The Ambassador's Son RPG

[Nuranar]

Calnan’s faded and torn blue shirt had dried in the afternoon sun – the weather of the southern latitudes routinely changed from hurricane to drought, it seemed – but now it provided no protection from the chilly land breeze. Flat on his stomach, bare hands and feet pushing him, he inched down the beach with a mere whisper of sound. He had lost his boots at sea.

Wreckage had strewn the beach where he’d washed up, but the first indication of other life had been a pinpoint of red light that appeared shortly after sunset. That meant a fire: at least one other survivor. Corsair or Gondorian? Until he knew, Calnan was taking no chances. He had moved silently along the edge of the trees for a while, then began to crawl. Whoever was at the fire would be able to see nothing anyway, with his eyes dazzled by the light. Still, Calnan wanted to offer no upright silhouette against the luminescence of the surf. He was more afraid of a sentry than whoever was at the fire, and there was no cover on the beach. No rocks, no dunes, nothing.

By now, carefully avoiding a direct look at the fire, he could discern Devon. Closer – there was Telson. Some of the others he recognized, some he didn’t, but none looked like corsairs. So they probably were not recaptured. And he had neither heard nor seen any hint of a sentry; foolish of his friends, but it had make his approach less dangerous. Calnan rose and hobbled forward, quietly as was his wont, but without taking any extra care to be quiet.

He was within thirty feet when a man, gazing vacantly into the darkness, saw him. “Hold there, you!” He rose and came forward. “Who are you?”

Calnan squinted uncertainly at him, then his eyes widened. “Is that you, Callath?” His friend’s features were haggard and pinched in the flickering light, his gestures slow and tired. It was a terrible caricature of the carefree stable-boy he knew, with his keen, merry expression and his spry, easy movements.

Callath’s face mirrored Calnan’s. “Calnan!” he gasped, then recovered. “Where’ve you been?” he demanded. “Lot of consideration for others you show!”

Calnan stepped into the firelight. “If you must know, Master Harres, I’ve been checking on how good a watch you keep. I can’t say much for it, seeing how close I came,” he teased, trying to hide his relief. Callath looked much the worse for wear and clearly wasn’t feeling too great, but he’d lost none of his spirit. Calnan looked around the circle, felt his heart glow as he recognized Devon, pale but firmly grasping a short blade. Telson stood next to him, tired but carrying himself more confidently than he had since they had left Umbar. Probably because he’s back on dry land! There was a boy – Rilgari, he now remembered – with one arm in a sling. The man next to Callath nodded to him and spoke.

“I am Rakein.” He grinned as Calnan narrowed his eyes trying to remember. “Carpenter’s mate.”

“Oh! Very good.” His glance continued around the fire, saw Sedal lying on the ground, a coat over him, eyes closed. Orda crouched by his side. “Is he hurt bad?” The boy nodded, fear in his eyes. Joy gone, Calnan felt sick. Sick with heartache. Sick with grief. He’d been trying to quell thought of those who weren’t there, just as he’d been quelling thought of those they’d already lost. How many weary days had it been? There was still no time. And if he opened the door even a crack, he’d be completely useless. He forced himself to face the problem.

“We need to find shelter, or make it. Has anyone seen any rocks or –” He broke off. First things first. “Wait, we still need sentries. If we’ve survived, so have corsairs.”

Callath interrupted. “Rakein and I saw some corsairs on the beach down there a ways,” he said, pointing in the opposite direction. “They’ll be coming for us.”

“Aye,” Rakein agreed. “They’ll be blaming us for the loss of their ship, no doubt. We need to be ready,” he said. There was an eager glint in his eye.

Calnan nodded. “All the more reason for a couple lookouts. Telson,” he looked across the fire, “please go down the tree line in that direction” – he gestured toward where the corsairs were – “about twenty yards and stay there. Stay quiet and don’t look at the fire – watch for movement, but more than that listen. These are corsairs, not woodmen.” The Gondorian rose wearily, but nodded and smiled as he turned away. “Rilgari, would you please do the same, but go back the way I came?” The boy was startled but automatically saluted before slipping into the darkness.

