Chapter 17

The Master of the Havens was every bit as imposing as the stories had made him out to be. A tall man, taller even than Aragorn himself, and wider across his shoulders. His face was painted with black charcoal, making the whites of his eyes seem impossibly bright in the flicker of the flames behind Aragorn. At his side he held a massive sword, forged of blackened steel and inlaid with red stones at the hilt. It glistened maliciously in the unsteady light. He raised the sword slowly and pointed it straight at Aragorn.

"You!" he said simply and in accented Westron. An invitation, a slur, a challenge.

Aragorn raised his own sword in kind. The white fire of his blade a bright contrast to his opponent's. He signaled Egrahil to stay back, even as he shifted his stance, spreading the weight evenly above his legs, setting in to await the attack.

Surprisingly Egrahil lunged past him, his own sword raised high. "Captain!" he shouted.

But he did not make for the the Master of the Havens, instead he raised his weapon to block the swing of a black scimitar that fell from the shadows. The wielder of the curved weapon was dressed in black, his entire face painted with charcoal, only the white of his eyes showing in his murderous face. Aragorn had not even seen him. The man had kept carefully out of the circle of light cast by a hanging lantern overhead and the blazing fires behind him, blending into the shadows like a specter.

Egrahil's keen gaze had averted disaster.

But Aragorn had little time to ponder the honorless ambush, and his own timely rescue, as the Master of the Havens attacked. The man's sword was like a battering ram as he brought it up and then down heavily on Aragorn's own blade, and his fingers went momentarily numb from the sheer force of the strike. With effort, he twisted his blade to the side, redirecting instead of parrying the blow outright. The Master spun and struck again, and again. His vicious hits sliced through the air with enormous reach, making it hard for Aragorn to evade let alone counter his attack.

The ring of metal on metal from where Egrahil was fighting the black assassin was fading into the background as Aragorn let himself fall completely into his training. He had been prepared for this, had been trained in Imladris by the hands of one of the finest swordsmen in all Middle Earth. Glorfindel was tall as well - and the Master of the Havens lacked the preternatural grace of the golden haired seneschal of Imladris. He also lacked his speed.

With the patience of a hunting cat he bided his time, evading the wide strikes and deflecting those that came too close. His opponent was a cruel man, he could tell that much from the attacks of the Umbarian, from the areas that he was targeting. The Master sought to maim rather than kill, to prolong the fight amidst pain rather than to seek a fast victory.

Aragorn dodged another of his opponent's swings, this one aimed at his stomach and lunged forward as he finally found the opening he had been waiting for. His sword bit into the Master's side, cutting through the leather vest he wore, but it struck mail beneath. His sword rebounded, ineffective against the woven rings of metal.

Still, the man in front of him bellowed in rage, and Aragorn jumped back just in time to avoid his retaliatory attack. New energy fueled the Master of the Haven's next attack, rage lending him a new speed, and swing after swing of his heavy blade struck down on Aragorn's sword, rattling his arm, dangerously depleting his strength. He could feel the power behind his opponent's battle fever, making his attacks faster, vicious - and all Aragorn could do was to keep hold of his weapon and weather the onslaught.

He was a fraction of a moment too slow to evade the next attack, and the black sword cut across his chest, leaving a long shallow cut in its wake. Aragorn hissed at the sting of the injury, even as the Master of the Havens drew back to gloat. An ugly sneer twisted his face into an expression of malicious glee. He had drawn first blood.

Hefting his sword the Master of the Havens beckoned Aragorn forward with a mocking motion, assured of his victory now that he had penetrated Aragorn's defenses once.

Let him gloat, Aragorn mused darkly as he raised his sword as well, unashamedly using the small respite that the lull in his opponent's attacks had granted him. Celebrate your victory after you have won - one of Glorfindel's earliest lessons.

Let the man pay the price for underestimating his opponent.

With his grip on his weapon secure and steady once more, Aragorn took another deep breath. Calmness filled him. He was ready.

