Chapter 14

The fleet of Umbar in all its glory was a sight to behold. Their own stolen ship was drifting quietly, their sails at half mast, somewhere in what felt like the middle of the Bay of Umbar, watching as the Umbarian ships went by.

Whatever Elladan and the Gondorian caravel had unleashed at the inlet, it had struck a chord. No less than two dozen ships were passing them by, their bulks large enough to dwarf even the Shakalzagar, the largest member of their fleet. These ships had been built for war, not for reconnaissance or trade, their only purpose was destruction.*

Men were still running to and fro on the decks, Elrohir could see little specks of frantic activity in what must have been a mad dash to get the ships ready for battle. Even if the Umbarians would have been warned of the Gondorian ships coming for them, clearly they had not expected an outright attack.

And looking at those warships now, Elrohir did not wonder at that. Captain Callon had been right, Aragorn's small fleet stood no chance against these war machines in direct combat.

He gripped the mast next to him tighter as he wondered whether the small size of the Gondorian fleet, that he had once thought to be a clever attempt to combine speed with stealth, was not truly another of Ecthelion's efforts to rid himself of Estel for good. The thought brought a surge of anger and he breathed deeply to let it pass.

Either way, eight ships was all they had against these monstrosities of Umbar, these war ships that were making straight for their fleet, their crew, Elladan. Elrohir swallowed hard. He hated watching the ships go by, knowing that their only intention was to destroy the Gondorian ships, to wage terrible combat on the open waters - with his injured twin about to be in the very midst of things.

Still, waiting was all they could do as the ships passed further, the wind in their sails propelling them forward, crossing leagues in what felt like minutes. At this rate they were going to lose them.

"Egrahil," his voice sounded tense even to his own ears, but the lieutenant was quick to reassure him.

"Just a moment longer, once we raise the mainsail they will not escape us. Their maneuverings will take time." Egrahil sounded enviably calm.

Elrohir only wished that he had the same surety, the same faith that their mission would succeed that Aragorn's lieutenant displayed. He took up the lead rope of the mainsail, waiting for Egrahil's sign, trying to find something, anything, to keep him busy and his thoughts off the impending battle at sea.

Two gulls flew past him, close to the water, their shrill sounds piercing the otherwise serene calm of the bay, and Elrohir was eerily reminded of carrion birds, hurrying close as if they knew what lay ahead, as if they prepared for a feast. He shuddered.

Waiting was not doing him any favors, and neither was the unfamiliarity with what they were about to face. He had been in battles uncounted, had waged war long before any of the men at his side had been born, yet never at sea. He had sailed ships in Lindon and Lorien, had steered the gray, sleek boats that bore the sigil of Cirdan and the white swan ships of his grandmother's realm, yet never into combat.

And their encounter with the ringwraith had shown him clearly just how vulnerable ships truly were, harried by storms or enemy fire, out on the sea. He could abandon a burning watch tower, leave behind a well-placed fortification if the battle was forged on land. But at sea, with no safe haven in sight, abandoning your ship would only lead to a fate even worse.

He did not want to consider what could have happened to Estel when he had fallen off the Shakalzagar, but the sight of his little brother tumbling towards the churning waves was still fresh and raw in his memory. He vividly recalled Elladan jumping after him and how, with a single gust of wind, he had lost sight of them both among the raging, unpredictable waves. Each one of which could have dragged his brothers below the surface, to a watery grave.

And Elladan was out there on the Shakalzagar right now, without him. About to face a battle that the Gondorian ships had no hope of winning if his and Estel's part in this plan should fail.

That thought at last brought a spark of determination. Their plan would not fail, could not fail. He would not let Estel's men and his twin face so dreadful a fate.

Finally Egrahil gave him the agreed upon sign and he loosened the rope, let the sail spring up as the counterweight came rushing down. The wind caught the unfurling cloth instantly and propelled them forward, the sharp tug of the bucking ship almost staggered him, but he reveled in the movement, in the knowledge that they were finally in pursuit; not mere spectators but hunters stalking prey. The Umbarians would never see them coming.

-o0o-

The corsair fleet had become a distant set of bulky shapes, but true to Egrahil's prediction they were gaining on them once more as the massive warships slowed down. Some of the Umbarian vessels broke for the right while others veered left. It was, most likely, an intricate, complicated maneuver but to Elrohir's surprise it merely looked .. clumsy. Seen from a distance, the corsair vessels were bulky, lumbering shapes, moving unbearably slow, even as their sails bulged under the strain of tight maneuvering. Any moment, it seemed, they might run into one another, and save their own fleet the trouble of attacking them outright. No wonder, Callon and Egrahil had been so proud of the lanteen-rigged caravels, of their speed and maneuverability. *

The sight soon lost all semblance of ridiculousness, however. As soon as the heavy ships had reached their positions, forming two rows, each ten ships abreast, they were an imposing sight indeed. A few ships to either side remained free of the formation, protecting the sides of the armada behind them. If this were a normal battle field, Elrohir would have considered them mobile units in a hammer and anvil tactic - these ships would try to force their caravels into the waiting arms of the assembled warships.