“I saw some big rocks in there a little way before the sun set,” Devon said, pointing into the jungle. “Maybe we can make a defensive position there?”

“Anything would be better than this,” Calnan said. “This fire can be seen for miles down the beach, and who knows how far out to sea.” He was vaguely surprised at Devon asking approval of an idea before carrying it out, but he had no time to waste on reflection. “Please show me where. You come too, Rakein. We might need a carpenter. Callath, please stay here; don’t feed the fire more than you have to to keep it alive.”

~ * ~ * ~

When the sun rose the next morning, they were established on the side of a low ridge of rocks, pointing out toward the sea. A little stream of fresh water ran down it from the highlands. The ridge itself was broken enough to afford a little cover for their sentries, especially for the one overlooking the other side of the ridge, but not enough to allow their enemies to approach unseen. Hidden under a minuscule overhang, Sedal was sheltered as much as possible from both scorching sun and chill night wind. The surgeon had a couple broken ribs and was taking it as easy as he could. Under his direction, Orda and Calnan had wrapped his ribs with strips torn from the coat’s lining; it wasn’t much, but provided a little stability.

As far as weapons went, Devon and Telson between them had managed to obtain a dirk and hang onto it through the long hours at sea. Rakein had a knife, taken from a corsair body. And Orda, grinning, had produced a small ship’s ax from his belt. Boylike, he had refused to tell where he’d gotten it, although Calnan suspected he’d swiped it from the deck of the Yonder Bound and had been too stubborn to lose his prize in the sea.

However come by, the ax had proved most useful. The trees were a relatively open forest of tropical hardwoods, not the jungle Calnan had feared. Despite the dark, Rakein had mysteriously obtained a number of young trees, and he and Calnan had trimmed off branches to make rough pikes. Calnan knew how to use his as a quarterstaff, and Telson remembered a little from his training. Devon, Callath, and Rilgari, one-armed as they were, had the edged weapons; Orda had been surprisingly possessive about the ax and only surrendered it to Callath when he had promised to defend Sedal.

An hour after sunrise, Calnan was lookout at the top when he heard “Calnan! Come here!” Immediately he slid down to Callath, who had been standing sentry out toward the beach. “They’re coming, the corsairs!”

“How many?”

“Just a few – five, maybe six. I heard them where our fire was, then they seemed to be coming nearer.”

Calnan nodded. “Yes, they’ll be following our tracks. Hard to hide anything in that sand.” Quickly he and Callath roused those who were resting – Callath had already called in the other sentry – and had them hide behind the rocks.

Soon they heard the crash and snap of seamen blundering their way through a forest. Calnan, motionless, waited for them to emerge into the clearing along the ridge. “Now!”

Rakein, Telson, and Calnan charged down from the rocks onto the startled corsairs, shouting for all they were worth. Disappointed at finding the Gondorians gone from their fire, angry at Graring, and disoriented from hacking their way through the wilderness, the corsairs were taken entirely by surprise. Giving one a vicious crack alongside the head, Calnan whirled his staff and stabbed the blunt end into another’s throat.

He stumbled and gasped as something burned along his side. The staff jabbed itself into the ground and sprang from his hand as he fell. Rolling over, he heard the whoosh and stab as a blade gouged the ground where he had lain. The man looming over him was one of the few who had a sword – and Calnan had nothing. He crouched, ready to dodge again; his only hope was to get into the trees.

There was a swift movement on the edge of his vision as a figure leapt forward and attacked the startled corsair. Even as he reached for his staff, Calnan was astonished to recognize Meri Loliway. Getting to his feet, he made to circle around behind the enemy, but the woman’s skill was lightning fast and as deadly as ever. He had taken only a step when she feinted and ran the man through.

Without the clash of swords, the clearing fell silent. Four corsairs lay on the ground, three dead – one from suffocation, Calnan’s work – and the other unconscious. Apparently the others had fled. But no, there was Devon climbing down from the rocks, smiling triumphantly, dirk red with blood. A corsair had fled in the wrong direction.

Rakein had disappeared, probably following whoever had escaped. Telson and Avershire, who apparently had appeared with Loliway, were making their way back to the rocks. Callath was perched up top, taking another sentry shift.

