”Ease the oars, you miserable curs! Keep her in the gray water or the silt will take the keel!”
The first mate’s ragged shout cut through the heavy fog, followed immediately by the dull, synchronized thud of oars dropping to a cautious crawl.
The open expanse of the Bay of Belfalas had given way to a treacherous labyrinth of reeds and low-lying mist as the Aglarbalak crept into the Mouths of Anduin. Here, where the mighty river bled into the ocean, the air tasted of salt mingled with the rotting vegetation of Gondor. The silence that followed the mate’s command was suffocating.
”Sounding’s down to four fathoms, mate! The mud is rising!” a lookout shouted from the bow, his voice cracking with anxiety as he pulled up a dripping lead-line.
Somewhere ahead in the blinding white haze lay Ethir Anduin and their secret rendezvous with the Aeartur – the Gondorian vessel whose captain was coming to claim the boy.
Gâzmor stood near the starboard railing, his heavily armored frame a stark, alien shape among the half-naked Corsairs. His hand never strayed far from the pommel of his scimitar as his eyes scanned the fog, though his ears were tuned to listening to the heavy silence coming from the captain’s quarters below. Tarîkmagân had not been seen on deck since sunrise, a detail that filled the first mate with a deep, superstitious dread; on a ship commanded by a fell spirit, a quiet captain was far more dangerous than a roaring one.
Down in the suffocating dimness of those quarters, Si’nol sat frozen in the corner, his knees pressed against his chest, staring in blind horror at the small man who paced the floorboards with a slow, limping gait.
Tarîkmagân stopped pacing. A manic grin split his hairy face as he looked out the small stern window toward the approaching delta.
”You think they are coming to save you, little bird”, Tarîkmagân purred, his wet voice barely louder than the creaking of the ship’s timbers. ”That Citadel errand-rat and his masters back in Umbar Baharbêl, your weeping mother... they all think this river leads to your freedom. Do you really think you can escape me so easily, little one, huh?”
Tarîkmagân let out a soft, wet chuckle and took a step closer, his short frame leaning over the huddled boy. He reached out with a small, dirt-caked hand and gently tapped the blunt side of his gutting knife against Si’nol’s trembling collarbone. He didn’t break the skin; he just let the cold steel rest there, absorbing the boy’s frantic heartbeat.
”Look at me”, the captain whispered, his hot, ale-soaked breath washing over Si’nol’s face. ”Look at my eyes, little bird. Do you see a man who fears Gondorian ships? Do you see a man who fears the high lords of Umbar? They can give me their orders and they can pay me with their gold, but they are not here in the dark with us. I could open you from chin to groin right now, toss your bones into the silt and tell them the river monsters took you.”
He leaned in even closer, until his bloodshot eyes were mere inches from the boy’s wide, terrified stare. He began to trace a slow, agonizing circle with the knife tip on the cloth over Si’nol’s chest.
”Even if I hand you over to that armored fool on deck, you will never be free”, Tarîkmagân hissed, his rotten grin widening into a grotesque mask. ”Because every time you close your eyes in the safety of your mother’s arms, you will smell this room. You will hear the Anduin mud scraping against the hull. You will see my face in the shadows of your bedroom. I am inside your head now, little bird. And I will never leave.”
Tarîkmagân’s venomous whisper was cut short by a raw, triumphant shout from the first mate on the deck above.
”Ship sighted! Two cable-lengths off the starboard bow, cutting straight through the soup!”
Inside the dim cabin, the captain straightened his small spine, a look of slick calculation replacing his cruel amusement. He yanked his gutting knife away from Si’nol’s chest, casually wiping the flat of the blade against his tunic. ”Time is up, little bird”, Tarîkmagân purred, kicking the cabin door open with a sharp thud of his heel. ”Go on to your armored errand-rat. But remember what I told you. You belong to me.”
Up on deck the air was thick with expectant energy. Gâzmor was already standing at the bow, his towering frame a dark, solid silhouette against the rolling fog as he watched the Gondorian vessel emerge from the mist. The Aeartur was a magnificent sight. Her pale hull and immaculate rigging loomed out of the haze like a phantom ship. The proud flag of Gondor fluttered lazily from her mast, and only a handful of deckhands were visible, preparing the mooring lines. Captain Fangnir stood firm on the quarterdeck, his gaze fixed forward on the approaching Corsair ship.
The crew of the Aglarbalak snickered among themselves, exchanging greedy glances. They expected to get this tedious exchange over with and immediately turn west toward easier waters of western Gondor. None of them questioned why the Aeartur was closing the distance so rapidly or why her deckhands held the heavy thick hemp lines with such tense, white-knuckled grips.
With a heavy, grinding groan, the hulls of the two ships slammed together, wood groaning against wood. The Corsairs tossed their grappling irons, dragging the vessels tight and flush against one another.
”Prepare the exchange!” the first mate bellowed, gesturing aggressively toward Gâzmor, who had just dragged the shivering, mute Si’nol up from the hatchway.
Then the peaceful facade shattered. It was not a formal greeting that came across the water from Captain Fangnir, but the ring of Gondorian steel as his broadsword flew from its scabbard.
”For Gondor! Spare none of the scum!” Fangnir’s voice thundered through the fog.
