Númenórean Blood Runs Black RPG

[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.