Loliway extended her hand to Calnan. “It’s good to see you, Dontal.” Gone was the aloofness, the hardness of the proud and pitiless warrior. Instead, the genuine warmth and care of comradeship shone in her eyes – along with a hint of apology.

Calnan grasped her hand firmly and smiled. “And it’s good to see you, Loliway.” He meant it with all his heart.

~ * ~ * ~

Rakein reported that a single corsair had fled into the forest, apparently panic-stricken. The corsair prisoner had apparently suffered a serious concussion from Telson’s blow and was quite incoherent when he regained consciousness. No one had been injured except for Calnan, and except for the bloody lip and bruised knuckles Rakein had earned in a glorious brawl with the escaped corsair.

Why didn’t you go after the one with the sword first? Calnan berated himself. You know better than that! His mistake hadn’t been too costly. The wound was shallow but bloody, and he regretted most the loss of his ragged shirt, torn up into a bandage under Sedal’s direction. He didn’t mind – much – under the blazing sun, but he would sorely miss it when the sun went down.

Avershire came stumping back from sentry-go. “We need to get out of here,” he declared. “We need to find a boat, or make one if there’s no one else here.”

Devon frowned, opened his mouth, then stopped. He glanced at Calnan, who understood. Avershire was no longer the ship’s captain over them. Their job was to stop Doran, not to get back to civilization as soon as possible; but Devon was out of ideas.

“We need to stay here,” Calnan said quietly. Avershire stopped, amazed at both the opposition and the deliberate omission of “sir.” “If there are more corsairs we need to be ready for them. Without weapons we’re in no condition to defend ourselves without a position, even if we were all at full strength.” He saw Loliway looking at him, but ignored her. “And Doran’s not going to rest until he knows we’re dead. Corsairs survived the wreck, corsairs will tell him where to find us. If we move, it’ll only be to a better position.”

“Calnan’s right,” Devon said clearly. “We’re sticking this out.”

Avershire was pale with anger. Calnan and Devon stood their ground. Callath, then Telson came to them, silently adding their support. Slowly but deliberately, Rilgari and Rakein joined them; Orda scurried over from Sedal. Avershire’s eyes flicked over to where he sat, carefully propped up against the rocks. The surgeon’s brown eyes were steady and held, Calnan thought, just a hint of a rebuke.

Meri Loliway sat on a rock, unmoving. Avershire looked at her, but she neither supported nor opposed. She merely waited.

The sea captain clenched his fists and set his jaw. After a long five seconds, he purposefully relaxed, took a deep breath, and nodded in decision. “Very well, Mr. Dontal. We will fight this out.” He paused, smiled grudgingly. “Even to the bitter end.”

[Earendil Halfelven]

The storm lasted for hours. The sea raged and ranted beneath the harsh gales, throwing the ships to and fro. But they sustained no casaulties, only minor damage to the ships. The sun had just come out when a man yelled out, "Man overboard!" The crew of the Rapscallion rushed to the sides to see who the unfortunate soul was. Acacia was the first to confirm what Doran was thinking.
"He's not one of our crew," she said. "Nor does he even look like a corsair. He looks Gondorian to me, like one of the folk near the city of Minas Tirith."
"Your probably right," Doran replied. "Men, get that man on this ship at once!"
__________________________________________

The man identified himself as Mayne of Captain Avershire's crew. He was a survivor of the battle against the Regal Dawn and Might of Realge but had been lost when the ship sank that he was a prisoner on. Doran figured that the storm had blown him in their direction. He spent two hours interrogating the man named Mayne, trying to piece together what happened. After that time, Doran knew the fate of his three ships, but not the fate of the men who crewed them. Nor did he know the fate of his opponents.
Mayne was obviously very tired and weary from his ordeal in the ocean and was giving away plenty of answers.
"The ship that the prisoners were on was more westward of this position. All I remember was that there was an island in the distance. It wasn't very far though."

"Was it the only island in the area?" Doran asked.

"Yes, I think so," Mayne replied. "At least I don't remember any others."

