Númenórean Blood Runs Black RPG

[piosenniel]

The point of Chakka’s knife slid easily through the corsair’s chest, piercing his heart and sending his shade to howl with the damned of ukruza. Chakka pressed his hand over the man’s mouth to still the rattle of death and deftly slipped the corpse out the opened hatch. He dropped it like a stone directly into their wake so that the splash would not be noticed. Like a shadow disappearing into the night he climbed through the hatch after the dead man and crawled along the side of the Fame and Fortune, making less noise than the wind amid the rigging. The moon was only a sliver in the sky but there were no clouds and he had to trust to his luck that no one would look over at the sea. The conversation of the watch drifted down to him from the deck as Chakka rounded the stern below the captain’s window and made his way forward on the port side. The sea rushed beneath him and for a moment he thought of simply letting go and falling into the water. They were not too far from land, there was a chance – a slight chance – that he could make it to shore: if the current were not too fast, and if the tide co-operated and if the shoreline was not a jagged mass of crushing stone. He remained clinging to his perch on the side of the ship. He had a plan already, one that offered at least some hope.

Achieving the hatch he slipped out his knife once more and used it to gently pry open the casement. The quarters were empty, as he had known they would be, for the first mate kept the watch this night and the quarters were his. Chakka dropped to the deck like a cat and swiftly found the door. He peered out. Just down the corridor were the two corsairs whose unexpected presence had necessitated his unusual manner of moving from starboard to port. He waited until they moved to the other side of the lantern, where the light from it would be before their eyes should they look his way, before sprinting through the door to the ladder.

This, he had known all along, was the most dangerous part of his plan. Escaping his chains had been simple. One of the first things he had learned after being made a slave all those years ago was how to pick a lock with any slender piece of metal. In this case, a nail that he had pried loose from the rafters during his first night on duty before the captain’s door. They were still in harbour then and he could have escaped that very night, but for the captain’s devilish poison. They had brought Chakka to the captain’s door and shackled him there, explaining to him that he was to watch the night and to prevent anyone from entering the quarters. The captain had come then, a tall, wolfish looking man. They had stared at one another in silence for a while, each sizing the other up. They were the same height but Chakka’s frame was larger. It had impressed him that the captain had not been intimidated. Without a word and with the speed of a striking viper Rakin had flicked out his hand and Chakka felt a sting in his arm. He looked down and watched as the captain pulled a small thorn from the flesh. Chakka wondered what had just happened and the captain, smiling coolly, was quick to explain the ingenious nature of Chakka’s enslavement.

The thorn, he learned, had been coated in a poison of the captain’s own making that would slowly work its way to Chakka’s brain. By dawn he would be dizzy. By the time the sun was above the horizon, he would be blind. By noon, he would be dead but only after suffering through an excruciating period of burning pain. The captain’s smile never wavered as he explained this to Chakka. Rakin then explained, in equally even tones, that in the morning he would make a small dose of the antidote to the poison that he would administer to Chakka. With that, he went to sleep and Chakka was left to wonder at the brilliance of what the captain had achieved. There was nothing more that Chakka would like to do than slit the captain’s throat and run – anyone coming to assassinate the captain in his sleep would have found Chakka a willing accomplice. But now the slave’s life had been yoked fully to that of his master. For Captain Rakin to die in the night meant an agonising death to Chakka in the morning. He did not doubt that Rakin was telling the truth about the poison, or about the antidote to which the captain alone knew the recipe. There was something in the man’s bearing that made it impossible to believe that he would stoop to fabrication merely to obtain the services of a slave. So Chakka stood guard that night, and in the morning – when he was indeed beginning to feel a bit dizzy – he drank the vile tasting antidote that the captain gave him when he emerged from his quarters. The next night and morning were the same, and thus had he been forced to stand outside the captain’s door, night after night, keeping alive the one man in all creation whom he most wanted to see dead.

Chakka raced down the short passage keeping his breath quiet and even, and achieved the top of the ladder without being seen. He dropped through the trap and lighted upon the lower deck on all fours, his eyes glittering like a predator’s. He held his breath and even his heart slowed as he made himself as a stone, listening and alert. When he was certain that he had not been seen, he moved to the flimsy door that separated the aft hold from the slavedeck. He opened the door by a sliver and looked through. The slaves were sleeping in their chains, hunched over their oars or leaning back upon one another. His eyes narrowed and he sucked in a quick breath with the violence of one who knew what it was like to sleep like a chained beast. Quiet as moonlight he crept toward the guard.

It had taken him weeks of careful study and spying to learn the secret of the antidote. Using the nail he had prised loose on his first night, Chakka had first chipped a small spyhole through the wall so that he could watch the captain at work in the morning. He had studied the procedure of mixing and stirring until he could have performed the acts in his sleep. When that was accomplished he had slowly gathered what he needed to make the antidote himself. Some of what was required was easy to come by from the galley or the crew, but one or two compounds were to be found only in the captain’s quarters. He had fashioned a crude key to the captain’s door and each night he would slip in and quietly take one or two drops of the compounds he needed – never enough that the theft would be noticed – and hid them behind the loose rafter he had found. Eventually he had enough of what he needed to make the antidote himself and as soon as the captain had fallen asleep he had set to work removing his chains and making a dose of the antidote. But being free of his bondage meant little on a ship in the middle of the Sea – for where could he run? But running was not his plan…

Chakka seized the corsair, stifling his cries with his hands. His arms were iron bands about the man’s neck as he struggled to be free, but within a few moments the man’s motions became feeble and then ceased altogether. Chakka knew that to kill the man all he need do was hold on a few moments longer, but as soon as the guard was unconscious he let him drop to the deck. Some of the slaves in the aft ranks had come awake at the violence and they stared in disbelieving hope as Chakka fell to work on the mighty lock that fastened the chain to which they were all bound. As he sought to force the lock with his knife he spoke to them through clenched teeth: “Slaves, listen! I am here to set you free, but you must not run like animals. Do not think to throw yourselves into the Sea for you will die. We must become the hunters instead. We must kill and destroy and make this vessel our own. When the corsairs are dead we can take this ship where we please.” He spoke quietly but those who heard him passed his words back to their companions.

