Númenórean Blood Runs Black RPG

[The Perky Ent]

"But can we spare the men, Menelcar? Yes, they are masters of the water, but if we spare some men for a land assault, will we be able to make a stand in their home city? No, I think we'll just have to hope reinforcements can take the land. Our main priority is stopping that armada. I’m sure they know we’re coming, and there is a good chance they will send an attack force. However, I do trust that our blockade can get rid of any that approach. The river should be sound, and once we’re on the water, we can deal with any that approach.” Telumehtar said as he picked up an apple out of a bowl on the table and took a large bite. A small breeze was flowing though his hair; he could smell the salt brushing his skin. Menelcar however paid no attention to the wind as he looked over the battle plan and starting writing small notes on the page. “If you’ll excuse me, Menelcar. I’d like to take a look around the ship” “Of course, my lord.”

Telumehtar pushed the door open and walked out onto the deck. It was fairly busy considering their conditions. The sun was starting to sink beneath the hilly horizon. The men aboard the ship were making sure everything was running safe and sound; no one even noticed the king’s arrival. Walking slowly, Telumehtar paced to the back of the ship in search of Hereric and some good company.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Chakka eyed Ferethor’s knife coolly, and if he felt any fear, none who looked upon him could tell. He looked away from the Gondorian, refusing to rise to the bait. The slavedeck was indeed empty of guards, but that – Chakka knew – was but a momentary lapse. Even as he moved his eyes from off the madman he could hear shouts and boots upon the steps leading down to the slavehold.

Chakka’s indifference only made Ferethor wilder. He stepped down from the gangway into the rowing pit and grasped Chakka by his arm. “You are a traitor!” he hissed at him, his eyes rimmed with creeping desperation. “I heard you speaking with the Captain!” Beside Chakka, Jagar tensed at the revelation but said nothing.

Chakka chose his words carefully. “Listen to me very closely Man of Gondor. Even now our masters are on their way, do you not hear their cries? There can be no escape for you now – was not I myself unsuccessful in just such a bid last night? And I had the security of darkness and quiet to cloak me. If you want to save your life, you will shed those stolen garments and throw that blade into the water.” Corsairs burst through the doors and cried out in even greater alarm to see the unguarded slaves. Two men remained behind while a third ran off for re-enforcement. Chakka let go his oar and seized Ferethor by the scruff of his neck. The Man was powerful, but no match for the might of Chakka. He stuffed Ferethor beneath the benches, hiding him from the view of the two guards. Chakka spoke quickly now. “You see? You are doomed – be it to the oar or the blade, I care not, but doomed you are!”

For a moment it seemed as though Ferethor would continue in his madness, but whether it was the force of Chakka’s words or of his hand upon the man’s gullet, he relented. Quickly, he shed the sailor’s clothes and threw them out the porthole, but the knife he kept, attempting to hide it beneath his shift. Chakka said nothing, but as Ferethor emerged from his hiding place, Chakka’s hand flew out like a viper and snatched the knife to him. Ferethor’s cry of protest only gained the guards’ attention. Even as the cry went out for his capture, the re-enforcements poured into the hold. Soon Ferethor was surrounded and taken once more.

Chakka, for his part, kept his head low and attracted no attention in the frenzy. But the knife he had saved from the madman he quickly slid beneath his bench where he wedged it between the boards. It was far from an ideal hiding place, but unless someone was intentionally looking for something it would escape detection. As though nothing had happened, Chakka turned once more to Jagar. “I believe,” he said, “you were about to tell me about the life of a galley slave…”

[Eorl of Rohan]

If you want to save your life, throw off that stolen uniform and the blade, and throw it into the water. Now.

Chakka’s advice made sense. Ferethor, driven as he was by a fit of desperation, had retained enough of his reason to see that indeed he had no other choice. He was always the headstrong one. Linvail had been there to check him until now, but this time… He compressed his mouth into a thin line, but did as the man suggested. A simple procedure, casting off his seaman’s uniform and bundling it so that it wouldn’t float, the knife buried in it, and dumping it in the blue seas.

“Linvail,” Ferethor said quickly, hearing the pounding of the steel-tipped boots getting closer, and completely unaware that he just addressed Chakka as Linvail, “If you are on the other side, then why?” Why save his life? Because they’d have killed him where he stood if Chakka had not urged him to take the right measures at the time. He was forced to acknowledge this, despite his pride. But then the guards came, and he gave up without the slightest bit of resistance – by blade, or by oar, he was not one to give up – just change tactics.

[Firefoot]

Menelcar stayed for a bit inside the cabin after Telumehtar had left, jotting down some notes in the record book. Or rather, he was attempting to do so. He might jot down a phrase or two but then find his own pen stilled. His thoughts were simply too scattered to attend to business. With a sigh, he closed the book and tucked it back in a pocket. There would be plenty of time to take care of it later.

Restlessly, he stood up and paced the small cabin a couple times but found the space too confining. With no particular destination in mind he left the quarters and found his feet taking him towards the bow of the ship. The decks were busy, with sailors heading here and there, but no one paid him much mind, for which he was glad. Upon reaching the foremost point of the ship, he stopped and leaned on the rail, noting the pleasant breeze that ruffled his hair and clothes. The sun was beginning to set, casting a soft golden light over the long sloping hills. The dark shadows created a sharp contrast that only enhanced the landscape. Menelcar smiled slightly at the beautiful sight, but he did not focus much on it.

After a few minutes, he took out a pen and book, but not this time the record book he had been using all day. This one was his personal journal. He wrote slowly and thoughtfully, recording most of what came to mind. Why Telumehtar enjoys traveling by ship so much I don’t think I’ll ever understand. The occasional military campaign is rather enjoyable; it breaks up the steady routine of life in the city, but I should much prefer to travel by horse, or even on foot as the case may be. There is little of any interest on these rolling, cramped ships, though it is of course unavoidable on this mission.

He continued with thoughts about the morning, then captain and ship. And then as his thoughts started to drift once more, so also did his pen. Eventually, his pen stilled and he simply enjoyed being alone for a bit. Long ago, when it was his brother who had been the friendly one and not the king, he had been envious of his easy way with people, but Menelcar had long since learned that there was little to be gained from such company – they never understood him, though he had quickly come to understand them, fickle and simple as they were. He had long since learned to make his own way, and now delighted times spent alone without being lonely. And he remained there for a while, watching the golden light fade as the sun set beyond the horizon.

[Kath]

Grateful to have got off so lightly, Curamir and Nimir were quick to go about their new duties. They made their way down to the weapons room and found all the cloths and polishes they would need to clean the swords. Deciding it would be quicker to make a sort of production line, with Curamir cleaning the swords of any stains and Nimir polishing them to a bright shine, the two set up work areas close together and got down to work.

The task was repetitive and soon became boring, with the only excitement being caused by Curamir, who nearly cut off a finger when the sword he was holding slipped and just missed the hand he had resting on the bench. Still, once they had done a few swords, they knew what they were doing and soon turned to conversation to keep themselves entertained. They began with the usual topics, what the weather was like and how long each of them had been training for a mission such as this and what they thought of the captain. Eventually though they ran out of small talk topics. By this time Curamir was feeling that he knew this new friend reasonably well, having heard most of his family history and events from his past, and felt confident enough to ask the question that had been preying on his mind ever since he had learned that Nimir's father was in the army. Carefully bringing the topic up, Curamir was pleased to find that Nimir seemed able to speak of his father without too much pain and went ahead.

"I hope you don't mind my asking, Nimir, but I'm just curious as to whether your father would ever have known mine? I mean since they would have been in the army at about the same time it might be possible. His name was Ferethor Steele, do you remember your father ever mentioning him?"

He looked at his fellow soldier, but the hopeful expression on his face began to fade when he saw that Nimir was shaking his head.

[Thinlómien]

After dinner Lingwë sought the man who was to be washing the dishes with him. The man was a young, sturdy sailor with chestnut hair. Lingwë remembered that the other sailors had called him Arron.

When Lingwë caught him and reminded him of their duty, Arron looked miserable. "I hate washing the dishes", he commented as they approached the kitchen door. "You're not the only one", Lingwë assured him, opened the door and pushed the faintly objecting sailor into the kitchen. Then he stepped in and closed the door behind them.

The kitchen was a quite small, ugly cabinet. Except the dishes from the dinner, it was remarkably tidy. On a chair beside a table sat a man. Unlike other cooks Lingwë had seen, this man was thin. He had dark hair and a moustache, but no beard. His skin was nearly pink, and his eyes were something between green and brown. At the moment, he was smiling maliciously to the young men entering his kingdom. "Ah, my dishwashers. Welcome."

