The Ambassador's Son RPG

[maikafanawen]

It was turning out to be quite the evening with a pink sunset and a good steady wind to keep them on their course. Avershire had set aside his charts, graphs, and maps to go in search of his first mate and see how things were coming as far as repairs and the like. He mounted the stairs leading to the deck where the fresh air greeted him after his four-hour seclusion amongst his records. The sailors gathered thereabouts tipped their hats to him or those without caps saluted in the seafaring way when the captain, or any officer passed.

Captain Avershire made a show of patrolling the decks and inspecting the rigging and all repair work that had been done. He was very pleased with the progress until he got to one section of the ship where about ten feet of railing was missing and nothing was there to stop anyone from falling overboard. A small mechanism of rope and pulleys were strung up each side of where the railing ended and began again. Lashed to a pair of railing posts was a canvas raft roughly stitched together with twine and extending from two holes punched in one end was about fifty yards of tough rope. Avershire shook his head and checked the knots holding the 'safety precaution' in place.

"It'll have to do," Meri said coming around. Then she chuckled. "It sure is a funny thing having only half a mast to climb instead of three."

Avershire stood and rubbed vigorously at his brow. "We're out of our minds Loliway."

Meri glowed. Whenever he called her 'Loliway' they were back in the early days when she had first signed on with him. When he had tried his best to shut her out of the heavy work and she had done everything she could to spite him. And then when he realized that he was falling in love with her and she had a fun time of it avoiding his advances. Until he was nearly killed in a battle, of course, and she spent nights without end at his side until he recovered. They were nigh inseparable after that. And she was still with him today.

"Out of our bloody minds..." he mumbled again. "Have we ever commandeered a boat so small with a crew so short up against such odds?"

Meri cocked her head in thought and then nodded slowly. "Yes... in a way."

"Aww..." Avershire protested, waving aside what she was going to say.

"No, we have. When you had to go out for the appeal against your position by that dirty traitor, may he rot in death, it was just the two of us riding a small defense, with few allies up against the whole of the presiding Gondorian government. And you may not have been made king--"

"--or Commodore--"

"--hush. But you still are a Captain, still able to command, and still alive. That counts for something, yes?" The man shrugged her hand off his shoulder and pulled at his stubble of beard. "Don't give me that!" she shouted and jumped up to wrap her arms around his neck and plant a good kiss square on his mouth. Sputtering and pushing a laughing first mate away, Avershire, his face red as a beet, stomped off to see the rest of the ship.

"I expect you'll be getting a day or two in the brig for that and twenty or so lashes?" Meri turned at the unfamiliar voice. It was the Gondorian, Telson -----. She shrugged.

"That doesn't sound too bad." Telson nodded, smiling slightly. Meri didn't notice the bags under the man's eyes or the greenish tint to his face. All she saw was an inner enigma that seemed to escape from the folds of his worn clothes and from the ends of his sin-dark hair. It was chilling to look at him, but her curiosity wanted to keep him there. She knew next to nothing about him, and was worried about his origins. Why Avershire had let such a mysterious man aboard their ship escaped her. The scholar, Pearlle, had explained that men such as these knew what was most important about each other to the point where nothing else mattered. Not their past, nor their desires, just their intents for the present and if they intersected to benefit each other some time in the future.

"Say, I was looking for Cook, you haven't seen him have you?" Meri looked at him sideways, her right eyebrow raised.

"He's not in the galley?" The man shook his head. "Hmm, perhaps the forecastle?" Telson rubbed his forehead and fidgeted in his pocket.

"Could you... direct me...." Meri nodded and led him to the door leading to where he wanted to go and opened it for him, yelling up for the Cook who answered with a rushed and questionable, 'Aye! What? Whaddya want!?'

"There ye go," she said stepping aside. "And if you're for the licorice root," she added, "you might want to bring some down for the other three, just in case."

"Licorice root!" and he slammed the door.

* * * * *

Three bells after midwatch had begun, Meri was pacing the deck, knocking a drowsy Devon with the toe of her boot.

"You must be dreaming about sewing," she whispered warningly. The man jumped to his feet, and saluted her respectfully before peering out across the water. There was no fog, the stars were bright, but the lack of moon kept people wary and even the places in the night that were darker than others seemed to be ships bearing the fate of the North Wind.

One shape, however, got more solid as the sloop neared it. And soon one could make out the lights in the windows and the lanterns hanging from the masts. The man in the crow's nest jerked to a start and shouted below: "Sail ho!"

Meri snapped her head around and ran to the man who was scurrying down the mast. "Where away?" she demanded. He pointed. "Four points of the port bow."

"Creedy my glass if you please." The small cabin boy rushed to her and handed her the fine, leather-encased telescope. She extended it and set it to her eye. "Shades," she whispered. Then to the look out, "Get the captain and drum to the ready all men on deck!"

So began the first battle in the defense of a Gondorian-Umbar.

[Arvedui III]

Telson had come to much knowledge throughout his stay in Umbar, had obtained many little wisdoms and truths that he could probably write a book on one day. As he sat in the forecastle, being glared at by the cook, however, he came to his most startling conclusion of all: Licorice was the food of the Gods.

It made sense, so much sense. For the first time since he had stepped onto the cursed ship, he did not feel like his stomach was trying to force itself out through his throat. The root was sweet, if a little addictive, but it was perfect. So Telson resolved, more than a trifle guiltily, to acquire his own private store as quickly as he could. Of course, the easiest way to do this was to lift the licorice Cook had allotted for his three young allies. They wanted to be aboard ship, therefore, their suffering is earned, and not to be aided. He thought with a smile befitting the dark lord as he gently pocketed the roots. Besides, none of them seem to mind it so much. The only one who might betray me is that lieutenant-no, first-mate, Meri Something-or-Other.

His brow creased at this, and he began to finger his stolen goods uneasily. The girl was not a particularly complicated puzzle, but an interesting one. Loyal as a Huan of old, he deemed her, fair and strong like a shieldmaiden with raven hair to rival the queens of Numenor. And she was interested in him. Not in the way most women were interested in men, he decided, frowning; But, she was uneasy about him, as if he carried some strange odor, and she wanted to know what it was. All of those inferences were irreverent, though. Telson doubted very much that he would have her loyalty on any matter, as it probably lay with Avershire, yet he also doubted very much that she would mention the licorice to Devon and the others. So that was settled. Sitting back on his stool, munching on the last of his root, Telson couldn't help but forget he was sailing on a floating hell bound for battle and certain destruction.
----------------
Telson was sleeping soundly for the first time in weeks when the call came for a beat to quarters and all hands on deck. In hindsight, the only thing he was glad about was the fact that he was alone in dark as he bumped, fell, and stumbled over and into every possible object and orifice. Throughly bruised and almightily spiteful, Telson buckled his swords to his waist and headed on deck with grimly set eyes and a mind to rip something into shreds. And from the scene that greeted him, he would more than get his chance. One of Doran's ships had been sighted off the port side.

A quiet calmness came over him as he surveyed the deck. This was what he was best at: observing the situation from a detached position, thinking of the best solution, and the executing it with merciless precision. Suddenly Telson stood stock still, wincing. It was the sound of catapults being readied and the rush of weapons being brought on deck that had made him flinch. It would carry and they would lose the element of surprise, he knew it. Although for a fleeting second his trepidation gave way to amusement as he saw Devon, Callath and Calnan trying valiantly to help load a catapult, Telson wasted little time in moving to where Arvershire and his officers...mates...things were talking in hushed tones. Whatever the plan was, he planned to be informed on it.

"What about boarders?" The second mate, Telson had forgot his name, asked.

"You can't spare anyone for boarding when they start returning fire." Telson answered levelly, enjoying the look around the small circle's faces as he made himself known.

"So glad you could join us, Master Telson." Avershire said in a fondly sarcastic tone Telson himself used often.

"We'll just have to cease fire and use most of the men for a boarding party, if it comes to that." The third mate, a balding man named Talon said determinedly.

"When it comes to that, sir." Telson corrected respectfully. "And without cover fire, if all us boarded the ship, our odds of taking her are still doubtful at best."

"Let's try and keep some optimism here." Meri interjected, staring pointedly at Telson.

"Excellent idea" Avershire nodded. "Count off the men, Mr. Talon, two groups. All hands are to man the catapults. If I say, group one is to prepare to board the ship, with half of group two in reserve. Move to it." So it was done, but Telson shook his head. It was folly. He knew it. There had to be another way. The corsair ship was almost in range when it hit him. How could he have been so stupid?

"Avershire!" He called, running after the man who was now moving down the port side, staring at the other ship, which had not moved from its original position. "We don't have to worry about boarding."

"Oh?" The captain said with a raised eyebrow. "How is that, my good landlubber?" Telson groaned inwardly. "Stow it swabby. And place fire among the salvos in the catapults. It's dry tonight." He said with a sardonic smirk, but was puzzled when Avershire frowned and gave him a stiff, "No" before turning away.

"Don't look so puzzled." Telson turned to see Meri staring at him, half in amusement, half in stern reproach "It's part of the sailor's code. Fire means death. You don't use it."

Telson nodded, thoughtful. "Where I come from, fire means life." He smiled at the irony and moved on, coming to stand between the first two catapults on the port side. From his position he could hear frantic preparation on the other ship. Apparently, it has just spotted them. That, however, was irreverent, for but a moment later the North Wind opened fire.

[maikafanawen]

The officers were aboard (as Avershire liked to call them even though they weren't technically ranked) and Meri was working with them to figure their best plan of action.

"We'll speed alongside them and let go our starboard side catapults," Avershire was saying. "We'll get archers up here too to do more damage as far as the sails go. We want most of our catapult target to be her hull. We'll blow enough holes in the right places to scare her crew. Naturally we'll want the masts taken out, and make sure Marx takes his hand at it and disables the rudder."

"What about boarders?" Frenchy asked.

"You can't spare anyone for boarding when they start returning fire." The officers turned to see the dark Gondorian.

"So glad you could join us, Master Telson." Avershire said acerbically.

"We'll just have to cease fire and use most of the men for a boarding party, if it comes to that," the third mate, a balding man named Talon said determinedly.

"When it comes to that, sir," Telson corrected respectfully, "and without cover fire, if all us boarded the ship, our odds of taking her are still doubtful at best."

"Let's try and keep some optimism here," Meri interjected, staring pointedly at Telson. She made a mental note to remind him later who the captain was. On a ship, there is no king, there is no general, there isn't even much of a god. What the captain says, goes, and there are never and questions or contradictions, no 'What if's' or 'Buts'.

"Excellent idea," Avershire nodded. "Count off the men, Mr. Talon, two groups. All hands are to man the catapults. If I say, group one is to prepare to board the ship, with half of group two in reserve. Move to it. Packs, help him, I want Marx on the first boarding group to give the men some courage."

"Aye sir!"

"Avershire!" Telson called, running after the man who was now moving down the port side, staring at the other ship, which had not moved from its original position. "We don't have to worry about boarding."

Avershire stopped, soon to be annoyed with him. "Oh?" The captain said with a raised eyebrow. "How is that, my good landlubber?"

"Stow it swabby. And place fire among the salvos in the catapults. It's dry tonight." the Gondorian said with a sardonic smirk. Avershire frowned and gave him a stiff, "No" before turning away.

"Don't look so puzzled." Telson turned to see Meri staring at him, half in amusement, half in stern reproach. "It's part of the sailor's code. Fire means death. You don't use it. Not if you can help it."

Telson nodded, thoughtful. "Where I come from, fire means life." Meri thought about it for a moment, considering the irony before turning away to see that what needed to be done, was.

"Loliway!" a sailor called. She turned towards the voice and saw Rilgari and Borger struggling to loose the launch ties of a catapult. "Here!" Borger called, "She wont budge fer nothin'!" His voice held a strain of panic in it, the sort of panic that couples so easily with battle. Meri had no time for it!

"The latch is rusted!" the first mate admonished, leaning down beside them and unhooking the small axe from her belt. She shoved the two men out of the way, brought the tool up over her head and slammed it down on top of the nail so that it bent away and the twine became lifeless over the neck of the catapult spoon, ready to be wound around the screw and released when the time came in the impending minute. "Get to it!" Meri screamed at them. She slipped the axe back into her belt and ran down the rest of the line inspecting and yelling harshly to the men to prime and brace themselves. At the end of the line stood Avershire, a glass to his eye and a readiness in his handsome face; fire, there was, also, in his eyes.

"It's one of the Umbarian Lesser Ships," he told her. "100 ton, 60 foot, up to 85 men, no less'n 10 catapults. The most versatile of all ships." He lowered the scope and gaped. "We've got to be true on our first hit. Otherwise we've no chance!" Meri nodded firmly and shouted the warning to the crew. She made it clear that there was no second chance in this game and the loser lost all.

Movement from the Pora Diy rang out across the water. Shouts of warning, the rumbling of catapults across the deck and the commands of the officers contradicting each other to cause an extreme level of disorder and chaos about the corsair ship. The crew of the North Wind wound the necks of their catapults and the archers aimed their arrows for the black sails of the Pora Diy.

"Fire!" Avershire shouted. "Fire all!" Talon, and Frenchy repeated to their lines on the starboard side of the North Wind. The catapults zinged into the air in a fine arch, slamming into the opposing ship with such force to shake her timbers and some sliced right through the sails, bringing both topgallants crashing down to the deck. "Again!" Avershire shouted through the noise of reloading. In thirty seconds they were ready again. "Fire!" This time the rudder was out by Marx's hand and the main mast took a hit. The Pora Diy moaned and shuddered like an old bull before death.

By now the other ship was ready to counterattack and the catapults were loosed for the North Wind. The helmsman spun the wheel frantically and brought the bow to swing about and skim the water just in front of the Pora Diy avoiding some of the shots. Most of them landed however and the first of Sedal's patients were rushed below to the galley now surgery. Sand was dumped on the floor and Sedal's tools were spread on the table, newly sterilized as best as possible. Orda was looking quickly over the patients and deciding which ones would live long enough to benefit under Sedal's hands.

"Gary sir," the boy said and Luc placed the young quartermaster on the deck surgery table. "Shard in the shoulder blade, wedged here, between that and the collar bone. He says he can't feel his arm sir." Orda stepped back to stop the bleeding on another man and Sedal began on young Gary.

