The Ambassador's Son RPG

[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.