Very soon in turned out that 'helping the cook washing the dishes' was actually the same as 'washing the dishes'. The cook pointed them the dishes, gave them a few buckets and a big pot full of hot water and sat back to his chair. When Lingwë looked at him with a puzzled look, he said with a sugary voice: "Sure your mom has taught you to wash the dishes?" Lingwë said nothing and got to work. Soon the cook started whistling a merry tune.

"I'm Arron", Arron presented himself,"I don't believe I know your name, soldier." "I'm Lingwë", Lingwë answered briefly and concentrated on rubbing a nasty stain on a plate. "You're new, aren't you?" Arron continued. Lingwë nodded and continued rubbing the stain. "Don't worry, I'm quite new also", Arron said. Lingwë looked up from the plate and smiled.

"Stop grinning, boys. You're on a serious duty", the cook said with a bored voice. Then he continued whistling merrily.

The endless rubbing and the hot water made both of the dishwashers short-tempered. Lingwë decided he had had enough of the silly whistling. "Begging your pardon, sir, but if this a serious duty, why are you whistling such a merry tone?" he asked the cook, trying not to raise his voice, though he was angry. "Because I'm not in duty, boy. You are", he answered as merrily as ever. Then he continued whistling.

"You're swimming in dangerous waters, my fish-friend", Arron whispered, "never make the cook of the ship you're in dislike you, or even worse, hate you." "Have you never been told that speaking behind one's back is very rude?" the cook asked with a sweet voice.

Arron and Lingwë washed the rest of the dishes in silence.

They had finally washed the dishes and were leaving, when the cook stopped whistling. "What a pleasure was that you helped me with the dishes tonight. I hope I'll see you soon", he said. They wished the cook goodnight.

When the door had closed, Arron said: "I don't wish to see him soon." Lingwë nodded. The cook was the first person onboard he had met and had not liked. He wondered how many other unpleasant acquintances he would have.

[Folwren]

Captain Hereric still stood on the quarterdeck when King Telumehtar came out from the cabin. He watched as the king mounted the steep steps to the deck and paced towards the stern rail. The few men that stood there, officers and a couple soldiers, moved silently away, giving him room as they would for the captain. Hereric walked towards him.

“Hello, my lord,” he said, drawing closer. “I hope you found everything to your liking below.” The king turned and looked at him, and then smiled slightly.

“Yes, thank you, captain. It should do well for us.” Hereric nodded and glanced downwards at the deck briefly before lifting his eyes to look back over the water and Gondorian ships. Telumehtar’s gaze followed and for a minute, they both silently looked out over the fleet, saying nothing.

“If you care, sir,” Hereric said, turning back abruptly, “I could show you about the ship, and if you did not mind the climbing, take you up into the rigging itself.” He didn’t know if the king would accept the offer. Some landmen disliked heights and would not set foot to a rope ladder if they were on ship only for transportation, as his majesty was. But others were eager to climb up and sit high above the deck and water to feel the breeze in their faces, stronger than on deck. He waited for Telumehtar to answer. . .

[The Perky Ent]

"The riggings?" Telumehtar said as if shocked. "Do you think that a king such as my self would stoop so low as to even dreaming of climbing up your putrescent ship? " Hereric was mortally shocked. The grimace on his face could not be contained even for the king. In the past, anyone aboard the ship who used such insolence to the captain would surely face an unforgettable punishment. Hereric even went so far as to caress the handel of a knife sitting nearby. “My Lord….if you-“ but Hereric stopped, for Telumehtar was nowhere to be found. Hereric did not react as he would have had the king not had insulted his ship. Swaying a little, Hereric gazes around the deck looking for any sign of the king. Walking down a small stairs, Hereric stepped down and felt something hit his head with a great velocity. Above him, Telumehtar stood clinging to the riggings with a bushel of apples in his hand. “It was only a joke.” Telumehtar said, as he slowly climbed back down the riggings. Not knowing if he should laugh or be disgusted, Hereric perplexedly walked over and gave the king a hand down. “Well…” Telumehtar said with a small grin on his face “…shall I be given a proper tour then?”

[Alcarillo]

Captain Vórimandur remained on deck the rest of the day, surveying the sailors as they worked and guiding the ship down the river. Slowly the sun slipped downwards towards the western horizon, and Captain Vórimandur stepped down into the Ráca's lower decks. This was the first night of this new voyage, and so there would be a feast awaiting him and his officers in the wardroom. It was a tradition aboard the Ráca that the first meal of each voyage should be the best. It was a rather reasonless tradition, but Captain Brithion had began it long ago and it was deeply ingrained in the hearts of the crew, who carried it on to each new set of sailors that came aboard, reminding them of Ol' Brithion's generosity. And now was surely an appropriate occasion for a grand dinner in the wardroom. This voyage would surely be the voyage that would mark the beginning of Umbar's downfall, and the rise of Gondor's glorious dominion over the high seas, like Númenor of old.

The wardroom was located directly below Captain Vórimandur's office, and was furnished similarly. The walls and the door were painted crimson red, and the back wall consisted of great windows overlooking the water below, which at the moment reflected the early sunset to the west. To the sides were cabinets of the ship's finest china plates, which would be used on this occasion. An Elven rug even adorned the wall, a handsome piece of booty taken from a corsair ship. In the center of the room was an old oak table, at the moment set with a white tablecloth (or perhaps a sheet of sailcloth, it was hard to tell) and the aforementioned china plates. A silver candelabrum stood in the center. As Captain Vórimandur took his seat he was pleased to see that his plate was without any crack or chip, as some of the plates had. One must understand that when aboard a ship a feast is not the same as a feast on the shore. On a ship, such meals often seem mediocre to landlubber eyes, but they are as grand as the crew can make them.

And so it was that the officers of the ship entered the wardroom and took their seats at the table. Soon the food arrived on silver platters from the cook, and after a short toast to Telumehtar and Uinen, they began their work upon the food before them. Vórimandur had not eaten anything all day, and it was only now that he realized his deep and gnawing hunger. With each bite his stomach only seemed to want more, not less. An occasional weevil was found hiding in the hard biscuits, and once picked out crawled for a bit upon the silver platters until a servant would step forward and pick it up in a handkerchief. The conversation was chiefly made up of tall tales told-one-time-too-many and brief wisecracks. There were also stories of the events of the day and the day before, including everything from one-eyed seers to starving sharks swimming up the Anduin. It was a jovial, informal dinner, with many laughs between courses and hearing of others' lives since the last voyage out to sea. Fortunately, the talk did not decrease with the food, and after dinner as the servants carefully carried the precious china down the hall to the cook the conversation still lingered in the air like a thick fog.

Caradhril excused himself for a moment in order to take a trip to the roundhouse. An empty seat now lay between Captain Vórimandur and Dagur the bosun'. Dagur was young, thin and pale, with shining black hair and an introverted, daydreaming demeanor. But he kept meticulous accounts of the ships stores and Vórimandur doubted that the king's accountants themselves could do better. Dagur also lacked Númenorean ancestry, which set him apart from most of the other crew members. It was said that during his youth he was often looked down upon for this, but with a cold glare he could easily change the minds of his belittlers. He now stared out the windows behind Vórimandur with a dreamy gaze, his chin in his hand. "Dagur," said Vórimandur, "Have you received a list of those I punished today, for the defaulter's list?"

"Yes, sir, I've taken note of them," Dagur said. He shifted his body into a more attentive posture.

Caradhril returned and took his seat between Dagur and the captain. "Well, I have great news: our king is crazy." This was a rather unexpected comment, and the looks from the officers plainly told Caradhril that some sort of explanation was needed. "Saw him dunk a basket of apples on the captain of his ship. Strange, hanging in the rigging like the monkey."

"How irreverent! I certainly don't believe that, especially after those stories about seers and sharks you told during dinner," said Sergeant Nillendion, a fervent lover of the king. He sat across the table from Dagur and frowned with his arms folded. "And how could you see that when it's so bleedin' dark out?"

"The sun has barely touched the horizon! There's still sunlight. I just rested for a bit by the railing at the bow, and beyond the Númenna I saw the king's ship, and the king was dumping a bucket of apples upon the captain while swinging in the rigging," said Caradhril. He knew that his story was strange sounding, despite its truth. "He's crazy, or something . . . wonko . . . "

"Maybe more like Wonko the Sane, if you ask me. Nothing's wrong with Telumehtar," said the sergeant, "I cannot believe he would do such a thing. Really, he's the king, would he do something like that?"

"Well, I saw him do it," Caradhril said, "No joke."

"If it concerns both of you that much, I can send a messenger in a rowboat to the Cuivië tomorrow. In fact, if the Ráca catches up to the Cuivië, I will personally ask the captain if the king is, indeed, insane," said Vórimandur, "Does that sound fine?" They nodded and said aye. "Now, it is getting late and I must write down the ship's log." With a salute he bade his men good-night and left the wardroom. The sergeant's gruff voice drifted from the door.

