There were thirty one left.
With the right winds it would take around five weeks to be back in Umbar Baharbel. With pursuit and attack from the Uinenlindë, out of Mithlond, it took a bit longer.
He didn’t know him personally, but Tazakr considered adding that Sea-Elf to his list of those he would kill. He was only an elf, but one with the knowledge to out-manoeuvre Captain Naraal and his crew. Had they been in a city with darkened streets, Gaerion would have perished on his poison knife. But they were not. They were far from a city, and Gaerion seemed to have the upper hand.
Now the journey has been mostly straightforward. There had been a few blustery squalls from the south-west that had the crew on their toes trying to control the terrified horses, and prevent them from damaging the ship’s hull with their kicking hooves. But as with most weather, save the great storms, it would soon pass. The Shakilgimil avoided the elven port of Mithlond by sailing far out in the Gulf of Lune. A few elven ships were espied by the lookout. General sailing vessels they were, of trade or traveller bearing and not patrol ships, until they reached the coast of Enedwaith.
Crazy old Majid began muttering away: “Don’t trust those feather-guzzling, slippery-hided, bilge-dwelling Elves. They’ll whisper up the wind, and whip up the water with their magic, and we’ll be sent packing to our watery graves!” As usual, most of the crew ignored him. One told him, “’Tis not Elves that control the weather, but one of their gods who paddles about in the sea, always watching.” A few more agreed to that.
Someone had to put a halt to their fear. “And you believe an Elf god is more powerful than our Master?” Several turned to look briefly at Tazakr. “Are we not a chosen people of the All-Seeing One? Are we not strong and skilled and cunning? We will prevail, if He wills it. It has nothing to do with Elves!” They nodded, thinking on his words, and comparing their Dark Lord to the Sea-paddling god. What had a foul tempered, seaweed loving, green haired shipwrecker in common with the Lord of Middle Earth? They got back to rowing or checking the ship or horses. Then Naraal came out on deck, squinting through the rain, to try and see who was following them.
“‘Tis but one ship, Captain,” the crewman Mabas said. “She keeps pace, but does not advance.”
Naraal looked back again, his dark blonde braids whipping at his face.
“One ship, aye. But it is the Uinenlindë!”
That was enough for those who had sailed with Naraal for any length of time. They knew the history of the encounters between the two ships, and tales of the elven captain boarding the Shakilgimil to check for slaves, especially any from coastal villages around the Gulf of Lune. A murmur passed through the crew. Naraal looked grim. “We can do little till this squall lessens, but Gaerion is also hampered for now. We cannot afford to let him draw close: we carry precious cargo.” With that said, the Captain retreated to the cabin.
“Pull the oars harder, lads! Can’t let them Elves take our King,” most of the Men agreed. Already they felt a sense of duty to him.
“Less talk about him! When we get home we can’t be blabbering about a king, or the Heirs will send out search parties everywhere,” Tazakr reminded them. This Azrazôr, or whatever he was called, needed to hide in the shadows for a while longer, he thought.
Shadow-Man, he called himself. There were thirty-one left for him to slay for what they did to his father. The next on his list was a man who now held over half of what should have belonged to him. A trader, yes. Qabas had made a tidy profit by siding with his father’s enemies. But what would such profit avail him, if he were soon dead? The murderer had moved away to the small town of Urmakh with his family some years ago. The reed-thin mastermind of the plot, he had kept his whereabouts better hidden than many, always discreet, and letting very few know just how wealthy he was. Yet for all his care, it only took one bribe to find him. He was some distance from the Great City, and Tazakr would have to be away from the port in Umbar for several weeks. Naraal was returned, but without his first-mate Balkumagan, Tazkir knew he could be called upon at any time. He was frustrated at the hold he must put on his plan, but felt certain Qabas’ life would be lengthened by very little. When they docked, he would search for the next on his list, a woman. Ghala was a Tavern-keep who had supplied the meeting place and drinks for the group of discontents. Now in her late forties, she could afford to pay others to run her establishment for her, while she enjoyed socialising. He knew she had had three husbands, but had got rid of them all. The local Guards seemed fond of her. Despite that, she would not be a real problem. After a few days of observation, she would fall, just like the others.
He sighed and looked to the sky. Were the winds dying down? The movement of the ship was smoother under his feet; the rain was certainly lessening. He moved quickly to the stern of the ship, searching the horizon for their pursuer. There was nothing at first, and then an accursed white swan popped its carved wooden head up in the misty water. The Elf ship! He spat in the sea for what he viewed as betrayal of a true sailor, but knew he had to take swift action. Calling Mabas to keep watch on the closing Elf ship, he dared to walk over to Naraal and Azrazôr, where they were discussing something in low voices.