Doran nodded. "Jurex, have this man taken below. He can keep our dear Adeline company." Jurex nodded and he and two other crewman took Mayne below decks. Doran headed up to the deck.
"Acacia! Set our course due west until we see the nearest island. We can check for corsair survivors there, and we might even find somebody else," he said with a smile.

"Yes sir, Captain Doran," Acacia replied.
__________________________________________________ _____

The spotted the island and stayed three miles out and waited until dusk. Doran knew that there would be more than just corsair survivors on the island, if this was the island nearest the battle sight. Doran wanted to wait until nightfall, in case they had to surprise anybody.

Finally, it was dark.

He was in the lead boat as he and 20 corsairs from the ships rowed silently towards the island. They were making good speed towards the shore and soon they would be on land. He glanced behind him into the dark. He couldn't see any definite shapes but he could hear the soft sounds of the many oars dipping into the water. He took a deep breath and let it out softly. He and his men were ready for battle.

Suddenly, the speed of the boat was slowed as the quiet, grating sound of sand underneath the boat muttered from beneath him. The sounds of the other boats came to his ears. They were all ashore.

"Draw swords," he whispered. Amid the quiet ring of the metal, he added, "Follow behind me men and stay quiet. We might find some of our own men here so do not attack unless I give the command."
And with that said, Doran led his men on the final hunt.

[Durelin]

Once again, the 'little miss' was to remain on the ship while anything of importance went on elsewhere. This time elsewhere was actually off the ship, but still she was to remain in a small little closet of a cabin till Doran returned, with the Gondorians as prisoners and the island taken. The man was the pinnacle of men and their arrogance, a prime example! He had the nerve to already claim a victory, as well as call her little miss! Whatever had happened to 'Lady Adeline' and being a gentleman of highest esteem? It seemed different rules applied for the gentleman sea captain. He had called her such a horrendous name when giving her the order for her to remain aboard, and under guard, of course.

Adeline tried to study the situation for a possible escape. She wished to take advantage of the fact that any battling would be going on on the island and not on the ship. And there was also the fact that those who guarded her were the least capable of the crew, if they were not wanted on the battlefield. It was easy enough to recognize the advantages found in a situation, but how to use them had rarely been determined by Adeline, particularly never when taking hold of these advantages was of greatest importance. Her brain was resisting her command to think.

Her stomach growled as she sat on the ground, and the guard sitting on a stool, his head nodding, his mind moving in and out of sleep, sat up straight, eyes open. "Is the little miss hungry?" he said with a yellow grin. The dolt had found her disgust at being called that quite amusing. She hoped the amusement would fade soon. She looked up at him, and kept a smile off her face. Her brain had finally acknowledged her command, and what it had come up with was worth a try. "I'm starving, and your Captain told you to keep me alive, didn't he?"

The man mocked her with another grin and a phoney salute, but he actually did leave to get her whatever edible substance could be found on the ship. Adeline did not look forward to what he brought back. But, hopefully, by the time he got back, she would have fully taken advantage of this situation. There was still the guard outside, and others on the ship: most likely a good number patrolling the deck. The cabin the held her in was an inner cabin, and so there was not even a small porthole. Unfortunately, Adeline failed to add all this up and see that the odds were fully against her. Instead, she simply made her way to the small table behind the guard's stool. Upon it were eating utensils, one of which was a knife. Feeling the edge, Adeline was heartened by its sharpness.

Quietly she stepped over the creaking floorboards to the door of the cabin that opened into a small hallway. She turned the knob and slowly pushed it open. The guard on the other side suddenly was visible; he must have rose from his seat in front of the door. The turned to look at Adeline, his eyes wide with surprise and filled with anger. "What'r you do-"

The man stopped short as Adeline's knife ran into his throat, the force crushing it rather than slitting it. Adeline watched in horror as the man's mouth began to turn a deep red, and he fell to the floor, his body still moving, rithing from the pain. She stood with her eyes fixed on the man, no matter how sick it made her stomach feel. And she still stood there when the man came down the ladder with the food she had asked for.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Alone awake by the fire, Callath sat completely immobile, for all the world seeming carved from stone as he stared steadily into the fire. Around him, propped against stones, lying on driftwood or just sprawled across the sand, was what remained of Avershire's crew. He whistled quietly to himself in the silence, a luxury he hadn't had on the ship due to the superstitious sailors, absently tossing a stick between his hands, although rather gingerly in his right.

