[Dunwen]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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