"Oh, Caradhril, I think you're the crazy one . . . "

[Folwren]

“Well. . .” Telumehtar said, “. . .shall I be given a proper tour then?”

Hereric paused a moment to collect himself and then looked the king full in the face. “Yes, sir. Clearly you seem quite able to climb the ropes. Shall we go up first, then? There’s not much light, I’m afraid, and may not be able to see below decks anyway until at least tomorrow.” He led the way to the mainmast and then asked the king to climb first.

“Great stars above, did you see that?” whispered a sailor aft. His companion nodded - soberly, perhaps, but turning very red as he kept back his laughter. “‘Do you think that a king such as myself would stoop so low as to even dream of climbing up your putrescent ship?’” The laughter broke from both of them, but the speaker stifled his. “Hush-sh!”

“But the cap’n turn’d nigh red!”

“Aye, he did,” the first sailor muttered with a chuckle. “An it were not the king, there might’ve been some mighty sharp words given.”

“Silence on deck!” came the bosun’s furious order. The two sailor’s obediently ducked their heads, and silenced their words as they continued their work, but the amusement did not leave their faces, nor the picture of their captain’s look their minds.

Hereric and Telumehtar mounted up farther and farther towards the sails until they came to the top head, a wooden platform about mid mast, where they stopped. Standing much higher now, they could still see the edge of the sun over the horizon, whereas down below, it was quite out of sight. The wind up here blew harder and more refreshingly. Hereric wrapped his arm about the mast and leaned comfortably into it.

“Have you sailed often before, my lord? I understand that this is not your first voyage.”

[Dunwen]

Nimir began shaking his head when Curamir asked him if their fathers might have known each other. “Forgive me, Curamir,” he said sincerely. “I didn’t mean to give you the idea my father was a soldier. He was only a farmer, a smallholder. There wasn’t a garrison near our village, so when the Corsairs attacked, he and the other men in the village did their best to defend it themselves. I never met a soldier until I was recruited.”

Sensing his new friend’s disappointment, Nimir fell to polishing the next sword. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he said quietly, “I’m sorry I can’t help you. Your father must have been very brave.” He hoped he had not offended his companion.

Both young men silently cleaned and polished the last few swords. Despite the awkwardness caused by their conversation, Nimir examined the weapons curiously. He had no sword of his own, for a good one cost more than his family could afford. As a hunter, bow and arrows had always served him well, as had good steel hunting knives. He wished there was someplace on the ship where he could practice shooting, but common sense told him that he was unlikely to have lost his skill as an archer in the short time that he had been assigned to the Ráca.

After putting the last sword away, he and Curamir collected the polishing cloths and oil and put those away also. By this time, it was dark, and both of them were hungry. Nimir cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Let’s see if we can find something to eat,” he said tentatively.

[Anguirel]

Amanaduial the archer's post


After Chakka had left his rooms, barely moments had gone by before Rakin himself had been forced to follow the slave out of the door, but this time up to the deck, accompanied by the sound of the clanging alarm bells. A slave escape – no, a second slave escape, the second within twenty four hours. Finding himself in exactly the same position as he had been a quarter of an hour ago when he had dismissed Chakka from his presence, Rakin ground his teeth and glared once again out at the sea, rather more venomously this time. Of all the sheer bloody inadequacies! Forget the slave who had escaped: after two escapes within two shifts, it was his corsairs who’d be answering for this one…

“Captain, there…” The corsair who had entered thoughtlessly through the open door trailed away uneasily as Rakin failed to turn. Hesitating for a moment, he then rather belatedly shuffled a few steps back out of the door and, almost comically, knocked hesitantly. Rakin squeezed his eyes shut, then rolled them up to the ceiling and sent a vengeful prayer up to whichever god it was who was laughing at him. Give me clowns, give me jesters, but for gods’ sakes, give me strength – and don’t dress them up and pretend they’re able-bodied seamen!

Scowling darkly, Rakin swivelled around wordlessly to face the hapless messenger, a scrawny boy of about sixteen who quailed somewhat in the face of his sullen-faced captain. His adam’s apple bobbed uneasily as he mustered the words which had slipped out so carelessly a few moments previously. “C-Captain Rakin, there…” he swallowed and composed himself. Poor boy, Rakin thought, eyeing him critically: he only joined up to this ship a few weeks ago, and there were fully fledged corsairs aboard the ship who would quake to face Captain Chatazrakin when in such a foul disposition towards his crew. He raised an eyebrow darkly as he waited for the boy to stammer out the line. Am I simply getting old, or are we now to become a child-minding service? Finally, the corsair stammered out the words: Sangalazin was waiting.

“Lord Sangalazin? Well, we wouldn’t want to keep Lord Sangalazin waiting now, would we, hmm?” he replied, viciously. The hapless corsair in front of him, apparently unsure of whether to give a reply or not, bobbed his throat and quaked silently. Trying to contain his anger, Rakin ran his tongue around his teeth and took a deep breath, and strode towards the door. No…he would remain calm for now, he would keep his composure in front of Sangalazin. But after that… Rakin paused and turned elegantly in the doorway, only about a foot from the messenger, and snapping his fingers as if just remembering something, a noise that made the boy jump.

“Tell me, boy- name?” he snapped shortly. Gathering that yes, it was to him that Rakin was speaking and not to the walls, the boy replied, and Rakin continued. “—Menash, then. Tell me, Menash – do you know…who was on duty belowdecks with the slaves at about midnight, and then again at midday today?”

Menash hesitated, then replied slowly, “Well, last night it would have been…why, I’m not sure, one o’ them who—” his eyes lit up as he remembered. “Ah, it was Tachkan, wasn’t it? He’ll be resting at the bottom of the sea now though…”

Rakin treated Menash to the full glory of his cold fish stare, unblinkingly waiting for the boy to elaborate. “Well…I mean, after that slave escaped last night, he was found missing, along with another – the slave did for them, we reckon…”

Why, Chakka, you little- Chakka’s ancestors received a serious mental clouting from Rakin as he poured forth various vengeful thoughts upon everything to do with the slave from his forefathers to his fingers.

“…and then this morning, about midday – well, Cap’n, that would be me.”

“You, Menash? You were on duty at midday today?”

The boy nodded innocently. “Aye, Captain Rakin. Why, I just got off duty now…” he trailed off as Rakin gave a slow, grim smile and shook his head very slowly, his expression wolfish as he leant in towards Menash. “Oh, Menash, you have no idea how much that was the wrong answer.” And with that last threat, the Captain swept out of his chambers.


Anguirel's post

The board had long been perfectly set out when Sangalazin at last heard the knock he had been expecting. He motioned to Captain Andlang to open the door into the opulent, perfume-tinged quarters. The bodyguard silently obeyed, and Sangalazin saw the man he had been waiting for. The Corsair Captain, who he had to admit, now, was something more. A curse from the past risen anew; a powerful new factor, which might destroy him; or might be manipulated in his favour.

"Welcome, welcome, Captain Rakin," Sangalazin exhorted. "Come further in. What do you think of these frescoes? I've been told your taste is remarkably developed, among your many other...accomplishments..."

The tall-tall as Sangalazin-handsome, dark Captain remained impassive. "How gratifying," he answered, non-commitally, as he walked towards his host-or was Sangalazin his guest? It was his ship, after all...

"Oh come now, don't be like that," Sangalazin reproached him. "Andlang-leave us."

The bodyguard goggled, staying rooted to his post. Sangalazin bit his cheek, stared hard at his subordinate, and said once again, "Leave us." This time, he was obeyed.

"Now, before we start our game of chess, I thought you'd be interested in this fresco...the Gifts of the Sea..."

Sangalazin's slender hand moved from Ussun the Terrible, to Vineth the Lovely, to the melancholy figure at the side; and he smiled as he saw Rakin recognise himself.

"The model, I believe, was Lord Sangahyando of Umbar, my father." He left the our father unspoken. Rakin-Chatazrakin-would understand well enough.

***

Sangalazin held a black and a white pawn behind his graceful back.

"Left or right?"

"Left," Rakin said curtly. "Bastard's prerogative," he added with a thin smile.

Sangalazin raised an eyebrow. "You're black," he murmured, passing the pawn to his opponent. "The more challenging colour, though it can be rewarding..."

Without further conversation, they began the game. Sangalazin tried to trick Rakin early on with the celebrated Corsair's Ploy.

"Alas, my lord," Rakin needled, "your King's Mumak has sadly strayed..." He took it with one of his Knights.

The game became drawn out and gruelling. Rakin took one of Sangalazin's Towers, only to lose his Queen. Each player avenged losses speedily.