He concentrated on the lock once more. The first two latches had fallen and he was about to trigger the third when from behind there came the heavy tread of booted feet. With a curse in his own tongue he spun up from the deck and flew at the two pirates who had come below. He threw the first into the wall, his weapon not even yet drawn. The other pulled forth his cutlass and aimed a cleaving blow at Chakka’s head but he easily sidestepped the blade, in the same motion bringing his hand down on the man’s arm. He cried out in pain, and Chakka dropped him with his fist.

There was a cry from above as the corsairs became aware of the commotion. Chakka raced the length of the deck, hissing to the other slaves as he went, “I am sorry I failed you my friends. I shall lead them away.” The slaves knew what he meant: if the corsairs were to find out that a slave revolt had almost begun, they would all pay in blood.

Chakka pulled himself up the ladder to the foredeck and came face to face with three startled pirates. They lunged with their swords, but Chakka evaded them, crumpling one with a mighty kick. He leapt from the foredeck to the main deck and raced to the side, but there were too many pirates about now: they fell from the rigging like insects and swarmed about him. Ropes were thrown about him and soon he was dragged to the deck bellowing and raging like a beast. When he was tied fast the boatswain was sent for, and when he arrived there at his heels like a cur was the guard Chakka had choked into unconsciousness. The guard was raging, “Hang the rat, I says! String him by the neck until he knows what it’s like!”

“Stow that talk of hanging!” the boatswain replied sharply. “He’s the captain’s personal slave, so unless you feel comfortable explaining to him why you’ve killed his property you’d best take him to the brig unharmed. Leave him for the captain to deal with in the morning.”

“He near killed me,” the guard growled sulkily.

“Aye, and if he had then we could make use of that gallows. As it is, you’re more like to be whipped for negligence. A common sailor is cheaper and easier to replace than the likes of him!”

So Chakka was taken below and clapped in irons. He sat in the brig the rest of the night and throughout most of the following day, wondering what his fate would be aboard the Fame and Fortune…


-- Fordim Hedgethistle

[piosenniel]

The Perky Ent's post

Tall ships and tall kings
Three times three
What brought they from the foundered land
Over the flowing sea?
Seven stars and seven stones
And one white tree

Telumehtar thought over the words, while he surveyed his lands. The view was always nice from the seventh tier of Minas Anor. With the wind blowing his brown hair across his brow, he could see lands his fathers had defended hundreds of years ago. Many times in the passing days had Telumehtar considered his heritage. When times of great trouble came, he would walk to the edge, and contemplate his actions. During this time, none were allowed to walk the level, except for the guards constantly stationed by the tree. It was in this hour that Telumehtar looked long and hard across his land, watching his troops muster at the port of Harlond. In the deepest part of his heart, Telumehtar wished he was a lone sailor of the sea, for Telumehtar was a mariner at heart.

It was a quiet day. The citizens of Minas Anor had been dreading the day for quiet some time after they heard that they would go to war. In homes, families were close and savored the time they had. Each day, Gondorians could see ships on the horizon, heading from far off lands. From Cair Andros to Dol Amroth, men had gathered to answer the call of war. Unlike tales of heroism and courage, the men of Gondor did not treat the Corsairs of Umbar like mindless orcs. Corsairs were a powerful force that required constant vigilance to be held back. Being pirates, they held no loyalty to any save themselves. But the pirates were not what scared the Gondorians, for they gave little heed to mindless brigands. It was the Black Numenorians, those corrupted by Sauron during the second age, that instilled fear in the very heart of Gondor. Just like the dunedain of Arnor, their numbers were rapidly decreasing, yet the remained the strength that their master had taught them long ago.

After meditating for quite some time, Telumehtar gave a sigh, and turned from the pinnacle. When he was a boy, his father would sing him songs of the Kings of Men, and their tree that stood on their island. It was from the story of the Akallabêth that Telumehtar learned to revere the sea and its power. But he was not meant to follow his hearts desire, as he was a descendant of the great kings of Gondor, and his fate was bound from his inception. When he turned his eyes to the White Tree, a sense of calm overtook him. Even after over a century of viewing it, the White Tree of Gondor was a sight. The sun’s light glistened on its branches perfectly, emanating beauty in its most radiant form. Telumehtar dared not touch it, a fear that he had held ever since he saw the death of the tree. “This is not a time for sorrow, for death smiles at us all.” Telumehtar said to himself as he walked away from the tree and smiled. “And all we can do about it is smile back”. He turned from the outdoors, and walked to his throne.

It was silent in his hall. The arrangements had been laid, precautions set, and edits degreed. The quiet was almost haunting, and it was for this that Telumehtar was glad when he heard whispers from behind him. Two men walked out from behind him, swords drawn. Without even registering the faces of the men, Telumehtar leaped from his throne and unsheathed his sword. In front of him, Telumehtar found none other than the Steward of Gondor, and his son Narmacil.

“Relax father. We are not here to usurp your authority.” Giving a slight chuckle, the steward added “Nay. In fact, we are here to make sure you are ready for the usurpers. Your son wanted to make sure you would stay on your toes. “Giving a cross look, Telumehtar slowly put his sword away. “When have I not been on my guard? Are you ready for my departure? As you should know, I am not much for goodbyes.” Narmacil nodded, and started to walk out of the hall. “I’ll have you know-“the steward interjected “That Arciryas sends his father his best wishes. Rest assured that he is safe in Annuminas. And I as well. I shall await your homecoming”. And with that, the steward and the heir left the room, and left Telumehtar to silence.

Telumehtar took a final look at his hall, and then marched slowly down the levels of the city. As he walked, groups of women and children parted to a side, creating a clear-cut path. One by one the gates of Minas Anor opened, until Telumehtar found himself upon the second level. Taking a right at a forked path, Telumehtar walked over to a large building with smoke billowing through its windows. Telumehtar opened the doors, and watched as all the men in the room bowed their heads. “Is it time my lord?” a man in the front said to the king, raising his head. Telumehtar gave a slow nod, and all the men watched as the king walked to the center of the large room. Along the walls, weapons and armor were laid, and golden tapestries of battles were hung from the ceilings. Telumehtar was presented with his armor, which had laid in the building for many years. Slowly but strongly, Telumehtar equipped his gear and left the building. Mindorlonn, Telumehtar’s chestnut horse, was waiting for his master outside the armoury.

