Númenórean Blood Runs Black RPG

[Folwren]

Having ordered signals to be sent, and flags raised, Hereric had gone below to the officer’s room. An open hatch above him permitted light to pour in, allowing him sight as he bent over a map. A pin marked where he and the Gondorian fleet was now, and another where the Umbar ships must lay. But there was a problem there. . .he didn’t know how many enemy ships there were.

With a look of disgust, he threw the last pin down on the map and stood up. From this higher, and direct vantage point he studied the map slowly and carefully. After a moment, his eyes lit up and he sat back down, pulled from beneath this first map another three, glanced at them, and then chose the one he needed and placed it above the first.

This second map was a larger scale and far more detailed than the first of the section of river just above Pelargir. Again he studied in silence, drawing imaginary lines with an empty pen.

“If you please, sir, but the king’s counselor is looking for you up deck.” Hereric lifted his head and turned his eyes to the young seaman addressing him, and then stood up.

“Thank you,” he said. The man saluted and went out. The captain paused again over his maps before turning to follow. ‘The counselor is looking for me, what?’ he thought to himself. ‘There’s an awful jab to his pride. Likely sent by the king.’ An amusing thought, but Hereric didn’t laugh, or even smile. He climbed the ladder and came up on deck and walked towards the quarterdeck where he saw Menelcar waiting.

“Sir?” he said, when he had reached him. This was getting ridiculous. The counselor showed little pretense of respect in either his words or behavior towards him, and yet he must put up with it without a word. Well, so be it. “You were looking for me?” Menelcar turned slowly and half nonchalantly towards the captain.

“Yes. His majesty wanted me to tell you what we had thought up and to see if you had any better ideas.” Ah, so it was the king. His suspicions turned out correct. A smile threatened to turn the corner of his mouth and he looked down brieftly.

“What were the plans?”

Menelcar told him as briefly as possible what he and the king had gone over in their planning together. Captain Hereric followed perfectly, knowing, as he had said earlier, the lay of the river. When the counselor had finished, Hereric nodded and then stood silent for a moment, considering.

“Well? Have you anything to add?” Menelcar asked after a pause.

“That will work. . .provided there are few enough ships,” Hereric said immediately, looking up at him. “I doubt that their entire fleet is being set into this attack and there are only two. . .maybe three. But if there are any more, we will have to consider waiting and landing some of our troops on the ground before going in, and even attacking in darkness. We can only attack with so many ships and no more. Yes, we do have the entire fleet at our back, but we can’t use them all in this river. However,” he went on, once again nodding, “as I just said, I don’t think there are going to be many ships at all, and landing men will be unnecessary.”

[Alcarillo]

The Ráca sailed peacefully along the Anduin. The Númenna, a swifter ship, had sailed between the Ráca and Cuivië, and Captain Vórimandur, with his competitive nature combined with the idle hours of sailing, wanted to pass the Númenna and resume his position behind the King's ship. He leaned casually against the foremast, eyeing his unknowing opponent. Occasionally he would take a walk around the deck and point out where the deck-scrubbers had missed a spot, or he would tell Caradhril to steer the ship a little closer to the riverbank, or order the sailors to move around some sails. Captain Vórimandur returned to the foremast to watch the Númenna and the curious plume of smoke over the horizon (a sign of Corsiars?). The day went on in this half-idle way for hours.

It was sometime about noon that the Cuivië ran up a collection of flags. All of the ships in the fleet paused for a moment to watch each flag hoisted into the air, and everybody on deck paused to watch. All eyes were upon the Cuivië. Finally, the full set of flags were fluttering in the sky, and Captain Vórimandur's heart leapt to see that they spelled out war. Finally! The first confrontation with the Corsairs was soon to come! Captain Vórimandur leapt from the foremast, and standing upon the forecastle, shouted to the crew, "All officers to the wardroom!" The entire ship was buzzing with the news, and sailors climbed the masts, trying to peer into the distance and catch a glimpse of the enemy. The relaxing voyage down the Anduin had turned in an instant into a busy hurry. Captain Vórimandur ducked below decks, and made his way to the wardroom.

