The Ambassador's Son RPG

[piosenniel]

Maikafanawen’s post

Jythralo stood in the office of his seaside townhouse, staring absently at the message that lay open on the desk before him. His sea captain’s jacket was draped across the armrest of his settee and his ruffled shirt was un-tucked. The captain hadn’t been able to sleep and a half drunk glass of rum sat nearby. The moon’s beams shone into the room lit by a single candle, leaving shadows on the floor and cushions of the unkempt window seats. The almost inaudible sound of crashing waves drifted in and Jythralo’s nostalgic feeling of sea faring returned.

Abandoning his seat behind the desk he walked out the door onto the balcony overlooking the beach. It was dirty from storm debris that had been left unattended and the perceptible crunch of dead leaves could be heard from under his boots as he walked. A light breeze blew, rustling the diaphanous curtains that flitted out of their open windows, and brushed some of the rubble from the railed in balcony.

He began to hum...Drink of the finest rum around,
Drink it up until it’s gone.
Me bones are wake me Captain!
Aye would it were dawn!

Aloft I’d climb to see across
The sea below so perilous
Though sleep is scarce I shan’t fuss
Heyho me Captain! Privilege us!

Yo ho...yo ho...yo ho...

Jythralo sighed a breath of release and made his way back into his office, taking a hearty gulp of his rum, finishing off the beaker, he looked over the notice. He had read it over countless times that evening and was contemplating its immediate importance.

We bring to the attention of Captain Jythralo Doran of his trial tomorrow evening at the city court square issued by the representatives of Gondor and the ambassador himself, Maurice Thrann. His crime is close interaction with the corsair peoples of Umbar who have committed countless acts of piracy against the free peoples. He is accused of identity standing in such a delegation. At this trial he will be given the chance to deny his past of disobedience and pledge allegiance to the new kingdom of Gondor.

Cordially,

Maurice Thrann,
Ambassador of Gondor to Umbar

The corsair captain ran his fingers systematically through his hair as he thought of the appropriate course of action. He couldn’t run. He’d tried three times already and had always been caught up again soon. The only way, he decided, was to join them for the time being until the watch upon him was lifted. Only then could he continue with his plan of recovering his beloved Umbar to its rightful state. Folding up the letter he walked over and stuffed it into the breast pocket of his captain’s coat and wandered into his room.

His bed was unmade and the pillows were flat. He hadn’t had anything decent of his own since he’d been caught for the third time by Gondorian authorities two and a half years ago spending the last year and a half in jail. Now that he was back he wouldn’t dare send for his things aboard the Rapscallion, safely harbored leagues south of Umbar. He’d wait patiently this time.

*-- -*- --*

*Five years later*

Seventeen-year old Devon was coming home from a party one night when he first discovered his father’s delegate, Jythralo Doran’s true identity. The indigo sky was covered in lavender clouds, signaling the coming fall of rain. No stars were visible and the moon found an opening every so often in a cap between the thundering fog. As his booted feet walked quickly down the cobblestone road, Devon pulled his coat fixedly around his body to keep out the spiraling wind. He had refused a cap on his way out so his auburn hair was pulled back in a short ponytail that whipped incessantly against the wind.

He was a block or two yet from home when he heard the two figures approaching. Thinking them to be local footpads out for the hunt, Devon hid in an alleyway and waited for them to pass. As they drew closer, however, their voices began to be distinguishable over the wind and the boy identified the two as Captain Doran and one of his men.

“But Cap’n, Master Thrann is sure to catch ye should ye be doing yer dealings right thar under his very nose! The crew and I is very concerned Cap’n if I’m not too bold to say so.”

“No, Agdar, not bold at all,” answered the Captain. “But I’ll hold ye remember one thing.” The ambassador’s son had to strain in order to hear and decipher their hushed southern accents. “I’ll be the one to keep the politics under me control and ye’ll be the one ter keep your head in the care of me ship and let me deal with the politics. Savvy?” Agdar nodded timidly and the two continued to walk closer.

“Hows’a everythin’ comin’ then if I might ask,” whispered Jyrthralo’s companion. The captain shrugged.

“It’s just fine. I’ve got the ambassador put in me pocket, and no one suspects a thing. Umbar shall be restored to its proper glory under our administration yet again mate. The corsairs have ne’er been routed, and ne’er shall they! Not as long as I’m Captain!” They were close enough now to the boy hiding just in the shadowed street to see triumphant grins spread across each of their weather-hardened faces.

“ ‘Umbar shall be restored’ says you,” Agdar began nervously. “ ‘Not before we’re caught’ says I. Anxious I am, Cap’n.” The barrel Devon was standing behind took that moment to topple and roll into the path of their feet.

Picking up his feet, Devon ran down the alleyway as the two men pursued. “Get ‘im!” shouted Jythralo. Young Thrann ran down the next street and turned a sharp corner trying the first back door her came to. Locked. He ran on, keeping to the shadows. The thunder cracked as a cloud burst open and the rain came down in torrential sheets.

“Here now! Boy!” yelled Agdar. “Come back ‘ere!” Devon’s footing gave way on the slick rocks and he fell, hitting the street with his shoulder. He scrambled up again and continued to run, holding his right shoulder now with his arm and Agdar gaining on him. As Devon turned a second corner he caught the glint of steel of Agdar’s knife in the light from the window he had just passed.

Just then, Devon ran into a guard, who was out patrolling the streets, toppling him over. The boy got up and ran again while the guard scrambled to his feet just as Agdar came around the corner.

“Say now!” said the guard, grabbing Agdar’s collar. “What’s this? A brigand! What is the manner of this? Who is that boy?” The shouts of the guard were drowned out in the pouring rain as the boy ran towards the embassy.

The black iron gates to the estate were open on orders for the late return of the ambassador’s son from his party. They clanged shut as he ran through them and up the stairs to the large double doors of the house. Two imposing statues of grim looking historical figures were there to meet him towering ten meters above him.

Devon finally pushed poen the doors, and entered the foyer where he was met by Adolfe, his father’s servent. The man looked down his crooked nose and peered at him with his beady black eyes. His thin hair was, like always, plastered back on his head and tied with a small ebony ribbon.

“You are positively filthy Master Devon,” he drawled in oily tones. Adolfe hadn’t ever liked Maurice’s youngest son for his independence and apparent disregard for his father’s rules. Any chance the man got to discipline the boy was gratifying.

“Not now Adolofe,” said Devon earnestly. “I must see Father!” He ran past the servant who pursued.

“Your father’s engaged at the moment Master Devon! Wait!” Ignoring the shouts, Devon ran on until he got to his father’s study
.
“Father!” he shouted to the mahogany door. “Father quick please! It’s Devon!”

“Calm boy,” said Maurice as he opened the door to reveal a man in his mid-forties standing in the smart uniform of the Gondorian nobles. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he held a small beaker of sherry in his right hand. He was a no-nonsense man who had a great “sense” of devotion to his sons, even though it was very misguided. Maurice Thrann was very intent on etiquette and the political situation of his family and spent little time indulging in the frivolous luxuries of letting go and getting out with his boys. His view of devotion and paternity was focused completely on raising them to be successful and well-learned gentlemen.

“What is it? I’m sort of busy,” he said motioning to the men waiting within. “Can it wait?”

“No! It’s important father,” said Devon. “They can hear too,” he added as an afterthought.

“Son, why don’t you tell me once they leave. It shan’t be long.”

“But—!” The door to the study closed and Devon was left standing in front of it, a very put out Adolfe staring at him.

“Now come with me Master Devon and we’ll have ye cleaned up before your father’s delegates leave so you’re at least presentable.” The boy slumped his shoulders and followed the servant reluctantly allowing to be cleaned and changed into a soft and comfortable tunic with split sides and a pair of loose trousers to be ‘presented’, as Adolfe so bluntly put it, to his father.

“It’s too late for that sort of meeting,” protested Devon. “The men will be gone now, I’d like to hurry!”

“Your father insists your clean and not offensive to look at when he sees you,” said Adolfe cheerily, thoroughly enjoying making Devon uncomfortable. At fifteen after ten—as it was—Devon made his way back to the study and waited for the gentlemen to leave. At ten and thirty they finally did and Maurice permitted his youngest son into his small conservatory next to his study.

Maurice Thrann took a seat in a plush chair with fine embroidery and brass nail heads, propping his feet up on a matching foot rest. Devon, to make a point that he was terribly serious, took up the most uncomfortable chair across from his father and looked at him imperiously as he spoke.

“Father, as I was walking home from the social this evening I encountered Jythralo Doran and his man Agdar walking my way. Assuming they were footpads, as I could not see them just yet, I hid in an alleyway for them to pass since I was without my sword. As they drew nearer I could hear of what they were speaking. Agdar began talking nervously and asking Jythralo—”

“Captain Doran, if you please Devon.” The boy, beginning to get frustrated consented and continued what he had to stay.

“Agdar asked Captain Jythralo if he knew what he was doing and telling him that he should mind where and when he conducted his business so as not to let you, father, know what he is up to.” Expecting his father to lean forward in interest, Devon was quite disappointed to see his father take just a lingering sip of his sherry and mutter ‘go on’.

“Then, when asked of how his dealings were coming thereupon, Captain Jythralo said something of this sort, ‘It’s just fine. I’ve got the ambassador put in me pocket, and no one suspects a thing. Umbar shall be restored to its proper glory under our administration yet again mate. The corsairs have ne’er been routed, and ne’er shall they! Not as long as I’m Captain!’” Devon’s temper flared as his father began to laugh.

“There, there boy. I’m glad to see that you certainly enjoyed yourself at the social but I think that a good sleep and a cup of coffee in the morning should do you well to cleanse your mind of the wine they were serving.”

“You don’t believe me?! Father I’m not jesting! I swear it!!” Maurice chuckled and ushered his boy, now rigid with rage from the room.

“Go on Devon. Goodnight,” he said and walked his way to the room.

Furious, Devon took off down the corridor until he reached his own chambers, and stormed to the very back window where he looked out over the wall of the embassy to the sea. The waves came and crashed against beach as the gulls cried in the darkness, diving into the sea for their late suppers. He then walked to the window that faced the south towards the docks and looked down into the harbor. No ships were coming in this night and all were secured in place. The crew of The Silver Wyrm had been kept aboard for repairs after their encounter with the sea-storm and Devon could see them bustling around in their wet cloaks, kept awake by the spirits they hid in their shirt pocket flasks.

He untied the top of his tunic and pulled it off over his head replacing it with the billowy shirt he slept in. Then, after removing his boots and trousers, slipped under the covers, watching as the rain continued to fall. His mind swirled with the thoughts of Jythralo and the threat he imposed on his father’s joining up Umbar with the rest of the Gondorian kingdom. Even though there was much he’d have liked to think about, it wasn’t long before he fell asleep.

In the morning he dressed quickly and skipped breakfast going out early to tell his friends of what he’d discovered. Hopefully they’d believe him...

*-- -*- --*

Merriment filled the inn on the westernmost corner of Styrn Square that evening as Jythralo passed by. The gaiety had only just begun to die down as he and Druks Agdar made their way towards the docks. Their words were hushed, but not so much as to keep them from reaching the ears of a boy hidden in the alleyway. The identity of their eavesdropper was unknown however as they continued to walk on.

“ ‘Umbar shall be restored’ says you,” Agdar was saying as the two men walked by the place where their listener hid. “ ‘Not before we’re caught’ says I. Anxious I am, Cap’n.” At that precise moment, the barrel had rolled into the street as the sound of feet slapping the ground ran in the opposite direction.

“Get him!” shouted Jythralo, giving Agdar a shove into the alleyway. The sailor pulled a short knife out of his boot and gave chase as the boy ran. The captain’s extensive knowledge of Umbar’s layout told Jythralo the probable course the runaway would take and he hurried in that direction. As he passed the guard house he rapped quickly on the door. “Authorities!” he bellowed. A smart looking man in his early forties opened the door.

“Why Captain Doran! What’s the trouble?” The rain had begun to fall.

“Footpads,” said Jythralo importantly. Immediately five guards shuffled out of the house and followed the captain as he led them to the place he expected his man to chase the fugitive. Not half a minute after they’d arrived a teenage boy came running around the corner and barreling into the first guard. He was knocked clean off his feet and it didn’t take any time for the boy to scramble up again and run on his way. Then Agdar came, trying to skirt the guard to get after the boy.

“Say now!” said the guard, grabbing Agdar’s collar. “What’s this? A brigand! What is the manner of this? Who is that boy?”

“Ah, Mr. Deffins, that’s my man Druks Agdar. That boy is a pickpocket,” lied Jythralo. “I sent Agdar after him for his legs are faster than mine.” The guards believed him on account of his authority in the city and went on their way back towards the guardhouse.

“Sorry Cap’n,” said Agdar, walking stiffly up beside his master. “I slipped along the way.” But Jythralo wasn’t listening to the man’s excuse beside him. His mind was reeling at what he was to do now that someone had overheard his conversation. “Did ye see him anyhow?” Oh yes, he had seen the boy very clearly.

“Yes, Agdar. I saw him alright. And we have ourselves a bit of a predicament,” he turned and began to walk quickly back to his townhouse, a very anxious Agdar on his heels.

“Who was it?” he whispered.

“It was Devon Thrann,” Jythralo answered stiffly. “The ambassador’s son.”

[piosenniel]

Earendil Halfelven’s post

He sat at his desk, rummaging through the many papers that sat there. The candles burned dimly among the furnishings of the room. It wasn’t that nicely decorated; just a few things here and there to give the room a little personality, but not much. Not many of his possessions had survived his past, and the few things that had, he kept at home. It was late, but he had to finish the day’s agenda.

Umbar, his beloved city, was being turned back over to the Gondorians and their new king, Elessar. He knew of the legends of the Heir of Isildur returning one day to retake the throne, but he didn’t expect it to be now, his time. The Gondorians had re-entered the city after the War and had declared it a part of the new kingdom. In order to peacefully change the city over, a council was created to form the new laws and policies of the city. Since then, refugees that had been displaced from the War had resettled in Umbar to start anew. But the corsairs still remained, and they weren’t happy with the change that was being forced upon them.

That’s why Jythralo Doran had been appointed to represent the corsair population within the Council. He was an experienced corsair captain that had been on many an adventure (some of the Gondorian Councilmen preferred to use the term “murder spree” in reference to his days of debauchery). After his captain days were over, he had settled down in Umbar as a respected and liked member of the community. He had grown to high political status among the people and things were looking good for the city. Rumors of the Shadow in the East had grown and a great battle fought in the northern land of Rohan had spread but Jythralo did not worry, that is until ships had passed by on their way to Minas Tirith with banners bearing the White Tree. He knew then that Gondor’s problem was going to be his problem soon enough. As Umbar began to muster a defence in preparation of the fall of Minas Tirith, word came that the King had returned and that Mordor was overthrown. Then, the Gondorian Army came knocking on his door. Some wanted to resist, to fight against the invaders, but what could they do against a battle-tested and veteran army? So, peacefully, Umbar had been taken.

When the Council was formed, all of the men appointed to re-organize Umbar were from the nobility of Gondor, not one a citizen of Umbar, or in that case, a corsair. They had protested, and they had been heard. Some men of Umbar, corsairs, had been appointed to the council also, Jythralo Doran being the first among them. Now, he sat at in his office within the Council building, going over more proposed policy. To him, it seemed that all this new policy, (the word “tyranny” suddenly popped into his mind), was slowly constricting the corsairs ability to do business within the city. And with each new policy, (tyranny), Jythralo felt that the rights of the corsairs, his people, were slowly being smothered. He did have allies within the Council. Other corsairs had been appointed to the Council, but the Gondorians outvoted them. They were the minority in a land of majority rule.

Well, despite his small amount of allies within the Council, he did have allies elsewhere with power unlike political power. There was a soft knock on the door.

“Enter,” he said. He looked up to see his young aid enter the room.

“Sir, it is past midnight. Shall I summon your carriage?” the young man asked.
Jythralo sighed and placed the papers down. All of this can wait, he decided.

“Yes, go ahead and summon the carriage. I think I shall retire for the night.” The young man nodded and closed the door softly.

Jythralo rubbed his eyes. He did not realize that it was so late. He had been lost in his thoughts and concerns regarding Devon's awareness of the Captain's true loyalty position. Well, tomorrow was a new day, a new plan. The war with Sauron was over, but his was just beginning.

[ October 21, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Arien's post

Acacia let the sand run through her right hand as she picked up again. The sea breeze blew softly across her face and caused the sand to blow on to her midnight blue skirt. She sighed and brushed away the sand and leaned back on both her palms. The sunk slightly into the sand; but she stayed upright. The moon shone brightly and caused silhouettes on the waters surface.

Acacia listened as the waves broke slowly onto the beach and she glared out into the ocean. Oh how she would love to be out there now on a Corsair ship again! But of course it was not possible; at least not yet. Soon they would rise to power and she would be able to rejoin the Corsairs, she could not wait. To be rid of the burden of pretending would be bliss and to be rid of those idiotic Gondorian Councilmen would be bliss.

The breeze picked up again, but it was stronger and it ruffled the leaves on the trees near by hard. Acacia shivered and slowly rose brushing the sand from her skirt and bodice. She looked sorrowfully out to the sea and the whispered, soon. Soon I will be free from this life! and then she left and made her way back to her estate. It was only a few minuets walk through the dark winding ally’s until she reached the front gate of her home.

It looked marvellous at night; the torches lit it up and the grounds expanded into the darkness. Sometimes she wished she did not live here; but with the rest of the Corsairs, in squalor. It was not enough for her to have all this and not be able to sail. However her estate was a main ground for meetings between the various Corsairs and not only was Acacia part of the council, a lot of Corsairs held her in high regard.

Acacia pushed the iron gates open and made her way to the entrance. With a brief goodnight to both her maid and butler she way up the stairs and to her bed. She fell asleep almost instantly and was woken by her maid calling the next morning.

“Madame Ratan, you have a visitor.” Came Blaine’s voice into the room.

“Yes, I’m getting up now,” she replied wearily wishing Blaine could leave her in bed for another hour at least. “Blaine who is it?” If it were a visitor of no importance then she would simply bid them go away and tell them that she was busy.

“Madame it is Jythralo Doran; it seems as though it may be urgent.”

Acacia waited till her Blaine had closed her door; then she got out of bed. Her hair fell limply in knots to her side and she scratched her head in thought. She cursed softly under her breath as she donned a crimson dress with a matching corset; Jythralo better have had a good reason for coming so early in the morning. And she did not doubt that he did.

Acacia quickly tied her hair back and freshened herself up; and before leaving she took a drink of water from a flask on her bed. Acacia walked casually down the stairs as she could see Jythralo’s back turned on her. Her was staring at a large painting of a ship that hung a wall opposite.

“So you are up?” He said turning slowly on his heels to face her.

“Yes I am,” She replied leaning on the banister when she reached the step bottom step. She looked over his face briefly, “I was told it might be urgent, is it?”

“I deem that it is,” he replied walking closer to her.

“Oh,” Acacia raised an eyebrow.

“You of course know Devon Thrann?” Acacia nodded and wonder what anything had to do with that boy. He was rarely ever mentioned in their conversations and he was no one of any importance to them. “Well he knows…” Jythralo’s eyes were cast downwards and then meet Acacia’s. Her face was stony and showed no shock, in fact there was nothing.

“How much exactly…”

“Enough,” sighed Jythralo turning his back from her and walking away.

[piosenniel]

Himaran's post

The knife sped out of his hand and into the target on the wall. Dead in the center.

A mixture of cheers and boos ensued, and the challenger reluctantly pushed the pile of gold and jewelery across the table. It was but another successful bet for Jurex, the champion knife thrower of the Black Keel Tavern. Chuckling inwardly, he patted the man on the shoulder and snatched a sack from another table to collect his coveted loot.

The crowd dispersed quickly, the interested patrons soon moving off to watch and join in other card games and contests. Glad to see them go, Jurex retrieved his knife from the wall and gathered up his few posessions. Satisfied with his winnings for the day, the corsair decided to return home; but not before he had treated himself to a drink using his new earnings.

As he sat at the bar enjoying his mug of brandy, a new customer entered the room. From the corner of his eye Jurex could tell that it was a woman, but he did not recognize her until she got closer; Acacia. After scaning the room, she sureptitiously proceeded to amble over to the bar. Seating herself next to the man, she ordered a small drink and sipped it slowly. Speaking in a low tone, she addressed Jurex. "Jythralo wants to speak with you; he is certain that someone knows."

"How much does - "he" - know?"

"My exact words to Jythralo when I spoke with the man a few a hours ago. 'Enough,' he claimed; but more important to the problem is who knows." Here she paused, possibly for effect.

"Devon Thrann, Jurex ... the ambassador's son knows."

Jurex inhaled deeply, sucking air between his teeth. Lovely, the ambassador could be alerting the authorities as of this minute. "Strictly speaking, it Devon Thrann knows much at all, we're doomed."

Acacia continued; "Not true. We may be able to discredit the boy, or deal with the matter through a slightly more efficient method..."

Jurex nodded. "I will speak with Jythralo. Hopefully, we can develop a quick plan to effectively end the matter; whether or not the use of force is necessary." The conversation over, the two conspirators left individually, taking separate exits. But a single question burned in the minds of each.

How much is 'enough'?

[ October 21, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

GaladrieloftheOlden's post

Hessa awoke to the sound of hacked coughing from the next room. She debated for a few seconds the idea of curling up and going back to sleep, but a louder cough pushed the measure to the other side, and, her eyes still heavy with sleep, she threw off the warm blanket and rose, shivering. Grabbing a worn shawl quickly from a chair she pulled it tight around her shoulders, over her slightly threadbare nightgown, and softly opened the door to the next room. "Mother," she called. "Are you alright?" Another bout of wheezing followed, and then her mother’s hoarse voice: "Quite alright, Hess, quite alright... go back to bed, dear." "Well, call me if you need me," Hessa said, unconvinced, in an unusually gentle voice. She walked out of the room and shut the door carefully behind her. Sitting back down on her bed, she wrapped herself again in her covers against the cold, but did not take off the shawl, brooding. Then, swinging her legs over the side, she lay down, hoping to catnap, at least. But slumber did not come, though her eyes were long closed. She strained to hear any noise from the next room, but it seemed her mother had settled down. She hoped so, at least. Concerned, she wondered how she felt. And why she even cared. She would not have cared had it been anybody else. Why should she? Nobody else mattered. She shrugged in the darkness of the windowless room, then chided herself for her silliness. Nobody was there to see her gesture to the walls. Finally, she slid into a doze...

She was 6 again, living in Minas Tirith. She was at home, twirling about in front of her parents and older brother, her crimson dress billowing about her childish form. Her mother was laughing, and her father was just sitting still, his dark eyes alive with humor. Her brother merely, stood, fidgeting. She was joyfully running into her mother’s arms and twisting her fingers into her dark hair. The picture changed. She was 9, reading from a piece of parchment, her brows furrowed, her eyes darting out every so often to check on her mother, waiting for her to doze. 11, running through the town and hearing news of traitors rooted out, spies caught, and then coming home, hearing tales of the brave corsairs to whom she belonged, whispered, from her brother. 13, her birthday, her father giving her, solemnly, the ring with the hidden blade... and then the day, a few months later, when the men had come to take away her father and brother...

She realized that she was no longer dreaming, but remembering, sitting upright in her bed, her teeth chattering still with the morning cold. She did not want to remember it all again, but the painful images seemed to burst through a wall in her mind, coming to a skidding halt just before her eyes. She remembered the days when she and her mother had run from Minas Tirith. She remembered how she had missed the half of her family that was now gone, in those first few months. She remembered how they had reached Umbar and settled down in the city, helped along by friends and relations, her mother now ailing. She remembered how she had wished to help the corsairs, because of her fiery hatred for the men who had taken her brother and father. And how, in time, she had forgotten most of it, and entered the life of a young woman in the town, and enjoyed it immensely. But she had not forgotten, she chided herself, she remembered it all... but really, her father and brother did not matter. Long dead, probably, she thought. None of it mattered. She couldn’t help the efforts of the corsairs, really, no matter what little things she heard in town and brought back to them, or what rumors she could spread for them, because she had no mind for politics.

But then, unused to such lengthy contemplation of serious subjects, she jumped off the bed, and, calling to her mother that she was going out for an hour or two, turned to find a suitable dress. She cringed a bit as she looked at those she had, because all of them had somewhere or other a worn spot or tear, no matter how skillfully stitched up. Then she wondered if she might find one somewhere else. Looking around the rather small room, she checked in the corners, the chest, even. Finally, sighing, she got down on her knees and reached under the bed, squeamishly and abruptly drawing back her hand at every dust bunny she caught by accident. Then, reaching what she had meant to, she grabbed hold of a basket and pulled it out. Heaving it upwards, she placed it on top of the bed, and began to look through its contents. There were a few dresses inside, two of them untouchable for the time, being those she wore only on special occasions. There was one, however, which was quite decent, clean and tight and a dark reddish maroon. She pulled it out, but did so carelessly, and a dagger clattered to the floor. She swooped down gracefully to pick it up, frowning. She didn’t know why she still had the thing. She was far too afraid of blood to ever use it, anyway. She dusted it off and put it back in the basket. Then, she went to change.

Emerging from a darkened corner a minute or two later, she cast a sidelong look in the mirror and smiled from under her eyelashes, as though flirting. Then, remembering her dream, she twirled, beginning to laugh. Taking a comb from her bedside table, she ran it through her long black hair, pushing its weight behind her shoulders, where it swayed softly. Then, putting on her ring, the blade inside hidden by a large stone, she took a last pleased glance and smile into the mirror and was gone before the door slammed, all thoughts, unpleasant and not so, left behind for the whirling and speeding world of gossip and the streets outside and screaming vendors in the marketplace...

[piosenniel]

Nuranar's post

The just-risen sun was shedding its golden rays on the city when Calnan let himself out the front door of Secretary Ciryatan’s house. The crunch of his footsteps on the gravel drive was the only thing to disturb the stillness of the elite residential neighborhood. As he strode briskly into the narrow lane between high estate walls, Calnan noticed the scarcely-cool morning air. It’s going to be a real scorcher, he reflected.

A small object in the road, opposite a wooden gate in the wall on his left, caught his attention. As he drew nearer he identified it as a small change-purse. Without breaking stride he shot a suspicious glance at the impassive barrier next to him. Reaching the purse, he dropped to one knee and stretched out his hand for it.
Abruptly he threw himself back, just as his ready ear caught the rustle of clothing on wood. As he rose he contemplated with interest a large jet of water that had apparently launched itself from the private side of the gate. Soaring gracefully through the air in a gentle arc, it finally alighted squarely on the abandoned purse with a resounding splat.

A small boy’s head and upper body now extended above the gate, both hands clutching a small pail. Calnan chuckled at the eloquent mortification on his face.

“Julius, did you seriously expect to catch me with that? Why, it’s the oldest trick in the book!”

Impudence replaced mortification. “You know I’ll get you sooner or later, Mr. Calnan. Why don’t you surrender? The sooner you surrender, the easier it’ll be for you.”
“Right, Julius, right.” Still chuckling, Calnan deliberately turned his back, took a step – and then dodged to the right, hearing a projectile whiz viciously past his ear.

“Never give up, young man! Until the next time, farewell!” He raised his hand in a mocking salute, then swaggered jauntily but circumspectly down the road to the corner that marked the limit of his young assailant’s range. The youngest scion of a noble Gondorian house, Master Julius was possessed by the imp of mischief day and night. His recent vendetta against Calnan had afforded that gentlemen much amusement and kept him on his toes for the last several months.

* *

Thirty minutes later found him treading absently up the Embassy drive. Thinking about the day’s work ahead, Calnan was blind to the impressive façade that rose before him. While halfway up the steps he was brought quite down to earth by another object which force itself upon his notice in no uncertain manner, to wit: A scarcely-remarked blur resolved into an agitated ambassador’s son careering precipitately down the house steps and climaxed in a magnificent collision.

Flung backwards for the second time that morning, albeit this time not of his own power, Calnan flung out a desperate arm and seized the iron rail. Pivoting around with his antagonist’s momentum, he grasped the young man’s arm in time to prevent him from executing a head-first dive to the ground.

Within two seconds both had regained their balance. Calnan grimaced at his friend, having recognized Devon in that split-second of revelation that invariably precedes a disaster. “You lunkhead, don’t you ever look where you’re going? You—” The unaccustomed grimness of Devon’s usually cheerful face stopped him. “What’s going on?”

[piosenniel]

Maikafanawen's post

"I'll tell you what's going on," said Devon rather heatedly. "That Captain Doran is what's going on!" Calnan shook his head. He had misinterpreted the source of Devon's anger. "No," Devon interrupted. "It's not the usual government nonsense I can't stand, and no I haven't been assigned to apprenticeship with him—thank Eru! It's something much worse." Calnan raised a concerned eyebrow. "Come on," Devon beckoned. "Let's go see Callath. I'll tell the both of you when we get there. We won't be overheard in the stables."

[piosenniel]

Amanaduial’s post

Callath was up as early as ever, and was in the stables only two hours or so after the cock crowed. But this morning the stable-boy had had to rise even earlier than usual, much to his annoyance. Still, it couldn’t be helped; there was a new horse in the stables and, much to Callath’s chagrin, it was he who had been assigned, unwittingly, to look after it.

Wrestling with the wily stallion’s head, the young man fought to get a halter over his ears – he had given up trying to soothe the horse long ago, deciding there were quite probably dragons more good-natured than this horse. Not that it wasn’t a magnificent animal; a bay, his dark brown fur silky smooth and darkening around his nose and legs, nearly seventeen hands high and quite obviously Rohirrim. But, despite having the looks of a god, it had the temper of a demon.

“Get your head down, you bleedin’ monster,” He muttered angrily through gritted teeth. The horse glared at him, continuing to toss it’s head, before it made an attempt to escape the youth’s grasp altogether. “I swear, Captain Doran chooses his horses on bad tempers as well as looks.” He continued as he glared after the horse, halter in hand and arms crossed, as it stood quivering at the back of the spacious pen. The stallion glared back. The staring match did not last long as, with a derisive snort, the horse seemed to dismiss Callath and began to sniff at the hay which had been hung up for it, as if wondering whether it was good enough for him to eat. Shaking his blonde hair out of his eyes, Callath leaned against the door, wondering how exactly he was supposed to get the accursed halter onto the bay, and cast a angry look skywards…and inspiration came to him.

The central stables of Umbar were used by many, and also kept horses of it’s own, and so was no small matter. There were usually five or six stable-hands scurrying around the place seeing to the animals, from mighty stallions from Rohan, kept in livery for the nobles of Umbar, to mules and goats, kept overnight for a sailor who would be taking them off on a ship tomorrow. Because of the vast range of beasts it catered for, and the sheer numbers of them, the stables were no small matter, sprawling out over quite a wide area, with a paddock in the centre and a fields surrounding it (although not all of them were owned by the stables). There were two central buildings running side by side, with the tack room at the end of them. These buildings were partly stone, but mainly wooden, and all the way along, wooden rafters were above the stables, easy to get up to, if you knew how.

Callath himself knew all the ins and outs of the stables, and the rafters were often a good place to relax; they were quite shadowed at the sides, and people often wouldn’t spot him as he sat up there, the soft, soothing sounds of horses moving around beneath him. But he would not be using them to relax today…sighing angrily at the horse as if giving up, Callath left the pen, careful not the turn his back on the stallion – he wouldn’t put it past this one to give him a kick as he left. Then he cut sharply around into the empty pen two down from that one and, grabbing one of the ropes that always stayed there, he weighted it with an unused, but full, hay net. Swinging it around three times, he let the rope go, swinging it up to go over the rafter just above the wall of this pen, and got it the second time he tried. He fed the rope over the rafter until the hay was level with his head again, and took the hay net off it. Attaching the halter to his belt, and then attaching one end of the rope to his halter, he got a firm grip on the other end of the rope, braced one foot against the wall and, in the manner of absailing, began to walk up the wall.

Reaching the top, the stable-hand balanced there precariously, arms out for balance, then, wrapping both ends of the rope around his hands, he pulled down, pulling up his legs, and effectively swung himself up, upside down, onto the rafter above him. He paused to catch his breath and thanked providence that he was agile, then, standing, he began to walk very carefully along the rafter which ran down the middle of all the others down the centre of the room, biting his lip in concentration. Turning so he was above the stable of Captain Duran’s ‘monster’, he continued along, then stopped, just above where the beast was now placidly munching hay. The distance between him and the horse’s back was about six feet. If he managed to swing down, then drop the last few inches onto the stallion’s back, he would be able to get the halter onto the horses head from behind. A good plan. A good plan with a few points left out, such as how the horse would react, but ah, you can’t be expected to cover everything.

Crouching down, Callath took hold of either side of the rafter, preparing to drop under, before a voice nearly made him lose his balance all together.

“Callath!”

Almost jumping slightly, Callath managed to hold onto the rafter. The horse, however, looked up at the voice, in a way Callath suspected was suspicious, and the stable-hand, poised above him, froze. He could still do this.

“Callath Harres! Where are you?”

“Well, now you’ve given the game away…” Callath murmured, closing his eyes and cursing all at once the horse, the horse’s owner, and the voice’s owner, before standing. Looking down the length of the long stable building, he saw the owner of the voice, a young man whose face was as familiar to Callath as his own. Devon. And beside him was Calnan. He put his hands on his hips, and replied, just as Devon seemed about to turn and leave, or to shout again.

“Thank you Devon, you could not have come at a better time,” he replied, exasperated. Beneath him, the horse’s head shot up, then up again as it realised Callath’s voice was coming from above, before it started to move away to the other corner of the stall, where the stable-hand absolutely could not get onto it. Callath glared at it, before walking briskly and light-footedly along the rafter at the centre of the stables to be almost in front of his friend. Devon watched him all the way, one eyebrow raised.

“Can I ask why exactly you are up there?”

“I was trying to outwit Captain Doran’s monster, actually,” Callath replied evenly and with utmost dignity, sitting down on the rafter. “And may I ask why exactly you are down there, at such an early hour? Hello Calnan." The attaché nodded his greeting.
“Captain Doran.” Devon spoke angrily, his fists almost clenched. Wondering what it was that had got his friend so irritated, Callath nodded sagely. “We have something in common then.” Looking around, he sighed, then looked back at Devon. “You want to come up here, or shall I come down?”

[piosenniel]

Brinniel's post

The sun hung low on the eastern sky, revealing that the day was still young. The air was damp and cool, and delicate white clouds were scattered throughout the sky. On the shores of Umbar, sailors and fishermen could be seen preparing for the new day. And as all this was happening, a young woman stood on the southern beach, a solitary figure gazing out at the vast sea. Adeline Montrés was her name, and it was often that she came to stand on these beaches to watch the sun rise.

Adeline closed her eyes, allowing a slight breeze to blow across her face and tousle the ringlets that descended to her jaw line. She licked her lips ever so briefly, and could taste salt. Adeline had lived in Umbar her entire life, but it wasn’t until recently that she was able to appreciate the beauty of the city. The beach was a peaceful place and often Adeline came here not only to stare at the sunrise, but also to daydream and read her favorite stories.
“You waste too much time of your life dreaming,” her mother once commented, “much like your father did when he was a young man. I swear, you get to be more and more like him everyday.” Adeline had simply smiled at this.

Adeline was brought back to attention by the sound of a child’s laughter. She turned around to find two young boys chasing each other with sand, both with large grins planted on their faces. Adeline gave a slight smile, remembering the days of her childhood as she absentmindedly fingered the silver locket that hung around her neck. Then, lifting up the hem of her long, pale blue dress, she turned away and left the beach, before she could get hit by any flying sand herself.

As Adeline strolled past the docks, she could see out of the corner of her eye Captain Jythralo Doran speaking privately with another man. Adeline had never met Captain Doran, nor did she care to for she always had feelings of hatred towards him, for Doran had once been a corsair. When she was just a toddler, her father had managed to capture him, though that was not enough to stop him. Once Adeline’s father heard the news that Doran had agreed to give up his corsair ways, he only chuckled grimly.
“A pirate will never surrender his ways,” he had once told Adeline. “Especially not Jythralo Doran. I do not know what he is up to, but I don’t like the look of it. I honestly believe Ambassador Thrann is making a mistake, allowing Doran to live a free life. Doran is not a man to trust.”

Adeline remembered those words and made sure to pay heed to them. At all costs, she had avoided Captain Doran and his men, which had not been difficult. She often stated her opinion of Doran to her best friend, Devon, though he had never said much in response, perhaps because he was the son of the ambassador.

Adeline saw Captain Doran’s eyes shift towards her direction when she realized she had been staring at him. She quickly averted her eyes, then glanced back at him, giving the captain one last dirty look before continuing on.

When she left the beach, Adeline had intended to head straight for home, for she had many chores to attend to. She hated to neglect her duties, especially now that her mother was so busy working as a seamstress. But as she passed the stables, her ears picked up the sound of voices coming from inside. Though, she could not make out what they were saying, Adeline could easily recognize the voice, one of them belonging to Devon. Strange, she thought to herself. Why would Devon be out at this hour? Curious on what Devon was up to, Adeline forgot about her original plan of going home and stepped inside the stables.

[piosenniel]

Arvedui III's post

As the creak of the deck of the Miranel swayed and finally stopped, a shaky, stooped, figure clutching dearly to the port railing had finally decided on one thing: He hated ships. And oceans. He hated oceans too, which was two things, really, but he supposed that was irreverent. The cargo vessel lurched horribly as it dropped anchor into what looked like lurid, black, and, there was no other word for it, chunky water; The mingled smell of dead fish and alcohol was near palpable in the humid, windless night, and the stars seemed to glare at him rather than twinkle. As he stepped unto the warf, it creaked ominously under him.

Telson Telemarson's first impression of the isle of Umbar was not a kind one.

He rubbed the stiff parchment tucked rather haphazardly into his belt with one sweaty palm and somehow felt comforted by its presence. Standing nervously on the warf, the figure dressed in a tattered, brown, now wet cloak shifted his weight several times before a equally ratty looking seaman tossed him a rough haversack from the ship. "Such care," he muttered under his breath and without waiting for a word from anyone set his bag on his back and started walking as quickly as he could away from the port. The street he found himself traveling on was lit with sickly yellow street lamps, and the uneven cobblestone road looked like rough obsidian in the dim light. The path seemed devoid of people, although the dull sounds of drunkards and dullards babbling in distant alleyways mixed eerily with the squeaky signs hung above various shops and smithies.

If Telson had known what part of Umbar he had entered, he might have gladly traded the five minutes he had spent walking for another five days onboard ship.

Eventually, an overtly noisy sign in the shape of a tankard caught his attention and he squinted up to the figure which read, "Low Tide Inn: Hearty Food and Spirits". With a sigh he muttered, "Charming, I'm sure," And pulled the handle. The pub was lively enough. Unlike the street outside it was well lit and warm, and full of noise. About ten men were drinking and laughing at different tables, with another three at the bar. The place itself was shabby, with pealing, stained walls and a floor seemed to tilt in some places. The wood of the tables was gnarled and rotting, but, he noted that the shelf holding rum behind the bar was elegant and smooth, finished with a fine veneer.

Chuckling softly, Telson set himself comfortably into a lopsided seat and licked his lips. If the low tide inn did indeed serve hearty food and spirits, he intented to sample some. A ruddy bartender with a wholly unnecessary number of tatoos on his face came over and smiled broadly at him. "What can I do fer yeh, good sir?" He asked in a raspy voice. "A room, and a brew if you have both." The man chuckled. "Aye sir. I have both if your coin's good." Nodding, Telson plunged a hand into his shirt pocket and produced two silver coins stamped with the likeness of the king on one side and the white tree on the other. The bartender gave a low whistle.

"Those'll do jus' fine, sir." He said, briskly sweeping them off the counter. Drawing himself up, he added, " What'll it be?" "Whatever's a bargain." Telson shrugged. He was not in the mood for expensive ale tonight. That only lead to trouble. After about five minutes the bartender returned with a frothy mug in hand. " ‘Ere, mayhap that'll redden your checks a bit." Telson smiled self-consciously, remembering that his pallid face was not a regular at this bar. ‘I doubt that, meaning no offense to your ale, good sir." The bartender nodded sagely. "Course, sir. Er, beggin' your pardon, sir, but, you ain't from round ‘ere, are yeh?"

"Is it that obvious?" Telson responded with a sigh and a smile. "No. Well, yes. Well, well it's just that not many a man with a fair face comes round the low district, much less buys whatever's cheap, if you take my meaning, sir." The bartender bumbled and grinned apologetically. Telson only laughed. "Guess I should of known better. No, I'm not from around here." The bartender nodded and then bit his lip. "Er, if you don't mind me askin', sir, who are you?" Telson looked and the bartender slowly, appraising what type of answer he should give. "Oh, nobody, really. Just another lowly, lazy, ne'er do well trying to make a way in the world." He shrugged and laughed. The bartender joined in. "Well, you'll fit in quite nicely here, then. What're yeh tryin' ta do in Umbar, Mr. Nair do well?"

Telson again let a silence stretch out before answering. He supposed it could do no harm, after all, he'd need all the help he could get, and making a few friends, a few friends with knowledge of the island, would be invaluable. So he answered,

"Oh, I count things." "Count things?" The bartender echoed, confused. "Yep. Ships, arms, men, wood, stone, things like that." The bartender still looked confused "Why and who in middle-earth would pay yeh to do that?" "That's the steward's business, not mine." He answered and took a slip of his mug. The old barkeep's eyes near doubled in size. "You're a steward's man?" He asked incredulously. "Sure." Telson replied offhandedly, enjoying the bartender's reaction. "Got a note to see the ambassador about my business, too." He added for the effect. The reaction wasn't quite what he expected. The man snorted.

"You aren't from ‘round ‘ere. That ambassador, Thrann? E's worthless, to be shure. Now lord Doran, e's a good man, so he is, why if I has a coin fer every man e's helped on this isle, why," Sensing a rant on politics that he did not, nor wanted to understand, Telson interrupted the man with an overly loud cough. It was too late for this, he'd deal with whatever Umbar had to bring in the morning.

"About that room, sir?"

[piosenniel]

Maikafanawen's post

Devon kicked absently at the straw-littered ground with his boots, making scuffmarks in the packed dirt. Early April brought a cool breeze up from the harbor and the faint scent of salt tingled his nose. The familiar odor of marsh and rotten things hauled in from the south also wove into the stable and the ambassador's son was constantly blowing air out his nose to rid of the stench.

He looked up as Adeline entered the stables. A loose brown curl fluttered across her fair cheekbones and the pale blue dress she wore swayed as she stepped down from the doorway into the hall.

"What's going on?" she asked inquisitively eyeing the agitated expressions on the youths' faces. Devon's eyes especially were dark with repressed anger and he nodded curtly, deciding he was not the one to speak just yet.

"Devon's a bit upset by something he overheard last night," Callath explained calmly. "He was just going to tell us." Calnan moved aside so that Adeline could walk past him and sit on a stool beside an empty stall.

Resisting the urge to kick the wooden gate to splinters, Devon took a deep breath and relayed everything that had happened last night. He explained in as much detail as possible doing his best to choose just the right words to depict the exact scenario. When he was finished, Callath let out a low whistle and as a second thought, stepped away from the traitorous captain's black stallion with a look of profound distaste.

"Did they see you?" Callath asked, a thousand unreadable emotions running across his face. Devon hesitated and then shook his head.

"No, no I don't think so. He seemed to think I was a pickpocket. Anyways, they didn't come after me." Calnan's brow was furrowed and he looked very nervous. There was a pause as Devon's story sunk in.

"What do we do?" Adeline breathed.

"Well, as long as the most powerful man in Umbar is wrapped up with the idea that pirates never lie, there's not much we can do," Devon pointed out impulsively.

"Unless we do it ourselves," Callath said. He smiled mysteriously and it was obvious the beginnings of some wild idea was beginning to take place in his cunning little mind. Calnan immediately shook his head.

"No," he said firmly. "We need to be careful, and there are other government officials who can help us besides Devon's father. We'll talk to them."

"What makes you think they'll listen?" Adeline countered. "Doran is a very powerful figure. Almost everyone trusts him. And those who don't wouldn't raise a finger against him anyways. I doubt we'll get very much help from them Calnan." She smoothed a fold in her skirt and began to fiddle with her locket.

"What about people who aren't government officials?" Callath offered, disappointment written slightly on his face at Calnan's immediate dismissal of his incentive adventure. "You know like merchants or aristocrats."

"I don't think so," Devon said. "They're pretty content with the blossomed trade and business opportunities opened in Umbar. And since Doran's helped so much to make their dreams a reality, they've absolutely no reason to hate him." Devon uttered an awful malediction and slammed the oak beam he leaned against with the side of his fist. "He thought of everything I bet! Oh sorry Adeline," he apologized quickly seeing the girl's eyebrow shoot up at his curse.

The attaché shook his head and began to pace in thought. "There's got to be something he missed. I just can't put my finger on it."

"Well, can we think about this over breakfast? My stomach is just as nervous as the rest of us, but it'll be furious with me if I starve it." As if on cue, a low gurgling sound came from the stable-hand's belly. Callath smiled innocently and the four left the stables for a light breakfast at their favorite inn and pub: Snifter and Song.

After greeting the bartender, Mister Rheels, the four took a corner table by the window and enjoyed a steamy meal of sausages, biscuits, eggs, and cheese. So absorbed in the delectable meal the Snifter and Song chef provided for them, the problem of Captain Doran seemed to be less insistent of their concern and the traitorous sun, casting the shadow of the windowpane on their table, captivated them and turned their thoughts away from the treacherous pirate.

"Do you have the whole day, Devon?" Callath asked, washing down his breakfast with milk (Adeline had forbidden them to consume ale so early in the morning: much to the stable-hand's contempt). "I haven't got too much to do at the stables today."

Devon shook his head regretfully. "Unfortunately no. I have three classes and a fencing lesson."

Callath rolled his eyes and pulled apart his second roll. "That will keep you penned up until late this evening!" he complained, mopping up the last bits of gravy from his plate with the bread. Devon snorted.

"In that case I'll just tell my tutor that Mr. Harres insists I join him for a day of pointless wandering around the streets of Umbar. I'm sure he'll understand." Calnan chuckled and Callath smiled sarcastically.

"Calnan?" he asked hopefully. The attaché shook his head. "Sorry." Sighing disappointedly, the stable-hand leaned back, folding his hands on his satisfied stomach. "Looks like it's just me and you, Adeline." The girl looked up from her glass of hot tea and smiled feebly, "You know I've got to help mother Callath." Callath shook his head and sat up, looking at them all accusingly. "I don't believe this! You're going to just leave me?" The three repressed their smiles and found sudden interest in the bottoms of their empty glasses.

"Well, look on the bright side," Devon said with a humorous twinkle in his eye. "You've got that swell new horse to get acquainted with." Calnan burst, laughing into his napkin. With a look of childish disappointment, Callath slumped back in his chair, his arms akimbo.

"There is still an hour or so to go before any of us are really needed anywhere," Adeline offered, trying to cheer her discouraged friend. "We could go down to the beach."

"That sounds good," Devon agreed. "What do you say Callath?" The youth nodded his consent and the four paid for their breakfast before making their way through the city down to the shore.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Callath put on an expression of mock panic at the remark, then stuck his lip out in a deliberately childish expression, making the others smile. Adeline's suggestion of going down to the ebach for an hour was most welcome to the youth - after all the only other thing he could do was, as Calnan put it 'get acquainted with' the Doran's horse.

Standing, Callath dropped his crumpled napkin lightly on the table and dug one hand into one pocket, then the other, in search of some money. Ignoring Devon's pained look, the stable hand sifted the right change out onto the pile by the half meltes candle holder in the centre of the table. Straightening up, he smiled ruefully.

"Aye, sounds good - sure, the stable master won't miss me for too long..." Callath exchanged a grin with Devon, who had seen Horse-Master Garth in his typical state before, when he chanced into the stables to see Callath in the middle of the day, and found the man fast asleep, a half empty bottle of ale hanging loosely from one hand.

"Thanks Adeline. At least someone has some consideration..." Callath finished in a martyred tone, casting a wry look at Calnan, who simply laughed, standing himself.

As the three began to make their way out of the bar, Callath continued to turn over in his mind some way of revealing Doran, walking a few paces ahead of the others, his hands dug into his pockets and his brow slightly creased, reflectively. Devon would be all for rushing straight in and storming up to the sea captain to reveal him for what he truly was, but at least his father’s dismissal had seemed to shake some sense into him. Or at least, Callath hoped it had… Looking back at the Ambassador’s son, he saw an energetic, and intelligent, of course, young man, talking vividly to Calnan. But at some comment made by the attaché, Devon’s eyebrows shot up and he shoved his friend to the side, making Calnan stumble slightly, laughing with him as he tried to come up with a retort. Callath himself smiled, but it was only a half-smile – he wondered just how well his friend realised what danger he was in. But what if…

“I’ve seen that look before, Callath Harres. Generally it means something up here is up to no good.”

Adeline tapped the side of her head lightly as she spoke, illustrating her point, and Callath almost jumped. The young woman had always had a way of moving even more quietly than him, cat-like – she had approached without him even noticing, and fell into step with him. After a moment, she nudged him lightly. “Come on then – you have an idea, out with it.”

Callath merely smiled. “Not an idea really, Adeline. More…an inkling.”

Her eyebrows went up in askance, but once again the stable hand merely smiled, before turning back to where Calnan and Devon were having a joking verbal duel. The wind had picked up as they came towards the beach, sweeping in from the sea, and his fair hair flopped into his eyes even more. “Come on, you two – the tide’ll have come right in by the time you catch up with me and Adeline.”

“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, keep believing it Callath!”

Callath grinned, shading his eyes against the sun, one hand cupped against his mouth as he called to them. “Prove it then!”

Jerking his head towards the beach, the stable hand grinned mischievously and took off at a run towards the beach, and after a second the other three followed, exchanging friendly threats and bantering jokily, thoughts of Doran and corsairs thrown, for a while, to the sea wind...

[ October 25, 2003: Message edited by: Amanaduial the archer ]

[Nuranar]

Everything was perfect for a stroll on the beach - the cool sea breeze winding up the streets, the morning sun warm on one’s back, the comfort of a happy stomach. But Calnan’s expressionless face showed him oblivious to the conditions. Only his eyes, darting unseeingly from one quarter to another, indicated the turmoil behind the façade as his analytical brain sorted out possibilities and probabilities.

Walking beside him was a very wound-up Devon. Calnan came to himself long enough to reflect that Devon – as much as he would deny it – wouldn’t make a bad politician. That is, if the major part of politics was public speaking. Devon’s impassioned denunciations of the perfidious and piratical Doran were by no means lacking in color. And his gleeful detailing of how a compliant Ambassador Thrann should’ve and could’ve squashed Doran & Co. was not only entertaining but unsettlingly persuasive.

“…Picture how we’d teach that blankety-blank so-and-so! Huh, to think he could get away with fooling the entire diplomatic corps of the King himself! Why, if any other scurvy drowned rat of a bleeped corsair, captain or no, ever tried such a stupid, hare-brained stunt again –”

At this point Calnan had to intervene.

“But Devon, he has.”

Devon broke off belligerently. “Has what?”

“Fooled everyone. He’s fooled them so well that your father hasn’t listened to you. That just proves –”

It was Calnan’s turn to break off as Devon shoved him roughly aside. Gearing up mentally to wax eloquent on Doran’s power, the attaché was off guard and stumbled awkwardly. “Never mind that! I don’t hear you figuring out what we need to do, Mr. Politician!” Devon spat testily, only half in jest.

After a brief glare, Calnan laughed to ease the tension. “We just need to figure out exactly what we’re up against here. Please don’t think Doran is stupid. If you heard right, and he’s been plotting for the last five years, then he has to be really smart to have kept it up this long without any suspicion.”

Still a little miffed, Devon kicked an unoffending pebble. “True.”

“So I’m still wondering…Are you absolutely certain he didn’t recognize you last night?” Devon’s head shot up angrily but Calnan wouldn’t let him interrupt. “If he did, you’re in serious danger, pal. You’re far too close to the only ones who can stop him. He didn’t get this far by crossing his fingers and hoping! You have got to be careful.”

Devon pooh-poohed carefulness. “Are you kidding? I like to live dangerously!” he boasted, striking a heroic pose.

Calnan rolled his eyes and tried again. “That’s just the attitude that’ll see you set upon by some cutthroats of his. You ought to stop being out late alone and cutting through the allies ‘cause that’s just where they’ll wait for –”

“Oh great, now you’ve turned nursemaid. I can just see you following me around: ‘Stay out of that dark alley, Devon dear, the boogieman will get you!’” he mimicked in a feminine falsetto.

“Cut it out, numbskull, I’m serious.”

“So’m I, nanny, I’ll do everything you tell me!” Devon mocked.

“Please listen to me, Devon! Just put yourself in Doran’s shoes –”

A sudden hail from ahead cut through his plea. “Come on, you two – the tide’ll have come right in by the time you catch up with me and Adeline.”

“Oh yeah?” Devon was off like a shot.

With one shake of his head, Calnan gave chase. “Yeah, keep believing it Callath!”

Scattering sand and cutting corners, Calnan stretched out his long legs and set his sights on the silver line of the shore. The joy of the moment banished care...

For a little while, at least.

[ October 27, 2003: Message edited by: Nuranar ]

[Earendil Halfelven]

Jythralo sat in his office at home, thinking. Last night, someone had overheard him talking to Adgar. That someone was Devon Thrann, the ambassador's son. Now he had a small problem-what to do with the ambassador's son.

He had gone throughout the day thinking over this problem. He could have him killed. A corsair could pick a fight with him on the streets, it could get nasty, a little bloody...that would really make the Gondorians crazy. They would pass laws on the corsairs that would cause a rebellion, no doubt about that.

But no. It would be nice to have the boy killed. Maybe kidnapped would be better, however. If the boy was assassinated, then that would raise a red flag to the officials that there was something going on, some kind of plot. So, maybe he could have the boy kidnapped. That would be nice, now that he thought about it. He could hold the boy for a ransom. A nice big chest of Gondorian gold; that would be nice too. He smiled to himself.

There was a knock at his door.
"Enter," he said.
Two men, Jurex and Adgar, entered.

"Ahh, gentlemen. Welcome."

Jurex nodded and Adgar grinned. "Nice to see you again, Captain."

"Please, take a seat. I have a job proposition for you two. This is a rather large one...that pays well," Jythralo said to the two as they each took a seat in front of his desk.

Jurex spoke. "Let me guess: Devon Thrann."
Adgar began to laugh as Jythralo replied,"Yes."

Jurex continued. "Then why did you ask both of us here? You only need me and my knife."

"Hey! And what about meself?" Adgar protested.

"Now, don't get frustrated, Adgar. The reason I want both of you here is that we're not having the boy killed." Jurex frowned at that. "No matter how much I'd like that, I think that kidnapping him will be better and more profitable to hold him for ransom. After all, wouldn't you like a chest of gold instead of having to clean your knife, Jurex?"

Jurex nodded and Adgar smiled again, showing the many holes in his mouth where his teeth had been.

"Now, I want you two, and grab another man to go with you, and follow Devon Thrann. Kidnap him when its the right time and take him to one of the smaller frigates in the harbor. Under no circumstance are you to take him to any ship that has a connection with me. I cannot be connected to this in any way. Hold him there until his father gives in and gives us some gold. Oh, and I want Acacia to do the negotiations. She's good at that kind of thing." Then he added as an after thought,"See if she wants to go to. I think she'd enjoy that. You two understand?"

The men nodded. Jythralo could almost see the anticipation within Adgar. Jurex sat there quietly, but eagerly.

"Go." Jythralo said. "Oh, and make sure you don't kill the boy, unlike last time I had you two kidnap someone. No harm is to come to him. Oh, and make sure you guys go out the back this time too. And with the gold, distribute it out among the boys, would you Adgar?"

"Aye, Cap'n!" He could hear the two men proceed down the hall. Their footsteps faded.

Now that business was complete for the day, Jythralo was ready to retire for the night. There was nothing like initiating a kidnapping before bedtime.

[maikafanawen]

The three boys ran into the surf up to their booted ankles, splashing in the cool, salty water. Adeline watched from the shore, laughing as the ocean sprayed the youths' faces. After a minute or so of that, Calnan, Devon and Callath stopped to catch their breaths; standing with the foam lapping at their boots. Then, unfortunately for the young maiden, the two younger boys caught sight of the relatively dry Adeline standing but five yards from them. Immediately realizing their intentions, the girl began to back up quickly, with a humorous expression of innocent terror on her face. The youths gave pursuit with Calnan calling unconvincingly after them to leave her alone.

Devon and Callath caught up with her rather quickly and then proceeded to push her down towards the water's edge. Adeline protested against it insipidly.

"Oh no!" she laughed breathlessly. "My dress--No! It's dry!"

"I know," Callath said trying again to move the girl closer into water. "What would be the point if it wasn't?" Giggling helplessly, Adeline was lifted into the air and was moments away to being plunged into the cool sea before a voice called down from the piers.

"Come on!" Calnan said, helping to get Adeline's feet back on the ground. "Let's go before they see us!" The four ran back up the jetty line to the wharf and turned the corner.

"Why'd we leave?" asked Devon slowing to a comfortable walk. Calnan threw a glance over his shoulder at a sign staked in the ground under one of the docks near the shoreline where they had just been. It read: JETTY AREA OFF LIMITS.

"Oh. But we didn't see it before," he declared.

"I did," Calnan said coolly. "But I was just a few paces behind you and calling out would have slowed me down." Devon rolled his eyes and Callath laughed.

"Breaking rules Calnan?" The stable-hand clicked his tongue admonishingly. "That's out of character old boy."

Devon and Calnan made their way back to the embassy, leaving Adeline and Callath at the gate with a promise to meet at the Snifter and Song for dinner. The wind had died down considerably and the sun warmed the spring air. Birds zigzagged overhead, twittering absently to each other and flowers blossomed, showing off their new colors.

"Oh cheer up Devon," the attaché said exasperatedly, as they walked in the door of the embassy. The ambassador's son stuck his bottom lip out slightly and dropped his head. Calnan laughed. "It could be worse!" Devon turned to answer but the brown-headed young man had already turned and walked away down a corridor. Grumbling to himself, the student slumped his shoulders and moped up the stairs to his tutor's room for lessons.

* * *

"...the brothers and sisters of the heir were given duchies or earldoms. For each estate then that is suitable for farming, there would be denoted four score livestock, and two-dozen beasts of burden. The earl or duke is then allowed to authorize the building of houses on his land where people may leave the city and hold a successful career in a smaller town. This has shown to be a successful way of controlling the overcrowding in the major cities of Gondor such as those newer ones in Lebennin and Pinnâth Gelin.

"Now, where the coastal cities are concerned, and the lords and ladies therein, the process of property denotation is much more complex. First... Um, Devon?" The fifty-two year old tutor looked down at the young man nodding over the papers on his desk. The quill was posed loosely in his fingers and a puddle of sticky black ink lay in center of his parchment scroll. Before Tutor Pearlle could stop him, the boy's face fell forward and landed in the mess. With a start, he jerked his head back up pulling the parchment with him and sending either end of the scroll rolling down off the desk and onto the floor.

"Master Devon!" Pearlle shouted in frustration, tossing down his papers to retrieve the scroll. Devon rubbed vigorously at the ink as it seemed to seep into his skin.

"Why does it burn?" he demanded of the fumbling tutor.

"It's the component that makes it dry on parchment," the paunchy tutor answered offhandedly, standing up with the scroll and rolling it. The young man scratched at his cheek until it was raw and then walked over to the pitcher, dipping his handkerchief in and soaking it. Then he placed the wet cloth to his face. The water cooled and soothed his chaffed skin.

The incensed tutor slammed closed his folders of paper and screwed the lids back on the jars. "We are done with history for the day," he announced testily. "Now come back and sit down. We've go to get to Astronomy before noon." Glaring at his overweight instructor, Devon lowered his cloth and touched his cheek tenderly. "Stop being so thin-skinned and come and sit down!" Resisting the urge to throw the ceramic pitcher at Pearlle's head, the youth dropped his handkerchief down on the chest and returned to his seat.

"Now," the tutor said delightedly, rubbing his hands together. "Astronomy." He pulled apart the leather thongs on one sickeningly thick folder and withdrew several charts of the night sky, hanging them on the wall behind his desk. Devon groaned. It was going to be a long day.

[ October 30, 2003: Message edited by: maikafanawen ]

[Arien]

Acacia agreed to meet Jurex in this particular Inn while he went to meet Jythralo at his biding. Her fingers softly clasped the glass mug as she lent back on her chair. She sat in a dark corner of the Inn; so she could see everyone and not everyone could see her. Her tinted, manicured nails tapped on the glass as she eyed the group of men over at the bar. They were Gondorian seafarers, physically strong, smart and full of themselves. Acacia watched as they laughed at various customers around the bar, she rolled her eyes, clearly they were drunk and enjoying it. They better enjoy it now, it won’t be long…… she snorted as she took a drink from her glass and the rested it softly down on the table.

She looked up again to see that they were now looking at her. She wished that Jurex would hurry up; she could not bare the thought of having to speak to them. Acacia watched quietly as they as one was pushed in her direction. He stumbled toward her slowly, with a mischievous grin on his face. Acacia took another drink and looked in the other direction as he sat down beside her. She felt his rough hand on her chin as he turned her head round to face him.

His dirty black hair fell to his shoulders, and he wore the usual garb of a Gondorian sailor. He was handsome, his face was lightly tanned and stubble covered his chin and cheeks.

“Hello,” he said slowly, breathing the stench of stale rum onto her face. Acacia decided not to reply. She knew it would not help to ignore him, but while she was waiting she could have a little fun. “What a pretty thing like you doing her with this sort of riff raff…alone.” He added outing his left arm around her and pulling her close.

“Riff raff like you, is that what you mean?” She said slyly.

“Like me?” He laughed, “No I am one of Gondors finest, I am. I mean these Corsairs.” He commented pointing to a few dotted around the bar.

“Oh them?” She laughed and then stopped abruptly, “I am one of them…” Her icy voice replied. He pulled away for a moment in apparent shock and then smiled.

“Well,” he said clearing his throat, “your kind is only good for one thing….” His hand grabbed her wrist and he pulled her up. Acacia made no attempt to struggle. She had seen the figure enter the Inn a couple of minutes ago and it was now watching carefully. The figure stepped forward towards the two and laid a heavy hand upon the Gondorians shoulder. His other friends rose from their seats as Jurex turned him around. But they backed down when the man shook his head.

“Acacia are you ready to go?” he said, ignoring the Gondorian he was holding onto.

“Yes quite,” she replied pulling her wrist from his grip and smoothing out the creases in her skirt. “Let us go, I do not desire to spend anymore of my valuble time with this ort of riff raff.” Jurex released his grip on the man and headed for the door. Acacia took on last look at the man and whispered in his ear, then kissed him sweetly on the lips. And then she was gone, out into the midday bustle. The three managed to make their way to a ally short cut that would lead them into the centre of the city. Of course it was deserted. Too dangerous to use these ally's especially with corsairs around.

