[Eorl of Rohan]

The alarm resounded through the vessel like wildfire. The decks swarmed with half-roused sailors and curious soldiers, all pressing each other for information as the crowd multiplied and the alarm continued. The rumors, diverse as they were, and each more far-fetched than the last, more or less agreed that there were an escapee on the loose. As if to verify this, the emergency patrol stalked the hallways in anticipation of any false move. The hunt was on.

If there were hunters, there was the prey; such was the situation that Ferethor was pressed into. It was only a matter of time before they counted heads and found a sailor unaccounted for. Then, of course, his sailor’s clothing wouldn’t help him at all. He thought of all this with a sinking feeling that he couldn’t shake off. To make it worse, by the time he had scrambled out of the trapdoor that led to the ‘rower’s pit’ as the place was called, the emergency patrol was already out scouring every hallway. No chance of hiding, then. Drawn by a sense of strange desperateness, the like of which every animal possesses when cornered, he mingled with a group of sailors heading for the deck. There was nowhere he could go without attracting immediate notice. And he wasn’t ready to face Rakin again, so soon.

But Ferethor hadn’t prepared himself to see Rakin himself hurrying out to the deck, and every fiber strained to catch the man’s words. If he knew what Rakin’s orders were, he might stand a chance in getting away.