Númenórean Blood Runs Black RPG

[Anguirel]

After the elimination of Azaryan, Sangalazin had approached the man who had struck the deathblow-the man of his own height and proportions, in his own armour-as the other bodyguards were occupied finding and marshalling the Corsair plunderers.

"Well, Lord Chatazrakin, how does it feel to be Master of Corsairs?"

"It feels..." the former Corsair Captain replied, raising his visor, "quite adequate, my royal brother."

"As it should be. You have come into your just desserts, and not before time. Now, we have the morning to spend in celebration and carousal! We celebrate the triumph of the Castamirioni! The revival of the eldest, purest line of Elendil! Come to my quarters, Chatazrakin. I have sweet music...and musicians sweeter still..."

Sangalazin's laugh had always been a pleasant sound, like a dancing brook, an accepting, warming, soothing, enveloping aura of cheerfulness. And ten thousand murders would not change that.

***

But the exultant Chatazrakin and indolent Sangalazin both leapt up in alarm when, a few hours later, they were awoken from their opulent beds with dire news. News that the fleet of the Eldacarioni approached. That Telumehtar was not, after all, as weak as Azaryan had supposed.

Sangalazin quickly sank into despair. In his brief sleep, he had dreamt of nothing but vast waves, rising and falling. He poured himself a goblet of a rare rum from the east, and demanded that his hookah be brought from the adjoining room.

The slave who came with it was not one he had seen before; he had a strange, ruthless beauty about him, hard liar's eyes...Sangalazin gave orders that from now on the slave, named Bahir apparently, would answer to him alone. As Rakin busied himself with preparing the escape of the Corsair vessels, Sangalazin pleased himself below deck, immersed in a slothful, hedonistic world of perfumed smoke, of refreshing wine, and willing, dark flesh.

What he did not know was that Rakin had another unpleasant surprise to deal with-the discovery of the murdered Rohirric musician's strangled cadaver...who in the meantime, with Bahir on hand, he did not miss.

[Durelin]

His appearance that of a man slumped over in exhaustion, Chakka forced one eye open to peer over the top of his arm that rested on the oar. He had heard footsteps, and had guessed who they belonged to. The young man had returned from his little escapade. Chakka kept still as Jagar cautiously made his way back to his place next to the colossal man, even though his muscles ached, desiring a good stretch and considerably more space. He was a giant dark lump that few who passed by paid much mind to other than noticing his great size, particularly in the night, scrunched up as he was amongst the oars. Jagar certainly spared his seeming sleeping form only a glance, though he seemed more doubtful than before he had left that Chakka was really asleep. Though the large Southron seemed relax, he was more the animal prepared to pounce, once its prey is settled, and unsuspecting. So he waited until Jagar crawled into his place, prepared to hide away his prize and rearrange his chains to appear untouched.

“Perhaps it is unlucky that you have returned alive,” Chakka said as he raised his head up to stare at the young man, his eyes practically glowing white in deep contrast with his skin. Though his words seemed so, there was nothing menacing about his tone or the look in his eyes. He stated simple observation. His gaze traveled down to the bottle still gripped tightly in the young slave’s hand. This boy, by the looks of him, seemed to be just as insane as the other one, that Ferethor. Perhaps it was the oars, the sweat, the blood, and the smell that had done it to them. But did either of them really expect to gain anything from this? Or did they simply not care any longer? They would secure their fate, as well as his own, and Chakka would not let that happen. After all he had done to try and gain his freedom, and even to attempt to help the others to freedom, they proposed to burn them all to ashes along with the accursed ship, and let the ocean swallow what the flames did not.

He had truly expected the boy to be caught in his folly. He doubted that the slave had any way of getting into anyone’s cabins, and doubted that he would find them completely empty, even though the ship was docked and most of its usual occupants busy. But somehow Jagar had returned, obviously with what he had sought to get. He could not remain unnoticed for long, though. Stealing did not escape notice, and everyone would pay for it if a culprit was not found. And luck truly was against the slaves, for chances were that Jagar had procured the alcohol from Rakin’s cabin. Surely such would not escape Rakin’s notice, and, if he discovered the bottle anywhere near where Chakka was chained to the floating mass that was his prison, the slave knew that any progress he had made with the Captain would be lost. It was as if the knife lodged in the planks beneath him had risen up to strike him in the stomach, creating a piercing pang of a mix of anger and hurt. To think that this was what his efforts might come to…

“Please, Jagar,” he began again, his voice low but clear and fervent; his voice revealed no kind of anger, which was replaced by an intensity that reflected importance of his words. “Throw it into the sea. If it is discovered, we are all doomed, as we are even if Ferethor’s plan unfolds as it is meant to. We can yet have freedom – do not give in to a last hope. Not yet.”