“You took your time…” She said as they walked slowly through the winding back roads, the soft ocean breeze blowing past their forms.

“Not too long, although you seemed to have it all under control. Especially being a council member.” He replied gazing ahead down the dank street. Gulls called in the mid day air and she could taste salt in her mouth.

Acacia sighed, “They were too drunk to notice I was anything beyond a female. Hmmm… and what did Jythralo say?” She questioned lightly.

“To kidnap the boy,” Jurex said carelessly, but she could hear a slight tone of joy in his voice. Acacia’s eyes widened as they continued to walk and a smile started to play upon her face. “We are to take him to one of the smaller frigates in the harbour.”

“Then it must not be connected with Jythralo in anyway.”

“Yes, that is what he said. Oh and you will do the negotiations Acacia. Come with us if you will but stay hidden.”

“Excellent, and of course a council member must not bee seen dealing with such riff raff.” she answered laughing.

“Of course. And we need to fetch another.”

Acacia nodded, “I will follow you when you give word for me to. Send a letter or message by Blaine perhaps. Do not make it too obvious that you seek to look for me.” Her glance fell upon Adgar and she sighed again. “I trust you will do well.” And with a nod to Jurex she went in the other direction towards her home.

[ November 01, 2003: Message edited by: Arien ]

[Himaran]

Faint moonlight glimmered off the water, illuminating the foaming waves that splashed up onto the rotting boards. A seagull's call resounded and hung in the dense air, eventually fading into a passive silence that was broken only by the faint sound of the ocean curning against the beach. A peaceful tranquility seemed to have set itself over the dock, enveloping the dark section of the city.

Two men stood outside the door of a shack, though presumably for other purposes than to enjoy the quiet. They were deep in conversation when a third figure appeared from around the corner and joined them. He was greeted coldly, owing to the fact that he was quite late, before one of the two who had been there originally opened a map and pointed to several locations. Soon the voices became louder, as an argument began, and several weapons appeared before the heated debate was ended. At length, when the trio seemed satisfied with their plan, they left the dock and followed the road into the city.
____________________________________________

"Have you got that, Adgar? I want no mistakes, not with so much at stake."

Jurex stared hard at the corsair, who was fiddling with the bone handle on his knife. "Aye sir, I believe I unnerstand it."

"Repeat it."

Jurex, Adgar, and an acomplice known as Yuri waited in the shadows outside a plush inn. The former of the three corsairs had discovered that Devon's favorite place to attend for a late meal was a comfortable diner, named the Snifter and Song. Now he and his companions waited outside the establishment in hopes of capturing the young man when he left. They had been there for over an hour, and Jurex used the time to drill Adgar on the specifics of their plan.

"Yessir. We wait here until he comes out the door. Then you bump into him and knock him over as he's comin' out the door, and den shut the door in the process. Then as you help 'im up, I throw 'is coat over 'is 'ead while Yuri 'ere clubs 'im."

"Good. I think you might actually understand." Jurex's voice was laced with sarcasm.

Yuri was looking into the hotel window. "I think I see him, Jurex. Yes, that's him alright. Paying the bill now... headed towards the door. Get ready, Jurex!Adgar, move back. We don't move in yet."

Before moving towards the door, Jurex scanned the streets for guards or other citizens. Thankfully, the dusty road was deserted, and the man hurried to the door. Then, in a single instant, the plan fell apart.

Jurex had not realized that the doors on the hotel opened outward. As Devon came out, the door struck Jurex in the face, and he fell backwards with a grunt. Devon, ever the gentlemen, reached down to help him up. Suddenly, Adgar rushed forward and, mistaking the figure of Jurex for his target, grabbed the corsair's coat and pulled it over his head. Yuri, who had made the same mistake, took full advantage of Jurex's predicament to club him soundly.
Devon, recognizing Adgar from thier previous encounter, dashed off down the road; leaving the corsairs to discover their horrible mistake.

Quickly realizing their error, the two corsairs lifted up the prone form of Jurex and carried him off in the opposite direction. Amazingly, the encounter was seen by known but the participants; though the corsairs would have at the present time gone to prison rather than face the wrath that they knew would issue from their unconcious leader.

[ November 05, 2003: Message edited by: Himaran ]

[Amanaduial the archer]

Peace and quiet reigned throughout the stables of Umbar, the long building completely quiet save for the quiet, contented sounds of horses moving in their stables, the sounds of their hooves muffled by the straw laid down beneath their hooves. But apart from these gentle sounds, nothing moved in the musty, mid-afternoon air...

One of the stable doors edged open very slightly, still on its bolt from outside, just opening enough to disturb a few dust motes from above it so they floated lazily down from their perch on top, clear and fine in the sunlight lancing through one high window. Five long, slim fingers appeared at the crack and folded over, and above them one sharp, dark eye. Said eye danced quickly and carefully around the stable and then, when the owner was apparently satisfied, both the eye and the fingers withdrew, and the sound of a bolt being withdrawn filtered into the stable. Callath breathed a sigh of relief; he had been missing for nearly two hours now, and Garth, if he'd managed to get out of bed and down to the stables and, once there, had managed to remain concious long enough to notice the stable-boy's absence, he would have been furious.

"Looking for someone in there, Callath?"

Callath's sigh of relief froze half way through it's passage and, although he didn't actually jump, the stable-boy couldn't help his fingers twitching sharply once and clenching...in the door. Withdrawing his squashed digits and turning, Callath didn't allow his face to register that he'd caught his fingers in the door. In front of him stood a rather thick set, bull-necked individual, two or three inches shorter than Callath in height, with a face a colour that, under the curling moustache, could be described kindly as 'puce'. In his hands he held a short, fixed whip which he was bending slowly and menacingly into a U-shape.

"Horse-master Garth." Callath nodded politely, wondering how he was going to talk himself out of it this time. He had used up all the usual excuses and, bearing in mind Garth seemed to have selected him as being the ideal candidate to clear out the paddock every time he could find an excuse this month, he would have to choose his words very carefully.

"Mr Harres," Garth's tone was heavily sarcastic as he continued to bend the whip. "So good of you to join us. May I ask where you were that merited your attentiomn over our lowly stables?!" By the end of this sentence Garth's voice was basically a shout through gritted teeth.

Callath opened his mouth, then stopped, lips fixed as if about to say something, one finger frozen in mid-air. "I was-"

"Rubbish excuse, don't believe yer," Garth growled. "How'd you get wet then?"

Callath slipped a glance down at the knees or his dark trousers. His high, leather boots had stopped his legs from getting wet mostly, and his shirt and tunic had dried on the way, but there was still a persistent patch just above his boots which was slightly darker. He started on his excuse. "Funny thing that, what I was-"

"And why can I smell women's perfume off you?"

Mystery to me... Callath thought, genuinely puzzled, then remembered Adeline. "Oh, I was-"

"Another rubbish excuse, boy, you're on paddock duty for the rest of the day, the shovel and bucket are in the far field where Heral left them. I'll be checking tonight - there are a coupla new horses due." With that curt note, said almost in one breath, Garth strode off, leaving a bemused Callath glaring after him. His conversations with the Horse-master tended to do something like this - he was pretty sure it wasn't actually necessary for him to say anything, or in fact be there at all.

Turning away, Callath squinted against the sun to the 'far field' as it was called - two long fields away - then began to trudge towards it. Today was going to be a very long day.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Bye, Cal."

As Callath turned into the stable, he waved briefly, grinning at the other boy who had called, just leaving for the night. "See you tomorrow, Haril."

He was the last one left there, but, thank providence, he had finished his duties for the day, although he smelt none the better for it. It was for days like this that Callath reserved a spare set of clothes in the loft above the stables, where the food was kept, out of the reach of the stable-dogs and most of the rats. Climbing the slanted ladder up to the loft, the boy hummed idly under his breath, switching to whistling part way through as he changed his clothes quickly.

As he was just straightening his collar are doing up the final buttons on his tunic, Callath heard a gasp below him and a fierce knocking on the doors. Looking down sharply, the stable boy heard the bolt slide open roughly as if drawn by clumsy, shaking fingers (the door wasn't yet properly locked up with the padlocks), before it swung open. For a second, as he slid quickly down the stairs, Callath saw Devon framed against the dying sunlight, panting as if he had run a long way, before his friend shut the door hard, causing several of the horses to snort and shuffle restlessly, sensing the fear.

Callath supported his friend steadily, sitting him down on one of the lower rungs. The boy looked as if he had seen a ghost, his eyes dark and wide.

"Gods, Devon, but you gave me a shock there. What on earth's wrong with you?"

[ November 02, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[maikafanawen]

After Astronomy, an enervated Devon took lunch with Tutor Pearlle in the kitchens. Thinly sliced vegetables and meat marinated in vinegar between two pieces of crispy toast were devoured greedily by the always-hungry youth. He drank his tumbler of water slowly, hoping to postpone his return to the classroom. Pearlle was just as fatigued as his student and sprawled exhaustedly in the high backed chair, a plate of bare fowl bones in front of him.

"I'm feeling a little unwell," Pearlle declared spuriously. "Why don't you run along and we'll make up for it tomorrow, hey?" With a great deal of effort, Devon retained his composure of delight and donned a mask of mock concern.

"Do you require assistance Master Pearlle?" The fat man shook his head deliberately and made a shooing gesture.

"No, no thank you. That won't be necessary you just go on." Standing and nodding respectfully, Devon left the kitchens, resisting the urge to leap in the air and click his heals. He thought of going to the stables for Callath, but decided against it. The stable boy most likely had enough on his hands than to be jeered at by Devon and his newly earned freedom. And Calnan was undoubtedly up to his ears in politics so the youth decided to visit Pollc, the gardener.

Devon picked his way through the wild overgrowth that led to the unkempt parts of the garden where Pollc was supposed to be working to tame the wild flora. The overhanging tree branches and vines that tangled over the brick pathway broke away gradually to reveal an organized section of the gardens where newly planted flowers were revealing their first round of colors.

Devon found the seventy-four year old man perched precariously atop a ladder that leaved against an oak, holding what looked very much like a bird's nest in his hands. Careful not to startle him, the youth kept very quiet as Pollc worked. With the tenderness of a mother with her child, the grey bearded old man placed the nest in the crook of two branches and climbed down carefully. After he'd stepped off the last rung, he sighed and stepped backwards once, and wiped his hands on his leather apron, smiling approvingly up at the secured nest.

"Very nice," Devon whispered cautiously. Pollc turned and squinted his eyes, damaged since childhood, leaving the grounds keeper near blind.

"Oh, Devon," he acknowledge dropping his apron. "Just in time really." Pollc was a rather short old man with a bit of a paunch. He had a kind round face and bright, almost youthful—despite his blindness—blue eyes. His close cut grey beard and chin length grey-white hair gave him a loving, grandfather look. The embassy gardener was easily one of Devon's favorite people. The old man moved to a collapsible wooden table atop which set his toolbox. He reached into the green painted box and withdrew a spade and pair of gloves, handing them to Devon.

"I've been given three score pots of geraniums and marigolds that the ladies have asked the Ambassador to put in the garden. It'll take us the better part of the week to get them all in." Pollc hooked one of his gloved fingers under his grey bearded chin and looked critically around at the newly cleared garden area. "We'll start over there," he said pointing, "and plant them with the geraniums in the back first." Devon rolled up his sleeves and picked up a crate of flowers, moving to where the old man had pointed.

They worked hard but peacefully in the garden until late afternoon, past the time when the sun had begun its evening descent. Devon and Pollc straightened and massaged their sore knee joints and lower back from bending and kneeling. The two looked around approvingly at the progress they'd made and the empty pots stacked up in the wheelbarrow.

"A few more days like this," Pollc said, rubbing the tip of his aquiline nose with a dirty glove, "and we'll have them all in by Thursday at the latest." He stopped then and wrinkled his brow staring in thought. "It is Monday isn't it?" he asked Devon. The youth nodded and peeled his own leather gloves from his sweaty and calloused hands.

"Well, I've got to be back at the house, Pollc," he said, stacking his spade and other things in the toolbox. "I'll try to make it out here again tomorrow if I can." The old man nodded, still looking at his flower arrangements.

"Okay Devon, thanks for your help. See you tomorrow then." The brown-haired boy smiled and shook his head, leaving the old gardener to his red and orange flowers.

Back in his room at the embassy, Devon changed into a clean white shirt with billowy sleeves, pulled on a pair of soft black leather trousers and his favorite pair of broken in boots. "Going somewhere Master Devon?" Adolfe inquired peevishly as the youth buckled on his sword and draped a cloak over his shoulders. The servant stepped into the bedroom, blocking the doorway, and grinned spitefully at his young master. He glanced at the pile of clothes by the tub in the washroom and noticed the dirt stains. "Were you shoveling in dirt in Language classes today?" Devon narrowed his eyes and glared at the pesky man in his slick black hair that was plastered to his head to exaggerate his widow's peak. Then the young man straightened his shoulders and looked at Adolfe levelly.

"I'm going to meet Master Calnan and Master Callath for dinner. Father's given his consent." The servant looked dubious, but stood aside for Devon to walk past him. Once he turned the corner, out of sight of the dark haired man, Thrann quickened his pace and jumped down the stairs as fast as he could without making much noise and fled the embassy. Once in the cool air of that Monday evening, Devon slowed a little and moved at a leisurely pace to meet his friends at the Snifter and Song.

* * *

"Where's Callath and Adeline?" Devon asked when he arrived and seeing only Calnan waiting for him. The attaché shrugged.

"Our young stable hand friend looked very busy when I walked by today," Calnan said taking the two tumblers of ale from the waitress. "He was mucking stalls." Devon winced and took his seat.

"What about Adeline?" The bell at the top of the inn door rang then and the two young men turned as their female friend walked in. They stood as she joined them and took her seat.

"I'll start with a cup of tea please," she told the waitress who had hustled over to get her request. The three enjoyed a good meal even if they were talking mostly of Doran.

"I still say you need to be careful," Calnan stressed to his carefree friend. "Doran is a clever man and he'll stop at nothing. Let's not forget: he is, after all, a pirate." Devon scoffed his friend's insistent warnings and tried unsuccessfully to lighten the conversation. In the end, Adeline was agreeing with Calnan and Devon's mood soured.

"Don't be so glum, Devon," Adeline said, placing a comforting hand on his arm.

"You're both treating me like I'm a little boy! Let's not forget I bested you I a fencing bout just last week Calnan!" His tone was agitated and the attaché shifted in his seat.

"I am not Devon, just be careful." Deciding that now might be a good time to leave, Calnan stood. He reached for his money pouch but Devon stopped him.

"I've got it," he said. "I’m going to be staying a little longer anyways."

"All right, Devon. I'll see you tomorrow." Adeline stayed a little longer and talked of less serious things with Devon to lighten his spirits. It helped a little, but in the end, the young man was still upset about the whole situation with Doran. Adeline sighed wistfully.

"It'll be okay Devon, you'll see." She laid her hand again on his arm. Devon looked at her. She had an unreadable expression on her face and her soft grey eyes sparkled. "It will," she repeated. The youth shrugged slightly.

"I hope so. I really do." Adeline had to go then. She wasn't supposed to be out too late, especially in Umbar.

The inn was clearing out. It was all ready past ten and many of the usual patrons who attended had early jobs in the morning they had to be prepared for. Only a few older men, caught in a heated discussion of politics, were left in the fading of the oil lamps hanging intermittently from rusty iron hooks in the ceiling. Devon lingered still, drinking idly from his fourth tumbler, until Mr. Rheels suggested lightly that he go home and get some sleep. Rising reluctantly and bit dizzily, the youth paid his bill and left the inn.

It all happened rather fast and Devon hadn't even the time to fumble for his sword. There was a thud and a man's grunt as he opened the door and hit somebody. Mumbling earnest apologies, the youth moved to help the person up. That's when the two other men came out from the shadows and attacked. When the ambassador's son caught the face of the shorter man in the light he let a startled shout. It was Agdar! He looked closer at the man he'd hit. He looked familiar and not the friendly sort of familiar either. Realizing what was happening, he took off, running down the street away from the Snifter and Song.

Devon just couldn't believe it. Calnan had been right! Those blasted pirates knew about him and that he had overheard Doran in the alley that night. An attempt on his life! The youth didn't know exactly what their intentions had been but they weren't good. Shaking with fright, he ran on.

He had all ready gone four blocks when he realized that the embassy lay in the other direction. Muttering awful maledictions under his breath, Devon slowed a bit to figure out what he should do. As he looked down the road he caught sight of the long wooden building lighted here and there with oil lamps and torches. It was the stables. Callath! He picked up the pace again and ran, hoping to the gods his friend was still there.

After what seemed like an eternity, Devon reached the stables. He was panting from the run, and he banged desperately on the door. Reaching down, he slid back the rusty latch and opened the door, letting himself in. The shaking youth closed it behind him and leaned against it, trying ineffectively to catch his breath. Callath had slid down the stairs at the sound of the banging and helped his terrified friend over to sit on a ladder rung.

"Gods, Devon, but you gave me a shock there," said the stable hand, nervous himself, at seeing his friend's unsteady condition. "What on earth's wrong with you?" Devon stumbled over himself a few times before he finally got his sentences strung together properly. Carefully and slowly, he told Callath exactly what had happened. His friend let out a low whistle, his face visibly pale.

"You better stay here tonight Devon," he said, climbing back up to the loft. "I'll put out the lights and lock everything up, but it may not be too swell of an idea to head home. They might be waiting for you." Devon nodded and watched as Callath jogged down the hall to lock the doors and extinguish the lighting. Then he climbed up to the loft and sat cross-legged on a hay pile staring into the vacancy of an empty stall below him. He was terrified. No one had ever tried to kill him before. The event had left a terrible feeling in his stomach. Once, even, Devon was sick and had to clean up the mess before Callath got back.

The stable hand returned with two blankets from the tack room and handed one to Devon. "Try to get some sleep mate," he said encouragingly. Devon didn't acknowledge him and his wide frightened eyes stared up at the ceiling from where he lay wrapped rigidly in his tartan blanket. Callath furrowed his brow, unsure of what to do to help his friend. "I’m going to keep watch," he declared, setting up a small lamp on a hook. Devon said nothing but he closed his eyes.

The elder of the two smiled painfully and leaned up against an oak beam. He hummed quietly and watched as the features in the molested youth's faces relaxed and his breathing evened. Finally Devon slept, but only to be plagued by the insalubrious nightmares of ruthless pirates and Agdar's horrible, jeering face.

[ November 04, 2003: Message edited by: maikafanawen ]

[ November 04, 2003: Message edited by: maikafanawen ]

[Brinniel]

Adeline stood on the chair adjusting the crimson dress as her mother pinned the hem.
"Must I always be your model, Mother?" she asked impatiently.
"Who else would I ask but dear daughter to try on the dresses I make?" the middle-aged woman replied, half smiling as pins stuck out from her mouth.
"Perhaps the customer whom you are making it for?"
"She couldn't make it today. Too busy with her studies, apparently. But there's really no need to bring Lael in. You're exactly her size, you know."
Adeline rolled her eyes. "Don't remind me."
Her mother sighed, inserting the last pin. "Yes, I know you don't like that girl, Adeline, but I'm sure she end up being a better friend than those boys. Why don't you give her a chance?" She took her daughter's hand, helping her off the chair.
"Because," Adeline replied, stepping down, "I don't waste my time with conceited girls like Lael Morston."
"Instead, you waste your time in pubs with boys, like tonight."
"I was not wasting my time," Adeline argued, as she pulled off the silk dress. "It was important converstation we were having."
"Important?"
"Yes," Adeline bent down as her mother unlaced her corset.

Her mind thought back to everything Devon had told her, Callath, and Calnan earlier that day. The news of Jythralo Doran's scheme had not been surprising really; she never did trust the man. But the fact that Devon had been seen alarmed Adeline. She knew that Doran was more clever than to mistaken Devon for a pickpocket. And if indeed this was so, Devon's life was in jeopardy.

"Adeline!" The voice of her mother brought the girl back to attention.
"Hmm?" she mumbled.
"I'm done."
Adeline turned her head towards her mother, giving her a puzzled expression. "What?"
"Your corset," the older woman said irritably.
"Oh," Adeline realized her mother had finished unlacing her corset some time ago and tore it off hurriedly. "Sorry about that," she said, looking apologetic, then glanced over at the clock. "Well, I best be off to bed now. Goodnight, mother." Adeline kissed her mother goodnight before turning towards the stairs.
"Goodnight," the woman replied to her daughter. "And thank you for helping me out. Even though you were out past curfew."
Adeline returned the smile before heading to her bedroom, hesitating slightly. She could not stop thinking about Devon.

[Earendil Halfelven]

He had just left the Council building after yet another meeting of the council members. The old fools, he thought. The rediculous legislation they propose to pass against the corsair population was the just the thing he needed.
Let them pass those restrictions. They'll have no problem from me.

His carriage was waiting as he stepped outside. He inhaled the deep sea air as it wafted over from the harbor. How he longed to return to the sea, with the waves around him, the sails full of wind, the ship cruising through the surf to unkown destinations. He yearned to hear the call from the crow's nest of "Ship off the port bow!" He would then give the order to "raise the black flag-prepare to board" as his men drew their swords and notched their bows with arrows. But, unfortunately, he was stuck within Umbar; stuck on dry land.

At least it is for a good cause-the welfare of his people and their freedom from Gondor. Hopefully, he would see the ocean before his time had ended.

He stepped aboard his carriage, which was driven by his personal driver, a trusted corsair. The driver stepped off and handed him a note, which was sealed and not addressed to anyone, nor did it say who it was from. As the carriage started for home, he opened it and read-

It failed.

Jythralo frowned. How could those fools fail to kidnap the boy? Could they not do something as simple as kidnapping someone? Apparently not. His mind went deep into thought as he slowly tore the note into tiny shreds. When its message was no longer discernible, he dropped the shreds outside the window into the breeze. A new plan began to formulate inside his mind...

When they arrived at his home, he stepped outside. He looked up at the driver and said,"Bring me Acacia."
____________________________________________

He was waiting in his office, as usual, when there was a light knock at the door.
"Enter," he said and in stepped Acacia.

Without a word, she sat down in the chair opposite him. He began-
"As you know, Jurex and Adgar failed."

Acacia opened her mouth to say something, but Jythralo held up his hand. "I know what your going to say. That's why I'm giving you this assignment instead of them."

Jythralo smiled as he continued. "As you know, you have, shall I say, exceptional, looks." Acacia smiled and nodded. "I know," she said.
"You have looks men would do anything for, perhaps die for." He paused. Acacia raised an eyebrow. She was definately interested.

"Pick an inn, any inn. Take two men with you. Use the advantage you have, and make a Gondorian die for those looks."

"What are the two men for?" she asked.

"They will help the Gondorian die for you. I do not want you in the fight that follows. I want you to stay the innocent bystander. Do not get involved and make sure the two men, whomever you choose, act as if they don't know you and that they know that they need to escape afterwards. Also, the witnesses of the fight need to know that the two men are corsairs. That is the most important detail. Understand?"

"Fully," Acacia answered.

"Go."

Acacia quietly shut the door and left Jythralo to his own thoughts. Was she thinking why he wanted two corsairs to kill a Gondorian? Wouldn't that just make the council members more anti-corsair? Of course it would...and that is what he wanted.

He smiled to himself. It didn't really bother him that some innocent man was going to die. A few lives was a small price to pay. Well, now that he thought about it, several lives was a small price to pay.
Jythralo grabbed a few sheets of paper and began preparing a few words for the emergency council meeting that would be called in result of the murder.

There was another knock at the door and in entered a servant.
"Can I get you anything, sir?"

"Yes. How about a...a big mug of ale. That would do just fine. And, get me Jurex and Adgar." As an afterthought, he added,"And get yourself an ale also. You look like you could use one."

[ November 05, 2003: Message edited by: Earendil Halfelven ]

[Arvedui III]

A flickering mix of yellow and blue light cast exposing shafts upon the equally rotting and gnarled wood of a small cloistered room at the top of the Low Tide Inn. The dusty space was cluttered with only a small cot, an oblique table, and two worn chairs, one of which was occupied at the moment. Telson hunched awkwardly over the table, doing battle with an unruly piece of parchment and the dim light of the ‘mid-shipman's sweet', which the innkeeper claimed was the finest room he had available. Sighing defeat, he withdrew from a drawer a shabby ink bottle, a slightly disjointed quill, and a crumpled set of notes he had taken earlier that day.

The Innkeeper's son, a boy in his late teens named Culous, had at the bidding of his father and Telson's silver coins shown him some of the lower district, while Telson's quick eyes dutifully took in various forges and warehouses. All in all, his first day in Umbar was fruitful, however by the time darkness hit and Telson returned to the Inn, he was in a daunting struggle to decide which local Umbarian who looked his way had won the contest for the best repulsive stare of the day. So, with a flourish, Telson began to write.

Detail of Supplies and Readiness of the Isle of Umbar. This 25th year of the rein of King Elessar Telcontar of the house of Elendil. 4th age, year 25. (by Gondorian Reckoning)

Readiness Concerning the Lower Districts:

At this Telson paused and absently stroked the end of his quill. "Well, mangy grubs, cantankerous sailors, and soldiers hung out to dry by the war. S'pose they're ready as they'll ever be." He mumbled and refreshed his quill in ink.

There is, at estimate, over six score men in the lower districts of Umbar who are of age to fight, most of them being veterans of the war against Sauron the Accursed. Given the declaration of marshal law, nearly twice that number could be forced

Furrowing his brows, Telson scratched out the word 'forced'. "Too mean, forcing young boys into service. We're the Reunited Kingdom. I've gotta find a nicer word for that." Chuckling, he replaced forced with 'enlisted' and paused to survey the glistening black ink.

Suddenly, a hard rap on the door disturbed his thoughts. "It's open" Telson called automatically, looking up curiously. The innkeeper with a halo of tatoos about his bald head poked into the room, saying in the coarse voice Telson had come to expect, " I do ‘ope I'm disturbing you, sir, but that meal you requested is almost ready. Would yeh like to sup here or down at the bar?" Giving one disapproving look to the parchment on the table, Telson rose and offered a smile. "I think I'd like to take it somewhere a bit distracting, if that's alright." Nodding with a benign chuckle, the innkeeper began clunking down the stairs again; Telson followed.

At the bar, things were just staring to get lively when Telson arrived and sunk into a particularly comfortable lopsided chair. He studied the various cases of rum as the fleeting broad back of the bartender wandered into a back room he assumed was the kitchen. A prickling sensation coursed through the back of his neck, and out of the corner of his eyes he noted a new party sitting down at a table near the bar. There were about eight of them, all tolled in assorted states of shabbiness. A broad shouldered, greasy blond-haired man who seem to be holding court among them gazed appraisingly at Telson for a moment, before giving him a nod returning conspiratorially to his fellows.

After a minute, a very pretty, dark-haired woman sat down to join them, but not before giving Telson a thoughtful glance of her own. Feeling as though he had passed some kind of test, Telson looked back to the shelf of rum, and feeling his lips twitch back into a smile, nodded as Culous came bounding out of the kitchen with his food. Admittedly, the steak he ordered looked less than desirable, but Telson began eating with wholehearted enthusiasm all the same.

About five large bites into what he would later call ‘the beef that tastes like chicken', a bright eyed, pink-faced man ambled into the chair beside Telson's and called for a drink. Twitching with a sort of nervous energy, the man addressed Telson with a lilt that suggested this was not the first bar he had frequented this night, " ‘Lo, friend. Is that any good?" He said, pointing to the steak. Spending only a moment evaluating his answer, Telson replied, "If you're hungry." The man gwaffed and shook his head. "S'pose so. But for me it's a thirst needs taking care of." Telson laughed, gesturing at the bar, "Go right ahead, good sir." "Sir?" The man looked puzzled, then shook his head. "I'm a lot o' things, Mr., but I ain't a sir." Cutting another piece of meat, Telson replied, "Cry your pardon, then, Mr..?" He let his voice trail off into nothing. "Predd" Came the prompt reply. "Tomis Predd."

Spearing a piece of meat, Telson answered, "In that case, a pleasure, Mr. Predd." The man, who by this time had been served a drink, was now too happily absorbed in his tankard to respond. Telson finished his plate without another word, and Tomis Predd didn't seemed to mind one bit, now tackling his fifth stein. At this point, the woman appeared and began talking in low dulcet tones to him. Soon, she had both a drink and a plate of something Telson supposed was soup. The greasy blond who had noticed Telson toward the beginning of the night now sat down opposite Predd along with another man with deep brown eyes and skin to match. Telson gave him a reciprocatory nutation and called for a brew. "Was yours good too, friend?" Startled, Telson looked at Predd, whom he thought was done talking with him. "Again, only if you're hungry, which I was, so yes, the food was fine." It took Predd a minute to soak that up, but once he had he burst into unchecked giggles.

"Well, what else can you say about Corsair food, or what they pass for it, hay?" If not for the two men now glaring at the bar and another six that Telson didn't need to see to know that they were now keenly interested, he might have laughed; But Telson only scowled at Predd and the woman who was now whispering in a most intimate fashion to him. "Now, that's rather harsh, friend." He said reprovingly. The greasy blond-haired man shot him another look, and then stared very intensely at Predd, who seemed oblivious to the whole thing. "What, pray tell master Predd, do corsairs pass off as food?" Asked the brown man in a voice so cool and quiet, it was dangerous after the woman had gotten gracefully to her feet, leaving Predd to stare longingly back at her. "Why, that's simple," Predd chuckled heavily, still gazing at the woman walking out the door. "Vermin eat vermin, do they not?" He finished as if it was the most logical thing in the world. Telson winced.

As one, the other six men seated around the table, along with at least seven other Gondorians Telson hadn't noticed converged on the bar. The Innkeeper and his son both look rather unnerved, and sensing a storm, Telson surrendered his seat next to Predd to a burly sailor with unforgiving green eyes. Braking into a near run, he dashed up the stairs for his belt, and more importantly his swords. A round of cries arose from below the mid-shipman's sweet, and Telson knew that the situation was now beyond him alone, and that fighting would only get him in trouble.

But I can still bluff like nothing they've ever seen

Now armed, Telson hurtled back down the stairs into complete chaos. At least three separate brawls were taking place, and as he dodged artfully between fights, Telson noticed with a grimace a bloody body slung over the bar. Predd. Slipping out the door and onto the eerily quiet street, Telson took a moment to exhale and straiten himself up. After licking his lips and twitching quietly for a instant, Telson drew his two short swords, swung the in a preemptive arch, inhaled, and kicked the door to the inn open in an effort to create as much noise as possible. "All right, hold up scum or I'll run you all though!' He bellowed for all the world as if he had the authority to call at least thirteen men who much larger than him scum.

But it worked. Someone shouted, "Run!" and most of the men including the greasy-haired blond made frantically for the nearest available exit. However, suddenly the brown skinned man rushed him, but Telson merely sidestepped and laughed when the man bumped headlong into the doorpost. In any environment, grown men scampering hastily out of windows will attract attention, and the fight at the Low Tide Inn was no exception. By the time Telson had walked comfortably up the stairs and disappeared into his room for a bit of light reading, the proper authorities had arrived and broken up the last of the skirmishes.

[Himaran]

Jurex's lazy eyes flicked over the seen before him, coming to rest on the nervously pacing form of Adgar. The two men had been summoned by Jythralo, and they both knew why; to explain their failure in the kidnapping attempt. But after conversing with the servent that had quickly left to find his master, they had waited for nearly half an hour. Perhaps he is letting us sweat it out; cunning old devil that he is.

But by the time that the servant reappeared, telling them that they could enter, a plan had formed in the willy corsair's mind. Before entering the house, Jurex turned and spoke to Adgar in his best impression of a friendly voice emphasizing comradery. "Wait outside, Adgar. I'll take the heat, it was my fault anyway."

Shameless, the corsair grabbed his hand and shook it violently. "Thanke, thanke, mate! It may save me life!"

Aye, and mine too. A biased tale with no one to contradict me in the room may certainly simplify matters.

____________________________________________

Jythralo sat back, digesting the report which Jurex had given him. The other corsair paced slowly, toying with the handle on his favorite dagger, and attempting to give off an air of honesty and trust. "It was that buffoon Adgar; tell me, sir, why did you ever send him with me. I would have handled the matter in a much more efficient fasion, and ended our problems forever."

The man noddded slowly. "I will take notice of your words, and perhaps refer to them when I reassign you for your next mission. After, of course, I toast Adgar. Send him up to me as you leave."

____________________________________________


"Well, what did he say, mate?"

Jurex chuckled and patted him on the back. "He's sure not mad, matey. In fact, he paid me, and I think he'll give you something, too! Hurry up to him, he wants to see you."

As Adgar dashed up to the office, Jurex ambled down the street laughing outloud. "Aye, matey, you go and get whats comming to you!"

[ November 05, 2003: Message edited by: Himaran ]

[Arien]

"Go."

Acacia left Jythralo’s quickly and hurriedly made her way towards the corsair-inhabited area of Umbar. The two sides seemed to have evidently split over the few years and it was in poorest areas that the corsairs were found. Acacia veered of the busy main road and made her way down an ally way. Several children were playing out in the muddy streets and unconcerned young mothers sat in their doorways talking in hushed tones. Acacia glanced over them. She would of hated to have ended up like this, it would have been death for her.

Acacia slowed as she came to a door that was shut. The dark wood was wet with moisture and the handle rusty from the sea’s salty winds. She knocked on it lightly; several locks were opened before she was able to see the figure in the door.

“Acacia,” the man said slyly, “how nice of you to visit, how long has it been?”

“Too long,” She smiled stepping inside the candle lit hall. The man quickly looked outside and shut the door. “Still paranoid Russ?” She commented while walking into the room straight ahead. The room on the left had the soft hum of voices emitting from it, but Acacia proceeded to the kitchen.

“Aye, you could say that.” He said following her after locking the door. His dark hair fell to his shoulders, and a moustache covered his upper lip. His grey eyes looked weary and tired but his handsome face and built figure seemed to draw her eyes away from his weariness.

“A drink?”

“No,” she paused and leaned against the wall, “ Russ I need two of you men.”

“Ah, so its business. Not a social visit then?”

“Yes business, business for Jythralo.”

“Oh?” He said raising an eyebrow while poring a glass of rum for himself.

“You will undoubtedly find out.”

“I’m sure I will. I trust this will help our cause.”

“You know I trust Jythralo deeply. No doubt this will help our cause.”

“I wish I were as confident as you.” He said as he went off into another room.

Acacia sighed. Russ never seemed to trust anyone. It was a wonder at all why he trusted her. She moved to the other end of the dank room and tapped the wood that boarded up the windows. The stove was heating something in a pot and the immense cabinet that spread across the wall on he right was filled with drinks and a few poisons. Russ was always the man to come to when either you wanted to hire a few men or wanted a good poison. The cabinet shook slightly as Russ entered with two men.

One was greasy, blonde haired and was of medium build, the other darker in skin tone and of a smaller build.

“Vernt,” Russ said pointing to the blonde, “and Malc,” pointing to the other.

They both nodded to Acacia and she smiled. “Excellent, thank you Russ. It seems I owe you something.”

“Acacia anything for you, but if you would not mind it seems I am running low on some supplies.” His eyes drifted to the cabinet.

“Ah yes,” she smiled walking to the door followed by the three men. “I will send Blaine over in the morning, she will get everything that you need.”

“Thank you,” he said unlocking the door and letting the three out into the street. The two embraced and then the door was shut again.

“Right,” she said as they walked down the dark alley. No longer were the children still playing, but hushed voices could still be heard. “Any ideas for an Inn?”

“Low tide?” said one of the men. Acacia smiled. They headed off in the Inn’s direction. On the way Acacia briefed the men on what was to happen. Thankfully Russ had supplied her with intelligent as well as deadly men. They went in before her. For a few minutes she tarried outside and the finally entered. And my victim will be…. she looked around the room momentarily…..you.

She made her way over a table. She would bide her time and do this slowly. No mistakes, she did not want to report another blunder to Jythralo. This was important. For a about half an hour she laughed and joked with the men at her table, but always she kept her eyes on the man she had chosen. When she felt the time was right she crossed the bar and seated her self next to him.

The next few moments passed by hurriedly as she started to whisper in his ear. The mans eyes brightened, and so she took to sitting her self on his lap. And so it continued. So he was so distracted with her, he almost forgot what he was saying. Vernt and Malc made their way over to the table at her sign and then she was off after a few more minutes.

She was done for the night.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"Devon. Devon, wake up." Callath tried to wake his friend gently, speaking softly. But Devon, it appeared, was an even deeper sleeper than he'd thought - he hadn't thought his friend would be, bearing in mind the way he had been tossing and turning that night. But now Devon seemed to be sleeping far more peacefully, and hadn't moved in a few hours, save to turn over a few times, his face wearing only the mild traces of a frown. Callath should have woken him far earlier, he knew, but after an experience of such obvious trauma last night, he figured he would let the younger boy sleep, even though he'd been woken at dawn by the light through the top stable window, where the bucket hook was, and where he had kept a watch for a least most of the night, waking guiltily to find he had dosed off somewhere in the small hours, head slumped on chest.

Still, the sun was at its peak now, and if for no other reason, Devon's teacher Pearlle would have a fit if Devon was late. The lessons should start in about an hour and a half... Kneeling down on one knee, he leant forward, reaching one hand towards the younger boy's shoulder. "Devon, come on, wake u-"

But as soon as the stable boy's hand touched Devon's shoulder, the Ambassador's son's hand shot out with the speed of a reflex, his fingers closing around Callath's wrist and his eyes snapping open, gasping sharply, his and reaching to his belt where he kept a knife, having taken off his sword last night.

Callath kept his hand very still and after a second, Devon's hand stopped it's passage to his belt and his eyes cleared. He let go of Callath's hand quickly, blushing and apologising. "Oh! Callath, geez, I didn't...I didn't realise, you know...I wasnt...well, it was-"

Callath simply smiled, not mockingly, but genuinely, rising and turning to the space above the bucket hook and miming opening some curtains quickly, and putting on a querulous, feminine voice. "Wakey wakey, rise and shine, the new day has begun!" He grinned, arms crossed, at Devon, whose mouth was hanging open at the height of the sun as he scrambled quickly to his feet, reaching for his sword belt. "Callath, its midday!"

"Mmm hmm. I know. I've been working with the horses and that...creature..." he said, implying Duran's stallion, now munching haughtily on some hay below and the the left of where they stood. "...all morning, while some of us just laze around..." He was still grinning.

Devon raised an eyebrow, starting down the slanted ladder. "Yeah, very funny - why in perdition didn't you wake me?!"

Callath's voice wasn't mocking when he spoke, but kind. "I figured you needed to sleep, after..." he trailed off, his eyes wandering to Hathil, who was walking towards the stable door, whistling cheerily. "You know."

Devon paused, then nodded and, after a second, smiled. "Thanks. I can't believe-" now it was Devon's turn to stop as he looked outside at one of the other stable boys, who had just run across the yard and was talking excitedly to Hathil, his face flushed, both excited and panicked at the same time. Callath came out into the sunlight, greeting both of them.

"G'morning youse - whats the panic?" He was smiling at them inquiringly, but inside, his heart was beginning to beat faster with some sense of foreboding.

The second stable boy, Connor, turned to him, his cheeks red from running, speaking hastily between breaths. "At the Low Tide Inn...there was a brawl...the corsairs were-"

"Corsairs?" Devon's eyebrows shot up as he too came out. Connor stopped in his flow, confused as to why the Ambassador's son should be here, before nodding and continuing.

"Aye, Corsairs! And they...there was a murder!"

"What?!" Callath saw Devon's eyes widen and knew he had to ask.

"A Gondorian! They killed a Gondorian!"

[ November 06, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[GaladrieloftheOlden]

Hessa raced gaily down the stairs, skipping every other step and raising her dress just a little, so that the hem would not trail on the dirty flooring. Stopping at the doorway, she picked up a basket that stood in a niche in the wall, catching a glance at herself in the broken glass next to her. She put down the basket again, pausing for a moment to peer at herself critically, and then, picking it up again, opened the door quietly and half ran outside.

There, the sun was shining brightly in the bright sky, coming through the billowy white clouds which peppered it. She squinted as she looked at it, and then, slowing down her pace to a sedate step, which, she deemed, was more proper than her joyful dash of the minute before. Walking down the street, she looked up cheerfully, seeing only the hopefully enjoyable trip to the market in her mind, having long ago learned to disgreagard the grimy cobblestones of the street and the pasty faces pressed against the second floor windows.

Soon the street widened, seeming to grow from a thin alleyway to a broad courtyeard in minutes. It became cleaner, if only slightly, and the noises changed from the hushed ones Hess had been hearing only a few minutes before to the shrill tones of bargaining traders and customers, the shriller ones of aging matrons, the animated ones of flirting young women, rough ones of tipsy young men... here, the crying of an infant, there, a groan.

Hessa smiled slightly. This was the world she knew and enjoyed living in. She stopped for a moment, her hand suspended in midair, the empty basket dangling on her arm. So unlike the world I do live in most of the time, she thought. But, guiltily, she added, her lips shaping the words: But my mother holds me to that world, and for her I will be a part of it... And, throwing off all serious thoughts, she craned her neck over to the left, rising on her tip-toes to try to see over the heads of the taller people in the crowd that she had wandered into, finally catching view of a clique of girls she knew, and remembering where they sat as she walked on to the screaming vendors.

When Hess re-emerged from the crowd, her basket and her ears were full, and she looked decidedly more lively. Mulling over the latest gossip and news in her head, she let herself drift towards the group she had spotted earlier, realizing that it had grown significantly since then, now accomodating quite a few acquaintances of hers, most of whom waved cheerily to her as she joined into the circle, a few glaring icily from under daintily lowered eyelashes.

She was introduced to a few obviously drunk young men and women, and some other characters who lurked rather quietly at the back of their group, all of this with the noisiness and boistierousness characteristic to all of Hess’s “marketplace friends.” She listened, smiling, laughing, flirting, adding a comment here and there, to the chatter and gossip of her various “associates,” as she jokingly called them sometimes.

Suddenly, she caught a clip of serious conversation among the gossip and humorous chat. Narrowing her eyes slightly, she cocked her head, as daintily as she could, towards the source of these sounds. Her eyebrows raised, she leaned in, making a path between some already half-reclining young not-quite-gentlemen with glazed eyes, who stared after her for a moment, which at any other time she would have found flattering… but now, she was completely absorbed in what her friend was saying. “Jerel,” she asked, “could you start again? I’m afraid I missed the beginning of your story.” Smiling good-naturedly, he did so.

She had heard enough after a minute, and, excusing herself quickly, hugging Jerel, and was hurrying back home, her nails digging into her palms, leaving dark scratches behind them. What is this? she wondered. Will there be a revolt? What could the consequences of a bar brawl realistically be? But it was a Gondorian death... Her lip curved into an ironic smile as she visualized what the pay-off for a Corsair death would be. A small trial, perhaps? A jail sentence of a few years? But here... she shuddered to think what hell could break loose. The corsairs might suffer... and, of course, there was nothing she could do against it anyway. Perhaps she should have stayed and heard the rest of the city gossip, instead of mulling unnecessarily against events she had no power to change...

She jerked slightly as she realized she had reached her own doors. Walking in, she remembered that she had left her basket back at the market. Would Mother yell? She winced. It hurt her when she yelled, mostly because she could see the effort it took… She walked in, knocking on her mother’s door. “Mama?” she called. No reply. She knocked again, calling louder. Ah well, perhaps she had fallen asleep...I’ll go straighten the covers, maybe... Hess opened the door, blinking, trying to get used to the barely lit room. Something looked a bit wrong... as her eyes adjusted to the darkness and circles swirled away in her head, she realized that her mother was lying at a terribly odd angle on the bed, her breathing shallow, her eyes closing and opening too fast... she ran towards her, uneasy, and grabbed her mother’s hands, breathing a sigh of relief when she realized that they were still warm, and there was a pulse. Pushing her under the covers, almost roughly, she half slid down the wall, her head resting against the thankfully cool metal of the mirror-grame. What am I to do? she wondered. What now?

[ November 06, 2003: Message edited by: GaladrieloftheOlden ]

[maikafanawen]

Maurice was wrapped in a tangle of bed sheets when they came. A childish grin was on his face as he dreamt and the general snickered when he batted playfully at the servant who tried to wake him.

"My Lord," the bed-clothed servant cajoled patiently. "There's a matter of extreme importance the governors wish to discuss with you immediately." The ambassador stirred and opened one eye, irritated.

"What time is it?" he asked his man tersely.

The servant straitened. "It is one o'clock in the morning my lord." Maurice sat up, his groggy eyes clouded with annoyance and his hair and nightdress askew.

"What do you mean by coming in my chamber and waking me at such an hour?" he demanded bumblingly.

"We are, uh, sorry to disturb you, your grace," General Atam Forest said with a touch of humor in his tone as he appraised the ambassador. "But there is an emergency. A brawl occurred at an inn in town and there was a Gondorian death. Witnesses have been apprehended. Turns out the corsairs are heavily involved. We even have reasons to suspect that it was planned." He expected Maurice to jerk to attention at his final, however, untrue suggestion. The ambassador however had just swung his legs over the side of his enormous bed and bellowed unnecessarily for his servant to bring him a chamber pot. The general pulled his mouth back in disgust and moved to the door. He regarded Thrann with a remorseful look before he spoke again. "We'll await your presence in the assembly hall. The officials of the city wait within." He bowed his head in respect and withdrew alone, closing the door behind him. "They came at once without complaint," he spoke through gritted teeth at the tapestry on the door. Then he turned on his heavy booted heal and marched down the corridor to the hall.

* * *

"His name was Tomis Predd: a shipman on the newly arrived merchant ship The Rhondar Soft. His identification was supplied by an accomplice crew member dining in his whereabouts at the time of his death," the bailiff paused as a rough looking sailor stood and approached the table lined with officials: the ambassador seated in the center. "He comes to testify and bear witness against the slaughter of his comrade." The blue-robed man turned and faced the sailor. "State your name for his grace, Ambassador Thrann."

He coughed and cleared his throat before speaking in a deep, scratchy voice. "Omar Touriff," he boomed unintentionally. The echo caught him off guard and he flinched, looking up at the ceiling and walls slightly alarmed. Those crowded in the hall (all with weary faces and ruffled appearance) started also and the bailiff waited for the rustling to die down before he began again.

"Relay for the ambassador just exactly what you saw." Touriff nodded, and bit more quietly this time, addressed the officials before him, telling them what had happened in the Low Tide Inn.

"I gone wit Predd, af'er da ship 'ad docked, for a bite ta e't. We'd'a sat dun at da table an- 'ad begun ta talk wen soon aft'a-wards, we'd'a got inta uhn argyament. 'Ee dundn't put up well wit argyaments an- 'ee lef' da table quick ta' go 'n sit at da bar. I dun't know wut 'ee said ta tha' man 'ee was talkin' ta, but afta-awhile a fine lookin' woman came 'n sat wit him." The bailiff held up a hand for him to pause as Udeari, the sinuous official with thin brown hair and beady black eyes voiced an inquiry.

"This man he was speaking with. Do you know who he was?" The sailor shook his head, brow furrowed. "Naw. I ne'er seen him befar." The man beside Udeari, leaned forward and lowered his voice as he spoke. Udeari nodded.

"What did he look like then man?" The sailor shuffled his feet and stared at the table hard, trying to remember. "Well, ah, 'ee'uz tall, I guess, and dark 'air and dark eyes. Broad around tha shoulders, not too tall." The official rolled his eyes at Touriff's contradiction.

"Nevermind, continue with the story."

"Well, I did'na look much afta- that," Omar said. "Muh food 'ad come, see? Anyway, she left not long afta and two men sat dun next ta' 'im. One'uz big and blond colored like, and tha 'udder was bit shorta 'n dark skinned. They wuddn't bein' too friendly ta 'im I culd see. I smelt trouble then. I was gunna stan' and get 'im, tell 'im it'uz time'a go, but they'da already 'ttacked 'im. 'Cept there waz six er seven more by 'en. It was mad 'n e'eryone 'uz runnin'. By tha time I got to tha bar, Predd 'uz dead." The man stopped and rubbed at his forehead, obviously upset at his friend's death. "I can't figur out why they dun it. 'Ee hadn'ta really dun nothin'. An' it'uz so many o' 'em. Jus' came at 'im." He stopped as something dawned on him and his expression became perplexed. "It 'uz like—like they'da planned it."

"That's enough Mr. Touriff," Doran said rising and nodding. A grim expression was on his face and his eyes were alight with readiness as he addressed the gathered. "We've heard what we've needed and it's just what we expected! The rebels and traitors have begun their revolution. Unhappy with the mercy and tolerance the king's officials and delegates have bestowed upon them, they've begun an uprising. The streets have been murmuring a warning of danger for weeks now. Shifty eyes have been scanning the city, mapping out the alleys and sewers, waiting for a sign to attack."

He set his tongue behind his teeth, watching the faces, and waiting for some sign that they believed this glorious man who stood before them. This man with unmatchable honor to the kingdom who had 'Saved him from his wickedness' and 'changed his ways for good'. He grinned inwardly and slammed his fist down on the mahogany table, sending a boom and a shiver through the hall.

"IT IS TIME!" he bellowed. "THEY HAVE BEGUN! And we have sat back idly in our pomp and comfort letting them. WE! We who sit in our satin and velvet, drinking intoxicating wine and enjoying frivolous delights. 'Who can the people of Umbar turn if not to their government?' the corsair rebels would have said. 'See? See them lounging in their parlors and conservatories, dwindling away, and leaving the streets swarming with sin and transgression?'"

Doran was moving now, walking down in front of the table, fixing the people with a harsh and accusing eye. "Any excuse they would have mustered. Any lie they would have woven to get the hate moving again, to get the desire of overthrow running through those pirates' veins. They have put into play a game. They have moved out their pawns and developed their pieces, strategically placing into our midst traitors and spies!" His voice carried up through the rafters and his words were absorbed by ever ear and left their haunting mark in every soul. His silence spoke to them of the salutary neglect they had initiated that had allowed this appalling government failure in Umbar. When he spoke again, his voice was a soft, reproachful whisper. "We did nothing and we have paid."

His expression changed to a brighter but still determined façade. "The gods are not unforgiving," he continued, moving now to stand before the attaché deputation under the large, east window. "We have precious time left, but time it is. We have been granted the hours here to decide what to do, how to solve this unexpected revolt. So let us be thankful. Let us use this time profitably and take an iron hand approach to smite out every smoldering flame that burns in the mutinous minds of the corsairs. Their disloyal kind have no place here in the kingdom of Gondor, under Elessar. It is our DUTY to keep this land pure. If we fail here," he said jabbing at the oak railing with his finger. "If we fail, right now. Umbar, under Gondorian sovereignty, will fall back to these heathens. And we will have failed the king who had saved us from Sauron's wrath. Is this how we thank him? Is this, how we honor such an awe-inspiring king?" He inhaled sharply and looked with a convincing mixture of reproach and loathing at the failures setting before him. He shook his head slowly, gleaning every drop of drama into his act. This must work!

"I was once a part of this wretchedness," he reminded them painfully. "I was once a part of this desecration. But I converted to the protection, and the majesty of the greater good, the greater power of Gondor. I stood here, gentlemen, five years ago, and declared my wrongdoings and treacherousness to be a part, a part of this magnificence. Was I wrong in thinking that Gondor was so true and steadfast?" he demanded of them. "Was I mistaken? I hope to the gods I was not. What a fool I'd prove to be." Doran chuckled spitefully. He stepped over the two stairs again to the table where the ambassador sat. "But I know," he said, looking right at the most powerful men, leaning over their table. "I know, I was right. I know that Gondor will always be the greatest good. It is up to us to prove it now.

"It is up to us," he repeated turning again to the gathered. "To prove, that Gondor! will forever triumph over calamity! Hear me now! and rise to Gondor's aid. Extend your hand and your sword! For she calls upon her sons to protect her common children. And I know!" his voice filled the hall and a glow of radiance shone on every man's face, the taste of victory on their lustful tongues. "I know, that we will answer her call!" Now he drew his own sword and lifted it over his head. "We will unite and obliterate this madness arisen in the common inns under the befouling hand of the corsairs! For we are the mighty Gondorians! Invincible under the guiding hand of Elessar and prized in the eyes of all the gods! We will be VICTORIOUS!!" A shout arose from the men gathered and swords were unsheathed and thrust into the air like a thousand spires jutting from the battlements of Minas Tirith herself.

Doran settled back, immensely pleased with the effect of his virtually meaningless words. Too easy, had it been, to take a simple bar brawl and twist it into an open act of rebellion. Everything would play into it once Jurex and the others got a move on. But even Doran was pleasantly impressed at how easy it had been. A nobleman could be cajoled into anything with a good speech and a few words like 'victory', 'triumphant', or 'bravery'. He was even a bit nervous...

"You have spirited words, Doran," the ambassador congratulated, standing. "And his counsel has not fallen upon deaf ears. We will meet this foe, even though they were accepted as our brothers. It will break my heart to decree against them, but, as Doran said, for the greater good, it must be so."

The regulations were drawn up and signed. The guards were summoned and informed of the situation and new laws. The process of obliterating the rebellion was implemented and immediate steps of precaution were taken.

Suddenly corsairs were being ousted of their homes, their landlords complying with new laws. The ex-pirates roamed the streets in search of employment where none was given. There had always been little food among them, but now there was none. It was only the first day, but things would get worse very fast. In states of panic, men resorted to thievery, looting stores and warehouses for food they didn't need yet, hoping to stack up for the harder days ahead. Arsenals were broken into and swords and daggers were distributed among the corsair peoples with apprehension.

Doran told the ambassador that this would happen and that he would have to counter it with physical actions implemented by the guards. It was the only way to stop it, he said. They would begin to fear the soldiers and obey the laws. Then all would go back to normal. The iron fist, Doran had spoken about, must be executed. It was their lawful duty. So the ambassador consented and gave unconsciously in to Doran's 'suggestions'. Through Thrann, the corsair captain was slowly taking apart Umbar, stone by crumbling stone.

* * *

The general hadn't been fooled by Doran's words. He hadn't ever trusted this man. But when he saw the support the mob had given him, he became nervous. There was nothing he could do. His men were foolhardy and young. Ready and eager for a battle they'd lose. Forest rubbed at his eyes, trying to think of what he should do, trying to fight his god-awful headache. In the end he decided that Doran was too powerful a mean. Forest realized that the captain had given everything he had into this and that nothing was going to stop him. A terrible feeling of hopelessness dawned on him and he began to shake. He had been afraid lots of times, but not like this. Other times he had been afraid of things and able to fight them. Now the fear came from within. It came from his incapability to counter Doran's moves.

The general fled that afternoon, taking his horse and fleeing south, hoping to meet up with the Harad Road and take it north to Gondor. He told himself that he was going for help and that it wasn't really cowardly retreat after all. But deep inside he knew that he would never face the king. For Elessar would surely see the weakness within him and be disappointed.

Forest's troubles were taken care of him ten leagues out of Umbar. He rode with a panic through the hot, dead lands, hoping, praying to reach some sort of inn that would offer him food. His mind was full of such terror, that assassination hadn't even entered his thoughts. He had assumed Doran's cleverness stopped at a point. The captain had no reason to suspect him, he'd thought. So the arrow came unexpected from behind the dune and struck the general soundly in his heart. Killing him instantly. Doran had known that General Forest might be a threat and had moved to eradicate him soundly. After burying the body and catching the horse, the captain's man mounted and loped back through the savanna towards Umbar where stability descended as a barrel being rolled down a ship plank bound for the dock. Anarchy was nearly in place.

[Nuranar]

It was after nine in the evening when Calnan left the Snifter and Song, but in these southern lands the western sky was still shaded with blue. A dull orange streak glowed above the sea, but he only scowled absently at it.

Why did Devon have to be so pig-headed? He was all-fired to convince everyone of his story but refused to take even ordinary precautions. And Doran wasn’t the man to just sit on his hands, waiting for the blow –

Calnan brought up with a jerk. Apparently Devon had convinced him. He had spent the day observing Ambassador Thrann, especially, and looking out for any references to Doran. These deliberate measures had proven what he had long subconsciously acknowledged: Maurice Thrann was completely under the former corsair’s thumb. Not only did he defer to him in all policy questions, but even sought his opinion and advice in almost everything. The subordinate who completely dominated his superior – a perilous situation at any time.

And if Doran is a plotting corsair at heart, Calnan thought, we’ll be in for a world of hurt. Obviously he’s got some plan up his sleeve, and if what Devon heard is right, the blow is just about to fall. What could he be up to?

Calnan sighed. Capable enough of predicting an opponent’s next move in the never-ending intrigue that was politics, he still had no idea what Doran could be up to. There were so many ways one could go about a revolution!

A revolution… Calnan found himself rehashing the practice duel between Devon and him. What if it came to that? He grinned suddenly. Aye, you beat me with the sword. But have you even used a bow? If it weren’t for my job…

Yes, his job. As he turned into the lane where Secretary Ciryatan lived, he levelheadedly assessed his position. Attaché to a deputy secretary, well up in the Gondorian diplomatic circles, valuable connections in Umbar and in Minas Tirith – such were the makings of a good career. But did he want to live the life that went with it?

Two years in Umbar, two years in Minas Tirith. And looking back…what he remembered wasn’t the glittering social functions, the high-powered secret conferences, the feeling of “being in the know.” It was – of all things – the time he was waylaid shortly after his arrival in Umbar, when he had to fight for his life against three thugs who saw only a bookish young Gondorian. It was the time he and Devon were out late, and the younger boy’s impulsive words embroiled them both in a glorious free-for-all that culminated in an exhilarating chase through Umbar’s dark alleys. It was every time he had leisure to catch a ride out of the city, to track and hunt the wary wild game of the desert lands, to use the longbow he was born to bear.

No question about it. This wasn’t the life for him. And the way out may come very soon, Calnan reflected wryly as he turned through the gate.

* * *

After puttering about for a couple of hours, Calnan had finally gotten to bed shortly before midnight. He was just beginning to doze when a clamorous banging at the front door echoed insistently through the house. Quickly pulling on his trousers, Calnan slipped out his bedroom door and pattered barefoot down the stairs.

Ciryatan, in a luxurious silk nightshirt and robe, was just turning away from the door. Calnan heard hoof beats clop away down the drive. “Ah, Calnan,” his employer said, the worried lines on his forehead clearing slightly. “Get dressed – we need to go to the Embassy at once.”

“Yes, sir. What has happened?”

“I don’t know.” The lines returned as he turned away. The secretary wasn’t the most astute of men, but he knew something was wrong in the city. He just couldn’t put his finger on it. And now apparently something had happened.

Calnan took the stairs two at a time. Doran hasn’t wasted any time!

* * *

Later that night – that is, morning – Calnan stood rigidly against the wall in Ambassador Thrann’s assembly room as Jythralo Doran, former corsair captain, gave an impassioned oration in the name of Gondor, advocating the suppression of any last vestige of corsair-ism. Almost unnaturally impassive, Calnan’s lack of expression gave no indication of the fury welling up within. The fiend! The scheming, hypocritical blackguard – does he think he’ll get away with this outrageous load of double-talk?!

Then his eye shifted to the ambassador, and his heart sank. Thrann was drinking in every word, nodding inanely in agreement. This jellyfish won’t even consider rejecting his proposals. Calnan’s fists clenched in silent futility. How many years has he spent in Umbar? You can’t change a corsair by taking his ship! Doesn’t he realize this is calculated exactly to stir them up to insurrection? That’s his plan. It’s going to work, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Or was there? As Thrann stood and congratulated the “former” corsair, Calnan gazed unseeingly at them. Instead of the ambassador, he was seeing…the ambassador’s son.

* * *

The first ray of sunshine that peeped over the high embassy wall shone through the council room window and spread itself across a small table in the middle of the room. Calnan glanced up and wearily blew out the candle by which he had been copying dispatches since the midnight meeting. Only one more paragraph…

Finally finished, he pushed back his chair and got stiffly to his feet. After sending the dispatches by courier to various city officials, he slipped silently along the corridors to Devon’s room before his employer could catch him. Not bothering to knock, he barged straight in. It won’t hurt him to get up early for once. “Devon, wake up. I’ve got something to…” Calnan’s words trailed off.

Devon was not in his room. But instead of being the early bird, he was apparently mimicking the night owl: his bed was still neatly made up, as it was by the housemaid later every morning. Calnan stood clutching the doorknob, feeling as if he’d been hit in the stomach. Had Doran struck here first? He moved faster than I’d thought.

If not, Callath would know. Or else he’ll need to know. Calnan wheeled and lightly sped back down the stairs, but was seen by Ciryatan before he could reach safety in the back rooms. “Come, Calnan, I need you to help me with the report to send to the King. The ship is waiting for it…”

It nearly noon when Calnan again extricated himself from the suddenly distasteful world of parchment and pens. This time he headed straight for the stables. As he neared them, the small figures outside resolved themselves into Callath, a couple other boys, and – thank Eru! – Devon. Slowing to the decorous saunter demanded of a diplomat, Calnan joined the group.

“Good morning, Devon, Callath,” he said, nodding to the other stable boys. A twitch of the eyebrow and a slight inclination of the head were all the signals Callath needed.

“I s’pose I’ll see you fellows later,” he said to his colleagues. “Murder’s exciting, but I’ve still got work to do.” He strode back into the stable. After the others headed off in another direction, presumably to spread the exciting news, Devon and Calnan followed him.

“I suppose you’re talking about Tomis Predd, the Gondorian killed by corsairs last night,” Calnan said abruptly, glancing around to make sure they were alone. As the two nodded, he looked at Devon. “What else happened? You haven’t been home since last night, have you.”

As Devon told about the near-kidnapping, Calnan felt only a deep sense of relief. At least Doran had failed in something. Plus, that attempt to silence the only opposition effectively proved Devon’s story. Now Doran was fully exposed – at least to the three of them, and Adeline would never forgive them if they didn’t tell her.

“But Calnan,” Callath said, “isn’t there something else? You didn’t even care about the murder.”

Of course! How could they know about what else had happened? Calnan told them of the assembly called early that morning, and the regulations Doran’s fiery sermon had inspired. “The corsair population is far from beaten. Doran knows that there’s nothing that will stir up their ferocity like the blatant injustice of these laws!”

A gloom-laden silence fell. Callath broke it. “So now what?”

Devon sprang to his feet. “Now what? Now we do something! We can’t get the government to listen to us, and we can’t do nothing. So we’ve got to stop him ourselves. That’s all there is to it!”

Devon’s face was full of eagerness and the desire to battle it out with the wily corsair captain. Despite his foreboding, Calnan was inspired. Doran wasn’t invincible; he hadn’t put Devon out of action. It would take a lot to stop the four of them.

[Amanaduial the archer]

“Now what? Now we do something! We can’t get the government to listen to us, and we can’t do nothing. So we’ve got to stop him ourselves. That’s all there is to it!”

