Isildur

Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,
      Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
      One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.
      One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them.
      One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.

The idea for writing this book was suggested by my brother Gary. Together we developed the plot outline and sketched out the major characters. We divided up the chapters and began writing them, but then Gary moved to Virginia. The project continued by mail for a time, but gradually ground to a stop. The half-finished manuscript sat in a drawer for nearly twenty years. Then, as part of my nightly bedtime reading to my son Nathan, I read him first The Hobbit, then The Lord of the Rings.

It was a joy to me to see him moved by the same scenes that had moved me at my first reading some thirty years earlier. Together we sat in the firelight of the last homely house in Rivendell and heard the history of the Ring; together we hurtled through the dark lands of Rohan on Shadowfax with Gandalf and Pippin;together we stood with Sam on the high pass of Cirith Ungol and looked out into Mordor.

When all the tales were done at last, Nathan looked at me and said, ``I'm sorry we finished it. I wanted it to go on.'' Then I recalled the manuscript in my files. I pulled it out and reread what Gary and I had written so long ago. I resolved to finish it for Nathan, so we would have one more story of Middle-earth to share. I read the second draft to him as I wrote it, which kept me at the thankless job of revision because I had to have one night's reading done every day.

Without Gary's inspiration in the beginning and Nathan's at the end, I never would have been able to write this book. I give them my thanks and my love.

I also acknowledge my debt and thanks to Professor Tolkien, without whom Middle-earth itself would never have existed. He did not approve of other authors ``spinning off'' from his original work and would not give us permission to publish this book. It is therefore self-published only for the enjoyment of our family and friends. This is perhaps just as well, for I would not wish to have my work compared with the master's. Nevertheless, I shall always be grateful to him for enriching our lives with his creation.

Of all extant records of that ancient and remarkable race the hobbits, the best preserved and least fragmentary is of course the famous Red Book of Westmarch, by Bilbo Baggins and others, dating from the late Third Age and early Fourth. As well as being an invaluable source of information about a remote time, it contains many vivid accounts and stirring tales that can stand on their own as literature. Unlike most ancient documents, its fame has spread beyond the quiet world of scholarly research to achieve no little public acclaim, due largely to the excellent and entertaining novelized version published by Professor J. R. R. Tolkien of Oxford and called by him The Lord of the Rings. His popularization manages to bring fire and life to the old records without sacrificing historical accuracy. It has made history come alive for many thousands who otherwise would have been completely unaware of the people and events of those fascinating eras now known collectively and rather inaccurately as Middle-earth.

Many lay readers of Tolkien's work may however be unaware that the Red Book is far from the only record of Middle-earth. While nothing remains of the libraries of the Quendi (that mysterious people that Professor Tolkien translated as ``Elves'') or of the men of the era, some contemporary works have miraculously enough survived down to our time. In fact the hobbits kept excellent records, and the great library of the Tooks at the Great Smials in Tuckborough must have been truly magnificent in its heyday. Fortunately for us, hobbits were very diligent about protecting and preserving their ancient books, and a rather extensive remnant of the library has been preserved. Most of the original documents have of course long ago crumbled into dust, but careful copying over the millennia has preserved their contents.

Even the famous Red Book did not survive in the original. In fact, it has come down to us by a tortuous and fortuitous path. Peregrin Took, Thirty-Second Thain of the Shire, had ordered a copy made early in the Fourth Age. When he retired to Gondor in 64 Fourth Age, he took the copy with him and gave it to King Elessar I. It was long kept in the famed library of Minas Tirith, which burned, to our eternal loss, some four hundred years later. However, in 172 Fourth Age, Findegil, the Writer of King Eldarion II, made an exact copy of the Red Book at the request of Faramir II, Thirty-fifth Thain, and that copy went again north to be kept in the Took Library. This is the copy that has descended to us through countless generations of farsighted minds and careful hands. While the other surviving documents are less complete than the Red Book, they are no less interesting, for they tell us in detail of other fascinating matters not covered in the Red Book.

Of all the events of those far-off days, the most stirring are those that were recognized even by their participants as so momentous as to signal the end of an age and the beginning of a new. These are the times of great change and upheaval, of war and danger. But they are also the times when heroes stand forth, when brave men and women risk everything for their beliefs against seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Their struggles, their defeats, and their triumphs, reach across the gulfs of time to move us still.