"It is clear," Sangalazin quipped, "that my father was skilled at chess." Again, our father left to implication...

After an hour King and King were locked in stalemate, little left to either.

"The signs are clear," Sangalazin concluded, his voice softer and more genial than ever. "We should work together." He held out his hand. Chatazrakin hesitated, then took it, his expression betraying curiosity, a little scorn, and much interest.

"How would you like to be sole Lord of Umbar?" Sangalazin asked.

***

And so a conspiracy was forged. A course of action determined. Vile treachery planned. The consequences of Sangahyando's infidelity were to spell death to Angamaite's line...

It was when all was decided that the alarm was sounded above. The Captain rushed up to attend it. He returned with a predator's smile on his rugged face.

"Pelargir is in sight. Call your guards...my lord...and have our Corsairs issued with their livery. As for me," Chatazrakin finished, "I shall...get my armour on..."

[The Perky Ent]

The sun rose swiftly over the horizon of the ship. Telumehtar took several short breaths before sitting up to face the light. There was a vague sense about Telumehtar, almost in the form of a hangover. Next to him, he saw Menelcar in a deep sleep. Telumehtar tried to go over last nights events, but a migrane was keeping him from thinking about anything other than the sun. It's warmth caressed his skin as the ship skimmed the calm river waters. At the very tip of the horizon, Telumehtar thought he saw a small amount of black smoke, but dismissed it for just a normal cloud.

Slowly getting dressed into a casual royal garment, Telumehtar walked out of his quarters and onto the deck. There was no sound, but all over the boat there was motion. Men were tieing ropes, opening crates, and putting out lights. Along the coast, large white birds flew parallel to the ship. Telumehtar took it as a good sign. "Ah, what a peaceful day this is. Let us hope it remains peaceful" he said, as he searched the deck looking for the captain. A calm day indeed.

[Folwren]

Captain Hereric, his arm wrapped about the sturdy wood of the foremast, shaded his eyes against the rising sun. He, too, had seen the plume of smoke as he had come on deck and, as the king had, mistook it at first to be a normal, small cloud. Almost at once, Winmar, his left tennant, had approached him and told him that the look out had spotted what appeared to be smoke, and the captain had run aloft.

Now from this new vantage point, he could see more clearly and understood the look out’s uncomfortable feeling. It was smoke after all. An uncomfortable amount of it. With a sigh, he leaned against the mast and dropped his hand from his eyes. Really, he could do nothing about it, except make more sail. That much he would do.

His hand swung out instinctively to grasp a hanging rope and he gently let himself slide down to the deck. Landing squarely on his feet, he released the rope and hurried up to the quarter deck.

“Good morning, my lord,” he said, seeing the king on the deck. “Excuse me for a moment, sir. Winmar, have the topgallants set. Make full sail.” The left tenant gave the correct answer of ‘Yes, sir’ before turning to the rail and giving the orders. Hereric turned to the king. “I apologize, sir. You had a good night, I trust? You’ve risen early. I hope it wasn’t due to an uncomfortable sleep.”

[Firefoot]

When Menelcar awoke, the king was already gone. He stood up, stretching stiff muscles unused to the hammock and the rolling of the ship. The night had not been uncomfortable, precisely, but in no way did this change the fact that he strongly preferred solid ground. He dressed quickly before leaving the cabin to find Telumehtar.

He soon spotted the king talking with Hereric up on the quarter deck. Though he did not particularly care for the company of the captain on this morning, he went to join them anyway. After all, if he would not go anywhere that the captain was, he would be letting the captain control him in a backwards sort of way.

“Good morning, m’lord,” Menelcar greeted as he approached. After an almost unnoticeable pause, he added with an acknowledging nod, “Captain.” A subtle gesture, though one the captain might not miss.

Abruptly, he noticed the small dark wisp on the horizon – a cloud? No, the day was clear and sunny, and this was but one dark cloud. Smoke then? Smoke – Pelargir… Menelcar felt a slight sinking in his stomach that did not come from the ship’s rocking. “So help us,” he murmured. Then slightly louder, “Is that smoke?”

[Alcarillo]

The soft yellow light of a Gondorian sunrise glowed through the tiny window of Captain Vórimandur's cabin. It was a small cabin, but still larger than what his sailors had. A chest of drawers lay nailed against the wall under the window, and next to it, between the drawers and the opposite wall, swung the captain's cot. It was a rectangular box, like a coffin, but it was painted yellow and swung from the ceiling by several ropes. It was filled with a thin mattress, a creamy-white pillow and blanket, and with the sleeping body of Captain Vórimandur. He stirred as the sun lit his room. With a tired groan and an agile roll over the edge of the cot he landed on the floor, catlike, on his feet, standing there in his nightgown. He changed out of it and donned his stately captain's garb, every piece with its own special place in the drawers. And finally, with a flourish he wrapped a black cape about his shoulders, to add an air of authority. And with this final touch, he stepped out of his cabin, into his office, and then out onto the deck of the Ráca.

The deck gave a wonderful view of what was left of the sunrise. Orange and red clouds drifted lazily in the East as the golden sun rose higher and higher into the sky. The rigging of the ship was sharply silhouetted against the fiery eastern sky. Men gazed from their views high up among the sails, captivated for a single moment from their work by this fire in the East. Captain Vórimandur paused for a moment to reflect upon the sunrise, but soon he turned to Caradhril.

"Caradhril, how far are we from Pelargir?" Pelargir was the closest major city, and also a great port. Hopefully the fleet would take a short stop there before sailing to Umbar.

Caradhril stood by the wheel, supervising a young sailor turn it this way and then that way to follow the curves of the Anduin. "We're not far, sir! We'll reach it later today, no doubt." Captain Vórimandur gave a nod of satisfaction. "And, sir, if you don't mind me askin', you will, if it pleases, ask the Cuivië if the king's-" here Caradhril stepped closer and whispered, "-crazy, won't you? I'm nearly certain . . ."

Captain Vórimandur gave a glare that told Caradhril to not speak of the subject again. "If we happen to pull alongside her, I shall make sure to bring your story up with the captain. Now I think your little student there is steering the ship a little too starboard." Caradhril turned to adjust the ship's course. Vórimandur had completely forgotten last night's story in the wardroom, and doubted its authenticity, but still, Caradhril would not lie. It must've only been a trick of the light.

[Anguirel]

As the Corsair Captain hurried to put the next stages of the plot into action, Sangalazin speedily began to return the chess pieces to their drawers, his long fingers nimbly grasping a Mumak here, a Knight there...and the hapless Pawns, in their masses...his stray left hand struck a silver bell hanging to one side. It was the call for the black-armoured Guard of Sangalazin to attend to its lord.

Andlang, eager as ever to demonstrate his loyalty, arrived first, but many others followed him quickly. Before the last peals of the bell had died away, the forty bodyguards, every man assembled, stood ready to act.

"Lord Azaryan and Captain Chatazrakin are marshalling their Corsairs and preparing to disembark," Sangalazin explained smoothly. "Bring me my armour."

The guards designated Sangalazin's personal squires, grooms and armourers, four in number, the youngest who had most ethereal Numenorean beauty about them, came forward with the steely intricacies of the Lord of Umbar's battle-garb; cuirass, corselet, grieves, helm...fully equipped at last, he looked something akin to the part he played, his longsword at his side, and his great height, at least, befitting a warrior.

"Now you are armed, my liege," Andlang asked, "are we to depart? The Lord and Captain have launched their assault already. Pelargir is in flames...they met with almost no resistance. The plunder will be rich."

"Patience, my boy," Sangalazin answered slyly. "Patience. We shall move onto the deck of the xebec; but we shall not join the attack until I give the word."

The yellow-haired, dark-plated soldiers filed on deck, their blades flashing in the last splutterings of the evening sun. From their vantage point, they could see all the devastation being wreaked. A few fighters of Gondor, scattered and ill-prepared, lay spread-eagled in attitudes of death. Beyond the docks, warehouses, mansions by the coast, even the bastions of the town were licked by a choking caress of smoke and fire. Now and again a loose band of Corsairs would stagger by, cutlasses out, overlaid with booty.

"I think our friends are scattered enough," Sangalazin remarked. "Andlang, keep fifteen men to guard the vessel with the remainder of those paltry Corsairs. I am going into town to requisition the spoils from the ill-disciplined poltroons..."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordim Hedgethistle's post

The slave drivers ranged along the catwalk striking at the bare skin of the slaves left and right, roaring at them to row harder, faster. Chakka pulled his oar over and over again, his great muscles tirelessly sending their force through the wood to attack the ocean. Sweat glistened upon his ebony skin which shone with a deep lustre. From above came the hammer and pound of armoured feet as the corsairs made ready for some brutal act and Chakka's heart grew hard with rage that he was being made to help such men in their evil. The slavedriver passed him by and struck him with the butt of his whip, and for a moment the vision of the dagger that Chakka had hidden flashed behind his eyes. The satisfaction of seeing the dying look in the slave driver's eyes as he slid to the floor was almost worth it...almost.