'We do it ourselves?' 'That's all there is to it?' Oh good grief, the same madness as was on Devon has apparently attacked Calnan... Needless to say, Callath was a little less inspired than the other two with the plan to storm every Corsair in Umbar and put them back in their place. Callath gave a small cough, wondering how to phrase his words to cause the minimum offence, then looked up at Calnan, who had turned to him. "We...we do it ourselves?"

To his dismay, the attache seemed truly inspired, his face lit up. "Of course! Doran's two trained thugs couldn't even take down Devon - sorry, Devon," he added hastily, before continuing, "- it'll take alot to stop all four of us!"

Callath winced inwardly, then tried to be diplomatic. "Calnan, that's the thing - there are only four of us. Against Corsair in Umbar! Seriously, try a calculation - half of the sea front districts are almost entirely ex-Corsairs, who will be enraged at these rules and who, therefore, we would be 'against'. How many men - and women - do you reckon that is?"

Calnan's smile faded a little, and both he and Devon suddenly seemed to realise just how much they would be up against. But on Calnan's face the expression which Callath referred to as his 'business' expression was forming, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he was about to explain. But Devon was completely fired up again, and Callath rather felt that, although the attache had thought it through, Devon may be back in rebel mode... "We're more than equipped. All of us know how to fight, and with Calnan's knowledge as a secreatary, from inside we can-"

"Do you have a ship?" Callath's comment came out as a little too abrupt, and Devon coloured sharply. Callath tried to speak quickly to allay the obvious offence he had caused, but Devon got there first, his voie rising angrily. "Sounds like you'd rather not do anything."

Now Callath was angry. "Don't be stupid, Devon, you think I want to see the place over-run with the likes of who Doran has proved himself to be? Sly, treacherous backstabbers-"

"I can think of another besides Doran now, Callath."

Callath gave a sharp intake of breath, starting to speak angrily, amazed at the fact Devon could even make the comment, before he stopped. The older boy would not let this escalate - they couldn't be seperated now. He stopped and took a deep breath, the two of them breathing heavily, before the stable boy let out a deep, slow breath. "Sorry, Devon."

"You too, Callath," came the reply, and a small smile, which was returned. Calnan watched impatiently, and butted in now.

"What would you do then, Callath? No really, we need a plan of action."

Callath's mind had started spinning the moment he stopped yelling at Devon, but as for a way to sort things out fully...tapping his lips thoughtfully, Callath thought for a moment, then turned to Devon. "Devon, d'you reckon you would be able to stop your father passing the laws?"

Devon looked contemptuous, then stopped, thoughtfully. "Bear in mind what happened last night...if I told him about that, he would have to believe his own son's word over that of Doran, right?"

Let's hope so. Callath didn't say it aloud, instead nodding. "Go for it."

Devon smiled at Callath, determination written on every line of his face, then started outside the door of the stable. Callath just had to hope Ambassador Thrann wouldn't notice his son hadn't shaved yet this morning. As he turned slowly to look thoughtfully down the interior of the stable, Callath's eyes inadvertently met those of Doran's stallion, who Callath still hadn't mastered.

Calnan, noticing where his gaze was headed, grinned, standing abotu a metre behind his friend. "Doran's horse, right?"

Callath nodded, then shrugged, looking back at Calnan with a wry smile. "If we really get stuck, we can always steal his horse."

Calnan laughed and turned to go out the way Devon had, calling back jokily, "That can be our back-up then, Callath - plan B, steal the enemy's horse!"

Calnan grinned, and turned to go out the door, before Callath remembered something that had slipped his mind and called him quickly. "Calnan, wait! Devon!" Jogging out of the door, he caught up with Calnan only a few steps out, and Devon halfway across the front courtyard. "Adeline!"

Calnan's eyes widened. "Adeline!"

"Indeed," Callath grinned dryly. "I though I'd tell her now when you're off, but best that we all tell her - besides, if we all go to see Ambassador Thrann, we have the weight of your word as well, Calnan." The older boy nodded, before he set off at a quick walk again, with Callath beside them, catching up with Devon, who fell into step beside them. Turning out into the street towards Adeline's house, the three didn't talk for a while, an business-like air of thought and purpose settling around them.

[ November 13, 2003: Message edited by: Amanaduial the archer ]

[Earendil Halfelven]

It was 9am. The councilmen had only five hours of sleep, which is what Doran wanted. The less sleep they've had, the better. Now they were back inside the council chamber, ready to pass new laws for Umbar, which had been drawn up by the newly formed Security Council, which included Doran, who had been elected the Chairman of the Security Council and 10 other councilmen who had been voted in earlier that morning.

All the councilmen were seated, and Ambassador Thrann was ready to start the meeting. The sound of the ambassador's gavel hitting its wooden pallet thudded throughout the chamber. His personal secretary stood.

"Emergency session #1 is now beginning. Ambassador Thrann has the floor." The man took his seat as the ambassador cleared his throat.

"As you all know, serious matters within Umbar demand our attention and immediate action. Laws must be passed that will keep these corsairs in order and restore peace to the city. Now we will begin approving of the new bills that have been drawn up by the Security Council."

Thrann reached to a stack of papers that lay on his desk. He took the one off of the top and handed it to his secretary. The man took the bill, stood and said,"First order of business today is-

Security Council Proposition #1
By Order of the Council of Umbar and of the Ambassador:
Every corsair within Umbar, including every man, woman, and child, must wear a badge upon their person in the form of a large, red "C." This shall be sewn upon every article of clothing. This includes, but is not limited to trousers, dresses, jackets, shirts, hats, and all types of underclothing. Any corsair caught without such identification will be fined no less than 100 gold coins and jailed for at least three days. This law shall take effect two days from now, giving the corsairs sufficient time to obtain the proper identification.

The secretary looked around the room to let the bill soak in.
"All those opposed..." Silence. "All those in favor..." The chamber was filled with replies of "yea" and "hear, hear."

"With the unanimous decision of the Council, the proposed bill #1 is now law." The paper was stamped and handed to another man, who left the chamber to add it to the law books. The ambassador handed the secretary the second sheet from the stack.

Security Council Proposition #2...
_____________________________________________

At 12 noon, a crowd had gathered. The rumor around town was that new laws had been passed earlier that morning concerning the corsairs. In the middle of the square, a city guard was reading from a sheet of paper to the crowd-

"...but is not limited to trousers, dresses, jackets, shirts, hats, and all types of underclothing. Any corsair caught without such identification will be fined no less than 100 gold coins and jailed for at least three days. This law shall take effect two days from now, giving the corsairs sufficient time to obtain the proper identification."

"By order of the Ambassador and the Security Council: As of today, any Umbarian citizen who has had connections with the Corsairs of Umbar in the past, it is required that the large, red "C" be stamped on a sheet of paper that must be presented when applying for a job or buying/renting a home, or performing any other type of business. Any person caught not obeying this law will be punished. Punishment includes two days jail time and a 50 gold coin fine."

"By order of the Ambassador and the Security Council: As of today, no corsair or any Umbarian citizen who has had connections with the Corsairs of Umbar will be allowed in inns past the hour of 9 every day."

"By order of the Ambassador and the Security Council: As of today, no Corsair or any Umbarian citizen who has had connections with the Corsairs of Umbar will be allowed to purchase weapons."

"By order of the Ambassador and the Security Council: As of today, city guards will be placed at all the gates and are under strict orders to question any person upon entering Umbar. All immigration from known Corsair towns, villages, cities, and lands is strictly prohibited. Any Corsair caught attempting to enter Umbar will be captured, detained, and sentenced. Any Corsair caught attempting to enter Umbar that does not immediately surrender, will be killed. Also, any Corsair that resides within Umbar as of today must obtain a passport to leave Umbar. Upon re-entrance, if they are not able to present the passport, they will not be allowed back into Umbar."
_____________________________________________

Doran sat in his office, pleased with the days achievements. He could feel Umbar slipping into chaos. Soon, it will be ready for the taking.

Still, he couldn't bear the thought of Devon Thrann knowing his plans. And by now, his closes friends obviously knew. That put Doran at a risk. Though they were only kids, they still knew. They had to be eliminated. But how? Jurex and Agdar had already fouled up one attempt. The boy was now ready for anything. He had sent Jurex on his mission to talk to the corsair population into revolting. Agdar, who had begged Doran to spare his life, was now on a ship. His mission was to prepare Doran's fleet and give Doran's orders to his various captains. All was almost ready.

But Devon still knew. The first time Jurex and Agdar had tried to kidnap him, the boy had run for it. He obviously had not run to his father's house. He had gone somewhere else. But where? Who were his closest friends that he trusted with his own life? Doran had to find out who they were. A plan was forming in his mind, one that possibly included a successful kidnapping and maybe another murder.

He began to write an anonymous letter to Acacia. Today was going to be a good day.

[Arien]

There was a harsh knock on her study door that startled Acacia. She rested her white quill on the piece of parchment that she had been writing on and called for the visitor to enter. The door opened with a click and a messenger; dressed in Gondorian attire entered the dimly lit room. He quickly glanced around at his surroundings and shut the door behind him.

“A message.” He said speedily.

“From whom?” She said taking the envelope from him. There was no stamp, so it was anonymous unless the sender had signed their name. But then again the sender might not be that careless. She did not wait for him to reply but bade him farewell and locked the door behind him. She came to rest again on her chair and stared at the envelope for a second, she then proceeded to open it and read.

Follow the boy. Find out who is friends are, his trusted friends. Find out his hiding places, his safe havens. Use any amount of men you need. They are at your disposal as you see fit. Any resources that you need come to me. When you feel the time is right and we know everything, then we shall strike. Take your time and do not fail.

It wasn’t singed, but she knew it was from Jythralo. It was his hand, and who else would send her such a message? Acacia took the letter and held it above the burning flame of the nearest candle; it caught alight and burned brightly. She held it momentarily and then dropped it into a silver bowl that lay on her desk. Although the letter was anonymous she always felt it right to burn any letter that she received concerning Corsair affairs. She was vigilant of what might be found if certain information came to the wrong hands.

Acacia picked up the envelope and burned that also, even though it only had her name upon it. Smoke rose from the silver bowl and curled delicately in the heavy incensed air of the small study. She reminisced on Jythralo’s last words, …. do not fail. She would not fail, she would not let him down, or herself. She had encountered more difficult tasks then trailing a stupid child.

---------------

The sea breeze blew softly inland. It was mid- morning and Acacia had only just left her estate. She would try and find the boy herself at first. She saw no real use in having any men follow or help her at first until she had established some needed information. Such as who were the boy’s friends? And where did they go. This, she thought would be easy information to gather. Acacia knew many of the people around Umbar and no doubt a few might be able to point her in the right direction. But where to start looking? She thought as she entered the main high street.

It was a normal busy day; everything was customary apart from random posters that were scattered about. The new rules, Acacia smiled to herself. Her head was swimming with delight.

Acacia made her way to the Inn where Jurex and his various accomplices had managed to let the boy escape. She talked to the barman for a while, allowing them to get friendly with each other before she asked about him. She thought it better than asking him straight out. He was Gondorian, and he would obviously think it highly suspicious if Acacia had questioned him about Devon straight on.

“…. So what kind of crowd do you get round here?” She asked absent-mindedly.

“Oh well, the good type I’d say, nothing like that lot on the other side of the city.”

“Oh?” Acacia said raising her eyes to him. She knew he was talking about The Low Tide Inn. But it was conversation.

“Yeah, you know the one.”

“I think I do.” She said nodding and then taking a sip of ale from her tankard. “So who do you get then?”

“Good honest people like. If you understand me. We even get the Ambassadors son and his friends. Great they are, don’t cause me much trouble…”

Acacia nodded as though the comment was a throw away one but her eyes burned mischievously. “His friends?” She asked quietly.

“Oh yeah,” he said while serving another customer, his eyes however were fixed upon her. “There are three of them, a girl and two other lads. I can’t remember their names off the top of my head although I know one works for the Deputy Secretary, smart lad.” The bar man smiled momentarily as though he was proud of the boys friend. Acacia knew who the boy was. She had seen him at council meetings; his name was Calnan Dontel.

“Oh and the other young man and the girl. I do not know that much of them, though I think the girl is Adeline Montrés. Yes in fact she is. You know the girl...” he said looking at the slight confusion on Acacia’s face. She knew exactly who the girl was; the confusion was there just so he would confirm her suspicions. “She is Captain Gareth Montrés daughter. You must have heard of him?” He chortled exasperatedly.

“Yes, I have. The first man to catch Jythralo Doran I believe.” The barman nodded. Acacia paused for a few moments. She knew very well the he had caught Jythralo; she too had almost been caught. But she managed to slip away before he was captured. For the time Jythralo was in jail all she could think of was killing him, or doing something to harm him or his pride. Because of him the ‘repair’ of Umbar began. No longer could she be upon the sea, and no longer could she be a true Corsair.

She stayed a while longer but gathered, no other useful information. As she left she believed she had had a successful day. She had discovered two of the names of his friends and that the other was another boy. However now she felt she would need help trailing them. So she made her way Russ’ place.

----------------

“Another man?”

“I you would, and one who can blend in. I need him to track some people.” Acacia replied walking into the kitchen. The large cabinet had been restocked with various stuffs Blaine had purchased for Russ.

“People?” He said pouring a glass of rum for her.

“Yes people,” she said hastily taking the glass from him.

“I take it I will not find out who these people are?”

“You will not, at least not yet.”

“Will I have to wait until another fight breaks out?” He eyed her curiously.

“No.” She said simply. He nodded and left the room. It took him a few minutes to return with what he described as a suitable stalker. He looked as normal as any Gondorian, no Cosair in him at all. She stared for a few moments she then briefed him on what to do.

“….do you understand?” She said finally. He nodded and then left with a concise farewell to his employer.

As Russ shut the door behind him he turned to Acacia, “Will you be staying?”

“Yes, I think I will. Well at least until the stalker comes back.” She smiled at him.

“In that case I believe we have a lot to catch up on.”

[ November 15, 2003: Message edited by: Arien ]

[maikafanawen]

Devon led his other friends through the chaotic streets of Umbar towards the Montrés townhouse. Bodies were packed tightly into the street protesting, or arguing loudly. Urchins and pickpockets (common in the wealthier parts of town) darted in and out stuffing their loot into pouches hidden beneath their filthy patched tunics. A beggar man dove out from the darkness of one ally to attempt to tackle Devon, grabbing one of his legs in midstride. The brown haired young man whipped out his sword and pointed it at the man's chin. The ambassador's son's eyes were wide, not with panic, but with disbelief. An outright attack in the middle of the day?

"Move back old man," he shouted moving his sword. Mumbling a string of curses on both the man, his sword, and his friends the beggar retreated into the darkness of his ally. Devon sheathed his sword and gave Calnan and Callath a shocked look. "In broad daylight," he commented—more to himself than them. The three turned and moved on, weaving in and out of the angry mob towards the seamstress's shop.

At one point in the road they saw the Gondor-Umbarian guard ushering people into a line in front of collapsible tables set up in the middle of the street. Behind each one sat a scribe with a stack of linen squares, and a jar of blood red paint on each desk. In the hands of each one rested a brush. Devon darted by quickly but got a glimpse of the large red "C" painted on each one. Directly behind the scribes were chairs where people from the line were being told to sit as a harried looking tailor hurriedly sewed the patch on the clothing of each person. As he examined the faces of the people in procession, he noticed a good many of them as exceptionally wealthy people, but all of them had the dark skin and near-black hair of the pirate race. His expression must have betrayed his perplexity when he looked back at Calnan and Callath but both shook their heads vacantly, equally confused.

Ahead a man stood on a raised, hastily constructed platform reading out from a scroll of parchment that had the ambassador's stamp and ribbon hanging from the top handle. The three stopped to listen as the new laws were read. When the crier finished, protestations were shouted loudly above the crowd even though this was the fourth or fifth reading in this area. Devon immediately shot an almost accusing look at Calnan.

"You seemed to have left out something in your relay of what happened in that meeting!" he whispered tensely. Callath looked at him too, equally inquisitive.

"They most likely decided on those at the Security Council meeting," he explained. "Attachés aren't ever included there. It's strictly local government." Devon relaxed visibly but still didn't quite understand. The Security Council would have been held instantaneously for the scribes to be here and made so much progress all ready judging by the healthy number of people in badges all ready. But since time was all ready not among their list of allies, Devon decided to let the matter drop and continue on to Adeline's house.

The sign of the seamstress's shop jutted out over the street from its iron post and hung over the faded blue door that led into the Montrés's sewing shop on the first floor and fine living quarters on the second and third. Devon reached it and knocked loudly. Callath tried to peer through an opening in the curtains drawn on the other side of the street window. He shook his head. The student banged again and shook at the locked handle. The shutters creaked open from the second story window and Adeline's pale, pretty face peered down.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Hold on a moment and I'll be down to let you in." The shutters closed and the three men stood outside the door, looking again at the mob. One disgruntled man brushed by Callath with such force he knocked him over and caused him to step in a puddle of waste. The stable-hand shook the grime from his boot only to be shoved back in again.

"Here now," the flaxen haired boy said, stepping from the puddle for the second time. The man turned and faced him challengingly. He had thick black hair and a scarred, tanned face. Thick eyebrows were pressed over his grey eyes that were burning with anger and his mouth was pulled back into a sneer. At his sides, great fists clenched ready and eager to fly. Callath took all this in very quickly and held up his palms in amity. "My fault," he stammered quickly. "I've got a clumsy step it would seem." The man's eyebrows rose a bit but his fists didn't slacken. He did turn though and continued on his unfortunate path down the street.

"You're as wise as you look, you know that Callath?" Devon said amusingly. The lock on the Montrés's door clicked and Adeline pulled it open beckoning them inside quickly.

[Arvedui III]

The noise was remarkable.

During the last few days, Telson had lain low, switching inns each night and observing as Umbar sank deeper and deeper into anarchy. If he learned one thing throughout, it was that humans, and the gods knew what else, was capable of making the most incredible noises at all hours of the day, and more importantly, the night. The only way he found to keep himself amused and as agreeable as possible in the mornings was to read the periodical decrees from the ambassador and the high council, sometimes coupled with the posters for a reward regarding information and the whereabouts of a tall, pale, thin, and long-haired foreigner seen at the Low Tide Inn. It was all the more entertaining because it had been so arduous to cover his tracks in the first place.

On principle he overpaid the bartender and his son to keep quiet, but disguising his appearance, especially since it was included in the letter he was to present to the ambassador, proved a much more difficult task. As vain as Telson was when it came to his hair, cropping it was the first step. Next went his clothing. Deciding that, despite his affinity for his worn brown cloak, while he was in Umbar, he should dress as the Umbarians do; So while his normal cloths gathered dust the bottom of his haversack, he now sported simple, and slightly disheveled, black wears, and carried his shortswords were all could see them. The final step, and the one he prided himself most in, was mud. In a daily ritual he caked his face and all parts of his body that showed to the outside world with a light layer of mud, generally gleaned from around the coastline, to make himself look darker.

Originally he berated himself into thinking the idea was absurd, but it worked so well he was acually stopped and charged with being in league with corsairs, twice. This was also one of the more interesting things Telson learned about Umbar: Men whom he noted were friends the day before, turned on each other and writhed like a pack of enraged rooks in a cage, each fighting tooth and claw to escape, not caring who they hurt in the process. Trying to remain cynically amused became increasingly challenging, even for Telson, who was normally a master of black humor. So it stood that Telson sat on a barrel outside his current inn, The Patched Sail, listlessly listening to the overpowering noise on the street. Disturbing talk of ‘greedy, dirty westmen' and pining for older, darker days reached his ears as Telson shook his head in disgust and thought aloud, " Are they truly willing to trade peace for the days of Sauron of old?"

Surprisingly, he got an answer. " They make the mistake of forgetting Sauron, friend. They dream only of the freedom of the sea they once ruled for him." Telson looked up sharply and saw a balding, well-dressed man holding the door handle to the shop on his right. "Pardon, friend," He said cautiously, eyeing the large red "C" on the man's forearm, "How do you know this?" The older man shrugged. "I was to be one of them like my father, but then the war happened and," He let his voice trail off and waved his arm outward in a sign of strain. "They remember Doran, and how he slipped out of Gondor's grasp so often. They think they can do the same, idiots." He spat in revolt.

"Doran?" Telson echoed, having vaguely remembered the name. "Aye, Jytharo Doran. Once a great corsair captain, now puppet-master of Umbar, or at least that's what I hear."He said, furrowing his brows. "Have ye not heard of him?" "Nay, I haven't." Telson replied, eagerly taking the opportunity to get more information. "So, he controls the isle, you say?" "In this," the man said, gesturing toward the street thrashing with chaotic noise, " No one can say."Telson laughed appreciatively and bade the man good day as he entered the store, but then rose to his feet with new purpose. He strode back into his room, washed his hands and face, put on his old cloths, grabbed his letter, and headed back out the door.

Appointment or not, if a corsair was behind all this, he was going to see the ambassador.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"You're as wise as you look, you know that Callath?" Devon grinned mischieviously and Callath pulled a 'oh, haha' face at the comment, wiping his feet vigorously on the mat before going inside the house.

Adeline closed the door quickly behind Callath, the other two having gone in before, and turned to them, her eyes wide. "What on earth is going on down there?" she exclaimed.

"Umbar has gone mad, is what's happened," Callath replied darkly. "They have gone mad and wherever there is danger, 'corsair' is cried. Doran's smarter than we could have expected."

"Doran? He caused..." she gestured outside, mystified, at the noisy cut-throat mob. Calnan nodded. "Almost certainly. Have you not looked outside?"

Adeline shrugged, clearly frustrated - Callath guessed her mother had probably not allowed her out this morning then. "I couldn't see much for the sea of people. I could hear some of it though - the proclamations against Corsairs. Why would Doran behave like that?" She said the last sentence slowly, and Callath could see the smart girl had half-worked out the answer even as she asked the question.

Devon seemed to snap out of a dream and started to explain all they knew as she sound outside grew louder and louder and the expressions of all four youths grew grimmer and grimmer...

[ November 23, 2003: Message edited by: Amanaduial the archer ]

[Himaran]

Two days had passed, and among the corsair population, what had at first been mere grumbling and an occasional dark look at a guard had evolved into a string of violence that shocked the occupying force. Guards had been attacked robberies were frequent, and fights in bars a common event. But Jurex knew that the corsairs still needed a push - one that would push them over the brink, and into the dark chasm of murder.

Setting aside his pen, the man surveyed his work. He had forged a fairly accurate copy of one of the recent laws put in place by the council, and the signiture at the bottom could not have been proven false by even the sharpest eye. But a close scan of the document would have found that several changes and additions to the law, which Jurex knew would be quite infuriating to the corsairs of Umbar.

The man checked the document a third time, chuckly to himself inwardly. I wonder why I spend so much valuable time checking for mistakes. Few among my audience can read anyway - the fools. Finally satisfied, the man, (taking the paper with him), left the house and headed for the docks. With luck, a large body of corsairs would have recieved the invitation Acacia had dispersed the night before, and be present to hear him read the "new law."

The time of Umbar's indepence is nearing. We need only a little more time... and it will be over.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 2:56 PM December 24, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Arien]

He slipped distractedly through the crowd that milled around the streets. Angry Corsairs cursed and shouted at the new laws that were posted on the walls and doors of various buildings. A group had even taken to burning them in piles, their faces full of hate and satisfaction. However the Gondorian Guards who were close by watching soon took them away, where he did not know. But it couldn’t be any place good.

He passed the tables that had been set up for the corsairs to receive their papers. An inkpot lay smashed on the floor and papers were everywhere. It seemed to him that the Gondorians had let themselves in for more than they had bargained for. He smiled momentarily, but his keen eyes were still upon his target in front of him.

Two others accompanied the boy. One would be Calnan, the boy who worked for the Deputy Secretary. Acacia had explained him perfectly; this was an easier job than he thought. The other who was there was around five ten or eleven. He was fair skinned and too had fair hair. From what he could see he had dark eyes and was of a fit build. However there was no Miss Montrés. Maybe Acacia had been informed wrongly.

No matter though, he would keep tailing them. As he moved on through the crowd the three stopped outside what was evidently a house. The door opened momentarily and then they entered the door closing firmly behind them. He rushed forward thinking that he had lost them but then stopped. He had seen where she lived. He had gathered enough information to satisfy Acacia. And so he returned.

++++++++++++++

“I’ll get it,” he said placing his glass of rum on the nearest table and walking out from the room.

Acacia leaned back onto the sofa and played with the pleats in her dress, whilst waiting for Russ to return. She head voices in the hall and stood immediately when she heard the second voice. It was the stalker she had sent out. The two entered the room; Russ went back to his chair and sat down. The other man stood by the door hesitantly.

“What news have you brought?” She said moving round to stand next to Russ. She was anxious to hear of any developments that might have occurred, least to say she was keen to learn of the news she would bring Jythralo. The man bowed momentarily and the stood up.

“You were indeed right, both Miss Montrés and Calnan are his friends. The other boy I do not recognise, but Devon seems to be barely out of company of either of the two maybe even the three. But I did not have chance to see them with the girl. I only caught a glimpse of her when the others entered her house. The Inn that you mentioned, they are seen mostly there and sometimes down on the bay….” He paused.

“Is that all?” Acacia questioned, her hard, cold eyes staring at the man.

“It is all that I could find.”

Acacia sighed, “Then that will do.” She placed a pouch of coins into his hand, and Russ dismissed him from the room; he left without a word and shut the door behind him. Russ took a drink from his glass while Acacia stared for a while thinking.

“I-“

“…Must go,” he said cutting in. “Yes, no doubt I will see you soon?”

“Maybe sooner than you think.” She smiled and left the room, entering the dark corridor. She headed for the front door and unlocked the various bolts from the door.

“Farewell, until later,” he said from behind her as she stepped out on to the dark alley. The door clicked after her and then a series of locks clinked into place. She smiled and made her way to Jythralo’s. She had collected enough information on the boy, but all the same she hoped that he would be pleased. For some strange reason she always took great pleasure in being praised by him.

[ 2:23 PM November 26, 2003: Message edited by: Arien ]

[Himaran]

Acacia was well known and liked among the population, and her invitation had not gone unnoticed. A large crowd of corsairs had gathered at an auction podium near the docks, waiting to hear the speaker. He did not keep them waiting for long.

Jurex stepped forward, a roll of paper clenched in his right hand. Allowing it to fall open, the man pointed with brazen defiance at the letters and stamp at the bottem of the page. Without changing his confidant expression an iota, he pulled a knife from his belt and ran it through the document, neatly slicing it in half. Shouts of approval soon greeted his actions.

"This," Jurex roared, "is what should be done to every law made by the pitiful
'council' that controls us. They wish only to destroy our country, our people, and our way of life!"

After waiting for the cheering to subside, he withdrew another document from his pocket. "You have seen the recent legislature created by the fat, lazy and foolish patricians of this city. But what I hold here oversteps any bounds that had previously been broken. This law has only to be signed, and your few remaining freedoms will disappear completely!"

The corsairs quieted now, listening intently. Jurex opened the document and read: "Any corsair, man, woman or child, who does not claim alliegence to the Gondorian Flag will be sentenced to life imprisonment, with loss of all property and possesions."

Screams of rage greeted this addition to his speech. Anti-Gondorian slogans and shouts of "Umbar, Umbar" soon rang throughout the docks. As his final line remained unsaid, Jurex motioned for them to quiet, which took several minutes to accomplish. When silence was finally reached, Jurex read the last section of the "law."

"Under pain of death!"

[maikafanawen]

They didn't linger long at the seamstress's house before the four of them made their way to the embassy. The streets were littered still with angry citizens, protesting against the brusqueness of the ambassador's laws. Even Gondorians cast a loathsome eye at the swinging parchment in the official's hands. Corsairs had been employed in their shops, smiths, and other businesses. Maybe commerce would be less hearty now that their employees were branded.

The black iron gates were swung open before the embassy and people streamed in and out. There were many Umbarian protestors and the officials were having a hell of a time trying to keep them from breaking further into the grounds and, Eru forbid, into the house itself. Devon and his friends wormed their way through to the Captain of the Guard and identified themselves. The black-garbed man then stepped aside for them to pass and had to move quickly into place again to stop a man from also squeezing by.

Once inside the embassy, however, their troubles didn't stop. A mediate had arrived and he was admonishing loudly the council's decision to publish the new laws. Politicians were everywhere debating fruitlessly with each other and Devon shook his head in disgust at their uselessness.

Finally, though, he made it to where his father was in the Great Hall. He burst in like a furious gust of wind and drew himself up importantly. Pulling a condescending look, he marched across the marble floor to stand before his father's mahogany desk.

"Devon," the ambassador said sharply. "What are you doing here? Go to your wing and stay there."

"Father," he said, ignoring the man's command. "There is a plot. A plot to overthrown the Gondorian government. The man leading it is Captain Jythralo Doran. I overheard him and Agdar talking in the alley that night father and you didn't believe me. I tell you again now that I have proof of Doran's scheme. He has set before you in a mask of devotion to Gondor and King Elessar but in his heart he is loyal only to the pirates. He has twice tried to be rid of me because he knows that I am aware of his plan--or vaguely aware. Father, I strongly suggest that you withdraw these ridiculous laws. I'm not sure what Doran is trying to do exactly, but I am sure that you are playing right into his hands." Devon stopped and held his breath as he bore into his father's eyes. They were unreadable and he waited to see the reaction. What at last the ambassador spoke, it was not what he expected.

"Devon, you couldn't possibly understand. You were not present at the Council Meeting last night--though I don't know why--and you did not here how passionately Doran spoke against the corsairs. Half of these laws were his idea. We have had to hire guards to protect him from the furies of the corsairs. There have been attempts on his life and many pirates want him eradicated. If Doran is, as you say, doing this as an act of loyalty to his people of late, then why would so many of his supposéd 'allies' be trying to murder him?" Devon stood and stared dumbfounded. Maurice returned his gaze coolly and leaned exhaustedly back in his chair. "My son, it is not wise to meddle in the ways of government unless you have all the facts. It'll will get you no where and give you the name of a fool." The ambassador's son was dumbstruck but Calnan had been paying attention and reached a sensible conclusion.

"Mr. Ambassador, if I may, I believe that the 'attacks' you are referring to against Doran by the pirates may be staged. It is logical." Calnan licked his lips and looked quickly from Devon to Ambassador Thrann. "He wants you and the rest of the councilmen to believe that he is completely honor-bound to Gondor. So he makes a passionate speech and he gives some prequisites for laws that are anti-corsair and to top it all off and really convince you, he stages some assassination attempts."

"It's too awful of a way to go about whatever you say he's trying to do. Some of his ideas for acts were so harsh that we even had to reject them." Calnan exhaled in frustration.

"He knew you'd do that. He knew that you couldn't and wouldn't pass too harsh of a law but he would throw them out there so that you'd see how 'loyal' he was being." Maurice shook his head.

"Your imaginations are too broad and this is not the time for you to put your storybook readings to use. This is very serious. We are facing a state crisis and it's going to take all we have to control it. I trust that I will hear no more of this nonsense about the disloyalties of Captain Doran!"

"Yes?" said a deep, almost soothing voice from the doorway. Everyone present turned to acknowledge the newcomer. It was Doran. The four friends' eyes narrowed and they exchanged angry looks with the corsair.

"Ah! Captain Doran," Maurice greeted standing. "I was just telling my son and his friends about how strongly you are participating in helping us get those pirates under control," he said gesturing outside to the crowded streets. Doran grunted a barely audible 'ah' and moved towards them.

"Well I do my best for my country," he said strongly. The way he carried himself absolutely sickened Devon. He walked with his shoulders bent forward slightly without the haughtiness so common in men of high-ranking, and he emitted a spurious feeling of humbleness. His acting was so good that the young man immediately doubted that he would ever convince his father of the pirate's true nature. The ambassador's son's own shoulders slumped in defeat and he looked helplessly at Calnan. The man returned his gaze and shrugged helplessly.

"Why don't you go find something for your friends and you to eat. And you should clean up as well. My boy didn't you shave this morning?" Devon's hand went to his cheeks and jaw and he felt the bristly stubble developed from his razor's absence. Before any of them could protest further, they were ushered out of the Great Hall and pointed in the directs of the kitchen. The doors were just closing when a lean, sallow-faced man dressed in northern, black leathers and shrouded with a shabby brown cloak strode down the corridors bound for the Great Hall. A guard was trailing after him shouting half-heartedly. Devon immediately understood the official's mild efforts. This advancing man was certainly not someone he'd care to cross with his set façade and the two menacing looking short-swords hanging from his belt. Devon quickly stepped aside and watched curiously as he approached the ambassador and Captain Doran....

[Amanaduial the archer]

Callath stiffened as he heard Devon's voice, smooth and deep, but with undertones only the four friends could hear. Honey laced with glass.

Turning with the other three, Callath watched the corsair without a hint of a smile, but carefully keeping any threat out of his eyes as well, and for a second his eyes met those of the Corsair captain and locked.

The captain began to move forward towards the Ambassador's desk as he talked, but neither Calnan or Callath, placed directly between him and the Ambassador, were evidently going to move, so he changed his course towards the window, a look of smooth, perfectly orchestrated worry on his features.

"Why don't you go find something for your friends and you to eat. And you should clean up as well. My boy didn't you shave this morning?" The Ambassador's voice was mild once more, mindful of his advisor's prescence, and Callath shot Devon an encouraging look that said tell him now! But it was too late for any further protestations, and the stable boy knew as well as his friends, and as well as Doran, that it would do not a spot of good, as they were ushered swiftly from the room before they could attemt to spread any further possible discord between Thrann and Doran. Callath glared at the sea Captain's back as they were ushered out, jaw clenched, wishing he had something to say that would incriminate the fraud, when a commotion behind him in the hall caused him, like the others, to turn. A purposeful-looking individual, clad in black and brown clothes and an air of determination, was forging his way down the hall, despite the half-hearted attempts of the resigned-looking guard trailing after him. This was someone Callath would move aside for, and did so quickly, raising an eyebrow at Calnan who shrugged, shaking his head. So he wasn't a council member then, and Callath hadn't seen him around Umbar so, bemused, the stable-boy watched as the tall, lean man approached the Ambassador directly.

[Arvedui III]

If the low districts of Umbar were interminably difficult to navigate, then the high street leading to the Gondorian embassy was simply impossible. Well, for a foreigner at least.

Telson counted himself lucky that he left when he did, else he might be condemned to wander the streets until dawn before he found what he was looking for. Shivering at the thought, he waded through the crowds of people scurrying in directions and to destinations he couldn't possibly imagine. Unlike the lower and middle districts, the high streets were filled horses and carriages and almost devoid of smithies and inns. However, eventually he managed to descry a towering building with a guardhouse and woven iron gates in the front. As he cautiously slunk through, Telson noted a number of men with large red "C"s embroidered on their forearms being quartered off to one side under guard, most of them looking either mutinous or dead scared. Telson shook his head and self-consciously rubbed the back of his hair, not liking the absence of the disgruntled mane that took him at least a year to grow.

It goes against everything Gondor stands for. Everything we've ever fought for. If this is really what we've let Umbar become, then it deserves to fall. Telson himself was surprised by how vehement his thoughts were but did not regret them, and the scorn must have been visible in his eyes when he met the guards at the door. Despite being only a supply officer, Telson could tell the two standing at their were green and undisciplined and would run if a fight turned out of their favor. Waiting to attract their attention until the captain, who did look like a seasoned fighter dressed in armor resembling citadel knights, was busy admonishing a group of angry men behind him, he stepped well into the background of noise and bodies. Striding forward when the time came, Telson faced the door wards.

"Business?" The taller of the asked lazily, looking at him like so much ugly trash. Straitening, he replied stonily, "Representative of Prince Faramir of Ithilien to see Ambassador Thrann of Gondor." They both snorted. "Right then, Mr. Representative, may I have your papers?" The other one said, both of them looking forward to the comic moment when they could prove him false and deal accordingly. Telson smiled, happy to deprive them of such fun. "Of course." He answered and handed the shorter one his rather worn parchment. When the guard's eyes widened and jars dropped to the appropriate levels, they bumbled greetings, gave back his note, and with shaking hands opened the door to the embassy. Ringing marble lined the floor and tapestries hung between magnificent windows. A myriad of people were yelling and casting dirty looks, and harried officials seemed near to the point of weeping.

Telson wondered if such a grand building existed before the coming of the king; He severely doubted it. For the first time since the ship, Telson felt awed and unsure, however, unlike the ship he was able to shake the feeling off once he reached the desk he presumed was set for appointments, giving the same terse introduction he offered the guards at the door. Unlike the guards, the man behind the desk scrutinized more then just the heading of his papers. "Your appointment is not for three days yet." He said in an annoyingly nasal voice. "And you're supposed to have long hair." He finished, glaring daggers at Telson, who merely shrugged, thinking of a good explanation. "As to the former," He began, "The lord Steward grows impatient, and as to the latter," He smiled, "My superior has a somewhat uncomplimentary view of me." That, at least, was true, and the secretary gave him a small smile. "As to the latter, it happens to the best of us," He replied, "But to the former, I'm afraid the ambassador cannot see you until your allotted appointment." Grinning inwardly, Telson gave the man a hard look.

"You would keep the Steward waiting on important affairs of state?" He asked loudly. The dart hit home and the poor man began stumbling over his words, trying to form an apology. Rising an eyebrow, Telson folded his hands and delivered the finish. "Nay, if Umbar is unconcerned with the rest of the Reunited Kingdom, then I shall gladly return in three days time. A good day to you, fine sir." Telson turned to go. Three, two, one, zero... "Wait!" The secretary cried out. "I do not think the ambassador is with anyone at the moment. He should be in the second wing on your left." Then as Telson turned around, he finished, "You may see him." As if it was only his good will that gave Telson the rights to press his business.

Telson began walking down the hallway a little faster then he intended to, looking for the ambassador and smiling when he saw the secretary send a guard trailing after him. "So that's the game, is it?" Telson said quietly to himself. "Worry not then, I can play." "Sir!" The guard shouted out to him, "I'm sorry, sir, but the ambassador is with someone at the moment. You'll have to come back later, sir." Telson shot him a look and continued striding forward. Then there were four guards, each of them looking annoyed and glancing anxiously back toward the chaotic main hall. Telson turned into the second hall and suddenly three of those trailing him disappeared. The one that was still jogging after him looked about ready to do the same. "Endurance, my friends." Telson chuckled. "Endurance."

Suddenly, finally, Telson found what he sought. Moving past four youths walking out of an open office, he looked in upon two men speaking in urgent tones. Both well dressed, Telson guessed that one of them would be ambassador Thrann, or would at least know him. So he strode into the room toward them both. The younger of them shot him a half-curious, half-contemptuous look and the other just looked horribly unnerved. Time to play court, then. Gods, it's stupid ceremonial rubbish. "Cry your pardon, gentlemen, but I wonder if one of you would by chance know where I might find ambassador Thrann?" He said in as much of a demure voice that he could muster. The seated, unnerved one opened his mouth, but the standing man spoke first. "What business have you with the ambassador?" Telson smiled. Here was one who stood on no decorum. It was a rare gift indeed to find one such a nobleman.

"It's not my business, per-say, sir. I come on the request of the Steward of Gondor." The unnerved man rose, but the standing one, eyes now holding a fierce interest, again outspoke him. "What business does Steward have with Umbar?" Taken aback by the snap of his voice, Telson fumbled in his mind for a moment, but then answered with just as much poise as the standing man. Court is a dance, after all. "I am afraid I can give that information only to the ambassador. Are you he?" "No." The unnerved man spoke for the first time, and even in that one word Telson more sensed the heard the wavering notes behind it. This man was weak. "I have the honor of that title. But who are you, sir, and what business do you bring from the good lord steward?" He was weak, but he at least held some measure of wit. Still, Telson couldn't help being reminded of the words the innkeeper at the Low Tide had said on his first night in Umbar. "That ambassador, Thrann? E's worthless, to be shure."

"Telson, son of Telemar, of the White Company, my lords." He bowed. "However, if you have more pressing business, I can, of course, return later." Thrann opened his mouth, but the standing man spoke first, reaching out to shake his hand. "Jytharo Doran, master Telson. If my memory serves me aright, ‘twas you who wrote of the sack of Umbar by the king and the armies of Erech. Not so?" Telson immediately found the floor very interesting following that. "Yes, I am honored that you know of me, Lord Doran, although I got into real trouble for that." He reflected, still looking down. "Is wit a crime on the mainland, even if the prose was told from a solely... Gondorian standpoint?" Telson noticed how Doran pronounced the word Gondorian, and looked up, suddenly completely believing what the man outside the Patched Sail had said. "Nay, albeit, writing histories instead of supply requisitions is." Telson chuckled, catching and holding Doran's gaze. "Well, I daresay my business does not hold such weight as Prince Faramir's." Doran said in dangerously soft voice, and switched his glance to Thrann. " I shall talk with you later of this, Maurice."

"Indeed." The ambassador responded, and Doran left. Telson grimly watched him go, until Thrann's voice brought him back to the present. "An inspiring man, Jytharo." The ambassador said with a pleasantness that annoyed Telson to no end. "There is one who could stir men to great deeds," He mused before turning to Thrann. "Or great deaths." "Yes, indeed. Well, come, Master Telson, sit. Would you care for anything? A drink, perhaps?" He asked. "Nay, but my thanks." Thrann busied himself with a bottle and said, "Very well. Now, what interests does the lord steward have in Umbar?" Telson took a breath, and replied haltingly, "Sir, as you may or may not know, some, er, hostilities, as it were, are brewing in the south." Thrann looked aghast and muttered, "Gods." "No fights have broken out nor declarations made, but the king feels that if, the Valar forbid, disagreements turn to war, it is a short and decisive one. The lord steward has been charged with assessing the southern half of the kingdom, and as a part of that, I have been sent to evaluate what aid Umbar could send."

Thrann chewed on his lip for moment before replying. "That is most distressing. Perhaps we should call Jytharo back, and," "No, sir." Telson replied sharply, and a little too quickly for comfort. But he recovered and continued, his voice nearing a whisper. "It is the steward's wish that as few people know the reason behind this census as possible, sir. We are still at peace. All I ask is a little assistance from your office, sir. Access to whatever records Umbar has, the ability to take stock of ships, things of that nature." Thrann looked at him like an errant child asking the most obvious question. "Of course. You have my personal assurance that this island will always serve the Reunited Kingdom to the fullest of its ability." Relaxing, Telson decided to finish the necessaries, and get out of the embassy as soon as humanly possible. He could see the light at the end of the tunnel. "I thank you for your time ambassador, and you assurances. It was an honor." Rising, he waited for Thrann to respond in kind, his feet itching to return back the way he came. "Likewise, sir. I hope you enjoy your time here. What do you think of the isle?"

Suddenly Telson was no longer anxious to go. If the chaos on the street and how Thrann reacted when he told him of the rising climate in Harad were any indication, then Umbar was in very bad straits with this man at the helm. He had to help, somehow. "I think, sir, that Umbar is an interesting melding pot, one near to the point of spilling." "How so?" Thrann asked, and Telson this time was glad he looked interested. "As I'm sure you are aware, sir, there's been some, unrest throughout the city." "Ah" Thrann said pointedly. "The corsairs. Well, I can assure you, Master Telson, they are being dealt with." "I noticed." Telson replied coldly. "However, sir, I feel that the laws intended for, dealing with them, are doing more harm than good." This struck nerve. "Again, sir. How so?" Thrann said as though the wind had been knocked out of him.

Telson, somewhat unwisely, spoke with a fierce bluntness that quickly struck discord with the ambassador. "Sir, besides the fact that half these decrees are illegal anyway, alienating corsairs is the last thing needed. Once you rope them into one group, then they can act as one. Unrest leads to rebellion. You must know this, sir." "I know how to govern this isle, young master, and I will not," But Telson was seeing red, and interrupted him, yelling now. "With all due respect, sir, I don't think you do. I think that lord Doran is telling you how to, and either his sense of duty is twisted beyond any madman yet to walk this earth, or he himself wishes for the corsairs to take this isle. I'm afraid, sir, that your assurances mean nothing, not the least to the hundreds of angry corsairs protesting outside this embassy!"

To this outburst, Thrann did not respond, but sat down at his desk and began looking over his papers, "Good day to you," He said in hushed voice that screamed danger. "Sir," Telson began, this time in a measured tone, but Thrann suddenly yelled back, "I said good day, sir!" Half of Telson wanted to try again, to make the arrogant old fool see reason but the half that knew he would not, won him over. Telson walked sulkily out of the office, and back down the hallway until he found a table set against the right wall with several glass bottles arrayed on it. Properly inspired, Telson grabbed the largest of these and held it to the point where his knuckles were white. Something about the left wall seemed to provoke his wrath, and he threw the bottle at it, giving off a frustrated, "Damn it!" as he did so.

Telson stood seething for a moment, until a soft cough made him turn sharply back toward the ambassador's office. Four figures were standing behind him, three boys and one girl, each watching him with a terrible mix of fear, fascination, and humor. As tempting as the other two bottles were, Telson gave a nod to the group and turn to face them, wondering just how much trouble he was in.

[Himaran]

Jurex hurried through the dark alleyway, attempting to avoid the mayhem on the streets. Hapless guards had become the targets of the mob, and fights had broken out in every section of the city. Though he truely enjoyed hearing the screams of the outnumbered Gondorians, the man knew he was not at liberty to join the fray. My work is completed, and it is time I recieve my reward. One can never tell; mayhaps Jythralo will have a new job for me. Some slightly more violent, I hope.

Suddenly, a light flaired in front of him. An officer backed by five guards stood before him, holding a note in one hand and a drawn sword in the other. "Jurex Quetell,
I have a warrant for your arrest. Submit peacefully and avoid a few of the harsh sentences for your various crimes."

Without blinking an eye, the man responded in a tone of mild surprise. "And what are the charges?"

The Gondorian foolishly removed his eyes from the culprit in order to read the list of offenses. "Aiding and abetting those sympathetic to old Umbar, spreading lies to the general population, faking Imperial Law, -

Jurex had used the brief distraction to unsheath his knife and bound forward. With his blade pressed against the captain's throat, the corsair bellowed at the other guards. "Back off, up to the street, or your superior officer drops here. Now!"

After seeing the nod from their captain, the group slowly backed away up to the main street. Once they were out of sight, Jurex swung the butt of his knife straight between the eyes of his prisoner, knocking him unconcious in an instant. The corsair hurried off towards Jythralo's house, calling back to the still form of the captain. "Next time it'all be the blade, mate!"

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 9:18 PM December 07, 2003: Message edited by: Himaran ]

[Arien]

She had taken a detour to her estate on the way to see Jythralo. She had not sent any word that she was on her way, so he would not be expecting her. Acacia pushed the gates to the back of her property open and then shut them and padlocked them. She could not bee too careful, all these mad corsair around! Just imagine if a mob gain access to he estate, it would be unbearable! Acacia smiled to herself momentarily and slipped the key into a pocket hidden in the folds of her dress.

A scent of burnt sugar and chicken drifted over the terrace when she entered it. Blaine was busy in the kitchens preparing a meal.

“Are you dining tonight Madame?” She said promptly when Acacia entered the kitchen.

“I am not decided yet, I may stay out tonight. I am not too sure of the plans.” Replied Acacia.

Blaine looked a little annoyed, “Yes, I understand.”

“But you must not let this food got to waste, eat it yourself and share it with the others.” The girls face brightened a bit.

“Of course.”

Acacia left, but poured herself a glass of water before she left the room. She carried it to her study, drinking it steadily until she reached the door. Taking another key from the folds in her dress she unlocked the door. The smell of sweet cinnamon met her; the incense she had burnt earlier had clogged the room up. It was smoky and hot, the small fire crackled in the corner playfully. Acacia shut the door and slipped into her chair, slamming the glass down and filling it with rum from the bottle at her desk. She lifted the glass to her mouth took a small sip and let it hang loosely in her hand.

Her eyes swept of the desk littered with letters from politicians, useless things with no use. The ashy remnants of Jythralo’s anonymous letter lay in the silver bowl, others lay in the wicker bin beside her. Slowly she put down her glass and scratched a few notes onto a piece of fresh papers, taking it she folded it and placed it in her cloak.

She rose from the desk finishing off the rum. Turning to the mirror she checked her hair and wiped the sweat from her nose. The room was very hot now, but she would not open a window for it reminded her of somewhere where she longed to be.

And so she set of for Jythralo’s.

[maikafanawen]

Devon's expression was a mosaic of curiosity, disbelief and even a bit of respect as he met the man's gaze. The Gondorian had stormed from the ambassador's hall in a controlled rage and took up a stance at the round window table where he'd promptly grabbed an empty decanter and hurled it at the wall. The young man's jaw had dropped a little at the aggressiveness of the dark man's temper and he had to consciously close his gaping mouth. It occurred to Devon that the man may not know they were still there so he coughed slightly in an attempt to attract his attention. It worked and the man turned to face the group, his own expression unreadable. He did, however, look like he expected one of them to say something.

"I don't mean to be discourteous," Devon began politely, "but your business with my father didn't perchance have to do with the corsairs did it?" The man's expression was stone and only his eyes seemed capable of showing emotion at the moment.

"Your father?" he echoed with a voice that betrayed his amusement. Devon nodded slowly, his prejudged opinions of the man faltering. Then the man smiled which shocked the young man even more. He turned back to face the wall for a minute before pivoting and walking towards them. "Telson of Gondor," he introduced, deciding that a minor introduction wouldn't do too much harm. Maybe he wanted something from the ambassador and thought the man's son could help. Anyways, the absence of a last name told enough of how he viewed their relationship: short term. Devon did not take it to offense though, he assumed that the man was used to popping in and out of places at his convenience or his employer's: probably a high ranking nobleman which would give base to his relatively easy entrance.

"Devon Thrann," the young man returned, shaking hands. Telson's eyes then traveled to the other faces and Calnan introduced himself followed by Callath and Adeline. After he'd bowed respectfully to the young lady, Teslon straightened and looked again at Devon.

"You asked if my business had to do with the corsairs," Telson revived Devon's query. "Obviously you are not in very close political terms with Mr. Ambassador, else you'd ask him instead of approaching me just outside his hall. However you have concern for the goings-on, that is apparent, and it seems even that you also hold a strong conviction of sorts that has to do with the piratess--I can tell by the tone of voice you used upon asking. Perhaps, though, we can talk somewhere privately? The embassy's a bit drafty and I simply tremble at the possibilities of spies or eavesdroppers." He raised his brow in a gesture to remove their conversation from the present location but Devon and his company didn't move right away. "I'm not asking you to trust me, but from the looks of it," he said tossing a glance at the window leading to the chaotic streets outside, "I doubt things could get worse?" Devon's eyes narrowed but the Gondorian did have a point.

"There is no place private enough outside of the embassy. I would suggest that we take the conversation to the classroom. It's on the far East wing and secluded enough--I would know." Telson nodded once and spread his arm out before him gesturing for Devon to lead the way, a smile spreading slowly across his face again.

The four friends exchanged quick looks before heading off to the classroom, their dark stranger close behind.

* * *

The classroom had its usual mustiness to it and the books, maps, charts, and parchment sheaves and scrolls were spread out over Master Pearlle's desk and stacked haphazardly on the varnished bookshelves. The chair and desk where Devon would sit for his lessons along with the unused one his brother had once occupied were orderly and the dark-haired youth pulled out chairs for them all to sit in while they talked.

"Are you going to trust him?" Calnan asked Devon warily and very quietly. The young man shrugged.

"The way he was arguing with my father is obvious that he is not looking for his or Doran's alliance. As far as I'm concerned, that counts for quite a bit."

When they were comfortable, and Telson had time to decide whether the room was satisfactory enough for their discussion, they began to discuss Umbar.

"Your acceptance of the brawl at the inn seems very easy," Calnan remarked, interrupting Devon's recount to touch on Telson's offhand nod. Telson looked perhaps a little too quickly at the attaché and nodded guiltily when he realized his hasty action.

"I was staying at the Low Tide Inn that night by mere coincidence. I was fortunate enough to be in my room at the time, but the noise traveled and I was quick to relocate the next day."

"You wouldn't happen to know who was involved directly do you?" The Gondorian paused for a moment but shook his head.

"I'm sorry, there I cannot help you."

Devon looked between them for a moment before continuing to tell Telson of Doran's involvement. He included the captain and Agdar's conversation, and the attempted kidnap. Then Calnan offered details on the captain's bold speech and an overview of the laws. To smooth it all over, the ambassador's son described Doran's almost desperate "devotion" to Maurice Thrann and concluded by depicting them as inseparable as a child and its mother.

"And since my father's not interested in anything I have to say there are three things we could do. We could sit back and do nothing except flee for our own pitiful lives and let Umbar sink again right into Doran's filthy hands, we could send word to Gondor and pray somebody gets here in time, or we could take action ourselves and dig out Doran's plans, setting course against him in a last effort to revive Umbar. Personally," Devon added, "I'm ashamed at my father's failure and I'll do anything to repay Gondor for his ghastly misdeed." All ready an idea was forming in his mind. And crazy as it seemed at the moment, Devon couldn't help but see a glimmer of reality to it and he tried desperately to think of a way to bring it into words...

[Earendil Halfelven]

Doran left the Ambassador's mansion with one thought on his mind: Devon Thrann and his friends. He had walked in on the argument between father and son just in time-

I trust that I will hear no more of this nonsense about the disloyalties of Captain Doran...

That was enough for him to hear. He acted as if everything was normal but his mind was already in action.
_____________________________________________

"Sir, Acacia is here to see you."
"Good. Send her right in." Jythralo said.

A few minutes later, Acacia entered with a smile on her face.
"I assume you have what I want?" he asked.
"Yes, all you need." she replied.
"Excellent. Take a seat." Jythralo reached for a bottle. "Care for some ale?"

Acacia nodded and Jythralo poured her a glass, then he sat back and waited for her to begin.

"Well," she started. "The girl's name is Adeline Montres and then there's Calnan..."
_____________________________________________

"Great job Acacia." Jythralo said after hearing the information gathered on Devon's friends. He became silent. He was thinking.

Acacia sat there and poured some more ale into her glass. She knew not to bother him when he was thinking. After a few minutes, Jythralo poured himself a glass.

"Have you heard about Jurex and the guards?"

Acacia shook her head.

"There is a warrant out for his arrest. He encountered some guards last night actually. They tried to arrest him."

Acacia noticed the use of the words "tried."
"What do you mean, tried? Did he kill them?"

"Unfotunately, no. That would have been nice though. But...this presents an opportunity." Jythralo smiled and Acacia knew what that meant: he wanted blood on the streets of Umbar. And it was about time.
_____________________________________________

Later that night, three men in black cloaks stalked the streets of Umbar. It was midnight. They came to an intersection and one man glanced up at the sign.
"Down this way," he said. The other two followed.

They walked past a few houses and finally arrived at their destination.
"You, go take cover in those shadows. If any guards come, you know what to do." As he turned to go and hide, the cloak lifted to reveal a small quiver full of arrows.

As soon as the man was hidden, two guards rounded the corner. The two men looked up and acted as if they were about to run.
"Halt!" one called.
The two men halted.

The guards approached with swords drawn.
"Turn around slowly with your hands up."
They turned slowly.
"Approach, slowly."
They took a few steps forward. The two men looked at eachother. One smiled.

The zipping sound of an arrow pierced the silence as it slammed into the side of the head of one of the guards. The dead guard's mouth dropped open and he sank to his knees. His sword clattered on the street.

Before the other guard can react, the two corsairs rushed forward. Kicking the sword out of the way, one rushed behind the guard and grabbed his arms behind his back. The other corsair pulled a dagger and with his other hand, covered the man's mouth before he could utter a cry for help.

"Hey, mate," the corsair with the dagger said. "Say 'ello to the gods when you meet 'em." The dagger's silver shine in the moonlight turned red as the man's throat was slit. The corsair kept his hand over the man's until he ceased to struggle. Blood gurgled from the slit in the dead man's neck. He slumped to the ground.

The two pirates knelt at the bodies of the slain guards. One pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket. On it, in black ink, was printed a skull and crossbones. The man was about to stick his dagger through the paper when he had an epiphany. He knelt to one of the bodies and dipped the paper into fatal neck wound. With it soaked in blood, he stuck the dagger through it and pounded it into the door of the house.

Leaving the bodies in front of the door, they ran to the opposite side of the street where they met the third man with bow in hand.
"Nice shot. I see you still have it," one of them said with a snicker.
"Well, boys, let's get out of here. Jythralo will be pleased."

He picked up a fist sized rock and hurled it at one of the windows. It shattered and broke the silence of the night.

As the men's footsteps faded into the night, the door opened, the light revealing the dagger and blood soaked knife in the door and the two dead guards.

Adeline stood in the doorway, shocked.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 10:58 PM December 12, 2003: Message edited by: Earendil Halfelven ]

[Nuranar]

Calnan found himself incredibly aware of everything around him, his mind working at a breathtaking speed. He hadn’t felt so alert, so prepared, since he was young. Hunting through South Ithilien, he had learned wariness and vigilance in a land still infested with the refuse of the War.

Doran knew for sure who his enemies were. For all they knew, his network had infiltrated into the embassy itself. They were walking a very narrow edge in a very dangerous game. But now, Calnan knew that whatever happened, whenever it happened, he would be ready.

He had unobtrusively fallen behind when his companions and Telson had withdrawn to the schoolroom. At least the dark man had some vestiges of prudence, not hurling decanters about until he was around the corner from the ambassador’s office. As far as Calnan could tell, no one had noticed amid the day’s tumult. And more importantly, no one had seen them talking to him.

What did they know about him, after all? It seemed he was put out with Thrann, just as they were, and suspicious of Doran, just as they were. The dramatic episode they had witnessed could be calculated to gain their trust. What if Telson was to be Doran’s ear in their plans?

Of course, Doran would’ve had to move lightning-fast to have this man set up so soon. But underestimating one’s opponent could be a fatal mistake. They had to be on guard, at the very least.

When he mentioned his concerns to Devon the young man just brought up the obvious points in Telson’s favor. Yet he had started the train of thought. If they were to walk into a trap, at least it would be with eyes open instead of shut.

He listened carefully as they began discussing the situation. Of one thing he quickly became sure: Telson was not telling them everything. He had stayed at the Low Tide Inn, where Predd was murdered, but hesitated just a tad too long before denying he knew who was involved. Well, that was fine. A man in his position would be extremely foolish to tell all he knew, and whatever else Telson was, he was no fool.

After filling the man in on the rest of the situation Devon laid it on the line. “We could sit back and do nothing except flee for our own pitiful lives and let Umbar sink again right into Doran’s filthy hands, we could send word to Gondor and pray somebody gets here in time, or we could take action ourselves and dig out Doran’s plans, setting course against him in a last effort to revive Umbar. Personally, I’m ashamed at my father’s failure and I’ll do anything to repay Gondor for his ghastly misdeed.”

Calnan was inspired in spite of himself. Although unquestionably brave, Devon had always seemed a bit overeager and not given to much analysis. But this crisis was bringing him to maturity. Not only was he proving his mettle, he was emerging as a leader.

“Devon,” he said quietly, “I’m with you. Doran has to be stopped, and there’s no one else willing to even try.”

“I’m willing!” Adeline proclaimed. “Don’t even think you’re going to get me to sit at home. Besides,” she added as an afterthought, “home might not be a very safe place pretty soon, anyway.”

Across the circle he saw Callath sigh and shake his head. “Well, I’ve got to come along too, I guess. No politician’s going to outdo me,” he shot at Calnan, who rolled his eyes.

Telson was smiling, half in amusement, half in admiration. “I’m glad to see that the son is not always like the father.” He rose and bowed formally. “For what it’s worth, I would like to offer my services to you, the true King’s men – and woman – in Umbar.”

Flushing, but pleased, Devon got to his feet and returned the bow. “Telson of Gondor, it’s an honor for you to join us.”

Well, that’s that! Calnan thought. At least this way it’d be easier to keep an eye on him, even if he was keeping an eye on them. But first things first.

“Devon, you said we need to dig out Doran’s plans,” Calnan said. “Now, we’ve seen one part already: He’s successfully stirred up all the corsairs, and Umbar’s about to come down around our ears. But I think his goal is to rule a unified corsair nation. Anarchy is a good way to get rid of the established order, but he must have plans to consolidate it for himself.”

“There’s no way we’re going to stop that mob out there,” Devon jumped in. “That’s suicidal! We’ve got to stop the man at the top. Then Gondor can get here and settle things down again.”

“So how are we to go about finding these plans?” Adeline inquired.

Calnan got up and began pacing the schoolroom; he always thought better when he was doing something mechanical. Know your enemy, all the books said, and having worked in the embassy for two years, he knew Doran the best of any present. “He’s incredibly careful; he wouldn’t have gotten this far in ten years if he weren’t. So he wouldn’t carry anything that treasonous on him. Then the obvious place is at home, in his office.”

“When is he in it?” Callath asked.

“The question should be, When is he not in it,” Telson interrupted, eyes twinkling.

Calnan grinned. “When he’s here, of course. That’ll be the best bet: Someone needs to go to his office when he’s here with Ambassador Thrann, probably tomorrow. Since I have to be here anyway I can make sure he doesn’t slip away.”

“When do you want me there?” Devon asked.

“Whoa, boy!” Callath said. “Even if Master Pearlle doesn’t require your attention on your studies, you’re the best one to have on hand. Calnan has to be here; he can’t get away, at least not without Doran knowing it, and that’d be worse than anything else. He’s bound to be suspicious of all of us now. You need to be ready to beat Doran to his office if he leaves here early.”

Devon made a face. “All right, that leaves you, Telson, and – Adeline.” The girl arched an eyebrow at him.

“Got any problems with that? I’ll just bet I’m better than either one of them at getting in and out quietly,” she said pertly.

Telson began, “My training hasn’t exactly included breaking and entering, but I’m willing to try…”

“Actually, Telson,” Calnan said thoughtfully, “Adeline might be the best for the job. You made your views known in no uncertain way just now, and if I know Doran he’ll have men following you. By your own admission,” he continued, looking the man straight in the eye, “you’ve already been quite near some of the action. If you were seen, you’d be in a pretty bad spot.

“Callath, what about you? Would you prefer to go in?”

The young man thought about it. “As much as I hate to admit it,” he teased, “Adeline would probably be better. I could even stand by for Devon with a horse, to make sure Doran doesn’t beat us. Besides, with the way things are going crazy, Garth’ll have my hide if I’m not there to ready the nobles’ horses.”

“All right, then, we have a plan,” Devon said. “Telson, you’d better stay low. We’d hate to lose you to some random rampaging corsairs. Adeline, I’ll leave the details up to you, but ten in the morning would probably be a good time to get there. Doran should be deep in conference by then.”

Adeline raised her hand. “Um, just one thought. I’m pretty sure I can get in all right; I can pretend to be a servant making a delivery, or even mistaking the house or something. But what if the door to his office is locked?”