As these words are being written, work is going forward on the translation, editing, and publishing of The Silmarillion, the account of the end of the First Age, as The Lord of the Rings told of the end of the Third. But nothing so far has been published of the momentous events at the end of the Second Age. The Red Book is sadly incomplete on that earlier war against the Great Enemy, Sauron. Fortunately, other chronicles exist that deal with the Second Age.

Shortly after the end of the War of the Rings, both Thain Peregrin and Meriadoc, Master of Buckland, resolved to preserve what they could of the old lore. They travelled extensively in Rohan, Gondor, and Rivendell, collecting information and documents from many sources. Peregrin and his many descendants organized and edited this material into a fascinating book, now called The Thain's Book. This remarkable manuscript is rich in the lore of the Second Age. In addition, a very few of the source documents for this book have survived, notably The Tale of Years, an anonymous history of Middle-earth from the point of view of the hobbits.

Several accounts exist of the important Council of Osgiliath which took place on Loëndë, Midsummer's Day, in 3441 Second Age. The source used for the current work is a set of large foolscap sheets, entirely covered with a very minute but legible hand. They were kept rolled in sheepskin, and the remains of a binding ribbon of indeterminate color may still be seen. The original source of this account was written in the first year of the Third Age by Halgon, King's Writer of Gondor, at the order of Isildur himself. It was presumably included in the now-lost Chronicle of the Kings, a history of the Kingdom of Gondor from its founding in 3320 Second Age until the end of the Telcontar dynasty over a thousand years later. The copy at Tuckborough bears the following preface: ``This tale and several others were copied by Peregrin the First, Thain of the Shire, on his visit to Minas Tirith in the year 1441 [20 Fourth Age]. A few archaic terms and forms have been altered to conform to modern Westron usage, but otherwise it is an exact copy of Halgon's manuscript. Copied by my hand, this year of 1486 [65 Fourth Age], by Isengar, son of Isembold, Thain's Scribe.''

The account of the great naval battle at Pelargir is extracted from the journal of Amroth, a lord of the Sindarin Elves. He kept this daily record from 2960 Second Age until he took the Straight Road and departed from Middle-earth in 1294 Third Age. Before he sailed he gave the journal to his friend Elrond Peredhil. Portions of it were lost or crumbled away over the centuries, but several volumes survived in the library at Rivendell. They were there copied by Meriadoc, Master of Buckland, and brought back to the Shire in 1428 Shire Reckoning (7 Fourth Age). This extract is from a copy in the library at Tuckborough, bearing the inscription, ``Master Meriadoc ordered this copy of Amroth's journal to be made as a gift for his friend Peregrin, Thain of the Shire. This I have done. By my hand, Anson Brandybuck, 6 Blotmath, 1436 [15 Fourth Age].''

The primary source of the material for this book comes from the invaluable Journal of Ohtar, a crumbling scroll in the great collection of the Tooks at Great Smials. All authorities agree that the handwriting is undoubtedly Bilbo's, but it bears corrections and marginal notes in another hand. These notes were apparently made soon after the manuscript was completed, as several take the form of notes to Bilbo. For this reason, most scholars believe this manuscript is a copy sent by Bilbo to another authority for correction and revision. Presumably it was then used to produce a final copy which has not survived.

The identity of this early editor is a subject of great debate among scholars. He was obviously very knowledgeable in the events of the tale and fluent in Sindarin, for some of Ohtar's errors and idiomatic expressions have been accurately translated. For this reason most authorities have identified the probable editor as Elrond Peredhil, Bilbo's longtime friend and host. The present editors, however, detect what we believe to be a Mannish outlook and attitudes in these marginal notes, and a strong case (see An Analysis of The Journal of Ohtar and Related MSS, by the editors) can be made that this may be the only extant sample of the hand of Elessar Telcontar, First King of the Reunited Kingdom.