Fixing the crown upon his head, Telumehtar rode to the gates of Minas Anor. Standing in front of an open gate, Telumehtar found a large group of mounted men waiting outside the city. Inside, a large cluster of people had gathered in a circle, engulfing Telumehtar within the entrance. Sweat started to pour down his face as Telumehtar started to cloister himself from his people. His horse, knowing him all too well, started to buck, bringing Telumehtar away from his claustrophobia. There, Telumehtar shouted, “People of Gondor! Fear not! The blood of Numenor shall be spilt this day, but it shall run black like their hearts! The corsairs will plague you no longer! For glory and Gondor we ride!” And with Minas Anor roaring in triumph behind him, Telumehtar grabbed Mindorlonn’s reins, and rode out to Harlond.

Quickly Telumehtar came to the port, and found it filled with ships and men. Throughout the port, Telumehtar spied flags from all distant lands of Gondor. Telumehtar started taking a mental note in his head of the lands that had come to his call. “Dol Amroth, Anfalas, Lossarnach, Morthond, Pinnath Gelin. Good, good, good! We are almost ready to make war. Now if only I could find - “You rang? Do not think I would not be here before you left!” came a voice from behind Telumehtar. “Menelcar! Trusty as ever! We will have time for pleasantries later, but I have more important matters to attend to. Where are my men? Where are my captains? My soldiers? My kingdom?”

[piosenniel]

Firefoot's post

It was with great impatience that Menelcar had awaited Telumehtar’s arrival. His impatience was not with the king himself, precisely, but he had been at the harbor since early that morning overseeing the muster and organization of the troops while the king took care of last minute preparations inside the city. He cared for this part of his job the least, for he disliked, nay, despised, dealing with people. This sentiment only compounded with so many people needing instructions at the same time. He had to direct the many captains to the ships that would transport them, as well as answer any questions that they or the ships’ captains might have. The job was necessary but tedious, and Menelcar had long since wearied of it. His mount, a restive bay stallion, seemed to concur.

The king’s arrival heartened Menelcar greatly; it meant they would be departing soon, and he would no longer be plagued by the many questions and problems of the soldiers. He nudged the horse forward to meet the king, threading his way through the busy harbor as quickly as he could manage. However, he was interrupted before he could get very far by yet another inquisitive captain; his uniform proclaimed him to be from Dol Amroth.

“Yes?” asked Menelcar curtly.

“I am Captain Baranor, out of Dol Amroth,” said the man, clearly unsure of how to take his brusque manner. “It seems that we brought a few more men than we had originally estimated; our assigned ships will be loaded full and there are still about twenty more men than the ships’ captains say that the boats will safely hold.”

Menelcar barely stifled an irritated sigh and dug out of his pocket the little book in which he was keeping the details of the attack. He scanned the ship assignments and wrote a note of the captain’s situation. “There should be some extra space with the soldiers from Anfalas. If not, check with those from Morthond. Do so quickly; we will be departing soon now that the king has arrived.”

“Thank you, milord,” said the captain with a salute. Menelcar paid no heed; he had already begun to ride off, scanning the harbor for Telumehtar, whom he had lost sight of while speaking with the captain. The king would be looking for him by now, no doubt. The soldiers milling about had parted to let the king pass through, and Menelcar took advantage of the more open space, nudging his horse into a dignified canter to catch up. The stallion took the extra rein eagerly after having stood around for so long.

“You were looking for me?” asked Menelcar as he drew even with Telumehtar. “Do not think I would not be here before you left!”

Telumehtar turned in recognition of the voice: “Menelcar! Trusty as ever! We will have time for pleasantries later, but I have more important matters to attend to. Where are my men? Where are my captains? My soldiers? My kingdom?”

“I should hope you know where your kingdom is by now,” commented Menelcar, smiling in spite of himself. “As for the rest of it, many of the soldiers are already aboard their ships. These rest ought to know where they’re heading by now, or their captains do.” Quickly he outlined the organization of the soldiers – where the units from the various regions of Gondor were situated and so on. “We will be traveling in that ship, there-” Menelcar pointed to a fine ship a short way down the harbor. “I have spoken with the captain of the ship; he seemed very eager to make sure all was in line for your arrival,” he added with a hint of contempt. The captain had spoken with him several times that day, to the point of being bothersome. “It should not be much more than an hour before we are ready to set sail; they mostly await your order.”

[piosenniel]

Folwren's post

Captain Hereric stood on the deck of The Cuivië, his hands folded behind him, and his eyes watching the bustle of his men below. The muscle in his jaw slowly clenched and unclenched and a constant, grim expression lingered on his face. The last day before setting sail was always hard enough without the extra stress of greeting a king. It would have to be his ship, wouldn’t it? But then, she was very fine, wasn’t she? He glanced up at the ropes and rigging above his head. The fine lines against the clear blue sky, and the proud Gondorian flag fluttering slightly in the breeze. She was a gorgeous ship, and her crew one of the best. He had little nor no doubts of her performance, and he would not have had any worries in the least had it not been for the condescending manner of the king’s own advisor.

Hereric’s jaw tightened again and he looked towards the pier. Of all people, he thought he disliked the condescending sort. The very thought of being looked down on by anyone on his ship was extremely annoying and entirely intolerable. He’d have to work on that if the two of them were going to be stuck together for more than a few days.

The approach of his first left-tenant brought his attention back to his ship and he watched as the young man mounted the steps to his side. ‘Sir, the last of the water is on, and the meat. That should be the last shipment on board from the port. The last attachment of soldiers, also, will be arriving shortly, no doubt.’

‘Yes, I should imagine so,’ Hereric replied. He glanced over his shoulder at the sun and back down. ‘Prepare my barge. You will go to the landing and greet his majesty the King.’

In a few moments, the boat was by the ship’s side and the left-tenant with the Captain’s coxswain climbed over the side and were rowed towards the landing. The Captain remained where he stood, giving the last orders, and preparing the ship for the king’s arrival. It would not be long.

Hereric kept half an eye on his men on shore. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. The wait at the docks and the stress of making certain that everything was bought and delivered to the ship always made him impatient and peevish. The counselor had likely been under stress himself when he had spoken to him.

‘Forimar,’ he said, turning to a man walking past below him. ‘Get all this squared away and prepare the deck for the king’s arrival.’

