Thank you for all the encouragement, I hope you will go on reading and enjoy the " thickening of the plot".
And a kowtow to Lialathuveril whose "dictatorial lead mare" from her wonderful story " On the Wings of the Storm" I shamelessly borrowed, having fallen in love with that simile the moment I read it.
This is the chapter for all those of you who were wondering, when these blokes will finally start doing anything else besides eating, drinking and thoroughly embarrassing each other and themselves. ;-)
Chapter 8
Following the extension of the western cliffs, they took their position for the race to start. It had been agreed to sail to Edhellond, a name that held no information whatsoever for Éomer, but he was content to assist the siblings in their attempt to best Mardil. While Amrothos sat down at the tiller, Lothíriel instructed the Rohir on the basic tasks, when helping her with sails and lines, "running gear", as she called it, and it soon became clear to him that it really was his superior strength and weight she counted on, making him pull ropes and hoist sails, thus giving her clearance to tie the required knots and hitches.
When the sun caught in Mardil's mirror, which Elphir was holding up as the appointed sign for the start, the sails shot up and off they were. Soon Mardil took the lead with little more than a boat's length, while Erchirion was falling behind.
Both sails billowing at the port side in the fresh breeze, the boat heeled over in a way Éomer had never thought to be possible. Perched beside Lothíriel on the windward gunwale, he found himself looking down at the deck and the leeward side, but as the siblings obviously thought it nothing out of the ordinary, he just sat beside her, listening to her explanation of their course, while Amrothos kept the boat at a short distance behind Mardil's.
"I just don't understand," he mentioned after a while, "why we don't overtake him right now, if we really can, as you say."
"There are two reasons for it. First: To speed her up without capsizing, the two of us need to perform a certain manoeuvre, which requires some strength. We would not be able to hold out all the time till we reach the Ringló channel. And second: Once we reach the channel first, there will be no realistic chance for them to overtake us again."
Seeing Éomer's enquiring look, she specified: "Further shore-wards the waters are still not deep enough at this time of the tide for free sailing, so we'll have to keep to the Ringló channel that flows through the bay, and that will slow us down considerably, because we'll have the current of the river against us. And with the incoming tide and the wind we will be in for choppy waters: short, bumpy waves that are quite difficult to navigate. But if we keep to the starboard side of the channel, they won't be able to move further to the windward side to pass us, the water there being too shallow. And to the leeward they won't have enough sea-room and wind, and they would have to sail against the brunt of the current. Therefore Amrothos keeps her to their windward side now, and once we are close enough to the channel, we'll attack to create accomplished facts."
After about half an hour the wind seemed to increase, and Éomer thought he noticed Amrothos giving the sails some worried glances. He called Lothíriel's attention to it, but she just shrugged it off. "It's useless to huff at that tame a breeze. If we start worrying that easily, we can forget about besting him."
Squeezing her eyes nearly shut, she checked the movements of Mardil's boat, until finally a malicious smile appeared on her face. "They are at their limits. If they keep the sails up like that they'll surely capsize." Standing up and holding close to the ship's side, she scanned the horizon. "We shouldn't be too far from the Ringló channel anymore. If we want to overtake them, we'll have to do it now."
Without further explanations, she scrambled aft to Amrothos, keeping close to the ship's side. The siblings exchanged some short remarks, and Éomer saw Amrothos scrutinise him, nod, and then the princess came back, grinning wickedly.
"What's the matter, my lady?" he queried, but his question only earned him one of her snorts.
"My lady! There is nothing like titles and rank aboard a pirate ship. Amrothos is the captain, and you may well go about "my-lording" him, but we two are crew and fellow-pirates. Well, and now let's see, if your weight is really going to make the difference."
Fast and with deft hands she slung two ropes around the foot of the mast and came up to the gunwale again, dragging the rope-ends behind her. "You should like it," she announced, her eyes sparkling with mischief , "as we call the manoeuvre "riding out". It's an attempt to keep the boat from heeling too much. Just watch me and follow suit."