Whatever the Fame and Fortune was getting involved in, if it fell, then so did the slaves chained to it. Chakka would not seek to aid those despicable men, who even at that very moment were most likely plundering and slaughtering to their hearts content, but there was no sense in seeking his death before it came. He could hope that Rakin at least would die in some kind of skirmish, but that most likely would do only to hurt him further. The Captain at least knew his name, and he hopefully would not be forgotten and left to rot in the slave deck as long as the man, as black-gutted as he was, was alive. There was time, yet, and there was a chance. Chakka would be a free man; no oars, no chains, no whips could tame him.

[Arry]

‘Give me the pipe,’ Bahir ordered the drunken servant who had stumbled to comply with Sangalazin’s orders. ‘You will spill the water the way you are lurching about. The hoses will get wet; your master angry.’ He looked at the man closely, sweeping his gaze from toe to head. ‘And what will your master do to such a clumsy, clumsy chit such as yourself.’ He smiled in a beguiling way, as if to sympathize with the sot. ‘Others have gone missing, have they not, who displeased the Lord. And perhaps he keeps a tally of little mistakes one makes . . . and perhaps when the sum grows large enough he will zero it with a quick word to his most trusted retainer.’

The servant’s eyes went large with fear as his befogged brain processed what the boy was saying. Still, he was the one commanded to bring the pipe.

‘There are no marks against me,’ Bahir continued; his voice gone soft and sing-songy as he wove his words, back and forth, much in the same way as a cobra mesmerizes his prey before the strike. ‘Go back to your quarters; let me take the pipe to him.’ He smiled again, his face going soft as if in sympathy with a close companion. ‘You will be spared his ill humor from the recent news of the Northmen’s fleet.’ Like a great, dumb beast, the man complied, his unsteady hands giving over the pipe. With a nod toward the chest where the spiced tobacco was kept, he staggered off.

Bahir sniffed the leather packets of tobacco, the shisha, as it was called, in the chest. He picked one smelling of honeyed apples, mixing it with one of a heady rose; the mixture sat mounded in a pretty enameled bowl. He placed the bowl along with the rest of his necessary equipment on a black lacquered tray, and into the base of the pipe he put two fingers’ width of fresh water. ‘And what’s this,’ he smiled, finding a flannel wrapped silver box beneath the tobacco. Several small, resinous balls, waxy, brown. ‘Ahh!’ he took one along with him, the largest.

‘The preparation of the pipe and the lighting of it, the offering of the hose, and the maintenance of the smoker’s pleasure is as elegant as a dance,’ the old smoking master of the Sultan had taught Bahir. ‘Your movements are like so,’ he would say,’ showing the boy the movements of hands and torso; the way to tuck his legs as he sat upon the cushion. ‘And your gaze should always be on the face of the one smoking. Read his expressions; alter your actions to enhance his enjoyment of the experience. Every time can be the very first, if you are attentive, boy.’

And Bahir had learned to be attentive . . .

Between the lightings of the pipe, there were silvered cups of wine and stronger spirits. And music . . . and other such pastimes as the Lord commanded with but a twitch of his finger or a smile. Bahir kept his eyes close on Sangalazin, watching how the man commanded, and demanded, and caused the others in the room to swirl about him like so many pretty scarves caught in a whirlwind. On the third lighting of the pipe, when he felt the Lord’s attention turn too much toward him, he placed the resinous ball on the heady tobacco and put the burning charcoal to it with the tongs.

On the deck above his sharp ears heard the command for the sailors to turn out; to take their positions for battle. ‘Breathe in deeply, my Lord,’ his soft voice said, as Sangalazin’s eyes began to dilate and grow dreamy. ‘My other master commands me, and I am bound to his service. I must take my place on the riggings . . .’

His voice faded out as he slipped from his cushion and made for the hatchway to the deck. Sangalazin, or perhaps it was another in the shadowed quarters, reached out to grasp him by the ankle as he stepped away. But Bahir slipped free, and ran quickly to answer the call to arms.

[Folwren]

Only a few minutes had passed since they had drawn in sight of the Pelargir and its Corsair attackers, but those minutes seemed to take hours even to the Captain, used to waiting and biding his time.