“I have some things you can use,” Calnan said. He ignored the interested looks he was getting from the others. “I’ll show you how to use them when we’re finished here. They’ll work on desk drawer locks, too. What we’re looking for won’t be right out in the open.”

Devon rose. “I think we’d better be getting back before someone notices we’re all missing. Callath, why don’t you show Telson the back way out? Calnan, I’ll see you later. And Adeline, thanks so much. Good luck!”

The three slipped quietly out of the schoolroom, leaving the diplomatic attaché to instruct the captain’s daughter on the fine art of picking a lock.

[Earendil Halfelven]

Jythralo climbed into the awaiting carriage. It was almost dusk when his carriage passed through the gate of Umbar. It stopped and he leaned out the window and said something to the guards. The officer in charge nodded and Doran passed through and the carriage faded into the fading light. Many assumed he was fleeing Umbar because the threats against his life were becoming too real, that it was no longer safe.
_____________________________________________

Adeline looked through the curtains of the front window. She didn't feel safe, especially after the dead guards and bloody knife were found on her front doorstep. Devon and the others wanted her to go into Doran's mansion and find information about his plans, but how could she go in their now? The corsairs knew where she lived and had sent her a personal message. A little too personal.

"Mother, I can't stand it anymore! We need to leave. Its been two days since those men were killed on our doorstep, and I just don't feel comfortable."

Her mother's reply came from upstairs. "Adeline, please stop worrying."

Father would know how to deal with Doran,she thought. Her mind wandered back to thoughts of her father...

Her mother, Rhoswen, sat upstairs in her room, worried. She didn't know what to do? Where were they going to go if they left? After a few moments of thinking, she figured that they could stay at an inn. At least, there, they would be with other peoppple.

"Adeline..." she called. Suddenly, downstairs, she heard a crash of breaking glass, a muffled scream, and then the sound of the door being kicked in. Then, silence.

She stood there, stunned. Rhoswen stood in her doorway, staring down the staircase. Silence. "Adeline!" she called, but there was no answer. She made her way slowly downstairs. The curtains rustled in the window. Glass lay shattered on the floor, and the door lay broken in the street. Adeline was gone.
_____________________________________________

Devon, Calnan, and Callath left their favorite inn. The night was dark and quieter than usual. The new curfew laws were to thank for that. They turned a corner and headed towards Devon's home.

"I don't know why we're walking back. Why don't we find a carriage or something?" Calnan asked.

"What are the odds that we're going to find one tonight, especially with the new laws?" Devon said.

At that moment, they heard a horse neigh behind them and a carriage came into view. It came closer and they saw that a man of about 60 years of age was the driver. Devon raised his hand in greeting.

"Friend, would you mind giving us a ride in your carriage if you have any room?"

The man stopped and looked at them.
"Aye, I'll help ya." He smiled. "Don't mind some of me friends in the back. They'll won't bother ya."

They three boys nodded their thanks and climbed in. As soon as the door shut, a fist slammed into the face of the ambassador's son. He slumped over into the lap of his attacker, unconcious. Soon, Calnan and Callath lay on the floor. They were quickly gagged and their heads were covered with black burlap bags. Their hands were tied behind them.

"This time, I didn't fail," Jurex said with a sneer. He pushed Devon off of his lap and quickly gagged, tied, and hooded the boy. He nodded to the three others with him. His hand was a little sore from that knock-out he gave Devon but that didn't stop the enthusiasm from showing in his voice.

He called to the driver. "Let's go."
_____________________________________________

Jurex sat in the driver's seat of another wagon. The guided the horses to the gate entrance. Guards blocked his path.

"Where do you think your headed?" the commanding officer asked.

"Councilman Doran, I assumed, as told you that some of his baggage will be following him to his townhouse?" Jurex asked.

The officer looked into the back of the wagon where four large trunks lay. The mark of Jythralo Doran lay on them.

"Aye, he did. You may pass."

"Much obliged, friend. Much obliged..." Jurex smiled and snapped the reins. The horses started forward. The night grew darker as clouds covered the moon.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Motioning for Telson to follow, Callath turned to Adeline, patting her gently on the arm and leaving it there for a second, smiling encouragingly and giving her a faint wink. "Good luck, Adeline - not that you'll need it of course." Nodding to her, he paused to murmur in Calnan's ear as he left.

"And I'll be needing a wee word with you later, Cal." The attache grinned in return, mirroring Callath by raising an eyebrow as the stable-hand left, followed by Telson.

~*~

As they left the Snifter and Song, all three of the boys were feeling much less ominous than before, pleasure of the fine food and drink of the Inn. Callath began to whistle quietly between his teeth, his eyes turned towards the stars of the clear night as he walked, when Calnan interrupted his reverie.

"I don't know why we're walking back. Why don't we find a carriage or something?"

Callath grinned at him. "Why, then I wouldn't be able to question you about your sudden and expansive knowledge of breaking and entering, master Calnan!"

The attache adopted an expression of mock-innocence and hurt and Devon laughed before replying to Calnan's comment with a sigh. "Anyway, what are the odds that we're going to find one tonight, especially with the new laws?" Devon said.

The familiar sound of a horse's neigh and hooves made all three spin around, startled. Devon looked delighted, if surprised and Calnan raised his eyes skywards, tipping his forehead with a finger jokily. Callath grinned at his friend's gesture, but behind his relief, the stable-hand's street sense was moving. Something didn't seem right...it was all a bit too neat...

But Devon didn't appear to have any reservations, raising a hand as he stepped out into the road, making to carriage slow to a halt, and addressed the glum looking, heavily wrapped individual at the reins. When the man assented to giving them a ride, he beckoned his friends and jumped aboard, followed by Calnan. With a shrug, high on the cool calm of the night, Callath followed...

The man's fist struck Devon's chin with such force that Callath and Calnan couldn't move for a second, so startled they were, and it was a moment that cost them dearly - the struggle was brief. Callath went down fighting, a hand over his mouth and a fist against his jaw silencing him finally...

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 4:46 PM December 21, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Arvedui III]

It was almost impossible to comprehend how one could feel so cold in the presence of so much light, but apparently in Umbar, one could.

Telson worried that the look of disgust he was now accustomed to wearing on his face would become a permeant fixture as he sat against the outside wall of a tavern whose name he couldn't remember. Drifting like an ill wind, smoke from small fires on the street brushed against the hood of his cloak, teasing his eyes and nose. However, that was not what bothered him the most. Granted, his rather stormy feeling had something to do with the government of Umbar, mainly the ambassador, but that was not the only thing. Telson tried to look at the day's events from a detached and logical point of view, a soldier thought with his mind, not his heart, but somehow his anger kept getting the way.

The one spark of hope he had, were the four he'd met after murdering the glass; And the fact that only a stable boy, an attache, a nobleman's son, and a highborn daughter were the last truly loyal subjects willing to fight for Umbar was not a greatly encouraging thought. None of them, save perhaps the Calnan boy, held a military mind, although the group was certainly cunning. Telson's own strategic acumen fell miserably short after battlefield tactics. And if Doran made the first move, they were sunk. The main problem with his four young allies was that they were unduly trustful for such times, not in the way that they would accept candy from a stranger, but Telson got the impression that they all expected to live through whatever was about to happen on the isle. They were on the side of good, and because good must triumph over evil so they thought they would triumph over Doran and come out of it unscathed. Sadly, Telson knew that war never dealt in such certainties.

And after staring unseeingly at a moldy dustbin for an hour, one thing was terribly clear: Despite the heart of his four new friends, they were in dire need of some allies, and maybe an army to go with them. And, wishing for allies would not bring them here. Well then, two things were terribly clear but Telson supposed that the second disparaging thought came with the first.

The moldy dustbin could no longer hold his interest. Rising onto shaking feet and grunting in dismay to find them asleep, Telson began walking to where he knew not without a purpose, but itching to do something useful. The rational part of his mind chided him, saying that Adeline, now the up-and-coming spy, would have information soon, and only with information could he act. However, usually when his rational mind argued for waiting, Telson tended toward ignoring it and doing something stupid instead. Such was the price for arrogance, he supposed, and he'd pay it willingly. As he meandered, Telson's hand went without bidding to an almost crumpled piece of paper stuck rather haphazardly into his belt. The first draft of that damnable report which had brought him to this accused isle in the first place. Quite suddenly, an idea pricked at him like the paper cut that was now stinging with a vengeance, and Telson turned his path toward the low districts and possibly, reenforcements.
-------------------
The Low Tide Inn was unnaturally dark, and the sight disturbed Telson more than he imagined it ever would. However, he could see candles burning toward the back of the building and that was slightly heartening. Telson crouched low, making sure his shadow did not linger in plain sight, and waited. Fortunately, he did not have to pause long, and drew a sharp breath as a figure walked toward him and the outhouse. Even better, it was not the tattooed bartender, but a form Telson could more readily take down. Shaking quietly, Telson figured it was better to let the boy do his business before Telson got to his. He had new cloths on, after all. Far too soon for his liking, the boy reemerged and began walking, no, walking wasn't the word, stumbling back toward the candle-lit room.

One...Two....Three

In one deft movement, Telson drew his swords, hurled the boy into a corner, and held his right blade to the figure's throat while making sure the boy could see the dirk in his other hand. "‘Lo, Culous. Been a while, my friend." He said in an edged voice that would have been pleasant in the daylight. "I swear!" The boy yelled desperately, raising his hands as if to ward Telson off. "I'm loyal! I swear it!" Telson chuckled, but did move. "To whom, I wonder? To whoever holds the blade? Regardless, I am unconcerned with your loyalties, boy, so long as your allegiance is to the coin that I used last time and nothing higher." Telson hinted, a rising note of danger in his voice. "Stewardsman?" The boy asked incredulously. Telson shook his head in amusement, partly at the boy's voice and partly at the nickname.

"Aye, I'm Stewardsman as you seem to like calling me. It grieves me to see you fall on such times, Culous. So, I have another job for you if you're willing." "If I'm not?" The boy prodded gingerly. "Then I'll kill you and get someone who's not as good." Telson shrugged, hoping he sounded nonchalant. "Then I'm your man, sir." Culous answered in a considerably higher voice. Telson smiled, and withdrew his sword. "Good, I thought you might be. Tell me boy, have you ever been to Gondor?"
-------------------------
After a tense half hour spent explaining and re-explaining to the innkeeper's son, Telson took a clean sheet of parchment and scribbled quickly, not bothering to think about the wording. After he was finished, Telson handed the message and the instruction sheet he had written to Culous, watching the boy bound off into the night, and praying to whatever gods there were that he would not fail.

To Prince Faramir of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor,

My lord, at your request, herein is the report ordered to judge Umbar's readiness and capacity to aid the Reunited Kingdom in time of war: Umbar is unfit to produce any aid during time of war and is in danger of falling out of Gondorian control. A former corsair captain turned councilman, Jytharo Doran, plots to take the isle for himself. While at the moment, his means and methods are unclear, the general population of Umbar is in unrest due to a number of preemptive unlawful measures set in place by the Umbarian government. The garrison at Umbar is either unsure or unable quell the hostilities that are turning into open revolt.

Furthermore, the Umbarian government seems, after observation, unwilling to see the error of their ways. Possible traitors to the crown roam the streets and both Gondorian and Umbarian deaths have resulted from that fact. Under these circumstances, the ability to hold Umbar as an ally of the Reunited Kingdom becomes uncertain. Respectfully, I believe that a further garrison is required to stem the rebellion before it manifests itself fully, and also an occupation of Umbar until the men behind it can be brought to justice. I shall continue to monitor the situation and do what I can to prevent further violence.

Your obedient servant,
Telson son of Telemar. Lieutenant of the White Company.

[Himaran]

The inn was unusually quiet and dark. A few nervous patrons sat around bar, mumbling amongst themselves about the recent event in Umbar. Jurex could see the fear glimmering faintly on their faces, and knew that in their hearts they doubted the strength of the local authorities. And it is our mission to justify their fears.

Acacia was not long in arriving, and soon walked through the double doors before calmly seating herself next to her accomplice. Without a trace of subtility, she ordered a cheap drink and turned to Jurex. "Jythralo wished for me to explain his recent plan. He has decided that stealth will not win our war. Thus, his new plan is to draw Devon and his friends away from the city, and out into naval combat." Here she paused, allowing the man to consider the fresh information. In a moment, he nodded for her to proceed.

"It is our assignment to retake Umbar. BEFORE he leaves, as we will be going as well."

A sharp intake of breath erupted from the man, followed by an inquisitive look of surprise. "When I kidnapped Devon and the others, I had no idea my leader would attempt something so rash. Just how does he propose we execute this - plan - in such short a timeframe?"

Acacia grimiced, as if knowing that the question was going to be asked. "He suggested that we attempt to organize the mob we created, and strike several designated targets. No more riots in the streets; planned assaults on armories, guard towers, and perhaps the private homes of several ambassadors. Then, of course, our focus will shift to the embassy itself; which must be taken at all cost. We cannot afford to fail Jythralo, Jurex. Not this time; too much is at stake. But an army must be raised. I can inspire it - can you lead it?"

The corsair sat deep in thought for several moments before answering. "I can, and I will. But I fear that Jythralo is being hasty; we will not have time for many preparations."

When he looked up, Acacia was already standing to leave. "You are correct in that, Jurex. We have not time. But neither does Gondor."

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 5:15 PM December 23, 2003: Message edited by: Himaran ]

[maikafanawen]

Devon's head was throbbing when he woke and his tongue felt the coarse fabric of the gag in his mouth. His hands were bound behind him and around the back of a chair. His feet were done likewise to the front legs. He slightly opened one eye to peek at his surroundings.

"The first to wake," an unpleasantly familiar voice said. The ambassador's son opened both eyes wide and gaped up into the face of Captain Doran. He would have spit had the gag not been in his mouth. "Might as well douse them all," the corsair said, gesturing to two men standing to the side of the room which Devon guessed was some sort office or library in the pirate's townhouse.

The taller, sinewy man wearing a sleek black beard streaked with gray dumped the remains of a tumbler of water on Calnan's head and again onto Callath's and Adeline's faces. The three woke, trying to spurt water through their canvas restraints. Doran laughed roughly and leaned back against a table, his arms folded in front of him.

"Un-gag young Master Thrann for me," the captain demanded of the tall man who stood behind Devon. His scarred hands definitely did not attempt any sort of gentleness while he worked. The young man pulled away more than once before the gag was gone and his lip bled from where his teeth had bit down after Jurex has wrenched the canvas from his mouth.

Doran was still smiling with an amused sort of humor that made Devon wonder what he wanted with them.

"Captain Doran," the dark-haired captive began. "I don't know what you want with us but I can assure you that we are disinclined to offer any assistance whatsoever under any sort of torture that would aid your treacherous cause." The captain's expression grew serious and he folded his arms across his chest.

"I see," he said, seeming to contemplate earnestly what Devon had told him. "Well in that case, you shouldn't mind the proposition I've for you." The ambassador's son raised an eyebrow and listened as Doran talked.

"You're a threat to me, Thrann. It's not beneficial at all to me to have someone who knows my plans--or some of them. So after much deliberation, I've thought of a way to solve our problems fairly."

"Pirates are never fair!" Devon blurted angrily. Doran stood with a start and towered over the young man, so that their breath mingled.

"Don't impugn my honor boy!" he yelled. But Devon was surprised to find it a half-hearted effort. Clearly Doran was more focused on whatever he had in mind. Too excited to worry about yelling at Young Thrann.

"What will happen," he continued, "is that I will give you one week to collect as many ships, captains, crewmembers, weapons etcetera that you are able to." He paused and grinned, simply alive with his own cleverness. Such that it was beginning to make Devon nervous and quick glances to his left and right showed him that his friends were also very apprehensive. "Clorac will be with you," he said gesturing to the sinewy man who had woken Calnan, "to make sure that you're not doing anything I wouldn't like such as sending messages off to anyone in Gondor or the like. Everything must come from Umbar, no shipping in from the north. Too risky. After a week is over, Clorac will return to me and let me know if you have met my limits. If you have acquired at least one ship that can carry at least 50 crew members (and holding them), plus one captain (officers are optional) and two mates, then I expect to meet you on the ocean for open combat. Oh yes, and at least twenty six-pound catapults. There we will settle the fate of Umbar. And since I stand by the Code, I will do all that is in my power to leave you and your friends alive at the end." He grinned wickedly, and spread his hands apart. "Of course, I can't make any guarantees." Devon was gritting his teeth and practically snarled at the corsair.

"However, Clorac will not be the only one keeping an eye on you. If you do anything suspiciously unfair, I will be notified and I'll just keep you locked up until my work is complete. Hopefully it will not come to this.

"Once the sea-battle is over, and if I win, you will return to Gondor and let them know that I have, by rights, claimed Umbar for my own. My armada will be standing by to see that no adversaries come to challenge me. The Code is practically legal and though Elessar is a strong man -- he would be unwise to challenge us at a very stable position on this island. My people, if mindset to it, can use this isle to its greatest advantage and it will be quite impossible for it to be retaken.

"If in the unlikely event that you should win. I will take my armada away from Umbar and leave the city in the capable hands of your father. I will vow never to attempt usurpation on the city again and be gone forever." Devon looked skeptically at the captain. He wasn't sure how truthful that was, but in his mind, the young man was all ready working on a plan of counteraction.

"One more thing," the captain added. "I'll be keeping Adeline here with me, just to make sure you don't break any of my rules." The ambassador's son's jaw dropped and he looked incredulously at Doran, any plans of secrecy or deception flying from his mind. Adeline.

"For one who talks about being fair, I don't see where you get off making all the rules!" The captain fixed Devon with a considering look before shrugging and pulling away the folds of his coat to reveal two cutlasses.

"I figure that as long as I have the weapons--I make the rules. Sort of puts me in charge as it were." He smirked and Devon looked at Calnan and Callath, gagged, but their faces showed shock and both fought against the restraints to protest.

"That about does it I think," the captain finished up. "In the morning you'll be sent about your ways and Corac will make sure you follow the rules. I'll see you in week for some good sport." Then, gesturing to the two men behind him, the four were plunged back into darkness, unable even to contemplate what the pirate captain had said.

"Hmm," he said as an afterthought, "I think I'll write it all down. I wonder if any of that survived your jog, Jurex." Then, he took a seat at his desk with pen and parchment as the two henchmen dragged the youths from the room.

"What of Adeline sir?" Corac asked.

"Oh yes, set her up in the guest room why don't you. And see to it she is given no means of escape whatsoever. Now go, I've got to remember what I said..." And Corac left with Adeline tied to her chair in tow, leaving the scratching of quill tip on parchment behind him in Doran's office.

[Arien]

Acacia left the Inn and hurriedly walked down the street. She would need to contact the corsairs who were still loyal to Jythralo and still believed in his cause. She hoped it would not be too hard, but some were not as faithful to him as herself or Jurex. The first place to go would be Russ’, it was the closest and he too could spread word to his men. Strangely she had been visiting him quite a lot recently.

She turned the corner into the alley and knocked softly when she came to the door. The usual clicks were heard and the door opened. Russ stood in the doorway, a bottle in his hand. Acacia sighed and moved out of the way as he made to embrace her. He fell from the door onto the ground.

“Ouch, why dya move?” He said nursing his back with one had and taking a mouthful from the bottle.

“Because Russ, you are drunk.” She moved around so their faces met, she shook her head, her face was stern but a smile started to play on her mouth as she watched him struggle to get up.

“I am?” He said reaching up for help.

“Yes you are….” She said pulling him up to his feet.

“Oh,” he staggered and leaned against the doorframe. “I knew that!”

“Of course you did,” Acacia replied impatiently, “Look is there anyone sober I can talk to? No wait forget it. I’ll tell you and if you dare forget,” she said stepping closer, “or mess it up I swear…”

“You’ll kill me?” He laughed.

Acacia rolled her eyes and laughed, “No…..but you never know. I’ve been told I have quite a temper sometimes.”

“You’re telling me….” Russ said taking another drink. At this Acacia grabbed the bottle from his hand, contents spilled out onto the pavement and over her dress. Russ looked disappointed as he tried to reach for the bottle. Acacia pulled it away from his grasp. This was certainly the most inconvenient time for this to happen. Hopefully he would still be able to understand what she was saying.

“Just listen,” she said looking up, he was still eying the bottle and so she hid it behind her back. His eyes lingered on the spot where it had been and the he drew his gaze up. “Gather as many corsairs as you can, those who served under Jythralo before. Spread word that he is in need of some…. assistance. There will be a meeting at The Wreck Inn tonight. Jurex will be there. Tell as many as you can.” She handed the bottle back to Russ, “Tell them that they will receive a lot for their service.” She turned her back and looked down the path, “ They will receive Umbar.” She turned back to Russ who nodded.

“I understand,” he paused and then saluted her with his right hand. Acacia shook her head and turned away from him. That was the west side of Umbar taken care of. Russ wouldn’t let her down; she would trust him with her life, even if he were in that state. Acacia hurried to her estate to collect a horse. Riding would be faster, time was of the essence and there was not to be wasted by walking on foot across the city. She also stopped by and told Blaine to meet her at Bassington’s estate at six.

Although her maid was confused Acacia assured her it would all be clear soon. Blaine did not doubt her mistress.

Acacia stopped by everyone she had known that had served for Jythralo before. Most were keen to see what their assistance could do, and some were all too happy to help. Although she had to struggle with some, they seemed to have given up on regaining Umbar and on Jythralo.

“Why should I help Doran?!? Its an outrage…… what has he done for me lately? There is not point Acacia, he has turned to Gondor, he no longer believes in Umbar.” He shouted hotly.

“That’s what you think Gerard, but you are wrong.” She replied calmly.

“Wrong am I? Why is he on the council then? You are blinded.” He said moving across the room. The man slumped down in his chair.

“Have you forgotten that I too am on the council.”

“Well, no….but….but…did you pass all of those rules? Acacia, I trust you its just….” He stopped and sighed.

“Look you want Umbar back do you not?” He nodded. “Then do not be as stupid as those we oppose and fall for Jythralo’s disguise! Come and join us. Fight for what is right.”

It took most of the day to persuade those whose trust in Jythralo had faded. But she was satisfied with herself at the end of it. Some of them she had not seen in a great deal of time. But they remembered her and they still held her in high regard. And most importantly they believed in what she had said, and they followed her instructions. Now it was time to acquire some keys.

++++++++++++++++

It was sunset when Blaine met her outside Councillor Bassington’s Estate. Bassington was probably the Councillor that Acacia detested most; he was too arrogant for her liking and he always seemed to think he could have his way with her. He was about two years older than her, and although fairly handsome his personality definitely squashed his chances with any self-respecting woman. Well that was Acacia’s opinion. This was probably why Acacia had carefully selected his estate, and also Bassington took care of the Gondorian armed forces in Umbar. Killing two birds with one stone.

“You know what to do?” Acacia said turning to her maid.

“Yes,” she replied.

“And you are sure they are there?”

“I am.” Acacia smiled at her momentarily and the two made their way to the front entrance.

“Councillor Ratan,” Acacia nodded to the doorman, “Councillor Bassington received your note and he awaits you inside his office.”

“Thank you. Oh and may I trouble you one more time? May my maid use the wash room?”

“Oh yes of course.” He smiled politely and pointed down to the kitchens. Blaine blushed, a twinkle in her eye told Acacia that she was ready.

“When you return Blaine wait here.” She nodded and hurried off.

Acacia turned and headed to Bassington’s office, which was situated across the large hall. She knocked on the door and this was answered by the murmur of enter. Slowly she pushed the door open and crossed the threshold into a large study. Its ceilings were high and on the walls hung paintings of royal ships and various Gondorian soldiers.

“And what brings you here?” Said the man who had just risen from a chair by the blazing fire.

“I have come to collect some documents Bassington.” Her eyes darted around the room; they finally fell on his desk. A cluster of keys were hung behind it, they were keys to the officers barracks.

“Oh, and I thought you had come to see me.”

“You thought wrongly.”

“A bit harsh?” He said moving closer to her. She stepped away, her fists clenched stubbornly.

“The documents if you please.”

“Ok, ok.” He shook his head and headed out of his office.

“Fool.” She whispered. She walked quickly over to the rack of keys and selected a bronzed one. This one was for the southern barracks and a silver one. This one was for the Western Barracks. Hastily she shoved them into a pocket the folds of her dress and returned to where she had previously stood.

“Here,” said Bassigton as he re-entered the room. He handed Acacia the documents and walked back to his chair.

“Your maid waits for you outside. I hope to see you soon Acacia.” He said softly.

“As do I Bassington.” She replied sarcastically, she curtsied and walked from the room. The documents were then handed to Blaine and they left the Estate.

“Did you get it?” Acacia asked eagerly as they left. Blaine held up a large key on a piece of string.

“For the back way.”

“Excellent, thank you. Now hurry home and take the documents with you.” The maid nodded, handed Acacia the key and left. Now she made her way to The Wreck Inn. It was and Inn deep in the Corsair area of the city. It was unknown to the Gondorians as it was somewhat of an underground tavern, but it was popular among Corsairs. She entered the dingy door; it was not marked by any sign or picture, just a tiny carved inscription of “Wreck” on the door. She made her way down the wooden steps, she could her low voices and the smell of ale and smoke loitered in the stale air.

She entered the main bar and spotted Jurex in the corner.

“Done?” He said looking up to her.

“Yes,” She said joining him. She placed the three keys on the table. “Southern barracks, Western and Bassington’s Estate…the back door.”

“Well done. And the people.”

“All done. A few were reluctant but they will come, I am sure of it. The western side is taken care of, Russ did that.” Jurex nodded.

“Good. And now we wait for them.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

This time Callath was the first to come around and he opened his eyes very slightly, so as not to notify anyone who was watching. For a moment his senses were confused, as the darkess and silence seemed as complete as when he had been unconcious, but the pain in his head, a sudden sharp ache as he turned it, confirmed his conciousness. Gritting his teeth he widened his eyes, trying not to blink so his eyes would adjust more quickly to the dark.

After a few moments of sitting still, the stable-boy's eyesight was good enough to pick out silhouettes - the darkness was not total; although the lights were off and the curtains closed, and it was evidently dark outside, the light from a nearby streetlight shone in dimly through the thick material, and occasional passing lit carriages below would illuminate the room a little further. As this happened once, Callath took the moment to look around quickly and from the brief half-glimpse he could see they were apparently in the same place as before, a library, he reckoned. But the glimpse was too short to work out anything else. Leaning carefully to the left, he felt a table or desk top against his upper arm, about waist high if he was standing up. Doing the same to the right, he leaned as far as he dared without falling over, then pulled back quickly when rope around his chest would not let him go further without tipping right over: nothing immediately to his right then. But Calnan...Turning his head to the right, away from the window, he tried to make out the form of Calnan, who had been beside him...and his heart almost skipped a beat when he didn't see him. Suddenly a groan from behind and the feel of two somethings brushing against his fingers made Callath freeze, electrified by the touch when he was completely helpless, in the dark, unable to speak or move that much. The entity behind him was apparently just as surprised, as Callath heard a sharp but muffled intake of breath. Then..."Crhmph-?" a muffled sound started, then stopped. There was a pause. Then...

"Hmm."

Callath grinned against his gag, which was a piece of cloth secured by a hankerchief or bandana of some kind. In the brief time when Doran's full gloating attention had been focused on giving them his 'proposition', Callath had worked out a way of moving the bandana down simply by monotonous twisting of his chin in a small upward circle whilst keeping his neck still. After several minutes of unsure silence from behind, filled only with the faint rustling of the hankerchief and during which Callath's neck muscles began to ache, the cloth finally slid over the end of his chin and, forcing his mouth as wide as possible despite his chaffed lips, Callath spat out the gag in relief and disgust. Taking a moment to try to regain feeling over his tongue, the stable-boy then took a deep breath. "Calnan?" he whispered.

"Hmm?" His friend's response was still muffled, his gag apparently still on, but it was also slightly distracted - Calnan was working on it. Explaining in a whisper through painful lips how to get the gag off took only a minute and not long after that there came the sound of Calnan spitting out his gag. "Callath? Is there- ohh..." the attache emitted a groan, apparently having tried to turn his head too quickly and having been caught out by the pain. Confirming it was him and that, by his silence, Devon was apparently still unconcious (although they could both see his slumped form about two strides away from Calnan's chair), Callath pushed back against the knots tying his fingers so they came into contact with Calnan's, at which the latter youth gave a startled hiss.

"It's alright, I'm gonna try to work out your knots - its easier on someone else."

A pause in which Callath guessed Calnan to be nodding, before a reply came quickly, laced with a blush, causing Callath to grin. "Yes, yes...thanks."

Another carriage went past and both boys stiffened and nearby, Devon stirred slightly in his sleep. Then Callath continued, fumbling gently against the knots on Calnan's hands and fingers, his tongue slightly out in concentration. Then, "What do you make of Doran's proposal?"

Callath snorted. "Proposal? It's a chance for him to publicly show us up them finally get rid of us. Pirates Code my left foot." His fingers slipped in his anger and he muttered a curse under his breath as he tried to resume where he had been, with one of the several knots almost loose enough to pull undone.

"We may have a chance..." Calnan's voice was thoughtful. The stable-boy shook his head, then remembered the darkness and, feeling foolish, gave an vocal reply. "Against him? Against all the corsairs?"

Calnan sighed and leant his head back against his neck, looking reflectively upwards through the dark as Callath continued to work away. One knot undone, another just loose enough...yes!... Then he stopped suddenly, a thought striking him like a thunderbolt. Feeling this, Calnan looked around, although he could barely see his friend's expression. "What?"

"Adeline! Where is she?"

[Himaran]

As the corsairs started to arrive, Jurex wispered into Acacia's ear; "Perhaps you should leave now."

Knowing that any knowledge of her identity could quickly spread to the Gondorian authorities, the woman nodded and left the room. Turning back to the corsairs, Jurex motioned for them to sit, and announced that drinks 'would be on the house.' The waiters merely consented, knowing that their careers and, possibly, their lives depended on cooperation.

_________________________________________


Several hours later, Jurex stood at the door of Acacia's home. Entering, he hurried up to the study. The heavy oak door creaked open, revealing the woman engrossed in a letter she was working on at her desk. She must have noticed his entrance, however, as she quickly set aside her pen and motioned for him to sit. "How was the meeting?"

"Quite well, actually. I was able to discern who the men truely held alliegence to, and make those individuals my leading commanders. Now we need nothing more than a target, Acacia, and the strength of Umbar will be unleashed."

Acacia then removed two keys from the fold of her extravagant robe, and passed them across the table to Jurex. "And here are your targets; these keys will unlock the gates to both guard towers, and possibly other doors within. Here are the orders I recieved from Jythralo outlining his plan for this particular assault." Briefly glancing at the document, the man nodded and left the room.

[Earendil Halfelven]

Jythralo headed towards the room where he kept his prisoners. Adeline was safely in another part of the building where she would stay until he decided if she could go or not. Three other corsairs accompanied him.

"Are ye sure you don't want 'em ded?" one corsair asked.

"Yes, I'm sure, Agdar. You boys will get plenty of chances to wet your swords. Don't worry," Doran answered.

Agdar and the men seemed comforted by his words, and they nodded as Jythralo unlocked the doors.
As they stepped in, they heard the words-"Adeline. Where is she?"

"Somewhere else," Doran answered. He laughed at the sight that greeted him. The two boys, Callath and Calnan, were attempting to untie themselves, and so far, they were doing good. Devon still looked unconcious.

Jythralo smiled. "Well, what do we have here? Attempting to escape, are we? Don't worry, you'll be home soon enough."

"Yeah, but they wouldn't have gotten far," said Corac as he stepped out of the shadows of the room.

Then, taking a club from the revealed Corac, Jythralo stepped forward and gave Callath a good one over the head. He slumped over in the chair.

"Aw, not again," said Calnan.

Jythralo shrugged and raised the club.
_____________________________________________

Night hung over Umbar. A lone carriage continued down the street. As the carriage turned a corner, the side door opened and three unconcious bodies were flung out into the street and into the sidewalk. A note was pinned to one of the boys' jackets-

We are watching.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 2:55 PM December 24, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[maikafanawen]

"There will be others watching and making sure things go smoothly," Jurex informed Corac as the man stepped out of the carriage. "But I doubt they would run the risk of loosing Adeline." Corac nodded, his face completely placid. The driver grasped the ropes and Jurex shouted one last thing before the carriage lurched into motion.

"One week Corac! and the captain says we're back to the sea!" Then the darkness of the street swallowed the coach and the clop of hooves on stone faded.

So Corac pulled his pipe from out of his pouch and lit it. Then he took a seat in the shadows by the curbside where the boys lay, rousing in the breaking light.

"Wind to squalls and squalls to rain yo ho, yo ho" there was a pause as Corac puffed a small smoke ring that dissipated into the air. "Yo ho, yo ho..." and he sang quietly, watching as the boys came to, finding first the note and second the letter of repeated instructions. They had one week.

[Nuranar]

Calnan came too very slowly, very fuzzily this time. Instinctively he lay still, giving his mind time to clear. When it didn't, he turned to his other senses. He was lying on his back on something lumpy but very hard; beneath his hand he felt stone. It was cool, and he felt a slight breeze through his hair. It was nearly silent...except for someone singing softly, quite close by. Forcing his brain to calculate, he decided it must be very early in the morning, and he was lying in the street.

That's not a good idea, he thought, although he couldn't remember why. He rolled over on his side and sat up, deciding that if the singer meant trouble the fellow had already waited a bit; besides, his mind wouldn't deal with it any better in the foreseeable future anyway. Grimacing with the vicious throbbing in his head, Calnan tried to take in the situation and saw only a gloomy blur.

Forcing his eyes to focus in the predawn dimness, he saw Devon and Callath sprawled near him. The singer was sitting on a doorstep and regarding them with interest, but presenting no immediate threat.

Devon groaned even as he looked, then opened his eyes and groaned again. Delicately feeling a bloody knot on his head, he sat up and gazed dully into the distance.

"This is a nice mess. A darn fine mess!"

Calnan's brow wrinkled in mild perplexity. "Ah, um?" he inquired politely. Devon just glowered at him, so Calnan tried to propitiate with an offering. "Here, use this for your head, to clean off the blood," he said, offering his handkerchief.

Devon snorted. "Speak for yourself! You look like a hard night in a waterfront tavern." He turned to Callath, who was still unconscious.

Calnan cautiously felt his own face. In addition to the wound on the temple, there was a cut on his cheek that had bleed pretty freely, as evidenced by the blood on his shirt collar. This was something he could only see by squinting, an action of which his headache heartily disapproved.

Devon had found a paper pinned to Callath's jacket. He shoved it in front of Calnan's nose. We are watching. "Now do you see?" he demanded of Calnan.

"Oh?" said that young man. "OH!" The momentous events of the previous day crashed back into his head. The carriage, Doran, a ship, war at sea - and Adeline! Not here, with them, but there - with the corsairs!

"Sorry, Devon - I kind of, couldn't remember," he said lamely. Repeated blows to the head tend to have that effect.

Devon was only mildly irritated by his friend's erstwhile obtuseness. "Well there he is - at least one of them!" he continued, jerking his head at their solitary spectator.

Callath stirred and looked up blearily at them. "So wha' now?" he mumbled.

Calnan only just refrained from shaking his head in an effort to clear it. Don't want to shake anything loose, now. Contenting himself with a good eye-rub, he said, "We need to get out the street, that's what. We're fair game for any rabid corsair types. And then we need to find a captain."

"Captain? I thought we needed a ship first," Callath asked, rising unsteadily.

"If we find a good captain, he'll know how to find a ship. Plus he'll probably be more, um, cheerful about this scheme if he picks it instead of us. Right, Devon?"

The ambassador's son nodded in agreement. Looks like his head's all right, Calnan thought resentfully. "Of course. Most of us know nothing about ships."

Calnan stood up carefully and looked around in the fast-growing light. "Well then. I suggest we move on." He glanced at Devon. "So where would you go to find a good captain?"

[maikafanawen]

The small washroom had but one window that Meri Loliway could look out while she worked. It faced the street and people would stroll past on their way to work at the docks. She was washing the set of plates from breakfast contentedly when a voice low and grumbling drifted into the kitchen from the library "Rum in the chest costs a mountain of gold, going fairly well for three days old, yo ho, yo ho... Damn-it all Meri where's my drink!" Avershire, handsome and formidable, swaggered into the room, his shoulders leaning at an angle as he supported himself up on his gold-headed captain's cane. The woman bent over the washtub turned quickly, a lock of long, curly black hair falling into the water and sticking to her face when she tried to shake it out.

"Curses Avershire! You are not supposed to be out of bed!" She dropped her dishrag and pulled out a chair for the captain to sit in at the table and face the sea through the large window. "Four days you've been up with a worm and now you're thinking that a walk is right for your unsteady legs!"

"My landlubber legs you mean!" he spat and Meri kicked the leg of his chair.

"As long as I'm washing these forsaken floors I'm the only one that'll be spitting on them!" She strode over to the cabinet then and retrieved a glass and a bottle of lighter whisky.

"No!" the under par man said, rubbing at his temple, "I want the gold stuff." Meri narrowed her eyes at him but switched the bottles: she new better than to contradict her captain. Decanting a helping into the glass, she gave it to Avershire who drank it slowly, only consuming half of it in his first sip. Meri sighed before resuming her work.

"Squalls in the night with a thundering crash, Fire and foam-- MERI!" The lady dove out of the way, just missing being hit by the body that had sailed headfirst through the window behind her the pane shattering and glass going everywhere. It landed in the tub and after just a few seconds, the water inside started turning red from the man's blood. The woman leapt to her feet and grabbed the sword hanging from beside the door. Then kicking it open, she challenged the man running from the scene, pushing people aside on the crowded streets to get by.

"Come back you son of a bilge rat and get this man! He does not belong to me! He's your bloody garbage!" Swearing violently under her breath, she watched as his back disappeared into an alley.

"Like me to get 'im for ye ma'am?" a swarthy looking sailor asked coming up at a brisk walk towards Meri. She considered it for a moment but decided against it.

"S'not important," she declared, "but I could use help with the garbage if you've a mind for it."

"I certainly do," he offered politely following Avershire's woman into the house. With the sailor's help, they carried the body out the gutter and waited for the cart to come and get him while Meri mopped up the mess, hoping it wouldn't leave a stain. She thanked the man for his help and sent him off with a glass of spirits. Making friends was always a good thing to do nowadays anyways and he seemed smart and strong: two very good assets.

"Gutted through by morning…" Avershire sang darkly when Meri had closed the door. She shook her head and bolted the latch.

It was raining and dark when Avershire got home from The Beast's Lair. Meri was up, reading in the library, when he came in. She set down her book and walked to help the man off with his coat and walk him towards the fire she'd started in the hearth by where she was sitting. He discarded his wet shirt too and thankfully took the blanket she brought him, wrapping it around himself as he stared absently into the flames. Once his clothes were hung up in the washroom to dry, Meri returned and sat beside him on the settee. He was always so melancholic when he returned from the inn, and the woman found that the best thing to do was just keep him company.

After a minute or two he told her about the new restriction laws for those of corsair ancestry. It clicked right away in Meri's shrewd mind and she looked nervously at Avershire. He nodded at her unspoken question.

"They're all being given badges to wear. The scribes are hard at it. Tomorrow I've--" he paused and took a minute to drape his arm around her, "I've got to get mine. Roary said I won't be allowed to buy drinks without it at his inn." Meri shook her head in disagreement.

"Your pledge to Gondor doesn't free you of it? I'll wager Doran doesn't have to wear one." Avershire's eyes focused in consideration.

"I bet you're right," he said. Meri smiled and tapped his shoulder absently with her finger. "I bet I am too. We can go see him tomorrow and ask him of it." Kent nodded and yawned. Miss Loliway smiled again and kissed him lightly on his cheek. "You are sleepy now though, the rain and the fire have exhausted you." The corners of Avershire's mouth twitched as a form of smiling: the best he could muster since his captaining days came to an end. Taking from him his empty mug of hot tea and setting it on the end table nearby, Meri helped him stand.

Gripping his cane, he sauntered to the large bedroom where he and Meri slept. It was a large, comfortable feather stuffed bed draped with crimson curtains and covered in soft pillows. Avershire refused assistance to dress. So after ten minutes, he emerged from behind the changing wall, looking even more exhausted. He collapsed in the bed, making the frame and canopy shudder with his fall. His dark-haired woman smiled sadly, and doused the candle before climbing in beside him.

Meri's dreams that night were painful to bear. In one, the captain's illness returned and the doctor said he could not cure it. So she was made to spend a very long time beside his bed, praying for health. In the end though, he died, and she was denied a proper burial because of his pirate descent. In another they were back on the sea, sailing together on a terrifyingly small sloop, trying to maneuver it through a large squadron of Gondorian naval ships that threatened to capsize the small boat at any moment. Finally she slept peacefully and her dreams were uncluttered with frights.

“Put it on Avershire,” Meri demanded cooly. “I’ll not have you confronting Doran in the frumpy clothes ye’re used to.” She leaned against the frame of the bedroom door, arms crossed, and looking too handsome for her deep purple brocade gown. The captain sat, moping in a chair refusing to even look at the crisp jacket Meri had washed and pressed for him. “Shall I get your badge then?” she suggested coldly. The man swore and stood, ripping off his mussed shirt and pulled on a clean one and the jacket. He seemed in much better condition today and his woman was sure that was a good sign. Those badges may cause problems: problems they didn’t need.

The walk to the embassy took longer because of the traffic. The lines were still moving throughout the streets. It actually hadn’t occurred to Meri how many corsairs there were in Umbar. She wondered if they’d run out of badges.

Finally the gates came in view and the two walked up to them, Meri praying that there wouldn’t be too much of a problem concerning admittance. The guard was surprisingly alert and accepted the captain’s papers with congenial etiquette. Miss Loliway was glad to see a well-tempered man standing before the embassy. He perused the forms quickly before handing them back to Avershire.

“You may come in,” he announced. “Doran’s office is on the first floor south wing corridor , second on your left before the ambassador’s room.” The captain raised an eyebrow and looked sideways at Meri.

“I got it,” she whispered. Nodding, he led the way into the house.

“Twenty years service in the Gondorian Navy,” Doran mused, glancing over the papers. “Impressive indeed.” Captain Avershire and Meri Loliway were seated in highback chairs before his desk, waiting nervously for the verdict. “This is merit enough indeed I’d say. No, no badges are you required to wear. You have medals from your service?” he inquired. Avershire thought a moment and nodded.

“I have a few. A couple were taken from me though when I was--” he hesitated, “released.” Doran nodded sympathetically.

“I understand,” he said, handing the papers back to the captain. “I fear it may be that we are never taken as true equals here. There is a list of individuals who are not asked to wear badges and I shall add yours as well to it. You shall not be bothered.” He smiled and Avershire paused. That’s not exactly an honest smile, the captain mused. He had spent entirely too many years aboard a corsair frigate to not notice. But he collected his hat and bowed respectfully before offering his arm to Meri and leaving the office. He had what he wanted, it was not in his mind at all to interfere with whatever Doran was doing.

Back in the townhouse, Meri and Avershire were installing a new window when a riot broke out in the inn across the way. Swords were drawn and it was full blown. The guards arrived in a hurry but not before two Gondorians and four corsairs were killed.

The two worked faster on the window and thoughts swam in each of their minds. It is unlike sailors to stay idle for long periods of time but what was to be done? The answer would arrive later that evening while Avershire treated his woman to dinner at the Snifter and Song--an uptown inn on the higher streets of Umbar.

* * * * *

[In progress]

[Himaran]

Two sentries sat against the wall of Umbar's eastern Gondorian Barracks. Neither spoke, nor show any sign of movement; in fact, it seemed that they had ceased to even breath. Surprisingly, the gate which they were guarding was wide open, though there were no sounds from within. But there was a single disturbance to the peaceful scene; a note had been neatly hung on the gate, barely visible from the dark street. A deathly silece hung over the whole scene, broken only by the eerie wind passing over the city.

____________________________________________


"The barracks fell easily. The stealth attack went perfectly, without a single casualty suffered. They had no chance, no time to strike a single blow. It was a complete, effecient slaughter."

Acacia nodded, recording Jurex's report on a letter to Jythralo. "Excellent. Now, with the garrisons out of the way, we can finally attack our primary target. But we cannot proceed until I recieve Jythralo's orders on the matter - we will attack a counciller's home, but an objective has not yet been established. I will send you the required information when it comes."

Jurex nodded. "Good. I have other business to attend to with the men. A few problems have arisen, and a possible small-scale mutiny could occur among a portion of my force if the proper percautions are not taken." Several minutes later, after exiting the house, the man disappeared into the dark street in the direction of the tavern.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 9:59 PM December 28, 2003: Message edited by: Himaran ]

[Arien]

This arrived for you,” said Blaine handing a letter to Acacia as soon as she had entered the front door. Acacia took the letter and turned it over.

“It arrived anonymously?” she said looking up at Blaine.

“Yes,” she said taking Acacia’s cloak when she handed it too her. She placed it on the rack next to the door and followed Acacia down the hallway. Acacia slid her index finger along the blank seal and opened the letter cautiously. She knew it would be from Jythralo, although she had not suspected he would reply to her letter so speedily.

“When did it arrive?” she asked looking back at Blaine.

“Why, just a few minutes before you arrived back.” Well it did make sense. After leaving Jurex, she had sent the letter by a trusted horseman. It would have taken little than 10 minutes to reach Jythralo. And then she had walked home, which had taken a bit of time. It made sense.

Acacia pulled the letter out of the envelope and started to climb the stairs to her bedroom. She unfolded it carefully and saw that it was written in his hand. She smiled, “ Thank you Blaine.” The girl nodded and left her on the stairs. Acacia folded the letter back and made for her room.

“So let us see what I need to do next,” She said seating herself on her bed. She unfolded the letter again and smoothed it out on her lap. Dim candlelight filled the room, but she could still see the writing.

Good, they fell easily. Now we attack Bassington’s estate. Take him and his staff captive; leave the women, servants and children. Kill the guards; there is no doubt that they will get in your way. I have an insider in Bassington's mansion. I cannot tell you her name because this might be intercepted but she will meet you in the Sea Dog Inn, where you three will coordinate the attack. Oh, and take any and all plunder for yourselves.

Acacia re- read the letter again and then threw it into the fire at the far end of her room. An insider? She had never been told about that before now, it was never even mentioned. She smiled; Jythralo was always one step ahead. Although she did feel a little bothered that he had not told her. She stood for a time watching it slowly burn and then she left her room. She collected her cloak from beside the door and quickly made her way to the kitchen.

“Blaine, I’m leaving again. Is the horse ready outside?”

“Its as you left it.” Acacia nodded and flung her coat around her shoulders. “When you will back?”

“I’m not sure, I may have other business to take care of, and I might stop of at the shore.” Acacia was silent for a moment, “But I will be back before sunrise.” Blaine nodded.

Acacia stepped out onto the terrace and walked round to the small stable. She mounted the black horse and rode off towards the tavern where Jurex was waiting.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_

“Yes?”

“I have the orders….” Acacia said, holding
tight on to the reins of her horse. It pulled slightly as it was getting weary of waiting. Acacia had known better than to go into the Inn and so she had waited outside for a competent individual to tell Jurex that she was waiting. It had taken long than she had thought, but he was here now.

“And?”

“And you will have to wait for them. It seems we have a new accomplice.” Jurex nodded, though he looked a little confused.

“We do?”

“Yes, a girl it seems. She is of Bassington’s staff. Jythralo placed her there, and now it is the time that we shall use her.”

“So where will she be?” He asked kicking the dirt on the ground idly.

“Sea Dog Inn. We go to meet her now, that is unless you are busy?”

“No, they have calmed down now. Shall we go then?” Jurex said lightly as he started to walk off in the direction of the Inn. Acacia tugged the reins of her horse, which followed obediently into the night.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Callath shook his head without thinking before stopping sharply. Closing his eyes, he brought his fingers gingerly up to the left side of his jaw, prodding it carefully. Devon chatted vaguely about ships to a still disoriented Calnan, who was blinking repeatedly as Callath's mind whirred, despite wishing he could lie down again. They had to get to Telson, tell him what had happened, but..but what had Doran said - something about 'he would be watching'?

"Callath, won't your tutors be missing you?" he said loudly, wishing his voice didn't reverberate through his head so. The others both turned to him and Devon's expression quickly turned from confusion to frustration and pent-up anger, ready to fire.

"What the- Callath, Pearlle is not exactly my chief problem at the moment!" he replied hotly. "What do you-" something in Callath's expression stopped him, the stable by staring straight at him, eyebrows slightly raised. He frowned slightly for a second. Calnan also wathed Callath carefully.

"Well, I know Garth will be missing me pretty soon - I was meant to be dealing with that newcomer's horse." He clicked his fingers, speaking vaguely. "You know, the foreigner I told you about...tall chap, Gondorian. Telwick? Tenson? Te...Te..." he trailed off, waving a hand vaguely in the air.

"Telson?" Calnan caught on, but made the word a question, his voice unsure, but just as obvious as Callath's to anyone watching. Callath clicked his fingers. "That's right! Telson!"

Devon seemed bemused, and Callath reckoned the rising lump on the side of his forehead could hardly be helping with the boy's thinking. "Telson has a-" Something about the concentrated expression on the two older boys' faces must have finally sent things clicking into place, and he rallied, as if just remembering. "-a bay mare, doesn't he?"

Callath grinned at the pun and gave an almost inperceptible wink. "Sounds about right. Still, I just need to get her settled in and run her on a lead rein around the paddock for a wee while - I reckon I should probably be done by," he paused, thinking on how long it would take to get to Telson, "say, noon? I'll have to send someone round to tell him when the mare'll be ready; he said he wanted to be informed about it."

Devon was with it properly now. "Aye, sounds about right. What about Dora...n's horse?"

"It might take a while to properly break him, but I have no doubt I can do it in the end." Callath grinned, smiling at the hidden message in his words.

[maikafanawen]

"Then I guess I should be getting on up to Pearlle's classroom," said the scholar, standing and rubbing absently at his throbbing temples.

"Yes, and me to my duties," said the attaché, "Callath?" The stable-hand nodded and saluted his friends farewell as the oldest and youngest made their way to the embassy and Callath with them for a short while until he turned down a forked lane to the city's stables.


Corac stood abruptly and followed them, snapping his fingers once and gesturing to the shadows on either side of the street. Three commonplace sailors stepped honestly into the street, taking care not to make eye contact and browsing the kiosks uninterestedly. Their steps carried them after the trio though and Corac, sticking to the shadows, followed. When the stable-hand boy took his path, the blue-clad sailor followed, leaving the three to trail the other two.

Once the two young men entered the embassy, where the stalkers could not pursue, Corac walked casually by each one informing them to stay around and watch for them to exit in order for them to pick up their job. He, however, slunk back into the shadows and managed to sneak around back to a kitchen-alley entrance and make his way inside.


The classroom was stuffier than Devon remembered it and Pearlle's voice seemed to drone on, agitating the ceaseless pounding that hammered in the student's head. He continued to blink and squint his eyes as the vision of his fat tutor wavered and swam before him. He wasn't really concentrating on anything the man was saying anyways. He was trying to figure out how he was going to go about finding a ship, a crew and a captain in time to meet Doran in a week. He figured that the best thing to do would be to start with finding a captain. Then he could rely on his help and advice on ship-buying and crew-hiring. But what about all the technical parts such as navigation and repairs? Devon groaned with the tremendous burden and rubbed again at his forehead.

"Master Devon?" Pearlle inquired nervously, "Are you feeling ill?" At that moment a large rock was thrown into the room, smashing the glass and pane of the window. The two occupants dove out of the way and listened as the mob of corsair protestors scattered as the guards gave chase. The tutor stood in a huff, and steaming he waddled over to the window and leaned out to see what was afoot. He shook his fist and shouted back at the pirates as they ran back into alleys and houses two stories below him. "That's a far toss," he commented, measuring the distance from the street to their window, "they've got good arms."

The fat man maneuvered his way through the mess to where Devon lay and offered him a helping hand up. The student brushed shards of glass from his clothing and allowed Pearlle to assist him in retaking his seat. Then the tutor noticed the lump on his head, partially covered by his askew bangs. He must have paused in his actions, for Devon quickly tried to hide it again.

"Must've hit my head when I fell," he mumbled. Pearlle narrowed his eyes. Twenty years of medical training told him that the lump would not have swelled and turned the bluish color of Devon's in a mere forty or so seconds. Standing slowly, the old man looked down over his hooked nose at his pupil.

"Of course," he said, "do you have any other scratches that need attending to?" His voice gave away his knowing and Devon tried to sneak a glance at the man's face. That was when he got his idea.

"Pearlle," he began, suddenly excited. "What do you know about ship-navigation?" The tutor narrowed his eyes and folded his arms. He could tell that something was weighing very heavily on his student's mind.

"A good bit," he admitted, "Mostly of the stars and the sun's position. It's all you really need to know. Why do you ask young Thrann?" Devon's mind was working as fast as it had been, trying to think of how to attain everything he'd need for the sea-battle. He knew that he should run it by Calnan and Callath first but Pearlle could be a valuable asset as a Navigationalist on one of their ships! And would Pearlle consent to helping them? He shook his head; he needed Calnan's eloquence to help convince the tutor.

"It's kind of complicated though, but I'll be getting back to you on it." That seemed to satisfy the paunchy tutor and the lessons were resumed.


Noon rolled around and Devon was dismissed from his lessons. He stopped by the kitchens for something to eat. He hadn't had any food since the Snifter and Song the previous evening and his stomach churned unsatisfactorily. After scarfing down some thick molasses bread, a whole cheese chunk and a glass of wine, he was going to make his way to the stables when he stopped abruptly. He had forgotten all about the note pinned to his jacket after they'd been discharged from Doran's coach. We are watching. He cursed softly under his breath wondering where his tailgater was and if he should go to the stables with him in pursuit. Then he wondered if Callath or Calnan had men following them too. If there was just one he'd be on Devon's tail, no doubt, being the son of the ambassador.

He stood there for a while wondering what he should do when he decided that there was probably someone listening to their conversation when they had woken on the curb so he knew that Callath worked there all ready. Penning his frustration into the back of his mind, he walked casually out of the embassy grounds and down the street to the stables.


Corac watched his subject leave the grounds and prepared to follow. He glanced around for the other man who was supposed to be following Devon but didn't see him. Shrugging it away he crept along the bushes next to the side of the house.

"Hey!" cried a voice rough and groggy, that of an old man. "Who's there? Devon?" Corac ducked and rolled underneath a shrub as a short old man wearing gardener's clothing appeared from behind a hedge, a pair of clippers in his hands. He looked around for a moment and shrugged, disappearing again behind the wall of bushes. The corsair waited for a moment before coming out again and crawling fast towards the back gate.

When he finally stepped out onto the street he looked either way for Devon but he didn't see him. Suddenly loud shouting and the sound of grappling fists reached Corac and he looked to see the sailor being beat by the guards for being too close to the embassy. He quickly jumped back into shadow and watched as his friend was pulled away to the jail. He fingered the hilts of his throwing knives longingly. He'd had quite enough of this injustice and he swore that Doran had better finish his business. So staying as inconspicuous as possible (his badge hidden beneath the large sleeve of his tunic) he made his way to the Snifter and Song thinking that would be where Devon was headed to meet his friends.


When Devon arrived at the stables he noticed that Callath was not there. He's probably gone to get Telson, he thought, wandering around and looking at the horses.

In one supposed to be empty stall he found a sailor, sprawled on one of the stacks of hay apparently sleeping, the stench of strong ale being around him. About his arm was wrapped a canvas band with a large red 'C' painted on it. Curious, Devon opened the door to the stall farther meaning to go in. When he did a bucket secured to the rafters above shifted and toppled swaying in the air where Devon's head would have been had he entered. Pushing the pail aside, the young man knelt next to the man and checked his head for bumps. His fingers brushed a rather large one swelling just on the left side of his head. He chuckled faintly. Obviously Callath had discovered his own follower.

Devon threw a glance over his shoulder and wondered where his was (or 'were' if he himself had more than one). Then he draped a blanket around the man and pushed him under the pile of hay. For one who didn't know he was there it would not be too noticeable.

Then he stood and walked out of the stall, closing the door behind him. Walking out to the pasture ring, he watched the other horses graze as he waited for Callath's return.

[Arien]

SAVE: For GOTO's post.

[Arien]

Acacia tied the reins delicately around the door of the barn, and then followed Jurex into the inn. Like any at this time the Inn was full, perfect for a meeting. She followed him in, glancing around for any sign of this associate Jythralo had told her of. Acacia glanced over a few drunken sailors, guards, a young woman…Her eyes flicked back to the woman. Her black hair covered her face, and her chin rested lightly on her hand. She was staring out of the window; Acacia grabbed Jurex on the shoulder and nodded towards her.

“That’s her, its got to be….” Acacia whispered.

“Yeah, ok.” He manoeuvred the various tables towards the one where the woman sat. Acacia followed, eyeing the drunken glances as she walked past. Jurex placed his hand on her shoulder and she glanced up in slight shock. Acacia slid into the chair opposite her and Jurex into the one beside.

“We are the associates,” she nodded and so Acacia continued, “I am Acacia Ratan, and this is Jurex. He will be leading the …..er……’events’.” The woman nodded. “And you are?”

“Hessa, Taiel.”

“Ok Hessa, has he briefed you yet?” Acacia enquired.

“No, not as yet. Only to meet you here. Which I have done.”

“Hmm, yes. Well I might as well brief you now. We are, as you know, to lead an assault on Bassington’s estate. This will hopefully prove easy,” her eyes flickered to wards Hessa “ and useful to us. We take Bassington and his staff captive. We leave the women, servants and children alone. We don’t harm them; there is no need to. The Guards are to be killed.”

Jurex nodded, “And…?”

“And the plunder?” He nodded, “Take any and all for yourselves.”

Jurex smiled, “So the attack. Best to do at night.”

“Of course.” Acacia replied. She looked toward Hessa who was listening intently.

“But where to attack from?” He turned to wards Hessa.

“You have the keys? Yes? Well midnight is the best time. The guard changes then and there are only six. Two stationed at the front entrance, two on the grounds and two at the back.”

“They should be easy to get rid of.” Jurex nodded.

“The servants will be sleeping in the lower quarters. But Bassington is usually up at this time taking care of one thing or another. With his staff of course. If they are not in the office then they will be in the upper quarters.”

“Ok good, it sound easier than I thought.”

“Yes but be careful Jurex.” Acacia nodded and rose from her seat.

“Leaving already?”

“Yes I am afraid I must go, I have briefed you and I leave it in your capable hands Jurex to carry out the assault accordingly. Hessa, farewell. Perhaps we may meet again.”

“Yes, perhaps.” Acacia smiled and headed towards the door. It was all going to plan now.

[Himaran]

As Acacia left, Jurex looked back at Hessa. "I have a map here showing all entrances to his mansion. There's a sewer pipe which travels under the estate, with a trap door leading into the basement. All you have to do is unlock the basement door and stay there; while we handle the assault. Tomorrow, midnight." Turning, the corsairs exited the inn, leaving the girl pondering if her decision had been a wise one.
___________________________________________

The day passed, and night fell quickly. Jurex and his small band entered the sewers and began the short trek through the stench filled pipeline. Enduring the passage in stoic silence, the corsair located the trapdoor and flipped it open without difficulty. Climbing the rickity ladder, he crawled up into the basement of Bassington's mansion.

Once the entire assault force had exited the sewers, Jurex ordered them to wait behind a group of crates. He alone moved forward to the door, and waited for Hessa to arrive. She was not long in arriving, and unlocked the door, glancing into the darkness. She jumped slightly when Jurex hissed at her; "Geddown here quick! And stay put."

The corsairs entered the house quietly, heading toward the main door. Two guards were felled by Jurex's masterful knifework, and he ordered three of his men to keep watch on the area.

Dispatching with the guard on the stairwell, Jurex continued the mission in perfect soon he arrived at the bedroom section, and dispatched his remaining men to kidnap the the family.

Now alone, the corsair hurried to Bassington's office. Using the keys he had taken from Hessa, Jurex entered the room and locked the door behind him. Ignoring the lavish furnishings, the man hurried to the desk, unlocking it. Reams of legal documents, notices and private correspondences lay before him. Stuffing them into a nearby sack, the man turned to the chest on the floor. The key fell into place, the lock turned, and the door fell open. Gold, hundreds of pieces shown brilliantly in the lamplight. The corsair grinned widely. A succesful mission, and a profitable one, to say the least.

[Arvedui III]

It was amazing how items men can create, made with care and infused with heart, that were now cast aside, transforming them into simple junk.

And junk it was, rank, sickening, gritty junk at that, that Telson was now reclining against, trying valiantly to fight a nausea welling up in the pit of his stomach. As ever, noisy, frenzied crowds milled in the streets about him and the pile of debris he sat on, a courtesy to a corsair family from local Gondorian loyalists. More than any rubble or corsair, the fact that men had destroyed a home in the name of Gondor disgusted him. So now with all his might Telson tried to descry through the crowd the four people he wanted to speak with most acutely.

For all their wonderful planning, Telson had not told Thrann the younger and his friends where to find him, nor had they disclosed their whereabouts to him.

Still unable to comprehend his short-sightedness on the matter of his four young allies, Telson was vainly attempting to devise the best way to find them. Another foray into the embassy would not be wise, as he was a marked man there, he knew that one of them, Callath maybe, worked in a stable, but there were tens of stables in Umbar, (He had counted them) and the highborn girl must live somewhere, but then, if he knew where he wouldn't be thinking about it on a smoking pile of wreckage.

Quite suddenly, a yelp like a frightened dog caught Telson's attention, jerking his head almost violently to face the busy street, his hand straying instinctively to the hilt of his sword. The sight his eyes met couldn't help but provoke a smile. Running toward him and waving in an ungainly manner was the stablehand, Callath, who looked as though he had just finished a good night's work at a bar. However, the sight of him wasn't nearly as amusing as the sound of him. For, he seemed to be suffering under the delusion that Telson had twelve or so different names or else was constantly getting it wrong. "Mr. Telenion" He called, then blushed and murmured loud enough for Telson to hear, " No, that's no it, uh, Mr. Enson! Wait, no. Sorry, uh," As Callath drew eye level him he heaved a sigh and looked up imploringly at him. "Sir, sir I'm so sorry. It's your horse, sir."

What horse?

As Telson tried to ponder this new mystery or wether the boy was just drunk, Callath's face morphed into the picture of humble apology, save for his eyes, which burned with an intensity he had never seen there before, as though they were desperately trying to convey his mind into Telson's own. He smiled inwardly, for the boy was as good an actor as one could wish. As excruciatingly difficult as it was to not burst out in laughter, he gave Callath his best frown and said in an annoyed-yet-imperious voice, "What is it, dullard boy?" Winking as he did so. "You had best come with me, sir." The stablehand answered gravely, and beaconed him into the throng.