And with sudden speed he shifted the hold on his weapon, turned from evading and defending to a simple, uncompromising attack. The change took the Master of the Havens by surprise. The bull of a man raised his own sword, but the sheer size and weight of it hindered him now, made him that crucial moment too slow to block the incoming strike, and Aragorn's blade found a target. He could feel the leather break, the mail tear asunder, as his sword cut through them both and bit deep into the side of his opponent. He wrenched it free, jumping back even as the Master's uncoordinated counterattack struck at the place he had been.

Erratic, wide swipes of the dark blade followed him, but they were lacking the ferociousness and the speed of the man's earlier attacks - and they were slowing. The wound he had dealt the Master of the Havens was a mortal one, Aragorn knew. Blood gushed from the deep wound, pooled at their feet, bathing the pier in morbid, slick red. Still, the man remained standing, his face a mask of rage and pain, painted in determination. He knew his own fate, but he would not let Aragorn escape him, would do anything to drag him along to the Halls of Mandos. Like a caged bear, this man was dangerous in defeat.

He lunged forward suddenly, his wide arc of a strike coming down hard on Aragorn's sword, and instead of retreating it for another strike, he pressed his advantage. He leaned his considerable weight into the attack, pushing down on the interlocked blades, coming close enough that Aragorn could smell the foul stench of blood and death on his breath. There was a shift in his expression, a small gleam in his eye and Aragorn tensed. He twisted to the side, abandoning his blade as he jumped clear of the man's reach. And just in time, for the Master of the Havens had drawn a small dagger with his other hand, its thrust landing on thin air. But it had been his last card, his last desperate attempt, and with the pain of failure writ across his features the Umbarian finally fell. He did not move again.

Aragorn spun, the adrenalin in his system still singing, warning him to be alert, but all he found was Egrahil, panting heavily but triumphant. His lieutenant was standing over the still body of the attacker in black, holding his side, yet, despite the obvious injury he had suffered, he looked relieved. Relieved to be alive, to see his captain victorious and unharmed.

Aragorn winced at the sharp pain that sprang to life at that moment. Mostly unharmed, he amended silently, trying to ignore the sting of dried salt from his clothes on the long shallow cut across his chest. Elladan would probably comment on the state of his shirt.

He winced at the thought, but the bells still rang, their sound now clear and crisp as the single-minded focus of the fight faded and his senses reestablished themselves. "We need to leave," he said to Egrahil.

They did not make it far before cries of dismay and anger sprang up behind them. The Master of the Havens had been found. It was impossible to tell whether the men of Umbar were calling for their pursuit or hesitated at seeing their leader defeated, but either way, he and Egrahil would have little time. Aragorn scanned the darkness ahead. They had moved east, further away from where they had landed their small ship and from where he had last seen his brothers. The wharf had been swarming with men back in that direction, drawn by the flaming ships, by the mayhem he, his brothers and Egrahil had caused. Aragorn only hoped that the corsairs were fighting the flames and not his brothers.

"Captain!" Egrahil had stopped and Aragorn spun to see his lieutenant looking back, his eyes filled with wonder. Behind them most of the Havens were aflame, as the fires set both by himself and his brothers merged, hungrily leaping from boat to boat, flames and smoke flaring to the heavens, searching for dominance. But behind the rolling clouds of dark smoke out on the water he could spy the white sails of their caravels.

Their fleet had come.

And now that he was looking out at the water Aragorn spotted an even better sight, and much closer. His brothers. They were in a small boat, Elladan holding the sail, while Elrohir stood at the front, waving to get their attention. Aragorn raised his own hand in greeting, the weight of his worry lightening at the welcome sight. From here he could see no trace of fresh injuries on either of them and he dared to let himself hope that his brothers had actually gotten out of this assault unscathed. But it was dark and he knew better than to ask for too much.

He and Egrahil hurried down the closest pier and climbed aboard when his brothers' boat reached them. Elrohir embraced him in a light hug, all pretenses of his supposedly fleeting acquaintance with 'Thorongil' forgotten, though by now he was sure that Egrahil had realized that he and Elrond's sons knew each other much better than they had previously claimed.

The younger twin drew back, his brow furrowed as he critically examined the cut across Aragorn's chest.

"It is nothing," Aragorn hurried to assure him.