Back on board three men had been sent up the mast to secure the sails so Blake could work the ship easily and the dozen sweepers were sent out to move the ship when Blake needed it to be. Thankfully there was a system contrived by Pearlle so that only four men were needed to maintain the sweepers instead of the original twelve. In a great sense, this was Avershire's greatest asset in most of their battles as far as the scarcity of men was concerned.

The Pora Diy was orgainzing itself very fast and very nice. It was time for hand to hand combat. Anymore catapults from the corsair ship would terminate the North Wind.

"Meri!" Avershire called to his first mate who had just taken over an abandoned catapult. "Get 'em to the grapnels!"

"All hands to the grapnels!" Meri shouted, and Frenchy repeated the command. "Prepare to board!" The men pulled their hooks and unraveled their rope extension. Blake had heard the command to and steered the ship as close as possible to the Pora Diy.

"Now!" Avershire and Meri yelled in unison. Group one was soon followed by boarding group two and the combateers were shuffled as some of the Pora Diy's corsairs jumped over to the North Wind.



Devon, who had been helping Yulman with a catapult and had also been assigned to group one, swung aboard the corsair ship, a greedy, fire-hungry blood coursing through his body. There was not a trace of fear within him and when he drew his sword to meet the first onslaught of pirates. His years of practice, and cunning resourcefulness had him sweeping the deck with a sickening sort of ease. The sea farers were no match for such a smooth skill or seemed so at first.

Then the deadening boom of a snapped mast resounded and Devon dove out of the way as the main mast crashed down to the deck, snapping loose half the port-side catapults and sending them over the edge into the water. A pirate tossed a knife at Devon and caught him just above the left shoulder, pinning his shirt to the railing. He reached to pull it out and slipped, succeeding in a deeper gash. He clenched his teeth and ripped free of the blade, ducking just as the beefy man's cutlass came in a swipe at his head. Devon sent a hard punch into his stomach and hit the back of his head with the but of his sword before kicking him over the side. Blood was now pouring from his shoulder as he fought and after just a few minutes, the world began to spin and his side was soaked with his lifeblood...



Sedal wiped at his eyes beneath the lenses as Orda rolled the lifeless form of Mr. Saltz from the table and replaced it with a new patient. "Arrow shaft stuck in his left thigh," said Luc who had appointed himself as the official carrier of patients to the surgeon. "He fainted from the pain." Sedal removed the shaft and the head quickly. He packed the wound with herbs to stop infection and wrapped it securely. Then he slapped his face hard to wake him. The man shot up, and cringed, his hand moving to his thigh.

"Get back up on the deck and fight!" Sedal screamed at him. "You're bloody fine!" Terrified at the threat carried in the surgeon's tone, the man flung himself from the table and limped up the stairs, unsheathing his sword and yelling. Half a moment later he came tumbling down, an arrow sealed in his throat.

"Damn!" Sedal cried. Not so much for the man's life, but that he had just spent three valuable minutes curing him. Wiping again at his brown, he listened as Luc told him of his next patient's wound details. The surgeon shook his head. "No," he murmured. "He won't make it. Bring me the next man." Orda watched with admiration, tears held back in eyes, at Mr. Sedal. It was by far the hardest job of a ship to be the ship surgeon, to have to decide on the fate of those who were brought to you. Could you save them? If you risk saving them and they died, how many others will suffer from loss of attention? His thoughts were cut short as Mr. Sedal motioned for the man to be carried to a hammock; he would live.

[Himaran]

Graring stood read on the deck of his beloved ship, the Pora Diy . As the boarders swung across, a shiver of joy ran through him; he was a pirate again! Cutluss in hand, the man roared and charged towards the approaching enemy. Reaching the boat's side without being attacked, he watched as a man tossed a grapnel and started to swing over. Grinning maliciously, Graring sliced the rope in two, watching the man crash into the boat with a sickening thud.

Turning, the corsair saw another Gondorian male rush him. Ducking, he ran him through with a swift thrust from his razor-sharp blade. But the feeling of victory soon left him, as he saw vaguely that the Gondorians were winning. The corsairs were being overwhelmed, and the deck was nearly overrun.

Suddenly, another man swung over and crashed into him, sending Graring sprawling on the deck. Leaping up, swung his blade in a deadly arc, but the man evaded it. The Gondorian snatched a spear from the deck and rushed him, but Graring leapt backwards...

It was then that the veteren slipped on the blood of his last victim, and tumbled over the side into the sea.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Callath tightened his grip on the knife in his hand, grabbed from somewhere on the deck, as a corsair lurched towards him, swinging a longsword with a piercing yell, his greasy black hair flying. One....two...th- a sudden lurch of the boat caught both boy and corsair off-guard, along with most of the rest of the people on the ship's deck. Callath felt his feet knocked from under him as a fraction of wood, split from the mast maybe, caught one ankle and he sprawled flat on his back, but the knife which clattered out of his grip and away along the deck was not his greatest concern - the sudden lurch was also sending him sliding rapidly towards the side of the boat, and the wide gutters along it. Only his quick reflexes, trained from years of unruly and unpredictable colts, saved the boy's life as his hand shot out to grab one edge of the gutter hole and he held on, literally, for dear life as all sorts clattered out beside him. Just don't bloody look down... he thought grimly, unable to dispel the fact that, yes, not that far beneath him were ever-rising waves that were not at all inclined towards falling stable-boys. As the ship righted itself again, Callath tried to pull himself back up, the tendons in his shoulders screaming as his other hand flailed. He made another magnificent effort with a muted groan...only to nearly fall again as a slight tip of the ship, which would hardly be noticable, sent his water-slicked fingers sliding almost off the gutter. He grabbed for it again, watery doom flitting through his mind until a hand reached down towards him, grabbing his wrist before it fell. Callath looked up at the owner of the hand to see a dark haired, alert looking man a few years older than himself, his sharp features smiling grimly down at him.

What was slightly more alarming was the fact that the man's hands, and subsequently now Callath's wrist as well, were covered in blood.

The man staggered back slightly, letting go, and Callath attempted to drag himself back onto the bucking ship until the man re-appeared, holding one broad, tanned hand out. "Give me your free hand, boy!"

Callath didn't think about it, simply forced another effort on his tiring limbs and swung his hand into a roman handshake with the older man, who didn't waste time in dragging him, with a huge effort from them both, onto his chest on the deck. Callath scrabbled slightly, his feet kicking sickeningly in thin air for a second, before he dragged himself fully on and up to his feet.

The man stood nearby, a sharp, alert look on his face as he glanced around. Callath, getting his breath back quickly, wondered what exactly he was doing and why he wasn't joining in with the fights, but soon saw why as another catapult-load ricocheted over their heads, and the stable boy leapt onto the man's back, dragging him down just in time. They both struggled back up and the man turned to Callath, nodding gratefully, before turning without a word and running to where a heavy-set man of about 40 or 45, to judge from his sea-battered looks, had been injured by the blast, splinters buried deep into forehead and, to Callath's horror, one eye, and was cursing wildly among sobs as he fell, clutching the mast. Callath's rescuer darted to his side immediately, uttering a sharp but soft "stay still, man!" before he had a quick look at the man's eye, peering into the wound. He glanced up a Callath, nodding. "M'name's Luc, I'm helping the doctor - thanks for getting me down back there."

He held out a hand, and Callath suddenly understood why they were so blood-stained. Had the crew sustained such injury already? He grabbed the man's hand and shook briefly. "Callath Harres, I came aboard with Avershire and...Maurice Thrann's son? And I should be thanking you." The part about Devon ended questioningly, as Callath was not sure if the man would know who Devon was. The man nodded and grinned suddenly. "Not a sailor then?"

Callath shook his head hopelessly, but returned the grin, and Lu looked back to the wounded man, indicating with his head that Callath squat as well. He addressed the wounded man, now half blind and, Callath saw, badly wounded in the leg as well, as Luc hoisted him into a sitting position, his arms under the man's armpits, speaking over the man's next apparently drunken torrent of wild cursing that made Callath raise an eyebrow. "Alright, Yulman, point taken - can you stand?"

"Can I stand? Ach, no one's asked me that for a good coupla decades, boy, of course I-" he scoffed, attempting to stand, then cut off sharply, another few choice words spurting from his lips before he continued, breathing sharply and painfully but speaking through gritted teeth, "N...no...look at that, it...it doesn't seem I c-can, boy..."

Luc nodded. "Don't try to open your eyes or move your legs, Yulman. Callath, get his legs and for gods' sakes be careful. We need to get him below."

Callath nodded. He glanced at the trapdoor Luc indicated with his head as they lifted the rather thickset man, and was cynically reminded of a time when he had had to manoevure a very fractious colt with a very broken leg through a very small door. "If you say so, Luc...."

[Nuranar]

Bow in hand, Calnan watched the small corsair ship grow larger as they gained on it. Gaining on battle. How ironic that his first battle would be fought at sea, so far from the glades of Ithilien.

The odds were heavily against his surviving the next month, Calnan reflected. Then he set his jaw stubbornly. If Doran thought he'd knuckle under, someone was in for a surprise.

~ ~ ~

Shooting sails was all very well. The corsair's black sails already presented a peculiar appearance, as if spattered with sky-blue paint. The breeze was brisk and was slowly tearing each hole into a gaping rents that would eventually rob the Pora Diy of much of her speed and most of her manueverability.

Aye, eventually is the key! Calnan thought to himself savagely. He was perched well forward in the bows, straddling the rail with his right leg anchored in the woodwork to keep him steady. Of course, amidships was the stablest platform for an archer, but the deck was a chaos of stones, ropes, chains, and catapults, plus the shorthanded crew frantically manning them. The bow pitched up and down as the North Wind gained on her quarry, but at least he wasn't in imminent danger of being run over.

And his efforts over the previous weeks were paying off somehow. Constantly, as he scurried here and there at the orders of the mates, he had worked on maintaining balance, gauging the rhythm of the waves, anticipating their height, learning which way to lean. Accurately using a sextant certainly required a steady arm. And even when aloft, swinging wildly above the ship, he studied wave patterns in different winds and directions. Now, although he had (he hoped) accurate aim, the question was if he could hit a moving target.

Sails didn't count as a worthwhile target, he decided. Already he had expended too many of his precious long arrows. His bow was far more powerful than the other archers'; what if he tried to sever a backstay? Taut as they were, the strain would exploit even a glancing strike from one arrow.

The North Wind was gaining; already her catapults had brought down the enemy's topgallants. At this range he couldn't - shouldn't - possibly miss, but - if only the sea and wind would be still! He laughed harshly, derisively at this petulant thought even as he sighted carefully on the starboard mainmast backstay.

At just the right moment he released. With a sudden rush of triumph he saw his arrow fly true; then over the shouts and thunder of battle he heard a sudden deep snap. The main topsail shuddered. With the next wave the main topmast lurched, then cracked free of its restraints. The starboard shrouds held fast the mainmast, but the topmast, topsail, and topgallant mast majestically swung to port and crashed down, part on deck and part dragging in the water.

Unfortunately, the Diy's starboard catapults were unaffected by the catastrophe. As the Gondorian ship rapidly closed in on them, the corsairs unleashed a furious barrage on their pursuer. The crashes and screams as huge rocks crushed wood and flesh alike were terrifying. Calnan turned his efforts to picking off the men on the catapults. He staggered as the ship suddenly veered to starboard and began to cross the corsair's bow.

The mate's clear voice rose above the din: "All hands to the grapnels! Prepare to board!" The North Wind was approaching alongside the corsair, whose crew were also readying to swing across. Calnan stowed his bow, praying no idiot would think it a nice cudgel, and dashed aft in time to see Devon whirl into vigorous action on the corsair's deck.

Part of the second boarding party, Calnan swung across and crashed heavily into a fearsome corsair with a bloody cutlass. Calnan let himself roll over on the deck. No time to draw his sword; he grasped the first thing that came to hand: a spear. Leaping to his feet, he barely evaded the corsair's strike. With but one chance to kill or be killed, he lunged at the man in desperation.

Grinning, the corsair leapt out of range, then turned and drew back his weapon for the death-blow. But as Calnan's hand reached for his sword hilt, the man slipped. Losing his balance on the blood-slick deck, the corsair fell overboard, his face showing only surprise.

Heart pounding, sword in hand, Calnan whirled to face the rest of the battle. Where was Devon? There, being backed into the fallen topmast! Almost without thinking he hurled the spear into Devon's antagonist. The man screamed and fell to his knees, but turned on Calnan with a dying fury as he rushed to his friend's aid. Calnan automatically parried his last savage blow and stabbed him.

Devon had fallen to the deck, barely conscious; blood was pouring from a gaping wound in his shoulder. Calnan tore fabric from his shirttail and pressed it to the wound. The material turned bright red instantly. Calnan pulled off the rest of his shirt and frantically tried to stanch the bleeding.

The crash and clatter of rocks, the hard clash of blades, the blows, the shouts of rage and screams of agony - the uproar was deafening. But abruptly Calnan grasped the sword he had laid beside his friend and swung around, blade lifted. Just in time - still half-kneeling with one foot on the deck, he barely blocked the sneak blow that would have split his skull. It must have been the man's heavy, but stealthy, step behind him that warned him. Although how he heard it amidst the din and identified it as a threat was a marvel.

He leapt to his feet in a rage at the would-be backstabber. But as his furious attack beat the man back, Calnan found himself more angry that this distraction was keeping him from Devon. His antagonist soon fell back, seriously wounded, but Calnan found himself embroiled in a two-way duel. Fighting grimly but more carefully, he tried to keep the corsairs away from his friend.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Callath and Luc ran with some difficulty, hoisting the man along with them as around them the corsairs were rapidly losing in the skirmishes around them. Callath heard a blood curdling yell and saw one slip overboard on a patch of blood, but this was not as lucky as the stable-boy had been earlier, as a yell and a splash a moment later confirmed his untimely bath. Where the man had been a moment ago, Callath saw Calnan standing, his bow in one hand and a slight, triumphant grin on his face, and couldn't help smiling. But he didn't have time to congratulate his friend as Luc stamped on the trapdoor three times fast then kicked up open with the toe of one of his seaboots, and the began, very carefully but with as much speed as possible, to descend.