He was pleased to see that many had arrived before him, and that a helpful servant had already laid charts of the Anduin and of Pelargir on the table. The windows were opened to let as much sunlight as possible enter the room. After another minute, Sergeant Nillendion arrived, completing the set of officers. "I've already set the soldiers to work gathering arms on deck, sir," he said.

"Excellent! Now, down to business," the Captain said. He leaned upon the table with one arm and his free hand traced along the curving Anduin on the maps. "We are here?" He said with a glance towards Caradhril, who nodded. "Hmmm . . . well, the Corsairs are almost certainly at Pelargir. We have some time before we reach the city. Sergeant, after gathering arms, put your best archers up in the masts. Tell them to fire as soon as we're within range, and tell them to try not to hurt the slaves. If we board a corsair ship they can make excellent allies. Many times I have seen the slaves rise up against their masters during a battle. I tell you, they are a force to be reckoned with, able to turn the tide of battle like the hand of Eru!" Captain Vórimandur cleared his throat and straightened his body. "Anyways, I would like Berengar the carpenter, Arundel the sail-maker, and the surgeon to be notified that we will be entering a battle soon. And please make sure the rest of the sailors are notified and that all weapons are placed within reach. I also want buckets of water available to quench any fires. You are dismissed." And with that the officers filed out of the room, and Captain Vórimandur left to don his shining breastplate in his office.

[Firefoot]

With no other choice than to endure this conversation, Menelcar found himself studying the captain closely, half wondering whether he might find some new angle of the captain’s dull personality. What he saw rather amused him, but also bored him, as it was nothing new. While never disrespectful, Hereric unsurprisingly did not appear to like him very much. Rather than paying close attention to their conversation, Menelcar mentally reviewed their previous encounters, and from the slight changes in the captain’s demeanor, Menelcar thought he detected some resentment. Yet Hereric never seemed to do anything about it, leading Menelcar to the conclusion that the man was weak-willed: able enough, perhaps, to lead his own ship, but not so bold as to take his own actions while under the command of those higher up.

Menelcar stopped his meanderings as he realized that Hereric was replying at length, and that he probably ought to know what the other man was saying if he was to respond appropriately and, more importantly, report it back to the king.

“…However, as I just said, I don’t think there are going to be many ships at all, and landing men will be unnecessary,” concluded the captain. A rather over-confident assumption, thought Menelcar, even if it was likely enough to be so.

“And how close to the city will we have to be before we know for sure? Right up upon the city?” asked Menelcar. “More specifically, will we know before they know that we are coming?” He thought he already knew the answer, having looked at several maps with the king just recently.

“Well, it depends on how good their look-outs are, but I would guess probably not,” admitted Hereric. “The river is mostly straight approaching Pelargir.”

Having received the answer he was looking for, Menelcar sighed slightly as if this was the fault of the captain. Such a plan as approaching in the darkness – Menelcar thought that was what Hereric had said – would then be little good, since their coming would be expected. “I see.” A pause stretched out, designed to be just long enough to make Hereric wonder if he was supposed to say something. Just when he looked like he might, Menelcar said, “Very well. We will have to hope that there are few ships and plan for a quick, heavy strike. If not – hopefully we will know sooner rather than later.”

[Arry]

Bahir’s toes grasped the thick rope with an accustomed ease. He climbed a little further upwards to a place where he might sit comfortably and watch the troops go ashore. The Captain’s men had left in their usual disorderly fashion. In the tumult of their leaving he noted that all wore a strip of purple cloth affixed to their helms as did the men of Sangahyando’s House. And what did that signify, he wondered, especially since those troops of the other Lord went unadorned. His eyes flashed as Lord Sangalazin’s men came last, well after the others had gone. Tall and shining in their black armor, they marched with precision across the pier in perfect order. Bahir smiled in approval.

Not that he would want or even could be one of those warriors. They were handsome in their tall, northern paleness. He knew though, even if he were of the age to be such a man, he was too much the Southron to fit that role. Still, there were other niches he could fill. He looked down toward the deck, his lip curling at the meanness of his little world. Not for long . . . not for long . . .