Handing him one of the rope-ends, she took the other line, pulled it tight and climbed the gunwale, her back turned towards the sea. Then she started to lengthen the rope, hand over hand, until her whole body was finally jutting outboards, almost level to the surface of the bay. Planting her bare feet slightly apart against the ship's side, she braced her body and then clung to the rope only with her left for a short moment, while slinging the rope thrice around her right wrist to ensure a saver hold. "Come on, now it's your turn. It's not difficult, as long as the swell is steady-going."
The view of her lithe body, positioned in such a precarious position, her bare feet firmly planted against the gunwale, the wind tugging at her garment, exposing her sinewy ankles and taunt calves, her hands, clutching the rope with obvious strength, left him with a dry throat.
Where was the aloof noblewoman of the previous night? Béma, this woman surely was a challenge.
Following her example, Éomer climbed outboards and positioned himself besides her. He felt the vibration of the vessel juddering through his tense body, each cutting through a wave echoing in his muscles like the thud of a trotting horse's hooves. Turning his head, he found her watching him concernedly. "Everything all right?"
He nodded. "Quite so." Then the spray of a slightly higher wave hit him, wetting his back. He gasped and heard her chuckle.
"You won't feel the dankness anymore, once you are wet through. Are you ready?"
Not knowing what for, he simply affirmed, and was utterly startled, when she threw her head back, mimicking the shrill cry of the big gulls. Her yell still in his ears, he felt the movements of the ship slightly change. The ropes seemed to tighten, the sails to billow even further, the hull to heel more precariously, the sequence of the pitching movement, marking the waves cut by the ship's prow shortening...They were speeding up!
"We'll make it!" The gasping sound of her voice made him follow her line of sight. They were fast closing in on Mardil's boat, approaching it on the windward side. Shouts from the other boat showed that their antagonists were well aware of it. All of a sudden they were alongside Mardil's vessel, and to Éomer's amazement the other boat's sails started to flutter, the boat slowing down for a short instance and then falling behind. He felt the heave of the hull as their own ship shot into the leading position, and turning his head towards Amrothos' whooping voice, he saw Lothíriel, holding on only with her right hand, giving an arm pump of victory with her left.
Turning to him, her face displayed a huge grin. "That's it. If nothing unforeseen happens, he'll have no chance to..." The sentence ended in a high-pitched yelp, as a sudden rocking seized the boat, causing her knees to buckle.
The movement of the boat nearly made him loose his footing on the gunwale and instinctively Éomer grabbed the rope tighter and shot the princess a worried look. She had straightened up again, but the rope slung around her right wrist had shifted and tightened, notching into her skin. Cursing in a colourful mixture of Sindarin and Westron, she tried to ease the tension on her wrist, grabbing the rope further up with her left hand, but the constant bumping of the boat made any movement hazardous.
"Loth! Get aboard!" Amrothos' yell had an edge of urgency.
"No way!" she hissed through clenched teeth, stubbornly holding on.
Exceedingly alarmed, Éomer saw the rope cut deeper into her wrist with each jolt of the boat. A thin streamlet of blood showed on her bare forearm, her sleeves having slid up to her elbows. Her jaws were set with determination but when the next pitch of the boat made the rope jerk, a flash of pain shot over her face.
She'll cut a sinew or a vein if she doesn't manage to get her wrist out of that damned rope! He had seen a herdsman lose his hand like that, being dragged behind by an untrained horse. "Lothíriel, please listen to your brother."
"No!" She ground out the word with evident difficulty, but nevertheless continued. "Not now, we need more distance."
"He's not worth you losing your hand!" His fury at her stubbornness was easily audible, but she simply turned her head, avoiding his eyes.