Once they were safely engulfed in the crowd and noise, Telson broke into a smile and whispered, "Well done. I enjoyed the performance, but why is it necessary that we speak in code?" "Tails." Callath muttered vaguely, and Telson glanced nervously backwards."Then we should get out of sight, now." He hissed pointedly. "Stables, sir. Not too far to go." Callath voiced loud enough for those around them to hear. "They're far enough. Come with me boy, I detest surprises." Telson yelled back, and prodded Callath in the back until both of them were behind a shed and well out of sight. "Now," Telson said quietly, "What has occurred that would make someone tail you? And on who's orders?"

Callath sighed and began to say in a quick whisper, "Telson, last night, we were coming home from the inn for the night, and got into a carriage and they knocked us out. We woke up at Doran's." "Jytharo Doran?" Telson felt the need to clarify this, simply because if Doran had held them at any one time, then Callath had no right to be alive and talking with him now. "Yes, the same. Anyway, he, he made a deal with us. He wants to meet us on the sea to fight for Umbar. If he wins, Umbar's his. He told us to get a captains and crews and catapults and as many ships as we can or we forfeit Umbar to him. If we win, he and all those who think like him will leave. But I don't see how that's going to happen. And Telson, he released Devon and Calnan and I, but he kept Adeline. She's gone." He concluded in a forlorn, kind of shocked whisper.

The first thought after hearing all this was that either Doran was mad or had the most skewered sense of humor ever to be possessed by man, which was an affront because Telson thought that honor had always belonged to him. Why would he give them, no, us a chance, albeit it holds the same chance of me becoming the queen of Mordor? Because he thinks to play us cruelly before he strikes to kill? No. Because he needs someone, anyone to fight? No. Is this a corsair version of honor? Maybe.

"Well," Telson sighed, standing up. "That is news, but not unexpected in it's nature. And now we have a plan from which to work against, so perhaps it's better this way." "Right," Callath said derisively. "It's perfect. We put to sea, if, and only if we can find the means to do that, and then we face Doran's well armed fleet, while he has hold of Adeline. Splendid."

"Were the odds any better on land?" Telson said and smiled.

Callath shrugged and smiled back, then said loudly, "Come then sir, to the stables and I'm dreadfully sorry about this, sir."

" Lead on, my lad." Telson replied, and followed him back into the street, his mind groping to form a approach to this whole bothersome business of quelling rebellion.

[Himaran]

When Jurex returned to the rest of his group downstairs in the mansion, he found Bassington and his household bound and gagged in their custody. He chuckled at the look of horror in the eyes of the children as they watched the dead guards dragged into the basement, blood dripping from fatal wounds to the neck. Yes, little children, your nightmare will only get worse.

Suddenly a door was heard creaking open in the upper floor of the house. Jurex waved for his party to retreat into the basement, and to evacuate the prisoners into the sewers below; while he investigated the noise. It was a servant, heading downstairs for some unknown reason. Grasping a cudgel, the seasoned corsair waited until the footsteps were nearly to the bottom before leaping out and swinging the stout weapon with as much force as he could muster. The man crumpled to the ground.

Leaving his victim lying unconcious on the ground, Jurex hurried into the basement and locked the door behind him. Just then, Hessa stepped out from behind a row of boxes. "What about me?"

The man turned to her, making his decision swiftly. "You'll be coming with us."

The girl looked troubled. "But what about my mother? She needs me to-"

"Into the sewers - NOW!"

Knowing that she had no choice, the Hessa climbed into the dark tunnels, regretting more with every passing moment her decision to aid the corsairs.

___________________________________________

Within the hour, the prisoners had been safely smuggled to Jythralo's modest residence, where they were lead into the small underground dungeon and placed under heavy guard. Hessa was allowed to remain free, but was told that she could not leave the house under any circumstances. The gold which Jurex had discovered was quickly distributed among his band, but the documents were given to Jythralo, who stayed up late into the new day examining them.

Jurex and Acacia, of course, recieved a bonus.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 9:13 PM January 30, 2004: Message edited by: Himaran ]

[Amanaduial the archer]

Callath grinned at Telson, beginning to take a liking to him. When the older man using the irritatingly arrogant tone of voice, he followed it up with a wink that was barely a flicker of an eyelid; unlike most who Callath came across using that tone, it wasn’t his actual voice. Callath snuck a look back the way they had come to see whether their followers were still coming. Telson looked at his sharply.

“How are w– I mean, how is…my horse?” Telson asked the stable boy, a trace of bemusèdness in his voice.

“Your horse…Pirate…has kept acting up since you left her in,” Callath said, the noise of the crowd forcing him to raise his voice and therefore ‘speak in code’. “If we manage to pull it off, I don’t think we should have any problems with her tail any more.”

Despite the fact that to anyone who had ever even encountered a horse this would be completely nonsensical, the message was conveyed, and Telson shot Callath a questioningly look, one eyebrow raised, but was unable to say anything as the youth darted forward into a gap that had just opened in the group, grabbing Telson’s wrist and pulling him through into the street leading off from the surging central square, effectively leaving their pursuers behind for good. Callath picked up his pace, knowing Devon would probably already be there, and Telson kept up easily.

As they came into the square in front of the stables, Callath straightened his cuffs absentmindedly, looking back for Telson and giving him a small, polite smile, every bit the part of the anxious stable boy rather than the stable boy surreptitiously scanning the yard, paddock and near field for any sign of Garth – or of their pursuers. As he put his hand on the door latch, Telson cleared his throat slightly and Callath turned, expecting bad news. But the man just grinned, raising his eyebrows once more.

“Pirate?” he said quietly. Callath grinned back, pulling open the door and stepping into the peaceful musk of the stable block. Looking down the centre, he tensed suddenly as he saw a figure going into a stable – before it ducked suddenly and a surprised head backed out as the bucket swung over it, with an expression Callath would treasure.

“Alright there, Master Thrann?” he called softly, advancing towards his friend. “I see you found my earlier visitor then.”

“You nearly took m’head off!” The Ambassador’s son replied accusingly. Callath just winked, popper his own head in to check that his’ visitor’ was still sleeping soundly, apparently knocked out on the alcohol whose stench hung around him clothes – as, of course, Callath had meant it to when he had soaked the man’s back in it; it wouldn’t be seen as he was lying there that there was a tell-tale damp patch, but it was certainly smelt. He reached up to the bucket to secure it when he heard a sound from outside, a familiar man’s voice calling orders to another. Telson immediately tensed, a hand flying his belt, but Callath shook his head urgently. “Garth,” he mouthed to Devon who, understanding, beckoned Telson to come closer so they looked less randomly sprawled around. Undoing the bucket quickly, Callath stepped back out of the stall as Garth entered and turned to look at the stable-master as he entered, with the air of having been half-way through something. Smiling politely, he gestured towards Garth, explaining to Devon and Telson, “This is horse-master Garth – he is in charge of Umbar stables.”

The stocky stable master swelled slightly more with pride and took in his visitors, smiling widely when he saw Devon, whom he recognised, and even more so when he saw that the youth had an older companion – more business.

“Good day, Callath. And you, Mr Thrann, Mr…?” he left a space inquiringly.

“Sontel. My name is Sontel.” Telson’s acting was as good as Callath’s own as he achieved a mild composure, smiling absently at Garth as he looked around the stables. Garth nodded. “Mr Sontel. Can I help you?”

“Actually, this young man was helping me with a few inquiries – a few years ago I put my horse, Pirate, in livery here, and I intended to place him here again, under your able care.” He smiled mildly. Garth nodded once more, then turned his gaze to Callath, where it settled on his forehead. “Excuse me gentlemen, I just need to talk to Callath.” As he was drawn aside with a sinking feeling, Callath touched his forelock over-ingratiatingly to his visitors then turned politely to the stable master.

“Horse master Garth-?”
“What is that on your forehead?” The man referred to the moderately long cut slanting into his parting from Doran’s thugs.

“I was kicked by a horse, sir – just a glancing blow,” came the automatic retort. Garth eyes him suspciciosuly, but Callath had just seen his perfect chance. He coughed, turning his head sidewards as he did so, so he was facing the stall with the stricken man inside, and when he opened his eyes, he allowed them to widen as he gasped.

“Good gri….Horse master, look at that!” He swung open the stable door slightly more to reveal to the horse master, ut not quite to the ‘visitors’ the ‘drunk’ corsair inside, flat on his back and reeking of ale, just as was planned…

[maikafanawen]

After the horse master summoned the law enforcement and had the corsair taken from the trough to the jail, Garth returned to business about the left stables and Devon, Telson, Callath, and Calnan held their discussion in the right stables' tack room.

Devon sat on the floor, his back leaning up against the wall, his mind wandering. Everything had gone wrong and it had only taken around two weeks to do so. Umbar was going to the dogs and the only people who could really stop it were leagues away in Minas Tirith or the navy in Dol Amroth. And it was up to them to either stall Doran and his posse or stop them if possible.

And what's worse is that they had to do exactly what Doran said in order to protect Adeline who was at the mercy of the corsair captain. Which drove Devon completely rigid with fury; it wasn't fair at all, no matter what Doran tried to tell him. The captain had the upper hand far more than it was equal. Devon and his friends were going to get slaughtered.

"I haven't any idea as to where to begin," Devon said to no one in particular. From the looks of everyone else's faces, neither did they. Telson was still trying to piece things together and look for a weakness in Doran's plans but none was to be found.

"I bet that if we can even find a captain, he could probably help us out a good bit with everything else we're going to need," Callath offered.

"Do we know how many ships Doran's got?" Calnan asked.

Devon shook his head. "I know of one," he said, "The Rapscallion, that wasn't to be found after he was arrested the last time. He claimed that it was taken in a storm but...I bet he's got it somewhere. He could have as many as five to a dozen for all we know."

"Allies?" Telson asked. "Are there any other notorious corsairs around here that would have ships of their own for Doran's deployment?"

"Oh sure," said Devon, "There's Stalkin, Feray, and Drovig for starters."

Callath groaned, "We can almost certainly count on them to help Doran out."

"Which are their ships?" Telson asked.

Devon furrowed his brow in thought. "I think Feray is captain of the Regal Dawn, and Drovig commands the Might of Realge."

"And Stalkin?"

Devon exchanged looks with his friends, Callath shrugged and Calnan nodded. "Well, story is that his ship is called the Yonder Bound and is three times as big as any ship except for maybe Doran's. I've only heard of it though, I've never seen it."

"Well lets not cast it to myth too fast," Telson decided. "If there is such a ship, I'd like to think we'd be at least expecting it. If not, we're no worse off." Devon nodded.

"Now what of captains that we could consider as our allies. Can you think of any?"

"There are some merchant ships here in port," Calnan said. "And there must've been captains to bring them in from Gondor."

Telson shifted his position and leaned forward, "I'm worried though that we'd find either a weak hearted captain or a non-committal one. I'm wondering if we could get our hands on a veteran. Someone who has had experienced and is hardened from his own battle scars. One who knows the waters around here. And even who has sailed against the corsairs. Maybe even Doran himself?"

Devon's mind shuffled through his memories, trying to put a name and face to the man Telson had described. He was sure he knew of someone. Someone he'd heard stories of when he was younger. The man was a corsair but he'd sailed with the Gondorians; he was the best captain among them so he'd heard. But who was it?

"That would be ideal, Telson," Calnan was saying, "but that seems like a rare find. We'd have to go to Dol Amroth for someone like that." But Telson was looking at Devon.

"Do you know of someone Mr. Thrann?" he asked, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

Devon looked up quickly then shook his head. "No, I-I don't think so."

The hour was getting late and Devon couldn't be missed any longer from his studies. Calnan seemed to be thinking the same as he checked the dial on the windowsill beside him. "I should be getting back soon."

"Let's meet again then tonight," Callath suggested, "at the Snifter and Song."

Calnan nodded. "I don't see why not. We couldn't be any more stuck than we are now." The others agreed and parted, planning on dinner that night.

[Earendil Halfelven]

Jythralo sighed as he lay the last of the documents down on his desk. Everything was going according to plan. Bassington was his prisoner, he had Adeline safely stowed away, and Devon, Callath, and Calnan were rushing to find a ship to do battle on the high seas.

"What to do with Bassington's family?" he wondered aloud. He planned on taking Bassington along but what about the rest of the family. The children...he should just leave them here under strict guard. Yes, the women and children would stay, while Bassington came along. He had himself another prisoner, just in case, by some miracle, he were to lose.

There was a knock at the door.

"Enter,"he said.

A weather-beaten man entered, in a diverse assortment of clothes and a black cloak. He carried a scimitar at his side. The man smiled.

"Doran."

"Captain Kamir. I assume your men had landed?"

"Yes, sir. I have four ships in the harbor, and all 1,000 corsair soldiers have disembarked and are entering the city. My men and I thought this was only a dream, but it seems that dreams do come true."

"Your men can have the barracks...after the city guards have been killed. I think your men deserve some action after their long trip."

"Aye, that they do, Doran." Kamir's grin grew even bigger.

"Here are your orders for the defense of the city should Gondor arrive. Only destroy military targets and those that take arms against us. Spare the hospitals and innocent people. Don't do anything that will inspire a rebellion against the new corsair government. And after you've taken control, make sure you make it well known that I was behind this. With that knowledge spreading throughout the city, the corsairs that have doubted me will rally to our cause and bolster your forces."

"And where will you be?" Kamir said.

"Acacia, Jurex, and I will be heading out to sea to finish some business with my main opponent. After that, we'll return and help with the city."

Kamir nodded and left. The sounds of battle from the city were already ringing in the night air. Jurex made ready to leave when there was another knock at his door, this one softer than usual.

"Enter."

It was Hessa. She seemed timid and afraid.

"Yes?" Doran asked.

"Captain Doran, sir, I was just wondering..." Hessa began but Doran interrupted.

"If its about your mother, you can rest assured Miss Hessa. I've taken the liberty of having your mother placed in one of the nicest hospitals in the city. Her stay is fully paid for, and when you return home after our little adventure, you should find that there are a few chests of gold waiting for you. I reward those loyal to me well." Doran smiled. "Don't worry. Your mother is in good hands. In fact," he drew a letter from a drawer in his desk. "I have a letter for you that I was going to give you." He handed it to her. "You will find that your mother is doing very well and is expected to fully recover."

Hessa took the letter gently. Doran could see tears glisten in the corners of her eyes.

"Thank you," was all Hessa could get out.

"Come young lady. Let us take to sea. Have you ever raided any coastal towns?" he asked as he ushered her out of the room.

"Raided...towns?" she asked. That scared look came back into her eyes.

"I'm just teasing. You won't be raiding any towns. But Jurex, Acacia, and I need to make some stops while we wait for our enemies." Doran smiled as he thought about the fun he would be having tomorrow while raiding towns and other ships he came across.

In the main lobby, Acacia and Jurex sat waiting.

Doran stopped suddenly. "Do you hear that?"

Acacia and Jurex jumped to their feet and drew their swords.
"What?" they both asked.

Doran smiled. "The sea is calling."

[Durelin]

The shuffling of feet, seemingly attempting to be quiet, finally became a sound separate from her dreaming. Adeline groaned, and the shuffling stopped. She opened her eyes, the light of a sun still high in the sky but long risen stinging them. She blinked several times, then rolled over onto her back. She sat up to find herself staring at a short, round little man in livery. He was one of the shortest men she had ever seen, as she could tell just by looking at him that he was even shorter than her. "Good morning, m'lady," the serving-man murmured, and then he held up a shining covered tray. Glancing around the room, she realized that the tray probably was made of silver. A rich variety of tapestries covered clean white walls that practically shone. A hunting scene, a glowing battlefield of victory, an exotic cat running through tall grasses. A room much less pleasant than the one she had been forced to leave. Not that it was not as rich; it was just much colder. Plus, it had been furnished for a man, she was sure. The furniture was of large cut wood, dark and bulky and square, favoring straight edges and linear designs. Even the sheets were of a dark green silk and velvet. She assumed a man would prefer that to white or pastel blue or pink, at least.

Coming back to the serving man before her, she nodded, thanking him. As he turned to leave, she called to him around a mouthful of a very lovely spice cake of some kind. "Oh! Could you see if some new sheets could be found? Something white, or yellow, or maybe pink, perhaps?" The man gave her a sour look before answering with an "I'll do what I can" in an even more unpleasant voice. She snorted loudly, just as he closed the door, unfortunately. Luckily the rest of the breakfast was as good as the spice cake, or she would never have gotten up and dressed. This was only her second day being a hostage, and she had decided that it was not as bad as she had dreamed. Actually, she realized just how fortunate she was that this man was at least a gentleman, to a certain extent. Adeline turned to look at herself in the mirror, hoping that the pale blue was not too revealing. She turned to find herself facing a stark white wall and a large spotted wild cat and long green grass, blowing in the wind. She sighed. That was about where her large pewter stand mirror had been in her own at home.

A long, twisting flight of stairs led her down to the second floor, a hallway even longer than the stairs leading to it with doors at the end that led to a beautiful garden on the roof of the level below. On the roof! It had been a shock enough to find that this house was three floors, but…a garden on the roof? And she hadn't believed that it was possible to make part of a house a different size than another. Adeline no longer felt she had lived as fortunately as she could have. But, then, she wondered how this man had obtained this wealth. Perhaps some had been inherited, perhaps some had been earned through the honest business of trade, but Adeline was fairly sure that there had always been some not so honest business going on. Now it may be much more obvious, but it seemed that he had been forced to bring some of this out in the open. It seemed that Devon and Calnan had been the force that pushed some things into the open. They themselves, at least, knew that Doran had things that needed to be hidden. Why they should be bothered about this, why knowledge of these unlawful doings was so important to them that they would risk her safety!

Walking through those large wood doors to a cool breeze under a warming sun, with a blue sky the background to the bright and pale colors of an array of flowers, was calming. The trees swayed in the wind, and a fountain trickled in the center of the gardens, where the stone garden paths all met. Her eyes came to a thriving patch of lilies, her favorite flower, and she thought of Devon, and Calnan; of Devon, mostly. Why would they need to worry about Doran? But more important, she realized, was the fact that Doran was worried about Devon and Calnan. For some reason, they were seen as trouble, and that put them in danger. You did not trouble a man like Doran without your own troubles.

Adeline heard the doors open behind her, and, to her surprise, the footsteps continued towards her. She turned to find the man she had been thinking of coming toward her. Not the man she had been thinking of fondly, of course. Her luck had never been good enough for that. "Good morning, Master Doran."

"Good morning, my lady? It is nearly midday."

"But it is not, yet, is it?"

"No."

"Then is wish you again a good morning."

Doran smiled at her, and she wanted to shiver. "A good morning to you, also, Lady Adeline." He flourished a bow, and she simply acknowledged it with a nod of her head. He was a gentleman from his toes to his fingertips. He rose from his bow only to stoop again, this time to pick a flower from his garden. He presented her with a white lily. "Thank you, Master Doran," she said. Turning to stare at the clear sky and swaying trees, turning away from Doran, she examined her lily and smiled sourly.

[maikafanawen]

Corac was cursing violently in the shadows outside the Snifter and Song. Indeed Devon had not come this way. Certainly then, where would he have gone!? Some other inn? Most likely, it was noon after all. Or maybe the stables to meet his friend Callath. It seemed reasonable. Even though they probably didn't make such a chore of meeting each other for lunch everyday, during this time of dire circumstance, Devon would surely go to his friends.

The tail moved out of his place then and onto the street. He takes an alley and blends in well with its dark occupants and is off to the stables. He arrives just as the others are leaving and he stamps his foot in exasperation. He hadn't a clue of what they've said. Information Doran would probably be curious for. Corac lets it go and tails Devon back to the embassy. But as he looked around the stables before leaving, he saw no sign of Wilsard, Callath's tail.


Later that evening, Corac was waiting for Devon who exited the embassy and this time made way for his pub of choice. The corsair finished off the jerky he was chewing and followed inconspicuously.

* * *

The Snifter and Song kept its business well amidst the helter skelter of the goings on in Umbar. There were less nobles to be sure and more new attendees, but their purses were heavy so Mr. Rheels greeted them warmly. Devon entered and hung his sword up on a peg near the door, following the no weapons policy most of the high inns enforced. Then he took a seat at one of the square booths hugging the farther most wall to wait for his friends.

The musician in the corner plucked away at a guitar, his rich voice stringing chords of somber notes together into a dismal ballad of treason and forbidden love. Devon's head hung low over his folded hands on the table as the music filled the room. Scattered talk drifted his way and he learned of the dangers of economic collapse for Umbar. Traders from the South were unwilling to stop here to transfer their goods so they spent the extra leagues it took to get to Dol Amroth or Harlond. The merchants had all but stopped anchoring in the southern-most Gondorian city.

"An ale then Mr. Thrann?" a thin, young waitress asked. Devon nodded without looking at her and she moved through to the bar to get his drink. She was back in a minute and he gave her the 10 and 5 cp piece for his drink. His mind was so absorbed in dread that he hadn't even thought to tip her. But when the girl didn't move the young man remembered and gave her a couple of single copper pennies. She stuffed them in the pocket on her apron and went away without so much as a slight curtsy.

"I'll not tell you again, Mr. Avershire." Rheels's voice was raised over the music and chatter. Devon turned to see. The pub keeper was talking to a man who had just entered. He had the coloring of a corsair and he wore a rich-looking captain's coat, a crisp white shirt and-- A captain's coat! At his side stood probably one of the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. She had sin-dark hair that was curled and wrapped into a half-bun at the back of her head. The rest fell down to her waist and complimented the black embroidery on her plain but elegant looking fuchsia dress. Her face was taught and her hand was rigid where it rested in the crook of her escort's elbow.

"He want to see Captain Doran this morning," she said evenly. "He gave him his pardon and said that he would see to it that he's not bothered. Mentioned something about a list I believe, didn't he love?" She looked up into the stormy eyes of the man called Avershire who nodded. "And he gave you a form, didn't he?"

"That he did, Meri. Hopefully kind Mr. Rheels here will comply after he takes a look over it." He reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a piece of paper folded in fourths. Devon choked. There was no way Mr. Rheels was able to read whatever it said. He was proven right when he saw the blank look on the keeper's face as he looked over the letter. The ambassador's son got up and walked casually over to where the three stood and bowed.

"Allow me Mr. Rheels." Devon extended his hand and the man gratefully handed the paper to him. Devon read it aloud. "It reads: 'I, Captain Jythralo Doran, Council member to the Umbarian under Gondorian Government, hereby grant waiver to Captain Kent Avershire for the newest laws against the Corsair Peoples and assert that he be treated as a Gondorian Citizen and permitted the rights and privileges thereof in his retirement from service to the Gondorian Navy.' and is signed 'Captain Jythralo Doran.'" Devon did well to veil his disappointment and hand the letter back to Rheels. Avershire smiled mock-graciously to Devon and tipped the corner of his hat forward.

"All right then Captain, take a table for you and your lady and I'll send someone out to serve ye."

"Thank you sir," the captain said sincerely, "I do appreciate it." And as though there had been no problem and no tempers had been tested, Avershire seated Meri and then himself and the two were immediately engrossed in common discussion of the pleasantries of each other's day.

That's when Calnan and Callath walked in, and to Devon's surprise, so did Telson. But of course Telson would have come. He beckoned them to his table where he'd abandoned his mug of ale and they took a seat, ordering once the same scrawny waitress appeared again.

The talk was scarce but this gave Devon time to think. Mr. Rheels had addressed the man as Captain Kent Avershire. Captain... And retired from his services to the Gondorian Navy... So here was a man, a retired Naval Captain sitting a few tables away, enjoying a meal with his woman. Devon had to do something. So he quickly told his friends what had happened just before they arrived and who the man was. Recognition was apparent on Telson's face when Devon spoke the man's name. The dark Gondorian looked past the young man and blinked. His mouth formed silently words that Devon couldn't catch.

"You know of him?" he asked.

He nodded. "Indeed. He was a great naval captain during and after the War of the Ring. His help in purging the seas of pirates was invaluable and his loyalty to Gondor surpasses many nobles today."

"Sort of young to be retired isn't he?" Callath noted. Telson nodded again slowly.

"He was dismissed. Someone who didn't care much for his excelling in the sea business unveiled his corsair infested past and handed him over to the law. Unfortunately, the evidence was so heavy, the council members who held trial for him could do nothing to keep him in the navy. Most of his medals traded in saved him from imprisonment, and his oath from exile, but Avershire was dismissed from his captaincy aboard naval ships and instead of finding other work, he decided to retire. So he relocated himself here." They were all throwing random looks over their shoulders to the broad-shouldered man laughing with his dark haired woman.

"What about her?" Callath asked. "She's no corsair."

"His first mate," Calnan said. They all looked at him in surprise. "I've just remembered. In my education I learned much about politics, law and the methodology of trials. One that we studied was Avershire's case. His woman is named Meri, she's his first mate." They were quiet for a moment and then Devon spoke.

"So how do we ask him if he'll help us." Callath looked at him as though he was crazy.

"The man is of corsair lineage, retired with his woman, he was given a bloody pardon by Doran, what makes you think he's going to get back into this mess?" But Devon was remembering stories from his childhood of captains, their ship, and the sea. It was completely their life and no sort of retirement or new life would let them forget. No, Devon was sure, that if Avershire was the sort of captain Telson talked about, the man would give his right arm to commandeer a ship yet again.

"He will if given the chance," the ambassador's son says determinedly.

"So go ask him," Callath says sarcastically. "'Excuse me, my name is Devon Thrann and Captain Doran has more or less taken over control of Umbar and is plotting a revolt of great complexity and size and the only chance to stop it is if I can get a captain, ship and crew together by the end of the week and I was wondering if you're up for the job. Oh yeah, and I can't pay you a single bloody cent, don't have a ship, don't have a crew, and the chances are we're all going to die!" Devon sat staring hopelessly at Callath who shook his head. "Sorry mate," he said, "but things look pretty dank on this end." Devon nodded and looked at both Telson and Calnan in turn.

"I'm going give it a go. Wish me luck." He stands, fingering his money pouch and looking in Avershire's direction.

"Wait," Calnan says touching his wrist. "What are you going to say?" Devon smiled.

"I think Callath summed it about up." He winked and walked over to Avershire's table, bowing politely to Meri and introducing himself to Avershire. His friends heard him offer to buy the two 'retired' seafarers both a drink and they accept, inviting him a chair at the table. In no time they are talking smoothly and their words are drowned out as the musician begins a new ballad, even more depressing than the first but twice as loud.

* * *

"Avershire, you are getting in way over you head," Meri says as they arrive back home. The captain hangs up his woman's coat and keeps his own. Then he turns her to face him, his hands on her shoulders.

"We're going to sail again, love!" His eyes are so alive and bright with excitement that Meri realizes he hasn't heard a thing she's said. He will go back out no matter what she says or does.

"But, Kent! We have to find the whole crew, the ship and everything! There's not even any money involved!" Avershire laughs.

"Love, if we take down Doran and present him to the Gondorian Government in Minas Tirith, I have no doubts that we'll be paid handsomely for it and we'll be having all sorts of servants waiting on us until we're so old all we can do is open our mouths as they secure the straw to our whiskies!" He smiles and spins her around the kitchen. But Meri is stunned. Did he say old? She blinks and sits down at the table. Did he say that they we're going to grow old together? He's never mentioned that before. He must just be excited. She waves the thought away and stands, walking into the living room where she lights an oil lamp and sets the wood on the grate for a fire. Avershire follows her in, his eyes unfocused. Meri laughs herself for she knows that he will not be seeing much of anything for a while except the open sea in front of him, no matter where they end up. They'll be back on the ocean again even if this means the end of them.

* * *

"Read them out to me, Meri," Avershire says. He is standing at the rail of a beachside bar, cradling a glass of whiskey in one hand as he looks out over the street to the harbor. Both of them are garbed in sea-faring clothes and Loliway looks tough as nails with her hair free down her back and a red sash tied around her low-cut, billowy, white cotton shirt. Her booted feet are propped up on a second chair and she is holding a list of names before her of the men they'd gotten so far for their voyage. She calls them out to him one at a time. They've thirty-nine so far. Thirty-nine to command a seventy man ship. And that's if they even got the old sloop. It was in need of repairs when it came in the morning and the captain was so fed up with it that he was carelessly shouted to sell it to the first person who asks for the price of a horse. Avershire had been out 'shopping' that morning for such a price on a boat and turned on his heel withough missing a beat and approached the exasperated owner.

"I'll take her," he announces. The man looks up at him, startled and fumbles around. "But I'll pay you three times as much as a horse to be fair. Say, three gold pieces?" Avershire smiles broadly.

The man tilts his head to the side and considers it. "Ten," he says. Expression unchanging, Avershire offers four. They barter for a while, then Avershire proposes six gold pieces. "Fine," the owner says. "But you get her as it is. I ain't doin' no fixin' to it."

Avershire spreads his hands, palms up, "I understand. So, we have an accord?"

"Aye," and they shake. The two men go to the dock house to sign the papers and Avershire is presented with the log. Then to visit his new ship. After a quick once over he begins to doubt his deal. He employs a quick carpenter and tells him to do whatever he can and he'll be paid 3 silver pennies an hour and considered for hire on his voyage depending on the quality.

After he told Meri, she'd gone to work helping him round up a crew. They contacted everyone, old friends, neighbors, debtors, the jobless, all if they had any sort of experience at sea and enlisted them. They were up to thirty-nine with sixty-one vacancies.

"There's no way we're going to be able to get enough men!" Meri says, tossing the book back on the table. She rubs her eyes with the heels of her palms and looks up at Avershire.

"I should have gotten a damn shipwright as well," he mutters to himself. Meri stands and joins him, swishing the contents of her own tumbler around in the glass.

"You might has well have kept your pennies. We might have done better with horses that mess of a ship."

Avershire grunts and takes a swig. "She'll be just fine," he says, "you'll see."

Meri rolls her eyes. "Hey, what's her name by the way, did you see?"

The man nods. "Her name's the North Wind and her cook said that she's just as fast."

Loliway pauses. "We've got a cook that came with it eh?"

* * *

"It's an 113 ton, 65 ft. sloop, Mr. Telson, with 12 nine-pound catapults and we've got sixty-nine hearty souls aboard, not including you, your friends, and the boy's professor." Avershire watches with a laugh in his eye as Master Pearlle steadies his chubby self on the deck by holding onto the railing and trying not to look at the vastness of the sea. All around the sloop sailors rush securing the lines and reviewing Meri's checklist before they're off. Corac was dispatched an hour ago to tell Doran that they were coming and Devon stood on board, his hand shading his face as he watched the activity of the ship. As a boy he'd always dreamed of such an adventure, but this was not what he'd had in mind and the load he carried was too heavy for him to feel any sort of excitement.

"Avershire, the ship is to be crewed by ninety men. We won't make it two leagues before something's amiss and Doran tears into us!" The captain ignores his words and defends his ability as captain to make the right decision. Finally Telson realized that arguing with such a head strong person was pointless and he returns to help the others get ready for the last stand.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Callath dropped onto a chair and leaned back, regarding Devon with almost incredularity. He held up a finger to speak, opening his mouth, then closed it. Devon simply continued to grin, an aura of total satisfaction around him. Callath grinned himself and leaned forward with his forearms resting loosely on his knees.

"So, lets get this perfectly straight: we just made a deal...with Captain Kent Avershire, a legend in the Gondorian army...to be able to use his ship and a crew of his choice...for...no money?"

Devon continued to grin and nodded once. The stable boy couldn't help laughing out loud at this point, and raised a hand to grab his friends. "Brilliant!" he exclaimed, excitedly. "Just...brilliant. Well, plus several wago-loads of luck, a sea-farer's own wish to be back at sea, and plenty of sheer bloody mindedness, but otherwise..."

Devon hit him lightly on the arm. "Hey, it was alright until then!" But the trio of youths couldn't help but grin, half out of amazement that they had actually pulled it off. Telson sat with a look of sort of bemusement on his face, regarding them with a half-smile, although Callath couldn't fathom what the man was thinking.

Still, a celebration was called for; catching the attention of the slim young waitress who Devon had offended earlier, Callath smiled charmingly. "Excuse me, could we have a round of the house's finest beer? We have a certain...cause for celebration."

[maikafanawen]

Meri snapped the stay hard against the canvas and moved quickly out of the way as it came zinging back through the air. Marx grabbed it and tossed it up over his spar to Rilgari who tied it in its place.

"Finish it up there," Meri called, "and then make ways down. I want the catapults finished and racked," she began her descent and as a second thought called up: "And find the two boys Devon and Callath and put 'em to use. The decks can always use a swab over or canvas can be bleached. Have 'em see if the sails need any mending, I'm sure Portie would appreciate it."

* * *

"Sewing?" Devon asked incredulously. Marx smiled and tossed the package of canvas to him.

"Needles and string are in a small pouch folded inside. Don't loose 'em or you'll be poking every hole and be pulling through the string with your teeth." The sailor left the galley, the door banging behind him and swinging. It was one of the only three doors in the ship. The other led to the captain's cabin and the other the armory, built into a wall. The Cook had had it put it specially. He has something with doors...

"You've sewed before, eh Callath?" The stablehand looked amusedly at Devon.

"Horses, Devon. Horses don't wear pants or dresses."

The two boys sat themselves in the bow of the ship and set to work with needles and twine. They worked at first in silence. Then Callath looked over slyly at Devon and he couldn't help but laugh.

"Not...a word," Callath said, raising a finger. Devon agreed.

"So... where's Calnan?" Devon ventured, leaning back into the coil of ropes he sat in as he sewed. "Doing the washing?"

Callath shook his head seriously. "We're far better off than he is." Devon looked at his friend quizzically and the stablehand nodded past him, just aft of the wheel where Stippashin, the helmsman, stood still as stone. Devon raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and smiled as he saw Master Pearlle showing Calnan how to use a sexton. The fat man drew a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his sea coat and dabbed his sweating brow. Devon nodded approvingly.

"We're even then."

* * *

Kent Avershire studied the maps and charts, memorizing the locations of all the shoals, the tiny islands, and marks where maelstroms were said to be. The weather charts were laid before him and he calculated the patterns and looked over the work done by Pearlle. It looked reasonable but the captain never put his trust wholly in figures; the wind told him what he really needed to know.

Avershire looked out the portal window of his cabin at the endless blue. There was a good wind and the white caps foamed and sea sprayed up the sides of the ship and it seeped in, a few drops catching on his face and in the stubble of hair on his chin and the lines of mustache above his lip. He refused to admit that he had indeed copied Devon's little facial hairstyle but, Meri had informed him, it looked more in place on the captain. To the crew it was, undoubtedly, quite foolish on the boy. He sighed and returned to the maps.

"Coffee?" Cook inquired as he came in. Avershire glanced up, 'Oh, yes' and nodded absently. Then Meri came in and sat down at one of the chairs across the desk from him.

"So," she said plainly, spreading her hands on the desk and clicking the heels of her boot on the floor.

"Oh yes, yes I know," Avershire said, his eyes hidden by his lenses. "The Cook is seeing to it. If it comes to worst we can fish." He looked up. "We've nets." Meri nodded, helping herself to a sip of Avershire's coffee.

"You don't drink coffee," she said when he opened his mouth to protest. He stopped in the process of getting a word out and what he said sounded something like 'Hey-oh-quite-so'.

"Well," Meri said again sitting back, stretching out and crossing her legs. Avershire agreed.

"How does she look?" the captain asked, referring to the North Wind. "Is she going to be all right?" The first mate nodded slowly, lacing her fingers together and leaning her elbows on the armrests.

"She shoots like an arrow through the water; in a battle we can run circles around the ships as we fire off our catapults; she'll ride out any storm we hit." There was a short pause and then Meri said with a dreadful sort of finality, "I rehearsed it. I need something to say whenever a man asks that question after a sail falls or the stays fray. Did you know that we've cleaned out a whole box of repair limber all ready?" Avershire cleared his throat and shuffled through the papers in the crate by his desk looking for an overlay of the ship. When he pulled it out Meri laughed anxiously. "It's not that small," she said, more to convince herself.

"Well, if it comes to worst--" Avershire began.

"I'll get the nets." She saluted and left Avershire to his maps and his log.

* * *

Meri shut the door behind her and made her way back up to the deck, passing Cook on her way out. "At least one of us can understand him," she heard him mumble. Smiling (on the inside), Meri mounted the steps into the open, snapping at a sailor she saw leaning against the rail. She inhaled deeply and sighed as the wind seemed to pull the ship in a happy, 'welcome home' way into the blue.

But in the darker crevices of the future where the fate of their journey rested, there were ten ships of full crews and immense power, waiting in confident patience for the North Wind and its half-crew of Gondorian loyalists.

[Earendil Halfelven]

The sound of the sails in flapping in the breeze was comforting to Doran.
There's nothing like the sound of the wind and the surf in the morning, he thought. He was aboard his ship The Rapscallion and it gave him the best feeling in the world. He loved raiding villages and pillaging.

"Land ho!"

He stood at the bow and looked out to see a coastline dotted with little brown specks.
"Excellent! A village," he said to himself.
A grubby looking man approached him.

"Captain, what're yer orders?"

Doran smiled. "Prepare to disembark. We're going to pay the commonwealth of Gondor a little visit from Captain Doran. Since I raided this exact same village years before, they should remember my name. I want the Regal Dawn crew to disembark also and accompany us. All other ships are to remain on guard for any sight of trouble."

"Aye, sir!" The man left to pass on the orders.

Doran buckled his sword belt on. It had been a long time since he had worn it in a raid, but now he was about to remind himself of the feeling.

As the crew of the Rapscallion and Regal Dawn were lowered into smaller boats, the rest of his fleet kept their eyes open. Doran looked around. It was a lovely sight.
_____________________________________________

"Well, if it isn't Captain Jythralo Doran."

"Greetings, mayor. I see you remember me from the last time I paid this town a visit," Doran replied.

The old, bald mayor glared at him. The man was tied with two corsairs holding him. The rest of the town was subdued and all resistance destroyed. The scene was decorated with a few dead townspeople here and there and the aroma of burning houses filled the air and was accented with the sounds of mourning women and children.

"You murderer!" was all the man could say.

This was the third time Doran had raided this village. It was his favorite place to visit, actually.

"Mayor, you know I love your town. Its so hospitable."

"You...you...MONSTER! How could you do this three times? Haven't you done enough to my people?"

"Oh come now, don't be so pessimistic. Last time, I burned half the buildings, killed at least 40 men for resisting, pillaged all your personal valuables, and took 10 women captives away. This time, I'm only burning about 10 buildings and I only killed about 15 men. They did after all kill four of my men. And this time, I'm not taking any captives. But I'm taking all your personal valuables again. Did you start up your collection of paintings again after I took your old one?"

The man just glared. "Thief," was all he could mutter.

Doran smiled.
_____________________________________________

All the men were back aboard their respective ships and they set sail again for another town that Doran remembered as being particularly generous to his men. Adeline stood on deck.
"Why do you look so angry?" he asked her.
"How can you go and steal from innocent people and kill?" she demanded.
"It's in my nature,"Doran replied. He smiled at her. All she did was make some sort of sound of disapproval and disgust.

Doran held out a bottle towards her.
"You would care for some pillaged wine, my lady Adeline?"

"I'm never going to accept anything you've killed for!" she replied.

Some of his men looked at her and then back at Jythralo.

"You know what I usually do with female captives? I let my crew have their way with them." Shock came on Adeline's face and all the crew within hearshot laughed and smirked.
"You'd never..." she said.

"But since your so negative, I'm not going to let you contaminate my crew with your bad attitude." The crew burst out laughing.

"No wine, huh? Well, thats just more for me!" Doran laughed again and took a deep swig from the bottle.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 5:06 PM February 08, 2004: Message edited by: Earendil Halfelven ]

[Amanaduial the archer]

Callath couldn't help grinning at Calnan's almost desperately polite face, under which lay measureless fathoms of boredom as Master Pearlle attempted to show him how to use the instrument. Devon nodded approvingly. "We're even then."

Callath glanced at him sidewards, grinning, then flinched, pulling his finger back from the needle, the cause of the small drop of blood forming on the end of one slim finger. "How is it that when you need it to go through the material, this needle is as blunt as a block of wood, but when it chances to prick your finger, it's enough to draw blood?!" he murmured frustratedly. Devon smiled, apparently about to make some comment, before Callath held up a finger. "And don't you even comment!" he added. Devon smiled to himself and continued working as Callath's battle with the needle and thread continued.

[Himaran]

Jurex stood silently on the deck of Jythralo's Flag Ship. Watching his captain's old nature return was truly a pleasure, but the corsair still felt sorry for the girl whom had been virtually imprisoned. After all, her mother was ill... and it had been he that had refused to let her stay in Bassington's conquered estate. Ah, but what did it matter - he was a corsair, and cared little for the troubles of others. After all, there much more important things to attend to. Turning away, the man left the deck and headed to his quarters, banishing thoughts of guilt from his mind.

__________________________________________________


After spending nearly an hour sharpening his weapons, Jurex, return to the deck once more. Entering the cabin, he found Jythralo bent over several maps on his table. Without looking up, the captain addressed his crewman. "Here is our current position. several more villages run along the coast... down through this area."

"And what is our objective, Captain?"

"Well, we know that we will outnumber Devon at least five to one, or better. But I wish to be cautious - we don't want to make a mistake which would cost us half of our fleet. I just need a little more time to plan our attack... meanwhile, the men can be kept busy raiding towns and such. Keeps them from getting 'itchy.' "

Putting faith in his master's skills, Jurex left the cabin, reassured that they would soon taste the sweetness of victory.

[Arien]

Acacia lent over the side of the ship, staring down into the waters that now rushed slowly passed. Laughter came from the far side of the ship; she looked up momentarily to see Jythralo and some of the crew with Adeline. Her captain took a deep drink from the bottle held loosely in his hand; she turned away and looked out to sea.

It was good to be back, it felt so natural so good. She had longed for the days when she would return to sea, and now she had. It was, just so.....

"Acacia!"

"Yes?" she said turning wearily to the voice. Being parted from her thoughts had more than slightly annoyed her.

"Acacia, " Jythralo lent next to her looking out to sea for a second, " feels good doesn't it?" She nodded back, but stayed silent. " Soon we will have victory and...."

".....Umbar will be ours...." She smiled.

"Aye, indeed it will. But first I think we need to plan."

"But of course!"

The two walked to Jythralo's cabin. Various maps littered the tables. Acacia could see that he had already been busy; she walked slowly around the table looking closely at the maps.

"We are here." Acacia nodded.

"So we will make our way along here?"

"Yes, best thing to do. Raid a couple of villages while I can come up with a fool proof plan."

Acacia nodded. Finally.

[Nuranar]

Ironically, Calnan found his diplomatic training most useful while enduring forcible instruction in navigation.

He was already learned in navigation itself, for he had found it the most interesting applications of mathematics. And although not quick at numbers, Calnan worked well once he understood the process. Master Pearlle's thorough instruction quickly both refreshed his memory and tried his patience.

Calnan's face showed merely polite attentiveness, and only one who knew him well could see the strain in the lines around his mouth. His eyes gazed steadily on Pearlle - a little too steadily, as though their owner wasn't always thinking about what they saw. At times their expression was definitely more glazed than interested.

To keep himself from fleeing, or even nodding off, Calnan occupied his mind by seeing how much he could observe without using his eyes. The most obvious thing was the pitched combat of the searing sun and the cool sea breeze. He felt the alternate heat and freshness whip through his old homespun shirt, faded from deep to light blue by years of southern sun.

Amid the seemingly chaotic bustle of crewmen, sails, rigging and whatnot, Calnan's ears were caught by a clear snigger from the bow. Turning ever so slightly, his peripheral vision caught a familiar figure - no, two familiar figures. Their faces, only vague pale spots at this distance, were turned toward him. Then one jerked and growled something in disgust. Calnan let his mouth twitch just a little as Pearlle, demonstrating thefine art of the sextant for the umpteenth time, gazed at the heavens. Maybe he was bored, but at least he wasn't turning his finger into a pincushion for blunt needle-ends.

[Arvedui III]

Not again. I thought I wasn't going to do this again.

Whatever Telson presumed about seafaring, he quickly realized, did not change the inherent truths: He was on a ship, and the ship moving. The ship was moving on an ocean. Oh, it had been fine enough in the port where Telson could see the little waves splashing fruitlessly against the shore. The sway of the deck even felt comfortable. But now that they had put out to sea... It was not possible for a man to know true suffering until he had experienced sailing, and Telson decided that ever single sailor in Dol Amroth was either mad or being bribed. Heavily bribed.

Fortunetly, Avershire seemed to perceive his feelings on the subject, and so while Devon and Callath worked at menial tasks and Calnan learned navigation, Telson was down below, studying maps and strategy. For this he was glad, because he liked the mysterious aura he seemed to carry with the three, and having them see him sick and whimpering over the port railing would tarnish that image somewhat. Plus, on the whole, the approach of ship-to-ship battles was a fairly simple matter of maneuverability and luck. What made his research difficult, ironically, was Avershire. Telson supposed the old man must have been a marvel in his younger days, and understood quite acutely with the soul who brought up his corsair past.

It was probably some poor young soldier, Telson thought mutinously, staring with glazed eyes at a map of Belfalas, trapped onboard and forced to listen to every story and every half-minded musing under the sun. Not to mention the hourly, the bloody hourly lecture on why the navy is better than the army.

As he lay his head onto the cabin table in a bout of sickness and frustration, Telson wondered at how the man had enough vigor to run an undermanned ship and torture him at the same time. The battles hadn't even started yet.

[Durelin]

Standing on the deck of a ship for the first time in her life, with the crisp, salty ocean breeze blowing through her hair would have been exhilarating, a beautiful scene, if not for Adeline's present company. The presence of the man beside her could turn blue skies and calm seas into a horrible raging tempest, to use a proper metaphor in communion with the current setting. She sighed, a bit too loudly she discovered, as Doran -- Captain Jythralo Doran he was called, and it made her want to spit, and even wish that she knew how to properly -- asked: "And what troubles you, my dear, for such a strong expression dread?"

"Troubles? Never, Master Doran. My life is grand, glorious even. Shockingly so. Where else would I want to be but on a ship, wild and free on the never-ending waters of the world, with none other than your illustrious self."

"Why, my lady Adeline, you flatter me!" he answered rather raucously. The wine bottle that had been in his hand since early that morning was looking empty. Still, it was no wonder that the man could still speak coherently, considering who he was.

"Whether in accordance with my intent or not, you are welcome," she said, smiling bitterly as she gazed at a horizon separated from the sea only by a change in shades of blue. Glancing back at the man beside her, she realized just how perfect a time this would be to ask questions.

"When do you estimate we will reach your next...destination?" Adeline asked in her most polite conversational voice. Unfortunately, as she turned to face Doran she discovered that the first mate stood behind his relatively inebriated captain, looking quite sober, and with ears listening to every word. She would need to be careful, and hope for the best. If only she could be sure that luck had ever been or ever would be with her.

[maikafanawen]

It was turning out to be quite the evening with a pink sunset and a good steady wind to keep them on their course. Avershire had set aside his charts, graphs, and maps to go in search of his first mate and see how things were coming as far as repairs and the like. He mounted the stairs leading to the deck where the fresh air greeted him after his four-hour seclusion amongst his records. The sailors gathered thereabouts tipped their hats to him or those without caps saluted in the seafaring way when the captain, or any officer passed.

Captain Avershire made a show of patrolling the decks and inspecting the rigging and all repair work that had been done. He was very pleased with the progress until he got to one section of the ship where about ten feet of railing was missing and nothing was there to stop anyone from falling overboard. A small mechanism of rope and pulleys were strung up each side of where the railing ended and began again. Lashed to a pair of railing posts was a canvas raft roughly stitched together with twine and extending from two holes punched in one end was about fifty yards of tough rope. Avershire shook his head and checked the knots holding the 'safety precaution' in place.

"It'll have to do," Meri said coming around. Then she chuckled. "It sure is a funny thing having only half a mast to climb instead of three."

Avershire stood and rubbed vigorously at his brow. "We're out of our minds Loliway."

Meri glowed. Whenever he called her 'Loliway' they were back in the early days when she had first signed on with him. When he had tried his best to shut her out of the heavy work and she had done everything she could to spite him. And then when he realized that he was falling in love with her and she had a fun time of it avoiding his advances. Until he was nearly killed in a battle, of course, and she spent nights without end at his side until he recovered. They were nigh inseparable after that. And she was still with him today.

"Out of our bloody minds..." he mumbled again. "Have we ever commandeered a boat so small with a crew so short up against such odds?"

Meri cocked her head in thought and then nodded slowly. "Yes... in a way."

"Aww..." Avershire protested, waving aside what she was going to say.

"No, we have. When you had to go out for the appeal against your position by that dirty traitor, may he rot in death, it was just the two of us riding a small defense, with few allies up against the whole of the presiding Gondorian government. And you may not have been made king--"

"--or Commodore--"

"--hush. But you still are a Captain, still able to command, and still alive. That counts for something, yes?" The man shrugged her hand off his shoulder and pulled at his stubble of beard. "Don't give me that!" she shouted and jumped up to wrap her arms around his neck and plant a good kiss square on his mouth. Sputtering and pushing a laughing first mate away, Avershire, his face red as a beet, stomped off to see the rest of the ship.

"I expect you'll be getting a day or two in the brig for that and twenty or so lashes?" Meri turned at the unfamiliar voice. It was the Gondorian, Telson -----. She shrugged.

"That doesn't sound too bad." Telson nodded, smiling slightly. Meri didn't notice the bags under the man's eyes or the greenish tint to his face. All she saw was an inner enigma that seemed to escape from the folds of his worn clothes and from the ends of his sin-dark hair. It was chilling to look at him, but her curiosity wanted to keep him there. She knew next to nothing about him, and was worried about his origins. Why Avershire had let such a mysterious man aboard their ship escaped her. The scholar, Pearlle, had explained that men such as these knew what was most important about each other to the point where nothing else mattered. Not their past, nor their desires, just their intents for the present and if they intersected to benefit each other some time in the future.

"Say, I was looking for Cook, you haven't seen him have you?" Meri looked at him sideways, her right eyebrow raised.

"He's not in the galley?" The man shook his head. "Hmm, perhaps the forecastle?" Telson rubbed his forehead and fidgeted in his pocket.

"Could you... direct me...." Meri nodded and led him to the door leading to where he wanted to go and opened it for him, yelling up for the Cook who answered with a rushed and questionable, 'Aye! What? Whaddya want!?'

"There ye go," she said stepping aside. "And if you're for the licorice root," she added, "you might want to bring some down for the other three, just in case."

"Licorice root!" and he slammed the door.

* * * * *

Three bells after midwatch had begun, Meri was pacing the deck, knocking a drowsy Devon with the toe of her boot.

"You must be dreaming about sewing," she whispered warningly. The man jumped to his feet, and saluted her respectfully before peering out across the water. There was no fog, the stars were bright, but the lack of moon kept people wary and even the places in the night that were darker than others seemed to be ships bearing the fate of the North Wind.

One shape, however, got more solid as the sloop neared it. And soon one could make out the lights in the windows and the lanterns hanging from the masts. The man in the crow's nest jerked to a start and shouted below: "Sail ho!"

Meri snapped her head around and ran to the man who was scurrying down the mast. "Where away?" she demanded. He pointed. "Four points of the port bow."

"Creedy my glass if you please." The small cabin boy rushed to her and handed her the fine, leather-encased telescope. She extended it and set it to her eye. "Shades," she whispered. Then to the look out, "Get the captain and drum to the ready all men on deck!"

So began the first battle in the defense of a Gondorian-Umbar.

[Arvedui III]

Telson had come to much knowledge throughout his stay in Umbar, had obtained many little wisdoms and truths that he could probably write a book on one day. As he sat in the forecastle, being glared at by the cook, however, he came to his most startling conclusion of all: Licorice was the food of the Gods.

It made sense, so much sense. For the first time since he had stepped onto the cursed ship, he did not feel like his stomach was trying to force itself out through his throat. The root was sweet, if a little addictive, but it was perfect. So Telson resolved, more than a trifle guiltily, to acquire his own private store as quickly as he could. Of course, the easiest way to do this was to lift the licorice Cook had allotted for his three young allies. They wanted to be aboard ship, therefore, their suffering is earned, and not to be aided. He thought with a smile befitting the dark lord as he gently pocketed the roots. Besides, none of them seem to mind it so much. The only one who might betray me is that lieutenant-no, first-mate, Meri Something-or-Other.

His brow creased at this, and he began to finger his stolen goods uneasily. The girl was not a particularly complicated puzzle, but an interesting one. Loyal as a Huan of old, he deemed her, fair and strong like a shieldmaiden with raven hair to rival the queens of Numenor. And she was interested in him. Not in the way most women were interested in men, he decided, frowning; But, she was uneasy about him, as if he carried some strange odor, and she wanted to know what it was. All of those inferences were irreverent, though. Telson doubted very much that he would have her loyalty on any matter, as it probably lay with Avershire, yet he also doubted very much that she would mention the licorice to Devon and the others. So that was settled. Sitting back on his stool, munching on the last of his root, Telson couldn't help but forget he was sailing on a floating hell bound for battle and certain destruction.
----------------
Telson was sleeping soundly for the first time in weeks when the call came for a beat to quarters and all hands on deck. In hindsight, the only thing he was glad about was the fact that he was alone in dark as he bumped, fell, and stumbled over and into every possible object and orifice. Throughly bruised and almightily spiteful, Telson buckled his swords to his waist and headed on deck with grimly set eyes and a mind to rip something into shreds. And from the scene that greeted him, he would more than get his chance. One of Doran's ships had been sighted off the port side.

A quiet calmness came over him as he surveyed the deck. This was what he was best at: observing the situation from a detached position, thinking of the best solution, and the executing it with merciless precision. Suddenly Telson stood stock still, wincing. It was the sound of catapults being readied and the rush of weapons being brought on deck that had made him flinch. It would carry and they would lose the element of surprise, he knew it. Although for a fleeting second his trepidation gave way to amusement as he saw Devon, Callath and Calnan trying valiantly to help load a catapult, Telson wasted little time in moving to where Arvershire and his officers...mates...things were talking in hushed tones. Whatever the plan was, he planned to be informed on it.

"What about boarders?" The second mate, Telson had forgot his name, asked.

"You can't spare anyone for boarding when they start returning fire." Telson answered levelly, enjoying the look around the small circle's faces as he made himself known.

"So glad you could join us, Master Telson." Avershire said in a fondly sarcastic tone Telson himself used often.

"We'll just have to cease fire and use most of the men for a boarding party, if it comes to that." The third mate, a balding man named Talon said determinedly.

"When it comes to that, sir." Telson corrected respectfully. "And without cover fire, if all us boarded the ship, our odds of taking her are still doubtful at best."

"Let's try and keep some optimism here." Meri interjected, staring pointedly at Telson.

"Excellent idea" Avershire nodded. "Count off the men, Mr. Talon, two groups. All hands are to man the catapults. If I say, group one is to prepare to board the ship, with half of group two in reserve. Move to it." So it was done, but Telson shook his head. It was folly. He knew it. There had to be another way. The corsair ship was almost in range when it hit him. How could he have been so stupid?

"Avershire!" He called, running after the man who was now moving down the port side, staring at the other ship, which had not moved from its original position. "We don't have to worry about boarding."

"Oh?" The captain said with a raised eyebrow. "How is that, my good landlubber?" Telson groaned inwardly. "Stow it swabby. And place fire among the salvos in the catapults. It's dry tonight." He said with a sardonic smirk, but was puzzled when Avershire frowned and gave him a stiff, "No" before turning away.

"Don't look so puzzled." Telson turned to see Meri staring at him, half in amusement, half in stern reproach "It's part of the sailor's code. Fire means death. You don't use it."

Telson nodded, thoughtful. "Where I come from, fire means life." He smiled at the irony and moved on, coming to stand between the first two catapults on the port side. From his position he could hear frantic preparation on the other ship. Apparently, it has just spotted them. That, however, was irreverent, for but a moment later the North Wind opened fire.

[maikafanawen]

The officers were aboard (as Avershire liked to call them even though they weren't technically ranked) and Meri was working with them to figure their best plan of action.

"We'll speed alongside them and let go our starboard side catapults," Avershire was saying. "We'll get archers up here too to do more damage as far as the sails go. We want most of our catapult target to be her hull. We'll blow enough holes in the right places to scare her crew. Naturally we'll want the masts taken out, and make sure Marx takes his hand at it and disables the rudder."

"What about boarders?" Frenchy asked.

"You can't spare anyone for boarding when they start returning fire." The officers turned to see the dark Gondorian.

"So glad you could join us, Master Telson." Avershire said acerbically.

"We'll just have to cease fire and use most of the men for a boarding party, if it comes to that," the third mate, a balding man named Talon said determinedly.

"When it comes to that, sir," Telson corrected respectfully, "and without cover fire, if all us boarded the ship, our odds of taking her are still doubtful at best."

"Let's try and keep some optimism here," Meri interjected, staring pointedly at Telson. She made a mental note to remind him later who the captain was. On a ship, there is no king, there is no general, there isn't even much of a god. What the captain says, goes, and there are never and questions or contradictions, no 'What if's' or 'Buts'.

"Excellent idea," Avershire nodded. "Count off the men, Mr. Talon, two groups. All hands are to man the catapults. If I say, group one is to prepare to board the ship, with half of group two in reserve. Move to it. Packs, help him, I want Marx on the first boarding group to give the men some courage."

"Aye sir!"

"Avershire!" Telson called, running after the man who was now moving down the port side, staring at the other ship, which had not moved from its original position. "We don't have to worry about boarding."

Avershire stopped, soon to be annoyed with him. "Oh?" The captain said with a raised eyebrow. "How is that, my good landlubber?"

"Stow it swabby. And place fire among the salvos in the catapults. It's dry tonight." the Gondorian said with a sardonic smirk. Avershire frowned and gave him a stiff, "No" before turning away.

"Don't look so puzzled." Telson turned to see Meri staring at him, half in amusement, half in stern reproach. "It's part of the sailor's code. Fire means death. You don't use it. Not if you can help it."

Telson nodded, thoughtful. "Where I come from, fire means life." Meri thought about it for a moment, considering the irony before turning away to see that what needed to be done, was.

"Loliway!" a sailor called. She turned towards the voice and saw Rilgari and Borger struggling to loose the launch ties of a catapult. "Here!" Borger called, "She wont budge fer nothin'!" His voice held a strain of panic in it, the sort of panic that couples so easily with battle. Meri had no time for it!

"The latch is rusted!" the first mate admonished, leaning down beside them and unhooking the small axe from her belt. She shoved the two men out of the way, brought the tool up over her head and slammed it down on top of the nail so that it bent away and the twine became lifeless over the neck of the catapult spoon, ready to be wound around the screw and released when the time came in the impending minute. "Get to it!" Meri screamed at them. She slipped the axe back into her belt and ran down the rest of the line inspecting and yelling harshly to the men to prime and brace themselves. At the end of the line stood Avershire, a glass to his eye and a readiness in his handsome face; fire, there was, also, in his eyes.

"It's one of the Umbarian Lesser Ships," he told her. "100 ton, 60 foot, up to 85 men, no less'n 10 catapults. The most versatile of all ships." He lowered the scope and gaped. "We've got to be true on our first hit. Otherwise we've no chance!" Meri nodded firmly and shouted the warning to the crew. She made it clear that there was no second chance in this game and the loser lost all.

Movement from the Pora Diy rang out across the water. Shouts of warning, the rumbling of catapults across the deck and the commands of the officers contradicting each other to cause an extreme level of disorder and chaos about the corsair ship. The crew of the North Wind wound the necks of their catapults and the archers aimed their arrows for the black sails of the Pora Diy.

"Fire!" Avershire shouted. "Fire all!" Talon, and Frenchy repeated to their lines on the starboard side of the North Wind. The catapults zinged into the air in a fine arch, slamming into the opposing ship with such force to shake her timbers and some sliced right through the sails, bringing both topgallants crashing down to the deck. "Again!" Avershire shouted through the noise of reloading. In thirty seconds they were ready again. "Fire!" This time the rudder was out by Marx's hand and the main mast took a hit. The Pora Diy moaned and shuddered like an old bull before death.

By now the other ship was ready to counterattack and the catapults were loosed for the North Wind. The helmsman spun the wheel frantically and brought the bow to swing about and skim the water just in front of the Pora Diy avoiding some of the shots. Most of them landed however and the first of Sedal's patients were rushed below to the galley now surgery. Sand was dumped on the floor and Sedal's tools were spread on the table, newly sterilized as best as possible. Orda was looking quickly over the patients and deciding which ones would live long enough to benefit under Sedal's hands.

"Gary sir," the boy said and Luc placed the young quartermaster on the deck surgery table. "Shard in the shoulder blade, wedged here, between that and the collar bone. He says he can't feel his arm sir." Orda stepped back to stop the bleeding on another man and Sedal began on young Gary.

Back on board three men had been sent up the mast to secure the sails so Blake could work the ship easily and the dozen sweepers were sent out to move the ship when Blake needed it to be. Thankfully there was a system contrived by Pearlle so that only four men were needed to maintain the sweepers instead of the original twelve. In a great sense, this was Avershire's greatest asset in most of their battles as far as the scarcity of men was concerned.

The Pora Diy was orgainzing itself very fast and very nice. It was time for hand to hand combat. Anymore catapults from the corsair ship would terminate the North Wind.

"Meri!" Avershire called to his first mate who had just taken over an abandoned catapult. "Get 'em to the grapnels!"

"All hands to the grapnels!" Meri shouted, and Frenchy repeated the command. "Prepare to board!" The men pulled their hooks and unraveled their rope extension. Blake had heard the command to and steered the ship as close as possible to the Pora Diy.

"Now!" Avershire and Meri yelled in unison. Group one was soon followed by boarding group two and the combateers were shuffled as some of the Pora Diy's corsairs jumped over to the North Wind.



Devon, who had been helping Yulman with a catapult and had also been assigned to group one, swung aboard the corsair ship, a greedy, fire-hungry blood coursing through his body. There was not a trace of fear within him and when he drew his sword to meet the first onslaught of pirates. His years of practice, and cunning resourcefulness had him sweeping the deck with a sickening sort of ease. The sea farers were no match for such a smooth skill or seemed so at first.

Then the deadening boom of a snapped mast resounded and Devon dove out of the way as the main mast crashed down to the deck, snapping loose half the port-side catapults and sending them over the edge into the water. A pirate tossed a knife at Devon and caught him just above the left shoulder, pinning his shirt to the railing. He reached to pull it out and slipped, succeeding in a deeper gash. He clenched his teeth and ripped free of the blade, ducking just as the beefy man's cutlass came in a swipe at his head. Devon sent a hard punch into his stomach and hit the back of his head with the but of his sword before kicking him over the side. Blood was now pouring from his shoulder as he fought and after just a few minutes, the world began to spin and his side was soaked with his lifeblood...



Sedal wiped at his eyes beneath the lenses as Orda rolled the lifeless form of Mr. Saltz from the table and replaced it with a new patient. "Arrow shaft stuck in his left thigh," said Luc who had appointed himself as the official carrier of patients to the surgeon. "He fainted from the pain." Sedal removed the shaft and the head quickly. He packed the wound with herbs to stop infection and wrapped it securely. Then he slapped his face hard to wake him. The man shot up, and cringed, his hand moving to his thigh.