And the warships were terrifying indeed. As if their sheer overwhelming number and size were not enough, their famed chains were worse. With his elven eyes he could see ropes being flung from one ship to the other, first loose but quickly pulled tight, and behind the ropes, dragged from one ship to the next, heavy, spiked chains were pulled across the spaces between the boats.

He could hardly imagine the manpower necessary for dragging the massive chains between the ships. The evil, black metal lines were clearly visible even to Egrahil and Estel for he heard them exclaim softly under their breath as the first of them was heaved into view. The barbed stars that studded the linked cables must have been half the size of a man, the blackened iron spikes extending from them measured at least the reach of an arm. There could be no doubt, these chains were designed to tear other ships asunder. To break open hulls, crush masts, and destroy until there was nothing left but floating timber and the dying screams of drowning men. **

"Get ready." Estel's voice was calm. If he was impressed by the display of raw power, he did not betray it. Instead he looked composed as he readied the seafire weapon. *** He had spent the entire morning studying the contraption, making sure that he would be able to use it in combat, to unleash all of its deadly force. Egrahil would control their ship and steer them to where they needed to go, while Elrohir would do his best to deal damage with more conservative weapons - his bow and pitch-covered flaming arrows.

He glanced back at the approaching rows of ships, trying to find the belief that they could persevere. They would have to deal real damage; Their fleet depended on them. There had been no sign on the open waters of the bay of the other two parties that had tried to cross the peninsula and commandeer a ship for combat. It was only them; A single, stolen ship against an entire armada of corsairs. How had they ever convinced anyone of this plan?

More heavy chains were heaved into view, the heavy metal first falling off one ship as it was released by the sailors, only to be slowly and painstakingly heaved from the waters by the crew of the neighboring ship. Impossibly thin seemed the ropes hauling the heavy metal behind them until its end reached the deck and could be anchored in place. Eventually, step by step, the heavy chains were suspended between each two adjoining ships, not touching the water even at their deepest dip, a testament to the accurate maneuvering the corsairs had done.

But even as he marveled at the seamanship, and dreaded the imposing chains, Elrohir could see the tactic for the folly it was. He could appreciate now what Callon had told them already in Pelargir, and see why Aragorn's plan had been accepted. Any further movement of the combined corsair fleet would have to be careful, slow, if it was not entirely impossible. The pirates could not hope to respond quickly to unforeseen threats, could not have single ships go after individual attackers. They formed one front, united, bound together in victory or defeat.

Elrohir gripped his bow and notched an arrow. Defeat, he decided grimly. The corsair ships would be bound together in defeat.

Standing next to Estel at the helm of the ship he watched as the corsair vessels came closer once more, as they closed the distance between them and the imposing blockade. He could see the shape of sailors on deck running, still shouting and receiving orders, readying themselves for the assault. It would be harsh and brutal, the corsairs' tactic was, if nothing else, one of direct attacks. No trickery, just brute force and terrible weapons. The prow of the large ships on the flank would have the same seafire weapons that their own stolen vessel had, just larger, even more terrible. They would engage the Gondorian fleet, would herd them towards the rows of interlinked ships and into the maws of the unforgiving metal chains.

A chill gripped him as he saw the unmistakable white lanteen sails of their caravels appear behind the heavy chains. Much closer than he had expected - battle was only moments away. He nocked his arrow, and lit its pitch-covered tip in the fire that burned beside him in the middle of their ship - a safe distance away from their fearsome dragon and its fuel tank.

Then, suddenly and with a thunderous roar a volley of heavy stones was shot into the air from out on the bay. The Gondorian caravels had taken the offensive. Most of the shots fell into the water harmlessly, but wood splintered and cracked on a corsair vessel that was hit broadside.

The battle had begun.

The Gondorian ships were fanning out, taking up as much space as the herding ships of the corsairs would allow, engaging in battle where necessary in their attempt to withstand being driven into the maws of the waiting chained ships. Fire and stone rained into heaving waters.