Swearing violently in Rohirric, he tried to make up his mind what to do. Climbing the gunwale and pulling her up was no solution, as it would put further tension on her injured wrist. Coming to a fast decision, he moved closer to her before lengthening his rope just a little, lowering himself to a position slightly below her. Careful not to loose his footing on the side of the pitching ship, he shifted his body sidewards, until his left thigh was right behind her buttocks. Letting go the line with his left, he reached out around her, his longer limbs enabling him to catch her rope well above her hands. Her back now being cradled by his body, she literally sat on his lap, bumping against him with each jolt of the boat. He gritted his teeth, as he realized the second reason to change this situation as fast as possible.
"Lean back and unwind that rope from your wrist, lest you cut a sinew." His voice sounded strained and hoarse to his own ears, and he cringed when she obeyed and he beheld the deep gashes, the blood flowing freely now, unhampered by the rope.
"Loth!" Amrothos voice sounded alarmed. "Get up and have a look out!"
Leaning back against him, she looked up at Éomer's face. "Can you manage a little longer? We might be near to the channel changing direction and I'll better get myself to the prow and check."
Éomer nodded, and she pulled herself up despite her injured wrist till she crouched on the gunwale. Slipping on deck, she scrambled to the front part of the ship. After just a short moment she hurried back. " Come up! We' ll change course soon and we'll have to work fast and precisely."
He climbed up and immediately reached out for her wrist, but she pulled it away. "Don't worry about that, it's just a scratch and the seawater will keep it clean anyway. Listen: As soon as I tell you, you move over to the portside and loosen the sheet rope, the line that holds the main sail in position. Just pull it down with all your strength to take the tension off the hitch so I can easily loosen it. The boom will swing over to starboard, and we'll have to fix it there. Understood?"
He nodded, and she raised her hand, signalling to Amrothos that they were ready. Moving the tiller slightly to the right, Amrothos pulled the boat to the left, allaying the heeling a bit. "Go!" A nudge in his side caught his attention and he followed the princess, who scrambled over to the leeward side. Ducking low under the boom, they crawled to the other side of the sail and loosened the sheet rope, making the sail flutter, when all of a sudden Amrothos pulled the boat full to the left, causing the vessel to jerk and to jolt, and then with a rush of the main sail the boom swung over to the other side, dragging the rope they just had loosened out of Éomer's hands. The ship heaved and rolled, as it changed position, and the unexpected movement sent him to his knees with a fit of nausea.
"Hurry!" Lothíriel yelled, grabbing the rope and scampering to the fastener on starboard. Feeling slightly groggy, he got to his feet, caught the rope and pulled it as agreed. As soon as the knots were tied, the sails now spreading out like the wings of a bird on both sides of the ship, he let himself drop on deck in a sitting position. Closing his eyes he tried to coordinate his breathing and calm his upset stomach, annoyed by the nasty feeling of saliva gathering under his tongue.
"Lie down." Her voice did not sound derisively as he had expected, and he obeyed without opening his eyes, feeling embarrassingly wobbly. He felt her hand touch his shoulder. "Try to breathe steady and even, I'll get you some rusk."
Though the movements of the boat still were uncomfortable, the acute fit of nausea soon ceased somewhat and he realized that the deck below him no longer heeled. After just a short while he sensed someone bending over him.
"Open your mouth." Though her voice was soft, it did not leave any doubt about her persistence. Reluctantly he did as ordered and felt a morsel of tusk shoved between his teeth.
"Chew slowly and carefully before swallowing." Though still feeling faint, he couldn't help a grin. As dictatorial as an old lead mare. Munching the rusk, he slowly opened his eyes. She was sitting beside him, holding a rusk in her left hand, while her injured wrist was wrapped in the rolled-up lower part of her tabard. Swallowing, he opened his mouth to say something, but at once she shoved a second bite in. It tasted slightly of ginger, a taste he found rather pleasant, and he concentrated on finishing it.
"How do you feel?" she asked, when he had managed to swallow the second mouthful.