They could see the Corsair ships now, and they were fully manned and rigged, turning about and pulling out into the main stream, wheeling about swiftly and plunging upriver. A grim, very unamused smile pulled at Hereric’s mouth. The Corsairs. . .rash idiots. . .always flirting and playing with danger and taunting death. So be it. He and his men and all the ships behind him were ready. Men swarmed and stampeded across the decks of the Umbarian ships, and from this distance, Hereric could see little order. The men on his deck stood perfectly still, waiting, and longing, for an order to be given. Soon enough, but it wasn’t yet time.

The time was drawing near, though. The red light dimmed and paled. The first Corsair ship came abreast the Cuivië almost a furlong to their starboard side, but the Captain let her pass - she would be dealt with by the others behind him.

A second ship was coming up on his larboard side and Hereric set his attention on it. “Tack sheets and hard to larboard!” the captain called. The men at the sails instantly obeyed and the wheel spun beneath the skilled hands of Bregin. The Cuivië spun about and bore down suddenly on the Corsair ship. The water foamed at her bow beam and a murmur ran over the deck of the ship as they came closer and close to their quarry. The men gripped their weapons tighter and a tension and excitement rose.

“Let fly!” the captain shouted. Calls echoed across the decks and up into the rigging, and the arrows whistled as they left the string. But the Corsairs were no less prepared and they immediately answered with the same sort of volley, and some of their arrows blazed with fire. The captain nodded, as though his mind was made up and he turned his head slightly towards Bregin. “Take us straight at them. . .catch them on their larboard beam before the galley.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Bregin replied.

This was not a difficult maneuver, for the Xebec turned towards them, as though also wishing to ‘catch them’ on their forward beam, too. The rams scraped and a shudder passed over the Cuivië. The Captain half winced, hoping his ship was spared a couple holes at least. But Bregin’s hand was steady on the wheel and though he missed his mark and both ships edged away from each other, they were near to their enemies side. The oars extending from the galley bristled before their bow now, and the next instant their was a crackling and popping as they snapped before her.

The arrows whined from one ship to the other. Men fell on both sides, wounded, and a few dead. But as the Cuivië drew beside the enemy ship, the men rushed to the side with a shout of excitement and eagerness. The grappling hooks were thrown and the ships brought side to side. The broken oars were still extended parallel above the water. The ship’s side met them, and for a minute, their progress was stilled.

In that moment, as the slaves’ oars kept the Cuivië away from the edge of the Xebec, a single Corsair, eager for battle and blood shed, swung across the empty air and water beneath to the Gondorian ship and dropped onto her deck. A roar of a mixture of anger and disgust met him and he was immediately assaulted on all sides. And at that moment, the oars gave in, some brok to useless stumps, and others receded, there was a surge as the Cuivië plunged sideways and game up with a shudder against the other ship’s side. Cheering swept over the decks and the men surged forward, their weapons in hand.

Hereric grasped a rope and with it, he steadied himself and leaped up onto the rail. The King stepped up beside him and a smile flashed between them. Menelcar joined them after half a second. They stood together, their swords drawn, and before boarding the Corsair, Captain Hereric turned to his crew, and raised his sword.

“Now men!” he cried, his powerful voice raising above the shouts and cries for battle. “Forward and across! For Gondor! And for your King!”

There was a rushing cry and the men surged forward. Hereric swung across and landing on the opposite rail, he descended into his enemies with a great sweep of his white sword.

[Anguirel]

Amid the turmoil on board the Fame and Fortune as Corsairs seized up their cutlasses, spitting on the blades and licking the edges for luck, or dipped wickedly sharp knives and cunningly-fletched arrows in venom, a band of eight figures, imposing in black armour, barged through the press. No one wanted a fight with Sangalazin's guards, no matter what they thought of the new Castamirion King of Gondor himself, so the knot of tall, fair fighters were yielded to even by the savagest of Corsairs.

The most impressively built of the armoured warriors raised his visor and called out in a voice that carried: "Where is the captain?" No reference was made to Rakin's own newly acquired title.

"On the poop deck preparing the fight," one of the more hardened and plucky Corsairs replied, his voice grudging, even a little contemptuous.

"I see," the Black Guard Captain, Andlang, replied haughtily. As the group hurried on, one of the fighters further behind raised an iron gauntlet against the pirate who had spoken so bitterly, smashing out his teeth.

***

So it was that as Captain Chatazrakin stood among the more able Corsairs of his suite, a rapier glittering at his side, an spyglass affixed to his vision as he beheld the Gondorian fleet, cursing the vessel under his command that was allowing itself to be boarded, he found himself joined by Andlang and his malcontent soldiers-a sight that at first would be bound to make him wary.