"It will need cleaning and binding," Elrohir argued.

"On the Shakalzagar." It was a compromise but as the adrenalin of his fight finally left him it was all he had the strength for. All he wanted was to sit down on a bench and return to the rest of his men. It was hard to come to terms with the fact that their fight was over, that they had won.

-o0o-

They boarded the Shakalzagar amid the cheers of exhausted yet victorious men.

"Thorongil!" Callon boomed in welcome, "you have lit quite the bonfire."

"Aye," Aragorn responded, weary from the fight but elated to be back, to see his men and fleet triumphant. "It will be a feast to remember in Umbar." He raised his voice on purpose, shouting for the sailors and soldiers to hear the words they needed. "The Master of the Havens has fallen, the corsairs are defeated! Set the sails! We return to Gondor – victorious!"

Cheers erupted on deck, and men rushed forward to celebrate him, to thank him for his efforts. He reassured them that it was their achievement that had brought them victory, their sacrifices that would not be forgotten, their heroics that would be rewarded on their return.

It took him long minutes before he could extricate himself from the cheering men, his mind already on more somber things. He made his way up to the command deck and to Captain Callon's side.

"The battle?" he asked silently, dreading to hear the numbers yet honor-bound to ask for them all the same.

"We lost the Zigzaril, but salvaged most of her crew. The Zimrabel will be limping back to Pelargir but she will hold." Callon mustered him, his grim, bearded face somber and contemplative, "I thought we would stand no chance at all, but all things tallied our losses were much smaller than I'd thought. The Valar themselves must have been on our side."

The words were a balm compared to what he had expected, compared to what he thought he had seen when he had left the fleet behind, still fighting the corsair warships as he and his brothers took the battle to the Havens. Exhaling the breath he had not realized he had been holding, Aragorn allowed himself a moment to let the words sink in. It took time to truly comprehend that the battle was over, that no attacks were forthcoming from the fiery piers behind them, from the scattered defenders of the corsairs. All but one of their ships were still seaworthy, and he would bring most of his men home.

He halted in his thoughts, as realization hit: No, he would not.

Ecthelion had made that perfectly clear, and he himself had known when setting out for this mission that there would be no coming back. No return to Minas Tirith. This had been a last quest for the good of Gondor, a last attempt to throw back Sauron's advance, to diminish the threat he posed to the lands of Middle Earth for a while longer. And despite their victory, despite the cheers and the loyalty of his men - to him Gondor was now lost.

Callon would lead the men back home, back to glory and reward, while he would search for new battles, another fight to slow Sauron's rise to power, to dominion over Middle Earth.

Suddenly contemplative, Aragorn turned around to where he knew his brothers were still waiting, knowing better than to assume Elrohir would have forgotten about their compromise to have his cut treated once they were back on the Shakalzagar. He followed his brothers below deck, barely conscious of their words, of the shouts of the still celebrating men. His own mind was strangely adrift, and he knew it was from more than just battle fatigue.

The battle had been won, but, even though he had defeated the Master of the Havens in single combat upon the quay, Thorongil was lost.

-o0o-

A/N: A bonfire that turns night into day, single combat upon the quay and Aragorn's small fleet victorious. Finally everyone is being rewarded for all their hard work. And we are approaching the end of this story - I almost can't believe it. Luckily I am already working on part 3 of this trilogy to keep myself busy. As always, I would love to hear from you, so if you have a moment to spare, leave a comment - it is so important for finding the will and enthusiasm to keep going.

And I quoted this a few times, occasionally only in parts, but here is the one passage of the Appendix that is behind most of this story:

'Thorongil often counselled Ecthelion that the strength of the rebels in Umbar was a great peril to Gondor, and a threat to the fiefs of the south that would prove deadly, if Sauron moved to open war. At last he got leave of the Steward and gathered a small fleet, and he came to Umbar unlooked-for by night, and there burned a great part of the ships of the Corsairs. He himself overthrew the Captain of the Haven in battle upon the quays, and then he withdrew his fleet with small loss.'

-The Return of the King, LoTR Appendix A, Annals of the Kings and Rulers: Gondor and the Heirs of Anárion