"Get back up on the deck and fight!" Sedal screamed at him. "You're bloody fine!" Terrified at the threat carried in the surgeon's tone, the man flung himself from the table and limped up the stairs, unsheathing his sword and yelling. Half a moment later he came tumbling down, an arrow sealed in his throat.

"Damn!" Sedal cried. Not so much for the man's life, but that he had just spent three valuable minutes curing him. Wiping again at his brown, he listened as Luc told him of his next patient's wound details. The surgeon shook his head. "No," he murmured. "He won't make it. Bring me the next man." Orda watched with admiration, tears held back in eyes, at Mr. Sedal. It was by far the hardest job of a ship to be the ship surgeon, to have to decide on the fate of those who were brought to you. Could you save them? If you risk saving them and they died, how many others will suffer from loss of attention? His thoughts were cut short as Mr. Sedal motioned for the man to be carried to a hammock; he would live.

[Himaran]

Graring stood read on the deck of his beloved ship, the Pora Diy . As the boarders swung across, a shiver of joy ran through him; he was a pirate again! Cutluss in hand, the man roared and charged towards the approaching enemy. Reaching the boat's side without being attacked, he watched as a man tossed a grapnel and started to swing over. Grinning maliciously, Graring sliced the rope in two, watching the man crash into the boat with a sickening thud.

Turning, the corsair saw another Gondorian male rush him. Ducking, he ran him through with a swift thrust from his razor-sharp blade. But the feeling of victory soon left him, as he saw vaguely that the Gondorians were winning. The corsairs were being overwhelmed, and the deck was nearly overrun.

Suddenly, another man swung over and crashed into him, sending Graring sprawling on the deck. Leaping up, swung his blade in a deadly arc, but the man evaded it. The Gondorian snatched a spear from the deck and rushed him, but Graring leapt backwards...

It was then that the veteren slipped on the blood of his last victim, and tumbled over the side into the sea.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Callath tightened his grip on the knife in his hand, grabbed from somewhere on the deck, as a corsair lurched towards him, swinging a longsword with a piercing yell, his greasy black hair flying. One....two...th- a sudden lurch of the boat caught both boy and corsair off-guard, along with most of the rest of the people on the ship's deck. Callath felt his feet knocked from under him as a fraction of wood, split from the mast maybe, caught one ankle and he sprawled flat on his back, but the knife which clattered out of his grip and away along the deck was not his greatest concern - the sudden lurch was also sending him sliding rapidly towards the side of the boat, and the wide gutters along it. Only his quick reflexes, trained from years of unruly and unpredictable colts, saved the boy's life as his hand shot out to grab one edge of the gutter hole and he held on, literally, for dear life as all sorts clattered out beside him. Just don't bloody look down... he thought grimly, unable to dispel the fact that, yes, not that far beneath him were ever-rising waves that were not at all inclined towards falling stable-boys. As the ship righted itself again, Callath tried to pull himself back up, the tendons in his shoulders screaming as his other hand flailed. He made another magnificent effort with a muted groan...only to nearly fall again as a slight tip of the ship, which would hardly be noticable, sent his water-slicked fingers sliding almost off the gutter. He grabbed for it again, watery doom flitting through his mind until a hand reached down towards him, grabbing his wrist before it fell. Callath looked up at the owner of the hand to see a dark haired, alert looking man a few years older than himself, his sharp features smiling grimly down at him.

What was slightly more alarming was the fact that the man's hands, and subsequently now Callath's wrist as well, were covered in blood.

The man staggered back slightly, letting go, and Callath attempted to drag himself back onto the bucking ship until the man re-appeared, holding one broad, tanned hand out. "Give me your free hand, boy!"

Callath didn't think about it, simply forced another effort on his tiring limbs and swung his hand into a roman handshake with the older man, who didn't waste time in dragging him, with a huge effort from them both, onto his chest on the deck. Callath scrabbled slightly, his feet kicking sickeningly in thin air for a second, before he dragged himself fully on and up to his feet.

The man stood nearby, a sharp, alert look on his face as he glanced around. Callath, getting his breath back quickly, wondered what exactly he was doing and why he wasn't joining in with the fights, but soon saw why as another catapult-load ricocheted over their heads, and the stable boy leapt onto the man's back, dragging him down just in time. They both struggled back up and the man turned to Callath, nodding gratefully, before turning without a word and running to where a heavy-set man of about 40 or 45, to judge from his sea-battered looks, had been injured by the blast, splinters buried deep into forehead and, to Callath's horror, one eye, and was cursing wildly among sobs as he fell, clutching the mast. Callath's rescuer darted to his side immediately, uttering a sharp but soft "stay still, man!" before he had a quick look at the man's eye, peering into the wound. He glanced up a Callath, nodding. "M'name's Luc, I'm helping the doctor - thanks for getting me down back there."

He held out a hand, and Callath suddenly understood why they were so blood-stained. Had the crew sustained such injury already? He grabbed the man's hand and shook briefly. "Callath Harres, I came aboard with Avershire and...Maurice Thrann's son? And I should be thanking you." The part about Devon ended questioningly, as Callath was not sure if the man would know who Devon was. The man nodded and grinned suddenly. "Not a sailor then?"

Callath shook his head hopelessly, but returned the grin, and Lu looked back to the wounded man, indicating with his head that Callath squat as well. He addressed the wounded man, now half blind and, Callath saw, badly wounded in the leg as well, as Luc hoisted him into a sitting position, his arms under the man's armpits, speaking over the man's next apparently drunken torrent of wild cursing that made Callath raise an eyebrow. "Alright, Yulman, point taken - can you stand?"

"Can I stand? Ach, no one's asked me that for a good coupla decades, boy, of course I-" he scoffed, attempting to stand, then cut off sharply, another few choice words spurting from his lips before he continued, breathing sharply and painfully but speaking through gritted teeth, "N...no...look at that, it...it doesn't seem I c-can, boy..."

Luc nodded. "Don't try to open your eyes or move your legs, Yulman. Callath, get his legs and for gods' sakes be careful. We need to get him below."

Callath nodded. He glanced at the trapdoor Luc indicated with his head as they lifted the rather thickset man, and was cynically reminded of a time when he had had to manoevure a very fractious colt with a very broken leg through a very small door. "If you say so, Luc...."

[Nuranar]

Bow in hand, Calnan watched the small corsair ship grow larger as they gained on it. Gaining on battle. How ironic that his first battle would be fought at sea, so far from the glades of Ithilien.

The odds were heavily against his surviving the next month, Calnan reflected. Then he set his jaw stubbornly. If Doran thought he'd knuckle under, someone was in for a surprise.

~ ~ ~

Shooting sails was all very well. The corsair's black sails already presented a peculiar appearance, as if spattered with sky-blue paint. The breeze was brisk and was slowly tearing each hole into a gaping rents that would eventually rob the Pora Diy of much of her speed and most of her manueverability.

Aye, eventually is the key! Calnan thought to himself savagely. He was perched well forward in the bows, straddling the rail with his right leg anchored in the woodwork to keep him steady. Of course, amidships was the stablest platform for an archer, but the deck was a chaos of stones, ropes, chains, and catapults, plus the shorthanded crew frantically manning them. The bow pitched up and down as the North Wind gained on her quarry, but at least he wasn't in imminent danger of being run over.

And his efforts over the previous weeks were paying off somehow. Constantly, as he scurried here and there at the orders of the mates, he had worked on maintaining balance, gauging the rhythm of the waves, anticipating their height, learning which way to lean. Accurately using a sextant certainly required a steady arm. And even when aloft, swinging wildly above the ship, he studied wave patterns in different winds and directions. Now, although he had (he hoped) accurate aim, the question was if he could hit a moving target.

Sails didn't count as a worthwhile target, he decided. Already he had expended too many of his precious long arrows. His bow was far more powerful than the other archers'; what if he tried to sever a backstay? Taut as they were, the strain would exploit even a glancing strike from one arrow.

The North Wind was gaining; already her catapults had brought down the enemy's topgallants. At this range he couldn't - shouldn't - possibly miss, but - if only the sea and wind would be still! He laughed harshly, derisively at this petulant thought even as he sighted carefully on the starboard mainmast backstay.

At just the right moment he released. With a sudden rush of triumph he saw his arrow fly true; then over the shouts and thunder of battle he heard a sudden deep snap. The main topsail shuddered. With the next wave the main topmast lurched, then cracked free of its restraints. The starboard shrouds held fast the mainmast, but the topmast, topsail, and topgallant mast majestically swung to port and crashed down, part on deck and part dragging in the water.

Unfortunately, the Diy's starboard catapults were unaffected by the catastrophe. As the Gondorian ship rapidly closed in on them, the corsairs unleashed a furious barrage on their pursuer. The crashes and screams as huge rocks crushed wood and flesh alike were terrifying. Calnan turned his efforts to picking off the men on the catapults. He staggered as the ship suddenly veered to starboard and began to cross the corsair's bow.

The mate's clear voice rose above the din: "All hands to the grapnels! Prepare to board!" The North Wind was approaching alongside the corsair, whose crew were also readying to swing across. Calnan stowed his bow, praying no idiot would think it a nice cudgel, and dashed aft in time to see Devon whirl into vigorous action on the corsair's deck.

Part of the second boarding party, Calnan swung across and crashed heavily into a fearsome corsair with a bloody cutlass. Calnan let himself roll over on the deck. No time to draw his sword; he grasped the first thing that came to hand: a spear. Leaping to his feet, he barely evaded the corsair's strike. With but one chance to kill or be killed, he lunged at the man in desperation.

Grinning, the corsair leapt out of range, then turned and drew back his weapon for the death-blow. But as Calnan's hand reached for his sword hilt, the man slipped. Losing his balance on the blood-slick deck, the corsair fell overboard, his face showing only surprise.

Heart pounding, sword in hand, Calnan whirled to face the rest of the battle. Where was Devon? There, being backed into the fallen topmast! Almost without thinking he hurled the spear into Devon's antagonist. The man screamed and fell to his knees, but turned on Calnan with a dying fury as he rushed to his friend's aid. Calnan automatically parried his last savage blow and stabbed him.

Devon had fallen to the deck, barely conscious; blood was pouring from a gaping wound in his shoulder. Calnan tore fabric from his shirttail and pressed it to the wound. The material turned bright red instantly. Calnan pulled off the rest of his shirt and frantically tried to stanch the bleeding.

The crash and clatter of rocks, the hard clash of blades, the blows, the shouts of rage and screams of agony - the uproar was deafening. But abruptly Calnan grasped the sword he had laid beside his friend and swung around, blade lifted. Just in time - still half-kneeling with one foot on the deck, he barely blocked the sneak blow that would have split his skull. It must have been the man's heavy, but stealthy, step behind him that warned him. Although how he heard it amidst the din and identified it as a threat was a marvel.

He leapt to his feet in a rage at the would-be backstabber. But as his furious attack beat the man back, Calnan found himself more angry that this distraction was keeping him from Devon. His antagonist soon fell back, seriously wounded, but Calnan found himself embroiled in a two-way duel. Fighting grimly but more carefully, he tried to keep the corsairs away from his friend.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Callath and Luc ran with some difficulty, hoisting the man along with them as around them the corsairs were rapidly losing in the skirmishes around them. Callath heard a blood curdling yell and saw one slip overboard on a patch of blood, but this was not as lucky as the stable-boy had been earlier, as a yell and a splash a moment later confirmed his untimely bath. Where the man had been a moment ago, Callath saw Calnan standing, his bow in one hand and a slight, triumphant grin on his face, and couldn't help smiling. But he didn't have time to congratulate his friend as Luc stamped on the trapdoor three times fast then kicked up open with the toe of one of his seaboots, and the began, very carefully but with as much speed as possible, to descend.

The dimness of the room beneath the deck was so contrasting to the brightness of outside that it took Callath a moment to adjust to it, in which he stubbed his toe sharply on some sort of box on the floor. A young voice exclaimed, "Hey, watch where you're going," but without much conviction. It surprised Callath though - who on the ship could be in possession of such a young voice? As his pupils grew wider and his sight returned, he saw a youth - well, a boy really - scurry around in front of Luc and take in the man's injuries without, it seemed, any real surprise. Indeed, the boy, who could not be more than thirteen or fourteen, seemed quite unshocked by what he was seeing, in a way that Callath found almost chilling, an impression that was beginning to extend to the whole room - there were at least three bloodiesd bodies lying around the room, and one of them was groaning. Looking away quickly, Callath saw the boy looking curiously at him, young brown eyes open and a studied expression on his face, but when Callath's green eyes met his brown ones, the boy looked away quickly, his gaze diverting itself to somewhere further off in the room. "Mr Sedal," he called.

A man straightened up from the side of a hammock which had obscured him from Callath's view before, and he hurried over. As Luc recited the man's injuries, what they knew of them, quickly, the stable boy took the oppurtunity to look with some surprise at the surgeon, who he hadn't yet had a chance to properly meet. He had seen him once or twice, drifting without much apparent purpose or steadiness on the deck, and at the Captain's table when he had chanced in there once, but this figure seemed rather different to that neatly turned out, pristine one, although the mildness of expression remained even amid the sweat glistening on his face, the blood smeared across his forehead, one cheek and his hands, and his rolled up sleeves, his shirt now dotted with various unidentifiable stains.

"Part of the deck fairly exploded when he stumbled near it - there are splinters in his forehead, right cheek and, I think, several in his right eye. The left eye doesn't seem too damaged by the splinters - the blood leaked over when his head lolled when we were carrying him-"

"Me head wasn't lollin' anyway, ye dog! I'm as alert as Avershire himself in battle!" Yulman protested furiously, jerking as he regained full conciousness for a moment.

"Mr Yulman, if you would remain quiet please, or I shall let these two young gentlemen loose on your eyes with a scalpel," the surgeon replied, his tone dry and mild. He intelligent eyes darted up to Callath as Luc started to continue again, and held up a hand at the older man, then nodded towards Yulman's legs. "As you have had the delight of carrying them, would you care to continue on this topic?"

Callath gaped for a moment but quickly regained his composure, not wanting to seem like a gawping idiot in front of this composed, well mannered and evidently intelligent gentleman. "Right leg has the splinters from the exploded deck embedded in it, as well as a long, possibly quite deep cut from knee to ankle-" Here Callath twitched the man's trouser leg, split down the side from above the knee, aside to reveal a long, deep cut. "I think it may be from a serated knife from the jagged edge along here," he added, pointing with one long finger down one side a few inches up from the man's ankle. "And the left leg is quite probably broken from the feel of it."

"Where?"

"At the knee, I reckon - every time I move it, the man...complains," Callath concluded. Sedal grinned very slightly and looked back down at Yulman. "Mr Yulman, have you been insulting this young man who had so kindly carried you down to me?"

"Aye, I have indeed, and would merrily do so again!" The seaman confirmed with fervour, then looked up at Callath upside down. "No offence to ye, of course."

"None taken," came the dry reply as Luc and Callath heaved the man onto the table for the surgeon to have a steadier look. Before he did so though, Sedal glanced at Callath's bloodied wrist, then met the boy's eyes over his half moon glasses. "You need help with that?"

Callath shook his head, exchanging a quick look with Luc. "The blood isn't mine."

The surgeon sighed slightly, shaking his head as if with regret, then said, "What's your name?"

"Callath Harres, Mr Sedal." His hand was enfolded in a hand with fingers even longer than his own, and Sedal held it for a moment, turning the boy's hand over to look at his fingers, before his gaze transferred itself to Callath's face once more, a studied expression on his handsome features as if he was examining him. After a second he let go and jerked his eyes up to the deck. "Go on then, bring my work to me," he said, his dry tone now becoming familiar. Callath bobbed his head and turned, with Luc, to take the steps two at a time up to the deck, pleased inwardly as he recalled the satisfaction he had seen in the surgeon's eyes.

[Arvedui III]

Habit was a wondrous thing, Telson decided as the North Wind pulled alongside the opposite vessel, taking fire from enemy catapults as she did.

What battles he had fought in before were on firm ground, but the cold apathy that drained into his body upon seeing his foes had thankfully not changed. Combat was the one thing in which he held no humor nor keen memory of, and for the stillness and veil the crept over his mind he was eternally grateful. Naught but the grim discipline of lifetaking guided him, and it was with no feeling at all that Telson swung across onto the other ship when the call came to board, fear and noise and pity forgotten. It was a horrible word to use, but in such a state Telson found battle to be nothing but boring.

A bloodied corsair at least twice his size rushed him, yet by a simple side-step and drawing his swords, Telson impaled the man and moved on to engage another with a business-like air. He swung his blades in a wide dance long memorized, quickly finding the weaknesses in the cutlasses most corsairs used and making quicker work of their owners. As he worked his way to the port railing, however, Telson found his opponents to be much more difficult, and the obfuscating vacuum of fighting an inferior foe left him. For the first time he heard the deafening roar of the wounded, blood-yells and catapults hurling everything they had at one another.

And into this he found himself falling onto the deck more and more, dodging an oddly-shaped spear, trying to maneuver over the dead and wounded while at the same time trying to get onto his feet and stave off the wide-eyed, laughing corsair who was attempting to drive his sword into Telson's stomach. By luck it seemed, an arrow felled his antagonist, and rising back up Telson drove his swords into the back of a corsair rushing a scared-looking boy who had just swung onto the ship. Forgetting his pounding heart for a moment, Telson gave a quick nod to the boy before working his way up amidship, his strokes more wild and reckless. It was better, he thought grimly as he trapped a gaunt pirate's blade between his two, to wound many corsairs in good time rather than spend forever killing only one. And, for a long while, he did just that, not taking notice of anything else save those he had to cut down.

But, with a sickening rip and an immediate and fierce pain in his left arm, Telson's legs buckled and he found himself kneeling at the mercy of yet another corsair with tree-trunk arms and a toothy smile. A sort of grim resignation filled him, and in that moment, he was acutely aware of every part of his body, the rest of the world seeming very far away, the beads of sweat running down his forehead and the blood flowing through his right hand replacing the din of battle. But he refused to stay still and accept his fate. As the corsair raised his sword for the kill, Telson kicked out and sent the startled pirate onto the deck with a satisfying thump. And grasping the man's cutlass, Telson drove in into its master crying, "GONDOR!!!!" and "TELCONTAR!!!" as he did so.

His blood was up now, perhaps the battle-lust was on him more than it had ever been, and Telson forgot all about the slash on his arm, running back into the fray. But this time he made sure no man was uncertain about who and what he fought for, because with every corsair he strove with, Telson made sure that ‘Gondor' was the last word the traitor ever heard.

[maikafanawen]

Meri worked like an adder: quick and sure in her attack, never giving time for reflection or repost from the opponent. She worked her way across the deck of the North Wind, defending her from the pirates. Around her, bodies spilled their lifeblood and were kicked overboard. The young man Callath along with Luc were carrying the wounded to Sedal below. The first mate clenched her teeth and blinked away the hot tears that formed in her eyes.

The cries from the Pora Diy caught her attention and she began to search the deck of the North Wind for a grapnel. She found one lying beneath the wheel of a catapult and wrenched it free. In one smooth toss she'd hooked it on the spar of the main course sail and swung herself over into the blood fest thereabouts. She lost her belt-dagger in the first kill and harnessed a harder grip on her sword. If necessary she could retrieve the knife from her boot.

"Meri!" The woman turned and for a moment caught the eye of Calnan before he turned again, focused on his opponent's lance. She moved towards him assuming that he needed help in his duel. The attaché, however, demonstrated a clean parry-thrust and sent the pirate crashing to the deck before she'd taken her second step. He looked up and beckoned her on dropping to his knee before the body of the ambassador's son. The first mate leapt over a coil of lines and knelt down beside him.

The young man was barely conscious and his breathing was loosing its stability. The gash was deep in his shoulder and was his only wound. "Wrap it up Mr. Terendul and stow him somewhere out of sight. We'll return when the fighting's over and do what more we can then." Calnan grabbed her sleeve as she stood to go and pulled her level with him.

"No we can't do that," he said between clenched teeth. Meri kept her patience in check and wrenched free of his grasp.

"I can," she said forcefully. "You do whatever you want!" Then she stood and left the young man as his friend's only hope. This was war, she told herself firmly, sacrifices would be made.



Avershire rolled a catapult clear of the wreckage of the Pora Diy's collapsed mizzen mast and placed a barrel-full of heavy stones in the spoon. Then he wound the twine so the neck bent over the launch bar.

"Now," he signaled to Packs beside him who cut the twine and sent the rocks crashing towards the main mast. It was a good hit but the spar stood firm and Avershire loaded another round.

"Ahoy Avershire!" called a cheery Borger as he rolled a second catapult up beside them. "Maybe two will get the job done?" The captain threw him a grin but stayed focused on winding his catapult's twine.

"Now!" and Packs snapped the string that sent a simultaneous hit along with Borger's shot that brought the Pora Diy's final mast crashing to the decks. Within no more than an hour, Avershire's crew had taken over the Pora Diy. The first battle was over.

[Nuranar]

How long are they going to keep coming? Calnan thought tiredly. He wheeled to face yet another pirate who seemed all too bent on running him through. It didn't occur to him that his weary scholar's face and lean build appeared vulnerable. The growing pile of bodies proved otherwise.

Calnan did his best to remain between the enemy and Devon. The puddle of blood beside his wounded friend was growing, his makeshift bandage ineffective. Devon was bleeding to death, but if Calnan stopped to help they'd both be killed out of hand. The battle on the Pora Diy wasn't dying down, and especially not in his own quarter, Calnan reflected without resentment. But couldn't anyone help him?

As if in reply, first mate Meri Loliway swung unexpectedly onto the deck and into action near him. Surely she would help!

Dodging his opponent's weapon, Calnan closed suddenly and drove him back with a vicious elbow in the gut. "Meri!" he shouted in the brief respite, catching her eye, then adeptly parried his man's retaliating thrust and ran him through. The battle momentarily cleared around them.

He ran to Devon's side, beckoning her. As he tried to tie the bandage - once his shirt - tighter around the wounded shoulder, Meri knelt beside him. His mind was rapidly sorting out the best plan, but she spoke first.

"Wrap it up, Mr. Terendul, and stow him somewhere out of sight. We'll return when the fighting's over and do what more we can then."

Calnan froze. His face was expressionless; only his eyes widened. But when she began to rise, his lips tightened and he caught her arm roughly. "No, we can't do that," he said in a strained voice.

Twisting her wrist suddenly, Meri flung off his hand. Her blue eyes glinted dangerously, but her voice was controlled. "I can. You do whatever you want!" She threw herself into the thickest of the fight, killing with a concentrated ruthlessness both admirable and appalling.

Calnan stood rigid, unconsciously clenching his sword, but fighting only his rage. Something very like hatred flooded through him. . .

. . . And realizing it, he felt it dissolve into grief. This is no time for that! he reproached himself. Devon was what mattered. Was there anyone - there, finishing off a red-shirted corsair. "Marx!"

The tall crewman turned to him. "What ho, m' lad?" he called, then his face changed as he saw Devon at his feet.

"I need to get Devon back to the ship," Calnan said as Marx strode across the deck. "He's bled a lot already. Can you cover me?" He was already examing the wound.

"I've a better idea. Take this" - thrusting his own sword into Calnan's other hand - "and you cover me." He glanced at the fallen foresail spar that bridged the gap between the two ships. "I'll carry him across on that - kid's play." Calnan stepped back, glancing around as the burly crewman rose carefully with Devon across his shoulder. "Don't worry, lad," he grinned, "I've seen you - you're better than them." Softer, turning away, "And he'll be just fine."

Calnan gave a deep breath, then renewed the fight. His energy approached exuberance soon after a quick glance confirmed that Marx had safely reached the North Wind's deck. But then a splintering crash from astern heralded a vicious spray of wood and stone that flew overhead. A second crash, a warning shout, and a long, snapping groan were followed by a tremendous smash as the Pora Diy's mainmast fell.

Calnan was thrown violently to the deck. As he rose, he saw the battle momentarily frozen with the shock of the disaster. In the sudden hush, Avershire's voice reached every ear on both ships' decks.

"Your ship is destroyed, and we are master of it. Surrender and you will receive mercy."

Narrowly watching the amazement, fear, indecision, and then anger on the corsair faces around him, Calnan made sure his back was to an ally. He hoped Avershire knew what he was doing.

[maikafanawen]

A harried, incredulous Kent Avershire leaned on the edge of the table in his cabin, rubbing his hands frantically through his disheveled hair. Delf Pora, the captain of the Pora Diy, stood tall and stiff in front of the door, his only remaining mate supported by a cane slouched on his right hand side. Meri lingered near the back of the room and kept silent as the captains canvassed of terms to be settled between them concerning the problem of what to do with all the men about the corsair ship and the ship itself.

"My men would never serve under a Gondorian," Pora asserted firmly, "though I wish they would for their lives' sake."

"You are their captain until the paper is signed, make them!" Avershire demanded. "It is against everything I've ever known to sink a whole crew with their ship. Never has this been done by a mortal man of his own choosing; any seafarers that were destroyed along with their ship were condemned by the gods! I haven't the power to destroy so many men… I haven't the will--"

"If you let them live you're endangering your crew!" Meri interjected, "what little you have left!" Avershire buried his face in his hands as he thought. So many hardheaded men, fighting for a cause they believed so strongly in. He didn't want that sort of blood on his hands. But he paid dearly with lives of his own crew. They'd lost nearly twenty of their original sixty-nine plus there were a good number wounded. It was going to be difficult to sail the North Wind with the remaining men, some of which were in no real shape to work a ship. He was counting on the recruit of Pora Diy sailors who would work under the whip of his men. Avershire let a lingering sigh and fixed his gaze on the proud face of Delf Pora.

"I am going to address the prisoners and give them the option of life aboard my ship as members of the crew. They will sleep separately from my original crew and eat separately. At all times some of my men will harbor watch over them. I cannot guarantee the quality or quantity of their food but I will recognize the fact that they are human beings not animals. On the other hand they are offered a sailor's death, their choosing, hanging, beheading, or drowning if they so desire." He suppressed a shiver before continuing on. "If they choose to join my crew let it known that they will recognize me as captain and--" he paused looking at Pora, hoping he would understand the penalty of being a conquered captain. "Well, the necessary and appropriate action will be taken."

Delf nodded. "Would you have me offer the proposal to them?"

"Aboard Captain Avershire's ship, the only one offering proposals is him!" Meri's outburst shocked them all. "Do not assume--"

"Enough!" Avershire roared. His face was a thundercloud when he turned to his first mate. It was difficult enough for him to be faced with such a decision and he was certainly not in the mood to tolerate Meri's prejudice. "If you cannot hold neither your tongue nor your temper you are ordered to remove yourself and return when your nerves have settled into some sense!" Furious, the woman stormed from the room, taking care in slamming the door with all her strength so that the table shook, scattering its maps and the pictures on the wall rattled and the ceiling lamps swayed. "Damn her," Avershire cursed. He rubbed agitatedly at his forehead wishing away the terrible headache he'd came by. "Hahnn!" he called for the cook. After a few seconds the little man appeared in the doorway, balancing a tray with two mugs of steaming coffee on it and half a loaf of bread.

"I was just on my way when you bellowed," he said. He placed the tray on the table and nodded to both captains. "A little breakfast," and then he left. Avershire gestured for Pora to help himself to the coffee and bread and took up his own black brew drinking steadily. When half of it was gone he set it on the table and sat down and waited as the corsair ate and drank what he had been offered.

Avershire wondered if all of Doran's co-captains had such polished manners as Captain Delf Pora. The man was very tall, the tallest he'd seen, with dark coloring like that of the corsairs. He wore the tattoos of a pirate branded up his arms and around his neck, even creeping up the sides of his jaw. Pora had an imperious air about him and was powerfully plain-featured with his dark, sunken eyes, a look that allowed him to assume his position with physical confidence and immediate respect at the outstart. It was no wonder if his crew was willing to die for their captain and his cause.

"I think it would be better for me to exercise my authority if I offered the...options," Avershire said, breeching the silence. Delf Pora was silent for a moment and then nodded. The two captains faced each other for a moment, respecting the silent understanding between them and then Avershire rose, extending his hand. "I wish there was another way."




Devon woke, groggy and disoriented, looking up into the glistening face of Mr. Sedal. The surgeon's lips moved, giving direction for Orda to bring more tea. "He's awake again. Hold his mouth open." Hot water with a vague flavor of exotic herbs trickled down his throat and he coughed and spurted. "Hold on Devon, you've got to take it. There you go." The room swam and pitched. The young man rolled over onto the right side of his body and heaved. The boy moved quick with a bucket and caught most of it. Then he disappeared up the stairs to empty it into the sea, coming back to mop up the rest. "Lay back down Devon I haven't finished with your left shoulder." As if the words caused the pain itself, Devon went dizzy with the shock and thought he was going to heave again. But then the herbs settled in his bowls and his mind became groggy and he drifted into sleep.




The captain of the North Wind had offered his terms and explained in great length the details. He had even rearranged the demands to be more appeasable to the corsair prisoners. But in the end their minds were not swayed; they would stand true to their cause.

"Admirable!" Avershire said derisively. "Your sweet compassion and unbending devotion to a city-state such as Umbar, whose economy thrives on the pillage, plunder, and rape of other coastal towns and their merchant vessels is absolutely estimable." He gripped the rail of the Pora Diy's quarter deck. "But I am not hear to preach repentance or conversion! I have set forth my terms and thrice you have refused them choosing death for your pathetic cause over life under my captaincy."

Then Delf Pora spoke from his place to Avershire's left. "I for one do not die for the cause of Umbar under Doran but for the liberation of myself from Gondorian tyranny." Avershire whirled incredulously to face Delf Pora. "The corsair way is based on undeniable freedom! Our anarchy is kept organized by the captains who keep Umbar on her feet, who bring her what she needs and what she wants. Why should we cast out the fathers who have watched over us for these northern heathens who come with their papers and their documents and false promises for a better way of life? What is better to them? Morales?" Snickers scattered throughout the assembled corsairs and their spirits were enflamed by Pora's words. "My brothers let us be martyrs for the true way of life! Let us die together as an example that no corsair will be made weak to succumb to the captaincy of a Gondorian!" Wicked cheers erupted from the rousing crowd and Avershire's crew beat them into silence as the captains faced each other.

"You're false, Pora! You are too afraid to die alone. The words you spoke in my cabin were words of protocol and lies. I have no compassion for a crew of demons captained by their wicked idol!" Then he turned so that all the assembled could hear what he had to say. "They who fight together against us, will sink together by our hand! Lock them in the hold!"




What supplies and provisions that could be used to replenish and repair the North Wind had been secured by Avershire's crew. Positioned fifty yards away from the Pora Diy, the North Wind's remaining catapults and the ones salvaged from the pirate ship were lined up on her starboard side, loaded and prepared to fire. The damage done during the battle was sufficient enough to render the ship irreparable but it would take a couple more good hits to sink her. The twines snapped and the hits were true. Avershire stood on board and watched as the Pora Diy sighed beneath the surface of the sea and descended to her death, the muffled cries of 'Umbar! Umbar!' fading into the afternoon.

[Himaran]

Graring watched in dismay as his beloved ship sank slowly into the depths of the angry sea. All of his crewmates were trapped aboard the sinking vessel, and he could do nothing to save them. Clinging to a small piece of rubble, the corsair saw the North Wind disappear in the distance; the sails fading in the the setting sun. It was a beautiful sight, really.

Several hours later, another sail appeared on the horizon. Graring knew that he would be rescued, but did not relish explaining to his peers the fate of the Diy. He had been floundering in the ocean while the entire crew was either slaughtered or drowned. Staring hard at the spot where Avershire's ship had slipped from view, the corsair muttered between clenched teeth:

"You will pay!"

[Durelin]

Staring down at a dead man missing an arm, Adeline could only feel the need to empty her stomach. There was nothing left to rid her of this feeling, as she had previously seen other body parts brutally ripped off by a catapult shot. She had heard of battles before, though these had been on dry land, and the basic description had always been that of confusion and fear. Men reacted as they had since the beginning, and so men died. But never did she expect to learn the utter and thorough truth of this description, and the moist deck around her, the broken pieces of wreckage remaining of what was once a beautiful vessel, as hard as that was for Adeline to admit, it seemed so unreal. Most of all, it was hard to see those unfortunate men who had followed Doran into the most perfect picture of battle lying about her as real. Perhaps on sea perfection of the horror was reached, as man was still so awkward on the sea. As with all nature, and with its own separating magnificence, Adeline was not sure man would ever overcome the sea, whether to fight, live, or die.

No one took the time to even glance at her as they ran across and back across the deck. They seemed to be busily on their way, but Adeline could sense no work being done, only confusion. The crew, unlike the past days of sailing, seemed to be wandering aimlessly. It was a sharp contrast to the precise order they had worked in only hours before. It had to be only hours, as the sun had not reached the western horizon yet, but if felt a lifetime. In a way it was: it was a lifetime of war. It was all the amount of battle a life could endure, and more. Adeline was not sure of how much longer she could endure this, whether locked in the Captain's cabin, as she was meant to be, or out on deck. In either place, both her mind and stomach were tumultuous.

Drawing in a deep breath, she waited a moment until she felt her stomach was calm enough for her to move. Walking awkwardly across the deck, as in a drunken stupor, Adeline kept her head up, her eyes away from below her. She moved her way carefully toward the side of the ship nearest her, not bothering to look down at anything her feet ran into. As she found calm and her eyes began to actually see what was before her across the sea, she found a greater horror than the one she stood in. Whoever had said 'the grass was always greener on the other side' knew more than many men ever would; or women. Her hands shot up to her face, covering her eyes, wishing all away. Though she gripped to the one hope of closing her eyes fully, as in sleep, her eyelids seemed transparent.

A weight was felt on her shoulder, and Adeline winced, recoiling away from it. She turned and took steps backward as she found herself facing a swarthy looking, shirtless man slinging a scimitar-like blade. Not only was this weapon stained with blood, but so was he, from head to foot. Wounds on his own person could be seen, but other stains could not have gotten there without coming from another body. Adeline winced again at this thought, and backed away yet another step, till she felt the deck railing behind her. "Why 'ello, your Ladyship," he said, gruffly, but still obviously in a mocking manner. "And what are you doing up on deck? 'Ave you not noticed that the ships are launching bloody big rocks at each other?"

Adeline was all but shivering from a cold, sickly feeling in her stomach and in her heart. She could find know strength to speak, or perhaps it was that she no longer knew how to. And even if she had, she would not have known what to say. "We'll just get you back down to the Captain's cabin. Though mayhaps we'll make it the cellar this time." He still did not smile, and that brought a shiver out of Adeline. He reached out to grab her, and as his hand once again touched her, Adeline let go, and she crumpled to the ground. Finally darkness was found, an escape from the scene that surrounded her in consciousness.

But this freedom would not last for Adeline. She was forced to return to reality, and it returned to her with crushing force. When she found the strength to open her eyes, and then to raise her head, she found what was left of the man who had reached out for her minutes earlier. One of his 'bloody big rocks' had taken off his head. Adeline emptied the contents of her stomach onto the deck, and again fell into the darkness. This time, though, the still-life paintings of reality would remain with her.

[maikafanawen]

Mr. Sedal wove between the hammocks, distributing rations to the laid-up wounded: a total of about eight that had survived with their assorted scrapes and bruises. He offered estimates of time for recovery and if he'd need to do any more surgery. One unlucky sailor would need to have the bone in his leg reset because the surgeon had not had enough time during the battle. The poor man didn't even have enough time to yell before the pained shot through his body and he passed out for two hours.

By the time Sedal got around to Devon, the young man had envisaged all the possible remedial pain he'd have to endure. The surgeon pressed at a few places on Devon's forearm and moved his fingers; he could hardly feel any of it. Sedal unwrapped the gauze and peeled off the purple leaves, dropping them onto a tray.

"It's healing up somewhat slowly," he mused, "I'm afraid it may have been contaminated as well. We'll just have to mind it as it mends itself." He turned the leaves over and placed the semi-clean side back on the gash.

"Shouldn't you get new.... leaves on there?" Devon asked nervously.

Sedal kept his somber gaze on his work when he answered. "Devon, if I had enough athelas, I would." Devon slumped back in his hammock sullenly. The surgeon finished binding his shoulder and looked with mild sympathy at his patient. "I understand why this wound is deeper than the couple centimeters or so it cut into you. It's not easy having to tell people that they may not be able to do much with certain, rather important parts of themselves for a while, or ever. Lucky for you, though, you didn't loose the whole thing. But I don't know if you'll ever be able to move as fast with the sword as you used to."

The surgeon finished his work and moved on, giving Devon some time for peace. But Devon didn't want to be alone; being alone meant he had time to think, to think about never being able to fence as well as he used to. It was one of the few things he had really excelled at. He was only average in his academics, and relatively poor at politics. Without fencing, he had nothing. His eyes began to burn and he pressed his right fist against them; a suppressed sob racked his chest and he coughed. He got angry. Don't cry damnit, he slid down in his hammock and shielded his face with his mobile arm. Don't let anyonesee you cry! He took a couple of deep, steadying breaths and finally closed his eyes ready for sleep.

In his dreams, he had a wooden arm to which a sword was secured. He was surrounded by pirates with hundreds of perfect, strong arms wielding impossibly long thin, needle-like swords. Devon struggled with his own weapon but it would not obey any of his commands; it kept dropping its point and the corsairs moved ever closer. 'Devon!' yelled Calnan from somewhere above him. 'Use your sword! Pick it up! Come on! Fight like you used to!' Devon opened his mouth to say that he couldn't and hundreds of athelas leaves came out instead of words. 'Devon!' Calnan yelled again. 'Devon!!' The pirates lunged at once. 'DEVON!'

He bolted upright and his hammock swayed dangerously before a pair of hands steadied it.

'Whoa!' said Callath, the hands' owner. "Settle down what's wrong?" Devon was breathing hard and tried to get a grip. Callath sat with him, silent, until his friend was breathing normally again. Then he asked quietly, "Are you okay?" He looked concerned and Devon tried to make his mind clear itself.

"I'm fine," he managed. "What are you doing?"

"I was just sitting here and sort of fooling with a candle," he held up a lump of wax twisted and marked -- Devon chuckled -- "when you started to sort of moan and move around. So I woke you up before you fell." Devon nodded and picked idly at the seam on his blanket. "Sedal said that the dagger cut some of the nerves in your shoulder that made it possible for your arm to move properly. He says you may not have full ability to feel things either, in your arm."

Devon nodded slowly, "Yeah...he told me--more or less." They both were quiet for a minute. There was little movement on deck except for the muffled hammering of a spar, and the snap of sail. It was very dark--probably late evening, during the night watch. There was a single lantern on the wall by Callath's head; its flame flickered with the movement of the melted wax around the wick in sync with the ships' bobbing.

"Whose watch are you on?" Devon asked.

"Marx's. He's third mate now that Frency was killed and second mate Talon is in that hammock there with a mild concussion so Marx and Loliway are running the watches."

"Talon?" Devon repeated. "He's got a concussion from the battle?"

Callath smiled ironically and shook his head. "No, we were lifting a new spar up the mast for the topsail and one of the stays snapped. It swung down and popped old Talon right on the head. Sedal says he'll be fine though and back to work in a less than a day."

The sound of eight bells tolled and Callath shifted and stood. "S'my watch now. Calnan will be down here in a minute. He may have a mind to go strait to sleep but he'll probably be by for a few words. Get some rest. I'll see ya."

Devon nodded, "See ya."

[Amanaduial the archer]

Callath grinned at his friend as he stood, doing both things carefully: standing carefully because of the low ceiling and being careful to grin reasurringly because Sedal had given him some idea of what had happened in Devon's arm. His eyes lingered on the dressing on his friend's arm for a split second before he turned away. "Bye Devon - I'll come later maybe, assuming I don't fall asleep on watch and am murdered by Avershire," he grinned.

"Don't even try it, Callath!" came the joking reply. The stable-boy winked, then started to make his way back towards the trapdoor, his fingertips seeking the cracks between the boards in the ceiling as his hands worked across them, for more support. As he came out on the deck, he mused on what Sedal had told him - he had helped the surgeon out where he could after the battle; although he knew little of treating human injuries or ailments, he was able to help were an extra pair of hands were needed. More particularly, where an extra pair of steady, strong hands were needed; the stable boy shuddered as he remembered the sickening crack he had felt beneath his hands as much as heard when Sedal had reset the arm of one unfortunate sailor some hours earlier. On the subject of Devon, the surgeon wasn't as optimistic as could have been hoped, which did not exactly reassure the stableboy, but when Sedal had seen this, the surgeon had assured Callath that he was simply being realistic, and somehow that was more comforting than the false smiles of a Gondorian physician who knew more than he was telling.

"Alright, lad?"

Marx's deep, strong voice brought Callath back to the present along with the biting, 'bracing' wind that hit him as he closed the trap door. The stablehand smiled, nodding to the older man. "Aye, well enough."

Marx grinned. "Tired or something? Doncha be falling asleep on my watch now-"

Callath shook his head. "No, I was...helping Sedal out today. It was...an experience," he concluded carefully. The handsome man's smile faded slightly and he shuddered. "I heard the screams," he said darkly, then winked.

Callath returned it with a smile and shrugged a little deeper into the thick seaman's coat which Rilgari had kindly leant him for the watch, as he strode across the deck slowly to the side, leaning slightly against the side. Marx came to stand beside him, allowing Callath to see more clearly what had before just been a dark silhouette; Marx was several inches taller than Callath and much more solidly built than the lean, athletic stablehand turned impromptu sailor, but his eyes were just as bright green, and Marx now turned his bright gaze to meet the younger man's similar one.

"So, how is it you came to board with us, Callath?"

The question surprised Callath, but the sailor seemed genuinely interested. "I thought you knew?"

Marx waved it away. "Ach, bits and pieces, lad. Come, we have time - let's hear how you see it."

Callath regarded him, then shrugged, looking back out over the now quite calm sea and the clear, dark horizon. Striving into one pocket, he brought out a piece of liquorice (Telson had finally shown him the delights of chewing it, and even if Callath had got rid of any seasickness it was delicious stuff), and offered a piece to Marx. The older sailor took it with a silent nod, and Callath began from the first, when Devon had burst into the stables that morning - how long ago it seemed! - as Callath attempted to trick Doran's horse, the younger boy so full of outraged news that would change everything...

[Nuranar]

Calnan awoke with a start as a solid body crashed heavily into his hammock. "C'mon, mate, our watch!" the man whispered as he stumbled past.

Calnan gave his head a quick shake, swung his feet over the edge and dropped down - then nearly collapsed on the deck as his stiff legs all but refused to bear him. Who knew battles could give you such a workout?! His legs were stiff and weak, and his back and arms felt as if he'd hired on as a stonebreaker working a twelve-hour day.

With a silent groan, Calnan headed for the ladder. The cool air refreshed him somewhat; the sky was all but black, a hint of grey in the east presaging the sun. He reported to Meri Loliway on the quarterdeck.

The first mate only nodded frostily before turning her back and walking to the rail. She's probably still sulking about her blowup with Avershire, Calnan mused. The entire crew - even those few who hadn't heard the cabin door slam - already knew about her outburst in front of the corsair captain. Surely she wouldn't be that upset about the sinking... Calnan reined in his thoughts sharply. He knew Avershire had had no choice, but the horror of the Pora Diy's sinking still hung over him. He couldn't think about it now.

A wounded man moaned down below, cutting into Calnan's reverie. Association of ideas led him to Devon. He had talked to his friend after the last watch. Devon had been just a little too matter-of-fact about not being able to use his arm as well. Calnan could see how severe a blow this was to him, but had in turn hidden his knowledge.

At least he's still here, he sighed. Then he caught sight of Meri, motionlessly gazing out to sea. His fury at her refusal to help Devon had dissipated, and he didn't dwell on it for fear of bringing it back. But a deep resentment had formed in its place.

He understood her point of view, he thought. Meri Loliway was a warrior through and through. Not for her the high-minded ideals of loyalty and fellowship; she lived by the brutal reality of the sword. Calnan respected her practicality, even as he silently protested her callousness.

He was no stranger to the facts of war. Sometimes the wounded had to be left behind and friends abandoned. But only in the greatest extremity, only in the direst need! In this situation, there had been no urgent need for departure, no immediate pursuit, no desperate fight to the death for all concerned. The battle was hard-fought, but it wasn't so close that one more sword was vital to the outcome.

And as for friendship... Well, friendship isn't practical! Calnan thought wryly. And that was what distinguished them - those few loyal to Gondor, those on this ship - from the corsairs. No one could doubt the corsairs' courage or their valor. But they fought, albeit together, ultimately for themselves. That's where the line of practicality ended. Sure, friendship isn't practical, but if we don't look out for each other, in the end there's no difference between us and them.

Calnan walked a few more paces, then paused as a thought hit him. I wonder how she would've reacted if it'd been Avershire who was wounded. He grinned sardonically at the horizon and resumed his walk. Hmm...

[Arvedui III]

The sea was a very reflective thing, Telson decided. Well, it was a very reflective thing when it wasn't making him sick, anyway.

Now the undisputed (and self-proclaimed) master of the medicinal uses of licorice, the sea had stopped being such a force of vengeance upon him for one unspeakable evil or another, and started to be something that just was. Most of his assimilation towards it happened on the night after the battle. He had not bothered going to Sedal for his hurts, Telson knew enough about battle surgeons to understand that a minor, if rather itchy, flesh wound like his would only waste the man's time; And so instead he had sat, hunched quietly behind a port catapult nursing the burning cut with only the sea for company all that sleepless night. Afterward, it reminded him of his first day in the dessert during his service at Poros, where he hated the heat and the sand with an abiding passion. But, in time he came to accept that it would always be as it was. It did not change the fact that it was, but his anger towards it had more or less turned into minor annoyance. And here, he chided himself, was the central lesson.

Nothing would change for him, not the sea nor the heat of the sands. He would have to change.

And so he had, becoming a little more competent on ship. But alas, even as he accomplished this, Avershire noticed. Avershire noticed, and then promptly stuck Telson on a watch. It was enough to brake a man's heart. Part of the reason he had not yet drowned himself was because he actually could sleep for more than four hours at a time, and now the gift was taken away from him because of the captain's bad temper. Telson could only weather the bad fortune as only he knew how: With as much logic, perspective (and pandering) as he could muster. By now most of the crew on his watch knew enough to leave him and his licorice be -although he had finally given Callath and Calnan their original shares- and as to the watches themselves...Well, Lolliway also knew enough about him to recognize which tasks he could preform and which he would inevitably botch.

So the watches were not that bad at all.

After just coming off a rather unproductive four hours spent on lookout, Telson saw Callath's back coming out of Sedal's ward. Ahh, paying a call on Thrann, then. Admirable way to spend an off-watch, young sir, but for myself I choose sleep. Wearing a pleasantly-guilty smile, Telson turned to go, but then his thoughts fell on the stablehand's friend. He knew Devon had been injured, but how badly he had not bothered to find out. The only two times he was ever in a sickward were not experiences he could remember with any fondness. So he continued walking away, gnashing his teeth as went, knowing full well that his conscience would get the better of him.
-------------
The sickroom smelled, very predicably, of sweat, flesh, and stink. No surgeon, save maybe King Elessar, had the skill or the power over Athelas for the place to have any other odor. Suddenly, he was quite content with his night behind the catapult, and felt a wave of pity for Sedal, though he guessed the man was callous to his work by now. He frowned at the half-score or so wounded, swaying with the ship in their hammocks, languishing, he supposed, in their own private hells. But he was here to find one particular hell, namely Devon Thrann's.

Thankfully, it did not take long, and indeed the surprised expression Thrann gave him was quite satisfying. So was the baffled, "Telson, what are you doing here?" Devon gave him as a greeting as Telson sat down on the stool he presumed Callath had left. "I swore to serve the true Kingsmen in Umbar, did I not?" He said with a smile, then more seriously, "How do you fare, Devon?"

"Well enough" He answered casually, but Telson could see the lie behind his eyes just as clearly as the splint on his arm, and guessed the cause of both.

"It's a handy little wound." Telson agreed, trying to hid his dismay that the boy was so pale. "You can still get a reasonable amount of sleep in a soft hammock every night."

"Avershire put you on watch and watch?" Devon asked, smiling sympathetically.

"Cranky old loon said he'd had enough of me and my seedy army ways." Telson nodded and grimaced. "Probably thinks I'm responsible for what happened to that corsair ship." At this Devon laugh, a little.

"Not that they deserve anything less," He continued, trying to weave a path to what he really wanted to say to the boy, if he was right about his wound. "At any rate, I just wanted to give my congratulations, young master Thrann." He winked mischievously. "Shoulder wounds are some of the best, less of course they take the nerve with it."

Devon winced as though he had struck him. "It did...take the nerve with it, as a matter of fact." He said in a quiet, halting voice.

"Oh." Telson said in embarrassment, even though he had already known something of the kind had happened. "Are you to lose it entirely then?"

"No. It will just be...slower than it used to." Devon answered, looking away.

Telson nodded quietly, then finally found some proper words. It would mean losing some of his ‘air of mystery' that he had with his three young allies, but still, Telson was glad to speak. "Well, there's no shame in that. I had a friend once while I was still on active, Southron blade cut his arm. Just nicked it between his armor, but the edge was poisoned, and after the surgeons were through with him he couldn't even lift an arming sword. The muckitymucks in command couldn't transfer him even if they wanted to, so he either had to find another way to fight or be mustered out of the service."

He glanced down at Devon, who had turned back to look at him in mingled curiosity and irritation, then continued, rather liking the nostalgia.

"Well, he wouldn't have that, so he learned how to use a short sword in the two week grace period he was given. I spared with him, damn fine soldier."

"What happened to him?" Devon asked, still torn between being interested and depressed, it seemed.

"He died in his first action after being returned to active duty." Telson said pleasantly, enjoying a little too much the shocked look on Thrann's face. "But the point is," He continued, "He worked around the system to serve his country, and took most of the Haradic raiders his patrol encountered with him. I carry his swords still."

Thrann looked, for the first time, inscrutable. So Telson merely smiled knowingly and drew the blade buckled on his right, propping it up against the beam near Devon's hammock. "Amrothos." He said, touching the wear-worn hilt, and then walked back onto the deck, certain that now he could enjoy his licorice in some kind of peace.

[Himaran]

Graring sputtered, coughing up seawater in heaves, as he was pulled up onto the deck of the Might of Realge. He hacked for a few moments, then collected himself and stood slowly.
"Grog, wine, I need something - I'm freezing!" His request was answered quickly, and after a few gulps he was properly collected.

"The Diy, its gone! The Gondorians did it - curse them, curse them to hell! They murdered the whole crew, I'm the only one left; knocked overboard during the battle. We thought we had 'em beat, but they used arrows, and once the mast fell they overran us."

After listening intently, a corsair asked, "How did he kill the whole crew? Them were good boys, good fighters, all of them."

Graring clenched his teeth tightly, fierce hatred flowing through him. "They tricked 'em, they did! The fat idiot who calls 'isself a captain made a treaty with my mates. Then locked them in the bottom, and sunk the boat! Murdered, all of 'em!"

"Murderers! Murderers!" Cries rang out on the deck of the Realge, as the corsairs mourned for their dead comrades in the only way they knew: violent expressions of rage.

[maikafanawen]

The sick room was empty. It was the fourth morning after the battle and all of the patients who were going to recover had done so. The count aboard the fragile North Wind was now a slim sixty-two hands plus a captain where there had once been seventy-four. The fact that the North Wind was meant to have eighty men and now had but sixty-two was something Avershire found to be one of the heaviest problems weighing on his mind. Where being short eighteen men to reach the minimum didn't sound too awful, there is always more work than can usually be handled comfortably on the ocean to be able to afford any men.

'Avershire was a fool to set off with less than minimum in the first place,' Sedal thought solemnly. He rinsed his hands off in a barrel of sea water and wiped them on a rag which he tossed on the table. Orda was wiping down his instruments and placing them in the box where they would sit, wrapped in cloths until the next battle, which, Sedal prayed would come much later.

There came a knock to the surgeon's quarters and then the door opened and Avershire's tall frame ducked under the head board and entered the room where he stood with a hunch so as not to hit his head on the ceiling.

"Captain," Sedal acknowledge, saluting. (Orda did likewise.) "You have assigned my patients to their watches I assume. I trust also that their duties are not too demanding of them. If there's any hope of recovery and successful sailing of this vessel, you're going to need every hand able before you have them active."

Avershire nodded. "I understand. Talon has taken over his watch and I have the others doing more particular repairs such as punch holes for the grommets in sails and chiseling new pieces for the catapults. No climbing or back breaking at all." Sedal returned his attention to the box, as he waited for Avershire to get to the reason for coming down to see him. "But as you said, if there's going to be any hope of successful sailing, I'm going to need every hand able and active."

Sedal smiled faintly into the shadows cast over his face by the single lantern. "You're going to take my Orda from me then to mop your floors and clean with his nimble fingers the weapons and trinkets too delicate for a man's hands?" he nodded. "I will consent for his removal from my side, then, until I need him for what I've commissioned him for. But remember, he is irreplaceable to me, and a boy, Avershire, so be temperate with him!"

The captain gave the boy a reassuring smile before replying to the surgeon. "As temperate as a captain is allowed to be, Mr. Sedal. Come, Orda, and I'll 'commission' you to Mr. Ashton, the carpenter. He needs help with new planks to be put on the side of our ship. Not--" he said quickly to Sedal who looked up suddenly "--that Orda will be putting them there, just preparing them." The thirteen year old boy finished putting away the surgeon's tools and then followed the captain out of the room up to the deck to meet Mr. Ashton and join Talon's watch.

* * * * *

Morning watch: Second Mate Talon: 6 bells or 7:00 AM

Meri was loosing her patience, as usual, with Talon and his illogicalness. "Damnit Talon, someone else probably just picked it up and used it for some random lanyard," she shouted, referring to the rather short length of rope that had gone missing earlier that morning.

The gullible second mate insisted that it was an omen and referred to the stories where sea wights would use sailors' own rope to fashion a noose and hang the men who had betrayed one of their own crew. "It went from right beneath my nose, Meri. I would have seen if it was someone else."

Exasperated, Meri threw up her hands. "Fine, sea wights came and stole it and in a few hours one of us will be found hanging from that bloody spar and I'll just look at you, Mr. Talon, and say, well what can I say except that you were right and I was wrong. Now, I'll just go get some more rope!!" and she thundered across the deck to retrieve a section of the rough brown coils to replace the ones that had disappeared. On her way she passed Calnan, just come up from eating his breakfast, who had more than likely heard the discourse between the two mates; she made a point of avoiding his gaze.

Loliway vaulted down the steps and then disappeared down the trap door into the storage section of the hold between the set of sweepers and Pearlle's contraption and rummaged for some of the confiscated rope taken from the Pora Diy. There were plenty of supplies stashed down there enough to replace every mechanism on the North Wind twice over. Hopefully it would last them through the next two or three battles.

Back on the deck, Meri dropped the coils at Mr. Talon's feet and began to move away towards Mr. Packs. Talon stopped her, "Meri," he began, "this isn't your watch. Why don't you go get some breakfast with your messmates, eh? You've not eaten anything since dinner last night and maybe a cracker, left over from your pocket rations. Go on lassie." His age was the only sanction for him to call her lassie, or even Meri, as it were, but the first mate wasn't hungry, nor was she very tired.

"I can look after myself just fine, Mr. Talon," she turned again and walked towards the hand who was preparing some stays, saying, more to herself: "I'll be all right."

* * * * *

Morning watch: Second Mate Talon: 6 bells or 7:00 AM

Avershire was alerted at 7 AM from his bed--the only one aboard the North Wind, where he had dozed after moving Orda to his new job--by one of the cabin boys. He ate a quick, simple breakfast of bread and thick honey with two cups of coffee. Then he summoned Pearlle and began to review the maps and charts of their course, taking note of nearing shoals and tiny islands where Doran might have his ships' base.

"Our target needs to be his armada's berth," Avershire reviewed. "If we can monitor the income and outcome of his ships, get an estimate of how many there are, we can at least get the slightest idea of what we're up against."

"You make it sound as though you're expecting a whole navy!" Pearlle observed.

"You're not?"

Pearlle shook his head. "No, on the contrary, I'm not at all. I wouldn't guess that Doran has more than fifteen ships to his name, let alone to his disposal. He has been inactive all these years, he has to keep his men paid, his fortune is not infamous you know and ships are not easy to come by unless one has the needed timber, details, canvas, and most importantly, the skill."

"Well, how many shipwrights do you think he has?" asked the captain.

Pearlle shook his head slowly, "I wouldn’t guess more than three; shipwrights are rare enough in Gondor on account of all the knowledge they've got to accumulate."

"You forget, Master Pearlle," Avershire said respectfully, "that the sea-faring ways are all the corsairs have. Shipwrights may be more common than you perceive."

* * * * *

Morning watch: Second Mate Talon: 7 bells or 7:30 AM

Devon was pouring sweat. Not solely from the docile morning sun, but from the effort of pushing the mop across the deck. It was the only thing Talon could find for him that didn't require a steady hand. He pushed the soaking rags on the end of the staff over the wood and pulled it back and dipped it again in the bucket. He refused to let it frustrate him, but soon he began to pant and his left arm itched from the sweat that agitated the bandages on his shoulder; he was constantly setting down his mop to scratch at it.

Meri turned her face away from him, where she stood, holding tight a pair of stays while Packs tied them off up the mast a ways. She wasn't to blame for Devon's agony and frustration, she told herself. It wasn't her fault in the least. It was a hard life out here on the high seas and men had to make tough decisions under the pressure of battle. She shook her head and shifted her stance, trying to push away the thoughts.

"Why don't you rest a moment." Meri turned compulsively at Avershire's voice. He had approached Devon who was drenched in sweat and obviously exhausted, and laid a hand on his right shoulder, taking the mop from him. "Mr. Sedal says that my hands need to be able before their active. And Pearlle says you're an educated young man. Why don't you come help us down in the stateroom. We can use another pair of 'observers'. You'd be much more useful down there I think anyways." Devon's face was tight, and strained. It was too obvious that his pain was great: his physical and his emotional pain. Meri turned away again as Packs shimmied down the mast.

"Definitely a two-handed job," the hand said gaily. "I nearly died nigh on six times! I needed one hand to secure the line and the other to catch my balance every go. What a man does with only one arm I've not a clue." He removed a flask from a treasured pocket in his pants and took a sip and then offered it to Meri.

"No thank you Mr. Packs," she said. Her expression was serious and distant. What a man does with only one arm… Guilt began to consume her. It was foolish, her sensible side told her. Devon probably wouldn't be any better off if she had helped him.

Meri replayed what had happened in her mind. Calnan had called her over, pausing to fight back a corsair that threatened his unconscious friend. There was no doubt in his eyes that she would help Devon. She had looked at the young man, his brown hair soaked in his own blood, his fair, young face pale and frozen. And she refused to give aid. What if she had interfered? She would have wrapped his arm tight, in a more secure fashion than Calnan's blotting job had been, and sent him over to the North Wind at once on Calnan's back, with her sword as their guard.

Her heart was heavy as the shame grew. So much blood might have been saved. The nerves may not have been exposed or damaged in the air, those that weren't severed by the dagger. She looked again as Devon disappeared down the steps in front of Avershire. It had all ready happened, she can't change it now.

"Miss Loliway?" Packs said, moving so he could see her face. He lowered his voice, concern etched in his thin features. "All right there Meri?" She didn't answer. "Talon's right, you need to get something to eat. You've got to take your watch in an half hour anyways." She didn't move. "Go on," he said softly, coaxing. "Something small at the very least, and some water."

Meri cursed Packs' and Talon's worry and kindness. Everything this morning seemed to judge guilt upon her. She was going crazy, she decided. She needed food. Food, and all her craziness would subside.

Loliway made for the mess room, adopting her usual, confident stride as she crossed the semi-mopped deck.

[Earendil Halfelven]

The ships arrived one by one. Doran stood on deck watching his fleet arrive from its raids along coastal towns. The time for fun was past and now there was business at hand to take care of. His ships were arriving at the appointed rallying point. Soon, they'd head out and destroy Devon.

Later that night, Doran was again out on the deck, strolling along when Jurex came up from him.

"Captain, I have news," Jurex said.

"Yes, Jurex. Go ahead."

"There are three ships that haven't come in yet. The Pora Diy, Regal Dawn, and the Might of Realge."

Doran stood there in silence. Those ships were supposed to be back here! He couldn't afford rogue captains going off and not coming back. If those ships weren't back by sundown tomorrow, then it would be better for those captains to never see Doran again. If they happened across his path, he'd make sure that the last thing they saw was Doran.

"What do we do, captain?" Jurex asked.

"We set sail at dawn in two days. If those ships aren't back by the time we leave, for their sakes, they should never return."

Jurex nodded and began to walk off, but then a thought occurred to Doran that he hadn't considered before.

"Jurex, let all ships know to increase their watch. I want all ships on full alert."
Jurex nodded and went off to find a messanger.

Doran stood on the deck and looked at the moon, its cold light gleaming off of the waves in small flickers of moonlight.
"Perhaps I've underestimated the ambassador's son," he said to himself.

[Himaran]

Jurex left Doran, being both puzzled and worried. He relied on his captain to have an answer to every question, to fix every problem... and now, the corsair's idolic figure seemed forlorn. Obviously, the news of the ships' disappearances was disturbing, but he must have known that some of his followers would go rogue. And then it struck him.

Doran was considering the possibility that the ships had been destroyed. No... impossible. Three good cruisers, fine crews, fighters to the bone, falling to a school-boy and his palls? No, Jurex thought, Doran must be overreacting. But the nagging doubt kept grabbing at him. Jythralo was rarely wrong in his presumptions, and Jurex had an uncanny way of guessing his master's thoughts. No time to lose. Tighten watch... all ships on high alert. Then he added his own addition to the order.

Prepare for battle.

[Durelin]

The swaying, rocking rhythm was finally realized as a separate and real motion. It was now apart from the dream that Adeline had known for what seemed now only to have been minutes. She wished it could have felt like eternity, as all the bad dreams did. The hard, cold wood pressed against her face was dry and the splashing of the waves against the side of the ship seemed distant, so she knew she now lay below deck. Obviously the Rapscallion had been victorious, or Adeline expected she would never have waken from that dream. She shivered, thinking of how much she would desire to actually remain in that dream for eternity. At this point, with her head pounding, her stomach pained with hunger, her throat dry, and her mind slogged down by these days at sea.

"I thought the cap'n had said we weren't a target, or some such nonsense..." A gruff voice muttered angrily from somewhere near Adeline. A rather nasty, squeaky voice replied, speaking in a arrogant tone, proud of itself for knowing the answer to the previous voice's question. "We weren't, least ways not to the main forces. Our problem was the ships from the coastal villages." There was a grunt, and then, "Well, we shouldn' of lost as many as we did, then…ships from the coastal villages..." The phrase was repeated with disgust, and Adeline could imagine the owner of the voice shaking his head.

