~~The Ambitious Corsair~~
Chapter VI
Upon this island he nearly met his end. Food was scarce and the dry air and salty seawater paired with the absence of fresh water clove his skin and parched his throat. But he still held his knife, and fortunate for him Belegaer the Great had in many long years creased the rocky bedding at the island's shores, where now at low tide was laid bare a treasure of clams and oysters, resting in the brackish water. These he valued above gold, for they kept him alive. Then, when he was done despairing, he dulled his blade chopping the trees that offered him shade, and from them he built a sturdy raft and an oar to sail it. With little hope for survival, he made for open waters, braving the great sea.
Aboard the raft the sun seared his neck, and in trying to open one of the clams, the polished shell betrayed him, and he slipped the knife into his hand. The cut was not deep, but it would make the rowing more difficult. He held the wound in the salty water so that it could be healed, but the pain persisted.
Wounded and with little hope to best Belegaer’s current, he rowed eastward as well as he could. After five days and nights on the open sea he collapsed, but his raft floated by a fisherman’s boat captained by an older man. The old man took pity on the delirious Gimilthôr and brought him aboard his boat, rowing him back to shore.
At first, the weakened Gimilthôr believed he had made port in Gondor, though perhaps in some western province, nigh to Andrast. If that was so, it would not be long before they would have him in chains. But in truth, the current he had faced had drifted his raft far more northward, nigh to the shores of Enedwaith. There the old man sailed him passed the ruins of Lond Daer up the Gwathló river, to a village of barbarous fisher-folk. These men shared close kinship with the Dunlendings and they were not ill favoured towards corsairs. Indeed, they had not forgotten the black ships that had come up the Isen during the Corsair Wars, when they came to the aid of their kinsmen in their struggle against the horse-masters. Here Gimilthôr recovered his strength, speaking what Westron he knew to learn where it is that he had landed.
When he had taken from the old man what he needed, sparing him little but the promise that one day he would return and reward him handsomely for his aid, he followed the river northward to the North-South Road, or what was left of it out of the long years. He crossed the ford at the ruins of Tharbad and from there he made his long journey further northward into Bree-land, for here the fishermen had said he would find what he needed to make his long journey home.
Bree was a strange place to Gimilthôr, but the town did have everything on offer as the old man had said. But nothing came for free, and traders here spoke the common tongue, which he did not master. But he was quick to learn and eager to return home, so that within less than a fortnight he could speak it as if he were one of their own. But his swarthy skin and southern accent could not conceal him, and before long he met with shady figures up to no good.