Chakka felt Jagar begin to flag at his side, so to cheer the man he began one of the innumerable rowing songs that he had learned in this hellhole. The song was taken up by those around him, and soon the slaves were all singing, using their music to give form to their agony.

When the sun comes back and the first quail calls,
Follow the Drinking Gourd.
For the old man is waiting for to carry you to freedom,
If you follow the Drinking Gourd.

The river bank makes a very good road,
The dead trees show you the way,
Left foot, peg foot, traveling on
Follow the Drinking Gourd.

The river ends between two hills,
Follow the Drinking Gourd.
There's another river on the other side,
Follow the Drinking Gourd.

Where the great big river meets the little river,
Follow the Drinking Gourd.
For the old man is awaiting to carry you to freedom if you
follow the Drinking Gourd.

Another blow to the base of his neck silenced him and the men's song faltered and failed. There was another alarm from above and the drum that beat out their lives again increased in tempo. Chakka and the others bent to their work, driving their oars into the water and the corsair's vessel toward some innocent land...

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Dunwen's post


Breakfast for Three

The soldiers and sailors of Gondor had not been allowed to sleep in quite as late as their superiors. During the night, only those on duty had been awake, moving on their rounds as King Telumehtar’s fleet slipped quietly down the Anduin. However, in the hour before dawn, the fleet had started to come to life.

Sleepy sailors coming off midwatch had rousted their replacements out of their hammocks and crawled in themselves. The rest of the troops woke up and prepared for the new day. The low buzz of conversation below decks moved up into the open air as men dressed and began to haunt the galleys for morning rations. It was a bright calm morning and many brought their breakfasts up onto the decks to eat before reporting for duty. The great ships were crowded close on the river, near enough for men on different ships to hear each other. Among the shouted orders of the fleet’s officers and captains there could be heard a fair amount of ribbing as the seamen took turns exchanging good-natured insults and jests about each others’ ships.

Aboard the Ráca, Nimir had found Lingwë and Curamir ahead of him in line for breakfast. After he’d been handed his bit of rations, he saw that the other two were waiting for him. Happily joining them, he and Curamir listened to Lingwë’s description of working for the ill-tempered ship’s Cook the night before. Lingwë did a wickedly good imitation of the Cook’s surly tone that made the other two laugh merrily. They finished eating quickly, and compared notes about their duty stations for the day before they had to separate. Nimir was assigned to the hold again, as the Master-at-Arms wanted to move some of the weaponry closer to the main deck, making it easily available in battle. The young archer was glad to have had a chance for a little time in the fresh air today, and to see Lingwë and Curamir before they went to their own assignments. The three agreed to look for each other at dinnertime, then each went to report in for his day’s duty.

[Folwren]

You had a good night, I trust? You’ve risen early. I hope it wasn’t due to an uncomfortable sleep.”

“No, no, not at all,” Telumehtar said. “The sun woke me, that’s all. Shining in. I swear, one of the first shafts of light must have reached my face and woke me directly.”

“I am sorry, sir,” Hereric replied. “I’m sure we could fix that. Board up the window at night, possibly, if you so wish it.” He glanced forward. “At the time, though, my lord, if you looked forward - do you see that cloud of smoke? Aye, it is smoke, sir,” he added, as the King turned.

“I saw it. You are certain that it is smoke, and not merely a cloud?” Telumehtar turned piercing eyes towards Hereric. The captain nodded.

“I’ve gone aloft to make certain and there can be no mistake. We’ve increased sail to be there as quickly as possible. I don’t know what you want to do.” He trailed off as Menelcar stepped up onto the deck and came towards them. He greeted them both and the captain bowed his head slightly in return and then watched as the Counselor’s eyes were caught by the plume of smoke on the horizon.

“Is that smoke?” he asked, after a shocked pause. His eyes turned towards the king and Hereric, and Telumehtar answered him.

“The Captain believes that it is and has added sail in accordance.”

“I assumed,” Hereric said calmly, “that we would want to get there as quickly as possible and fight off whatever corsairs are abusing our people. I fear, though, that however quickly we may sail down the river, much damage has already been done.”

[Firefoot]

“I see,” answered Menelcar simply. Even he could recognize that there was little else Hereric could have done – but that did not mean that he would laud the captain for it.

“The other ships will have to be alerted, of course,” he continued, speaking more to Telumehtar than Hereric, “and a plan of attack must be made. The Corsairs will probably know of our coming ere long, but we must give them as little time as possible to prepare for the counter-attack.”

His gaze strayed once more to the ominous wisp of smoke on the horizon. Time – all the problems came back to this. They needed time to slow down while the boats made their woefully slow way down the river. They needed time to plan their attack. After all, they had not expected battle nearly so soon, not until they had reached the sea, at least. But they could only work with the situation as it was and the time and resources as they had.

“Come,” he urged the king. “Have Hereric pass the message on to the other ships, and let us go and work out a battle strategy.” Then, so as not to appear too eager to be rid of Hereric’s company, he added to the captain with a hint of skeptical derision: “Unless, of course, you have anything to add?”

[Folwren]

Hereric bowed slightly at the counselor’s recognition, as cold as it was. “I take orders from his majesty, or yourself,” he replied quietly. “But I know the river, and the lay of Pelegir on the edge of it, and how to use my ship to the best of her advantage - in assault or defense. You may plan the battle as you see fit by yourself, though if I am of any use to you, I am at your convenience.

“If my lord thinks it is best,” he went on, addressing the king, “I will hail the other ships and explain the added sail. On the other hand, I doubt that they will not spread more sail of their own accord when they see us going on at a swifter speed. It will be necessary to let them know that we will be entering into battle by late afternoon (very likely entering into battle, anyway) so that they can prepare themselves as necessary.”

He waited for the king to reply to his question, or for Menelcar to make clear his intentions of the planning of battle.

[Firefoot]

Menelcar nodded impatiently at Hereric’s response. “That would be well,” answered Telumehtar.

“We will be in touch,” said Menelcar, his tone suggesting that it may or may not be so. They separated, the king and Menelcar heading for their cabin and the Captain off to communicate with the other ships.

Alone together in their cabin, there was little else for them to do but begin discussing battle tactics in earnest. It was difficult to plan a battle, as they had woefully little information to use – they did not even know whether the battle would be fought primarily on the river or on land, though it was hoped that they would be able to move off the ships, as the Corsairs’ superior ship skills would give them the advantage. Without knowing more, they decided fairly quickly that a straightforward attack would be best, but that if they could swing some of their ships around to the southern end of the city and flank the Corsairs, then they would. All this and more Menelcar printed into his small book, and for a while he was almost able to forget that they were still on board this infernal boat.

“We will still want this to be as surprising as possible,” said the king after a while. “Hopefully, they will not be expecting us so soon – news of this would not have reached Minas Tirith for a while yet, and it would have taken us longer to muster the troops.

Menelcar nodded. “Of course. Although it may be a rather futile wish, we might hope that they are lax in their lookouts. But more likely they will know of our coming all too soon. It is difficult to hide a fleet so large.”

“Yet maybe the river itself will help us, as the captain suggested,” said the king. “His help may be invaluable.”

“It could be so,” responded Menelcar neutrally.

“In fact, why don’t you go talk to him now?” continued the king. “I’m sure he would appreciate all the time we can give him – and you are certain not to forget any details, what with all your records, as I would be sure to do.”

“You underestimate yourself,” he answered, returning the king’s easy smile. Inwardly, however, he protested the prospect of more time spent with the dull captain. He rose to his feet. “I will return when I have heard what he has to say.”

He let himself out of the cabin to find Hereric. Here we go with Round Three…

[Anguirel]

The Lord Sangalazin's statement to disembark at last was greeted by a clattering scrape of iron, as the twenty-five of his Guard chosen to accompany him seized up helmets, longswords, and halberds, their shining black armour reflecting the gleam of their confident, brash stares, before the visors were lowered over their eyes. The others, led by Captain Andlang, looked more sullen; they guessed from the look in their master's eyes, so soft and yet so cruel, that they were missing out on more than left-over booty. But they had been given a command to garrison the xebec; the slaves, it was rumoured, were restive; and they did not gainsay it.

The Black Guard's Hornblower raised his instrument; a vast and imposing Mumak-Horn, from a creature slain in the Death Arena by Sangahyando, the father of Sangalazin. He blew a long, clear, chilling note, and the fighters marched over the pier in perfect order, in ranks five abreast. At their head strode a warrior of Sangalazin's height, and in Sangalazin's armour, as it seemed. But Sangalazin in truth stood in their centre, protected by a square of blades, and smiled beneath his visor.