Strange, that a voice can be cool and warm at the same time. He cocked an eye at her. "Like a force-fed horse."
She grinned. "If you feel slightly better, try and eat the rest of it. It will do you stomach good."
He slowly sat up. His head was still swimming but his stomach was not giving him acute trouble anymore. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself and made to eat the rest of the rusk, wondering if he would be able to keep himself from vomiting for the rest of their voyage. "How much time do we have till the next manoeuvre?"
"Don't worry, we'll keep going north-east for quite a time, following the Ringló channel towards Edhellond. Time enough for your stomach to settle again, and I will tell you what to expect before our next move. As a matter of fact I should have done so." She looked a him rather troubled. "Had you known what to expect, the movement would not have surprised you."
He gave her a lopsided grin. "Never mind, at least Amrothos will enjoy himself mightily. But there are other things more urgent now. Let me bind your wounds"
He removed his headscarf and folded up one end of it into some kind of padding, before reaching out for her injured wrist. Reluctantly she unwrapped it, and with concern he beheld what she had dismissed as a mere scratch. The rope had chaffed the skin off a large part of the wrist, cutting deep into the flesh just about the small bones of the joint. Her hand and her forearm were covered in partly dried streaks of blood, contrasting stridently with the creamy colour of her skin. "Can you move your fingers?"
To his great relief she nodded, moving every single finger before his eyes, but the movement caused the gashes to start bleeding again. If she felt any pain, her face did not show it, and he felt his heart rise with admiration. A warrior's heart she had, this pirate princess.
Putting the padding on the wounds, he wrapped the other end around her wrist, thus staunching the bleeding and covering the cuts. But how to fix the impromptu dressing? Drawing his dagger, he cut the lacings off his shirt. They easily fitted around her wrist, and he knotted the fastenings in two places to hold the bandage.
Letting go her hand, he suddenly realised the colours of the bandage: white on green, the colours of the Riddermark. His pulse sped up. Had she noticed?
Searching her gaze, he found her looking at him intensely, a sudden blush flushing her cheeks, as their eyes met.
oooo
"There is little we can do now, except keeping the boat as close to the starboard side of the channel as possible," Amrothos remarked, not seeming too happy about it. Éomer having taken his place at the tiller, Imrahil's son was bandaging his wrists with the cut-up pieces of his headscarf to give the joints some support against the permanent bumping of the rudder, while his sister stood at his side, never removing her eyes from their adversary, a deep frownon her face.
Feeling his heartbeat in his throat, Éomer perused her saturnine face. What was going on in her head and why? Had she really lain with Mardil? He did not believe it, he did not want to. She would not have fallen for such a vain git, would she? What bothered him, was not her sleeping with a man, but he could not stomach the idea of her having been fatuous.
He shook his head. He was being unjust. She had been so young... She might not have seen through his masquerade. Perhaps she had felt flattered, being sought after by such a good-looking man... And he was of one of the most influential houses of Gondor. But the whole thing did not make any sense. A marriage into the Prince's family would have been a chance no Gonorean noble was likely to let pass, even if he had not been interested in the princess as a woman.
Éomer snorted involuntarily. How could a sane man not be interested in her? No, had she lain with Mardil, he surely would have married her, for what reason so ever. And had he refused, as unlikely as that was, he would not have lived to tell the tale, given her brothers and the Prince himself. Yet here she was, accusing that bastard of preying on innocents, and hating him from the very bottom of her soul. There obviously was something he was not compassing. What could fill an intelligent and confident woman with that much hatred to risk her hand, just to vanquish that man?
"He's closing in on us," she finally stated grudgingly.
Amrothos shot the other boat a quick glance, before changing position with Éomer again. "It can't be helped. They can't pass us on the windward side the way we are sailing and there is little sense in trying on the lee. The only danger is that the buggers might try to knock off our rudder... Make it look like an accident," he added with a lopsided grin.