The dimness of the room beneath the deck was so contrasting to the brightness of outside that it took Callath a moment to adjust to it, in which he stubbed his toe sharply on some sort of box on the floor. A young voice exclaimed, "Hey, watch where you're going," but without much conviction. It surprised Callath though - who on the ship could be in possession of such a young voice? As his pupils grew wider and his sight returned, he saw a youth - well, a boy really - scurry around in front of Luc and take in the man's injuries without, it seemed, any real surprise. Indeed, the boy, who could not be more than thirteen or fourteen, seemed quite unshocked by what he was seeing, in a way that Callath found almost chilling, an impression that was beginning to extend to the whole room - there were at least three bloodiesd bodies lying around the room, and one of them was groaning. Looking away quickly, Callath saw the boy looking curiously at him, young brown eyes open and a studied expression on his face, but when Callath's green eyes met his brown ones, the boy looked away quickly, his gaze diverting itself to somewhere further off in the room. "Mr Sedal," he called.

A man straightened up from the side of a hammock which had obscured him from Callath's view before, and he hurried over. As Luc recited the man's injuries, what they knew of them, quickly, the stable boy took the oppurtunity to look with some surprise at the surgeon, who he hadn't yet had a chance to properly meet. He had seen him once or twice, drifting without much apparent purpose or steadiness on the deck, and at the Captain's table when he had chanced in there once, but this figure seemed rather different to that neatly turned out, pristine one, although the mildness of expression remained even amid the sweat glistening on his face, the blood smeared across his forehead, one cheek and his hands, and his rolled up sleeves, his shirt now dotted with various unidentifiable stains.

"Part of the deck fairly exploded when he stumbled near it - there are splinters in his forehead, right cheek and, I think, several in his right eye. The left eye doesn't seem too damaged by the splinters - the blood leaked over when his head lolled when we were carrying him-"

"Me head wasn't lollin' anyway, ye dog! I'm as alert as Avershire himself in battle!" Yulman protested furiously, jerking as he regained full conciousness for a moment.

"Mr Yulman, if you would remain quiet please, or I shall let these two young gentlemen loose on your eyes with a scalpel," the surgeon replied, his tone dry and mild. He intelligent eyes darted up to Callath as Luc started to continue again, and held up a hand at the older man, then nodded towards Yulman's legs. "As you have had the delight of carrying them, would you care to continue on this topic?"

Callath gaped for a moment but quickly regained his composure, not wanting to seem like a gawping idiot in front of this composed, well mannered and evidently intelligent gentleman. "Right leg has the splinters from the exploded deck embedded in it, as well as a long, possibly quite deep cut from knee to ankle-" Here Callath twitched the man's trouser leg, split down the side from above the knee, aside to reveal a long, deep cut. "I think it may be from a serated knife from the jagged edge along here," he added, pointing with one long finger down one side a few inches up from the man's ankle. "And the left leg is quite probably broken from the feel of it."

"Where?"

"At the knee, I reckon - every time I move it, the man...complains," Callath concluded. Sedal grinned very slightly and looked back down at Yulman. "Mr Yulman, have you been insulting this young man who had so kindly carried you down to me?"

"Aye, I have indeed, and would merrily do so again!" The seaman confirmed with fervour, then looked up at Callath upside down. "No offence to ye, of course."

"None taken," came the dry reply as Luc and Callath heaved the man onto the table for the surgeon to have a steadier look. Before he did so though, Sedal glanced at Callath's bloodied wrist, then met the boy's eyes over his half moon glasses. "You need help with that?"

Callath shook his head, exchanging a quick look with Luc. "The blood isn't mine."

The surgeon sighed slightly, shaking his head as if with regret, then said, "What's your name?"

"Callath Harres, Mr Sedal." His hand was enfolded in a hand with fingers even longer than his own, and Sedal held it for a moment, turning the boy's hand over to look at his fingers, before his gaze transferred itself to Callath's face once more, a studied expression on his handsome features as if he was examining him. After a second he let go and jerked his eyes up to the deck. "Go on then, bring my work to me," he said, his dry tone now becoming familiar. Callath bobbed his head and turned, with Luc, to take the steps two at a time up to the deck, pleased inwardly as he recalled the satisfaction he had seen in the surgeon's eyes.

[Arvedui III]

Habit was a wondrous thing, Telson decided as the North Wind pulled alongside the opposite vessel, taking fire from enemy catapults as she did.

What battles he had fought in before were on firm ground, but the cold apathy that drained into his body upon seeing his foes had thankfully not changed. Combat was the one thing in which he held no humor nor keen memory of, and for the stillness and veil the crept over his mind he was eternally grateful. Naught but the grim discipline of lifetaking guided him, and it was with no feeling at all that Telson swung across onto the other ship when the call came to board, fear and noise and pity forgotten. It was a horrible word to use, but in such a state Telson found battle to be nothing but boring.

A bloodied corsair at least twice his size rushed him, yet by a simple side-step and drawing his swords, Telson impaled the man and moved on to engage another with a business-like air. He swung his blades in a wide dance long memorized, quickly finding the weaknesses in the cutlasses most corsairs used and making quicker work of their owners. As he worked his way to the port railing, however, Telson found his opponents to be much more difficult, and the obfuscating vacuum of fighting an inferior foe left him. For the first time he heard the deafening roar of the wounded, blood-yells and catapults hurling everything they had at one another.

And into this he found himself falling onto the deck more and more, dodging an oddly-shaped spear, trying to maneuver over the dead and wounded while at the same time trying to get onto his feet and stave off the wide-eyed, laughing corsair who was attempting to drive his sword into Telson's stomach. By luck it seemed, an arrow felled his antagonist, and rising back up Telson drove his swords into the back of a corsair rushing a scared-looking boy who had just swung onto the ship. Forgetting his pounding heart for a moment, Telson gave a quick nod to the boy before working his way up amidship, his strokes more wild and reckless. It was better, he thought grimly as he trapped a gaunt pirate's blade between his two, to wound many corsairs in good time rather than spend forever killing only one. And, for a long while, he did just that, not taking notice of anything else save those he had to cut down.

But, with a sickening rip and an immediate and fierce pain in his left arm, Telson's legs buckled and he found himself kneeling at the mercy of yet another corsair with tree-trunk arms and a toothy smile. A sort of grim resignation filled him, and in that moment, he was acutely aware of every part of his body, the rest of the world seeming very far away, the beads of sweat running down his forehead and the blood flowing through his right hand replacing the din of battle. But he refused to stay still and accept his fate. As the corsair raised his sword for the kill, Telson kicked out and sent the startled pirate onto the deck with a satisfying thump. And grasping the man's cutlass, Telson drove in into its master crying, "GONDOR!!!!" and "TELCONTAR!!!" as he did so.

His blood was up now, perhaps the battle-lust was on him more than it had ever been, and Telson forgot all about the slash on his arm, running back into the fray. But this time he made sure no man was uncertain about who and what he fought for, because with every corsair he strove with, Telson made sure that ‘Gondor' was the last word the traitor ever heard.

[maikafanawen]

Meri worked like an adder: quick and sure in her attack, never giving time for reflection or repost from the opponent. She worked her way across the deck of the North Wind, defending her from the pirates. Around her, bodies spilled their lifeblood and were kicked overboard. The young man Callath along with Luc were carrying the wounded to Sedal below. The first mate clenched her teeth and blinked away the hot tears that formed in her eyes.

The cries from the Pora Diy caught her attention and she began to search the deck of the North Wind for a grapnel. She found one lying beneath the wheel of a catapult and wrenched it free. In one smooth toss she'd hooked it on the spar of the main course sail and swung herself over into the blood fest thereabouts. She lost her belt-dagger in the first kill and harnessed a harder grip on her sword. If necessary she could retrieve the knife from her boot.

"Meri!" The woman turned and for a moment caught the eye of Calnan before he turned again, focused on his opponent's lance. She moved towards him assuming that he needed help in his duel. The attaché, however, demonstrated a clean parry-thrust and sent the pirate crashing to the deck before she'd taken her second step. He looked up and beckoned her on dropping to his knee before the body of the ambassador's son. The first mate leapt over a coil of lines and knelt down beside him.

The young man was barely conscious and his breathing was loosing its stability. The gash was deep in his shoulder and was his only wound. "Wrap it up Mr. Terendul and stow him somewhere out of sight. We'll return when the fighting's over and do what more we can then." Calnan grabbed her sleeve as she stood to go and pulled her level with him.

"No we can't do that," he said between clenched teeth. Meri kept her patience in check and wrenched free of his grasp.

"I can," she said forcefully. "You do whatever you want!" Then she stood and left the young man as his friend's only hope. This was war, she told herself firmly, sacrifices would be made.



Avershire rolled a catapult clear of the wreckage of the Pora Diy's collapsed mizzen mast and placed a barrel-full of heavy stones in the spoon. Then he wound the twine so the neck bent over the launch bar.

"Now," he signaled to Packs beside him who cut the twine and sent the rocks crashing towards the main mast. It was a good hit but the spar stood firm and Avershire loaded another round.

"Ahoy Avershire!" called a cheery Borger as he rolled a second catapult up beside them. "Maybe two will get the job done?" The captain threw him a grin but stayed focused on winding his catapult's twine.

"Now!" and Packs snapped the string that sent a simultaneous hit along with Borger's shot that brought the Pora Diy's final mast crashing to the decks. Within no more than an hour, Avershire's crew had taken over the Pora Diy. The first battle was over.

[Nuranar]

How long are they going to keep coming? Calnan thought tiredly. He wheeled to face yet another pirate who seemed all too bent on running him through. It didn't occur to him that his weary scholar's face and lean build appeared vulnerable. The growing pile of bodies proved otherwise.

Calnan did his best to remain between the enemy and Devon. The puddle of blood beside his wounded friend was growing, his makeshift bandage ineffective. Devon was bleeding to death, but if Calnan stopped to help they'd both be killed out of hand. The battle on the Pora Diy wasn't dying down, and especially not in his own quarter, Calnan reflected without resentment. But couldn't anyone help him?

As if in reply, first mate Meri Loliway swung unexpectedly onto the deck and into action near him. Surely she would help!

Dodging his opponent's weapon, Calnan closed suddenly and drove him back with a vicious elbow in the gut. "Meri!" he shouted in the brief respite, catching her eye, then adeptly parried his man's retaliating thrust and ran him through. The battle momentarily cleared around them.

He ran to Devon's side, beckoning her. As he tried to tie the bandage - once his shirt - tighter around the wounded shoulder, Meri knelt beside him. His mind was rapidly sorting out the best plan, but she spoke first.

"Wrap it up, Mr. Terendul, and stow him somewhere out of sight. We'll return when the fighting's over and do what more we can then."

Calnan froze. His face was expressionless; only his eyes widened. But when she began to rise, his lips tightened and he caught her arm roughly. "No, we can't do that," he said in a strained voice.

Twisting her wrist suddenly, Meri flung off his hand. Her blue eyes glinted dangerously, but her voice was controlled. "I can. You do whatever you want!" She threw herself into the thickest of the fight, killing with a concentrated ruthlessness both admirable and appalling.

Calnan stood rigid, unconsciously clenching his sword, but fighting only his rage. Something very like hatred flooded through him. . .

. . . And realizing it, he felt it dissolve into grief. This is no time for that! he reproached himself. Devon was what mattered. Was there anyone - there, finishing off a red-shirted corsair. "Marx!"

The tall crewman turned to him. "What ho, m' lad?" he called, then his face changed as he saw Devon at his feet.

"I need to get Devon back to the ship," Calnan said as Marx strode across the deck. "He's bled a lot already. Can you cover me?" He was already examing the wound.

"I've a better idea. Take this" - thrusting his own sword into Calnan's other hand - "and you cover me." He glanced at the fallen foresail spar that bridged the gap between the two ships. "I'll carry him across on that - kid's play." Calnan stepped back, glancing around as the burly crewman rose carefully with Devon across his shoulder. "Don't worry, lad," he grinned, "I've seen you - you're better than them." Softer, turning away, "And he'll be just fine."

Calnan gave a deep breath, then renewed the fight. His energy approached exuberance soon after a quick glance confirmed that Marx had safely reached the North Wind's deck. But then a splintering crash from astern heralded a vicious spray of wood and stone that flew overhead. A second crash, a warning shout, and a long, snapping groan were followed by a tremendous smash as the Pora Diy's mainmast fell.

Calnan was thrown violently to the deck. As he rose, he saw the battle momentarily frozen with the shock of the disaster. In the sudden hush, Avershire's voice reached every ear on both ships' decks.

"Your ship is destroyed, and we are master of it. Surrender and you will receive mercy."

Narrowly watching the amazement, fear, indecision, and then anger on the corsair faces around him, Calnan made sure his back was to an ally. He hoped Avershire knew what he was doing.

[maikafanawen]

A harried, incredulous Kent Avershire leaned on the edge of the table in his cabin, rubbing his hands frantically through his disheveled hair. Delf Pora, the captain of the Pora Diy, stood tall and stiff in front of the door, his only remaining mate supported by a cane slouched on his right hand side. Meri lingered near the back of the room and kept silent as the captains canvassed of terms to be settled between them concerning the problem of what to do with all the men about the corsair ship and the ship itself.

"My men would never serve under a Gondorian," Pora asserted firmly, "though I wish they would for their lives' sake."

"You are their captain until the paper is signed, make them!" Avershire demanded. "It is against everything I've ever known to sink a whole crew with their ship. Never has this been done by a mortal man of his own choosing; any seafarers that were destroyed along with their ship were condemned by the gods! I haven't the power to destroy so many men… I haven't the will--"

"If you let them live you're endangering your crew!" Meri interjected, "what little you have left!" Avershire buried his face in his hands as he thought. So many hardheaded men, fighting for a cause they believed so strongly in. He didn't want that sort of blood on his hands. But he paid dearly with lives of his own crew. They'd lost nearly twenty of their original sixty-nine plus there were a good number wounded. It was going to be difficult to sail the North Wind with the remaining men, some of which were in no real shape to work a ship. He was counting on the recruit of Pora Diy sailors who would work under the whip of his men. Avershire let a lingering sigh and fixed his gaze on the proud face of Delf Pora.

