Númenórean Blood Runs Black RPG

[Folwren]

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

'Have the slaves been freed?' he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Firefoot]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then what of the king? Where is he?”

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

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

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

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

[Thinlómien]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Dunwen]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Alcarillo]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"For Gondor!"

[Kath]

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

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

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

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

"Freed! Sir you have my thanks."

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

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

[Alcarillo]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Um, thank you, sir."

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

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

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

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