Bilbo produced this manuscript during his residence at Rivendell, and there are numerous indications that it was completed before the War of the Rings, for there is no reference to the eventual fate of the One Ring nor his nephew Frodo's pivotal rôle in that war. This would place the manuscript between the years 3002 and 3018 Third Age. In translating Ohtar's work, Bilbo was in a position few historians enjoy. He enjoyed full access to the extensive library at Rivendell and also to its master, Elrond Peredhil, who of course was present at many of the events described. He could also consult his friends King Elessar (known as Aragorn or simply Strider in those days before his coronation) and the wizard Gandalf Greyhame, two of the greatest historians of his age.

Bilbo's scroll is a relatively short work, a condensation and translation into Westron of a very old book Bilbo had found in Elrond's library. In a foreward, Bilbo describes the original as ``a small black hide-bound volume, much worn and stained and with the back cover missing. On the front cover is written in a different hand: The Journal of Ohtar Kingsquire.'' It was in the format of a journal, though whether Ohtar actually carried it about and made daily entries, or if it was copied down later from the original journal, Bilbo was unable to determine. It was either brought to Rivendell by Ohtar or written by him soon after his arrival there. From other sources we know that Ohtar and his two companions arrived at Rivendell in the late summer or early fall of 3 Third Age and left with Isildur's son Valandil for Annúminas some months later, probably early in the year 4. As far as can be determined, Bilbo's is the only copy of it ever made. The original journal is assumed to have been included in Elrond's belongings when he went Over Sea with all the other surviving Ringbearers in 3021, bringing the end of the Third Age.

The present editors have had the privilege of examining these records at first hand. As we pored over the dusty archives in the laborious task of translating a fragmentary work in a complex and long-forgotten language, a fascinating tale began to emerge. Here was truly the stuff of legend. The heroes of that time seem like giants to us. Their joys and sorrows thrill us again as they did when the stories were read to young hobbits in the fire-lit halls of the Great Smials so many thousand of years ago. It occurred to us that these tales would also merit novelization and publication in the manner (if not the skill) of Professor Tolkien. But what should be the theme of the book; where should it begin and end? It needed a central character as a focus for the narrative.

Of all the heroes of those days, none stands out so clearly, none catches our attention and curiosity more than Isildur Elendilson. Remembered now chiefly for his fatal flaw -- his ill choice on Orodruin that doomed the world to another long age of struggle against Sauron -- he was nonetheless a remarkable man, a shrewd general, and a mighty king. He was of the House of Elros, greatest of all lines of Men, but in his veins flowed also the blood of both Elda and Vala [Elros was the great-grandson of Lúthien Tinúviel, daughter of Thingol Greycloak of Doriath and Melian the Vala]. He was a Númenórean prince, Lord of Ithilien, King of Arnor, and for two brief years the High King of the Realms in Exile. He founded a dynasty of kings that ruled the Dúnedain for five thousand years.

By nature a strong and resolute man; by training a powerful and canny king; born in the fires of civil war; tempered by the loss of his native land and the hard early years of the founding of Gondor; and hardened to adamant by a long and bloody war, Isildur Elendilson was not a man to be disregarded, even by Sauron himself.

He was a man of contradictions and paradoxes: a valiant and merciless warrior but also a loving husband and father; esteeming virtue and honor above all things but intolerant of the weaknesses of others; of noble lineage and demeanor but also comfortable with his subjects and beloved by them. Even the great error that doomed him and marred the age that followed was not due to weakness on his part. It was his very nobility and virtue, his confidence in his ability to control Sauron's Ring, that brought about his downfall.

His contemporaries heaped all praise and honor on him as a paragon of royal virtue, but his heirs had reason enough to curse his name. What sort of man was Isildur, the only Man to wear Sauron's One Ring? We decided to concentrate our research on this remarkable figure.

In the beginning was The One, Eru Ilúvatar, and he created the Holy Ones, the Ainur. And the Ainur were of two kinds: the great Valar and the lesser Maiar. And the Ainur took the mighty theme of Eru's thought and they raised their voices together and they sang the world into being. But Melkor, the mightiest of the Valar, thought to increase his own power and glory and introduced his own discords into the Music.