[piosenniel]

Alcarillo's post

Captain Vórimandur paced his office in the Ráca's stern impatiently. He and his crew had woken up before sunrise to prepare for this voyage. For long hours they packed all of their food, weapons, clothing, sea charts, and other necessities into the ship. Then they checked for sails for tears, and then the decks were swabbed until the Ráca was the cleanest ship for leagues in all directions. Captain Vórimandur had put forth all of his effort to ready the ship, but now the only thing to prevent them from sailing to victory and glory was the King of Gondor himself. It was now nearing midafternoon, and King Telumehtar had not arrived. Thrice already had Captain Vórimandur asked the king's attendant on the pier when the king would arrive, and each time the answer was the same: soon.

He could barely wait any longer to sail off. The thrill of a new voyage pounded in Captain Vórimandur's heart. He opened the stern windows wide and searched the docks for any sign of the king, but there was none. He sighed and leaning against the window frame watched the sailors of the other ships prepare. Maybe we shouldn't have began so early.

"Sir?" a sailor stepped through the open cabin door, and Captain Vórimandur turned his head from the window. It was Caradhril, a trusted navigator, and a member of the Ráca's crew for nearly three years now. Caradhril cleared his throat and said, "Sir, the sailors are getting bored. There's nothing more to do. Some of them are wandering the docks and the other ships."

"Really?" Captain Vórimandur was surprised and had not thought about what the sailors were doing at the moment. He sat at his desk, ornately carved with nautical symbols. "Tell Morgond to round up the sailors. I want all of them back on the ship by the time the king arrives." He considered for a moment what sort of punishment should await them. Then a silver trumpet blared somewhere on the pier.

"The king has arrived! Caradhril, hurry!" Vórimandur said. Caradhril turned and ran into the deep hallways of the Ráca. It was all those new sailors from Lossarnach, unused to how life on a ship worked. Vórimandur moved back to the stern windows to catch a good look at the king, and to keep an eye out for his wandering sailors.

[piosenniel]

Dunwen's post

Nimir was tired, sore and thirsty. Captain Vórimandur had ordered that everyone on the Ráca start preparing the ship and its equipment before sunrise, and it was now midafternoon. Nimir had first helped to load his company’s weapons on board, carrying box after box of arrows, short spears, small bows, and knives down into the holds. Only after this was done were morning rations passed out, and pretty thin they were, too: a hard roll, a pint of small beer, and a completely inadequate (in Nimir’s opinion) ration of cheese and bacon. He tried not to think of home too often, but he never missed his family so much as at mealtimes. Gnawing his bread and cheese, Nimir had thought longingly of his mother’s generous table back home. Why, there would be fresh bread and butter, plate-sized slabs of ham or platters of sausage or fried fish, porridge and cream, eggs, and fruit turnovers, all washed down with good fresh buttermilk or spring water. And that was just breakfast! His reveries of venison sausage and eggs were disrupted when Nimir’s company was ordered to start swabbing the decks.

What a disaster that had been. Nimir didn’t think he would ever get used to living on board a ship. While hurrying with a bucket of clean water toward the end of the ship, (“Stern”, he reminded himself) he had run face-first into a rope anchoring one of the Ráca’s spars in position. He had not cut himself, but he now sported a painful, raw rope burn along the right side of his face, along his cheekbone down to his jaw-line, and a smaller matching scrape along the side of his neck. The officer in charge had ripped into him for not watching where he was going and wasting good clean water, then sent him off for another bucketful. After putting him on report, of course. As punishment, Nimir was not allowed his midday ration of drink. He had ground his teeth and made the only permissible reply under the circumstances. “Yes, sir.”

However, when his company was released from any specific duty, the practical seventeen-year-old had simply left the ship and headed for the Seagull, a dingy tavern not far from the Ráca’s berth. Now sitting on a rickety bench outside the Seagull’s weathered wooden walls, Nimir took another drink of ale, feeling the liquid wash away the lingering dryness in his throat. Resting the cool pewter tankard against his aching face, he sighed. Days like this, he wondered why he ever left home. Back in Lebinnin, listening to the recruiting officer, joining King Telumehtar’s expedition against the Corsairs of Umbar had sounded like a grand and glorious adventure. Sergeant Nillendion had declared that with his skills as a bowman, Nimir would quickly advance and earn both commendations and wealth, and Nimir had been eager to believe the wily recruiter. How splendid it would be to return to his village as a war hero, or better yet, a decorated officer with a sword at his hip. Nimir had imagined arriving home on a great horse, with a purse full of gold...which he would then share with his bossy older brother, provided of course that Kalisuz humbly apologized for trying to order him, Nimir, around for all those years. And wouldn’t Meliel be sorry she’d dumped him for that old man, Dolgor. Nimir spent many pleasurable hours imagining his former sweetheart’s regret at letting him go for an ancient man of thirty years. He’d show her. He’d show them all that he was capable of great things.

That had been the idea, anyway. But the training camp in Lossarnach had put an end to that dream. While the officers running the camp had been visibly impressed with his marksmanship, they had nevertheless insisted that he take his place among the other recruits and learn such military skills as following orders, saluting his superiors and maneuvering in the field. Nimir had enjoyed the latter. He had learned to hunt at an early age, and by the age of 12 years spent entire days alone stalking game in the meadows and woods near his home. Unfortunately, his training had not included anything about ships.

Coming back to reality, Nimir sighed again and took another pull at his ale. He choked suddenly as Morgond, one of the Ráca’s officers, appeared before him and bellowed, “You! Soldier! Who gave you permission to debark? Get back onboard ship!” Nimir groaned inwardly, expecting to be put on report yet again, but Morgond merely hurried down the wharf, bent on rounding up more wandering recruits. Deciding that the officer hadn’t told him to return immediately, the young recruit hastily finished his ale and stood up. Returning the empty tankard to the barkeep, he saw a pile of meat pies and bought two to take with him. Then he hurried back to the Ráca. Once on deck, he stopped and leaned on the gunwale, munching a pie and observing the bustle all along the wharves at Harlond. Off in the distance, Minas Anor gleamed white against the dark mass of Mount Mindolluin.

A stir on the docks below caught Nimir’s attention. Further down the wharf, he saw a tall, dark-haired man wearing a crown and a fine embroidered tunic walking toward the fleet’s flagship, accompanied by several nobles. His ears caught the cries of “The King! Make way for the King!” The second pie fell unnoticed into the water below as he hoisted himself onto the gunwale and grabbed a rope to steady himself, craning his neck to see. There was the King of Gondor before his own two eyes! What a tale for everyone back home. No one in his village had even been to Dol Amroth, much less seen the King himself. Wouldn’t they all be jealous!

