. "One more charge into the battle, and then we can leave!"

Malengil grabbed the captain by the other arm. "Cap'n, sir, look around! The soldiers are fleeing!" Vórimandur saw the other Gondorians leaping back to the Ráca, chased by hordes of corsairs. It was a complete rout. The Gondorians fled across the Fame and Fortune's decks, slipping and stumbling in the blood and corpses. Already he could see the Ráca sliding slowly backwards as the Fame and Fortune glided forward.

Captain Vórimandur bit his lip in indecision. He wanted to so desperately stay fighting on the Fame and Fortune. She would've made a beautiful prize to sail back to port. But every Gondorian was scattering in panic back to the Ráca. It was now hopeless.

"Fine. We're leaving!" Vórimandur said, and he and Malengil and Nimlang ran back to the Ráca. They reached the Fame and Fortune's starboard rail, the one facing the Ráca, and putting a foot atop it, Vórimandur leapt across the gap between the ships, and landed on his knees on his ship's hard wooden deck. He was pulled up by the sailors, who tried to usher him out of the path of the arrows flying through the air in great volleys, but Captain Vórimandur pushed them away. Defying the arrows, he stood and ran down the length of the Ráca, trying to keep up with the Fame and Fortune.

"Follow that ship!" he shouted to his sailors. The sails unfurled and the Ráca inched forward alongside the Fame and Fortune. But the Fame and Fortune was faster. By the time Vórimandur had reached the Ráca's bow, half of the Fame and Fortune had already passed by, and it glided through the water quicker by the moment.

Aboard the swift xebec, the corsair captain leaned lankily against the mainmast, watching the arrows flit between the ships. Captain Vórimandur caught sight of him, directly across the little gap of water, and for a few moments they stood staring right at each other.

But no words were exchanged across the ships. The Fame and Fortune sailed away, too fast for the Ráca to catch up. And by now the other Gondorian ships were sailing alongside the Ráca. The battle was over, and so quickly. The fighting spirit in Vórimandur fizzled out.

"Commander Darnir!" he called out. The commander ran over from where he helped turn over the bodies piled on the deck.

"Yes, sir. Ah! You're wounded! I'll get the surgeon for you."

"Do that afterwards. Now, commander, I know that Sergeant Nillendion was killed in the battle. You're sergeant now. Having been Nillendion's second-in-command, I'd say you'd be the most capable of leading these soldiers."

"Um, thank you, sir."

"And also, how many slaves did you rescue?"

Sergeant Darnir inhaled deeply, looking for the right answer before he responded. "Just one, sir. The others were either recaptured or killed in the battle."

"Oh, well. War has its casualties." Only one slave was a disappointment. He had expected to slaughter the entire enemy and capture the xebec, and all of its slaves! Vórimandur sent Darnir away so he could mull over things. "Now get me that surgeon! My arm is killing me!"

Sergeant Darnir ran off to find the ship's surgeon. Captain Vórimandur turned towards the southern horizon, where the tiny spot of red that was the Fame and Fortune sped away towards Umbar. The captain stood at the rail, watching the sun go down while Darnir looked for the surgeon. I'll find you, Fame and Fortune, Vórimandur thought, I'll find you…

[piosenniel]

~*~ Finis ~*~


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