"Now," he whispered, quietly but forcefully so that all his attendants heard quite clearly, "remember that the Corsairs of House Sangahyando, and Rakin's lackeys, are wearing a strip of purple silk at their helms. We shall know by those strips to leave them inviolate. But if you see Corsairs of House Angamaite, without the purple cloth and ill-disciplined...slay them without mercy!"

Educative examples were, in fact, on their way. As the black-armoured swordsmen passed a still-burning warehouse, a party of Gondorian towndwellers, a rich old woman, two maids, and a burly but injured manservant, were running back. The four people saw the squadron of tall Numenoreans in armour of antique Minas Anor style, and thought themselves saved. Sangalazin's guards stood motionless as the fugitives halted, thanking the mercy of fate; stood motionless as Corsairs, complete with purple scraps like macabre ladies' favours, overtook the Gondorians and cut them down.

"Most efficient," the false Sangalazin at the front cried out, and passed a pouch of silver to the Corsair leader. The true Sangalazin wished to be thought munificent on this crucial day.

The marauders passed on, to another ruin, and more easy pickings. The Black Guards passed on, to another party of Corsairs...and more easy pickings.

"These are Azaryan's scum," Sangalazin hissed. "You know what to do."

"Halt in the name of Umbar!" the pretend Sangalazin called out. The Corsairs, bemused, did so, their step unsteady; they were clearly heavily intoxicated. The Guards drew their swords and fell on them, hacking about them, silent in their charge, eerily free of warcries. Soon the eight unfortunates lay dead.

"Take their spoils and any weapons of passable quality," Sangalazin said coldly.

So it was as the evening wore on into night. Without losing any prey, or sustaining any casualties, Sangalazin's bodyguards butchered Azaryan's men, and used the plunder they stole to reward the Corsairs who were minions of their own Lord, or of Rakin.

***

And all the while, a little ahead-increasingly little ahead-of the skilled traitors, Lord Azaryan strolled, gazing on the city he had burned, hearing the shrieks of the fallen (unaware they were his fallen now!), smelling victory for the last time.

"Hail, cousin! How goes the battle?"

The proud Lord stared darkly upwards upon his fop of a cousin, playing with his black Numenorean armour. He had blood on his sword, true enough. He'd probably stabbed a corpse several times to look more impressive. Azaryan spat.

"It's gone. You've missed it, as you may have noticed. Not that we needed your..." he sneered at the foreign western equipment Sangalazin so loved to parade, "...longswords." Quite unconsciously, he patted his sheathed falchion.

Sangalazin shook his visored head. "Oh, no, I think you do, cousin. You need these swords."

A slight, awkward, pause.

"Because these swords, cousin dear, are fated to end your short-sighted, brutish existence."

The true Sangalazin grinned. He had composed a beautiful script, and his double was doing a better job than might have been expected of delivering his lines. Out flashed the steel again. Oh, what a joy it was to see Azaryan goggle so, when his servants pointed their blades at his neck, his chest, and his groin!

"Base treachery! You cannot, even you, filth, sink so low!" Azaryan bellowed, maddened at his own impotency in this situation. He had sunk fleets of the West. He had enslaved tribes of Haradrim. He would not die to his degenerate young cousin's ploy. It was against all reason!

"No one man can rule Umbar, by the laws of the Lordship! To await the day when we reign in Gondor once more, there must be two of us! Bad enough when one of us is a feckless sybarite, but you alone? Unthinkable!"

"That is resolved," pseudo-Sangalazin said calmly. "Chatazrakin, second son of Sangahyando, will rule as Supreme Lord of Umbar and Master of Corsairs. Sangalazin, eldest son of Sangahyando, heir of Castamir, will rule as King of Gondor. And Azaryan, son of...what was your father called again? Ah well. It is of no account."

Down slashed the longswords at the man who had such contempt for them. Again, and again, and again. When the body was quite unrecognisable, Sangalazin rose up a hand to stop the slicing.

"Let word be given out that Sangalazin and Chatazrakin are the new Lords of Umbar; that Chatazrakin is accepted as a son of my father; and that we now return with all speed to Umbar!"

As the Guards stepped back from the maimed once-Man, Sangalazin approached it and caressed the ruined face. He knelt down and kissed the bloody mess where the mouth had been.

"Goodbye, cousin dear."

[Folwren]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What were the plans?”

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

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

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

[Alcarillo]

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

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

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

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

[Firefoot]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Arry]

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

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

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

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

-o-o-o-o-

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

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

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

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

-o-o-o-o-

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

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

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

-o-o-o-o-

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

[dancing spawn of ungoliant]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Folwren]

“Very well. We will have to hope that there are few ships and plan for a swift, heavy strike,” Menelcar said, as though summing up the plans. “If not - hopefully we will know sooner than later.”

“Depending on your outlook on time,” Hereric said, “we will know sooner than later. But for now, perhaps it would be well for you to go and tell the king what you’ve decided.” He bowed slightly and withdrew a couple paces, turning his back and walking to the rail. Menelcar seemed to pause half a second before Hereric heard him walk slowly from the deck. He watched him silently from above as he paced the distance to the cabin door and disappear inside.

He shook his head slightly and looked up. He considered for a moment to hail the tops man, but then decided it would be just as well for him to look and see for himself. He mounted the foremast and stood at the highest cross tree and swaying slightly in the wind he looked out again towards the Pelargir. The cloud of smoke had almost disappeared, but he could see in his mind’s eye the city still reeking in the fumes of recent fire with thin but constant wisps of the smoke still rising to heaven like a burnt offering.

And the Corsair’s ships would still be in the bay as the men ravaged the streets, killing and raping at will. He felt his blood grow hot and he turned his eyes away and he looked back at the ships behind him, and then down at his own deck below.

They would be ready for battle, when the time came. And perhaps, just maybe, they would catch these enemies on unawares, drunk with the spoils of war, and unprepared for Gondorian avengers so soon.

The thought assuaged his fury and he let himself down onto deck. He called the officers to him and began to give orders in preparation for the upcoming battle.

[Arry]

Curiouser and curiouser . . . Bahir’s eyes narrowed as he made his way from the rowing galley hatchway across the top-deck. He was bound for his perch on the main mast, having been given instructions by one of the mates that the tear in the topsail needed repair. What’s this? An unfamiliar set of legs and raggedy clothes was just disappearing around the corner of the captain’s quarters. And where had he glimpsed those sweat hardened clothes? Just recently, he thought.

The man on the stairs . . . yes, that was a possibility. One of the rowers had slipped his shackles off, somehow. Brave little mouse – to play so dangerous a game while the Cat was away. Bahir’s brows rose; he gave a half smile. But then who was he to condemn another’s . . . adventure? And perhaps he could turn the man’s intentions to his own use.

Bahir shouldered a small cask from one of the lashed piles on the deck. For all intents and purposes he looked the part of someone delivering something somewhere as ordered. His head was down and he trudged along . . . just Boy, on some errand, they would think.

He slipped into the shadows afforded by the overhanging eaves of the captain’s cabin and sat down the cask he carried. He wiped at his face with his sleeve, his eyes darting about for any who might be watching. Assuring himself there were none, he darted around the edge of the cabin, just in time to see the man he was following, standing before the captain’s door. The man grimaced as he gazed at the locked entry way.

And did he think that the great Corsair ship’s master would leave his door open for all to visit as they wished?

A multitude of thoughts scrambled in the young man’s head. He could turn this to his advantage and be rid of the one token of his trespass. Bahir stepped forward, making a small sound so as to draw the man’s attention. He looked carefully at the fellow and then at the door. From a fold in his turban, he pulled out the key he had so recently used. And bending down, he slid it in a quick motion toward the man.

It clattered over the wooden decking coming to stop at the man’s feet. Bahir rose up and nodded toward the door, his face breaking into a conspiratorial smile. ‘Friend . . .’ he whispered, he eyes crinkling with amusement. ‘Good hunting!’

He did not stay to see what the man had planned. He did not wish to know. Bahir hurried back to where he’d left his little barrel and carried it with him to the main mast, leaving it there as he climbed nimbly up pole and onto the riggings at the top.

[dancing spawn of ungoliant]

"Good hunting!"

A key laid at Jagar's feet and as he dumbfounded stooped to pick it up, the boy who had tossed it had already gone off. There might have been something behind the sudden kindness of the stranger, but Jagar decided to worry about it later when he had completed his mischief. Jagar turned the key in the lock opening the door, stepped over the threshold and entered a room that was furnished with beautiful cloths and maps. There was a dark wooden table and a bed covered with soft cushions; it was the finest room Jagar had ever seen and he closed his eyes and let his fingers slide through the long pile of a shag rug. He paced across the room to a small cabinet and opened it revealing a more or less dusty collection of bottles full of liquor. "Perfect", Jagar whispered and took two bottles out of the cabinet, arranged the remaining bottles so that his thievery wouldn't be easily noticed and turned around to return to the bare and dim slave deck while his good luck lasted.

