[Durelin]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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