And then Eru made his Children: the Firstborn, or Eldar; and the Followers, or Atani. The Eldar call themselves the Quendi, or Speakers, but the other races call them Elves. They age until they choose to stop and then they live forever unless they are slain, when they Cross through The Curtain and return to whence they came. At any time, they can choose to sail away into the West and follow the Straight Path that leaves the Circles of the World. Then they will be reunited with all their kindred that have already Crossed. In contrast, the Atani, or Men, always grow older until they die, then they go where none but Eru knows. This the Elves are forever denied, and for this reason Death is called the Gift of Man.

Then Fëanor the Elvensmith created the Silmarilli, The Great Jewels of Light. And Melkor coveted them and seized them for himself. Then was Melkor known as Morgoth, the Enemy. And that race of the Elves called the Noldor sailed east to the land of Middle-earth to contend with him. One house of the Men of Middle-earth, the Edain, aided the Noldor in their war against Morgoth. Still they suffered only defeats until one Man, Eärendil the Mariner, sailed away to the west and Crossed through the Curtain, the only mortal Man ever to do so, and he went to Valinor and sought the assistance of the Valar. In the end they consented and the world was changed. Morgoth was driven from the circles of the world and his fastness of Thangorodrim destroyed, but many of the northern lands of the Noldor were sunk beneath the sea. Valinor was removed from the reach of mortals and Eärendil himself was set in the sky as the Evening Star. Thus ended the First Age of the world.

After the war, some of the Noldorin Exiles sailed away from Middle-earth to return to their homes in Eldamar, near to the shores of Valinor. But many remained in Middle-earth, setting up new realms called Lindon and Eregion and Lothlórien. The Valar rewarded the Edain by granting them the great island of Elenna, between Middle-earth and Eldamar, but they placed upon them the Ban of the Valar, forbidding the ships of Men to travel west toward Eldamar and Valinor. The Men established the kingdom of Númenor there that grew mighty on its sea-borne trade. They became known as the Dúnedain, or Men of the West. Those Men who had remained in Middle-earth were known as the Uialedain, or Men of the Twilight, and they formed petty tribes, often at war with one another.

As the power and wealth of Númenor increased, its kings grew proud and came to resent the Ban of the Valar. The people of Númenor became divided, many sharing their king's envy of the immortality of the Elves and the Valar. But always a minority remained faithful to the Valar and maintained friendly relations with the Elves. The kings ceased to use the Elvish tongues and reverted to the ancient tongue of their ancestors, the Edain of Middle-earth. In the thirtieth century, King Ar-Adûnakhor persecuted the Faithful and they fled into the westernmost province of Andúnië where their party was strongest. Soon after this the use of the Elvish tongues was forbidden by royal decree.

In 3175 Tar-Palantír came to the throne and tried to end the division. He pardoned the Faithful, but feelings by this time were too high against them, and there was rebellion in the land. In 3255, Palantír died and the rebel leader, Palantír's nephew, seized the scepter and took the name Ar-Pharazôn. Palantír's heirs fled to Andúnië.

At this time a new evil arose in Middle-earth in the form of Sauron. He was a Maia, one of the lesser Ainur, and he had been Morgoth's chief lieutenant and student. In the mountain-ringed southeast portions of Middle-earth he had secretly built for himself the realm of Mordor, the Black Land, peopled by orcs, an evil race created by his master. He deceived Celebrimbor of Eregion into teaching him how he had made the Great Rings of Power, and he forged for himself the One Ring to absorb the powers of all the Great Rings. With this new weapon he rose against the Elves and the Uialedain, and he drove them back before the fury of his armies. The Elves were hard-pressed until Ar-Pharazôn in 3262 sent his mighty fleet to Middle-earth to intervene. The overwhelming might of the Númenorean fleet quickly prevailed, and Sauron was taken back to Númenor in chains. But over the years he gradually rose from captive to guest of the court to advisor, and finally to first minister. He fueled the pride and arrogance of the king and urged him to ever greater persecution of the Faithful; but Amandil, Lord of Andúnië, and his son Elendil steadfastly maintained their opposition to Pharazôn's policies. This was the troubled world into which Isildur was born.