[Folwren]

'South, if you please,' the king said, stepping towards Captain Hereric.

Hereric glanced at King Telumehtar and bowed slightly before speaking. ‘South, sir,’ he repeated. ‘As soon as we are underway.’ He stepped to the rail. ‘Forimar - send the men up and make sail.’

‘Aye, aye, sir,’ his bosun replied, saluting him at the same time. He turned about, and called out the orders. The men on deck sprang to the ladders to obey. Calls were sent below deck and more sailors came up - some going to the windlass to bring up the anchors, and others to the ropes.

Within minutes, the ship swayed free of any bonds to the earth and her bow turned towards the open water under the skilled hands of the coxswain. Captain Hereric stood before the wheel and watched the Cuivië spring into action. He felt the slight, excited quiver in her joints as the sails filled with air and caught every ounce of wind that past them and he shared her joy. The last sail was loosed and the ropes at the bottom bound. Hereric lifted his face slightly and watched with piercing concentration as the crew finished setting the sails and came back down to the deck.

‘Bring her into the wind, Bregin,’ he said, turning his head a little to the side.

‘Aye, sir.’ The wheel turned and her head moved towards the South. The Cuivië sprang forward, like a dog having been kenneled for too long, and the water before her bowsprit flung up foam. Hereric smiled slightly and turned.

‘If your majesty will, I can show you your cabin,’ he said. The king’s eyes were tracing every sail and curve of the ship. Hereric admired the bright eagerness in them. ‘My lord...’ he said quietly.

‘Yes,’ Telumehtar said, lowering his gaze from the sails to the captain. ‘Show us.’ Hereric turned at once and led them down the steep stairs to the deck. He opened the door of the great cabin and stepped back to allow the king and his attendant to enter before him.

‘Due to the circumstances, sir, we couldn’t quite settle you with as much room as on a normal voyage.’ Hereric indicated towards the adjustments that had been made to the cabin. ‘I have taken the liberty of assuming that you would like your counselor here to be nearby.’ A section had been walled off and the hammocks hung in such away to give both men the privacy that land men expected, but seamen never received. It took up half of the regular cabin and the remaining room was occupied with a small table, filled with neatly stacked papers, and two chairs. ‘It will do, I hope.’ He didn’t present it as a question, but as a closed statement. Satisfied or no, both the king and his counselor would have to make do.

[Eorl of Rohan]

Fever is a terrible illness in that it destroys both the body and the living mind. The inflicted is forced to re-live the most traumatic of his half-forgotten memories, hereto locked away by the unconscious mechanism of mind to prevent misery and madness. Often this process is painful not only for the victim, but for those who are tending him as well. However, like all things beneath heaven and on earth, even fever-induced hallucinations may be surmounted by violent emotions the like of which Ferethor held for Rakin…

He had been whimpering and tossing about restlessly before he came in. Ferethor’s sleep, broken now and then in moans and mutterings, was interrupted at that moment by a creak of the doorway and a voice that he thought he recognized… Could it be Rakin? Consciousness flickered in and out. He would be suicidal if he thought anyone had seen him like this, and when it was that man… Come on, at least sit up, say something, for Eru’s sake, to reveal any weakness of his… Ferethor curled into a shivering ball, the countenance deathly pale, his breathing weak and punctuated with wet coughs that soaked his sleeve with liquid blood. There was his name mentioned, wasn’t there? Or was it just his mind playing tricks on him? It all made little sense to him. Overlapping all sounds and thoughts were the drip, drip, incessant drip of his blood, soaked up by the thirsty planks that thrived on pain and death and blood and… and… hate. A hard feeling, like a steel rod, and enough to jerk him to a brief awareness. The last sentence he caught was as follows – take him to my room. Everyone knew what that sentence meant, and for an instant Ferethor managed to capture a wisp of pity for Chakka. It disappeared as quickly as it appeared, though. In his profession, there was no room for anything other than the primal instinct of survival. Those who couldn’t rouse it died. Now it was time to try his limits –

“Oh gods, my dear man, no. No, myself and Chakka will enjoy a…a little drink together. And when she sun rises to her peak, then we’ll see if he’ll look me in the eye.” He heard, and it took a moment for it to register.

THAT was definitely Rakin. It is not certain that any other emotion would have roused Ferethor who was so far into the state of lethargy, but these last words were enough to snap the last ties to the unconsciousness that held him fast. Ferethor’s eyes opened, unfocused for a moment on the rough-shod planks that lined the ceiling of the slave shelter, wavering, like a half-drowned man recovering from the throes of death... Then he closed it for a moment in pain, and when he opened it again, it was the cold gray eyes of a man who could make a decision and act on it on the spur of the moment. And that was what he did.

When Chakka and the two others went out, it didn’t take long for Ferethor to slip a piece of plank in the sill of the door to serve as a wedge against the door closing completely. Then he was out – a bloody mess, certainly, and weak enough to cause little harm, but free. Now, if that trail of blood didn’t show, it would be a lot better to hide – there was no place to hide in this small ship, he knew, but he needed only to hide until he had Rakin pitted on his own spear. Although he wasn’t going to be able to when he was this weak – was there any place to go? Always go to the least place the other would think of searching for you. The answer immediately supplied itself. The sailor’s barracks. Half an hour later, before any alarm has been aroused – and why would there be an alarm, when Rakin has just been and the slaves still at the oars? – Ferethor had easily dispatched an unwary sailor, threw his body to the waves, and had slipped into the uniform with the very wholesome and natural intention to kill Rakin. The ship was big enough that no one would notice the disappearance of a sailor or the appearance of another – at least, not for something more than two hours hence. Therefore, no one took notice of the sailor-clad man leaning on the wall of the captain’s room, as if tired, with his eyes closed, and listening with mingled tension and curiosity. Rakin was inside – that much he could gather – but the sentences were fragmented and hard to hear.

He let his guard down after a while in his desire to hear more, confident that no one could hear him, another mistake that could cost him his life or not. But he was beyond caring.