"I am going to address the prisoners and give them the option of life aboard my ship as members of the crew. They will sleep separately from my original crew and eat separately. At all times some of my men will harbor watch over them. I cannot guarantee the quality or quantity of their food but I will recognize the fact that they are human beings not animals. On the other hand they are offered a sailor's death, their choosing, hanging, beheading, or drowning if they so desire." He suppressed a shiver before continuing on. "If they choose to join my crew let it known that they will recognize me as captain and--" he paused looking at Pora, hoping he would understand the penalty of being a conquered captain. "Well, the necessary and appropriate action will be taken."

Delf nodded. "Would you have me offer the proposal to them?"

"Aboard Captain Avershire's ship, the only one offering proposals is him!" Meri's outburst shocked them all. "Do not assume--"

"Enough!" Avershire roared. His face was a thundercloud when he turned to his first mate. It was difficult enough for him to be faced with such a decision and he was certainly not in the mood to tolerate Meri's prejudice. "If you cannot hold neither your tongue nor your temper you are ordered to remove yourself and return when your nerves have settled into some sense!" Furious, the woman stormed from the room, taking care in slamming the door with all her strength so that the table shook, scattering its maps and the pictures on the wall rattled and the ceiling lamps swayed. "Damn her," Avershire cursed. He rubbed agitatedly at his forehead wishing away the terrible headache he'd came by. "Hahnn!" he called for the cook. After a few seconds the little man appeared in the doorway, balancing a tray with two mugs of steaming coffee on it and half a loaf of bread.

"I was just on my way when you bellowed," he said. He placed the tray on the table and nodded to both captains. "A little breakfast," and then he left. Avershire gestured for Pora to help himself to the coffee and bread and took up his own black brew drinking steadily. When half of it was gone he set it on the table and sat down and waited as the corsair ate and drank what he had been offered.

Avershire wondered if all of Doran's co-captains had such polished manners as Captain Delf Pora. The man was very tall, the tallest he'd seen, with dark coloring like that of the corsairs. He wore the tattoos of a pirate branded up his arms and around his neck, even creeping up the sides of his jaw. Pora had an imperious air about him and was powerfully plain-featured with his dark, sunken eyes, a look that allowed him to assume his position with physical confidence and immediate respect at the outstart. It was no wonder if his crew was willing to die for their captain and his cause.

"I think it would be better for me to exercise my authority if I offered the...options," Avershire said, breeching the silence. Delf Pora was silent for a moment and then nodded. The two captains faced each other for a moment, respecting the silent understanding between them and then Avershire rose, extending his hand. "I wish there was another way."




Devon woke, groggy and disoriented, looking up into the glistening face of Mr. Sedal. The surgeon's lips moved, giving direction for Orda to bring more tea. "He's awake again. Hold his mouth open." Hot water with a vague flavor of exotic herbs trickled down his throat and he coughed and spurted. "Hold on Devon, you've got to take it. There you go." The room swam and pitched. The young man rolled over onto the right side of his body and heaved. The boy moved quick with a bucket and caught most of it. Then he disappeared up the stairs to empty it into the sea, coming back to mop up the rest. "Lay back down Devon I haven't finished with your left shoulder." As if the words caused the pain itself, Devon went dizzy with the shock and thought he was going to heave again. But then the herbs settled in his bowls and his mind became groggy and he drifted into sleep.




The captain of the North Wind had offered his terms and explained in great length the details. He had even rearranged the demands to be more appeasable to the corsair prisoners. But in the end their minds were not swayed; they would stand true to their cause.

"Admirable!" Avershire said derisively. "Your sweet compassion and unbending devotion to a city-state such as Umbar, whose economy thrives on the pillage, plunder, and rape of other coastal towns and their merchant vessels is absolutely estimable." He gripped the rail of the Pora Diy's quarter deck. "But I am not hear to preach repentance or conversion! I have set forth my terms and thrice you have refused them choosing death for your pathetic cause over life under my captaincy."

Then Delf Pora spoke from his place to Avershire's left. "I for one do not die for the cause of Umbar under Doran but for the liberation of myself from Gondorian tyranny." Avershire whirled incredulously to face Delf Pora. "The corsair way is based on undeniable freedom! Our anarchy is kept organized by the captains who keep Umbar on her feet, who bring her what she needs and what she wants. Why should we cast out the fathers who have watched over us for these northern heathens who come with their papers and their documents and false promises for a better way of life? What is better to them? Morales?" Snickers scattered throughout the assembled corsairs and their spirits were enflamed by Pora's words. "My brothers let us be martyrs for the true way of life! Let us die together as an example that no corsair will be made weak to succumb to the captaincy of a Gondorian!" Wicked cheers erupted from the rousing crowd and Avershire's crew beat them into silence as the captains faced each other.

"You're false, Pora! You are too afraid to die alone. The words you spoke in my cabin were words of protocol and lies. I have no compassion for a crew of demons captained by their wicked idol!" Then he turned so that all the assembled could hear what he had to say. "They who fight together against us, will sink together by our hand! Lock them in the hold!"




What supplies and provisions that could be used to replenish and repair the North Wind had been secured by Avershire's crew. Positioned fifty yards away from the Pora Diy, the North Wind's remaining catapults and the ones salvaged from the pirate ship were lined up on her starboard side, loaded and prepared to fire. The damage done during the battle was sufficient enough to render the ship irreparable but it would take a couple more good hits to sink her. The twines snapped and the hits were true. Avershire stood on board and watched as the Pora Diy sighed beneath the surface of the sea and descended to her death, the muffled cries of 'Umbar! Umbar!' fading into the afternoon.

[Himaran]

Graring watched in dismay as his beloved ship sank slowly into the depths of the angry sea. All of his crewmates were trapped aboard the sinking vessel, and he could do nothing to save them. Clinging to a small piece of rubble, the corsair saw the North Wind disappear in the distance; the sails fading in the the setting sun. It was a beautiful sight, really.

Several hours later, another sail appeared on the horizon. Graring knew that he would be rescued, but did not relish explaining to his peers the fate of the Diy. He had been floundering in the ocean while the entire crew was either slaughtered or drowned. Staring hard at the spot where Avershire's ship had slipped from view, the corsair muttered between clenched teeth:

"You will pay!"

[Durelin]

Staring down at a dead man missing an arm, Adeline could only feel the need to empty her stomach. There was nothing left to rid her of this feeling, as she had previously seen other body parts brutally ripped off by a catapult shot. She had heard of battles before, though these had been on dry land, and the basic description had always been that of confusion and fear. Men reacted as they had since the beginning, and so men died. But never did she expect to learn the utter and thorough truth of this description, and the moist deck around her, the broken pieces of wreckage remaining of what was once a beautiful vessel, as hard as that was for Adeline to admit, it seemed so unreal. Most of all, it was hard to see those unfortunate men who had followed Doran into the most perfect picture of battle lying about her as real. Perhaps on sea perfection of the horror was reached, as man was still so awkward on the sea. As with all nature, and with its own separating magnificence, Adeline was not sure man would ever overcome the sea, whether to fight, live, or die.

No one took the time to even glance at her as they ran across and back across the deck. They seemed to be busily on their way, but Adeline could sense no work being done, only confusion. The crew, unlike the past days of sailing, seemed to be wandering aimlessly. It was a sharp contrast to the precise order they had worked in only hours before. It had to be only hours, as the sun had not reached the western horizon yet, but if felt a lifetime. In a way it was: it was a lifetime of war. It was all the amount of battle a life could endure, and more. Adeline was not sure of how much longer she could endure this, whether locked in the Captain's cabin, as she was meant to be, or out on deck. In either place, both her mind and stomach were tumultuous.

Drawing in a deep breath, she waited a moment until she felt her stomach was calm enough for her to move. Walking awkwardly across the deck, as in a drunken stupor, Adeline kept her head up, her eyes away from below her. She moved her way carefully toward the side of the ship nearest her, not bothering to look down at anything her feet ran into. As she found calm and her eyes began to actually see what was before her across the sea, she found a greater horror than the one she stood in. Whoever had said 'the grass was always greener on the other side' knew more than many men ever would; or women. Her hands shot up to her face, covering her eyes, wishing all away. Though she gripped to the one hope of closing her eyes fully, as in sleep, her eyelids seemed transparent.

A weight was felt on her shoulder, and Adeline winced, recoiling away from it. She turned and took steps backward as she found herself facing a swarthy looking, shirtless man slinging a scimitar-like blade. Not only was this weapon stained with blood, but so was he, from head to foot. Wounds on his own person could be seen, but other stains could not have gotten there without coming from another body. Adeline winced again at this thought, and backed away yet another step, till she felt the deck railing behind her. "Why 'ello, your Ladyship," he said, gruffly, but still obviously in a mocking manner. "And what are you doing up on deck? 'Ave you not noticed that the ships are launching bloody big rocks at each other?"

Adeline was all but shivering from a cold, sickly feeling in her stomach and in her heart. She could find know strength to speak, or perhaps it was that she no longer knew how to. And even if she had, she would not have known what to say. "We'll just get you back down to the Captain's cabin. Though mayhaps we'll make it the cellar this time." He still did not smile, and that brought a shiver out of Adeline. He reached out to grab her, and as his hand once again touched her, Adeline let go, and she crumpled to the ground. Finally darkness was found, an escape from the scene that surrounded her in consciousness.

But this freedom would not last for Adeline. She was forced to return to reality, and it returned to her with crushing force. When she found the strength to open her eyes, and then to raise her head, she found what was left of the man who had reached out for her minutes earlier. One of his 'bloody big rocks' had taken off his head. Adeline emptied the contents of her stomach onto the deck, and again fell into the darkness. This time, though, the still-life paintings of reality would remain with her.

[maikafanawen]

Mr. Sedal wove between the hammocks, distributing rations to the laid-up wounded: a total of about eight that had survived with their assorted scrapes and bruises. He offered estimates of time for recovery and if he'd need to do any more surgery. One unlucky sailor would need to have the bone in his leg reset because the surgeon had not had enough time during the battle. The poor man didn't even have enough time to yell before the pained shot through his body and he passed out for two hours.

By the time Sedal got around to Devon, the young man had envisaged all the possible remedial pain he'd have to endure. The surgeon pressed at a few places on Devon's forearm and moved his fingers; he could hardly feel any of it. Sedal unwrapped the gauze and peeled off the purple leaves, dropping them onto a tray.

"It's healing up somewhat slowly," he mused, "I'm afraid it may have been contaminated as well. We'll just have to mind it as it mends itself." He turned the leaves over and placed the semi-clean side back on the gash.

"Shouldn't you get new.... leaves on there?" Devon asked nervously.

Sedal kept his somber gaze on his work when he answered. "Devon, if I had enough athelas, I would." Devon slumped back in his hammock sullenly. The surgeon finished binding his shoulder and looked with mild sympathy at his patient. "I understand why this wound is deeper than the couple centimeters or so it cut into you. It's not easy having to tell people that they may not be able to do much with certain, rather important parts of themselves for a while, or ever. Lucky for you, though, you didn't loose the whole thing. But I don't know if you'll ever be able to move as fast with the sword as you used to."

The surgeon finished his work and moved on, giving Devon some time for peace. But Devon didn't want to be alone; being alone meant he had time to think, to think about never being able to fence as well as he used to. It was one of the few things he had really excelled at. He was only average in his academics, and relatively poor at politics. Without fencing, he had nothing. His eyes began to burn and he pressed his right fist against them; a suppressed sob racked his chest and he coughed. He got angry. Don't cry damnit, he slid down in his hammock and shielded his face with his mobile arm. Don't let anyonesee you cry! He took a couple of deep, steadying breaths and finally closed his eyes ready for sleep.

In his dreams, he had a wooden arm to which a sword was secured. He was surrounded by pirates with hundreds of perfect, strong arms wielding impossibly long thin, needle-like swords. Devon struggled with his own weapon but it would not obey any of his commands; it kept dropping its point and the corsairs moved ever closer. 'Devon!' yelled Calnan from somewhere above him. 'Use your sword! Pick it up! Come on! Fight like you used to!' Devon opened his mouth to say that he couldn't and hundreds of athelas leaves came out instead of words. 'Devon!' Calnan yelled again. 'Devon!!' The pirates lunged at once. 'DEVON!'

He bolted upright and his hammock swayed dangerously before a pair of hands steadied it.

'Whoa!' said Callath, the hands' owner. "Settle down what's wrong?" Devon was breathing hard and tried to get a grip. Callath sat with him, silent, until his friend was breathing normally again. Then he asked quietly, "Are you okay?" He looked concerned and Devon tried to make his mind clear itself.

"I'm fine," he managed. "What are you doing?"

"I was just sitting here and sort of fooling with a candle," he held up a lump of wax twisted and marked -- Devon chuckled -- "when you started to sort of moan and move around. So I woke you up before you fell." Devon nodded and picked idly at the seam on his blanket. "Sedal said that the dagger cut some of the nerves in your shoulder that made it possible for your arm to move properly. He says you may not have full ability to feel things either, in your arm."

Devon nodded slowly, "Yeah...he told me--more or less." They both were quiet for a minute. There was little movement on deck except for the muffled hammering of a spar, and the snap of sail. It was very dark--probably late evening, during the night watch. There was a single lantern on the wall by Callath's head; its flame flickered with the movement of the melted wax around the wick in sync with the ships' bobbing.

"Whose watch are you on?" Devon asked.

"Marx's. He's third mate now that Frency was killed and second mate Talon is in that hammock there with a mild concussion so Marx and Loliway are running the watches."

"Talon?" Devon repeated. "He's got a concussion from the battle?"

Callath smiled ironically and shook his head. "No, we were lifting a new spar up the mast for the topsail and one of the stays snapped. It swung down and popped old Talon right on the head. Sedal says he'll be fine though and back to work in a less than a day."

The sound of eight bells tolled and Callath shifted and stood. "S'my watch now. Calnan will be down here in a minute. He may have a mind to go strait to sleep but he'll probably be by for a few words. Get some rest. I'll see ya."

Devon nodded, "See ya."