But Andlang, most unexpectedly, saluted him. "Hail, son of Sangahyando. Our crossbows and blades are at your command. The rest of the guards, and His Majesty," he sneered, "won't be joining us. The King of Gondor thought this moment an ideal one to commence an orgy in his quarters."

Chatazrakin gave a curt nod to show he understood, but Andlang had not finished. He thrust a long, slender object, wrapped in black velvet, into the Corsair Captain's free hand, and coming closer, whispered in his ear.

"The sword of Castamir, Rakin, symbol of Sangalazin's authority, the longsword inscribed with the love-legends of the Black Numenoreans. I thought it should perhaps now go to a man prepared to fight. Use this gift well."

This hurried explanation made, Andlang gave a sharp look to his fellow guards, and the eight killers dispersed about the deck, drawing their swords and unstrapping crossbows and arbalests. The vastly tall, Gondorian-blooded, hand-picked soldiers had an air of authority, and naturally drew bands of Corsairs to follow their orders with instant discipline.

Normally Rakin would have rightly resented such usurpation of his power. But he now knew from the sword swathed in its coverings in his right hand that this dissidents were his men, not Sangalazin's.

The sound of music, laughter and gasps of dubious nature drifted onto the deck from below as the last Lord of Umbar commenced his celebrations. But it would seem worlds away from Rakin's preparations for battle.

[Arry]

Bahir stood at the ready for the battle, his eyes on the archers he would supply. They would not ask outright for the flamed arrows; he had learned early that painful lesson. Instead he must watch for the subtle signs their bodies gave that another would be needed, or that he must speed up for a volley, or now slow down as the target drew out of range.

The order had not come yet to his section of bowmen to let fly. Bahir shook off the tension and refocused himself. For a moment, though, his eyes were drawn to the deck where the Captain stood. Some few of Lord . . . no . . . King Sangalazin’s guards surrounded Chatazrakin. They had given him something; what, he could not see. But now they had positioned themselves about the Captain’s deck.

His eyes narrowed and he sucked at the corner of his lip, considering what this might mean. Perhaps nothing, except that the Black clad ones wished to fight. His gut urged him to a different conclusion. There had been a subtle shift in power, he thought. And he wondered how it would play out once the King got wind of it. On the other hand, what could he do? The cream of his guards had made this choice and who would stand against them?

He ducked, only just in time, as Balak’s great fist came round to clout him on his head. ‘Eyes forward, Boy!’ the tall, burly man rasped out. ‘The Captain has signaled us to stand ready.’

[Firefoot]

As the Gondorian soldiers leapt aboard the Corsair ship, Menelcar had little doubt that this individual battle was all but won. Certainly, the Corsairs were excellent fighters, but what they really excelled at was ship-to-ship, and now that they had boarded, the battle would be fought on a more man-to-man level. What was more, they seemed to have more soldiers than the Corsairs. But that did not mean that they could slack off.

He plunged into the battle at the king’s side at the head of the soldiers. Having served in the army when he was younger, Menelcar was no foreigner to battles and began to fight his way towards the entrance to the lower decks. Slowly he and the men with him pushed through the fray, Corsairs falling before them. The rocking deck became slippery with blood. With a last sweep of his sword, all opposition guarding the lower decks was removed and he with about ten men at his back descended into the ship.

Unsurprisingly, they met very few soldiers; most men were up top fighting. They found their way down to the slave deck, where the first really prepared armed strength was waiting since they had left the upper deck. These men had clearly been charged with the guarding of the slaves. They were fierce fighters, and more than half of Menelcar’s men were slain before the three guards fell dead. The keys to the slaves’ chains were taken from them, and Menelcar left orders with one of the soldiers for freeing them and bringing them up to the main deck when it seemed most of the fighting was finished and they were ready to return to the Cuivië.

With that, he returned alone to the middle deck, searching for the Captain’s room that would contain the ship’s log and other documents that might be useful. He knew that it could not be terribly long before the horn call was sounded for the return to their own ship, so he had to work quickly. It took too long for him to find the right cabin, much too long. Once inside, he began to riffle through the books and papers on top, most interested in finding the ship’s log but also keeping an eye out for anything else that looked important. The log, fortunately, was where it should be and Menelcar found it quickly. He grabbed at a few other papers that may or may not have been important and tucked them between the cover and first page of the log.