[Anguirel]

Sangalazin strolled from the foredeck where his dear, dear cousin was beginning to pontificate to Captain Chatazrakin on one of his favourite themes-the treatment of galley-slaves. The younger Lord smiled as he heard the familiar, brash sentences lash his back as he retreated. Making an example...really, cousin Azaryan had no grace, no nobility, nothing of Numenor about him at all, Sangalazin thought with a wide grin. The chance that this brutal ape, with a mind that scratched jarred tunes with the versatility of a rock, that this leaden Lord would ever ascend Gondor's throne...

No. Azaryan was not a King, but a Kingmaker. Sangalazin would use his cousin's falchion, the respect of his cousin among the Corsairs, to win Minas Anor. Any Castamirion who seriously sought Gondor needed the ships; and the ships would not obey Sangalazin, the perfumed stranger with the slimy tongue. He knew this too well. They would not obey him until the game was his.

Sangalazin had gone below into his own quarters; a part of the ship which rendered all else common and brackish, furnished at the Lord's expense. Where solid beech formed floors outside, Sangalazin trod on rosewood. Around him wall-paintings, frescoes after the style of Numenor, flowed like some divine stream, convincing, captivating, slightly chilling. One cycle was devoted to the gifts of the Sea, ever a friend to Castamir's line. The Gods of the Ocean stood arrayed in all their might; Ussun the Terrible, Master of the Sea, and Vineth, his beauteous consort, bearing their names first in the tongue of Umbar, then in Haradric, and then in Sindarin, tongue of the Faithful-

~Osse and Uinen~

Sangalazin was a scholar in all of these languages and more. He had learnt Quenya to an elegant standard from an ancient, diminutive tutor as a boy; he had studied the Silvan accent Sindarin acquired in the fabled forests to the North; he had paid a fortune to a trader to obtain a parchment with three words of Khuzdul; he could speak like a native in Westron, Southron, Easterling...

For Sangalazin realised that if the Castamirioni were to prevail, it was crucial that they be identified with the Faithful in the minds of the people, not the servants of Ar-Pharazon the Golden. They must stress their heritage as the truest, purest line of descent from the Lords of Andunie. Their cause was legitimate, just. But they had more than battles on land and sea to win. Eldacar and his progeny had increasingly propagandised them as foreigners, traitors, swarthy men who worshipped foreign demons, Corsairs who rode black ships and spared none. But they were the heirs of Elendil. And Sangalazin would show that, when he ruled his vast, humane, benevolent and civilised Empire.

The Lord raised one of his long, slender, aureate-skinned hands and caressed the hilt of the longsword he carried. It was emblematic of everything he hoped to achieve. Its style of Gondor, the blade straight and true, double edged for slashing, sharp-pointed for a lunge that such a lovely weapon would never, if its owner could help it, perform. Its scabbard wound in gold and silver, telling the story of lovers from Umbar. So it would be; and the culture in the south mated with the martial tradition of the north would be Sangalazin's gift to Gondor. The Twilight Men would be accepted as vassals, servants, and they would be treated with kindness, content with their proper station. Learning would flourish. Civil war would be at an end; the sensible Black Numenorean custom of putting cadets of the King's family to sleep on a new King's accession would instantly be instituted.

Glowing once more with confidence, Sangalazin's eyes travelled along the painting, leaving the Sea Gods, and landed on a figure that had always puzzled him, at the piece's rim. It was exceptionally well done; Sangalazin suspected that the master artisan must have employed a more brilliant apprentice for this section. It showed the sea ending below a great white cliff, upon which stood a cloaked man...or perhaps an Elf...Sangalazin had often been inclined to think so. His grey eyes stared out across the water, peerless in mourning. The depth of his sorrow made the majesty of Osse and Uinen look tawdry. But it was interesting to Sangalazin for another reason. It reminded him sharply of his father, Sangahyando...and so of himself...and so of...

Captain Chatazrakin. Yes, Sangalazin could deny it no longer, having seen the Captain at close quarters so recently. His father's...mistake...the insult to his beloved mother...had lived. And had grown into the Captain Sangalazin had just left; the only one of lousy sea-captains he had encountered ever to have impressed him. "Rakin" had quality, courage, wit on his own level, he sometimes felt. And such loathing and contempt within that proud spirit...Azaryan was quite another matter, a pompous megalomaniac, but Rakin...Rakin was what a great part of Sangalazin wished he could be. His blood could be a hidden weapon, whipped out from his overcoat like an envenomed thorn, to challenge Sangalazin with one day.

No, he must be...neutralised or conciliated. Sangalazin rang for Andlang, the commander of his black-armoured bodyguard. When the blonde giant stood before him, Sangalazin laid out his commands.

"You were prompt, Andlang, excellent. I know I can rely on you. First, bring me the Easterling musician, and leave us alone. Then send word to the Captain that...when he has a free moment, I should like to play a game of chess with him."

[Firefoot]

Menelcar was still thinking about the left-tenate as the captain led him and the king off to their quarters. His lackadaisical attitude had put him off for several reasons: the sailor had been blatantly disrespectful not only towards him, but also to his ship and his country. They were going to war; the left tenate ought to be proud of his duty, proud and ready. His actions would never have been accepted back when Menelcar was serving in the army. It also reflected poorly on the ship’s captain; Menelcar was not impressed.

His attention was brought back to the present as they approached the cabin. Hereric held open the door, and he followed Telumehtar inside. The room was not tiny, but the cramped cabin was certainly far from spacious, containing only the sparsest of furnishings. Menelcar figured irritably that the captain’s own quarters were probably twice this size.

“Due to the circumstances, sir, we couldn’t quite settle you with as much room as on a normal voyage,” explained Hereric. “I have taken the liberty of assuming that you would like your counselor here to be nearby. It will do, I hope.” Clearly, the statement was not a question, and Menelcar did not intend to sink so low as to argue it as such - certainly not to a man who seemed determined to ignore his presence except as an appendage of the king. Instead, he made a slight noise in the back of his throat that left in no uncertain terms his opinion of the lodgings.

“Certainly, this will be fine,” answered Telumehtar smoothly. Menelcar glanced at him critically, recalling suddenly the king’s claustrophobia and wondering if the cabin really would be “fine.” He could see no indicative signs one way or the other, however; perhaps he would ask later.

Menelcar looked around the cabin once more before his gaze returned to Hereric. He sighed inwardly; this was going to be a long journey. Why the king enjoyed sea travel so much, he would never understand.

[Folwren]

Hereric turned his attention abruptly to Menelcar after the king had replied. The slight clearing of his throat had caught his ear and the look on the man’s face confirmed Hereric’s suspicion of his sincerity being doubted.