"Egrahil, now!" At Estel's command, Egrahil turned their ship around. He tugged on a line secured at his side, unfurling another sail to lend them even more speed. The dark cloth unfurled and strained against its fastenings as it was caught in the wind, harnessing the wild energy, hurling them forward. They reached the corsair blockade in moments.

Cold water sprayed over their bow, splashing across his hands, hissing where a few random droplets hit the burning tip of his arrow. Their ship was smaller, but the graceful arc of burning flame that shot from their seafire weapon had range enough to land on the nearest Umbarian warship, setting men, planks and sail all aflame. Elrohir aimed for the next ship over, his aim true as the burning arrow landed in the black cloth of the mainsail. Flames shot high, greedily eating away at the dyed linen.

He notched and fired three more arrows before shouts rose from the burning vessel, its main and headsails all brightly aflame. Their attack had been noticed. Sailors were running to the gunwale, pointing at them, calling for a counterattack. Some were wielding crossbows and Elrohir and Estel had to duck for cover as a wave of deadly bolts rained down on their smaller ship. But despite the Umbarian's efforts, Estel kept the beam of liquid fire steady on the ship ahead, wielding doom. The burning oil set ablaze anything it could find, wood, cloth, flesh, as it greedily devoured the ship.

The Umbarian vessel was already listing to its side, dragging at the chain that anchored it to its neighbor, pulling the heavy metal line taut. Shouts went up from the adjoining ship as well now, but most of the pirates focused on warding off their attack, or on putting out the fire in the sails that Elrohir's arrows had set ablaze. Only some truly noticed what was happening, saw the impending doom and rushed to the port side, trying to prevent it, trying to sever the heavy metal chain.

Before they could, the first ship toppled.

Waves rose and crashed down on the struggling ship as if the bay itself was opening its maws to devour the burning wreckage. Screams rose in deafening denial, in unparalleled terror as Estel's plan came to fruition. The chain that connected the ships was unyielding, unforgiving, unbroken. With terrible finality it pulled on the neighboring ship and brought it crashing down into the bay as well, the hungry waves finally extinguishing the burning sails.

Egrahil had already turned them around. The waves of the first unlucky ship sinking propelled them forward, away from the doomed ships and towards the second row of the blockade. As they passed, Elrohir could see men hacking and hammering at the moorings securing the metal chains on the next ships, desperately fighting to break the ships' connection before the catastrophic chainreaction could claim their own ship.

Some succeeded, the heavy chains breaking free, only to drop into the waters with immense force, their sheer weight dragging at the neighboring ship like an anchor dropped at a terrible, disastrous angle. In their attempts to break free many of the warships doomed their allies. The water of the bay was heaving, like a boiling kettle, filled with frenzied waving, drowning sailors.

Ships teetered and bucked, and amongst it all Estel was relentless. He picked the most vulnerable, the closest to capsizing and aimed his terrible weapon again. Elrohir's own flaming arrows added to his brother's attack and together they rained terrible destruction on the corsairs, in a battlefield as gruesome as few he had seen before. Liquid fire fell on the corsairs from above, while a cold watery death waited below.

Elrohir winced against the pained screams of burning sailors that rang in his ears, dearly hoping that most of the corsairs would be able to swim, that the remaining corsair vessels would break off the attack and save their struggling men.

It was a vain hope. While they had succeeded in bringing chaos and disarray to the corsair blockade, their efforts had brought down too few of the large warships and the corsairs were by no means defeated.

"Cutters!" Egrahil shouted in warning. Elrohir whipped his head around and saw them too, five smaller vessels, with a single lanteen sail and low deck were emerging from between the bigger war ships. The corsairs were coming for them. These boats were built for speed, for the chase. And even at this distance Elrohir could see the hungry glint in the eyes of the men on board as they pointed their curved scimitars at them, shouting vicious curses and threats. ****

The first of the corsairs fell with Elrohir's burning arrow through his neck. And the second. But even as he pulled another arrow from his quiver he knew that he could not take them all out before the ships would be upon them. Too fast were the Umbarians closing the gap between them, too many corsairs were manning the small attack vessels.

Something slammed into him and the sudden impact threw Elrohir off balance. He lost the grip on his arrow; It and his bow dropped uselessly to the deck as he careened widely, trying to catch himself, trying to make sense of what had happened.

"Elrohir!" Sound re-established itself before the pain hit, and still Estel's panicked shout almost drowned out under the wave of white agony that suddenly claimed him. He curled around the injury instinctively, his hands reaching up to cover the wound, already knowing what he would find. A bolt. He had been hit by one of the corsairs' crossbows. Pain wrecked him again as his fingers brushed the hard wood, jostling the projectile that had buried itself in the right side of his chest. Elrohir gasped.