As Sangalazin’s troops drew out of sight, Bahir’s consideration turned toward the Lord’s quarters. Some of the guard had been left, he could see. One of the captains and a dozen or so men. There were none, he noted, on that small section of deck just off the quarters where the Lord often took his leisure on fair evenings as he watched the sun set across the sea’s surface. Bahir looked closer at the little piece of sheltered retreat. His dark eyes glinted in a calculating manner at the person who’d just come out the door and was now wrapping himself in a silk coverlet as he lay down on one of the couches.

The blond haired boy! What right had he to be there in such ease and in the midst of such favor and bounty? ‘None!’ Bahir rasped, spitting out the bad taste of his own situation. A thought which had been brewing for some time, since first he’d seen the blond haired Lord’s pet, resolved itself in his mind to action. Were the boy to be gone, there might . . . no, he would see to it there would be . . . room for him to take his place.

-o-o-o-o-

It was not much trouble to ease his slender form over the side of the ship and walk carefully along the lines that looped along the ship’s side. They were docked and the only movement was the gentle pitching of ship in the calm waters near the pier. Then up, like a nimble monkey, to the deck. And a quick look between the railing and the deck edge to see who moved about in Lord Sangalazin’s private retreat. No guards were stationed there, nor in what he could see of the quarters beyond through the open door. And the boy . . . his form was still upon the couch, his head resting on a tasseled pillow.

Bahir slid quietly onto the deck, his eyes and ears alert for any danger. The boy was sleeping; he could hear the soft rhythm of his breath. And peeking over the raised edge of the couch he could see the long blond lashes resting against the pale cheeks. In a quick motion he took off the braided strip of silk cloth that was tied about his turban for ornament. He whispered a few soft words to the boy as he slid his hand beneath the boy’s neck. The boy’s eyes fluttered open, expecting to see his master’s face. With an economy of motion, Bahir was astride him, pinning down the boy’s arms with his knees. His hands pulled the silk braid tightly across the blond boy’s neck, as tightly as he could. The blond boy’s eyes went wide and he struggled briefly; but his fair form was no match for the wiry attacker. His muscles went slack; his chest stilled, no longer drawing breath.

Bahir leaned back, considering his handiwork. Shall I leave him here? It would be amusing to see the Lord berate his men for allowing this to happen. He grinned, thinking of Sangalazin’s cold fury. Oh, better yet! He pursed his lips in thought and nodded at the new idea. Let him be found in the captain’s cabin . . . that should prove an interesting exchange.

He rolled the body in the silk coverlet, knotting the ends, as if it were simply some large, overstuffed sausage. ‘Oof!’ he murmured, slinging the limp form over his shoulder. ‘Too many sweets, my dear. A few more years and you would have run to fat like some greedy, overfed pig.’

-o-o-o-o-

The body was left snug beneath the captain’s quilts, as if the blond boy were sleeping. He’d wrapped the cold fingers of one of the boy’s hands about the neck of a half empty bottle of spirits, moistening the cold lips with some of the alcohol. The silk coverlet was removed, the ends untied, and the whole of it left in a rumpled heap at the end of the captain's bed. Pillows and covers were strewn about on the bed so that the body was not immediately noticeable.

Bahir had entered the quarters with a key he’d fashioned nearly a year ago from some thick wire beguiled from the carpenter’s mate. Bahir had been delivering messages to the captain’s quarters, deemed trustworthy enough to be allowed to do so . . . and he’d taken the key and returned it, but not before a passable likeness had been made.

He looked about the room, noting as his eyes slid past the porthole, that it was nearly time he was to bring the bucket of fresh water and the dipper down to the rowers’ benches. They would be thirsty and he would be missed, reported if he did not show up at his usual time. Bahir slipped out of the captain’s room, locking the door securely behind him. He lowered his eyes as he met one of the Lord’s men near the hatchway going down to the slave deck.

-o-o-o-o-

‘Water!’ he called out as he began his pass down the aisle between the benches. His face was smooth, his hands steady as he dipped the ladle and handed it round to the waiting rowers.