‘If you care, sir,’ he said, addressing Menelcar, ‘step across this way and look out. The view is really quite excellent.’ He led the way to the very end of the cabin where the great bowed windows looked out over the blue water. ‘Out at sea, the view is really quite impressive,’ he said, leaning against the wood framing. He studied Menelcar carefully and changed the subject suddenly. ‘I hope that you will be able to enjoy yourself on my ship, while the peace lasts. We really have done our best to make things most comfortable and welcome to you. The circumstances now may become worse as battle takes place, and coming up river will be more difficult than going down it. Better let yourself be comfortable while you may, if you see what I mean.’ He gave him a very pointed look before turning back around. ‘My lord,’ he said to the king. ‘I am returning to the deck to see things carried out. You, of course, have free range of the entire ship.’ He saluted and bowed in navy fashion and left the cabin. He quickly made his way back up to the deck.

‘Well, if he’s going to have troubles sleeping where we’ve put him, then by heaven, I’m sure we can find him a place below.’ The captain couldn’t keep the dark thoughts out of his head, even in the bright sunlight. Menelcar’s cold reaction to the apparently tight quarters had shown Hereric only too clearly how little he understood of the ship’s life. ‘What did he expect? An entire gallery for himself? What’s eating him, anyway?’ He couldn’t account for the counselor’s behavior, and he really didn’t want to try. He almost hoped that a direct affront would come quickly, so that he could deal with whatever difficulties they were going to have at once, instead of beating about the bush. ‘In time,’ he promised himself, ‘but you are a captain of a king’s ship, and what’s more, you have the king here, too. . .you’re not going to come up with the disagreement yourself. If he chooses to confront you on a problem of his, so be it. But he is the king’s right hand man, after all - there must be some good use in him.’

He dismissed the thoughts from his mind and did not think of them again - for the time being. His ship asked for his attention, and he gave it to her.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Chakka was taken to the slavedeck by his guards, but he barely noted the trip so full was he of his interview with the Captain. That he had walked out of the Captain’s quarters alive and on his own two feet was a greater victory than he had dared hope for. That he had been able to get the Captain thinking about his insane plan was beyond his wildest dreams. That one quick look the Captain had given him as he left remained in his mind’s eye – what had it meant? Was it a cruel game or some small recognition that they could be allies… Such a petty cruelty seemed so far beneath Rakin that Chakka could not believe it of the man, but was it any more believable that Chakka’s ploy had worked? His mind went back to the Captain’s homily upon the sword, and he realised that while Rakin was brilliant – brilliant and ruthless – he was arrogant. And arrogant men can make mistakes. The Captain knew that he could never trust Chakka, that the slave’s proposal had been nothing more than a gambit. He knew that to put Chakka in contact with the lords would be to play with ruin. But a man like the Captain, an arrogant man, might actually welcome the danger…might actually see it as some kind of game. Chakka imagined that the Captain thrived when challenged, that he was at his happiest when engaged in a contest with a worthy opponent. If Chakka had proven himself such an opponent, then perhaps the Captain would be willing to play. Chakka reminded himself that any game with the Captain would be unfairly stacked in his favour however.

An alarm rang out through the ship and Chakka’s guards hurried their steps. They soon achieved the slavedeck and Chakka was led to an empty bench. A few of the slaves recognised him from his attempt to free them, but they were quick to hide that recognition for fear of drawing the ire of the guards. One or two of the braver men reached out to brush their fingers upon Chakka’s sable skin by way of silent gratitude as he passed. He was roughly put down upon the bench and the long chain which held them all was undone, brought back to where Chakka now sat, threaded through his leg irons and then refastened at the front of the line. The slave master hit Chakka on the back with the but of his whip and ordered him to row. Chakka bit back the desire to seize the man an kill him with his bare hands – something he could have easily done in a moment.

He fell to rowing. As soon as the slave master moved away the man beside him spoke to him in a whisper. “I know what you tried to do for us last night. Thank you.” Chakka made no reply other than to nod – it was not a rude gesture, just minimalist. “I’m Jagar,” the man said.

“Chakka,” he replied. “Do you have any idea what that alarm is about?”

Jagar nodded and quickly explained what had transpired with Ferethor. Chakka was incredulous. “The fool! He wishes to set fire to this vessel? Where does he suppose we are to escape? Does he think the corsairs are going to set us free, give us boats with provisions and let us row away? If he succeeds we’ll roast alive at our oars!” He shook his head at the foolhardiness of the plan. Not only was he dancing upon the knife’s edge with the Captain, now Chakka had to contend with a clearly insane slave. He drove these thoughts from his head, for at the moment, there was nothing he could do about either of them. “I am but new to the life of a galley slave, Jagar. Tell me, is there any hope for us?”

[Folwren]

The mainstay sail slackened and fluttered slightly. The captain's eyes caught the movement and he watched it keenly. For a moment, it bulged obediently, but then fell slack and limp again.

“Top man!” Hereric called, walking towards the rail. “Take in that mainsail. Bregin, mend your course.”

“Yes, sir,” the man at the wheel said, rather apologetically. He kept his gaze ahead, though was certainly very aware of the Hereric’s quick, sharp glance. The captain’s poor humor was felt by everybody. His very stance showed him to be as stiff and uncomfortable as a boy in a roomful of girls. No one cared to run the risk of his anger.

The mainstay sail was quickly adjusted to where it was supposed to be and once again she billowed out prettily with the others. Hereric nodded with satisfaction and turned and walked back towards the stern. The Gondorian fleet spread out behind them like so many white birds. It was a fine sight, the white sails spread widely and reflecting the bright sunlight from above. Captain Hereric smiled grimly and turned to look back over his own ship.

His eyes clapped to a young man stepping out from the cookery forward. In his hands he held a bucket of ash. Hereric watched with amusement as the boy went to the leeward rail. Clearly, the young man was new to the ship. Brand new. The ash left the bucket in a strong, confident fling towards the water, but it came back almost at the same instant, over the immaculate deck and into the poor recruit’s face.

Captain Hereric didn’t have to say a word as the bosun leaped on the sad, but rather honest mistake. It happened at least once to every new man aboard ship who helped the Cook. Take the ashes, or slops (which was worse), windward and he’d have a mess on his hands. There were several sharp words given before the unfortunate young man could rush into the safety of the galley again and then a group of swabbers were called up on deck and before five minutes had passed, the place was set to rights and looked as though nothing had happened.