Of Isildur's early life we know very little. He was born in 3289 Second Age in Dol Elros, the chief city of Andúnië. His father was Elendil, the Prince of Andúnië and the spiritual and political leader of the Party of the Faithful. In 3285, Elendil married Aldamirë, a woman of southern Númenor, and she gave him two sons, Isildur in 3289 and Anárion in 3296. Amandil was elderly by this time and the people rallied around the handsome and charismatic young prince Elendil, just as they would gather to his eldest son many years later. In 3310, the aging king Pharazôn, urged by Sauron, resolved to assail Valinor to acquire the immortality of the Valar for himself. He began building ships and engines of war to Sauron's designs. The Faithful tried to dissuade the lords and people of Númenor from their blasphemous course, but Pharazôn punished all dissent with death. A religious and patriotic fervor developed against the Faithful and Andúnië was isolated from the rest of the kingdom, an embattled fiefdom.

In 3319, the Great Armament sailed for Valinor. Elendil believed that all of Númenor would be destroyed when the Ban was broken, and he began preparing for a hasty evacuation. His father Amandil attempted to repeat Eärendil's feat by enlisting the aid of the Valar, but his expedition was never seen again. Pharazôn landed in Valinor and the Valar enforced their Ban by withdrawing their gift of the island of Elenna. The island crumbled and sank forever beneath the waves. Of the Great Armament, its hundreds of ships and thousands of men, no trace was ever found.

Elendil and his sons and hundreds of their followers escaped the destruction in a fleet of nine ships, taking with them the treasured relics of their ancient line: the Scepter of the Lords of Andúnië; the Ring of Barahir; a seedling of Nimloth, the White Tree; the nine Palantíri or seeing stones; and the great sword Narsil -- all gifts of the Eldar to the Lords of Andúnië.

Isildur was a young man of thirty as he stood in the prow of his ship and watched the domes and towers of his homeland torn asunder and cast beneath the waves. The forlorn little fleet was borne away by a terrible storm and became separated. Elendil at last reached Mithlond, the Grey Havens of the Elves of Lindon, and was taken in by his friend Gil-galad, King of the Noldor. Later he was granted land east of Lindon and he and his people removed there. They founded a realm with its capital at Annúminas beside lake Nenuial, and named the land Arnor, the Royal Land.

Isildur and Anárion landed near to the one haven of the Faithful in Middle-earth, the port city of Pelargir near the mouth of the Great River Anduin. They began the ordering of a great realm along the Anduin. They built their capital Osgiliath, Citadel of the Stars, where the mountains drew close to the river on either side. The fair lands along the River became dotted with farms and vineyards and orchards and the rocky land soon began to yield its richness. They named their new land Gondor, the Land of Stone, and divided it into two provinces separated by the River; Ithilien on the east under Isildur, and Anórien on the west ruled by Anárion. Isildur built a fortress city high in a pass of the Ephel Dúath and named it Minas Ithil, the Tower of the Rising Moon. On the slopes of Mindolluin, the easternmost peak of the Ered Nimrais, Anárion built Minas Anor, the Tower of the Setting Sun. For many years Arnor and Gondor, the Realms in Exile, prospered and grew in power and wealth, and the Great North Road was busy with many travelers and wagons bearing produce and goods between the sister kingdoms. In 3409 Isildur married Vorondomë, daughter of the Captain of the Ships of Ithilien. She gave him four sons between 3412 and 3429: Elendur, Aratan, Ciryon, and Valandil.

The future looked very bright for the young lord Isildur: a fair land to rule; a beautiful and loving queen; a growing family; and the prospect of one day becoming King of the Realms in Exile and ruling the greatest kingdom in Middle-earth. Then in the autumn of 3429, disaster struck. A huge force of barbarians, trolls, orcs, and many other fell creatures swept over the mountains out of Mordor. They were led by Sauron, in a new and even more powerful form, dead and yet not dead. All had thought him killed in the fall of Númenor, but he had escaped with his hatred for the Dúnedain unabated. His savage hordes swept across Ithilien and besieged Minas Ithil. After a brief but bitter struggle, the gates were breached and the enemy spread through the city, destroying all in their path. The defenders formed a wedge around their families and drove desperately through their attackers, eventually reaching Osgiliath.