Focusing on the voices help bring her back to wakefulness, exercising her tired mind for yet another bout with reality. By the end of this short-lived conversation, she was able to raise he head up off the floorboards. The two sources of the voices she saw sat at a table nearby, across from each other, peeling potatoes. Adeline knew she must be in the ship’s galley, and looking around confirmed it as so. The two men must have noticed her movement, and both jumped up at once, heading toward her. The larger of the two grabbed her by the arm, pulling her up. Adeline was too tired and too numbed by surprises to cry out. She stood, her knees ready to give way, and had trouble comprehending what was being said around her from the focus that was needed to keep her knees from doing so.

"Took her long enough...done with the taters...go tell...the cap'n'll want to..." The way the man grinned at her after all was said, Adeline was ready to fall back to the floor. Doran would be notified that she was conscious, and he would...what? She cursed every wooden plank that made up the ship she had been held on too long, long enough now for her mind to rock with it on the waves. Never would she be able to appreciate the beauty of the sea, nor the power, nor the majesty, nor even the fear. At this moment, Adeline felt she would never be able to appreciate anything except dry land. A lovely trimming would be that this dry land was far away from any man whose name began with the letter 'D'.

[Nuranar]

The afternoon heat swathed the North Wind in a sultry cocoon, intensified by the breath of steamy air that passed for a breeze. The sea was as calm as Calnan had ever seen it. Telson had lost both his apprehensive look and his licorice, at least for the time being. For the last hour the entire watch had been eyeing a bank of clouds off the starboard quarter. The haze could not disguise the straight lines of heavy rain joining it with the sea. Loliway strode stolidly up and down the deck, but even she glanced at it every few minutes. Calnan tried to imagine being drenched in cool water instead of his own salty sweat. Even a rainstorm couldn't make it more humid.

For a while the storm just lengthened along their starboard beam without seeming to approach. Suddenly it was noticeably closer . . . then closer . . . then with a rush, it was upon them. Several hands cheered. The chance storm, already dying, had not enough wind to blow about the big tropical raindrops. But even as it passed, it left enough air to fill the sagging sails and bring the North Wind to life.

"Sail ho!" A black-sailed sloop had emerged from the thinning curtain of rain, running not a thousand yards off their starboard quarter. Loliway started shouting orders, and as the crew exploded into action she took the wheel herself. "See her fore-and-aft rig, Mr. Telson?" she said to the Gondorian, who had already retrieved his sword. "With our ship rig we'll catch her. She has square sails, too, but we're too close for her to change them. She's ours. Lovely. Lovely!" she whispered fiercely, a grim, exultant smile curving her lips.

The chaos had increased since the last battle; too few men were having to do too many jobs. Calnan battled his way through the press, bow in his hand, quiver on his back, sword at his side. From his station he watched the corsair trying to change her course, even as she was crossing their bows. But with too little distance and speed, she was only able to parallel the quickly-gaining North Wind. Soon they brought their port side catapults into action.

"Sail ho!" The lookout's panic-stricken voice reached every ear. Avershire stared and swore violently. Another corsair, this one square-rigged, was on their starboard beam and closing awfully fast. Even as he cursed, the North Wind shuddered horribly with the impact of the corsair's first salvo.

The first sloop - Regal Dawn painted on her bow - was utterly demoralized, and scarcely able to return fire. The mates were already organizing their boarding parties. But the second corsair's deadly accuracy was speedily crippling the North Wind; aiming at both masts and side, she had taken away the main topgallant mast and holed her numerous places above and below the water line.

Avershire rushed up from inspecting the damage. "Meri, we're holed and taking water fast. We've got to take it!" he bellowed, pointing to the Regal Dawn.

"What about the other?" she yelled back. "It'll be on us in a minute!"

"Just take it! Talon!" he roared at the second mate. "Ready your party to follow Loliway! I want that ship taken as soon as possible!"

Calnan stood at the rail beside Marx, both in Loliway's party. He had been prepared to die himself, but for some reason he'd never thought of losing the North Wind. The gallant little sloop was home for him, far more than Umbar ever had been. He could feel her deck settling beneath his feet, down, down . . . where Sedal was working. Was Callath with him? And Devon, standing at the rail in the stern, grasping a short sword in his right hand. His white face was as stern as Calnan had ever seen it. Calnan's insides drew tight with a new fear.

"Now!" Screaming hoarsely, shrilly, furiously, the boarders swung across to the Regal Dawn. Marx pulled Calnan up from from a bone-jarring landing, just in time to see Devon leap the narrow gap and land poised on his feet. And then battle was joined in earnest, as each crew warred for mastery of the ship most likely to be afloat in an hour.

[maikafanawen]

The North Wind was sinking! Meri abandoned her position at the helm and leapt into ankle deep water rising in the forecastle where Sedal was hurriedly collecting his instruments and stuffing them into a miniature trunk.

"Where's Orda!" he yelled at Meri without taking his eyes away from his things. He laid a cloth between the knives and the probes on top of which he piled clean rags.

"Aboard I suppose," she answered. The first mate picked her way between hammocks that had tangled themselves around one another and tables that had toppled with the first hit from the Regal Dawn. Her trunk sat at the far end of the hold. There was nothing particularly valuable inside but Meri wasn't in the mind to leave her bandoleer of throwing knives. She broke the latch on the lid and kicked it open. Water, seeping in from the planks above, immediately soaked the extra clothes and assortment of rolled papers. She shouted a string of curses as time seemed to be wasted as she tried to pull the knives from the chest. Finally the buckle slipped free of its unknown captor and the lid slammed as she wrapped it around her waste.

"Got it?" Sedal asked humorlessly. Meri ignored the guilt of her selfishness and rushed past the surgeon, mounting the deck.

She took in her surroundings in one disbelieving glance: the North Wind was suffocatingly sandwiched between the two black-sailed ships. It was momentarily frightening. Then she gathered her senses about her and snatched an idle grapnel from the deck. She hardly needed the device to reach the ship just inches away, but she was aiming for a spot on the corsair-ship's starboard side. Swinging the hook over her head she tossed it towards the Regal Dawn where she was immediately thrust into the jarring discomforts of battle.

* * * *

Marx ran ahead of Sedal and his boy to storm the forecastle along with five of his crewmates. Few men were below and those that were met their unlucky end at Marx's cutlass.

"There's no doctor here!" Sedal exclaimed over the raucous.

Marx nodded hurriedly. "S'not unusual. Can you set up on that table?" he pointed with his sword.

"Of course. Orda!" he shoved the case of tools into Orda's arms and pushed him towards the bench. He was setting up his doctoring in the hold of the enemy's ship: outrageous!

"I'm leaving these four as active sentinels. I don't doubt you'll be needing them." At that moment Callath and Luc all but tumbled down the steps, shocked too at the idea of setting up their infirmary on corsair turf.

"S' unnatural," Luc shook his head and kicked away the dead corsairs to clear a way for the bringing of Gondorian patients. "S' bad luck and it's not goin' ta be safe neither. Thar's no guarantee we'll be takin this ship." He shook his head again as he disappeared up the stairs with Callath before him, "S'not natural."

In Progress...

[Himaran]

Graring's hands flew through the motions, droping the heavy ball into the catapult before leaping backwards. A swift rush of air was soon followed by a satisifying
"thud" on the deck of the North Wind. "Direct hit, boys," the gunner yelled, and Graring yelled out with the others in glee. Their salvo would soon sink the ship, already wounded from its previous battle.

Suddenly, a shout came from the mainmast. "Ahoy, they're boarding 'er! There're boarding the Dawn!

It was true. Graring strained his eyes, soon spotting the party swinging across and lowering planks. Blast! They destroyed the Gondorian's boat only to have them attack another cruiser. Hopefully, they would have a harder fight than on the Diy, which had fell with few casualties to the enemy's forces. The corsair could only watch the growing battle, knowing that the Might of Realge would be next.

[Earendil Halfelven]

It had been two days, and still the missing ships did not turn up. Doran stood on the deck as the sun rose over the horizon, beginning a new day. Jurex came up from behind.
"Orders, Captain?" he asked.

"We set sail today, Jurex. They haven't shown up so we go." Doran paused for a moment.
"Do you happen to know where the Regal Dawn, Might of Realge and the Pora Diy went? What were their coordinates?"

Jurex thought for a moment.

"They headed north along the coast. The Pora Diy left, I think, a few days before the other two did," Jurex replied.

"Bring me the map. Wherever they went, thats where we're going, because if they ran into trouble, will find it." Doran paused for a moment.

"We set sail Jurex. Send out the order! We're going hunting!"

[Amanaduial the archer]

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

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

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

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

[maikafanawen]

Devon steadied himself, gripping the deck railing with his left arm, the sensitive nerves about his shoulder going wild and lifting the blade in his other arm into a loud parry. The previous five hours had been spent with Marx and Telson who had been doing their best to teach the disappointed fencer some alternative tricks with the sword in lieu of the straight-out fencing the young man was used to. Their words ran a checklist in his mind and he employed them all in sequence. He shouted and screamed in his pathetic attempt at intimidation that, surprisingly, had a satisfactory effect as long as the exchange didn't last too long. Also lucky for the young Gondorian was his sporadic training in ambidextrous fencing, so he was a complete maladroit.

Devon began to sweat much sooner than he normally would have and he began to loose wind from all the yelling he was doing. His encouragement and persistence came from the fact that he was as of yet untouched and four hearty opponents lay dead at his feet.

Suddenly, one particularly thin and sallow-faced pirate came at him with a cutlass in one hand and a whip in the other. His stoic expression was unnerving and Devon licked his lips apprehensively, his heart beating violently in his chest. He knew better than to try to block the whip with his sword lest it be wrenched from his grasp so he resolved to attempt and dodge the lash. The corsair flicked the chord back over his shoulder and sent it whistling through the air at his legs. Devon tried to jump aside but his timing was off considerably and the whip left a terrible welt in his left calf. The Gondorian winced and staggered. The corsair brought the whip back a second time and let it loose, but this time Devon ducked as it whistled over his head. Without missing a beat the pirate aimed again at the young man's sword arm but Devon dodged successfully a second time and lunged at his enemy sticking his blade between the man's ribs.

When the corsair dropped to the deck and Devon dislodged his sword, he picked the whip up and shuddered a little. What a nasty way to fight. He considered keeping it but he really had no clear idea how to use one effectively so he lobbed it over the railing and into the water just in time to meet his next opponent.

[maikafanawen]

Avershire saw that his numbers were falling all around him, and his feet sloshed in their lifeblood. His body worked with a practiced impulse that, even with its gaping holes where masterful skill had always been absent, kept him alive. The cutlass in his hand, bought as a last minute necessity before one of his old voyages, thrust and cut through flesh and organs, scraping bones and slicing veins. The screams and shouts of death were usually always very few from the veteran fighters so the decks of the two--soon to be three--warring ships were filled with sounds of yells of triumph and grunts of assertion more than pain and fear.

"Avershire!" Talon shouted from the port side of the Regal Dawn; he held a grapnel in his hand, prepared to swing it over to the last Gondorian aboard the sinking North Wind. Avershire struggled with his last opponent before knocking him long enough to sheath his cutlass and grab hold of the rope as it was swung across to him (because the two ships had begun to drift apart and there was so much wreckage with their two railings and the North Wind's collapsed mast, one could not step across it in a hurry). As he landed on the other side he had but a few seconds to assess their position on enemy turf. He estimated that his crew had them sufficiently outnumbered three to two and the corsairs were falling fast.

He recalled the build of the Regal Dawn and knew it to belong to a man named Troy Feray. Captain Feray was the last man Avershire wanted to meet in combat but now that obligation was laid before him; it was unavoidable.

"Where's Feray?" Avershire inquired of Talon. The third mate's complexion paled visibly as his eyes darted toward the elevated poop. The Gondorian captain followed his gaze to see the towering man, lean and dangerous fighting with a hero's strength and overtaking all of the opponents that met him. Avershire drew his cutlass, coupled it with a long dagger and made for the upper deck.

"Feray!" he challenged, but his voice held no contempt. The Umbarian saw him and his eyes lighted with a friendly recognition and for a moment he paused in his swordplay.

"Captain Avershire!" he greeted. The combat around them paused to watch the curious reunion of these two men. "It has been long my friend," Troy Feray said, withholding any physical means of greeting.

"Yes, very long." The Gondorian rolled up the sleeves of his jacket--an item of clothing he never discarded in a fight when others would. Feray raised an eyebrow and took a small step backwards into a stance, bringing the point of his sabre up, knee-level. "It's a shame that we should reunite under these circumstances," Avershire said, "but you've undoubtedly heard about my chivalry to Gondor and my success as a captain of their navy."

"Of which you are now ex-captain," Captain Feray said, "grounds for you to resent those traitorous people and join your own race: your father's race. We are, or at least were, nearly brothers, Kent."

Avershire nodded somberly and secured his belt around the waist of his coat to control the front so it would not inhibit his movement. "That is why," he said, eyeing the blade of his cutlass as he assumed his stance, "It's going to be awfully hard for me to kill you." He did not know if it was obvious, his poor attempt to appear strong before the men around him, but in his heart he knew that he would have given anything to avoid the next few minutes.

When the two men looked at each other neither one was hateful and both were reluctant. But they were subject to the rules of the sea. Feray was a good, honest man for a pirate, and Avershire would do him the honor of a righteous death if he could help it.

Begin.

To relate the actions of a duel such as this is unnecessary. If it were the power of good against the power of evil, the techniques would be slightly relevant for one could make obvious the honor of good and the treachery of evil. But the two men had grown up together as brothers and best friends. There was no hate in this duel, only a sense of loyalty to their nations, homes, and beliefs. Feray did see Avershire has a traitor to his people, but he could not see him as anything less than a brother. Even though one of them would die, the other would mourn the loss too great in his heart.

As they dueled, the fight had continued on the quarterdeck and forward on the spar deck and the forecastle. The Gondorians had begun to overtake the Umbarians. Meri saw that this was happening and she began to order men to take prisoners and secure them to quell the killing. She sent two hands down to check on Sedal and his progress. And then she mounted the quarterdeck and saw what was happening on the poop deck.

The sight caught her hard by the throat. Though she did not know Feray, the emotional pain in Avershire's eyes made it obvious that this was a man who he would have live. She climbed the stairs hesitantly and gripped the railing columns, keeping out of sight. The duel was matched evenly and the two men seemed to dance, each one almost able to guess the others very next move each time. Then Avershire did a thrust disengage (an unusual move for a cutlass) that caught the corsair in his left shoulder.

What happened next went in slow motion for Avershire. His opponent let his weapon fall to the deck as he slid to his knees. His eyes were shut tight and his teeth were clenched in pain. The Gondorian ignored his honorable impulses and dropped to the deck beside him, catching Feray in his arms.

"Sedal," he murmured, then more loudly to Meri who had come from behind the railing-- "Get Sedal!"

"No," Feray whispered--the most he could manage. He gathered the fabric of Avershire's coat in his fist, "Let it be." Tears swelled in Avershire's eyes and clouded his vision. The muscles in his face tensed and he fought the urge to weep and shout in deep despair and anger. "You fight … well," Feray said again, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

"You taught me--"

Feray smiled, nodding weakly. "I wasn't giving it my all I guess," his face softened, "I couldn't." Avershire brought their heads together and closed his eyes, choking back a sob. "Goodbye," Feray murmured, "my broth--."

Kent Avershire cradled the lifeless body of his friend for long minutes after he'd died: he cried into the blood-soaked coat and wringed the cuffs in his anguish. The feeling of a great loss settled into his soul to stay and finally he stood, telling one of Feray's hands to fetch him a hammock. It would be the only proper burial done to a pirate that afternoon, and done quickly.

Lots of pirate corpses were pushed overboard and dead Gondorians were dragged below for later burial. The Might of Realge was on their tail no matter how fast Avershire's crew worked to set the sails and steer her off, the pirate ship closed in. They would have to fight her today and everyone was sure of the bloody outcome that spelled their doom.

[Himaran]

Graring's heart fell as he watched the corsair flag fall from the mainmast of the Regal Dawn. He new that the captured corsairs would be safe; there was no ship to sink them with, this time. Or would they? Would the murderous Gondorians use his comrades as shields? He knew that he would have used them for the safety they could provide.

But his thoughts soon turned to other matters. The Gondorians had defeated two corsair ships, and successfully abandoned their sinking cruisers. They were like a virus; devouring resources before leaving the empty shell to rot. And his ship was next. The man quickly decided to go and sharpen his weapons; soon, he knew, he would be making good use of them!

[Amanaduial the archer]

"Who is the pirate?" Callath asked one of the other men quietly, an older sailor who was kneeling on the other side of an unconcious Gondorian sailor. His deft hands were working deftly over the unconcious man's right leg, which was adorned with a bloody gash littered with splinters. He paused for a second in his work now though, casting Callath a quick, irate glance before looking back to the combat that had now begun between Avershire and the other man, a pirate.

"A more important man than you know, boy - that man is dearer to Avershire than many in this crew. They are...kin, I suppose. Troy Feray, captain of the Regal Dawn." There was a note of grudging, almost contemptuous admiration in the man's voice as he said this. Callath's eyebrows shot up.

"But he's a pirate-"

"Aye, a captain no less, now hold that still or I'll cut your own leg off!" the older man barked in reply. Callath complied hastily and the man continued. "Aye, he's a pirate, but then, so was Avershire."

Callath spared a glance over at the captain, both shocked and almost admiring. An ex-pirate now fought corsairs themselves, yet his crew still followed him more faithfully than ever... The stable boy wished he could spare more time to watch them: it was like dancing, a fatal dance of death. Around them, both sides had stopped, both Gondorians and what was left of the corsairs, an air of tense excitement filling the decks. With this atmosphere back in Gondor, Callath thought with a twinge, you'd expect it to be just before a horse race, food sellers crying their wares, peddlars opening their stalls, the crowd jostling good-naturedly, competitive and hopeful, the stable-hands trying to control the wily horses and wilier jockeys, soothing them as they prepared to start...

A sudden, sharp intake of breath, as dramatic as the call and bell that would signal the start of a horse race, made Callath look up again from his work, execting the worst - that he would see Avershire lying dying on the deck. But instead he saw him kneeling, holding in his arms the body of the man...who he had just killed.

"Sedal!" Avershire's voice cut through the deathly silence, an angry, desperate note to it. "Get Sedal!"

Callath was on his feet in a second, pushing between the other sailors to get there but it seemed that in the opinion of the dying man himself, it was too late. Callath couldn't hear the last exchange between the two men, but saw the sorrow and pain in Avershire's eyes, and the regret and tenderness in Feray's. They were truly like brothers... The corsair went limp and Callath stepped forward as Avershire ordered a corsair hand to fetch a hammock. He caught the captain's eye as he passed and bent beside Feray, putting his hand's under the man's boots. Avershire contemplated him for a second, then threaded his hands under Feray's armpits, lacing the fingers over his chest, and they lifted him together, bringing him to an emptier part of the deck where he could be sewn for burial. The air of sorrow seemed to spread to the rest of the sailors - a heaviness seemed to have settled and the corsairs were rounded up and put in chains below decks.

~*~

"Captain, they're still gaining!"

Callath glance down at Avershire small figure below him. He was up in the rat lines, hanging between one of the ropes and the mast nimbly - he had got the hang of it more during their time at sea and could now be trusted to get up there to spy out around. Besides, of the four or five Gondorians who were most profficient at this task, two were dead and two more badly injured - they wouldn't be running the rat lines for a while now.

Avershire let a stream of curses flow for a few seconds then snapped back, "How long?"

Callath gave a sort of shrug - not an easy manoevure when in such a position, one hand on the hanging rope, the other gripping a dent in the mast, his feet pressed against the mast. "Say an hour at the speed we're going and the speed that they're following us at."

"An hour!" Meri beside Avershire shook her head angrily. "We can't put on any more speed, it must be more - you must have wrongly estimated it, Harres."

"Miss Lolliway, I can see their figurehead without binoculars," he replied frankly, looking down into her eyes. "Believe me, an hour is being optimistic."

Avershire snorted angrily, then yelled out some more commands to the crew, who scurried to do his bidding. "Run out all sails - everything we have, we'll use bloody hankerchiefs and hammocks if need be! Give it everything we have!"

There isn't enough wind... Callath knew it, and so, he knew, did Avershire, and probably most of the crew as well. They weren't going to make it. Callath cast another despairing glance at the mighty dark hulk coming towards them so worryingly fast, and thought he could pick out individual figures on the deck. In less than an hour, you'll be at their throats...

Dropping his head, his fair, loose hair falling into his eyes, Callath began to descend from his perch nimbly - if they were to fight, he needed to check on Devon beforehand. He knew Sedal had taken his friend under again, but apart from a glimpse of Devon's unnaturally pale face just after the battle, he hadn't seen him since. If they were to fight to the death, he was damned if he wouldn't see him again.

[Nuranar]

They'd tried to hoist more sails, but the North Wind's catapults had done an excellent job of breaking spars and severing rigging. Finally Avershire, seeing the folly of wasting his men's precious engery, had ordered them to stop. Now the damaged ship's groanings were the only sound as the Gondorians waited. The corsair, seeing her quarry's condition, wasn't even using catapults. Her crew lined the decks, and now came faintly up the wind their harsh taunts and battle-cries.

"Hurry up, man!" Calnan snapped at Packs. The sailor jumped and his trembling hands lost their grasp on the bandage he was trying to secure. Calnan closed his eyes, stifling his frustration.

During the fight a stray projectile had smashed into the Regal Dawn's rail; one of the splinters had caught him just below the hairline, leaving a jagged wound. In the heat of battle he'd scarcely noticed it until blood started to run into his eyes. Even now it was refusing to stop bleeding, so he'd asked the sailor to bind it up. Packs, by some miracle, was barely scratched.

"There, lad, it's done," Packs said. Although now the cut was throbbing like anything, the bandage felt secure and the blood had stopped running down his face.

"Thanks, Packs." Calnan hoisted himself to his feet, biting his lip. He'd landed hard on his knee when boarding, and now that he'd stopped moving, it was terribly stiff and painful.

His bow was at the bottom of the sea with the North Wind, but he still had his sword. He picked his way slowly across the debris-strewn deck to the rail. Avershire, grief and rage spent, had woodenly ordered every man able to prepare to board. There was nothing to be gained by a hopeless defense of the crippled ship. Calnan wondered vaguely how much convincing it would take for Sedal to leave his patients.

They didn't have a chance. Everyone knew it. No one said it. Calnan felt only very tired. Tired of all the effort, all the back-breaking work, all the mind-numbing grief, that was all going for nothing. He hardly cared any more.

"It's not for nothing," said a firm, quiet voice behind him. Calnan heard without understanding; then it penetrated. He turned and saw Telson. The Gondorian smiled slightly. "You never really thought we'd defeat Doran. But you came because your friends needed you. Because you couldn't not come. Because it was the right thing to do."

He raised his voice. "If I'm to die, I would die for Gondor. And in my death I will destroy as many of her foes as I can!"

There were no wild cheers, no enthusiastic hurrahs; but a low murmur of assent reached the ear. Calnan took a deep breath and looked around him. Where before he had seen fear, apathy, and despair, there was now a grim resolution and steadfast purpose. Men stood and readied their weapons. A few of the more seriously injured came forward, some fierce in resisting the kind hands that would have them rest.

And none too soon, for the enemy was upon them. With ferocious cries of triumph, the corsairs crowded to the rails, brandishing weapons and whirling grapnels. Yet they waited until the ships began to inch together, when they intended to leap upon the cowering Gondorians.

But just as they were about to attack - "NOW!" rang the cry. Everyone on the Royal Dawn's deck surged across, yelling like furies. Some swinging, some hurdling the gap, they came with a fury and a wrath that daunted the astonished corsairs.

Calnan had feared his bad knee would give way if he tried to swing across, so he had jumped instead, deliberately plowing into a burly pirate. The man staggered heavily into his neighbor while Calnan rolled across the deck. Drawing his sword as he leapt to his feet, he set upon the enemy with deadly will.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Telson, now with but one short sword, dueling fiercely. He thought Callath had swung across just ahead of him, but there was no sign of him. Suddenly a body stumbled into him, throwing him off-balance. His opponent, thrusting even as Calnan staggered away, stabbed the other instead. Calnan, horrified, recognized Packs; the sailor died without a sound. Like lightning, Calnan swung his sword and cut the corsair's throat. But immediately another set upon him.

Soon the deck was slippery with blood and cumbered with bodies. Their initial assault had surprised the corsairs, but their force was small and had no support. Most of the bodies were those of corsairs, but here and there were Gondorians that could not be replaced. Calnan fought until his arm ached. His opponents began to get inside his guard, and he was bleeding in several places. Blood was running down his face again.

Abruptly his foot came down on something semi-solid and he fell heavily to his bad knee. The pain slowed his reactions, and he felt a stinging pain in his leg as he threw himself to the side a split second too late. He staggered to his feet, desperately striking aside his antagonist's weapon. Remotely he recognized the body he had tripped on: The trusty Master Pearlle, his hand still grasping a bloody cutlass.

Calnan was barely eluding each blow when another corsair joined in the assault. Thrust back by the force of the attack, he smashed heavily into the mast, the back of his head striking the wood. Briefly blinded by a starry explosion, he parried instinctively, felt the pirate's blade deflected by his. But as vision cleared, he felt something very hard prick warningly on his breastbone. The second corsair had him.

"Will you yield!" the man demanded, breathing hard.

Numbed by calamity and very near exhaustion, Calnan felt no emotion whatsoever. There was only one thing to do. "I yield."

The man held out his other hand, his sword point unwavering. Something resentful and unyielding flickered for a moment in Calnan's mind; then he gave up his sword.

"You are wise," the corsair said, and with a flourish of his sword indicated for Calnan to join the surrendered remnant of the Gondorians. Calnan gazed emptily into their impassive faces, one by one. He wondered dully why the corsairs had gone to the trouble of capturing them.

[Durelin]

Adeline's head swam again, and this time it had little to do with the rocking of the boat. She had just spent the past hour, or what seemed to be an hour, being berated from head to foot by Doran, the most detestable of all the men Adeline knew with a name beginning with a 'D'. Master Doran's idea of berating was one of the worst kinds. Like a disciplinarian, the cold, fatherly type, the man would tell her how horrible a little wretch she was, and how thankful she should be that she still had her life, her limbs, and food in her gut, as well as an untouched body. The last was the only thing she was truly thankful for. Thinking idly, as she did at the moment, her living wasn't much to be thankful for.

But then her stomach growled, and the rather vulgar statement 'food in her gut' was sounding more and more like a desire, and certainly something she would be thankful to have. As always, though, her stubbornness would insure that she would not give in. Adeline clenched her teeth and waiting for the rumbling to stop. It persisted, though, as her thoughts turned to her punishment. She was to live without food, to live only with water, for a full three days. Her horrified reaction to this sentence for her disobedience had been found amusing by the Captain and his first mate, who constantly had important business to discuss with Doran. To the bottom of the sea with these corsairs and their rough and tumble ways - She would be without even a scrap of bread for three days?

Adeline sat to the right in front of Doran's desk in a hard and uncomfortable wooden chair. She had been ignored for much of this visit to the Captain's cabin as Doran looked over some maps. The first mate stood directly in front of the desk, awaiting the Captain's direction to speak. Most likely there would be more 'important' information for the two men to discuss, all of which Adeline failed to see the importance in, much less fully understand. Her stomach growled loudly as she adjusted how she sat in the uncomfortable chair, and a gruff laugh came from the first mate, while Doran just smiled. He turned to her with that smile. "Is your punishment paining you so? Only one more day left, my dear. Truly, you cannot say it has been that long. But still, it was wonderful luck that I was free to meet you those days ago so close to your mealtime."

The first mate guffawed at his Captain's remark, rather rowdily for such a statement. "I must say," Adeline began defiantly, "the mealtime conversation is not sorely missed." Doran chuckled at this. "You cannot be saying that I bore you, my Lady! Tell me 'tis not so!" He wore a wide grin as he looked at Adeline, and his eyes were alight with a cold delight. He then turned to his first mate, still grinning. "Tell the Lady, Jurex! Assure her that she does not wish to dine with the crew!"

This time Jurex did not laugh. In fact, his face grew severe in thought, a frown replacing his sly grin from only moments before. "No, Captain." He was silent for a minute, during which Doran eyed him expectantly. "Speaking of mealtimes among the crew sir... Truly, speaking of any free moment among the crew, when they have the time to speak with one another..." Jurex paused another moment, clearly collecting himself with a hard swallow. "What is said among the crew does not bode well. For the first time, they are unsure of where this will lead. We chase after a young man - a boy! - for reasons they do not and cannot understand. Ships have been captured, now two are missing? Rumors have spread concerning battle reports. Many of the men are fairly sure all your luck has run out, while others believe your skill is not what it used to be. While still others believe your skill was never truly tested till now. Whatever they are thinking, Captain, it is not in good mind of heading out to fight this enemy - the first enemy to defy you in such a way. I have even heard a man foretelling a doom that-"

"Quite man! Quiet!" Doran snapped angrily. His smile had with his first mate’s every word. Now an anger greater than any Adeline had seen in the man warred upon his face. All his usual calm severity was gone. And Adeline knew just why. That was the reason she had jumped out of her seat at his shout. Seconds before, Doran had shook his head, sadly in thought, and out of the corner of his eye, had caught sight of the young lady sitting in the chair. Her stomach had been quiet, for long enough.

"Out!" he shouted, now directly at her. Adeline did not move for a moment, but looked at Jurex, whose face was pale, with only a slight tint of color in his cheek from embarrassment. Doran pointed toward the door, and shouted louder, "Out, girl, or I will give you away as a present!" Adeline's legs decided it was time to comply, and she rushed out, closing the door behind her, only muffling the shouts that followed her.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Callath fought viciously, working with all he had, but as the battle was wearing on even he had began to tire, the adrenaline beginning to run to simple, pure exhaustion. His dagger had been lost on the deck ten minutes previously, and he was now fighting with his sword in his right hand, half slumped against the mast - one leg had a long slash in it, quite shallow but bleeding strongly, enough to make the boy feel weaker.

In his tiredness though, he was beginning to make mistakes. He hadn't fought so hard before, especially not at sea - literally fighting for his life against much older and burlier men, and with no way to get off the ship and away. But one thing he knew: Callath was damnedn if he would give up his life without a fight. But as he thrust directly at his opponent, the corsair shifted nimbly to the side - the corsairs weren't still weary from the previous fight, and there were more of them than there were Gondorians; this one was far fresher than Callath. As the man ducked, he cracked Callath against the back of the head with the hilt of his cutlass, probably aiming to cut his throat but put off by the fact that Callath, although tired, wasn't utterly brain-dead, and still moved away as a reflex. However, the blow sent him stumbling forward, and his weakened leg gave out beneath him. Gritting his teeth, he swung wildly, desperately - foolishly - at the corsair...and the man, parrying the careless blow easily and stabbing straight down at Callath's right hand.

The youth groaned loudly in pain as the feel of a red-hot poker laying into his flesh point first at the back of the palm caused him to drop his sword. Clutching his bloody hand, he stumbled again as the two ships juddered against each other in the waves, and fell backwards onto the deck. His opponent leered over him, victory in his eyes, and Callath scrambled backwards away, face upwards as his hand grasped behind him for his sword. Finding it, he whirled over and swung accurately to counter the corsair's potentially fatal blow, jarring the man's hand and making him step backwards.

"Join your shipmates now, boy."

The steely voice made Callath glance behind him, despite what common sense told him, and taking advantage of the break his opponent swiped sharply at his wounded hand. The sword fell from his limp hand as it spasmed again with the pain and Callath paled sharply, biting down into his lip. He turned slowly to face the man who had spoken, and the corsair's laugh made him want to punch him.

"Oldest trick in the book. Sure, you're only a child though," he taunted, then snapped, "Get in with the others."

Callath swallowed hard against his anger and pain and, hating himself, complied. But as he passed, he couldn't resist - his proud nature wouldn't let him simply submit. Drawing back slightly, he spat with excellent accuracy into the corsair's right eye.

The man didn't appreciate the gesture though, and neither did he register enough of the expected confusion for it to be of use - after only a second's pause, he was upon Callath as quickly as a snake and as brutally as a panther closing in for the kill. He slapped Callath sharply around the face with strength that made the boy reel, then did the same again. Callath swung the bloody, dead weight of his injured hand at the man's stomach, seeking to wind him...but the more experienced fighter caught it as he did so. Squeezing and twisting to the side brutally, he brought Callath into an armlock.

"Submit," he whispered mockingly into the boy's ear.

Callath, although shaking with the pain, pale and with blood running down from his lip, his hair disheveled and blood over his clothes and skin, shook his head very slightly. "No," he whispered painfully.

The man sent him stumbling forward into the other Gondorians with a hard push and a wicked laugh. "Take them beneath," he called to another, not sparing Callath another glance.

[Earendil Halfelven]

"Out, girl, or I will give you away as a present!"

The door shut behind Adeline as she rushed out and Doran turned to glare at Jurex. Jurex looked pale and looked at the floor. Doran fumed. His breath coming out as if he was breathing fire.

"You ever say such things in front of a prisoner, you ever insult my discipline among the crew or my reputation in front of a prisoner or anyone, and I will personally see to it that that is the last mistake you ever make!" He was yelling now and Jurex seemed to shake a bit. But now Doran lowered his voice to a harsh whisper.

"It is in your best interest to never make that mistake again."

Jurex nodded and swallowed. Doran glared at him. But then a cry from the deck hurried to their ears.

"Sail ho!"

Doran rushed out of his cabin with Jurex right behind him. Many of the crew were also rushing up to see who was out there. Reaching the deck, Doran looked up at the lookout and said, "Where?"

"Sails off o' starboard!"

Sails, thought Doran. He said sails. Doran looked and saw two deep red sails. They were the sails of Harad. Perfect, he thought. The crew think that my luck is out. Well, time to see if they're right.

Jurex was standing on his right side. He looked out but didn't say anything. Many of the crew looked over at Doran, watching him and wondering what he was going to do.

"Haradrim," muttered Doran to Jurex.

"What do we do, Captain?" Jurex asked.

Speaking loud enough for the crew to hear, Doran replied,"Light the battle torch to signal the other ships. Men, we go to battle!"

The deck errupted in cheers. Swords rang as they were drawn and many were clanged together.

"Take your positions!" Doran yelled.
The crew reacted immediately. As they rushed by to take their positions, he heard one say,"Didn't I tell ya? The captain's still got it in him."

He looked out and saw the other ships getting into battle formation, their torches blazing off of the stern to show that they knew what was going to happen. They knew what to do. They were going to sail down in two columns, with the Haradrim ships in the middle. On Doran's command, the ships would let loose their volley of catapults until there was nothing left of the Haradrim.

"Men, load!"

The Haradrim ships sailed closer, apparently unaware of their fate. All was a hush. Even the wind was silent as it blew. Nothing was heard except the baited breath of his men. The ships were almost in perfect position.

"FIRE!"
__________________________________________________ _______________

The men cheered and drank to their hearts content. The attack was successful. One Haradrim ship lay barely afloat as it sunk lower and lower, and the other one lay almost crippled. It was just barely able to get home. His men had succesffully board both ships. One of the ship's crew wouldn't surrender, so Doran was forced to annihilate them. Seeing the fate of their comrades, the other ship gave in. They were taken totally by surprise. With both ships plundered and looted, Doran sailed off with minimal casualties. None of his ships sustained any serious damage. None of his crew doubted him any longer.
__________________________________________________ _______________

It had been two days since the attack and Doran was getting restless. Where were his ships? He was strolling the deck when the lookout called to him.

"Captain, there's debris floatin' about in the water and what I think are bodies!"

Doran rushed to the side of the ship and looked downward. He saw broken planks of wood floating about, pieces of mast, and bodies. Some bodies were missing parts, such as a head or an arm. Many of the crew now noticed the scene around them. Floating by the ship was a piece of wood with a name on it; the name of a ship. It said Pora Diy.

Many started to mutter about curses and such, but it was obvious that they had encountered the boy. How the boy had done this Doran didn't know. Again, Jurex was at his side, ready for orders.

"Jurex, let's sail on for a while until we're out of this debris field. Let's not keep the men here. They'll get jumpy."

Jurex nodded.

They sailed on for about a mile until they were out of the debris. Doran decided to lay anchor there until the figured where next to go now that they knew the fate of one of his ships.

That night, they fought another battle. This time, it was against nature and the elements.

[Arvedui III]

Battle fatigue was always something legendary and a bit dreadful to desk officers and orderlies. The rumored numbness and utter weariness made for good conversations on cold nights with a howling wind. Not just in Gondor, but it was a universally accepted truth that all support troops everywhere talked about it, probably because it was a means of distinction they would never get the chance to experience. And the only other truth about officers and men of the rear is that most of them either did something wrong or were poised for promotion.

Telson decided, staring out unseeingly at an ocean laden with bodies and flotsam that he must have done something horribly wrong to get to where he was. Everything he had whispered about in the warmth of a bar or garrison fire seemed grossly inadequate to the weariness he was feeling right now; And even more disturbing was the fact that he couldn’t really remember what he had said, nor did he care. The chains around his wrist rubbed against his skin, and the profanity of it made him want to scream. But instead he had to content himself with looking at an ocean strewn with debris from the deck; Alone, and awaiting more unfortunate souls to join him in the rusty multi-manacle contraption he was attached to. Was he not captured he would have found great interest in it, but at the moment it went overlooked, his vision refusing to see much of anything other than the images that kept flashing in his head.
--------------
The din of battle seemed to be the only thing that had ever existed in the world. How could anything else be crammed into all the shooting and chaos and death? Telson’s arm, he noted grimly, was becoming more leaded with every stroke and party. Despite his concerted effort make his movements as small and precise as possible, he was beginning to make mistakes, and that, he knew, was the beginning of the end. Each corsair he engaged seemed now like only a variance in a ratty, gritty, coarse mold, and he failed to tell the difference between one and the other.

Quite suddenly, a swishing sound and a flash of silver made him roll to the right to avoid a second corsair who had decided to aid his long-breaded brother that Telson had pinned to the deck, about to kill. He wasn’t fast enough and a slight tickling sensation then a searing pain started in his cheek and ran into the rest of his face. He could feel the blood running down his neck, but it had not obscured his vision and so he lunged at his attacker. After his stroke went wide both corsairs were on their feet, Telson only having time to find his footing before they charged at him. Parry, repose, sidestep, backstep, parry again.

Telson bought enough time to make one lunge at the corsairs, and using his entire upper body he hurled himself into them and knocked them unto the deck. After running both his antagonists through, he was rewarded with a clear view of the aft-deck, a most unpleasant sight greeting him. He had thought well of himself for taking down two corsairs at once, but that was nothing to the ten or so corsairs Marx was holding at bay with naught but a jagged spar in his hands. The sheer awe of seeing what he was seeing left Telson literally numb, terror quickly replacing it when he saw about five corsairs drawing bows and taking aim. He took a step but released he could do nothing as he saw the arrows fly, watching horrorstricken as the shafts embedded themselves into the big man’s chest, the wild yell as the corsairs rushed him, the roar afterward of both death and triumph.

By the time Marx fell, nearly twenty bodies lay piled beside him.

Telson stood dumb for a moment, but only a moment. His rage properly inspired, he rushed all of pirates surrounding Marx, swinging wildly and maiming as many as he could. He didn’t know how long he slashed at the mass of bodies before he was slammed unto the deck and was kicked, punched, beaten, then put into chains.
---------
However much time had past, it didn’t seem like it has been enough to do Marx justice. By now a few other Gondorian survivors had been chained next to him, Callath and Calnan among them. Telson was too hoarse to say anything, let alone face the two boys. Well, they’re men now. He thought glumly. Damn shame, but they are. Devon more than any of them For a moment he wondered what had happened to Thrann, but the exercise was tiring so he stopped. It seemed that the corsairs had collected as many prisoners to be found and began forcing the unhappy group below. Quite frankly, Telson would have preferred belonging to the stack of bodies the corsairs were hurling into the sea.

Down below in the stinking hold, Telson wits began to return to him and the sheer anger and fear that came with capture began to impress itself upon him. For the first time in his life he had control over nothing and the feeling of helplessness was enough to make a man mad. But it was also enough to allow his brain to start working, albeit frantically, for a way out. A rusty lock, a piece of rotten wood, a discarded dagger or ever shard of glass, anything would do. He hunched as far away from the rest of the crew, who were speculating about casualties. He didn’t want to face them with the image of Marx falling in his head. He only began to think of any means to escape.

He had to get out, or die trying.

[Himaran]

Graring: Prisoner Transfer


Graring watched at the Yonder Bound eased alongside the ship, and ropes were thrown across the thin gap. From what he had heard, the Gondorians were to be transfered to the vessel nearing his own, and then transported... somewhere. Probably back to Doran, wherever he had hidden himself on the wide ocean. Graring was quite angry that his "leader" had missed two large battles, conveniently protecting himself from any possible danger.

Time passed, and the last of the prisoners had crossed over to their destination. They were lucky, actually; their new prison was larger and more better stocked than the Might of Realge. Their journey to their doom, at least, would be comfortable. For the battle was finally over.

[Nuranar]

The Yonder Bound’s brig was undeniably bigger than the Might of Realge’s, but the murky darkness didn’t disguise how cramped it still was. The North Wind’s crew – what was left of it – numbered barely twenty, and all wounded at least slightly. Still too many for this hole, Calnan winced as a sudden roll of the ship threw someone into his knee. But there were more important things to think about now. He leaned over and said softly in Telson’s ear, “Just wait.”

The Gondorian’s head snapped around and he positively glared at Calnan, the officer about to bite the head off an insolent soldier. Then, recollecting himself, he grew wary, then innocently puzzled. “Wait for what?” he inquired.

Calnan smiled to himself. He knew Telson had mentally classed him with Devon and Callath as mere “boys,” perhaps brave and skillful, but inexperienced and with a lot to learn. Calnan was two and three years older than the others, and Telson’s attitude amused him. A boy he might still be, but between a seventeen-year-old boy and a twenty-year-old boy there could be a vast difference. He had seen Telson awake from his emotional stupor in the Might’s hold, seen his eyes, measured and intense, minutely examine every inch of the brig, seen the resolve grow in his face as he sat in thought. He knew what the silent Gondorian was planning. “You know what I mean,” he answered, still softly. “Any chance is better than none, and right now that’s all you’ve got.”

Telson didn’t answer for a moment, then whispered, “And what would you call any chance?”

Calnan was ready for this. “Waiting until this storm hits, then breaking out. As it is, you’d be spitted by the first corsair you’d meet – if you could get it open before they saw you – but any degree of confusion works for us.”

Telson nodded, then frowned. “What storm?”

“When they were taking us over here, remember how hot it was, how calm the sea was? And now . . . ” He shrugged and glanced around. The ship was beginning to roll, heavily, erratically. They heard running feet and faint shouts above them, even over the growing creak and groan of the timbers. “Unless I imagined that bank of clouds on the horizon, they’ll be in for it and we’ll have as much chance as we can hope for.”

~ * ~ * ~

Their chance came some two hours later. Apparently the ship’s captain had given up trying to hold his course, and they were all but running before the wind. The rolling was less, but the pitch of the deck was terrifying. Calnan had been showing more confidence to Telson than he had actually felt, and the violence of a serious storm at sea appalled him. Telson was in no mood to take him to task for it, though; the man’s seasickness had returned with a vengeance.

From the confusion of noise that filtered down, he guessed they had already lost part of one mast. They had to get out, and fast, but it looked like the corsairs were going to make sure they’d go down with the ship.

CRACK! A splintering groan shuddered through the ship; a few seconds later, the deck canted violently to starboard. “That’s a mast!” cried someone. The few corsairs remaining below dashed up the gangway. As the ship’s rolling redoubled, irregular and horrible, water began running in between the creaking timbers. “We’re going to sink!”

Calnan grabbed Telson’s shoulders. “Come on, man, they’re gone!" Telson tried to rise, then slipped as the deck fell sickeningly. White and trembling, he felt in his pocket and pulled out the rusty nail Calnan had seen him fish from between two planks back on the Might. Snatching it as he held it out, Calnan awkwardly struggled across to the door of the brig, hooked one foot through the bars, and began to bring his tool into play. He’d picked locks before, but never with – The sea gave a lurch and threw him into the door, then tossed him back and he all but lost his grip. This is impossible! he gasped to himself. It would take all his strength just to hang on.

Suddenly a body hurled into him. Two arms, thrust through the bars, held tight and pinned him into the door. “I’ll give you as long as I can!” an urgent voice said in his ear.

Calnan’s hands were already busy with the lock. The ship’s writhing worsened, but stabilized by whoever was behind him, he concentrated on opening that door.

Finally the bolt shot back with a snap, and the heavy door swung open, dragging Calnan with it. There was a ragged cheer and a rush for the companionway. Recovering his balance, Calnan turned and recognized Sedal. “Thank you, sir,” he panted.

“Don’t mention it,” the surgeon said, extricating his arm from the door. “Come on!”

The uproar and confusion on deck was overpowering. The corsairs, fully occupied with trying to keep their ship afloat, were totally unprepared for the assault of the furious Gondorians. Within seconds an all-or-nothing brawl broke out, fighting with fists, pieces of wreckage, anything to hand.

The ship itself was already a wreck: One mast was entirely gone, one was but a jagged-ended spar innocent of yards or sails, and the remnant of the third, with one loose sail snapping in the wind, was threatening to capsize them. And the ship had taken a lot of water. Even Calnan could tell that the she was riding far lower that she should.

A cry came from aft as the helmsman lost his grip on the wheel. The ship yawed slowly to starboard. Now the waves which they had been riding began to strike the ship’s side, driving it over to port. Audible even above the storm, the timbers creaked and snapped; the groaning deck seemed to ripple. “Abandon ship!” someone called. “She’s breaking up!” Panic-stricken, some corsairs scrambled for the ship’s boat and tried to cut it free.

Calnan glanced wildly around deck and seeing Devon, tried to make for him, but the next great wave, breaking over the deck, swept him over the side. He finally surfaced, swam desperately for a spar floating nearby. The ship was now fifty yards behind him; he turned to it just in time to see the port rails dip under and stay. There was no sign of the boat, and few men were still clinging to the deck. Where was Devon? With his bad arm he wouldn’t last long in the water. Calnan tried to heave himself up on the spar, frantically scoured the waves around him – nothing. And when he turned back – nothing. The Yonder Bound was gone.

[Himaran]

Graring coughed up heaves of salt water for the second time in under a week; after being transfered to the Younder Bound for guard duty, the ship had hit a bad gale and was sunk. Now, he had been washed up on a sandy beach while rivers of foul-tasting ocean brine virtually shot from his lungs and stomach. It took nearly a half hour for the corsair to recover himself, and then the realization began to sink in:

He was stranded!

Alone on a deserted island, with no one looking for him. Most who knew him would believe he died in the Diy, and now two other boats had been sunk... he could be considered dead on three different vessels. A poor chance, if he hoped for a search party!

The corsair walked along the shore for several hours. It was morning, maybe nine o'clock; a beautiful sunrise had nearly finished its journey. Looking inland, Graring saw a variety of trees and schrubery. There was no sign of human life; only birds, lizards and the occasional snail on the beach.

But then, coming over the next dune, the corsair saw a group of men, coughing up water as he had done previously. Gondorians! Probably the prisoners from his last boat; although they were not in captivity any longer. They would kill him if he was found... the corsair thought so, at least. He hid himself in some tall grass and watched them, seeing what their next reaction would be.

Then a thought occured to him. Maybe, since his prize had disappeared, Doran would come looking. If he followed them, Graring might be rewarded handsomely for information. He would just stay around and behind them, stealing food weapons and other items he needed. Without getting caught, of course!

[Durelin]

Rakein's body felt as if it was rocking back and forth, and as his mind crept back into consciousness, the soft warmness pressed against his cheek did not fit. Never had the floorboards of the ship been soft, much less warm. But with growing consciousness, his memory jolted, and so did his body. His eyes opened abruptly to the sound of waves crashing against and shore, and to the feeling of icy cold water running swiftly farther and farther up his body. Scrambling away from the water, with it nearly impossible for him to find his grip as the soft sand of the beach let his lifeless arms fall deep into the warmth. He would have kept his arms in that warmth if the rest of his wet body were not shivering from the cold.

Though Rakein's memory had awakened with the rest of him, there was little to be remembered. And there was none that he wished to be remembered. The last though he had had was that he would swallow the entire ocean up before he drowned, but then everything had blurred and darkened as his eyes were forced shut. As he drew himself up in an attempt to crawl up the beach once again, his stomach literally sloshed around within him. Rakein promptly emptied his stomach of the ocean. After all the seas were out of him, it seemed that many other things inside him had gone with them. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand was even a struggle.

He pulled his legs up as close to his chest as he could, holding them in his arms, so that the water reached only up to his ankles. As he waited for the warmth to bring life back into his body, Rakein studied his surroundings, only ever moving his head slowly so as not to stir his sodden mind. It truly was sad that this sand felt so soft... His eyes stopped upon a large lump a good fifteen yards away from him. He was glad it was a safe distance away and was not moving. Since there was little else around him that was recognizable as anything but debris, his heart had risen to the thought that maybe, swallowing the ocean had been worth it, to be finally rid of his captors.

But his mind was not that numb, even now. There was no way all of them had died while he had lived. All the corsairs could not have died, leaving his Gondorian brothers and himself free of the terror, and free to take revenge. And where else would they be but somewhere else on this beach. And what if this was an island? There would be no escaping, then. The cold in his body was now realized, and Rakein lay there shivering, trying vainly to control his shaking to conserve his energy. No escaping? Even while still on the ship, under the watchful eye of some scurvy, roguish rat of a man, he had had hopes of escape, or even of rescue. Weren't his chances improved now that the enemies’ ship was gone and they were all scattered, or dead?

Rakein's resolution warmed his limbs more than any sun soaked sand would in a hundred years. He pulled himself up onto his hands and knees and made his way toward the green that lay before his eyes. A large mass of green was a promising place to make his chances of escape even greater. His sodden clothes were already making his chances lessen, and so he decided to take his chances with the large form twenty yards away. Sure enough, even when his shaking arm reached cautiously over him, the man did not stir.

Shearing off his pants from just above the knee with the knife he had acquired, Rakein was only slightly surprised that he did no more than shiver at the fact that an obviously dead man was lying next to him. And that made him shiver all the more. Now that his legs were free to move, the going was much easier up the beach, and it helped that he now felt the muscles in his arms and legs. The death grip on a hard leather handle was, sadly, yet another hope of survival. Even if all those men were still alive, Rakein would be as free enough to take his revenge. And, oh, was that a lovely thought.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Callath lay on his left side, his arms and legs sprawled although he lay as though asleep. The sun beat down unheeded on the side of the face and limbs of a body that seemed far older by the scars ad bruises now on it; the scar running slanted over one eyebrow, covered by a few wet strands of hair, the wide, dark bruise high on one cheek, fingers and arms marked with petty cuts and, of course, the bloody wreck made of the back of his right hand... And yet, the boy looked more young and peaceful as he lay on the shore, as if asleep, than he had done in many weeks.

Feeling something brush his face, sharp, pricklings points with a drag of a sharp edge, Callath awoke suddenly with a loud gasp, grabbing in one hand whatever first came to it as he scrambled back. A second later though, he winced and, with another gasp now of pain, he fell back onto his hands as searing pain shot through his right. Clutching it with the other hand, he looked around wild-eyed for whatever had touched him...and saw his attacker, there on the sand before him, looking at him as if he was quite mad.

A crab. Little pincer-like feet and one broken leg dragging, the serated edge sharp...

Closing his eyes, Callath groaned and, despite his situation, he grinned a little. But his hand meant his respite did not last long and, as another stab of pain shot through it as he moved the fingers, he winced a little and examined it gingerly. The seawater had cleaned it a little, but...

Things suddenly flooded back to Callath:

The panic-stricken cries and yells as the boat veered again and a sickening crunch sounded from beneath, a prolonged, downed-out dragging noise - the ship's bottom hitting and sliding along the shallow bottom. Callath stood unsteadily, stumbling over to the door of the hold. He had been beaten for his troubles earlier, the same pirate coming back to jeer and challenge him to a fight while he couldn't fight back. Around him now, the Gondorians were up to their knees in water already as it flooded in through cracks in the walls, cracks that were now turning to gashes through which water was pouring in.

Callath was knocked to the floor as another sudden movement sent several men stumbling into him and he floundered, panic-stricken, for a few seconds...when he got up, the bolt had been broken, he didn't know how, and he darted out of it as quickly as possible. Looking back, shaking his head and blinking against the sharp, stinging salt-water in his eyes, he looked for Devon...Calnan...Telson...Luc (who he hadn't seen since mid-battle)...Sedal....

Another sailor shoved him out of the way as he stood blocking the door, all of them now desperate to get out of the sinking ship. Hopelessly, Callath was pushed with them, lingering for as long as possible before he too had to follow.

Reaching the deck...a reverberating, stinging blow across the side of the head...falling, half-sideways, half-backwards, through the air...something wrapped around his feet, pulling him down...

Touching the side of his head gingerly, Callath did indeed find the place where what must have been a falling sail or piece of mast had struck him, knocking him overboard. And as for what had wrapped around his ankle: one of the rat-lines maybe, if the mast had fallen? All he had remembered at the time had been the sheer panic...

"Don't move," a cold voice commanded. "Gondorian or corsair?"

Callath looked up sharply, ignoring the command, his vivid green eyes taking in a man a few years older than himself, his trousers cut off at the knees and seaweed still adorning one shoulder. However, one detail was rather more vital: he was holding a sword. Callath suddenly felt angry: they were on a beach, the gods only knew where, not a ship - this man could not command him now! Common sense didn't seem to feature much in this logic but Callath struggled back up to a sitting position, pushing the wet, straggled strands of darkened blonde hair from his eyes.

"Do I look like a bloody corsair to you, mate?" he replied tersely.

The man seemed to visibly relax and held out his right hand to pull Callath up. The stable boy eyed it for a second then smiled wryly, holding his limp right hand stiffly in explanation as he got to his feet himself. "Best not, thanks..."

Glancing around, Callath saw several other figures on the beach: there were about a dozen as far as he could see, but the beach curved quite sharply and there could be more. Several were obviously Gondorian, but...the stable boy stiffened and he reached once more for his absent sword. "Corsairs!" he hissed at the other. The man nodded grimly. "Mainly dead, but aye, they were stranded with the rest of us."

Callath looked back once again to his new companion, squinting against the sun, then bent a little to remove with some difficulty one boot to pour out the water and worrying amount of debris that had become caught in it. "Are Devon and Cal-" he stopped. He didn't think he really recognise this man, why would he know the names of his friends? "Sorry, can I ask your name?"

[Himaran]

Graring watched the small group of Gondorians huddle around their fire. A cool wind had begun to blow over the beach, and the corsair's wet frame was soon chilled to the bone. He had to get out of their sight, and light his own fire. Or find another group of his own forces, hopefully.

The corsair's wish was soon fulfilled. After sneaking away from his adversaries, Graring headed down the beach in a jog. Within a half-hour, he spotted light up ahead. A second campfire! Moving in slowly, and hugging the treeline for cover, he could make out several of the figures warming themselves by the open flames. Corsairs - at last! "Harhar! So ye made it at last!"

Graring strod up to the campfire. The corsairs, at first alarmed, lowered their weapons and allowed him to approach without question. "You from the Diy, one asked. Alarmed that someone from his old ship had survived, Graring nodded.

"I wus at first. But I got picked up by another vessel. They sunk three of ours before we got them. But they've landed down the coast! Not an hour's walk. An' we can hit em before they hit us, capture em. I know how to sneak up on em! Then Doran 'ol come an' pick em up!"

The corsairs were all wet, cold and tired, but the prospect of revenge --both for the slaughter on the Diy and the sinking of several other ships-- was greater than all. Roars of agreement surged through the small camp, and the corsairs (numbering nearly a dozen) began to gather their few weapons and prepare for a final battle.

[Nuranar]

Calnan’s faded and torn blue shirt had dried in the afternoon sun – the weather of the southern latitudes routinely changed from hurricane to drought, it seemed – but now it provided no protection from the chilly land breeze. Flat on his stomach, bare hands and feet pushing him, he inched down the beach with a mere whisper of sound. He had lost his boots at sea.

Wreckage had strewn the beach where he’d washed up, but the first indication of other life had been a pinpoint of red light that appeared shortly after sunset. That meant a fire: at least one other survivor. Corsair or Gondorian? Until he knew, Calnan was taking no chances. He had moved silently along the edge of the trees for a while, then began to crawl. Whoever was at the fire would be able to see nothing anyway, with his eyes dazzled by the light. Still, Calnan wanted to offer no upright silhouette against the luminescence of the surf. He was more afraid of a sentry than whoever was at the fire, and there was no cover on the beach. No rocks, no dunes, nothing.

By now, carefully avoiding a direct look at the fire, he could discern Devon. Closer – there was Telson. Some of the others he recognized, some he didn’t, but none looked like corsairs. So they probably were not recaptured. And he had neither heard nor seen any hint of a sentry; foolish of his friends, but it had make his approach less dangerous. Calnan rose and hobbled forward, quietly as was his wont, but without taking any extra care to be quiet.

He was within thirty feet when a man, gazing vacantly into the darkness, saw him. “Hold there, you!” He rose and came forward. “Who are you?”

Calnan squinted uncertainly at him, then his eyes widened. “Is that you, Callath?” His friend’s features were haggard and pinched in the flickering light, his gestures slow and tired. It was a terrible caricature of the carefree stable-boy he knew, with his keen, merry expression and his spry, easy movements.

Callath’s face mirrored Calnan’s. “Calnan!” he gasped, then recovered. “Where’ve you been?” he demanded. “Lot of consideration for others you show!”

Calnan stepped into the firelight. “If you must know, Master Harres, I’ve been checking on how good a watch you keep. I can’t say much for it, seeing how close I came,” he teased, trying to hide his relief. Callath looked much the worse for wear and clearly wasn’t feeling too great, but he’d lost none of his spirit. Calnan looked around the circle, felt his heart glow as he recognized Devon, pale but firmly grasping a short blade. Telson stood next to him, tired but carrying himself more confidently than he had since they had left Umbar. Probably because he’s back on dry land! There was a boy – Rilgari, he now remembered – with one arm in a sling. The man next to Callath nodded to him and spoke.

“I am Rakein.” He grinned as Calnan narrowed his eyes trying to remember. “Carpenter’s mate.”

“Oh! Very good.” His glance continued around the fire, saw Sedal lying on the ground, a coat over him, eyes closed. Orda crouched by his side. “Is he hurt bad?” The boy nodded, fear in his eyes. Joy gone, Calnan felt sick. Sick with heartache. Sick with grief. He’d been trying to quell thought of those who weren’t there, just as he’d been quelling thought of those they’d already lost. How many weary days had it been? There was still no time. And if he opened the door even a crack, he’d be completely useless. He forced himself to face the problem.

“We need to find shelter, or make it. Has anyone seen any rocks or –” He broke off. First things first. “Wait, we still need sentries. If we’ve survived, so have corsairs.”

Callath interrupted. “Rakein and I saw some corsairs on the beach down there a ways,” he said, pointing in the opposite direction. “They’ll be coming for us.”

“Aye,” Rakein agreed. “They’ll be blaming us for the loss of their ship, no doubt. We need to be ready,” he said. There was an eager glint in his eye.

Calnan nodded. “All the more reason for a couple lookouts. Telson,” he looked across the fire, “please go down the tree line in that direction” – he gestured toward where the corsairs were – “about twenty yards and stay there. Stay quiet and don’t look at the fire – watch for movement, but more than that listen. These are corsairs, not woodmen.” The Gondorian rose wearily, but nodded and smiled as he turned away. “Rilgari, would you please do the same, but go back the way I came?” The boy was startled but automatically saluted before slipping into the darkness.

“I saw some big rocks in there a little way before the sun set,” Devon said, pointing into the jungle. “Maybe we can make a defensive position there?”

“Anything would be better than this,” Calnan said. “This fire can be seen for miles down the beach, and who knows how far out to sea.” He was vaguely surprised at Devon asking approval of an idea before carrying it out, but he had no time to waste on reflection. “Please show me where. You come too, Rakein. We might need a carpenter. Callath, please stay here; don’t feed the fire more than you have to to keep it alive.”

~ * ~ * ~

When the sun rose the next morning, they were established on the side of a low ridge of rocks, pointing out toward the sea. A little stream of fresh water ran down it from the highlands. The ridge itself was broken enough to afford a little cover for their sentries, especially for the one overlooking the other side of the ridge, but not enough to allow their enemies to approach unseen. Hidden under a minuscule overhang, Sedal was sheltered as much as possible from both scorching sun and chill night wind. The surgeon had a couple broken ribs and was taking it as easy as he could. Under his direction, Orda and Calnan had wrapped his ribs with strips torn from the coat’s lining; it wasn’t much, but provided a little stability.

As far as weapons went, Devon and Telson between them had managed to obtain a dirk and hang onto it through the long hours at sea. Rakein had a knife, taken from a corsair body. And Orda, grinning, had produced a small ship’s ax from his belt. Boylike, he had refused to tell where he’d gotten it, although Calnan suspected he’d swiped it from the deck of the Yonder Bound and had been too stubborn to lose his prize in the sea.

However come by, the ax had proved most useful. The trees were a relatively open forest of tropical hardwoods, not the jungle Calnan had feared. Despite the dark, Rakein had mysteriously obtained a number of young trees, and he and Calnan had trimmed off branches to make rough pikes. Calnan knew how to use his as a quarterstaff, and Telson remembered a little from his training. Devon, Callath, and Rilgari, one-armed as they were, had the edged weapons; Orda had been surprisingly possessive about the ax and only surrendered it to Callath when he had promised to defend Sedal.

An hour after sunrise, Calnan was lookout at the top when he heard “Calnan! Come here!” Immediately he slid down to Callath, who had been standing sentry out toward the beach. “They’re coming, the corsairs!”

“How many?”

“Just a few – five, maybe six. I heard them where our fire was, then they seemed to be coming nearer.”

Calnan nodded. “Yes, they’ll be following our tracks. Hard to hide anything in that sand.” Quickly he and Callath roused those who were resting – Callath had already called in the other sentry – and had them hide behind the rocks.

Soon they heard the crash and snap of seamen blundering their way through a forest. Calnan, motionless, waited for them to emerge into the clearing along the ridge. “Now!”

Rakein, Telson, and Calnan charged down from the rocks onto the startled corsairs, shouting for all they were worth. Disappointed at finding the Gondorians gone from their fire, angry at Graring, and disoriented from hacking their way through the wilderness, the corsairs were taken entirely by surprise. Giving one a vicious crack alongside the head, Calnan whirled his staff and stabbed the blunt end into another’s throat.