"Callath?"

The Gondorian youth whirled around, on his feet in a second with the stick in his hand, pointing towards the voice. As the flashes in his vision caused from looking into the fire for so long cleared, he recognised Rilgari, the young sailor looking slightly bemused. "Callath, it's Rilgari," the sailor said softly.

"Just as well, I couldn't see a thing," came the ironical reply as Callath flashed a quick grin at the other. He and Rilgari had become closer on the last few days on the ship, and now on the shore they were easier together, friendship coming quite easily as they were of the same age and background. Rilgari had, he said, joined Avershire's crew two years ago when he was sixteen - now eighteen, he was a year older than Callath, but had also, coincidentally, worked around horses alot when he was younger, tending and training his father's stallions. However, the quiet sailor didn't have the same temperment as the wild stallions he would have broken in - seemed as far from it as possible, really. The ever-affable Callath had taken an instant liking to him.

"My watch?" he continued. Rilgari nodded and Callath stretched, shaking his hands to get rid of the cramp then feeding the stick he had been playing with to the fire. As he passed Rilgari, he paused though, turning to look back at the other as he paused. "You...you didn't see anything of...of Luc did you?" he asked, hopefully. The older boy hadn't been seen since they'd come ashore and Callath knew that hope was almost pointless. But he refused to give up: until there was proof that Luc had gone down with the ships, Callath would stubbornly - foolishly - cling onto the hope that he hadn't drowned.

Rilgari paused, then turned slowly. He looked about to say something else, a pained expression flickering like the flames across his pale face, before he shook his head. "No, Callath. No sign of him," he replied, simply.

"Not yet, right?" Callath gave a lopsided smile, before turning away. Behind him he heard Rilgari's pause, then the boy raised his voice to call after Callath. "No, not yet...not yet..."

Shaking his head at his own stupidity, Callath stuck his hands into his pockets and began up the sanddunes to the point Rilgari had been watching from: an isolated perch, hidden from the beach and from the enclave where the crew where sitting. The dunes surrounded the sailors on three sides: this would put them at a disadvantage had Calnan not taken it into account in his stride as well, and placed a watch on all three sides, so they would not be ambushed. Indeed, their newly assumed leader would be coming down from his watch in about half an hour: they weren't taking breaks all at the same time as this would leave all sides unguarded, even just for a few moments, which would be vital in a battle. Marching up the hill briskly to the rhythm of his own humming and breathing, Callath looked out across the beach and the sea beyond it, still amazed at the vastness of it: in the confines of the walls of Minas Tirith there was nothing so vast and empty. Even the plains of Gondor where he rode as often as he could weren't able to compare. Like a huge beast, from where he stood, Callath mused that the sea seemed asleep now, a monster at rest: beautiful and magnificent, but so able, in one swipe, to take lives...

His booted foot snubbed against something solid as he was about halfway up the dunes and he looked down, disturbed from his musing. His eyes widened immediately and he squatted down beside it to make sure, before pulling the obstacle from the ground, amazed, and examining it. But there was no mistaking the object: he very own sword, Gondor's finest, washed up by some freak coincidence. The sheath was gone, but the sword had been buried in some driftwood - what had once been a ship, odd though that now seemed. Grinning, Callath examined the blade fastidiously for extra scratches or nicks...and something else caught his eye. Sick dread made the pit of his stomach suddenly seem to drop through his boots as he lowered the sword slowly, not wanting to believe his eyes.

A hand lay protruding from the dunes. Not any old hand either: with his sharp eyes, Callath spotted immediately the birth ring on the third finger, beaten copper bearing the runes for a name: "Luc."

Callath whispered the word in dread, then knelt forward, pushing aside the tall grasses that obscured the view of his dreaded discovery, before he leant back on his knees, his hand coming to his mouth as he stared upon the face of his dead friend.

