[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."