[dancing spawn of ungoliant]

The thralls who had been onboard long enough, understood to take advantage of The Fame and Fortune laying anchored, and many of the slaves in the rowing pit dozed leaning to each other and to the walls of their floating prizon. A few talked to one another in whispers- it hadn't been so quiet for a long time. Footsteps crossed a room somewhere above and climbed stairs every now and then, waves swashed licking the sides of the ship and seagulls wailed dejectedly. Or maybe they were happy. "Why shouldn't they be?" Jagar snorted, "flying around oblivious to what it is like not to be able to follow fresh sea winds wherever your sould would yearn." Shouts and distant clattering from shore were carried with a gentle breeze to the slave deck while the Númenórean Lords and their troops rampaged through some seashore town, probably killing and plundering everything that passed on their way. "Funny how much you can hear when it is silent enough."

Other slaves who weren't sleeping squirmed restlessly on their seats not knowing what would happen next, how soon and how it would affect their miserable lives. Jagar leaned on his right and reached to stick his head out of an oar hole. He saw black smoke drifting over the city and thought of Ferethor's plan. “The strength of this vessel is that it’s isolated, so that there’s nowhere to run, but that can be also its weakness. It’s made out of wood, darn it. It’s not fireproof.” That's what Ferethor had said to him, “I know it’s soaked with brine, but if we could steal strong liquor from the captain’s own cabin to fuel the fire…" It was an intriquing thought, "and now would be a perfect opportunity to start following the scheme", Jagar muttered.

Jagar glanced at Chakka who was asleep and drooped against an oar. Jagar hadn't kept him very good company; he hadn't been able to tell much about the life of a galley slave and most of the time they had sat quiet staring forward and concentrated on rowing. When Chakka had tried to lift their spirits with a song, a few hard blows on the back had restored the silence. Jagar felt slightly bad about this although he wasn't quite sure, why. "Left foot, peg foot, traveling on, follow the Drinking Gourd", Jagar hummed half whispering and eyed Chakka, but the man didn't show any signs of hearing his hoarse singing.

On the spur of the moment, Jagar shook off his shackles that Ferethor had conjured open and stood up. No one seemed to notice when he stepped over his bench and turned to leave towards a door at the front.

"And where exactly do you think you're going?" a voice demanded behind Jagar. He turned around and saw Chakka staring at him wide awake and vigilant, and a few other slaves had now raised their heads, too, to observe these two men. "I've said this before and I'll say it again: it's folly to even think of setting this ship on fire. We'll all die", Chakka said firmly. "Do you want to die?" he added as Jagar did not answer. "I don't know yet. I let the fortune decide and I'll just play along", Jagar grinned and walked to the door accompanied by bewildered shouts and whispers.

Jagar had barely walked out of the slave deck when he heard steps on a staircase. At once, he crouched into shadows behind a barrel in a corner before a young boy came down carrying water and a dipper. The boy stopped for a moment to take a better grip of the heavy water bucket. He gazed around narrowing his eyes and paused to look at the barrel behind which was Jagar's hide-out. Jagar felt his heart pounding faster; he had been seen and the youngster would hurry away to sound the alarm. But insted, the boy picked the bucket up again and wended his way to the rowing pit. As Jagar slowly emerged behind the barrel, he heard the boy waking up the slaves and calling them to take water.

Jagar wandered along corridors and climbed up stairs. He didn't know, where the quarters of any of the men of high rank would be, but he assumed that they had to be somewhere a good measure above the slavedeck - "and somewhere where it's cleaner", Jagar noted as a skinny rat darted past him.

The fortune seemed to have decided to be favorable to Jagar, for shortly after he had climbed up yet one stairs, he halted in front of a door that was more decorative than the ones he had seen thus far and it had a keyhole of different colour and shape than in other doors. There was no one in sight- after all, it was a serene day and the few guards who had been left to the ship were probably loafing on deck. It was until then Jagar realised that he had nothing for a picklock with him. There was a knife, no, two knives hidden under his bench down in the rowing pit and he had forgot them completely, but he wouldn't go down to fetch the knives anymore. Jagar sweared silently through his teeth and grimaced at the pompous door.