One of the sailors stood at the pursuing boat's prow, obviously checking the distance between the ships, but just as Éomer stepped up beside Lothíriel, someone else came forward, ducking below the outspread sail. Mardil of Edhellond! Éomer saw her body tense, her lips curving down in an expression of contempt. Looking over to them after some words with his man, Mardil recognised the princess and bowed gracefully, his right hand on his chest, his mouth in a mocking smile.
Fury uncoiling inside him like a hot snake, Éomer clenched his fists. He wished he had his spear at hand to spit this scum like the pig he was. Lothiríel's face seemed pale despite the slight tan, only high on her cheekbones two spots burned fiercely red, like pennants of her suppressed wrath. With two steps she went over to the ship's side and demonstratively spit overboard, before slipping under the foresail, moving to the prow.
"Éomer!" Amrothos' mien showed undisguised concern. With a jerk towards the prow he continued: "Go and have a look at her, I'm not feeling well if I can't see her while that bastard might at least try to pass."
Éomer made to follow her, but couldn't help asking: "Do you expect her to do anything desperate?"
Amrothos shook his head. "No, she's not stupid, but your presence will keep her standing, as she is never going to break down in front of anybody."
"So you think she has a reason to break down?" Éomer snapped, his voice hoarse with anger and alarm.
Amrothos rolled his eyes. "Don't ask! Go!"
That damned pain in the arse, who did he think he was!
Blind with fury the Rohir reached for the other man, only to find himself stopped by Amrothos' insistent voice. "Éomer, you can punch me to your heart's delight once we have won, but now go and keep an eye on her...please!" Éomer stopped in his tracks, embarrassment sweeping over him and he wordlessly made for the prow.
Bollocks, what had got into him?
Sure, Imrahil's son was a menace, but he was worried about his sister, so how could one expect him to purr politely? And he had accepted Amrothos as captain... only to go off at the first order! He raked his fingers through his hair... it was that damned uncertainty that made him jumpy. Cursed Gondorean propriety! Why didn't they put their cards on the table? It wasn't helping at all. That woman... She was her brothers' responsibility, he told himself, but Béma, he wanted her to smile, wanted her to trust him, wanted her... He shook himself. His brain didn't seem to work straight.
He found the princess standing at starboard, staring ahead, the ends of her dark headscarf fluttering in the gusty wind. Her lips moved, but with the wind blowing towards her, he could not understand her words. He thought her to be cursing again, easing her tension, muttering oaths in the Elven language, when suddenly she raised her hands to her chest, palms up, and he heard her utter the name Osse. She was praying! Praying to the volatile god of the angry seas!
He stepped up besides her, looking out on the water ahead. The course of the channel was easily distinguishable, its waters being a broad greyish, dark and somehow opaque belt in the green of the surrounding sea, criss-crossed by short, rippling waves. Suddenly something seemed to have caught her attention. Her body straightened and looking into her face, he saw her jaw tighten, as she squinted her eyes, never averting them from a certain spot on the horizon.
"It might work." Her voice was a mere whisper.
"What?" he demanded to know. Given her tension it had to be important. But she just shook her head.
"Never mind, it's just an idea. But it might be worth a try... Stay put, I'll go to ask Amrothos. I'll be back soon." Ducking under the boom, she disappeared towards the aft.
Scanning the stretch or turbulent water ahead, Éomer suddenly noticed, what she had been staring at: white streaks of sea-foam on the dark surge... rocks below the surface. Aeglir Caragon.
After just a moment she reappeared, a strange expression in her grey eyes. "They are very close behind us, and they might overtake us any moment, trying their luck before we reach Aeglir Caragon. Idiots...It's hazardous... but let them try. Our sails encumber their sight... they might be in for quite a nasty surprise. Well, what to expect from a captain who does not even navigate his own boat?" She gave a mirthless laugh. "But then it is rather his wife's boat than his own after all."