Hand across his mouth, Callath turned and heaved emptily away from his friend's body, unashamed but sickened more by this than by all the wounds and dead men he had seen with Sedal. And with Luc... The thought made Callath look back again, and he pulled the body out a little so he could see Luc's face clearly. Pushing aside from his friend's forehead the swathe of damp, salt-stiffened hair, he felt his eyes fill as dead blue eyes stared back at him. Luc had suffered indeed: looking now more closely, Callath saw the long, deep scar that ran through one of the young man's eyes, cutting the side of his face in half; and more horrifically, how his right arm suddenly ended, stopping dead at his shoulder as if there had never been anything there, the only remanent of the arm from this side being the bloody marks on his clothes and the sand. Callath, numb and frozen, felt a tear slide down his face and pushed it away quickly, wiping fiercely at both his eyes like a little boy afraid to cry. Then, with trembling his trembling, injured right hand, he reached forward with two fingers and closed Luc's eyes.

There was no time for an epitath though. As he sniffed quietly, Callath heard another sound simultaneously and looked up guiltily, remembering his duty. Legging it silently to the top of the dune, he saw with horror what he had most been dreading: the corsairs had arrived.

Swearing repeatedly under his breath, Callath ran back down as quickly as possible, sparing Luc's dead body a last, lingering look as he ran past. "Sorry mate...I'll make it up later, I swear to you..." he muttered regretfully as he passed.

Reaching the camp, he stopped, breathless, to find Calnan with Rilgari, having come down early or something. They both spun around to look at the stable boy, along with Orda, also now awake.

"Corsairs!" Callath panted urgently. "Corsairs on the beach!"

[Himaran]

Graring watched the Gondorian encampment from the shelter of the dense woods. He was the lone survivor of the battle, assuming that the prisoner had died overnight. Where was Doran? He had to arrive soon, or Graring would either die of starvation or be forced to surrender.

______________________________________

Jurex and the other corsairs moved their way up the beach. The jungle night was hot and stuffy, unlike the fresh breeze of the sea. The corsair was already hot and tired, but kept his eyes and ears open. A reward could easily be in his grasp, one that would turn his leaders favor in his direction.

Then he saw the shape. Jurex quickly wispered in Doran's ear, "Sir, look at that tree over to the right slowly. Don't make a sudden move." Jythralo followed his instructions, and a grin spread over his face. It disappeared however, when the shape bolted out of cover and dashed down the beach; away from its adversaries.

"After him," Doran yelled. And the corsairs broke into a hot pursuit.

[Nuranar]

Relieved early by a wide-awake Rakein, Calnan had stumbled back to the fire. Lying down in its grateful warmth – the wind was off the sea tonight – he was instantly more than half asleep.

"Corsairs! Corsairs on the beach!"

Calnan’s eyes popped open. Doran! He leapt to his feet as Callath dashed up to the fire. "Everybody up!"

The quiet camp burst into activity as the others were jerked from sleep and readied themselves. Meri Loliway, sword in hand, materialized from the darkness where she'd been lookout, even as Rakein came sliding back down the slope. Calnan grasped Orda by the shoulder. "Do you remember what I told you?"

"Aye aye, sir!" He hurriedly concealed himself in a nest of rocks. Behind him lay Sedal, screened by the boulders and a convenient tangle of brush. Stay in front of Mr. Sedal, but stay hidden, Calnan had charged him after the first attack. If any corsairs come towards him, yell first to let us know, then try to stop them. But yell first!

The battle cries and noise of the corsairs came near, although they still hidden in the tangle of tall bushes that backed the dunes. Dirk in hand, Devon called, "Come on, let's get 'em!"

"No, wait!" Calnan urged. "Wait til they have the light in their eyes." Even as he spoke, the first corsairs burst out, only to pause in the sudden brightness of the campfire. Grasping this tiny advantage of the surprise, the Gondorians met them with a rush.

Calnan found himself up against a wiry little man with a heavy cutlass. As the blade came down, Calnan swung his staff up under the blow, shoving the man’s arm away and breaking his elbow in the process. As the corsair staggered, the other end of the staff caught him alongside the head and he completed his fall. Dropping the staff, Calnan snatched the cutlass from his limp grasp.