[Amanaduial the archer]

Callath grinned at his friend as he stood, doing both things carefully: standing carefully because of the low ceiling and being careful to grin reasurringly because Sedal had given him some idea of what had happened in Devon's arm. His eyes lingered on the dressing on his friend's arm for a split second before he turned away. "Bye Devon - I'll come later maybe, assuming I don't fall asleep on watch and am murdered by Avershire," he grinned.

"Don't even try it, Callath!" came the joking reply. The stable-boy winked, then started to make his way back towards the trapdoor, his fingertips seeking the cracks between the boards in the ceiling as his hands worked across them, for more support. As he came out on the deck, he mused on what Sedal had told him - he had helped the surgeon out where he could after the battle; although he knew little of treating human injuries or ailments, he was able to help were an extra pair of hands were needed. More particularly, where an extra pair of steady, strong hands were needed; the stable boy shuddered as he remembered the sickening crack he had felt beneath his hands as much as heard when Sedal had reset the arm of one unfortunate sailor some hours earlier. On the subject of Devon, the surgeon wasn't as optimistic as could have been hoped, which did not exactly reassure the stableboy, but when Sedal had seen this, the surgeon had assured Callath that he was simply being realistic, and somehow that was more comforting than the false smiles of a Gondorian physician who knew more than he was telling.

"Alright, lad?"

Marx's deep, strong voice brought Callath back to the present along with the biting, 'bracing' wind that hit him as he closed the trap door. The stablehand smiled, nodding to the older man. "Aye, well enough."

Marx grinned. "Tired or something? Doncha be falling asleep on my watch now-"

Callath shook his head. "No, I was...helping Sedal out today. It was...an experience," he concluded carefully. The handsome man's smile faded slightly and he shuddered. "I heard the screams," he said darkly, then winked.

Callath returned it with a smile and shrugged a little deeper into the thick seaman's coat which Rilgari had kindly leant him for the watch, as he strode across the deck slowly to the side, leaning slightly against the side. Marx came to stand beside him, allowing Callath to see more clearly what had before just been a dark silhouette; Marx was several inches taller than Callath and much more solidly built than the lean, athletic stablehand turned impromptu sailor, but his eyes were just as bright green, and Marx now turned his bright gaze to meet the younger man's similar one.

"So, how is it you came to board with us, Callath?"

The question surprised Callath, but the sailor seemed genuinely interested. "I thought you knew?"

Marx waved it away. "Ach, bits and pieces, lad. Come, we have time - let's hear how you see it."

Callath regarded him, then shrugged, looking back out over the now quite calm sea and the clear, dark horizon. Striving into one pocket, he brought out a piece of liquorice (Telson had finally shown him the delights of chewing it, and even if Callath had got rid of any seasickness it was delicious stuff), and offered a piece to Marx. The older sailor took it with a silent nod, and Callath began from the first, when Devon had burst into the stables that morning - how long ago it seemed! - as Callath attempted to trick Doran's horse, the younger boy so full of outraged news that would change everything...

[Nuranar]

Calnan awoke with a start as a solid body crashed heavily into his hammock. "C'mon, mate, our watch!" the man whispered as he stumbled past.

Calnan gave his head a quick shake, swung his feet over the edge and dropped down - then nearly collapsed on the deck as his stiff legs all but refused to bear him. Who knew battles could give you such a workout?! His legs were stiff and weak, and his back and arms felt as if he'd hired on as a stonebreaker working a twelve-hour day.

With a silent groan, Calnan headed for the ladder. The cool air refreshed him somewhat; the sky was all but black, a hint of grey in the east presaging the sun. He reported to Meri Loliway on the quarterdeck.

The first mate only nodded frostily before turning her back and walking to the rail. She's probably still sulking about her blowup with Avershire, Calnan mused. The entire crew - even those few who hadn't heard the cabin door slam - already knew about her outburst in front of the corsair captain. Surely she wouldn't be that upset about the sinking... Calnan reined in his thoughts sharply. He knew Avershire had had no choice, but the horror of the Pora Diy's sinking still hung over him. He couldn't think about it now.

A wounded man moaned down below, cutting into Calnan's reverie. Association of ideas led him to Devon. He had talked to his friend after the last watch. Devon had been just a little too matter-of-fact about not being able to use his arm as well. Calnan could see how severe a blow this was to him, but had in turn hidden his knowledge.

At least he's still here, he sighed. Then he caught sight of Meri, motionlessly gazing out to sea. His fury at her refusal to help Devon had dissipated, and he didn't dwell on it for fear of bringing it back. But a deep resentment had formed in its place.

He understood her point of view, he thought. Meri Loliway was a warrior through and through. Not for her the high-minded ideals of loyalty and fellowship; she lived by the brutal reality of the sword. Calnan respected her practicality, even as he silently protested her callousness.

He was no stranger to the facts of war. Sometimes the wounded had to be left behind and friends abandoned. But only in the greatest extremity, only in the direst need! In this situation, there had been no urgent need for departure, no immediate pursuit, no desperate fight to the death for all concerned. The battle was hard-fought, but it wasn't so close that one more sword was vital to the outcome.

And as for friendship... Well, friendship isn't practical! Calnan thought wryly. And that was what distinguished them - those few loyal to Gondor, those on this ship - from the corsairs. No one could doubt the corsairs' courage or their valor. But they fought, albeit together, ultimately for themselves. That's where the line of practicality ended. Sure, friendship isn't practical, but if we don't look out for each other, in the end there's no difference between us and them.

Calnan walked a few more paces, then paused as a thought hit him. I wonder how she would've reacted if it'd been Avershire who was wounded. He grinned sardonically at the horizon and resumed his walk. Hmm...

[Arvedui III]

The sea was a very reflective thing, Telson decided. Well, it was a very reflective thing when it wasn't making him sick, anyway.

Now the undisputed (and self-proclaimed) master of the medicinal uses of licorice, the sea had stopped being such a force of vengeance upon him for one unspeakable evil or another, and started to be something that just was. Most of his assimilation towards it happened on the night after the battle. He had not bothered going to Sedal for his hurts, Telson knew enough about battle surgeons to understand that a minor, if rather itchy, flesh wound like his would only waste the man's time; And so instead he had sat, hunched quietly behind a port catapult nursing the burning cut with only the sea for company all that sleepless night. Afterward, it reminded him of his first day in the dessert during his service at Poros, where he hated the heat and the sand with an abiding passion. But, in time he came to accept that it would always be as it was. It did not change the fact that it was, but his anger towards it had more or less turned into minor annoyance. And here, he chided himself, was the central lesson.

Nothing would change for him, not the sea nor the heat of the sands. He would have to change.

And so he had, becoming a little more competent on ship. But alas, even as he accomplished this, Avershire noticed. Avershire noticed, and then promptly stuck Telson on a watch. It was enough to brake a man's heart. Part of the reason he had not yet drowned himself was because he actually could sleep for more than four hours at a time, and now the gift was taken away from him because of the captain's bad temper. Telson could only weather the bad fortune as only he knew how: With as much logic, perspective (and pandering) as he could muster. By now most of the crew on his watch knew enough to leave him and his licorice be -although he had finally given Callath and Calnan their original shares- and as to the watches themselves...Well, Lolliway also knew enough about him to recognize which tasks he could preform and which he would inevitably botch.

So the watches were not that bad at all.

After just coming off a rather unproductive four hours spent on lookout, Telson saw Callath's back coming out of Sedal's ward. Ahh, paying a call on Thrann, then. Admirable way to spend an off-watch, young sir, but for myself I choose sleep. Wearing a pleasantly-guilty smile, Telson turned to go, but then his thoughts fell on the stablehand's friend. He knew Devon had been injured, but how badly he had not bothered to find out. The only two times he was ever in a sickward were not experiences he could remember with any fondness. So he continued walking away, gnashing his teeth as went, knowing full well that his conscience would get the better of him.
-------------
The sickroom smelled, very predicably, of sweat, flesh, and stink. No surgeon, save maybe King Elessar, had the skill or the power over Athelas for the place to have any other odor. Suddenly, he was quite content with his night behind the catapult, and felt a wave of pity for Sedal, though he guessed the man was callous to his work by now. He frowned at the half-score or so wounded, swaying with the ship in their hammocks, languishing, he supposed, in their own private hells. But he was here to find one particular hell, namely Devon Thrann's.

Thankfully, it did not take long, and indeed the surprised expression Thrann gave him was quite satisfying. So was the baffled, "Telson, what are you doing here?" Devon gave him as a greeting as Telson sat down on the stool he presumed Callath had left. "I swore to serve the true Kingsmen in Umbar, did I not?" He said with a smile, then more seriously, "How do you fare, Devon?"

"Well enough" He answered casually, but Telson could see the lie behind his eyes just as clearly as the splint on his arm, and guessed the cause of both.

"It's a handy little wound." Telson agreed, trying to hid his dismay that the boy was so pale. "You can still get a reasonable amount of sleep in a soft hammock every night."

"Avershire put you on watch and watch?" Devon asked, smiling sympathetically.

"Cranky old loon said he'd had enough of me and my seedy army ways." Telson nodded and grimaced. "Probably thinks I'm responsible for what happened to that corsair ship." At this Devon laugh, a little.

"Not that they deserve anything less," He continued, trying to weave a path to what he really wanted to say to the boy, if he was right about his wound. "At any rate, I just wanted to give my congratulations, young master Thrann." He winked mischievously. "Shoulder wounds are some of the best, less of course they take the nerve with it."

Devon winced as though he had struck him. "It did...take the nerve with it, as a matter of fact." He said in a quiet, halting voice.

"Oh." Telson said in embarrassment, even though he had already known something of the kind had happened. "Are you to lose it entirely then?"

"No. It will just be...slower than it used to." Devon answered, looking away.

Telson nodded quietly, then finally found some proper words. It would mean losing some of his ‘air of mystery' that he had with his three young allies, but still, Telson was glad to speak. "Well, there's no shame in that. I had a friend once while I was still on active, Southron blade cut his arm. Just nicked it between his armor, but the edge was poisoned, and after the surgeons were through with him he couldn't even lift an arming sword. The muckitymucks in command couldn't transfer him even if they wanted to, so he either had to find another way to fight or be mustered out of the service."

He glanced down at Devon, who had turned back to look at him in mingled curiosity and irritation, then continued, rather liking the nostalgia.

"Well, he wouldn't have that, so he learned how to use a short sword in the two week grace period he was given. I spared with him, damn fine soldier."

"What happened to him?" Devon asked, still torn between being interested and depressed, it seemed.

"He died in his first action after being returned to active duty." Telson said pleasantly, enjoying a little too much the shocked look on Thrann's face. "But the point is," He continued, "He worked around the system to serve his country, and took most of the Haradic raiders his patrol encountered with him. I carry his swords still."

Thrann looked, for the first time, inscrutable. So Telson merely smiled knowingly and drew the blade buckled on his right, propping it up against the beam near Devon's hammock. "Amrothos." He said, touching the wear-worn hilt, and then walked back onto the deck, certain that now he could enjoy his licorice in some kind of peace.

[Himaran]

Graring sputtered, coughing up seawater in heaves, as he was pulled up onto the deck of the Might of Realge. He hacked for a few moments, then collected himself and stood slowly.
"Grog, wine, I need something - I'm freezing!" His request was answered quickly, and after a few gulps he was properly collected.

"The Diy, its gone! The Gondorians did it - curse them, curse them to hell! They murdered the whole crew, I'm the only one left; knocked overboard during the battle. We thought we had 'em beat, but they used arrows, and once the mast fell they overran us."

After listening intently, a corsair asked, "How did he kill the whole crew? Them were good boys, good fighters, all of them."

Graring clenched his teeth tightly, fierce hatred flowing through him. "They tricked 'em, they did! The fat idiot who calls 'isself a captain made a treaty with my mates. Then locked them in the bottom, and sunk the boat! Murdered, all of 'em!"

"Murderers! Murderers!" Cries rang out on the deck of the Realge, as the corsairs mourned for their dead comrades in the only way they knew: violent expressions of rage.

[maikafanawen]

The sick room was empty. It was the fourth morning after the battle and all of the patients who were going to recover had done so. The count aboard the fragile North Wind was now a slim sixty-two hands plus a captain where there had once been seventy-four. The fact that the North Wind was meant to have eighty men and now had but sixty-two was something Avershire found to be one of the heaviest problems weighing on his mind. Where being short eighteen men to reach the minimum didn't sound too awful, there is always more work than can usually be handled comfortably on the ocean to be able to afford any men.

'Avershire was a fool to set off with less than minimum in the first place,' Sedal thought solemnly. He rinsed his hands off in a barrel of sea water and wiped them on a rag which he tossed on the table. Orda was wiping down his instruments and placing them in the box where they would sit, wrapped in cloths until the next battle, which, Sedal prayed would come much later.

There came a knock to the surgeon's quarters and then the door opened and Avershire's tall frame ducked under the head board and entered the room where he stood with a hunch so as not to hit his head on the ceiling.

"Captain," Sedal acknowledge, saluting. (Orda did likewise.) "You have assigned my patients to their watches I assume. I trust also that their duties are not too demanding of them. If there's any hope of recovery and successful sailing of this vessel, you're going to need every hand able before you have them active."

Avershire nodded. "I understand. Talon has taken over his watch and I have the others doing more particular repairs such as punch holes for the grommets in sails and chiseling new pieces for the catapults. No climbing or back breaking at all." Sedal returned his attention to the box, as he waited for Avershire to get to the reason for coming down to see him. "But as you said, if there's going to be any hope of successful sailing, I'm going to need every hand able and active."

Sedal smiled faintly into the shadows cast over his face by the single lantern. "You're going to take my Orda from me then to mop your floors and clean with his nimble fingers the weapons and trinkets too delicate for a man's hands?" he nodded. "I will consent for his removal from my side, then, until I need him for what I've commissioned him for. But remember, he is irreplaceable to me, and a boy, Avershire, so be temperate with him!"

The captain gave the boy a reassuring smile before replying to the surgeon. "As temperate as a captain is allowed to be, Mr. Sedal. Come, Orda, and I'll 'commission' you to Mr. Ashton, the carpenter. He needs help with new planks to be put on the side of our ship. Not--" he said quickly to Sedal who looked up suddenly "--that Orda will be putting them there, just preparing them." The thirteen year old boy finished putting away the surgeon's tools and then followed the captain out of the room up to the deck to meet Mr. Ashton and join Talon's watch.