Suddenly he heard a sound behind him, and only quick reflexes saved him from the near silent soldier that had appeared at his back. He turned and ducked, bringing up his sword just in time to save his life, but not well enough to avoid the deep gash scored in his left shoulder. Had it not been for that, the battle would have been relatively easy for Menelcar, but now the score was much evened. His two-handed sword became difficult to wield, especially in the tight quarters. Eventually, it was not his own weapon that saved him at all but a short knife laying in the cabin intended for the sharpening of a pen. In a swift moment when he pressed a slight advantage, he plunged the sharp blade into the man’s throat. Only then did Menelcar realize how light-headed he felt, how much blood he had probably lost from the deep and painful wound. Menelcar tore a long strip from the dead man’s clothing (even this small action seemed to take monumental effort), and bound it tightly around his barely useful arm. He picked up the ship’s log which he had dropped and tucked it into a pocket. He took his sword in his right hand, although he doubted he would be able to use it to any effect, and rose to his feet. It took several moments for him to steady himself before he hurried as quickly as he could to find out what was happening with the battle. But he took the stairs too fast, and with a distinct feeling of vertigo as he came to the top deck, Menelcar fainted.

[Alcarillo]

The Ráca and the Fame and Fortune wheeled towards each other, cutting crescent wakes in the river as the other ships were already clashing in battle. Captain Vórimandur stood at the starboard rail, leaning over the water and brandishing Sercendil. He glanced behind him, where the Cuivie had boarded another corsair ship, and was pleased to see that the Ráca was alone with her prey. His heart leapt with excitement as the ships neared each other within range of arrows.

"Quickly! A shield!" he shouted into the crowd of soldiers on deck. A shield was tossed to him just in time. A group of archers aboard the xebec were fitting arrows to their strings. They fired, and to Captain Vórimandur's horror, a few were aflame. He shouted a curse he normally wouldn't have said in polite company and lifted his shield along with the soldiers. The arrows mostly struck the side of the Ráca, and a few bounced across the deck. A hapless sailor was struck in the thigh and slid to his knees, and another was hit in the stomach. A couple of arrows thudded into the soldiers' shields, including a flaming arrow, which had to be drenched in water. Sailors rushed forward to the rail to douse the flames that had sprouted along the ship's starboard side. They threw bucketfuls of water over the rail, then hurried back to the larboard side of the ship to avoid the next volley.

In the intermission, Vórimandur rushed to the base of the mainmast, and called to Sergeant Angaden, "Fire at will! Kill their archers!" And as he hurried back alongside the soldiers, the archers fired a salvo of flashing arrows at the Fame and Fortune. Vórimandur cheered when he saw one of the corsair archers fall to his death over the side of the ship, and a few slump upon the railing. Foolish corsairs, lining up their bowmen in a neat little row on deck for our arrows, he thought. But the corsairs were firing another volley, completely of flames. Every soldier ducked behind his shield and every sailor hit the deck. The arrows whizzed past Vórimandur, missing him, but two soldiers weren't so lucky, and once the fire was put out they were taken below decks to have their wounds tended to. Arrows were now flying from ship to ship. The mizzen staysail had caught aflame, and the sailors were having a difficult time throwing water up onto the fire. Sailors were continuously rushing to the rail to drench the flames on the ship's side, risking the arrows of the corsairs. Sailors filled buckets as quickly as they could from the pump and handed the buckets to their shipmates. Men emptied buckets on each other, too, to keep the flames off. One sailor, hit in the leg by a flaming arrow, leapt over the side of the ship and into the river. Two more were hit and were drenched by their crewmates. Sergeant Nillendion ran through his soldiers to reach the captain.

"Sir, my soldiers can't just hide behind their shields. We need a battle! Let us board their ship and fight them hand to hand!"

"I agree! As soon as the ships come close enough, take some soldiers to the corsairs. But for now, we'll have to weather their arrows for a bit."

The two ships drifted closer together. The mizzen staysail fire had been put out, but now the corsair archers had better aim. Two more sailors were hit by arrows, one of them in the throat and bleeding profusely. The flaming arrows thwacked the soldiers' shields, and sailors from behind threw water upon the shields to keep the flames down. The two ships were even closer now. Sailors gathered on deck with cutlasses and knives. The corsairs were firing pointblank, and the Gondorian archers had a perfect view of the corsairs from their high perches. The ships were separated by a few feet of river. Sergeant Nillendion stood up, and called to his soldiers, "Now! Over to the corsairs!" And he and most of his soldiers and some armed sailors rushed to the rail, and with one great bound, leapt from the Ráca to the Fame and Fortune with a great war cry resounding from their throats.

"For Gondor and the King!"

Captain Vórimandur lived for moments like these. He was swept up by the battle, and ran to the rail, put one foot atop it, and with one great bound, leapt onto the deck of an enemy vessel alongside his fellow seamen.