Éomer held his breath, as her words sank in. His wife... that was a possible reason! The scum had been married! Slow and heavy coldness filled him like frozen lead. He would not only skewer that bastard, he would aim low, turning the spearhead in his entrails, before ripping it out again, gashing his abdomen!
"Éomer!" Her insistent voice kicked him out of his wrathful fantasies. "The way the sail is set, Amrothos can't see my signals, and he might not hear me shout aswell, with the wind coming from aft. I need your help." Handing him a thin line, she continued: "Now listen. Take the end of that rope..." A grin spread over her face at Éomer's doubtful look. "Don't worry, I'm not sending you outboard on that. We just need it for signalling. Take one end and position yourself midship. If I pull three times, you signal to Amrothos like that." She raised her hand, palm to port. "You got it?"
He nodded and turned to crawl back, when she clutched his shirt at the elbow. "Éomer, once you are sure he saw it, sit down, or better even lie down as fast as you can."
"So we're in for the same kind of dance?" Looking at her, he found his own grin mirrored in her eyes.
"No, not the same." Clasping his forearm in a warrior's embrace, she looked straight into his eyes. "This is going to be worse, and if we ground, don't jump head first, but do jump and try to keep clear of the derelict."
"And you?" Her mirth gone, she returned his gaze with unflinching eyes. Taking a step back she loosened her grip.
"Don't worry, I'll see the danger approaching and know what to do. Now hurry!" Reluctantly he ducked under the sail and took his position.
The other boat had approached even further. Amrothos was looking straight ahead, his stony face obscured by his wind-swept curls, streaming around his head like angry black snakes. Even not looking at the following boat, he realized Mardil's attack before Éomer did, feeling the ever so slight decrease of the wind pressure in their sails. Cursing he held on, keeping their course, not moving the tiller a single inch.
With untameable fury boiling up in his stomach, Éomer watched Mardil's boat sheering ever so slightly to the right, their prow now nearly level with their stern. Suddenly he felt the rope in his hand jerk violently, his hand shot up, giving the agreed signal, before he let himself drop on deck. Not one second too soon. Pushing the tiller with all his strength, Amrothos forced the boat over to the left, causing the sails to flutter wildly, dragging at the swishing lines, while their antagonists' boat shot past them on starboard.
The ship seemed rudderless for a terrifying moment, her hull heaving in convulsions, but having been prepared, Éomer felt no nausea this time, as he lay sprawled on deck, the spray sweeping over him. Being bucketed about by the jolting, rocking movements of the boat, he tried to compass what was happening, when suddenly the crash of splintering wood reached his ear, the snapping of ropes, lashing like whips, the thud of sails thrashing in the gusty wind, nearly drowning out the cries of dismay.
His heart beating a desperate tattoo, he crawled to the prow as fast as possible. To his utter relief Lothíriel was leaning at the prow, gazing at their opponent.
But of Mardil's proud vessel there only remained a clutter of planks, lines and sails, floating in the swirl of Aeglir Caragagon, while the splintered mast was canting over towards the grey waters like the neck of a dying crane.
Annotations:
"riding out" is the German term for this manoeuvre, literally translated into English. On modern sailing boats it is performed with a special safety gear that enables you to hold out much longer and keeps you from slipping overboard, but if you are mad enough (and lack the gear) you can do it that way. (I know! ;-))
As for Middle Earth: Though the Numenoreans and their descendants certainly were accomplished mariners, I cannot imagine them using anything like a special gear for the mere purpose of speed and fun, and so I have Lothíriel and Amrothos being just as mad as some old North-German biddy. ;-D
port side: (nautical term): left-hand side of a boat, as seen by a person on board looking forward towards the bow (front)
starboard: (nautical term):right-hand side of a boat (see: port side
aft: (nautical term): At or near the back end of a boat
Aeglir Caragon: (Sindarin) Ridge of the Rocky Spikes