“My King,” he said, bowing before him, “I need speak with the Captain, though not alone.”
“That is well, mariner, for I have no intention of going elsewhere at present,” replied the tall, reserved, fair-headed man.
Tazakr was unsure if this was some dry jest on Azrazôr’s part, but then decided that it was not. This was a man to be very careful about in word and deed, he thought. “Captain, the ship slows a little, the weather improves, and the Uinenlindë was sighted from the stern. She appears to only be under sail, yet somehow is catching a better wind.”
“We can still outrun her. Better wind, eh? Man all oars.” Naraal remained calm, but sounded annoyed that Gaerion should give pursuit at such a time.
“We are off southern Enedwaith, well past the port of Lond Daer. We shall be at the cape of Andrast and upon the Bay of Belfalas within two hours,” Tazakr reminded Naraal. “And after that –”
“After that, the Shield Isles.” The Captain’s thinking was two steps ahead. “If he is still pursuing us, perhaps we can run him aground.”
“He has a shallow hull, Captain, but not as shallow as the Shakilgimil’s,” said the Second Mate. “We can go closer to land.”
“No one, Man nor Elf, will stand against my purposes,” said Azrazôr, giving Tazakr the cold, ruthless look of a man of business, or a slavemaster. “What must needs be done, shall be done.”
Naraal nodded at him. “As the King says. If the Uinenlindë closes and we cannot outrun her, tell me at once.”
Tazakr returned to the helm. He did not have reason for the personal animosity towards Gaerion that Naraal did; he disapproved of the elf’s existence from the point of view he was as an annoying fly that needed swatting. For a few moments he actually entertained the notion of slipping away and climbing aboard the elven ship as it passed. Once on board, he could easily finish the silver-haired Captain. But then, he thought again, he was a mere shadow-man, and not indestructible.
Then Crazy Old Majid rushed over, and raising a hand to his temple in a sort of odd salute, winked conspiratorially at him, and said, “Elves be a problem, right enough, with their powers of wind and water waxing at night, but lo! The gold coin of the morning is sailing up from the deep, ready to spill its riches upon the waves, and soon we’ll sweep into the broad bay behind the mist! It’s so thick out here, you couldn’t see a whale’s breath, not even if it was spittin’ in your eye!”
“Stop muttering bad poetry, and state what it is you wish to tell me.”
“We can’t cut and run from those pointed-eared dandies, and disappear quicker than a bottle of khôrob on payday, nor are we built for a stand-up fight, but we know these waters like the back of our hands, all the cozy coves, where we can play dead in the water, like a ghost ship: that’s a good ‘un!”
“We cannot ‘play’ with the King on board.”
Majid scratched his patchy beard and replied, “Aye, beware his smooth sailing; there’s a reef hiding beneath those calm waters. The King’s running under false colours, waiting to hoist the black flag when you’re least expecting it, I’ll warrant.”
“Hmpf.” Tazakr was, in fact, already thinking of having the ship ‘play dead’ in the water, if the mists held thick. Neither ship could see much of each other, nor hear much, though the elves may have a slight advantage. But his main hope was that the wind would subside so that both ships had to take to their oars. His men were stouter, broader of chest; the few elves he had encountered were skinny things. If they could but cross the Bay of Belfalas, there may be Umbari patrols out. “Perhaps he is: then we will have to show him what stuff we are made of. We either hide, or row across the bay, and pray to the All-Seeing one for a thick fog until we near the Shield Isles. Then we go in close to land, and draw them onto the rocks. You know that place, that ship graveyard at Bax Garâkh, I mean?”
Old Majid’s eyes widened with a mix of dread and fascination. He knew the place well. “That old graveyard pond? You’ll see shadows dancing in the rigging, not from the moonlight, mind you, but from the spectres of sailors who don’t know they've been drowned! Somebody got to tell them, but not me! If you get too close, you’ll feel your guts turning to ice!”
“Then be about the crew; tell the oarsmen to be ready; take round some water and a mug of strong khôrob for each. We will celebrate properly when we reach home.” He moved down to the prow, his dark cloak blowing around him. Time to add what touch he could. He stilled himself, body and mind, and sought inspiration in an unspoken prayer: ‘Dark Lord, do not permit the elven ship to interfere with our duty, so that we serve you best in all things.’
.