Jagar gave a final longing look around the luxurious room and as his gaze swept over the pillows on the bed, he let out a muffled cry and one of his liquor bottles slipped out of his grasp and fell on the floor shattering into pieces. There was someone lying under the heap of cushions. It looked like a blonde boy had been slumbering holding a bottle of spirits in his hand, but there was something odd about it; the boy hadn't even moved despite all the noise Jagar had made. For a moment Jagar held his breath staring at the boy, took a few steps toward the bed and burst out laughing. He saw that the boy had a glazed look in his open eyes and a bluish streak on his neck. "You really got scared over a dead body? Dead men don't rat on you", Jagar chuckled as he tucked the bottle he had left under his rugged shirt. The plank floor was sticky with liquor, but it didn't matter. A nice little riddle for the Lords to solve. Jagar walked out of the room, locked the door behind him and returned back to the slave deck humming cheerfully.

"For the old man is awaiting to carry you to freedom if you follow the Drinking Gourd."

[Folwren]

The sun was before him and still almost a hand’s breadth from the horizon. Captain Hereric paced the quarter deck, unable to stand, still just as it was likewise impossible to keep him below. The wind had dropped around noon, an agonizing factor that he hated. The sails were trimmed accordingly, but even so, their speed had dropped dramatically.

Trips up to the masthead had been frequent all afternoon, and each time he hoped to be able to catch sight of Pelargir and her captured bay. But every time he had been disappointed. He had known that they wouldn’t be in sight until later, but hope always bears up at times like these.

The entire ship’s crew felt the excitement growing. Their captain’s pacing the minutes away caused their eyes to look forward at least as often as his, and their blood to pump with the anticipation of up coming battle. Swords were drawn and sharpened. Arrows checked for straightness and keen tips. Bow strings changed. And still there was extra time.

The minutes of pacing turned into an hour. The sun continued slowly on her path towards the horizon. “Deck!” hailed the watchmen. Hereric sprang towards the rail and looked up.

“What is it?” he called.

“Pelargir in sight! Can’t see the ships yet in the bay. . .”

“Very good,” the Captain said to himself, turning back towards the stern. “Very good.” A movement on his right caused him to turn again. King Telumehtar stepped up onto the deck, the counselor behind him. Hereric approached them. “Good afternoon, my lord,” he said. “The watchman has just spotted Pelargir. In a few minutes, I’ll warrant we’ll be hearing the number of ships that lie in her bay, and in about an hour, we shall be there.”

A faint smile came to the kings face as he paced to the edge of the deck and looked out over the ship and at the water stretched before them. “Good! Good,” he said. “In an hour, then, we shall begin to punish these Umbarian pirates for years of unchecked murder in our waters.”

The captain stood behind him, and at his words, his eyes glowed. An old thought and remembrance came back to him, and he felt a sudden and abrupt stirring in his chest. He had fought the Corsair’s before, but never behind the king, and never with the knowledge that this would be the greatest battle between Gondor and Umbar ever to be fought. The time to pay them back for his father’s death was coming quickly to hand, and soon. . .very soon, he’d be able to say that that goal was fulfilled.

“Captain.” Hereric shut his eyes and braced himself mentally as he turned towards Counselor Menelcar. “I note that our speed has slackened since this morning.”

“So has the wind, sir,” Hereric answered calmly, but in such an expression of voice that he knew, had one of his crew spoken to him thus, would have brought certain trouble onto his head. “Around noon, as a matter of fact. I marvel that you did not mark our lack of speed earlier.”

[Firefoot]

Menelcar’s eyes glinted at Hereric’s remark. Just who did this man think he was? “And I, Captain” – the word was a meaningless appellation – “marvel that you should think that simply because I did not promptly bring the matter to you, you think that I had not noticed.” In truth, he had not immediately noticed the slowing in speed; it had been more of a slow recognition, known but not wholly realized. He moved as if to step past the captain to stand next to Telumehtar at the rail but paused, leaning closer to Hereric. “Do not think that I would bring all of my concerns and observations to you.”

Hereric was saved from responding – or perhaps Menelcar was saved from his response – by a shout down from the watchman. “Four ships in the bay!” Four! So much for his “two, maybe three,” mused Menelcar, now standing beside the king. “That should work out,” commented Menelcar.

Telumehtar nodded, taking his eyes away from the horizon. “What we will have to do,” he said, speaking more for Hereric’s benefit than Menelcar’s, as they had already discussed this, “is try to prevent their ships from leaving the bay – otherwise they will be able to take news back to Umbar.”

“Of course,” answered Hereric, showing a deference that Menelcar had never been given, and Menelcar did not understand it, though it had always been this way. Even before Telumehtar was king and he, counselor, Telumehtar had always been the friendly, magnetic one, while Menelcar was either disliked or tolerated, or occasionally respected for his position but never himself. And while most of him did not care, a small part of him reared up against this injustice and, a malevolent spark in his eyes, his gaze settled on Hereric for just a few moments.

He forced his train of thought back to the coming battle, the far more important issue at hand. Personal vendettas could wait till later. While he felt some anticipation, his feelings were not nearly as intense as the excited tension throughout the ship. Battle was a necessity and little more. He did not relish the killing and the blood. He had heard the stories of the Corsairs; many were true, but just as many were not. What was more, it was not the common soldiers and the slaves that needed to be killed but their cruel and merciless leaders, yet he knew that to get at the latter, the former must be killed. A pitiless evil circle was war, yet a necessary one.

The king finished explaining the final pre-battle tactics to Hereric, who in turn departed to relay the instructions to the officers. Menelcar and Telumehtar both turned again to face the front. Any time now, the alarm would be raised in Pelargir and their approach would be known. Then it would be a race against time, yet all they could do was wait…

[Dunwen]

This had been one of the strangest days of Nimir's life. It had started out with a cheerful breakfast in the bright morning with his new friends Curamir and Lingwë, laughing at the Ráca's Cook. He thought of their tentative plan to find each other at dinner this evening, and smiled grimly. His friends were surely standing with their own squadron, while he was with the rest of the ship's archers, waiting...nay willing the King's fleet toward Pelargir.

Certainly the first part of the day had been routine. He had headed from the bright breezes of the deck into the depths of the hold along with several other strong men and lads in the crew. Before coming on board a ship, he had never realized how much he disliked cramped spaces, but once Morgond, the Master-at-Arms, set everyone to work, there wasn't time to think of anything but his orders. Not only were weapons being moved to the upper decks in the ship, there were less necessary stores of goods that needed to be moved to accomodate them. Soon two lines of men formed, one carrying weapons up and the other moving extra stores down. The Master was apparently bent on getting every last spear, cutlass, arrow, rope and knife stored somewhere closer to the topdeck. Nimir wasn't the only one nearly decapitated or crushed in the bustle, and he lost his footing going down some stairs and nearly knocked over the two men in front of him. He'd tried to apologize, but in the noise and movement, his words were lost. Luckily, Morgond and his officers were too busy to mark him down. It was the usual day-to-day drudgery involved in keeping a warship ready to fight.

Then word filtered down from the decks that smoke had been seen over Pelargir.

The Master had not needed to order the crew to move faster. Of his own accord, each man doubled his effort, straining under the weight of weapons cases, boxes and barrels, knowing that battle would be joined within the day. If anything, Morgond ordered the men to move with greater care so that everything would go in its pre-determined place. Some of the younger lieutenants were ordered to start carrying right alongside the common men. At one point Nimir found himself teamed up with a young noble from Minas Anor moving barrels of dried fruit down one level. The lordling's fine uniform was filthy and his High Numenorian features were as grimy and sweaty as everyone else's. He didn't look much older that Nimir's own seventeen years, but neither boy had the breath to ask personal questions. At the end of their task, they'd clapped each other amiably on the shoulder and separated with a wave.

Nimir was amazed to see that despite the confusing masses of men going all directions with every concievable kind of container, the weapons were being placed precisely where the Master had determined they would be most needed. On a trip below, he noticed that everything belowdeck was being arranged just as carefully, with the Quartermaster's assistants writing down list after list of what could be found on each deck. He was impressed, guessing that this task had taken a great deal of forethought and cooperation between the two Masters and their respective subordinates. In a way, he was proud to take a small part in such a well-organized task, working under such clever officers. He was sure there wasn't a ship in the King's Fleet with a better crew than the Ráca.