Before a single Corsair could process the betrayal, dozens of Fangnir’s battle-hardened veteran mariners surged into view from behind the bulwarks, their faces weathered and scarred, hands gripping boarding axes, hacking swords and heavy daggers. They didn’t wait for gangplanks. With ferocious battle cries they leaped across the narrow gap, crashing onto the lower, unprotected deck of the Umbar ship.
”A trap! It’s a bloody trap!” the first mate shrieked, but his warning was instantly cut off as a privateer’s boarding axe struck his shoulder.
In a heartbeat the Aglarbalak’s deck turned into a slaughterhouse. Caught completely off guard, the Corsairs scrambled frantically for weapons they had left tucked away. Gâzmor’s eyes widened in shock beneath his Citadel helm. Drawing his scimitar, the guardsman stepped in front of Si’nol to protect Umbar’s prize, while behind him, Tarîkmagân’s face twisted into a snarl of pure, feral rage.
Amidst the screaming mass of boarding privateers, one man moved with a cold purpose that set him apart from Fangnir’s wild mariners. He wore no armor, only a rugged brown cloak, but he wielded his straight one-handed sword with fluid precision. Strands of gray hair escaped from beneath his hood, and a pair of cold, pewter-gray eyes locked directly onto the towering figure of Gâzmor.
Gâzmor, shielding the shivering Si’nol behind his massive frame, recognized the lethal intent in the stranger’s stride. The Citadel Guard roared and swung his scimitar in a vicious arc meant to cleave the gray-haired man’s guts open. But the stranger was too fast. He parried the whistling steel, his gray eyes flashing with grim intelligence as he turned aside Gâzmor’s follow-up strike.
Nearby, Tarîkmagân watched the front line of his crew melt away under the relentless onslaught of Fangnir’s seamen. He slipped beneath a privateer’s guard, hamstringing the man with a cruel twist of his scimitar, but as he looked around, he saw the truth: the Aglarbalak was lost. A realization washed over the short captain, distorting his bearded face into a grotesque, venomous mask of spite. If his ship was to become his tomb, he would not cross into the shadow alone. He would deny these Gondorian dogs their prize.
The gray-haired stranger stepped inside Gâzmor’s reach, deflected the Citadel Guard’s blade, pivoted and drove his sword deep through a seam in Gâzmor’s black-and-scarlet Citadel armor. Gâzmor gasped, his eyes widening in shock beneath his helm as the stranger pulled the steel free. The massive guard collapsed heavily onto the deck, dead before his armor stopped rattling against the wood.
The stranger instantly reached out his hand toward the boy, but he was a split second too late.
Before the stranger could grasp the boy’s hand, a small, dirt-caked hand clamped onto Si’nol’s collar like an iron vise. Tarîkmagân yanked the boy backward with surprising strength, holding his blood-stained scimitar inches from the boy’s throat. Catching the stranger’s icy glare, the diminutive captain let out a manic, bubbling laughter.
”He’s coming with me to the dark, you ghost!” Tarîkmagân shrieked.
With a brutal shove, the mad captain dragged the terrified, screaming boy backward over the threshold of the companionway, disappearing down into the pitch-black belly of the ship.
The stranger plunged into the companionway and dropped into the shadow-choked hold. The air in the lower deck was suffocating, thick with the stench of stale water and sour ale. The captain’s manic voice echoed off the low timber beams, screeching through the gloom:
”He is mine! Mine to take to the grave, you wraith! You cannot have him!”
The stranger didn’t waste breath on an answer. He moved by sound alone, his boots sliding through the filth of the hold until his gray eyes caught the faint outline of the small captain. With a swift, merciless thrust, the stranger’s blade found its mark through the dark. Tarîkmagân let out a wet, bubbling gasp, his grip finally slipping from the boy’s collar as he slumped lifelessly onto the floorboards.
The stranger stepped over his body, reached out his hand and grabbed Si’nol firmly by the hand. The boy was trembling, frozen in blind terror. He had no idea who this wintry-faced man was or why he had slaughtered his way through the ship just to claim him. But looking at the dead monster on the floor, Si’nol knew he had no alternative. He let himself be dragged up the wooden steps and back into the dim daylight.
Emerging onto the main deck, the stranger didn’t hesitate. He hoisted Si’nol over the bulwark and tossed the boy safely onto the deck of the Aeartur before leaping across the narrow gap right after him. The battle was still raging around them, but the desperate screams of the Corsairs were beginning to quiet down as Fangnir’s mariners systematically cut down the remaining resistance one by one.
Paying no mind to the lingering violence, the stranger pulled Si’nol along the deck of the Gondorian vessel, leading him straight toward the main cargo hatch. Just as they reached it, the heavy wooden hatch swung open from below.
Si’nol hesitated. He stopped and stood still, unsure. The stranger looked at him, nodded and pointed toward the hatch.
”Si’nol!”
It was his mother’s voice, distorted by memories and nightmares! From somewhere far away…
He blinked and felt the tears rising again.
”Si’nol!”
A dark-skinned woman emerged from the dimness of the hold.
The nightmare shattered like glass when a rock hits it.
”Mother!”
They ran toward each other across the deck, colliding in a desperate, weeping embrace. ”Mother!”