* * * * *

Morning watch: Second Mate Talon: 6 bells or 7:00 AM

Meri was loosing her patience, as usual, with Talon and his illogicalness. "Damnit Talon, someone else probably just picked it up and used it for some random lanyard," she shouted, referring to the rather short length of rope that had gone missing earlier that morning.

The gullible second mate insisted that it was an omen and referred to the stories where sea wights would use sailors' own rope to fashion a noose and hang the men who had betrayed one of their own crew. "It went from right beneath my nose, Meri. I would have seen if it was someone else."

Exasperated, Meri threw up her hands. "Fine, sea wights came and stole it and in a few hours one of us will be found hanging from that bloody spar and I'll just look at you, Mr. Talon, and say, well what can I say except that you were right and I was wrong. Now, I'll just go get some more rope!!" and she thundered across the deck to retrieve a section of the rough brown coils to replace the ones that had disappeared. On her way she passed Calnan, just come up from eating his breakfast, who had more than likely heard the discourse between the two mates; she made a point of avoiding his gaze.

Loliway vaulted down the steps and then disappeared down the trap door into the storage section of the hold between the set of sweepers and Pearlle's contraption and rummaged for some of the confiscated rope taken from the Pora Diy. There were plenty of supplies stashed down there enough to replace every mechanism on the North Wind twice over. Hopefully it would last them through the next two or three battles.

Back on the deck, Meri dropped the coils at Mr. Talon's feet and began to move away towards Mr. Packs. Talon stopped her, "Meri," he began, "this isn't your watch. Why don't you go get some breakfast with your messmates, eh? You've not eaten anything since dinner last night and maybe a cracker, left over from your pocket rations. Go on lassie." His age was the only sanction for him to call her lassie, or even Meri, as it were, but the first mate wasn't hungry, nor was she very tired.

"I can look after myself just fine, Mr. Talon," she turned again and walked towards the hand who was preparing some stays, saying, more to herself: "I'll be all right."

* * * * *

Morning watch: Second Mate Talon: 6 bells or 7:00 AM

Avershire was alerted at 7 AM from his bed--the only one aboard the North Wind, where he had dozed after moving Orda to his new job--by one of the cabin boys. He ate a quick, simple breakfast of bread and thick honey with two cups of coffee. Then he summoned Pearlle and began to review the maps and charts of their course, taking note of nearing shoals and tiny islands where Doran might have his ships' base.

"Our target needs to be his armada's berth," Avershire reviewed. "If we can monitor the income and outcome of his ships, get an estimate of how many there are, we can at least get the slightest idea of what we're up against."

"You make it sound as though you're expecting a whole navy!" Pearlle observed.

"You're not?"

Pearlle shook his head. "No, on the contrary, I'm not at all. I wouldn't guess that Doran has more than fifteen ships to his name, let alone to his disposal. He has been inactive all these years, he has to keep his men paid, his fortune is not infamous you know and ships are not easy to come by unless one has the needed timber, details, canvas, and most importantly, the skill."

"Well, how many shipwrights do you think he has?" asked the captain.

Pearlle shook his head slowly, "I wouldn’t guess more than three; shipwrights are rare enough in Gondor on account of all the knowledge they've got to accumulate."

"You forget, Master Pearlle," Avershire said respectfully, "that the sea-faring ways are all the corsairs have. Shipwrights may be more common than you perceive."

* * * * *

Morning watch: Second Mate Talon: 7 bells or 7:30 AM

Devon was pouring sweat. Not solely from the docile morning sun, but from the effort of pushing the mop across the deck. It was the only thing Talon could find for him that didn't require a steady hand. He pushed the soaking rags on the end of the staff over the wood and pulled it back and dipped it again in the bucket. He refused to let it frustrate him, but soon he began to pant and his left arm itched from the sweat that agitated the bandages on his shoulder; he was constantly setting down his mop to scratch at it.

Meri turned her face away from him, where she stood, holding tight a pair of stays while Packs tied them off up the mast a ways. She wasn't to blame for Devon's agony and frustration, she told herself. It wasn't her fault in the least. It was a hard life out here on the high seas and men had to make tough decisions under the pressure of battle. She shook her head and shifted her stance, trying to push away the thoughts.

"Why don't you rest a moment." Meri turned compulsively at Avershire's voice. He had approached Devon who was drenched in sweat and obviously exhausted, and laid a hand on his right shoulder, taking the mop from him. "Mr. Sedal says that my hands need to be able before their active. And Pearlle says you're an educated young man. Why don't you come help us down in the stateroom. We can use another pair of 'observers'. You'd be much more useful down there I think anyways." Devon's face was tight, and strained. It was too obvious that his pain was great: his physical and his emotional pain. Meri turned away again as Packs shimmied down the mast.

"Definitely a two-handed job," the hand said gaily. "I nearly died nigh on six times! I needed one hand to secure the line and the other to catch my balance every go. What a man does with only one arm I've not a clue." He removed a flask from a treasured pocket in his pants and took a sip and then offered it to Meri.

"No thank you Mr. Packs," she said. Her expression was serious and distant. What a man does with only one arm… Guilt began to consume her. It was foolish, her sensible side told her. Devon probably wouldn't be any better off if she had helped him.

Meri replayed what had happened in her mind. Calnan had called her over, pausing to fight back a corsair that threatened his unconscious friend. There was no doubt in his eyes that she would help Devon. She had looked at the young man, his brown hair soaked in his own blood, his fair, young face pale and frozen. And she refused to give aid. What if she had interfered? She would have wrapped his arm tight, in a more secure fashion than Calnan's blotting job had been, and sent him over to the North Wind at once on Calnan's back, with her sword as their guard.

Her heart was heavy as the shame grew. So much blood might have been saved. The nerves may not have been exposed or damaged in the air, those that weren't severed by the dagger. She looked again as Devon disappeared down the steps in front of Avershire. It had all ready happened, she can't change it now.

"Miss Loliway?" Packs said, moving so he could see her face. He lowered his voice, concern etched in his thin features. "All right there Meri?" She didn't answer. "Talon's right, you need to get something to eat. You've got to take your watch in an half hour anyways." She didn't move. "Go on," he said softly, coaxing. "Something small at the very least, and some water."

Meri cursed Packs' and Talon's worry and kindness. Everything this morning seemed to judge guilt upon her. She was going crazy, she decided. She needed food. Food, and all her craziness would subside.

Loliway made for the mess room, adopting her usual, confident stride as she crossed the semi-mopped deck.

[Earendil Halfelven]

The ships arrived one by one. Doran stood on deck watching his fleet arrive from its raids along coastal towns. The time for fun was past and now there was business at hand to take care of. His ships were arriving at the appointed rallying point. Soon, they'd head out and destroy Devon.

Later that night, Doran was again out on the deck, strolling along when Jurex came up from him.

"Captain, I have news," Jurex said.

"Yes, Jurex. Go ahead."

"There are three ships that haven't come in yet. The Pora Diy, Regal Dawn, and the Might of Realge."

Doran stood there in silence. Those ships were supposed to be back here! He couldn't afford rogue captains going off and not coming back. If those ships weren't back by sundown tomorrow, then it would be better for those captains to never see Doran again. If they happened across his path, he'd make sure that the last thing they saw was Doran.

"What do we do, captain?" Jurex asked.

"We set sail at dawn in two days. If those ships aren't back by the time we leave, for their sakes, they should never return."

Jurex nodded and began to walk off, but then a thought occurred to Doran that he hadn't considered before.

"Jurex, let all ships know to increase their watch. I want all ships on full alert."
Jurex nodded and went off to find a messanger.

Doran stood on the deck and looked at the moon, its cold light gleaming off of the waves in small flickers of moonlight.
"Perhaps I've underestimated the ambassador's son," he said to himself.

[Himaran]

Jurex left Doran, being both puzzled and worried. He relied on his captain to have an answer to every question, to fix every problem... and now, the corsair's idolic figure seemed forlorn. Obviously, the news of the ships' disappearances was disturbing, but he must have known that some of his followers would go rogue. And then it struck him.

Doran was considering the possibility that the ships had been destroyed. No... impossible. Three good cruisers, fine crews, fighters to the bone, falling to a school-boy and his palls? No, Jurex thought, Doran must be overreacting. But the nagging doubt kept grabbing at him. Jythralo was rarely wrong in his presumptions, and Jurex had an uncanny way of guessing his master's thoughts. No time to lose. Tighten watch... all ships on high alert. Then he added his own addition to the order.

Prepare for battle.

[Durelin]

The swaying, rocking rhythm was finally realized as a separate and real motion. It was now apart from the dream that Adeline had known for what seemed now only to have been minutes. She wished it could have felt like eternity, as all the bad dreams did. The hard, cold wood pressed against her face was dry and the splashing of the waves against the side of the ship seemed distant, so she knew she now lay below deck. Obviously the Rapscallion had been victorious, or Adeline expected she would never have waken from that dream. She shivered, thinking of how much she would desire to actually remain in that dream for eternity. At this point, with her head pounding, her stomach pained with hunger, her throat dry, and her mind slogged down by these days at sea.

"I thought the cap'n had said we weren't a target, or some such nonsense..." A gruff voice muttered angrily from somewhere near Adeline. A rather nasty, squeaky voice replied, speaking in a arrogant tone, proud of itself for knowing the answer to the previous voice's question. "We weren't, least ways not to the main forces. Our problem was the ships from the coastal villages." There was a grunt, and then, "Well, we shouldn' of lost as many as we did, then…ships from the coastal villages..." The phrase was repeated with disgust, and Adeline could imagine the owner of the voice shaking his head.

Focusing on the voices help bring her back to wakefulness, exercising her tired mind for yet another bout with reality. By the end of this short-lived conversation, she was able to raise he head up off the floorboards. The two sources of the voices she saw sat at a table nearby, across from each other, peeling potatoes. Adeline knew she must be in the ship’s galley, and looking around confirmed it as so. The two men must have noticed her movement, and both jumped up at once, heading toward her. The larger of the two grabbed her by the arm, pulling her up. Adeline was too tired and too numbed by surprises to cry out. She stood, her knees ready to give way, and had trouble comprehending what was being said around her from the focus that was needed to keep her knees from doing so.

"Took her long enough...done with the taters...go tell...the cap'n'll want to..." The way the man grinned at her after all was said, Adeline was ready to fall back to the floor. Doran would be notified that she was conscious, and he would...what? She cursed every wooden plank that made up the ship she had been held on too long, long enough now for her mind to rock with it on the waves. Never would she be able to appreciate the beauty of the sea, nor the power, nor the majesty, nor even the fear. At this moment, Adeline felt she would never be able to appreciate anything except dry land. A lovely trimming would be that this dry land was far away from any man whose name began with the letter 'D'.

[Nuranar]

The afternoon heat swathed the North Wind in a sultry cocoon, intensified by the breath of steamy air that passed for a breeze. The sea was as calm as Calnan had ever seen it. Telson had lost both his apprehensive look and his licorice, at least for the time being. For the last hour the entire watch had been eyeing a bank of clouds off the starboard quarter. The haze could not disguise the straight lines of heavy rain joining it with the sea. Loliway strode stolidly up and down the deck, but even she glanced at it every few minutes. Calnan tried to imagine being drenched in cool water instead of his own salty sweat. Even a rainstorm couldn't make it more humid.

For a while the storm just lengthened along their starboard beam without seeming to approach. Suddenly it was noticeably closer . . . then closer . . . then with a rush, it was upon them. Several hands cheered. The chance storm, already dying, had not enough wind to blow about the big tropical raindrops. But even as it passed, it left enough air to fill the sagging sails and bring the North Wind to life.

"Sail ho!" A black-sailed sloop had emerged from the thinning curtain of rain, running not a thousand yards off their starboard quarter. Loliway started shouting orders, and as the crew exploded into action she took the wheel herself. "See her fore-and-aft rig, Mr. Telson?" she said to the Gondorian, who had already retrieved his sword. "With our ship rig we'll catch her. She has square sails, too, but we're too close for her to change them. She's ours. Lovely. Lovely!" she whispered fiercely, a grim, exultant smile curving her lips.

The chaos had increased since the last battle; too few men were having to do too many jobs. Calnan battled his way through the press, bow in his hand, quiver on his back, sword at his side. From his station he watched the corsair trying to change her course, even as she was crossing their bows. But with too little distance and speed, she was only able to parallel the quickly-gaining North Wind. Soon they brought their port side catapults into action.

"Sail ho!" The lookout's panic-stricken voice reached every ear. Avershire stared and swore violently. Another corsair, this one square-rigged, was on their starboard beam and closing awfully fast. Even as he cursed, the North Wind shuddered horribly with the impact of the corsair's first salvo.

The first sloop - Regal Dawn painted on her bow - was utterly demoralized, and scarcely able to return fire. The mates were already organizing their boarding parties. But the second corsair's deadly accuracy was speedily crippling the North Wind; aiming at both masts and side, she had taken away the main topgallant mast and holed her numerous places above and below the water line.

Avershire rushed up from inspecting the damage. "Meri, we're holed and taking water fast. We've got to take it!" he bellowed, pointing to the Regal Dawn.

"What about the other?" she yelled back. "It'll be on us in a minute!"

"Just take it! Talon!" he roared at the second mate. "Ready your party to follow Loliway! I want that ship taken as soon as possible!"

Calnan stood at the rail beside Marx, both in Loliway's party. He had been prepared to die himself, but for some reason he'd never thought of losing the North Wind. The gallant little sloop was home for him, far more than Umbar ever had been. He could feel her deck settling beneath his feet, down, down . . . where Sedal was working. Was Callath with him? And Devon, standing at the rail in the stern, grasping a short sword in his right hand. His white face was as stern as Calnan had ever seen it. Calnan's insides drew tight with a new fear.

"Now!" Screaming hoarsely, shrilly, furiously, the boarders swung across to the Regal Dawn. Marx pulled Calnan up from from a bone-jarring landing, just in time to see Devon leap the narrow gap and land poised on his feet. And then battle was joined in earnest, as each crew warred for mastery of the ship most likely to be afloat in an hour.