“By jove,” Hereric muttered to himself, containing in his chest a quiet chuckle. “I should appoint new men to the galley every voyage just for the show.” Of course, he didn’t really mean it. It was humor at another’s expense, and he knew it. But he wondered if the old Cook himself didn’t have a hand in it. One would think that the experienced fellow would give his assistants some advise as to which rail to toss the remains of the fire over.

[Anguirel]

Sangalazin was in a splendid mood. He had returned to his habitual divan, and his full, incongruously tall length was stretched across it. In front of him a table had been positioned; but it did not hold the customary hookah. Instead, it was topped with a chess board, the individual squares of well-polished ebony and ivory shining. The pieces were all laid out; King, Queen, Mumakil, Knights, Galleys and Pawns. This arrangement was a strange compromise of Sangalazin's devising between the chess of Umbar and Gondor; a Queen instead of a Vizier, Knights instead of Captains, and Pawns instead of Corsairs.

The Lord stretched, smiling contentedly. He always felt satisfied after a strangling; it was a civilised way of releasing the atavistic energy that made men beasts, just like indulgences of the flesh and the table.

"The Easterling put up a poor performance, Your Majesty," the bodyguard Captain Andlang commented. The guard of Sangalazin were trained to address him as though he were already undisputed King of Gondor. "Even though in your nobility you allowed him the use of a blade."

Sangalazin laughed; a pleasant, ringing sound. "He'd scarcely handled a dagger in his life. He fought even worse than he played his footling little instrument. Truly, he deserved the garotte. Quite laughable."

Andlang and the two other guards shared their master's mirth. Sangalazin admired them. What wondrous creations, perfect sycophants and courtiers, things of beauty, and unequalled warriors.

"Will Captain Chatazrakin be joining me soon?" he queried.

"Oh, directly," replied Andlang. "He's just having to deal with indiscipline among the slaves. Most degrading for a Captain of his rank..."

[Eorl of Rohan]

“If you have any better ideas, I’d like to hear it.” This dry remark was from Ferethor, who, taking advantage of the darkness of the rowing pit, had slipped back just in time to hear Chakka’s words with Jagar. Even the guards were called up to the deck – for a moment, the time was his to make use of it as he will.

“This coming from the man who cut a deal with Rakin?” His voice was hardened as he directly addressed Chakka. “Deny it as you will – I’ve heard your conversations. If you weren’t planning to sell us all out, and protect Rakin to boot, then what was all that fawning about? What, are you going to tell me it’s all a clever ruse to get him to trust you, so that, oh, I’ve mistaken your intentions, you can go and free the slaves? At least, my plan gets Rakin killed, if we die, too.”

Ferethor drew the knife that he had plundered from the dead sailor. He couldn't let this one go. “I’ve heard you say that you were once a King’s bodyguard, Chakka. Let’s see if you live up to the reputation.”

[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.

[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. . .

[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.”

[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.”

[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.

[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.

[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.”

[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.

[Folwren]

The fight was coming to an end. The battle had been decided as soon as the Gondorians were able to set foot on the Corsair ship. There was no chance of the pirates winning, what with the total superior number of men on the Gondorian side. Hereric stood leaning somewhat heavily on the rail of the quarter deck, speaking to Winmar.

'Have the slaves been freed?' he asked.

'I believe so, sir. I understand Menelcar, the king's adviser fellow, took down a handful of men and freed them.' Hereric looked rather sharply at his left tenant. 'That is to say, sir,' the young man quickly corrected himself, 'The King's councelor took some men and freed them.'

'I'd advise you to watch yourself, Winmar, not only for your own sake,' the captain said in a low voice. 'but that is good. I am glad that he managed to do that. Where's the captain?'

'Killed in the fray,' Winmar replied, turning and motioning where the body of the Corsair captain was being lifted up and carried away from the other dead. Hereric nodded and has eyes scanned the rest of the deck.

'Have the entire ship searched out for any remaining Corsairs,' he said finally. 'And then give an order to return to our ship at once.'

While the captain was thus occupied with speaking with his first mate, King Telumehtar walked among the soldiers and the slain. He gave a few words to the men he passed, causing a proud, pleasant flush to rise in the soldier's face that he spoke to. But as he passed through the men, his eye always searched through them, looking rather anxiously for his advisor. As more time passed and he still could not find him, his face grew serious and harder, and his kind words were fewer. The sailors and soldiers drew back silently for him and he passed quickly towards the stern.

He paused at the foot of the ladder to the quarter deck. Where would he be? Supposing he lived, he would have, or at least, he should have, come directly to him at the end of the fighting. But he had not. Was he killed then?

'Your majesty?' The captain's voice cut through his thoughts and Telumehtar looked up rather startled. Hereric stood before him, one hand resting on the ladder for support. 'You were looking for someone?'

'Yes. Menelcar. I haven't seen him since the battle started. We were seperated almost at once.'

'And he has not been seen since the fighting stopped?' Captain Hereric pressed. Yet before the king could give the obvious answer to the question, they were interrupted by Winmar. The young man rushed up from behind him, his face somewhat pale.

'Sir, sir! The counselor's body. . .' he stopped abruptly seeing the king. 'I beg your pardon,' he said quickly with a stiff salute. 'But the councelor's body has just been found in the captain's cabin below. I believe he is alive, sir, but he's been wounded.'

'Where?' Telumehtar asked at once. He and the captain were shown down at once and Menelcar was finally discovered, stretched at his full length on the floor. He had fallen on his face and a large bruise was forming on his cheekbone, but he lay on his back now, as they had turned him. A soldier stood beside him, as guard, and he did not move from his place as the captain and the king both entered with Winmar behind them Telumehtar knelt beside him, put his fingers beneath his jaw and felt for the pulse and then turned his eyes and gentle hands to the wound on his councelor's arm. 'He'll need to be carried across at once, I think.' He lifted his head and looked about the cabin. His eyes finally rested on the man Menelcar had fought and killed. He nodded, understanding at once what had happened. Hereric turned and looked as well and then at once turned his eyes back to the king and Menelcar.

'I'll see that it's done at once,' he said, and walked out to give the necessary orders.

[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.

[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.

[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.”

[piosenniel]

~*~ Finis ~*~


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