Avershire was dueling furiously with Doran himself. Callath was wielding his sword with an enthusiasm his opponent found most alarming. Wait – sword? Where – A tattooed corsair with a scimitar sprang upon Avershire, double-teaming with Doran. Gold teeth gleaming, he shouted in derision as the doughty Gondorian was forced to give ground.

Calnan lunged forward, catching the scimitar’s blow on his cutlass. Instantly the man wheeled on him. “Well, well - it’s the politician!” he sneered.

The man was vaguely familiar, but Calnan had no time for taunts; this corsair handled his heavy blade with breath-taking speed. Immediately on the defensive, Calnan barely evaded his brutal slashes.

As he backed up, he had to step lightly and carefully over the uneven ground. His hand and arm ached as blow after blow jarred on his cutlass. Blood tickled as it ran down his side. Funny that he hadn’t felt yesterday’s wound tear open.

Bare feet balancing him on the side of a small boulder, Calnan saw his chance. Leaping back off the rock, he half turned as if to flee.. The corsair sprang forward triumphantly, his booted foot landing on the boulder. Immediately it slid from under him as the leather sole found no purchase on the slick granite. Even as he stumbled Calnan was on him. One hard blow, a rapid feint, then a cut over his guard, and the corsair fell with his face masked in blood.

Breath coming in painful gasps, Calnan stumbled out of the boulders - and froze, stricken by the scene before him.

[Earendil Halfelven]

Doran charged in like a rampaging cave troll. Nobody stood in his way. The Gondorians met them fiercely but Doran had plenty of men to lose without losing the battle. Looking around, he saw a man that he decided needed to die. He had the distinct feeling that he had seen this man before and that this man was responsible for the loss of his two ships. Finally, Doran was able to place the man's face with a name-Captain Avershire, the famed Gondorian sea captain.
"Well, well, well," Doran said as he advanced. "If it isn't the famous Captain Avershire."

"And if it isn't the notorious Jythralo Doran," Avershire replied. "I've heard of you."

"And I of you," Jythralo replied. "Sorry, but I'm one of little talk," he said as he lunged forward to kill Avershire.

Avershire blocked and then dodged to the left, swinging his sword to the side. Doran parried the swing and kicked forward, forcing Avershire to give ground. But the Gondorian captain fought back fiercely and Doran started to notice that it was now he that was giving away ground. Doran frowned and began to match Avershire's speed and ferocity. The firelight made their swords glow in the dim night. All around Doran, men fought eachother and died. He could hear the cries of the wounded and the cries of those fighting-his men and the enemy, but all of his attention was focused on Avershire.

Suddenly, another corsair joined in the fight and began to doubleteam with Doran. Avershire struggled to match both men, but he was unable to keep up and to prevent himself from being killed, he was forced to give back more and more ground. The corsair was wild and had no style or technique; he just thrust and stabbed randomly. It was no wonder that finally, when Doran stepped back for another attack, he was able to counter the corsair. Quickly, Avershire kicked his foot out and tripped the corsair, and as the man fell to the ground, Avershire's sword hilt caught up with him and smashed into the man's knocking him down onto the sand. The man coughed and sputtered and blood drizzled out of his mouth where he was hit.

Doran advanced and swing his sword at Avershire's head. Avershire was quick enough to pull the sword out and block but he stepped too close to the dying corsair. The corsair, with a murderous look in his eye, reached out and grabbed Avershire's leg, tripping him. Avershire fell forwards but he twisted around and landed on his back. Doran stepped on Avershire's sword arm, pinning it to the ground; Avershire was defenseless. He lay still as the point of Doran's weapon lay at his throat.

Avershire breathed hard. "It seems as if I'm beat."

Doran smiled. "Yes, it does."
__________________________________________________ ______________

"NO!"
Doran looked up from his victory in time to see Devon jump forward at him with weapon in hand.

"Avershire!" Devon yelled.

Doran's smile grew even wider. "Now this is the boy I've been looking for. Come on, kid. Let's finish this."

Doran advanced. His sword gleamed red with the blood of Avershire as he went to face the ambassador's son.