Incredibly, what had seemed a gigantic job that morning had been finished by early afternoon. Coming up on deck, Nimir had noticed the slack sails on all the ships. He'd vented his frustration in a curse that would have earned him a box on the ear from his mother, but it was so unfair. He was pleased to see that Captain Vórimandur had been able to find enough wind for the Ráca's sails to keep her right behind the Cuivie, but the entire fleet was slowed by the weaking breezes. The afternoon had worn on and on, and still there was no sight of Pelargir. Only the ever-growing smudge of black smoke to the south indicated that they were truly moving closer.

Nimir had had time to wash the muck and sweat off his body and even managed to get some rations for a late lunch. He and the rest of the ship's archers had been ordered to form up, but with the failing winds, they had been permitted to take their ease until the fleet was ready to take battle stations. Morgond and his officers had no such luck, for once the last crates were in place, they were responsible for distributing weapons among the crew. Noticing his erstwhile companion of the fruit barrels working with the Master's officers, still covered in grime and sweat, Nimir unobtrusively obtained a second round of rations. He made a bundle of them in a middling scrap of torn sail, then moved toward the young Numenorian and caught his eye. He tossed the bundle and the other lad automatically put his hand out to catch it. He grinned at the boy's dawning recognition of what he held. With a wave of thanks, the lieutentant took a piece of bread out and voraciously bit into it. Walking away from the busy knot of men to collect his own bow and arrows, Nimir wondered idly if he'd ever get a chance to learn the other's name.

[Thinlómien]

Lingwë had never been waiting for a battle, and it made him nervous. The few battles he had been in had been pirate attacks; they had started and ended suddenly. Lingwë wished that it had been so this time also. But no, this was a real war, where tactics where used, not a mindless little clash between two little ships. The battle starts soon, but not soon, he thought.

Memories of the old fights flooded to his mind while they were making preparations on the Ráca's deck. He remembered strange frenzy that had overcome him when his friend was hit, he remembered the cries of the dying. But worst of all was after battle, seeing the deck red with blood and dead or wounded men lying on it. And now this isn't just a little battle with a few men dead. This is going to be a slaughter, he thought. He hoped that he wouldn't be one of those who would die.

The working men were mostly quiet and some where trying to hide their anxiousness behind rude jokes. He heard his friend Curamir laugh at them along many others, but his laugh was a fake laugh. Lingwë looked at him. He saw that Curamir was as nervous as he was. Or maybe even more nervous, he thought, this is his first fight. With a sudden pang he realised how worried he was about Curamir, and Nimir too. I'm not that much older or more experienced, he reminded himself. Still, he felt slightly big brotherish and remembering his own big brother he considered that a big fault. I have enough worrying, if I worry only about my self , he thought.

[Folwren]

Arry’s post

Bahir spent most of the day on the crossbar of the mast. The deck below seemed far away, the figures who moved about on it like little ants. He settled his back against the mast pole, letting his feet dangle freely. There was a good view up and down the river, and to each side he could see the flatter areas near the water’s edge give way on each side to low lying hillocks amidst the grassier areas. A pretty enough land, but nothing like the sandy beauty of his homeland.

The ship rocked gently at its moorings, soothing him . . .

‘I must have fallen asleep!’ he grumbled to himself. The wind had grown chill.’ His belly grumbled in response, reminding him he’d had nothing to eat since much earlier in the day.

And here it was late evening, already. The sun just ready to sink below the horizon.

Bahir got up slowly and stood tall, stretching his muscles before descending the pole. He took a last look about at his airy world just before leaving the crosspiece. ‘What’s this,’ he said, frowning as his eyes scanned up the river. There were ships moving down the river at full sail. He shouted down to the guards who stood along the pier-side of the ship.

‘Raise the alarm! Many ships! Just upriver!’

He shouted his message again as he scrambled onto the deck and went running to take his position as message boy. Behind him, as he made for his spot, he could hear the large curled horns blaring out their warning to retreat to the ship And the orders of the First Mate to cast off the lines and bring the ship about. Already, the sailors were scrambling to position the sails as ordered . . .

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[Folwren]

The sun sank below the horizon. Light still filled the world, flooding it with a reddish tint. The water rippling about the ship’s bow flowed back like a red bird, flying swiftly before them, as though a herald of battle and blood shed.

Hereric with his officers behind him or on the deck below, stood on the edge of the quarter deck. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, still sheathed, and his dark eyes stared forward from a face set as stone, grim and hard and ready for what came. Archers waited above on the masts, standing on maintops and foretops above. Their bows were strung and arrows waited on the string for a word of command from below.

Ahead, the Corsair’s ships were in sight. There were four of them in all, and on their decks and on the piers of the city, men ran and scrambled to get to their places. The alarm had been given, and Hereric could hear the harsh horns blazing out their warning. He smiled grimly. They had been on unawares, it seemed.

[Kath]

Curamir had spent the day doing one task after another and was glad of the chance for a rest when it came. Hauling boxes from one place to another was an easy enough task for an hour or so but the morning had dragged on and for a while it had seemed like they were never going to get everything into it's rightful place.

He had spent the beginning of the day with Nimir and Lingwë, but hadn't seen the former since he had been taken away to join the archers. He was worried about his new friend, and just hoped this battle would go well enough that they would all be able to meet up at the end. He had no idea of what lay ahead, he'd never been in battle before and only had Lingwë's stories to go from. He knew Lingwë had been shielding him somewhat from the truth with what he said, holding back details that were frightening, or that he just didn't want to remember. Nevertheless he had gleaned enough from what was unspoken to know that this was not going to be pretty, and he was glad to have someone with at least a little experience by his side.

Just as he was beginning to get a little tired of all the waiting around, and the jokes that were being told to try and relieve some of the tension, there was a shout and everything seemed to happen all at once. The remaining weapons were distributed without care for who they were going to and how and everyone was ordered to their feet and positions. In seconds Curamir found himself squashed between Lingwë and another soldier as their orders were bellowed to them. Standing in silence, he waited.

[Alcarillo]

Captain Vórimandur strode upon the deck in shining armor, reflecting the red rays of the western sun. Across the river stood Pelargir, now grimly smoking. Several Corsair ships prowled the waterfront. The Captain summoned a spyglass, and, leaning over the railing of the ship, peered at his adversaries. His eyes recognized those crimson sails, but this was the furthest he had seen them from the sea. His spyglass turned toward the city, where Corsairs stood on the shore, drinking and gambling or roving through the streets and looting the homes of Gondorians. A silent fury welled up in Vórimandur's heart. He fondly remembered his visits to the city and his strolls along the piers where ships from up and down the Anduin laid anchor. The ships at the piers were now either looted and burnt or captured. And what hurt Vórimandur's heart most was to see a small group of young lads loaded onto a xebec, to be forced to labor at the oars, or worse as rumor in Gondor's cities told. They would spend their lives aboard those ships, and only to eventually be killed by a drunk Corsair one night.

Vórimandur's wandering spyglass paused upon a handsome xebec. It was an elegant ship. It's red sails, unfurling at the moment, were like cascades of crimson water, and Vórimandur could easily imagine them filled with wind and speeding the ship across the sea swiftly and smoothly. And he hated the Corsairs even more that they should own such a ship. The spyglass moved onto the banks of oars, propelled by slaves, and the opulent stern, where the rich masters lived in luxury with their Gondorian slave-boys. It would've seemed almost comical if this were not a time of war that the few masters easily took up a majority of the ship's space while the many slaves were packed together as tight as bricks in a wall. And neatly across the stern was painted the xebec's name: the Fame and Fortune, a most enticing name to a man such as Captain Vórimandur.

Captain Vórimandur handed the little spyglass to a nearby sailor and turned to face his crew. Before him stood Sergeant Nillendion and his soldiers in a squarish formation, bearing swords and spears. Around them stood the sailors, armed mostly with little bows and knives. Above Vórimandur's head, the best archers had hidden themselves among the sails, ready to fire upon the enemy. All eyes were on the captain. They wanted a before-battle speech. So Captain Vórimandur cleared his throat and in a loud voice said:

"Almost two-thousand years ago, Elendil and his sons escaped the Downfall, and they landed in Middle-Earth, and established kingdoms where the people of Númenor could live in peace and never fall to the sins that drowned Mar-nu-Falmar. But our nation, our kingdom, our peace is under attack by these rebels," he gestured toward the Corsairs and raised his voice, "These pirates do not deserve to be counted among the Númenoreans! If Elendil lived today, he would bury his face in shame at a single glance at Umbar, that city of thieves and beggars! They have dishonored all those who claim descent from Númenor, including our just king and our kings from the past! So, let us reclaim the honor of the Númenoreans, and show Elendil that not all of his sons have strayed down the path of Tar-Calion!"

[Anguirel]

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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