[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.