[maikafanawen]

The North Wind was sinking! Meri abandoned her position at the helm and leapt into ankle deep water rising in the forecastle where Sedal was hurriedly collecting his instruments and stuffing them into a miniature trunk.

"Where's Orda!" he yelled at Meri without taking his eyes away from his things. He laid a cloth between the knives and the probes on top of which he piled clean rags.

"Aboard I suppose," she answered. The first mate picked her way between hammocks that had tangled themselves around one another and tables that had toppled with the first hit from the Regal Dawn. Her trunk sat at the far end of the hold. There was nothing particularly valuable inside but Meri wasn't in the mind to leave her bandoleer of throwing knives. She broke the latch on the lid and kicked it open. Water, seeping in from the planks above, immediately soaked the extra clothes and assortment of rolled papers. She shouted a string of curses as time seemed to be wasted as she tried to pull the knives from the chest. Finally the buckle slipped free of its unknown captor and the lid slammed as she wrapped it around her waste.

"Got it?" Sedal asked humorlessly. Meri ignored the guilt of her selfishness and rushed past the surgeon, mounting the deck.

She took in her surroundings in one disbelieving glance: the North Wind was suffocatingly sandwiched between the two black-sailed ships. It was momentarily frightening. Then she gathered her senses about her and snatched an idle grapnel from the deck. She hardly needed the device to reach the ship just inches away, but she was aiming for a spot on the corsair-ship's starboard side. Swinging the hook over her head she tossed it towards the Regal Dawn where she was immediately thrust into the jarring discomforts of battle.

* * * *

Marx ran ahead of Sedal and his boy to storm the forecastle along with five of his crewmates. Few men were below and those that were met their unlucky end at Marx's cutlass.

"There's no doctor here!" Sedal exclaimed over the raucous.

Marx nodded hurriedly. "S'not unusual. Can you set up on that table?" he pointed with his sword.

"Of course. Orda!" he shoved the case of tools into Orda's arms and pushed him towards the bench. He was setting up his doctoring in the hold of the enemy's ship: outrageous!

"I'm leaving these four as active sentinels. I don't doubt you'll be needing them." At that moment Callath and Luc all but tumbled down the steps, shocked too at the idea of setting up their infirmary on corsair turf.

"S' unnatural," Luc shook his head and kicked away the dead corsairs to clear a way for the bringing of Gondorian patients. "S' bad luck and it's not goin' ta be safe neither. Thar's no guarantee we'll be takin this ship." He shook his head again as he disappeared up the stairs with Callath before him, "S'not natural."

In Progress...

[Himaran]

Graring's hands flew through the motions, droping the heavy ball into the catapult before leaping backwards. A swift rush of air was soon followed by a satisifying
"thud" on the deck of the North Wind. "Direct hit, boys," the gunner yelled, and Graring yelled out with the others in glee. Their salvo would soon sink the ship, already wounded from its previous battle.

Suddenly, a shout came from the mainmast. "Ahoy, they're boarding 'er! There're boarding the Dawn!

It was true. Graring strained his eyes, soon spotting the party swinging across and lowering planks. Blast! They destroyed the Gondorian's boat only to have them attack another cruiser. Hopefully, they would have a harder fight than on the Diy, which had fell with few casualties to the enemy's forces. The corsair could only watch the growing battle, knowing that the Might of Realge would be next.

[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.

[Durelin]

Adeline's head swam again, and this time it had little to do with the rocking of the boat. She had just spent the past hour, or what seemed to be an hour, being berated from head to foot by Doran, the most detestable of all the men Adeline knew with a name beginning with a 'D'. Master Doran's idea of berating was one of the worst kinds. Like a disciplinarian, the cold, fatherly type, the man would tell her how horrible a little wretch she was, and how thankful she should be that she still had her life, her limbs, and food in her gut, as well as an untouched body. The last was the only thing she was truly thankful for. Thinking idly, as she did at the moment, her living wasn't much to be thankful for.

But then her stomach growled, and the rather vulgar statement 'food in her gut' was sounding more and more like a desire, and certainly something she would be thankful to have. As always, though, her stubbornness would insure that she would not give in. Adeline clenched her teeth and waiting for the rumbling to stop. It persisted, though, as her thoughts turned to her punishment. She was to live without food, to live only with water, for a full three days. Her horrified reaction to this sentence for her disobedience had been found amusing by the Captain and his first mate, who constantly had important business to discuss with Doran. To the bottom of the sea with these corsairs and their rough and tumble ways - She would be without even a scrap of bread for three days?

Adeline sat to the right in front of Doran's desk in a hard and uncomfortable wooden chair. She had been ignored for much of this visit to the Captain's cabin as Doran looked over some maps. The first mate stood directly in front of the desk, awaiting the Captain's direction to speak. Most likely there would be more 'important' information for the two men to discuss, all of which Adeline failed to see the importance in, much less fully understand. Her stomach growled loudly as she adjusted how she sat in the uncomfortable chair, and a gruff laugh came from the first mate, while Doran just smiled. He turned to her with that smile. "Is your punishment paining you so? Only one more day left, my dear. Truly, you cannot say it has been that long. But still, it was wonderful luck that I was free to meet you those days ago so close to your mealtime."

The first mate guffawed at his Captain's remark, rather rowdily for such a statement. "I must say," Adeline began defiantly, "the mealtime conversation is not sorely missed." Doran chuckled at this. "You cannot be saying that I bore you, my Lady! Tell me 'tis not so!" He wore a wide grin as he looked at Adeline, and his eyes were alight with a cold delight. He then turned to his first mate, still grinning. "Tell the Lady, Jurex! Assure her that she does not wish to dine with the crew!"

This time Jurex did not laugh. In fact, his face grew severe in thought, a frown replacing his sly grin from only moments before. "No, Captain." He was silent for a minute, during which Doran eyed him expectantly. "Speaking of mealtimes among the crew sir... Truly, speaking of any free moment among the crew, when they have the time to speak with one another..." Jurex paused another moment, clearly collecting himself with a hard swallow. "What is said among the crew does not bode well. For the first time, they are unsure of where this will lead. We chase after a young man - a boy! - for reasons they do not and cannot understand. Ships have been captured, now two are missing? Rumors have spread concerning battle reports. Many of the men are fairly sure all your luck has run out, while others believe your skill is not what it used to be. While still others believe your skill was never truly tested till now. Whatever they are thinking, Captain, it is not in good mind of heading out to fight this enemy - the first enemy to defy you in such a way. I have even heard a man foretelling a doom that-"

"Quite man! Quiet!" Doran snapped angrily. His smile had with his first mate’s every word. Now an anger greater than any Adeline had seen in the man warred upon his face. All his usual calm severity was gone. And Adeline knew just why. That was the reason she had jumped out of her seat at his shout. Seconds before, Doran had shook his head, sadly in thought, and out of the corner of his eye, had caught sight of the young lady sitting in the chair. Her stomach had been quiet, for long enough.

"Out!" he shouted, now directly at her. Adeline did not move for a moment, but looked at Jurex, whose face was pale, with only a slight tint of color in his cheek from embarrassment. Doran pointed toward the door, and shouted louder, "Out, girl, or I will give you away as a present!" Adeline's legs decided it was time to comply, and she rushed out, closing the door behind her, only muffling the shouts that followed her.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Callath fought viciously, working with all he had, but as the battle was wearing on even he had began to tire, the adrenaline beginning to run to simple, pure exhaustion. His dagger had been lost on the deck ten minutes previously, and he was now fighting with his sword in his right hand, half slumped against the mast - one leg had a long slash in it, quite shallow but bleeding strongly, enough to make the boy feel weaker.

In his tiredness though, he was beginning to make mistakes. He hadn't fought so hard before, especially not at sea - literally fighting for his life against much older and burlier men, and with no way to get off the ship and away. But one thing he knew: Callath was damnedn if he would give up his life without a fight. But as he thrust directly at his opponent, the corsair shifted nimbly to the side - the corsairs weren't still weary from the previous fight, and there were more of them than there were Gondorians; this one was far fresher than Callath. As the man ducked, he cracked Callath against the back of the head with the hilt of his cutlass, probably aiming to cut his throat but put off by the fact that Callath, although tired, wasn't utterly brain-dead, and still moved away as a reflex. However, the blow sent him stumbling forward, and his weakened leg gave out beneath him. Gritting his teeth, he swung wildly, desperately - foolishly - at the corsair...and the man, parrying the careless blow easily and stabbing straight down at Callath's right hand.

The youth groaned loudly in pain as the feel of a red-hot poker laying into his flesh point first at the back of the palm caused him to drop his sword. Clutching his bloody hand, he stumbled again as the two ships juddered against each other in the waves, and fell backwards onto the deck. His opponent leered over him, victory in his eyes, and Callath scrambled backwards away, face upwards as his hand grasped behind him for his sword. Finding it, he whirled over and swung accurately to counter the corsair's potentially fatal blow, jarring the man's hand and making him step backwards.

"Join your shipmates now, boy."

The steely voice made Callath glance behind him, despite what common sense told him, and taking advantage of the break his opponent swiped sharply at his wounded hand. The sword fell from his limp hand as it spasmed again with the pain and Callath paled sharply, biting down into his lip. He turned slowly to face the man who had spoken, and the corsair's laugh made him want to punch him.

"Oldest trick in the book. Sure, you're only a child though," he taunted, then snapped, "Get in with the others."

Callath swallowed hard against his anger and pain and, hating himself, complied. But as he passed, he couldn't resist - his proud nature wouldn't let him simply submit. Drawing back slightly, he spat with excellent accuracy into the corsair's right eye.

The man didn't appreciate the gesture though, and neither did he register enough of the expected confusion for it to be of use - after only a second's pause, he was upon Callath as quickly as a snake and as brutally as a panther closing in for the kill. He slapped Callath sharply around the face with strength that made the boy reel, then did the same again. Callath swung the bloody, dead weight of his injured hand at the man's stomach, seeking to wind him...but the more experienced fighter caught it as he did so. Squeezing and twisting to the side brutally, he brought Callath into an armlock.

"Submit," he whispered mockingly into the boy's ear.

Callath, although shaking with the pain, pale and with blood running down from his lip, his hair disheveled and blood over his clothes and skin, shook his head very slightly. "No," he whispered painfully.

The man sent him stumbling forward into the other Gondorians with a hard push and a wicked laugh. "Take them beneath," he called to another, not sparing Callath another glance.

[Earendil Halfelven]

"Out, girl, or I will give you away as a present!"

The door shut behind Adeline as she rushed out and Doran turned to glare at Jurex. Jurex looked pale and looked at the floor. Doran fumed. His breath coming out as if he was breathing fire.

"You ever say such things in front of a prisoner, you ever insult my discipline among the crew or my reputation in front of a prisoner or anyone, and I will personally see to it that that is the last mistake you ever make!" He was yelling now and Jurex seemed to shake a bit. But now Doran lowered his voice to a harsh whisper.

"It is in your best interest to never make that mistake again."

Jurex nodded and swallowed. Doran glared at him. But then a cry from the deck hurried to their ears.

"Sail ho!"

Doran rushed out of his cabin with Jurex right behind him. Many of the crew were also rushing up to see who was out there. Reaching the deck, Doran looked up at the lookout and said, "Where?"

"Sails off o' starboard!"

Sails, thought Doran. He said sails. Doran looked and saw two deep red sails. They were the sails of Harad. Perfect, he thought. The crew think that my luck is out. Well, time to see if they're right.

Jurex was standing on his right side. He looked out but didn't say anything. Many of the crew looked over at Doran, watching him and wondering what he was going to do.

"Haradrim," muttered Doran to Jurex.

"What do we do, Captain?" Jurex asked.

Speaking loud enough for the crew to hear, Doran replied,"Light the battle torch to signal the other ships. Men, we go to battle!"

The deck errupted in cheers. Swords rang as they were drawn and many were clanged together.

"Take your positions!" Doran yelled.
The crew reacted immediately. As they rushed by to take their positions, he heard one say,"Didn't I tell ya? The captain's still got it in him."

He looked out and saw the other ships getting into battle formation, their torches blazing off of the stern to show that they knew what was going to happen. They knew what to do. They were going to sail down in two columns, with the Haradrim ships in the middle. On Doran's command, the ships would let loose their volley of catapults until there was nothing left of the Haradrim.

"Men, load!"

The Haradrim ships sailed closer, apparently unaware of their fate. All was a hush. Even the wind was silent as it blew. Nothing was heard except the baited breath of his men. The ships were almost in perfect position.

"FIRE!"
__________________________________________________ _______________

The men cheered and drank to their hearts content. The attack was successful. One Haradrim ship lay barely afloat as it sunk lower and lower, and the other one lay almost crippled. It was just barely able to get home. His men had succesffully board both ships. One of the ship's crew wouldn't surrender, so Doran was forced to annihilate them. Seeing the fate of their comrades, the other ship gave in. They were taken totally by surprise. With both ships plundered and looted, Doran sailed off with minimal casualties. None of his ships sustained any serious damage. None of his crew doubted him any longer.
__________________________________________________ _______________

It had been two days since the attack and Doran was getting restless. Where were his ships? He was strolling the deck when the lookout called to him.

"Captain, there's debris floatin' about in the water and what I think are bodies!"

Doran rushed to the side of the ship and looked downward. He saw broken planks of wood floating about, pieces of mast, and bodies. Some bodies were missing parts, such as a head or an arm. Many of the crew now noticed the scene around them. Floating by the ship was a piece of wood with a name on it; the name of a ship. It said Pora Diy.

Many started to mutter about curses and such, but it was obvious that they had encountered the boy. How the boy had done this Doran didn't know. Again, Jurex was at his side, ready for orders.

"Jurex, let's sail on for a while until we're out of this debris field. Let's not keep the men here. They'll get jumpy."

Jurex nodded.

They sailed on for about a mile until they were out of the debris. Doran decided to lay anchor there until the figured where next to go now that they knew the fate of one of his ships.

That night, they fought another battle. This time, it was against nature and the elements.

[Arvedui III]

Battle fatigue was always something legendary and a bit dreadful to desk officers and orderlies. The rumored numbness and utter weariness made for good conversations on cold nights with a howling wind. Not just in Gondor, but it was a universally accepted truth that all support troops everywhere talked about it, probably because it was a means of distinction they would never get the chance to experience. And the only other truth about officers and men of the rear is that most of them either did something wrong or were poised for promotion.

