They sailed out of port on the late high tide with but a few rowers at their stations, just in case. The Shakilgimil was a single banked dromond, with forty oars. She relied on her sails as much as anything, and her crew were all free men, who had chosen to be aboard. Slaves were useful, but Narall had always believed free men would row further and faster. Such had almost always been proven in Tazakr’s memory, especially after the Elven ship, the Uinenlinde, had overpowered them. They were a trader ship, happily moving cargo and horses, at least officially. Unofficially most folk knew they were a Corsair crew up for piracy when possible. Again, Naraal was not really a slaver, he preferred gold. But needs must, and they had had their share of carrying slaves to the markets of Umbar Baharbel.
Tazakr had worked his way up through the crew, and had been with the ship for five years. Not that long a time really, but long enough for them all to trust him, to not countermand his orders, which were usually fair and understandable. But he had no close friends, that most sensed there was something of the dark about his nature that he kept under control. He was on their side, wasn’t he? So what if he had a touch of the night-killer about him!
He did usually kill at night. They were right there. It added to the mystique he had built up since he won his freedom from the Arena. The Shadow Man, who you sensed before you saw, and that only out of the corner of your eye. A being of such malevolence he drained all hope from his victim, that most seemed to fall at his feet and give up the will to flee or fight. They did not know that was the effect of the plant extract he always placed on a killing blade. The bodies were found in twisted positions, as if they had been begging for mercy. It was just the way he liked it. He let just a few survive, so they could spread the tale, and to take any authorities eye off the pattern. He slew those who had been involved in his father’s overthrow, he merely terrified most of those who had not been involved.
And now it was Sirwal’s time.
Now Sirwal was an older man by around ten years. Heavier too. He had never fought in the Arena. He had scattered noisy children, and shouted at servers in the Taverns who were too slow. He had fought in a few ship to ship encounters, to his credit, oh, and he had poisoned Tazakr’s mother on that terrible day, following the orders of his Harbour Guard uncle. He had not been one of the foremost targets for vengeance, but had caused grief, nonetheless. He would die.
In his small overfilled tent cabin he prepared the blade, even as the ship left the Sail Haven, heading past the Citadel of Winds and heading towards the Shield Isles.
They were reasonably safe in those waters, though nearer to the Isles the more aware they needed to be of rival Corsairs and any far ranging Gondorian ships. Tazakr ordered a ration of khorob be given to all. It would be the last he could risk doing so until their return, though when they picked him up, the Captain may advise otherwise. Naraal was generous with the drink, though never seemed overly intoxicated himself. And it would lift the hearts and dull the senses of the crew somewhat.
As ever at such moments, Tazakr knelt down on the floor of his cabin, and focused his heart and mind. Sirwal had got past his father’s guards, and found his mother alone, her women fled. He had given her a phial of poison, so that she may choose the moment of her death, and he had left her on the floor, unbreathing. He would never forgive or forget. He placed both hands over the black-stoned talisman he wore on a chain about his neck.
“May the Captain truly be bringing our King home, and may my hand strike true to offer you a fitting sacrifice, Heart of Darkness.
The sky had darkened, and the stars were partially obscured as he walked again on deck. The Shakilgimil was rolling slightly, though making good speed. Soon they would pass the Shield Isles and be out heading away from land and to the north. The strong breeze was invigorating. Tazakr moved his head, brushing his blowing hair away from his face, and drew a deep breath. The Man’s death would renew his own strength. He had placed Sirwal on watch at this hour. Most of the crew were eating, playing cards or making bets. They were content enough. Mabas, one of the crew also on patrol, walked past. “Nothing to report, sir” he said in passing. “No sign of any other ships.”
Tazakr nodded.”Good, I am away to catch some sleep. Awaken me should aught happen.”
With a nod, the tall well bearded guard moved on. Tazakr made for his quarters for just long enough. He heard Mabas descend the few steps to the main deck before he took up a thin hooded black cloak from behind his storage chest and swung it round his shoulders. Kicking off his boots, he took up the poisoned blade and moved back on deck. All was good. The stars were even fewer, as if the Sky Witch wanted not to see. Little protection she gave her followers, he scoffed, recalling the elves he had slain. Silent of foot, he drew his cloak around himself like bats wings, and moved to the aft of the ship, near the stored provisions and few horses. He was but a few feet away from Sirwal when the man turned his head.
Tazakr froze in the manner he had learned from the tortured Elves. Still and unbreathing, nothing alive hunts this night. Tis death itself that stalks you.
Sirwal’s hand was on his cutlass. Tazakr could have laughed at that vain attempt. Then he was in the man’s face, and drew his blade across his throat. It wouldn’t kill him. Not just yet. It would make it hard for him to cry out.
“I am your death, long overdue,” he whispered in the man’s ear, placing a hand on his forehead and pressing his head back so more blood flowed from the wound.
Sirwal tried to grab at his arm, but he swiftly sidestepped. Any moment now and the poison would start its work. Yes, yes, Sirwal was frothing at the mouth, saliva and blood mixed, his arms fell to his sides like leaden weights. He sagged at the knees. One of the nearby horses tossed his head and snorted objection to the violence.
Now was the time. “Yes, I am your death, and that of the others who ruined my father. Know you are repaid for your ‘kindness’ to my mother. He pressured the man’s head back a little more so the wound gaped almost like a second mouth.
Sirwal’s eyes widened. “You?. You are … the murderer?”
“I am the avenger of ill deeds. No more, no less. I am the avenger of my father’s honour.”
“I did not slay….your … mother. I gave her a potion to ease the …pain…of her fractured bones.”
“Exactly!” Tazark replied with a look of satisfaction. “You dishonoured the gifts my father had given her, that she took all the potion at once to escape him.” He stuck the blade into the gap and twisted it. “Rest in the embrace of Lord Sauron, cursed one.” With that, Tazakr kicked the rigid body over the side of the ship, amid a huge cheer from the unknowing Men celebrating being back at sea.
He turned, looking closely at the deck. A few splashes of blood, and a few more on the side of the ship. What would the men make of it? Not other Corsairs, they would want loot, unlikely to be any sort of sea monster? Or maybe it could, with a good imagination? This one could not openly be laid at the feet of his Shadow persona. Not yet. He needed his position on board ship for at least another year. There were others to dispatch.