The wave of the Black Host pursued them and swarmed around the walls of Osgiliath. The city withstood the siege, though the eastern portion was much damaged. That night, with Minas Ithil lost and ringing to the harsh cries and foul revelry of the orcs, Isildur stood helplessly on the walls of Osgiliath and watched the crofts and villages of his kingdom going up in flames. His wife Vorondomë was so shaken by the loss and horrors of that night she became a frightened, broken woman, never again in her life to laugh. Isildur looked out on his suffering realm and vowed to avenge the evils done that day.

Leaving his brother to hold the River and defend what remained of their kingdom, Isildur and his family fled down Anduin to the sea and eventually to his father at Annúminas. There they secured the help of their old ally, Gil-galad of Lindon. Uniting the armies of Arnor, Gondor, and Lindon, and drawing many volunteers from other neighboring realms, they formed the Army of the Alliance and marched against Sauron's hordes. Slowly they pressed their foes south and east, driving them back to the very doors of Sauron's own land of Mordor. There, in the wide fenny plains known as Dagorlad, was fought perhaps the greatest battle of ancient times. Tens of thousands fell on both sides, but eventually the allies prevailed and the Morannon, the Black Gate of Mordor was broken and taken. Sauron and his forces withdrew to the south and took refuge in his impregnable fortress of Barad-dûr. The Úlairi, the Nine Kings of Men turned into Ring-wraiths by the Great Rings they wear, ruled in Minas Ithil and launched frequent raids into Anórien. The allies besieged the Dark Tower but could neither force the gates nor draw Sauron out. Unable to prevail and unwilling to depart, the vast Army of the Alliance remained camped about the Tower for seven long years. Many attempts had been made to take the Tower, but all had failed. Finally, the Lords of the Alliance formed a bold new plan; one last desperate attempt that would end the stalemate and ensure either victory or total defeat.

The valley of Morthond was still, save for the tumble and splash of water on stone. Morning mists still hovered above the small icy stream winding down the floor of the valley. Though the year was drawing on to midsummer, frost sparkled from the tips of each grass blade, for the valley was high in the flanks of the Ered Nimrais, the White Mountains that are the rocky backbone of Gondor, Land of Stone.

Gradually the valley awoke. The hoarse croak of a raven drifted faintly down through the still air as the rising sun touched the rocky heights above. A clatter of small rocks betrayed the presence of a marmot setting out on his daily search for food among the rocks at the foot of the cliffs.

Then a low door creaked open and a woman stepped out of a rough stone cottage. She stood a moment, yawning and looking up at the brightening sky, then she picked up a wooden bucket and went down to the Morthond stream to fetch water. Soon others joined her, a woman or a child from each of the twenty or so low sod-roofed houses clustered along the stream. Soon a thin vertical stream of smoke was rising from each smoke-hole.

Then the first man appeared, stooping under the log lintel of his door. He too looked about at the day, stretching and scratching. He wore a long tunic of coarse-spun undyed wool, leather boots stuffed with straw against the chill air, and he had a large black fur drawn about his shoulders. He bent to splash his face with water from a basin filled by the woman. Then, puffing and blowing at the icy water, he pulled his cloak more tightly about himself and stalked up to the top of a rounded hill that stood beside the village.

At the top of the hill, half-buried in the ground, was a strange stone. It was a huge black globe, as smooth as glass. It must have been enormously heavy, for even half-buried it stood nearly as tall as the man as he stood beside it and gazed south down the valley. In the clear morning air he could see for league upon league as the land fell gradually away. The Morthond wound away south and west until it disappeared behind a range of low hills some miles away. His eyes swept slowly around to the west. Suddenly he stiffened and stared under his shading hand.

Miles away, a cloud of dust hung in the still air, marking the path of the road that wound up from the west, between the Morthond and the western walls of the valley. The morning sun turned the cloud to gold. He stood staring a moment or two more. Clearly the cloud was approaching. The man turned then and walked quickly back down to the village. He went to the largest house, a long hall built of massive logs, and stood before its door.

``Romach,'' he called, but the only answer was a low growl.

``Lord,'' he tried again, ``an host approaches.''

``Eh?'' A large head with long curling hair, black shot with grey, was thrust through the door. ``Ah, it must be the embassy from Umbar, come at last.''