Telson decided, staring out unseeingly at an ocean laden with bodies and flotsam that he must have done something horribly wrong to get to where he was. Everything he had whispered about in the warmth of a bar or garrison fire seemed grossly inadequate to the weariness he was feeling right now; And even more disturbing was the fact that he couldn’t really remember what he had said, nor did he care. The chains around his wrist rubbed against his skin, and the profanity of it made him want to scream. But instead he had to content himself with looking at an ocean strewn with debris from the deck; Alone, and awaiting more unfortunate souls to join him in the rusty multi-manacle contraption he was attached to. Was he not captured he would have found great interest in it, but at the moment it went overlooked, his vision refusing to see much of anything other than the images that kept flashing in his head.
--------------
The din of battle seemed to be the only thing that had ever existed in the world. How could anything else be crammed into all the shooting and chaos and death? Telson’s arm, he noted grimly, was becoming more leaded with every stroke and party. Despite his concerted effort make his movements as small and precise as possible, he was beginning to make mistakes, and that, he knew, was the beginning of the end. Each corsair he engaged seemed now like only a variance in a ratty, gritty, coarse mold, and he failed to tell the difference between one and the other.

Quite suddenly, a swishing sound and a flash of silver made him roll to the right to avoid a second corsair who had decided to aid his long-breaded brother that Telson had pinned to the deck, about to kill. He wasn’t fast enough and a slight tickling sensation then a searing pain started in his cheek and ran into the rest of his face. He could feel the blood running down his neck, but it had not obscured his vision and so he lunged at his attacker. After his stroke went wide both corsairs were on their feet, Telson only having time to find his footing before they charged at him. Parry, repose, sidestep, backstep, parry again.

Telson bought enough time to make one lunge at the corsairs, and using his entire upper body he hurled himself into them and knocked them unto the deck. After running both his antagonists through, he was rewarded with a clear view of the aft-deck, a most unpleasant sight greeting him. He had thought well of himself for taking down two corsairs at once, but that was nothing to the ten or so corsairs Marx was holding at bay with naught but a jagged spar in his hands. The sheer awe of seeing what he was seeing left Telson literally numb, terror quickly replacing it when he saw about five corsairs drawing bows and taking aim. He took a step but released he could do nothing as he saw the arrows fly, watching horrorstricken as the shafts embedded themselves into the big man’s chest, the wild yell as the corsairs rushed him, the roar afterward of both death and triumph.

By the time Marx fell, nearly twenty bodies lay piled beside him.

Telson stood dumb for a moment, but only a moment. His rage properly inspired, he rushed all of pirates surrounding Marx, swinging wildly and maiming as many as he could. He didn’t know how long he slashed at the mass of bodies before he was slammed unto the deck and was kicked, punched, beaten, then put into chains.
---------
However much time had past, it didn’t seem like it has been enough to do Marx justice. By now a few other Gondorian survivors had been chained next to him, Callath and Calnan among them. Telson was too hoarse to say anything, let alone face the two boys. Well, they’re men now. He thought glumly. Damn shame, but they are. Devon more than any of them For a moment he wondered what had happened to Thrann, but the exercise was tiring so he stopped. It seemed that the corsairs had collected as many prisoners to be found and began forcing the unhappy group below. Quite frankly, Telson would have preferred belonging to the stack of bodies the corsairs were hurling into the sea.

Down below in the stinking hold, Telson wits began to return to him and the sheer anger and fear that came with capture began to impress itself upon him. For the first time in his life he had control over nothing and the feeling of helplessness was enough to make a man mad. But it was also enough to allow his brain to start working, albeit frantically, for a way out. A rusty lock, a piece of rotten wood, a discarded dagger or ever shard of glass, anything would do. He hunched as far away from the rest of the crew, who were speculating about casualties. He didn’t want to face them with the image of Marx falling in his head. He only began to think of any means to escape.

He had to get out, or die trying.

[Himaran]

Graring: Prisoner Transfer


Graring watched at the Yonder Bound eased alongside the ship, and ropes were thrown across the thin gap. From what he had heard, the Gondorians were to be transfered to the vessel nearing his own, and then transported... somewhere. Probably back to Doran, wherever he had hidden himself on the wide ocean. Graring was quite angry that his "leader" had missed two large battles, conveniently protecting himself from any possible danger.

Time passed, and the last of the prisoners had crossed over to their destination. They were lucky, actually; their new prison was larger and more better stocked than the Might of Realge. Their journey to their doom, at least, would be comfortable. For the battle was finally over.

[Nuranar]

The Yonder Bound’s brig was undeniably bigger than the Might of Realge’s, but the murky darkness didn’t disguise how cramped it still was. The North Wind’s crew – what was left of it – numbered barely twenty, and all wounded at least slightly. Still too many for this hole, Calnan winced as a sudden roll of the ship threw someone into his knee. But there were more important things to think about now. He leaned over and said softly in Telson’s ear, “Just wait.”

The Gondorian’s head snapped around and he positively glared at Calnan, the officer about to bite the head off an insolent soldier. Then, recollecting himself, he grew wary, then innocently puzzled. “Wait for what?” he inquired.

Calnan smiled to himself. He knew Telson had mentally classed him with Devon and Callath as mere “boys,” perhaps brave and skillful, but inexperienced and with a lot to learn. Calnan was two and three years older than the others, and Telson’s attitude amused him. A boy he might still be, but between a seventeen-year-old boy and a twenty-year-old boy there could be a vast difference. He had seen Telson awake from his emotional stupor in the Might’s hold, seen his eyes, measured and intense, minutely examine every inch of the brig, seen the resolve grow in his face as he sat in thought. He knew what the silent Gondorian was planning. “You know what I mean,” he answered, still softly. “Any chance is better than none, and right now that’s all you’ve got.”

Telson didn’t answer for a moment, then whispered, “And what would you call any chance?”

Calnan was ready for this. “Waiting until this storm hits, then breaking out. As it is, you’d be spitted by the first corsair you’d meet – if you could get it open before they saw you – but any degree of confusion works for us.”

Telson nodded, then frowned. “What storm?”

“When they were taking us over here, remember how hot it was, how calm the sea was? And now . . . ” He shrugged and glanced around. The ship was beginning to roll, heavily, erratically. They heard running feet and faint shouts above them, even over the growing creak and groan of the timbers. “Unless I imagined that bank of clouds on the horizon, they’ll be in for it and we’ll have as much chance as we can hope for.”

~ * ~ * ~

Their chance came some two hours later. Apparently the ship’s captain had given up trying to hold his course, and they were all but running before the wind. The rolling was less, but the pitch of the deck was terrifying. Calnan had been showing more confidence to Telson than he had actually felt, and the violence of a serious storm at sea appalled him. Telson was in no mood to take him to task for it, though; the man’s seasickness had returned with a vengeance.

From the confusion of noise that filtered down, he guessed they had already lost part of one mast. They had to get out, and fast, but it looked like the corsairs were going to make sure they’d go down with the ship.

CRACK! A splintering groan shuddered through the ship; a few seconds later, the deck canted violently to starboard. “That’s a mast!” cried someone. The few corsairs remaining below dashed up the gangway. As the ship’s rolling redoubled, irregular and horrible, water began running in between the creaking timbers. “We’re going to sink!”

Calnan grabbed Telson’s shoulders. “Come on, man, they’re gone!" Telson tried to rise, then slipped as the deck fell sickeningly. White and trembling, he felt in his pocket and pulled out the rusty nail Calnan had seen him fish from between two planks back on the Might. Snatching it as he held it out, Calnan awkwardly struggled across to the door of the brig, hooked one foot through the bars, and began to bring his tool into play. He’d picked locks before, but never with – The sea gave a lurch and threw him into the door, then tossed him back and he all but lost his grip. This is impossible! he gasped to himself. It would take all his strength just to hang on.

Suddenly a body hurled into him. Two arms, thrust through the bars, held tight and pinned him into the door. “I’ll give you as long as I can!” an urgent voice said in his ear.

Calnan’s hands were already busy with the lock. The ship’s writhing worsened, but stabilized by whoever was behind him, he concentrated on opening that door.

Finally the bolt shot back with a snap, and the heavy door swung open, dragging Calnan with it. There was a ragged cheer and a rush for the companionway. Recovering his balance, Calnan turned and recognized Sedal. “Thank you, sir,” he panted.

“Don’t mention it,” the surgeon said, extricating his arm from the door. “Come on!”

The uproar and confusion on deck was overpowering. The corsairs, fully occupied with trying to keep their ship afloat, were totally unprepared for the assault of the furious Gondorians. Within seconds an all-or-nothing brawl broke out, fighting with fists, pieces of wreckage, anything to hand.

The ship itself was already a wreck: One mast was entirely gone, one was but a jagged-ended spar innocent of yards or sails, and the remnant of the third, with one loose sail snapping in the wind, was threatening to capsize them. And the ship had taken a lot of water. Even Calnan could tell that the she was riding far lower that she should.

A cry came from aft as the helmsman lost his grip on the wheel. The ship yawed slowly to starboard. Now the waves which they had been riding began to strike the ship’s side, driving it over to port. Audible even above the storm, the timbers creaked and snapped; the groaning deck seemed to ripple. “Abandon ship!” someone called. “She’s breaking up!” Panic-stricken, some corsairs scrambled for the ship’s boat and tried to cut it free.

Calnan glanced wildly around deck and seeing Devon, tried to make for him, but the next great wave, breaking over the deck, swept him over the side. He finally surfaced, swam desperately for a spar floating nearby. The ship was now fifty yards behind him; he turned to it just in time to see the port rails dip under and stay. There was no sign of the boat, and few men were still clinging to the deck. Where was Devon? With his bad arm he wouldn’t last long in the water. Calnan tried to heave himself up on the spar, frantically scoured the waves around him – nothing. And when he turned back – nothing. The Yonder Bound was gone.

[Himaran]

Graring coughed up heaves of salt water for the second time in under a week; after being transfered to the Younder Bound for guard duty, the ship had hit a bad gale and was sunk. Now, he had been washed up on a sandy beach while rivers of foul-tasting ocean brine virtually shot from his lungs and stomach. It took nearly a half hour for the corsair to recover himself, and then the realization began to sink in:

He was stranded!

Alone on a deserted island, with no one looking for him. Most who knew him would believe he died in the Diy, and now two other boats had been sunk... he could be considered dead on three different vessels. A poor chance, if he hoped for a search party!

The corsair walked along the shore for several hours. It was morning, maybe nine o'clock; a beautiful sunrise had nearly finished its journey. Looking inland, Graring saw a variety of trees and schrubery. There was no sign of human life; only birds, lizards and the occasional snail on the beach.

But then, coming over the next dune, the corsair saw a group of men, coughing up water as he had done previously. Gondorians! Probably the prisoners from his last boat; although they were not in captivity any longer. They would kill him if he was found... the corsair thought so, at least. He hid himself in some tall grass and watched them, seeing what their next reaction would be.

Then a thought occured to him. Maybe, since his prize had disappeared, Doran would come looking. If he followed them, Graring might be rewarded handsomely for information. He would just stay around and behind them, stealing food weapons and other items he needed. Without getting caught, of course!

[Durelin]

Rakein's body felt as if it was rocking back and forth, and as his mind crept back into consciousness, the soft warmness pressed against his cheek did not fit. Never had the floorboards of the ship been soft, much less warm. But with growing consciousness, his memory jolted, and so did his body. His eyes opened abruptly to the sound of waves crashing against and shore, and to the feeling of icy cold water running swiftly farther and farther up his body. Scrambling away from the water, with it nearly impossible for him to find his grip as the soft sand of the beach let his lifeless arms fall deep into the warmth. He would have kept his arms in that warmth if the rest of his wet body were not shivering from the cold.

Though Rakein's memory had awakened with the rest of him, there was little to be remembered. And there was none that he wished to be remembered. The last though he had had was that he would swallow the entire ocean up before he drowned, but then everything had blurred and darkened as his eyes were forced shut. As he drew himself up in an attempt to crawl up the beach once again, his stomach literally sloshed around within him. Rakein promptly emptied his stomach of the ocean. After all the seas were out of him, it seemed that many other things inside him had gone with them. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand was even a struggle.

He pulled his legs up as close to his chest as he could, holding them in his arms, so that the water reached only up to his ankles. As he waited for the warmth to bring life back into his body, Rakein studied his surroundings, only ever moving his head slowly so as not to stir his sodden mind. It truly was sad that this sand felt so soft... His eyes stopped upon a large lump a good fifteen yards away from him. He was glad it was a safe distance away and was not moving. Since there was little else around him that was recognizable as anything but debris, his heart had risen to the thought that maybe, swallowing the ocean had been worth it, to be finally rid of his captors.

But his mind was not that numb, even now. There was no way all of them had died while he had lived. All the corsairs could not have died, leaving his Gondorian brothers and himself free of the terror, and free to take revenge. And where else would they be but somewhere else on this beach. And what if this was an island? There would be no escaping, then. The cold in his body was now realized, and Rakein lay there shivering, trying vainly to control his shaking to conserve his energy. No escaping? Even while still on the ship, under the watchful eye of some scurvy, roguish rat of a man, he had had hopes of escape, or even of rescue. Weren't his chances improved now that the enemies’ ship was gone and they were all scattered, or dead?

Rakein's resolution warmed his limbs more than any sun soaked sand would in a hundred years. He pulled himself up onto his hands and knees and made his way toward the green that lay before his eyes. A large mass of green was a promising place to make his chances of escape even greater. His sodden clothes were already making his chances lessen, and so he decided to take his chances with the large form twenty yards away. Sure enough, even when his shaking arm reached cautiously over him, the man did not stir.

Shearing off his pants from just above the knee with the knife he had acquired, Rakein was only slightly surprised that he did no more than shiver at the fact that an obviously dead man was lying next to him. And that made him shiver all the more. Now that his legs were free to move, the going was much easier up the beach, and it helped that he now felt the muscles in his arms and legs. The death grip on a hard leather handle was, sadly, yet another hope of survival. Even if all those men were still alive, Rakein would be as free enough to take his revenge. And, oh, was that a lovely thought.