He breathed against the pain, once, twice, as time itself seemed to slow. He was dimly aware of more of the dark projectiles buzzing around them, of the rocking of their boat as it was hit by one of the smaller attack vessels, of the leers of the corsairs that jumped aboard, their scimitars rattling. For one excruciating moment all of that was drowned out by the pain.

But Elrohir was no stranger to injury. And he could not, would not now bend in defeat on the decks of a small ship in the middle of the Bay of Umbar. Not with his brothers under attack.

He could see Estel fight against two of the corsairs that had boarded them, keeping them at bay - and away from him, Elrohir, even as the boat rocked and danced beneath them. Egrahil, too was under attack, leaving the rudder abandoned and their boat starting to tilt dangerously this way and that, rocking sharply on the cloying waves. Ever more men were swarming their deck, jumping the distance between the boats with the practiced skill of performers - or trained pirates. They made their way towards the front of the ship and Elrohir struggled to rise, to draw his sword and intercept them – Estel would be hopelessly outnumbered.

His healer's training flared to life, assessing his injury with barely conscious thought, even as he focused on struggling forward, on reaching his little brother's side. The edge of the bolt's metal tip was still visible, telling him that the projectile had not penetrated deeply, and it had hit him high on the chest, too high to risk injury to his lungs. A flesh wound, he concluded, almost subconsciously, painful but not dangerous. The bolt would need to be removed; It hindered his movements, prevented him from using his bow and would dangerously impede his sword swings. But that too had to wait. Helping Estel had to come first.

He set one foot in front of the other, taking a painful step, then another, ruthlessly pushing the pain into a deep corner of his mind, embracing the adrenaline that rushed through his veins. All that mattered was reaching his little brother.

But Estel had never been the goal of the attackers. Without an inkling of hesitation, they sprang past Estel, making instead for their seafire weapon, their dragon. Estel still held his original attackers at bay, but could not intervene as the new men hacked at the weapon's head, severing the nuzzle in a shower of burning oil and glistening sparks.

The liquid beneath it ignited in a rush.

Sudden terror lent him new strength and speed as he hurried his steps, still trying to reach Estel. He never made it. Before he had taken even another step a thunderous explosion tore their ship apart.

-o0o-

A/N: ahahahaha! Now that is a cliffhanger! (sorry, I guess last week's chapter was just too tame for my standards :D) But we all knew their good luck couldn't possibly last … right?

I do hope you enjoyed this chapter and would love to hear what you thought about it. Because - glorious, flamy ending notwithstanding - this was hard. I adjusted the size of the Umbarian fleet at least four times, crossreferencing age-of-sail battles and weighing a sense of reasonable odds with the fact that "[Aragorn] gathered a small fleet" - and small in the age of sail would be small. Here are a few more explanations and insights into my research and thoughts for this chapter and the sea battle (If I never write another sea battle story it will be too soon)

* - As discussed above, fleet size is roughly determined by age of sail disputes in which battles rarely had more than 1-3 dozen ships per side. In the Battle of Trafalgar 27 British ships-of-the-line faced 33 French and Spanish vessels. The Umbarian ships are based roughly on the ships-of-the-line from the age of sail, making them large, lumbering and hard to maneuver due to their square sails. The triangular lanteen sails that everyone and their Noldorian uncle keep going on about are in fact much better for speed (especially against the wind) and quick maneuvers, and rightly the pride of Captain Callon. (Gondor did in fact have caravels as stated by Tolkien, though I cannot now find the quote).

** - There are actually multiple accounts of medieval naval battles reporting that ships were in fact tied together (especially on the defensive). For example in the Battle of Sluys in 1340, the French fleet formed their forces into three or four lines chained together, with a few of the largest stationed in front as outposts. The limitations of this tactic seem fairly obvious – severely restricted maneuverability - which is really just a sweet treat for fanfiction authors. The advent of the cannon might have stopped this practice and that would make sense considering that the Gondorian fleet had trebuchets - which is also, in fact and maybe surprisingly, something people put on ships before they had cannons (and you can thank my beta for spotting the cannons that were originally installed on the Gondorian ships and reminding me that only Saruman apparently knew about gunpowder)

*** - I forgot to include this already in the last chapter, so if you wondered what a seafire weapon is: sorry. It is based loosely on Greek Fire, the secret incendiary substance that no one nowadays can make anymore and that supposedly continued to burn even floating on water. Wikipedia has a lovely picture of it being used similar to what I imagine from the deck of a ship.

**** - Caravel, Dhow and now Cutter - are you happy with how much you are learning about ship types yet? :D