He stumbled and gasped as something burned along his side. The staff jabbed itself into the ground and sprang from his hand as he fell. Rolling over, he heard the whoosh and stab as a blade gouged the ground where he had lain. The man looming over him was one of the few who had a sword – and Calnan had nothing. He crouched, ready to dodge again; his only hope was to get into the trees.

There was a swift movement on the edge of his vision as a figure leapt forward and attacked the startled corsair. Even as he reached for his staff, Calnan was astonished to recognize Meri Loliway. Getting to his feet, he made to circle around behind the enemy, but the woman’s skill was lightning fast and as deadly as ever. He had taken only a step when she feinted and ran the man through.

Without the clash of swords, the clearing fell silent. Four corsairs lay on the ground, three dead – one from suffocation, Calnan’s work – and the other unconscious. Apparently the others had fled. But no, there was Devon climbing down from the rocks, smiling triumphantly, dirk red with blood. A corsair had fled in the wrong direction.

Rakein had disappeared, probably following whoever had escaped. Telson and Avershire, who apparently had appeared with Loliway, were making their way back to the rocks. Callath was perched up top, taking another sentry shift.

Loliway extended her hand to Calnan. “It’s good to see you, Dontal.” Gone was the aloofness, the hardness of the proud and pitiless warrior. Instead, the genuine warmth and care of comradeship shone in her eyes – along with a hint of apology.

Calnan grasped her hand firmly and smiled. “And it’s good to see you, Loliway.” He meant it with all his heart.

~ * ~ * ~

Rakein reported that a single corsair had fled into the forest, apparently panic-stricken. The corsair prisoner had apparently suffered a serious concussion from Telson’s blow and was quite incoherent when he regained consciousness. No one had been injured except for Calnan, and except for the bloody lip and bruised knuckles Rakein had earned in a glorious brawl with the escaped corsair.

Why didn’t you go after the one with the sword first? Calnan berated himself. You know better than that! His mistake hadn’t been too costly. The wound was shallow but bloody, and he regretted most the loss of his ragged shirt, torn up into a bandage under Sedal’s direction. He didn’t mind – much – under the blazing sun, but he would sorely miss it when the sun went down.

Avershire came stumping back from sentry-go. “We need to get out of here,” he declared. “We need to find a boat, or make one if there’s no one else here.”

Devon frowned, opened his mouth, then stopped. He glanced at Calnan, who understood. Avershire was no longer the ship’s captain over them. Their job was to stop Doran, not to get back to civilization as soon as possible; but Devon was out of ideas.

“We need to stay here,” Calnan said quietly. Avershire stopped, amazed at both the opposition and the deliberate omission of “sir.” “If there are more corsairs we need to be ready for them. Without weapons we’re in no condition to defend ourselves without a position, even if we were all at full strength.” He saw Loliway looking at him, but ignored her. “And Doran’s not going to rest until he knows we’re dead. Corsairs survived the wreck, corsairs will tell him where to find us. If we move, it’ll only be to a better position.”

“Calnan’s right,” Devon said clearly. “We’re sticking this out.”

Avershire was pale with anger. Calnan and Devon stood their ground. Callath, then Telson came to them, silently adding their support. Slowly but deliberately, Rilgari and Rakein joined them; Orda scurried over from Sedal. Avershire’s eyes flicked over to where he sat, carefully propped up against the rocks. The surgeon’s brown eyes were steady and held, Calnan thought, just a hint of a rebuke.

Meri Loliway sat on a rock, unmoving. Avershire looked at her, but she neither supported nor opposed. She merely waited.

The sea captain clenched his fists and set his jaw. After a long five seconds, he purposefully relaxed, took a deep breath, and nodded in decision. “Very well, Mr. Dontal. We will fight this out.” He paused, smiled grudgingly. “Even to the bitter end.”

[Earendil Halfelven]

The storm lasted for hours. The sea raged and ranted beneath the harsh gales, throwing the ships to and fro. But they sustained no casaulties, only minor damage to the ships. The sun had just come out when a man yelled out, "Man overboard!" The crew of the Rapscallion rushed to the sides to see who the unfortunate soul was. Acacia was the first to confirm what Doran was thinking.
"He's not one of our crew," she said. "Nor does he even look like a corsair. He looks Gondorian to me, like one of the folk near the city of Minas Tirith."
"Your probably right," Doran replied. "Men, get that man on this ship at once!"
__________________________________________

The man identified himself as Mayne of Captain Avershire's crew. He was a survivor of the battle against the Regal Dawn and Might of Realge but had been lost when the ship sank that he was a prisoner on. Doran figured that the storm had blown him in their direction. He spent two hours interrogating the man named Mayne, trying to piece together what happened. After that time, Doran knew the fate of his three ships, but not the fate of the men who crewed them. Nor did he know the fate of his opponents.
Mayne was obviously very tired and weary from his ordeal in the ocean and was giving away plenty of answers.
"The ship that the prisoners were on was more westward of this position. All I remember was that there was an island in the distance. It wasn't very far though."

"Was it the only island in the area?" Doran asked.

"Yes, I think so," Mayne replied. "At least I don't remember any others."

Doran nodded. "Jurex, have this man taken below. He can keep our dear Adeline company." Jurex nodded and he and two other crewman took Mayne below decks. Doran headed up to the deck.
"Acacia! Set our course due west until we see the nearest island. We can check for corsair survivors there, and we might even find somebody else," he said with a smile.

"Yes sir, Captain Doran," Acacia replied.
__________________________________________________ _____

The spotted the island and stayed three miles out and waited until dusk. Doran knew that there would be more than just corsair survivors on the island, if this was the island nearest the battle sight. Doran wanted to wait until nightfall, in case they had to surprise anybody.

Finally, it was dark.

He was in the lead boat as he and 20 corsairs from the ships rowed silently towards the island. They were making good speed towards the shore and soon they would be on land. He glanced behind him into the dark. He couldn't see any definite shapes but he could hear the soft sounds of the many oars dipping into the water. He took a deep breath and let it out softly. He and his men were ready for battle.

Suddenly, the speed of the boat was slowed as the quiet, grating sound of sand underneath the boat muttered from beneath him. The sounds of the other boats came to his ears. They were all ashore.

"Draw swords," he whispered. Amid the quiet ring of the metal, he added, "Follow behind me men and stay quiet. We might find some of our own men here so do not attack unless I give the command."
And with that said, Doran led his men on the final hunt.

[Durelin]

Once again, the 'little miss' was to remain on the ship while anything of importance went on elsewhere. This time elsewhere was actually off the ship, but still she was to remain in a small little closet of a cabin till Doran returned, with the Gondorians as prisoners and the island taken. The man was the pinnacle of men and their arrogance, a prime example! He had the nerve to already claim a victory, as well as call her little miss! Whatever had happened to 'Lady Adeline' and being a gentleman of highest esteem? It seemed different rules applied for the gentleman sea captain. He had called her such a horrendous name when giving her the order for her to remain aboard, and under guard, of course.

Adeline tried to study the situation for a possible escape. She wished to take advantage of the fact that any battling would be going on on the island and not on the ship. And there was also the fact that those who guarded her were the least capable of the crew, if they were not wanted on the battlefield. It was easy enough to recognize the advantages found in a situation, but how to use them had rarely been determined by Adeline, particularly never when taking hold of these advantages was of greatest importance. Her brain was resisting her command to think.

Her stomach growled as she sat on the ground, and the guard sitting on a stool, his head nodding, his mind moving in and out of sleep, sat up straight, eyes open. "Is the little miss hungry?" he said with a yellow grin. The dolt had found her disgust at being called that quite amusing. She hoped the amusement would fade soon. She looked up at him, and kept a smile off her face. Her brain had finally acknowledged her command, and what it had come up with was worth a try. "I'm starving, and your Captain told you to keep me alive, didn't he?"

The man mocked her with another grin and a phoney salute, but he actually did leave to get her whatever edible substance could be found on the ship. Adeline did not look forward to what he brought back. But, hopefully, by the time he got back, she would have fully taken advantage of this situation. There was still the guard outside, and others on the ship: most likely a good number patrolling the deck. The cabin the held her in was an inner cabin, and so there was not even a small porthole. Unfortunately, Adeline failed to add all this up and see that the odds were fully against her. Instead, she simply made her way to the small table behind the guard's stool. Upon it were eating utensils, one of which was a knife. Feeling the edge, Adeline was heartened by its sharpness.

Quietly she stepped over the creaking floorboards to the door of the cabin that opened into a small hallway. She turned the knob and slowly pushed it open. The guard on the other side suddenly was visible; he must have rose from his seat in front of the door. The turned to look at Adeline, his eyes wide with surprise and filled with anger. "What'r you do-"

The man stopped short as Adeline's knife ran into his throat, the force crushing it rather than slitting it. Adeline watched in horror as the man's mouth began to turn a deep red, and he fell to the floor, his body still moving, rithing from the pain. She stood with her eyes fixed on the man, no matter how sick it made her stomach feel. And she still stood there when the man came down the ladder with the food she had asked for.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Alone awake by the fire, Callath sat completely immobile, for all the world seeming carved from stone as he stared steadily into the fire. Around him, propped against stones, lying on driftwood or just sprawled across the sand, was what remained of Avershire's crew. He whistled quietly to himself in the silence, a luxury he hadn't had on the ship due to the superstitious sailors, absently tossing a stick between his hands, although rather gingerly in his right.

"Callath?"

The Gondorian youth whirled around, on his feet in a second with the stick in his hand, pointing towards the voice. As the flashes in his vision caused from looking into the fire for so long cleared, he recognised Rilgari, the young sailor looking slightly bemused. "Callath, it's Rilgari," the sailor said softly.

"Just as well, I couldn't see a thing," came the ironical reply as Callath flashed a quick grin at the other. He and Rilgari had become closer on the last few days on the ship, and now on the shore they were easier together, friendship coming quite easily as they were of the same age and background. Rilgari had, he said, joined Avershire's crew two years ago when he was sixteen - now eighteen, he was a year older than Callath, but had also, coincidentally, worked around horses alot when he was younger, tending and training his father's stallions. However, the quiet sailor didn't have the same temperment as the wild stallions he would have broken in - seemed as far from it as possible, really. The ever-affable Callath had taken an instant liking to him.

"My watch?" he continued. Rilgari nodded and Callath stretched, shaking his hands to get rid of the cramp then feeding the stick he had been playing with to the fire. As he passed Rilgari, he paused though, turning to look back at the other as he paused. "You...you didn't see anything of...of Luc did you?" he asked, hopefully. The older boy hadn't been seen since they'd come ashore and Callath knew that hope was almost pointless. But he refused to give up: until there was proof that Luc had gone down with the ships, Callath would stubbornly - foolishly - cling onto the hope that he hadn't drowned.

Rilgari paused, then turned slowly. He looked about to say something else, a pained expression flickering like the flames across his pale face, before he shook his head. "No, Callath. No sign of him," he replied, simply.

"Not yet, right?" Callath gave a lopsided smile, before turning away. Behind him he heard Rilgari's pause, then the boy raised his voice to call after Callath. "No, not yet...not yet..."

Shaking his head at his own stupidity, Callath stuck his hands into his pockets and began up the sanddunes to the point Rilgari had been watching from: an isolated perch, hidden from the beach and from the enclave where the crew where sitting. The dunes surrounded the sailors on three sides: this would put them at a disadvantage had Calnan not taken it into account in his stride as well, and placed a watch on all three sides, so they would not be ambushed. Indeed, their newly assumed leader would be coming down from his watch in about half an hour: they weren't taking breaks all at the same time as this would leave all sides unguarded, even just for a few moments, which would be vital in a battle. Marching up the hill briskly to the rhythm of his own humming and breathing, Callath looked out across the beach and the sea beyond it, still amazed at the vastness of it: in the confines of the walls of Minas Tirith there was nothing so vast and empty. Even the plains of Gondor where he rode as often as he could weren't able to compare. Like a huge beast, from where he stood, Callath mused that the sea seemed asleep now, a monster at rest: beautiful and magnificent, but so able, in one swipe, to take lives...

His booted foot snubbed against something solid as he was about halfway up the dunes and he looked down, disturbed from his musing. His eyes widened immediately and he squatted down beside it to make sure, before pulling the obstacle from the ground, amazed, and examining it. But there was no mistaking the object: he very own sword, Gondor's finest, washed up by some freak coincidence. The sheath was gone, but the sword had been buried in some driftwood - what had once been a ship, odd though that now seemed. Grinning, Callath examined the blade fastidiously for extra scratches or nicks...and something else caught his eye. Sick dread made the pit of his stomach suddenly seem to drop through his boots as he lowered the sword slowly, not wanting to believe his eyes.

A hand lay protruding from the dunes. Not any old hand either: with his sharp eyes, Callath spotted immediately the birth ring on the third finger, beaten copper bearing the runes for a name: "Luc."

Callath whispered the word in dread, then knelt forward, pushing aside the tall grasses that obscured the view of his dreaded discovery, before he leant back on his knees, his hand coming to his mouth as he stared upon the face of his dead friend.

Hand across his mouth, Callath turned and heaved emptily away from his friend's body, unashamed but sickened more by this than by all the wounds and dead men he had seen with Sedal. And with Luc... The thought made Callath look back again, and he pulled the body out a little so he could see Luc's face clearly. Pushing aside from his friend's forehead the swathe of damp, salt-stiffened hair, he felt his eyes fill as dead blue eyes stared back at him. Luc had suffered indeed: looking now more closely, Callath saw the long, deep scar that ran through one of the young man's eyes, cutting the side of his face in half; and more horrifically, how his right arm suddenly ended, stopping dead at his shoulder as if there had never been anything there, the only remanent of the arm from this side being the bloody marks on his clothes and the sand. Callath, numb and frozen, felt a tear slide down his face and pushed it away quickly, wiping fiercely at both his eyes like a little boy afraid to cry. Then, with trembling his trembling, injured right hand, he reached forward with two fingers and closed Luc's eyes.

There was no time for an epitath though. As he sniffed quietly, Callath heard another sound simultaneously and looked up guiltily, remembering his duty. Legging it silently to the top of the dune, he saw with horror what he had most been dreading: the corsairs had arrived.

Swearing repeatedly under his breath, Callath ran back down as quickly as possible, sparing Luc's dead body a last, lingering look as he ran past. "Sorry mate...I'll make it up later, I swear to you..." he muttered regretfully as he passed.

Reaching the camp, he stopped, breathless, to find Calnan with Rilgari, having come down early or something. They both spun around to look at the stable boy, along with Orda, also now awake.

"Corsairs!" Callath panted urgently. "Corsairs on the beach!"

[Himaran]

Graring watched the Gondorian encampment from the shelter of the dense woods. He was the lone survivor of the battle, assuming that the prisoner had died overnight. Where was Doran? He had to arrive soon, or Graring would either die of starvation or be forced to surrender.

______________________________________

Jurex and the other corsairs moved their way up the beach. The jungle night was hot and stuffy, unlike the fresh breeze of the sea. The corsair was already hot and tired, but kept his eyes and ears open. A reward could easily be in his grasp, one that would turn his leaders favor in his direction.

Then he saw the shape. Jurex quickly wispered in Doran's ear, "Sir, look at that tree over to the right slowly. Don't make a sudden move." Jythralo followed his instructions, and a grin spread over his face. It disappeared however, when the shape bolted out of cover and dashed down the beach; away from its adversaries.

"After him," Doran yelled. And the corsairs broke into a hot pursuit.

[Nuranar]

Relieved early by a wide-awake Rakein, Calnan had stumbled back to the fire. Lying down in its grateful warmth – the wind was off the sea tonight – he was instantly more than half asleep.

"Corsairs! Corsairs on the beach!"

Calnan’s eyes popped open. Doran! He leapt to his feet as Callath dashed up to the fire. "Everybody up!"

The quiet camp burst into activity as the others were jerked from sleep and readied themselves. Meri Loliway, sword in hand, materialized from the darkness where she'd been lookout, even as Rakein came sliding back down the slope. Calnan grasped Orda by the shoulder. "Do you remember what I told you?"

"Aye aye, sir!" He hurriedly concealed himself in a nest of rocks. Behind him lay Sedal, screened by the boulders and a convenient tangle of brush. Stay in front of Mr. Sedal, but stay hidden, Calnan had charged him after the first attack. If any corsairs come towards him, yell first to let us know, then try to stop them. But yell first!

The battle cries and noise of the corsairs came near, although they still hidden in the tangle of tall bushes that backed the dunes. Dirk in hand, Devon called, "Come on, let's get 'em!"

"No, wait!" Calnan urged. "Wait til they have the light in their eyes." Even as he spoke, the first corsairs burst out, only to pause in the sudden brightness of the campfire. Grasping this tiny advantage of the surprise, the Gondorians met them with a rush.

Calnan found himself up against a wiry little man with a heavy cutlass. As the blade came down, Calnan swung his staff up under the blow, shoving the man’s arm away and breaking his elbow in the process. As the corsair staggered, the other end of the staff caught him alongside the head and he completed his fall. Dropping the staff, Calnan snatched the cutlass from his limp grasp.

Avershire was dueling furiously with Doran himself. Callath was wielding his sword with an enthusiasm his opponent found most alarming. Wait – sword? Where – A tattooed corsair with a scimitar sprang upon Avershire, double-teaming with Doran. Gold teeth gleaming, he shouted in derision as the doughty Gondorian was forced to give ground.

Calnan lunged forward, catching the scimitar’s blow on his cutlass. Instantly the man wheeled on him. “Well, well - it’s the politician!” he sneered.

The man was vaguely familiar, but Calnan had no time for taunts; this corsair handled his heavy blade with breath-taking speed. Immediately on the defensive, Calnan barely evaded his brutal slashes.

As he backed up, he had to step lightly and carefully over the uneven ground. His hand and arm ached as blow after blow jarred on his cutlass. Blood tickled as it ran down his side. Funny that he hadn’t felt yesterday’s wound tear open.

Bare feet balancing him on the side of a small boulder, Calnan saw his chance. Leaping back off the rock, he half turned as if to flee.. The corsair sprang forward triumphantly, his booted foot landing on the boulder. Immediately it slid from under him as the leather sole found no purchase on the slick granite. Even as he stumbled Calnan was on him. One hard blow, a rapid feint, then a cut over his guard, and the corsair fell with his face masked in blood.

Breath coming in painful gasps, Calnan stumbled out of the boulders - and froze, stricken by the scene before him.

[Earendil Halfelven]

Doran charged in like a rampaging cave troll. Nobody stood in his way. The Gondorians met them fiercely but Doran had plenty of men to lose without losing the battle. Looking around, he saw a man that he decided needed to die. He had the distinct feeling that he had seen this man before and that this man was responsible for the loss of his two ships. Finally, Doran was able to place the man's face with a name-Captain Avershire, the famed Gondorian sea captain.
"Well, well, well," Doran said as he advanced. "If it isn't the famous Captain Avershire."

"And if it isn't the notorious Jythralo Doran," Avershire replied. "I've heard of you."

"And I of you," Jythralo replied. "Sorry, but I'm one of little talk," he said as he lunged forward to kill Avershire.

Avershire blocked and then dodged to the left, swinging his sword to the side. Doran parried the swing and kicked forward, forcing Avershire to give ground. But the Gondorian captain fought back fiercely and Doran started to notice that it was now he that was giving away ground. Doran frowned and began to match Avershire's speed and ferocity. The firelight made their swords glow in the dim night. All around Doran, men fought eachother and died. He could hear the cries of the wounded and the cries of those fighting-his men and the enemy, but all of his attention was focused on Avershire.

Suddenly, another corsair joined in the fight and began to doubleteam with Doran. Avershire struggled to match both men, but he was unable to keep up and to prevent himself from being killed, he was forced to give back more and more ground. The corsair was wild and had no style or technique; he just thrust and stabbed randomly. It was no wonder that finally, when Doran stepped back for another attack, he was able to counter the corsair. Quickly, Avershire kicked his foot out and tripped the corsair, and as the man fell to the ground, Avershire's sword hilt caught up with him and smashed into the man's knocking him down onto the sand. The man coughed and sputtered and blood drizzled out of his mouth where he was hit.

Doran advanced and swing his sword at Avershire's head. Avershire was quick enough to pull the sword out and block but he stepped too close to the dying corsair. The corsair, with a murderous look in his eye, reached out and grabbed Avershire's leg, tripping him. Avershire fell forwards but he twisted around and landed on his back. Doran stepped on Avershire's sword arm, pinning it to the ground; Avershire was defenseless. He lay still as the point of Doran's weapon lay at his throat.

Avershire breathed hard. "It seems as if I'm beat."

Doran smiled. "Yes, it does."
__________________________________________________ ______________

"NO!"
Doran looked up from his victory in time to see Devon jump forward at him with weapon in hand.

"Avershire!" Devon yelled.

Doran's smile grew even wider. "Now this is the boy I've been looking for. Come on, kid. Let's finish this."

Doran advanced. His sword gleamed red with the blood of Avershire as he went to face the ambassador's son.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Callath was overtaken by the battle, in a state where he saw, heard, felt everything so keenly, everything so bright and clear, like a drug, clarifying everything but allowing him to feel no pain. And such battle fury is indeed a dangerous drug.

Thrashing his whole left arm holding the blade out in a wide arc of steel, he sliced clean through a corsair's neck, but barely looked at the man as he fell to the ground. He saw every detail, but somehow it barely seemed to matter... he didn't register it, didn't properly look... Turning, he duelled sharply, agilely for a few seconds with another corsair, an older man of about forty. Such a duel was flashy, a mockey of real fighting, and Callath played up to it, grinning openly as he fought. But it didn't last - finding an opening point, Callath jabbed straight forward at the man's prone chest, darting in then pulling back in the blink of an eye, just as he would when fencing Devon. The man fell, a look of surprise on his face as he died at the boy's feet. Let your guard down, lost some points there... Callath thought giddly as he danced away, his eyes glittering brightly, predatorialy, leaping up to the top of a boulder like a fictional character, dashing. His thoughts were disjointed, barely matching up with what he was seeing and doing, as if a game and deadly real life had converged and he was having trouble working out which was which...but that was just another game...

They killed Luc, the fairground mantra went around and around, over and over, in Callath's head, driving him on, distracted and desperate. They killed Luc, they killed Luc, theykilledluc, theykilledluctheykilledluc...

"Calnan!"

A desperate cry brought Callath back to his senses properly although he did not instantly recognise the voice. A young boy...who was that...

"Calnan! Callath! Devon!" The voice cried again, a desperate cry, then a cry of pain followed. Callath's mind crashed back suddenly into stark reality, out of the strangeness of his mind, and he gasped, whirling around and squinting against the sun as he stomach plunged downwards suddenly and he saw Orda standing against another man, standing awkwardly over Sedal, whose disguise had been ripped away. The stable boy didn't waste a second - the sand was shelfed to the other side of the rock and the drop was about a metre, but the boy didn't even think about it: leaping down, he hit the ground running, darting fluidly around one of his victims, who he now could see in more detail. The sight nearly turned his stomach as he noted the man's head several feet from his body, but there was no time now to worry about what had happened when the fury was upon him. Sprinting towards Orda and Sedal, his knuckles white on the hilt of his sword, he gave a fieresome yell in the hopes of putting off their attacker, a burly, dark man who glistened with gold earrings, built like a brick wall and towering over the thirteen-year-old boy and the prone surgeon. But the man was not to be diverted, and, obviously enjoying himself immensely, he raised the axe - axe?! - he was holding above his head, his tattooed body tensed to bring it down crushingly upon little Orda.

The distance between them was less than three seconds run for Callath, but it might as well have been a million miles for all the difference it would make.

He wouldn't get there in time.

The clear, blunt truth hit Callath like a ton of bricks, but he battled through it, transfering his blade to his right hand, which had ever been the stronger for throwing. Although it was wounded, it wouldn't let him down now. He ran for a second, then, turning sidewards like a spear throwing, his sword lightly balanced in his palm with two fingers behind the cross-section, he did a step-together-step, and released the sword with all the power he possessed.

It spiralled through the air, too fast to be seen, all the power and desperation Callath possessed in it making it more deadly than any other weapon on the beach in that second. Well, almost any other.... As it struck the corsair, he was actually knocked backwards by about a foot by the sheer force, a startled, messy cry emerging from his lips as the sword hit him in the throat. But at the same second, another cry came from over the side of the beach and, recognising it for all the time at sea he had spent in it's company, Callath spun around the see the owner of the voice...on his knees in front of Doran...

[Durelin]

"They're here," Rakein muttered under his breath. He often spoke to himself, especially when distressed, and this was a very distressing moment. He gripped his knife tightly, knowing that this was his only protection. He did not let how scary that was affect him. All that would give him the chance for revenge was a dagger, a belt-knife for cutting lines, which he had thanks to a corsair. Dead though he was, he had been kind enough to wash up on the beach in a convenient place. Rakein smirked at the thought of a dead corsair being convenient, and it helped. A smile always helped. He could make them bleed a little with what he had.

Rakein cut quickly away from the makeshift Gondorian camp, taking cover in the darkness, so that any passing eye would not notice him. Waiting, perfectly still, he looked for a man that drew near enough for Rakein to strike out with greatest effect. But bad luck foiled Rakein's plan, and a man happened to look closely at all his surroundings, his eyes stopping on the figure in the dark. Cursing, Rakein wasted no time, but ran swiftly, dodging around a corsair charging at another Gondorian, and flung the knife as he went. The corsair was caught off-guard by this speed, and though the knife did not aim true, hitting the man in the shoulder, he stood frozen. His eyes were ever widening as Rakein came racing at him.

Finally the man found his ability to move, and he began to reach for the knife in his shoulder, but Rakein sped up in earnest need, and ran his shoulder into the one that contained the knife. The man screamed with pain and fell to the ground, Rakein's body falling on top of him. Again he wasted not a moment, and the Gondorian's hand reached for the knife and pulled it out, then brought it down to the nearest vital region: the head. Rakein could feel the man's body move slightly underneath him for a few moments longer, but it soon stopped. The screaming had been the first thing to stop.

Rakein pulled the knife out of the man's forehead with some difficulty, and found himself exposed to an enemy sword, as his movement had alerted the wielder that Rakein was not dead. Without a second to think, he threw up his knife in a clumsy block of the much larger and stronger sword. A loud crack rang in his ears, and the knife was on the ground. A fire shot up his arm, and his wrist burned cold. Looking down at it, he saw misshapen bone coming from out of his arm. The shock of this made him freeze just as his last enemy had, even though he knew it was a costly mistake. He had never believed that a wrist could brake in such an extreme way. Luckily, neither had his enemy, it seemed.

The two men both looked at each other, their eyes rising from Rakein's wrist. It was Rakein who moved first, once again, and with the pain in his wrist and his desire for revenge driving him, he tossed away all reason and ran his head into the man's stomach and lower chest. His aching head told him that he had hit rib cage. The loud groan escaped from the man's lips, and his mouth and lips were becoming a shining red, but he picked up the sword he had dropped from the blow. Rakein tried to quickly move in on the man again, hopefully dealing the man another hard blow whilst bring him closer to his own knife still on the ground. But the corsair had come to judge his opponent's speed, and though Rakein did his best to dodge the blade, it sliced down his arm, shaving skin off.

The pain caused Rakein to fall forward, but he had managed to get close enough that he knocked the man over in the process. In the few moments while the corsair was tumbling over and recovering from the fall, Rakein groped for his knife, but all he found was warm sand. Then he felt something heavy hit his back in a heavy blow, and the corsair was on top of him. Rakein struggled to roll over, but when he found that the man had him pinned, he positioned his leg so that when brought up it would hit a rather vital spot...

Rakein heard the man yell and felt the body removed from on top of him. He quickly jumped on the corsair, who had let his pain steal away his attention. Rakein found it incredibly easy to grab at the man's throat, but he was not very efficient with one hand, and the corsair gripped both Rakein's hands to bring them away from his throat. The man was very strong, and too strong for Rakein, so before the man could pry off his hand, Rakein jerked them away quickly, ignoring the pain that shot up again from his wrist. The corsair lost his grip in surprise, and the Gondorian's one useful fist was free to strike the man. He fired a blow at the man's face and another at his chest. When Rakein drew back his hands, he found his knuckles covered in blood from the man's nose, which he ignored. Another blow to the face, and another to the side of the corsair's head. The man had blood coming from his nose, mouth, and ears, and yet a roar rose from his mouth and his strong arms pushed Rakein off of him.

Sprawled on the ground, with a throbbing head from a hard blow that had been dealt while he was being thrown off the corsair, Rakein watched as the man rose, quickly for one so large and wounded. Only now did Rakein realize the man's size. He turned his head from side to side, but there was still no sign of his knife. Luckily, there was also no sign of the corsair's sword. The man came rushing at the Gondorian on the ground, obviously trying to use his much greater bulk to do damage to as much of Rakein's body as possible. But Rakein new that he still had an advantage over this man, and so he quickly picked his body up enough with his one hand and his legs to launch himself forward at the man's legs. He grabbed the corsair's ankle, attempting to use both hands, and pulled it up from underneath him. The man tumbled sideways, and a sickening crunch came from the crushing of his head on a large rock.

Rakein rose from the ground, staring at the sand turning red around the bottom of the boulder. Looking around him, he saw that the area was clear for a good distance, and so he took the time to search more for his knife, as well as the corsair's sword. The latter was easy enough to find. It lay a good ways behind the corsair's body. The two men must have landed on it countless times. But Rakein would not give up on his knife. He searched the area behind the man, but only when he drew near to the dead corsair did his eye catch a glint of steel. Looking more closely, he saw that the steel shown through the blood, blood from the dead man's leg, which it now stuck half way out of. Again, Rakein smiled.

Rising with the sword in his hand and the knife tucked away in his ragged pants, the smile helped him gather the strength to move quickly along the beach, to find a familiar face, he hoped. Soon he had his wish, as he stared into the dead eyes of a Gondorian. He did not know the man well, but he had known his name, and that was enough. Luc was his name. Something would not allow him to take his eyes away from the dead man's. They seemed to plead with him, beg him to take revenge. But Rakein had only ever thought of his own revenge. It had never came to his mind that the other prisoners would want the same revenge, would be fighting on the same side as he. Both the men he had killed he had bled for himself. He had felt alone every moment since he realized that it was time to take his revenge. It seemed that, in this case, he had realized that he was not alone much too late.

A sword came down and pierced him in the back of his neck. Rakein screamed in agony as he felt nothing but pain in his entire body. His head wished to burst, as he could not scream loud enough. The pain would not escape through his mouth, and would not cease. It persisted and grew worse, and then, all of a sudden, through the screams and the blood and the sweat, Rakein felt blissfully calm, frozen in an icy world of growing darkness. In that calm, he let the darkness consume him, to protect him from the pain.

~

Adeline let the screams continuously escape from her horrified soul as the man, the man who had just seen her kill his comrade, came nearer, holding up a knife blade. She was not sure whether or not she screamed at the thought of her own death, or the death of the man she had just killed. The man's eyes shined with tears of anger and the hatred in them made her look away. Her eyes came upon the knife point, and the fear choked her. Her scream was cut short. The moment stretched out as she watched the man's steps draw him nearer, and there was complete silence. Then she heard distance shouts. So did the corsair, and he stopped short.

"Avershire!" She discerned the cry as a name. It was not one she recognized, but the voice... All her fears of her own death and her dealing of death faded. Only the thought of Devon filled her mind with frantic fear. The franticness caused her to charge past the man with the knife, too fast for him to react, and up the stairs onto the deck. She ran to the side, and ignored the men on guard that shouted at her. Climbing up on the railing, she took one deep breath and jumped.

She splashed into the cold water, and soon found the bottom beneath her. It was too far down for her to keep her head above the water, but she was able to use it to bring herself up. Hearing the shouts grow louder as she bobbed to the surface once again, she decided to toss away all dignity. She struggled for a moment before she was able to find a seam in her dress, but Adeline was able to tear it off. Being only her underdress, though heavy this was, was considerably lighter, and she found herself swimming toward the shore. She heard a loud splash behind her just as she found that she could stand up, and she redoubled her efforts. Soon she was climbing onto dry land, thankful that it had taken the men on the ship time to decide on a plan of action.

As soon as her ankles were free, she felt a heavy weight lifted from her feet, and she was able to run quickly across the sand on her bare feet, as she had long since lost her shoes. Soon her feet slowed once again, though, as her eyes saw what was before her, a ways off, but clearly visible. Doran stood over someone - she would recognize that man's flaunting arrogance from a mile away. And the man that knelt before him she would never fail to know in a hundred years from a hundred miles away. "Devon!" she cried out in both desperation at seeing him in such a position, and in joy. It was a joy to see anyone she knew again, no matter where, in what position. But even as the cry escaped her mouth, she realized how big of a mistake she had made. But for now, Adeline did not care, as long as Devon was alive and she knew that she had escaped from that ship, her long time prison.

[Himaran]

Graring watched the battle from a distance. He felt strangely detached from it all, like he was on no one's side. He watched without feeling as Jurex was felled, and Avershire's throat was cut by Jythralo. What did he care? Let them all go to the Devil!

Then he saw it. Sails on the horizon. And not of Corsair make, either. In the darkness,Graring could not make out the flags - but he was fairly certain he knew. Gondorian reinforcements. The corsair cause was lost..

Forgetting about his leader, the corsair uprising, his ideals, what he had fought for his entire life, Graing made a quick decision. All that mattered was survival. And so he turned and dashed into the forest.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"You'll pay for that, boy..." the low, threatening mutter caused Callath to spin around, furiously, ready to run the corsair through...but his sword was still buried in the neck of Sedal's attacker. The corsair gave an ugly laugh and, with the strange, many-tailed whip he was holding, thrashed Callath across the side of the face.

With a shout of pain, the boy fell sidewards and backwards, his hand coming to his face as he felt the blood began to well from three gashes across his right cheek where the whip had lashed him. To his fury, he felt tears welling up in his eyes as he propped himself on his elbows, running his tongue around the gums on that side, tasting blood where the force of the lashes had caused the gums to bleed. But looking up, he saw the corsair standing over Sedal, the whip raised to strike the surgeon as another corsair held Sedal's arms. Not that they needed to really: Sedal's face was pale and sweating, his teeth gritted and eyes closed against the pain. In a second, Callath registered what was wrong: the wound had split again and the broken rib may even have splintered, either of which would be causing the surgeon excruciating pain. This man had treated illness and hurt all his life and was now suffering some of the worst....

"Get away from him!" Callath yelled, springing to his feet. As he did so, he felt a strange heaviness swing against his ribs. His hand seemed to guide itself to his jacket and, feeling into the insie pocket, his fingers closed on the heavy object. He took a precious second to recognise it: the brass knuckles. As the gashes on his face burned, his resolve strengthened – what choice did he have? – and he tore them from his jacket pocket. Jamming them on – and they fitted surprisingly well – he stood in a lithe motion and covered the small distance between himself and Sedal’s attacker, who had now grabbed Orda. The man turned towards him, his face ugly, cruel mouth twisting violently, and he held up Orda by his shirt front to Callath, daring him to attack whilst the corsair held the boy. He looked down at Callath’s hand and sneered as he realised the boy apparently held no weapon.

“What, we’ll play for fisticuffs –” he sneered, but was cut off sharply as Callath drew back his fist and with snake-like speed punched him across the face, the brass gleaming on his fist. The man yelled in pain and fell, blood flowing from his mouth and from the gashes which now scarred his cheek. Callath nearly savoured the irony of it: now he had paid him back for the lashes quite fittingly. Shaking his fist more from habit than from hurt (the metal protected his fingers, although he would have bruises tomorrow), he knelt beside Orda where the man had thrown him. The boy was grimacing in pain, but opened his eyes and looked up at Callath.

“I’m…I’m ok,” he murmured, but the way he shifted jerkily told Callath otherwise. It was possible his wrist had fractured from the looks of it, and what about the blood flowing all the way down one side of his face…Callath raised a hand quickly to Orda’s cheek to examine it, but the boy flinched from his touch. Or rather, from the touch of the cold metal against his skin. Realising, Callath drew back quickly, disgust at having used the weapon now catching up with him. But instead of pulling them off he stood quickly, hearing another shout, shielding his eyes against the sun to see…

Devon, stepping into Avershire’s place. About to fight Doran.

[Earendil Halfelven]

Doran jeered as he held up the sword stained with Avershire's blood.

"Your going to pay old man for everything you've done," Devon growled.

"Come boy. I've been waiting long enough,"Doran said.

Devon yelled and charged forward and struck. Doran blocked and was surprised at the strength at Devon's strike. But he recovered quickly and counter attacked. Devon easily blocked it, and Doran stepped back.

"Is that all you have, old man? That's all that the famous corsair Jythralo Doran has?"

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Hasn't anyone taught you to respect your elders, boy?" Doran replied. Then he struck and it was Devon's turn to be surprised at Doran's strenght. Devon stepped back and Doran took advantage of it and pushed harder and harder. Devon stepped back and fought harder.

As the battle raged on around them, all Doran could see was the boy in front of him that he wanted to kill.
__________________________________________________ ____

The sun was rising. The battle was almost over. Many men lay wounded on the floor. Some Gondorians had fallen back, but most of them had lain down their swords in surrender. Many of the corsairs lay dead or dying but Doran wasn't worried-he still had three ships full of men ready to fight.

Doran was a little winded and he could see that Devon was tired also. Devon struck at his head. Doran blocked but the power at which Devon struck knocked the flat part of Doran's sword into Doran's head, knocking Doran onto the ground.

Devon smiled. "Ha, got you old man."

Devon raised the sword to finish off Doran but at that moment, many cries rang out.

"Gondorians! The Gondorians are here!"

Devon looked behind him and saw dozens of Gondorian soldiers charging down the beach killing and capturing any corsair they came upon. They were saved. The battle was won. Devon smiled in relief.

Doran saw that this was his moment. Quickly, he stood up and plunged his sword into Devon's back. The smile faded from Devon's face along with his life. He uttered a cry and reached behind him, trying to touch the wound. Doran leaned over close to Devon's ear-
"It looks as if it is I who has you."

Devon fell to his knees and onto the ground.

Doran looked down at the boy. Finally. He finally had his revenge.

At that moment, three Gondorian soldiers appeared, swords raised. Doran raised his arms into the air. He had lost the war, but had won the battle. Devon was dead.

[Durelin]

Nuranar's Post

Even at a distance Calnan could tell that Avershire was dead. His heart swelled with rage as the corsair captain laughed -

"Calnan!" The high-pitched terror of Orda's young voice pierced the roaring in Calnan's ears. He found himself scrambling with desperate urgency over the rocks toward his cries. Off to his right Callath, too, was sprinting to the rescue.

A corsair arose directly in his path, but Calnan never hesitated. Driving straight into him, he hurled the corsair to the ground with tremendous force. The man's sword clattered among the rocks.

Wild at the delay, Calnan snatched up the cutlass he'd dropped, took two running steps - and a strong hand jerked his ankle. As he fell he had the sense to drop the cutlass and not to break his fall with his hands, but he heard a dull crack, and an agonizing pain shot up his left arm. The full weight of his body had snapped one forearm bone in two. Dizzy with pain, Calnan cradled his arm, oblivious to the world around him.

Without his instincts he'd been dead. Two sounds - a hoarse, ragged breath, the rasp of clothing scraped along rough stone - and he found himself standing, face to face with the corsair he'd tackled. The man was on hands and knees, still laboring for breath; but his sword was quivering in the ground where Calnan had been kneeling. There was no time to think. Calnan took one step and drove his knee up under the man's chin, snapping his head back.

The corsair collapsed, either unconscious or suffocating, but Calnan couldn't tell and didn't care. The fall had driven all emotion out of him, everything but this consuming pain that throbbed and pulsed through his entire body. He was aware, in a distant sort of way, that his legs were trembling and his face was hot despite the coolness of the air. The roaring in his ears had nothing to do with anger.

Almost dreamily he remembered Orda now. Callath was kneeling by him and Sedal, surrounded by corsair bodies. Almost in slow motion Calnan turned to the beach. In disbelief he saw Doran fall to his knees in front of Devon - Devon?! - then Devon turned and Doran struck, stabbing him in the back.

Blindly, furiously, Calnan staggered for him, and found himself on the ground. "Calnan!" he heard someone call. Telson loomed before him, dim and uncertain in the dark haze closing in. I thought the sun was rising? he thought, but didn't have the energy to ask. Telson pushed him gently to the ground and felt his arm carefully.

Dazedly, illogically, Calnan knew he had to do something. The bloodthirsty, murdering, accursed fiend . . . ! With a final rush of strength he jerked upright. But the wrench he gave his arm, held in Telson's hands, was so agonizing that the threatening darkness lowered for good and erased all knowledge.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Durelin's Post

Doran had spared her little more than a glance at her cry, his surity that the battle was over allowing him to forget Adeline's importance. The confusion of the battle could be deadly, but it also helped in keeping her safe, for now. But her thoughts did not dwell on her own safety, rather on the safety of Devon. All her fears were gone except for one, and that was her fear for Devon's life. She felt her knees give way as Doran held up his bloody sword, displaying it for all to see. Whom he had killed did not matter. Devon rose from on his knees as Adeline fell to hers.

He drew his sword, and Adeline felt a scream rise in her throat. She pushed it back down to her stomach, and she then felt as if she needed to empty her stomach. She shut her eyes for a moment, and then heard a shout that made her heart rise and her stomach forget its pangs of fear.

"Gondorians! The Gondorians are here!"

"It is over!" Adeline cried, once again unable to control herself. The battle seemed frozen in time, all stood still and looked as Gondorian ships landed and men started crossing the beach. Adeline turned away from this marvelous sight with a grin of delight and laughter in her soul. She turned to smile at Devon. He smiled back at her, but then a cry of pain tore her heart.

~

Adeline folded her hands to keep them from shaking as she sat in the hard chair, struggling to keep her eyes dry. Doran stood before the full court room, standing tall and proud even though his hands were chained tightly behind his back and armed guards stood on either side of him. The hands in Adeline's lap were squeezed into fists.

"This man, Jythralo Doran, Captain of known corsair ships that plagued the coastlines of Gondor, is now brought before you to be tried for his crimes, in accordance with the terms of justice of this land, the great city of Umbar, a colony of Gondor. Know that he will receive all rights that are given to those that are tried under the law of Gondor, which must be observed in this territory of Gondor. Remember that this man must be considered innocent, until he has been proven guilty through the presentation of evidence to the..."

Adeline could not stand to listen to the absurdity that was spilling out of the judge's mouth. He spoke with no emotion, his words held no ring of life or truth. He acknowledged Doran as a 'Captain of know corsair ships', yet he failed to bring to light how much more than a Captain Doran had become. And still the judge said, in the same drawling voice, that the man was innocent until.

Slowly she rose, her entire body shaking, with her eyes focused on Doran. Soon all eyes were on hers, including the Captain's. She stared into them, loosing her hatred upon them. She made her way out of the row of seats and then toward Doran. Twice she almost stumbled. At first all that were present were simply shocked, then a low murmur ran throughout the court room. The judge's voice rose above the rest, as he amplified his dull voice, almost yelling.

"My Lady, if you have something you wish to say you may say it from your seat. My Lady? I am asking you to sit down." The man sighed. "Miss, go back to your seat. Miss!"

Adeline stood inches from Doran's hideous face, and felt his warm breath upon her face. It waved the flames of her anger to knew heights, and her hand reached for the handle of a sword at one the guard's side. Before the guard knew what she was doing, she had unsheathed it, her anger and loathing giving her strength to pull out the heavy blade with speed. She raised it in front of Doran's unblinking eyes as the court room exploded. A few women even screamed, to Adeline's disgust.

"My Lady!" the judge gasped, his voice finally showing some sort of emotion. Adeline laughed at the thought that this was what it took, and this seemed to alarm the room even more. Even Doran blinked, and looked at her in a very different way than he had before. But then, the laugh through all the tears she now cried was obscurely out of place. A strong grip held her by each arm as the guards saw that Adeline was serious. Adeline felt herself go limp as they held her. She did not struggle, but her hand still gripped the sword till her knuckles were bone white. Her tear-filled eyes still stared into Doran's, and she did not withdraw them from his gaze as the soft touch of a kind hand on her shoulder.

"You cannot kill him, my Lady," Calnan said softly.

"I killed a man once before, I can do it again."

"You cannot kill him, Adeline," he repeated, and the sword fell from her hands.

[Nuranar]

Calnan was keeping a concerned eye on Adeline. The trial was barely underway, but already she looked like she was about to scream or throw things. When the judge finished she stood abruptly, her face dead white and drawn with misery and hatred. When she walked forward, the hush in the room was broken by startled whispers. "Isn't that the girl he kidnapped?" "I think so, but what is she doing?" "Is she all right? She looks like she's going to faint..."

Calnan shot an apprehensive glance at Callath, on the other side of Adeline's chair, but he was only frowning in a puzzled manner. By now Adeline was standing in front of Doran. Her whole form was rigid with intense emotion. Calnan rose, afraid.

Then she moved. Even as her hand reached for the guard's sword hilt, Calnan was in motion. Above the hubbub of a horrified court he heard her laugh - a strange, high laugh, mirthful and full of tears, the heart-wrung humor of one stricken. She did not struggle against the guards, but neither would she move, her eyes burning into Doran's. Unsure and dismayed they seemed. The corsair captain was more shaken than he would ever admit, even to himself.

With one last shove Calnan reached Adeline, laid his hand carefully on her shoulder. "You cannot kill him, my lady." She turned, tears running down her face.

"I killed a man once before. I can do it again," she whispered, eyes full of agony.

Calnan shook his head gently, firmly. "You cannot kill him, Adeline." He watched her set face relax as she dropped the sword. At a glance the guards let go of her. Carefully pulling her left arm through his right - his broken left was in a sling - he led her swiftly from the room.

Outside the building she started to speak, but he shushed her until they were relatively hidden in a landscaped corner of the square. There he sat her on a bench and knelt before her so she wouldn't have to look up. Adeline looked at him sadly, but now it seemed she had no words left. Calnan tried to think how to start.

"Adeline," he said haltingly, "I know you've killed a man before. I'm terribly sorry you've had to do that. I've killed, too. More than once. And I'm sorry to say it gets easier. I never want to forget how terrible it is to take away the life of another human being.

"But I don't want to forget about justice, either. Doran is a man who cares only for himself. To set himself in a place of power and wealth he has taken and wrecked the lives of more people than we'll ever know. Justice demands that he pay for this.

"But not at your hand, not at mine. Gondor, the King himself, is responsible for justice. You see, if I had killed Doran back there, I would be acting for myself, and my motive would be revenge. Not justice. Revenge is an ugly word, Adeline. Its results are ugly and terrible, and even worse is what it does to those who take it.

"Jstice must be the action of the authority, not of individuals. Doran's executioner will be acting for Gondor and for the King, not for himself."

Adeline looked up, startled. Calnan nodded, utterly certain.

"Oh, yes. Doran will die. In order to be just we have to assume he's innocent, but the evidence is overwhelming. At the very least, he committed murder in front of a hundred Gondorians when he killed Devon." Adeline's eyes were filling with tears again, but Calnan had to keep going. "And why did he kill Devon, when he knew he'd lost? It was the last thing he could do. It was because he lost. It was his revenge. Yes, it hurts us terribly. But it's sealed his fate like nothing else would have. Justice will be done.

"Think back to the beginning, Adeline. Why was Devon so determined? Why did we do all we could to help him stop Doran? It wasn't for petty personal reaentment, Adeline; it was for Gondor. We were loyal to Gondor. If you take loyalty - and justice - away from Gondor, there's nothing separating us from the corsairs themselves." He paused, smiled gently. "In the end, Adeline, we were fighting for justice."

She was openly weeping now but still trying to restrain herself.. Sitting beside her, Calnan put his arm around her shoulders and held her to him. Pressing her face into his shoulder, Adeline sobbed out her grief and anger. Calnan felt her sorrow, greater than his; her feelings for Devon hadn't been hard to guess. His eyes filled with tears then, too, as he remembered Devon, and Marx, Luc, Rakein, Avershire - all the faithful comrades who had fought and not returned.

[Himaran]

Graring awoke the next morning in a comfortable bed of grass. He yawned, stretched, and stood, rubbing his eyes in a lazy fashion. Then a multitude of thoughts struck him like a thunderbolt. The corsairs! The army! The battle! He turned and rushed out of the forest, making for the beach.

The corsair skidded to a halt as his feet touched the warm sand. Everyone was gone. The corsairs, and their presumable captors, were gone; as were any traces of Devon's forces. But the traces of battle were unmistakeable; arrows, knives, broken swords and dried blood covered a large area to his left.

I've been left behind! Abandoned to die here! Then another thought came to him. No.... I've escaped! They couldn't catch me! The war will never end until I die, and I remain.... And so the corsairs had won.

Pride swelled within him, and the fact that he would have to live out his days on the deserted island did not bother him in the least. He had survived, and so the corsair spirit would live on forever. Looked towards the sea again, he saluted his dead comrades with an imaginary cutlass. And, calling out with an ancient cry, Graring released all the hate, anger and rebellion within him.

"Umbar, Umbar, Umbar!"

[Amanaduial the archer]

As the judge finally dismissed the court, Callath was one of the first out, battling his way through the suddenly oppressive court. The people he passed paid little attention: a tut here, a frown from there, as he elbowed his way through them. He was a mystery to these people, a contradiction within himself, a paradox: a boy who looked about seventeen or eighteen, his blonde hair flopping casually over a handsome face, no different from any other Gondorian youth really. But look closer: lean build, eyes made much older with anger and pain, marks made by ropes around his wrists and a deep, wide scar in the back of his hand, lashes across his cheek...these things marked him out as something different.

But what did they care? Callath finally got out and as the sea air hit him and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and relishing it's kind touch. The sea was something he had begun to understand...these people would never understand, just as they would never understand, or care, about the true nature of Jythralgo Doran, sea captain, corsair, and murderer of Callath's best friend...

"Callath!"

The stable boy turned to see Calnan hurrying towards him. Both of them were dressed at least partly in black, but not too formally: they had been at sea too long to take much care over the trial of a man they would both hate until the end of their days. Callath stopped walking and smiled bitterly at Calnan, but the older boy put a hand on his arm comfortingly. Callath looked away, closing his eyes against the brightness now pricking them.

"He will hang, Callath, you know he will hang. He will pay," Calnan said softly.

"Pay?!" Callath spat, angrily in reply. "How can he pay? He killed Marx, Avershire...Luc, and Devon - Calnan, he killed my best friend and...and..." he gulped and paused, then continued more quietly. "He cannot ever pay enough, and you know it. On that beach, I would have killed him with my own bare hands!" His voice had risen again until he was almost shouting, and a few people in the sober crowd spilling from the courtroom looked over at the boys. Calnan didn't say anything but rubbed Callath's arm gently, then embraced him for a second, both of them trying to take some respite.

After a moment, Callath released himself and wiped his eyes quickly, his chin held defiantly as he forced a smile. “Well, that’s it now. He will die for his crimes, even if not at my hand.” Turning to the side, he began to walk slowly, and Calnan continued beside him. The attaché didn’t speak, and for a few minutes they walked in silence, both drifting in the turbulent currents of their own thoughts. Both went to speak at the same time, but Calnan let Callath go first.

“How is Adeline?” he asked quietly. Calnan looked around, then his eyes returned to Callath’s and he sighed slightly, shaking his head a little.

“I…I honestly don’t know. It’s hard – you know, it always seemed obvious to me that she and Devon…well, you know, the way they felt about each other…” Calnan actually blushed here. Callath couldn’t help the brief burst of amusement that escaped him. “You could say that,” he laughed, shaking his hair back, his smile impish. Calnan grinned back, and for a moment, they were right back in the dusty loft above the stables, or sitting on the sea front, or resting between fencing duels in Devon’s home. Calnan continued. “I know – it seemed obvious to us, but-”

“-was it as obvious to them,” Callath finished for him. He shook his head, partly in happy reminiscence, partly in regret. “We’ll never know. I didn’t know Adeline as well as Devon, obviously, but...well, frankly, the boy’s a romantic, so the fact she stayed for so long must count for something pretty damn substantial,” he finished bluntly, grinning. Calnan smiled quietly, and Callath’s grin faded a little as he murmured an apology. “Damn sense of humour, I just can’t keep control of it…”

Calnan stopped suddenly, looking out across the sea, hands behind his back, looking suddenly even more deeply pensive and…well, business-like, Callath mused. Calnan had always seemed older, and been a closer friend of Devon than of Callath, being as they saw each other more often and Callath was not of the same station, but now Callath felt a sudden burst of friendship for the attaché. They had been through much together now, and shared the same surreal experiences that, in a few years, few would believe on retelling. Callath had been closer to others – Devon, Luc, Rilgari – but Calnan had come out of it with him. Luc and Devon were dead, Rilgari said he intended to go to sea once more, which left…

“What will you do now, Callath?”

Calnan addressed Callath whilst his eyes were on the sea and so the fact that his thoughts had so closely followed Callath’s made the younger blink in surprise. He came forward so he was beside Calnan, looking out to sea with him and digging his hands into the pockets of his dark trousers against the wind, the wind whipping his fair hair around his angular face.

“Would you go to sea again?” Calnan continued, then looked across at the other. “You know...I could see you as a captain.”

Callath snorted derisively. “I sincerely hope you’re jokin’, mate. You saw me in the first day or two, didn’t you? Brilliant captain I’d make, staggering around in the throes of sea-sickness at the start of each voyage.” He laughed, then shook his head. “No, ’way I see it, I’m not even eighteen yet and I’ve seen more action than many a pompous old ‘sailor. Besides, you saw me, Calnan, when I was fighting…” he hesitated suddenly, not sure whether to continue with what he had been about to say. The fact that he had been about to confess was that, actually, when he was fighting, he had enjoyed it. The power of the weapon, the thrill it sent through every nerve in your body…a battle rush was a very powerful drug, and the fact was that Callath knew he wouldn’t be able to get enough of it. As some got hooked on pipeweed, Callath would become hooked on battle.

Just like Doran.

Calnan was looking at him strangely and Callath glanced at the other quickly then shrugged, maybe over-nonchalantly. “Not yet, I think, Calnan. Not yet. Why, what about you?” he changed the subject rather smoothly to Calnan’s future. Looking at Calnan’s face, he guessed in an instant and grinned. Calnan frowned. “What?”

“I think we both know what you want to do?”

“What?!” Calnan was off-balance and rather confused now, but Callath shook his head mysteriously, gesturing for the other to go on. Calnan paused, then said, “I intend to return to Gondor, actually. You know, resume my job, my duties…my life, basically. I…wish to return to the White City.” He shrugged, and his over-casualness was spotted by Callath this time. He didn’t mock though, instead smiling softly. “I understand, Calnan. Stil, ‘ts a pity, you know. After…all this…” he stopped, looking out across the bay. Calnan paused, then continued.

“Actually…I was sort of wondering if you would come as well. You have not been to Gondor, have you? I should like you to see Minas Tirith, the city of Kings…would you join me, Callath?”

Callath paused for a moment, remembering Umbar, and the image of stable master Garth’s face conjured itself in front of his face. He almost visibly recoiled and shuddered. “I don’t suppose I’ve still got my old job – and sure, they have horses in Minas Tirith as well, right?” He winked and grasped Calnan’s hand firmly. “I’d be glad to join you, Calnan. Glad to.”

[Earendil Halfelven]

Doran stood before the court, chained. He'd never thought that it would end like this but for some strange reason, he wasn't upset. He had fought the good fight for his people, and even though he had lost, at least he had fought. He had shown the corsair people that they could rise up and regain their freedom taken from them at the hands of an oppressive empire. He might die but he would live on as a martyr to future generations.

"Captain Jythralo Doran," the judge said. "To the charge of the murder of Devon Thrann, how do you plead?"

"Not guilty," he said. Behind him, he heard many people's reaction. He knew that Devon's friends were outraged by his answer.

"To the charge of high treason against the king of Gondor, how do you plead?"

"Guilty."

Again, he heard many people's surprised reactions to his answer.

"Captain, you may be seated."

The trial was beginning and Doran settled in for the long haul.
__________________________________________________ _

It was almost over. Everyone who wanted to say something had said it, and so now it was up to the judge to decide Doran's fate.
"Captain, do you have any remarks you would like to make?"

"Yes, I do,"he said. People murmured in the audience, waiting to hear what he would say. Doran stood and as he did so, his chains jingled. The sounds of the chains was like a signal to those talking to be quiet. He stood, chest out, shoulders back, chin up. He could see Calnan, Callath, and Adeline watching him with the most hatred he ever saw.

"I don't have much to say," he began. "Except for this. Most of you think that I should be on trial for the murder of Devon Thrann. I did not murder him. He was killed in the midst of battle. He made the grave mistake to turn his back on his foe, and he paid for that mistake. But how can I be tried for murder? If I am guilty of murder, then you must also try those three for murder as well."

He pointed to Calnan, Callath, and Adeline.

"For they also killed men. You must also consider Devon Thrann a murderer, for he was also responsible for the deaths of my innocent sailors. You cannot try someone for murder when they killed someone in the heat of battle, and for that, I am innocent." He stopped. Everyone's eyes were fixed on him.

He continued.

"But for the charge of high treason, I plead guilty. However, I am not guilty of treason!" His voice began to raise. "How can I be guilty of treason against a king that I have not pleged allegiance to? How can I be guilty of treason against a government that I am not a citizen of? How can I be guilty of treason against an oppressive empire that took away my home from me? My freedom? My land? A government that took all that away from my people?"

Many of the corsairs in the audience began to nod in approval. Many Gondorians began to shake their heads and scowl.

"But now you wonder why I plead guilty of treason. Because it is the best thing I can do for my people-to become a martyr to those future freedom fighters of the corsair cause, and for that I am willing to die! I AM GUILTY OF HIGH TREASON AND DEMAND THE MAXIMUM PUNISHMENT!"

Doran strod forward and spat into the judges face.

The audience was in an immediate uproar. The guards grabbed him and threw him down to the ground.
_______________________________________________

He stood at the scaffold, the noose around his neck. The men next to him read a piece of parchment.

"Captain Jythralo Doran. Being found guilty of high treason against the kingdom of Gondor, you have been sentenced to death by hanging."

The executioner tightened the noose. He felt the rope digging into his neck.

"Any last words?"

Doran looked out into the mass crowd. He saw Calnan, Callath, and Adeline standing in front of his scaffold, looking up at him. Doran stared back with his steel gaze. He gazed back up at the crowd, and noticed that it was mostly corsairs.

"CORSAIRS OF UMBAR! REMEMBER ME! REMEMBER MY CAUSE! REMEMBER MY SACRIFICE!"

And with that, the trap door beneath his feet opened up.

[Arvedui III]

The silence of the warm room was broken by an ominous crack from the brazier, and Telson shuddered.

Even while entombed by books, reclining in a soft wooden chair in the comfort of Emyn Arnen, he still could not get the last image of Jytharo Doran out of his head, his body limply swaying in the breeze. Had it been what he deserved? Of course it had. Was he a dishonorable wretch in life? Undoubtedly. But still, something about the man's eyes ere the trap door opened had stuck with Telson, and he couldn't seem to shake it. Which was all the more irksome, as the last time he checked on Callath and Calnan in the Minas Tirith, they were both happy and hale, if a little taller than he would have liked. And, from what he heard of Adeline, she was also doing well for herself, working in Umbar on restoring buildings lost during the rebellion.

Sighing, he returned to the ledger he was working on and felt the old sense of futility come over him. After Imrahil of Dol Amroth had taken control in Umbar, he had been shuffled back into the same drudgery as before, save that Culous, who had carried his letter and brought Gondorian reenforcements to the final battle with Doran, had insisted on staying in Ithilien to work for him. The boy's loyalty was touching, but Telson was beginning to regret allowing it. He was bored out of his mind, and the innkeeper's son only served to reminded him of that fact. Of all the things the Umbar assignment had been, it had never been dull.

As a hard rap on the door caused him to spill ink onto the ledger and his new quill, Telson called gruffly for the knocker to enter, but resolved for the fourth time that day to kill Culous if he was the one who walked in. However, the man that appeared was far taller, with a board, proud bearing and wearing a fine gray tunic that matched his eyes. Telson sat dumb for one precious moment of stunned disbelief before he rose to his feet and bowed low. "Sit back down, please." The man said curtly, and Telson obeyed as he watched his guest take in the office and look at several books before he sat down on the opposite side of Telson's small, paper-flooded desk. "To what do I owe this honor, my lord?" Telson asked, finding his tongue again and hardly daring to believe.

"No honor, but I was told you were the soldier in Umbar during Doran's rebellion." He replied, still looking around the office in modest interest. "Yes my lord, I was." Telson said, thinking first of the nauseating trip to Umbar, then of the quiet trip back. "Then may I ask a favor of you?" He said mildly, but something in his tone indicated a command and not a request. "Of course, my lord." Telson replied all too quickly, wondering after he spoke wether or not he had just earned himself a trip to Harad or Rhun or some other country that would be equally as dangerous as Umbar has been. " I don't believe you were ever asked to write a report on the subject. No?" Telson shook his head. "Well, I think it would help Prince Imrahil immensely to know what happened and some of the corsair mindset from a direct source and not a sailor who heard it from a friend of his, whose cousin's shipmate was there."

Both men smiled at that and Telson felt more at ease. "I would be glad to write it, my lord. I know firsthand just how untruthful sailors' cousin's shipmates are." The man laughed warmly, getting up and moving to the door. " I daresay you do. And please have the report in quickly, captain. This affair has piqued my personal curiosity, not to mention my wife's." He chuckled and shook his head, and Telson couldn't help but smile as he replied, "Then for the Lady Eowyn's sake, I shall have it done as promptly as it is in my power to do so, lord Steward." The man was halfway out the door, but nodded, "See to it," before he vanished down the corridor.

Telson cleared off the soiled ledger and the rest of his papers, letting them fall into a pile of parchment that seemed always to increase at an alarming rate. But at least now he had a proper excuse to put off the five or so records and lists he was supposed to be doing. Grabbing a clean sheet of parchment and running his hand through his hair, Telson dipped his quill in ink, and stopped for a long moment. He did not know why he was hesitating, he had acquitted himself well enough, although he regretted that in the last battle he had not been close enough to the rest of the party, that he had done nothing of note. The image of Doran's eyes as he cried out defiance to the last came to him, and then Devon's body laying limply on the beach.

He shook his head. The war was supposed to end all that. Men like Doran were supposed to retire and live out the rest of their days quietly, under the rule of those who had rightfully beaten them. Men like Devon were to supposed to grow, live in peace and leave the world better than they found it. "But nothing is ever as it's supposed to be" He said aloud, fingering the quill in something akin to disappointment and staring down at the paper on his desk. Many more Thranns would die for things to be as the ought. The least they deserved was to be remembered, he decided.

So Telson started to write, resolving to have the thing done by morning, Jythralo stood in the office of his seaside townhouse, staring absently at the message that lay open on the desk before him. However he stopped and hesitated for one more moment, then wrote a title above it:
The Tale of The Ambassador's Son.

[piosenniel]

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~