``I think not, my lord. They are too many. An army rides toward us from Anfalas. Perhaps an hour or two away.''

``What say you? How is this?'' Romach emerged hurriedly. He was a big man, with a bearing of command. His shoulders and arms were broad and strong, but his skin was old and scarred, no longer the most powerful man in the tribe, as he had long been. He was dressed much like the other, save a jeweled belt and on his head was a thin gold circlet. ``Come,'' he said. ``Let me see.''

They ascended the hill again and stood staring into the west. The dust was closer now, and here and there beneath it bright points of metal flashed in the clear light.

``You are right, it is not the Umbardrim,'' said Romach. He peered into the distance. ``But hardly an army. I would guess no more than three hundreds. They will be here before the second hour. Could the ambassador have betrayed us?'' He turned suddenly and bounded down the slope, very nimbly for a man of his age and girth. He was shouting over his shoulder. ``We must be ready! Sound the horns! To arms!''

Soon the village was in an uproar. The women wakened the children and bustled them up toward the refuges in the head of the valley. A long ox horn was winded and soon answered from the valleys on either side, then from other valleys beyond. The men arrayed themselves for war and assembled at the broad shallow ford where the west road crossed the Morthond. In thirty minutes they had nearly two hundred and fifty drawn up, still buckling their harness, but ready to fight. In an hour the first companies from the other valleys could be seen, picking their way over the high green passes.

The approaching host had long been hidden by a fold of the land. Now they reappeared over a rise in the road, much closer. The men craned their heads to see what they were facing. First appeared spear heads and furled banners, then the flowing crests and gleaming helmets of the lead riders bobbed into sight. There was an uneasy murmur among the men. This was no band of robbers, as sometimes roamed the high valleys in summers, but heavily-armed, experienced soldiers. Fingers tightened on the hafts of weapons.

Romach glanced over his shoulder nervously. Two companies were just entering the village and a third could be seen riding hard down the east road. Reassured, he turned back to study the lead riders, now approaching the ford. From the corners of his eyes, he could see their scout riders splashing into the river a few hundred yards to either side.

Those in the van were mounted but riding slowly, for the greater part of the men were on foot. Their faces were set and grim. They bore the look of men that had made a hard journey. Their clothing was of many colors and styles, though all dusty and weather-stained. Many wore odd bits of armor. They trudged along strongly in the rapidly warming sun. They marched under many standards and bore the devices of many lords and masters unfamiliar to Romach. But at their head flew a broad emerald banner emblazoned with a white tree surmounted by a silver crown and seven stars. He stared for a moment, then roared to his men.

``Stay your hands!'' he bellowed. ``That is the banner of Gondor. These are not our foes.'' The men relaxed as one and stood whispering to one another as the newcomers approached. The first riders came to the bank of the river and paused. Their leader was a tall man, sitting straight on a huge white stallion. He wore a blue robe over a suit of mail, and he wore a crownéd helmet bearing the white wings of a seabird. Romach stared grimly, for well he knew that man, even before the newcomers' standard bearer spurred his horse forward into the midst of the stream.

``Greetings to the Men of the Mountains,'' the herald called in a loud voice. ``Isildur Elendilson, King of Gondor, seeks to meet with your lord.''

Romach stepped forward. ``I am Romach, Lord of the Eredrim. Welcome to Erech, Men of Gondor.''

Isildur came forward then and with his herald crossed the stream and rode up before Romach. He lifted off his winged helmet and held it beneath his arm. A long dark braid, black as night, tumbled over his shoulder to his waist. His keen grey eyes looked piercingly into Romach's. ``Greetings to you, Romach,'' he said. ``Long it is since last we spoke.''

``Aye, it is that, Isildur King,'' said Romach, looking up at him. ``Twenty winters have whitened the heads of the Ered Nimrais since that day.''

``I hope they have left you well?''

``Well, enough, though my head is whitened as well, as you see.''

Isildur smiled grimly, then dismounted to clasp arms with Romach. ``I come in great haste, Romach. We bear many tidings, but perhaps they would be best related in private.''

``Let us go to my hall, then,'' replied Romach. ``See that the king's people and their horses are given food and shelter,'' he called to his lieutenants. ``And send for the women to return.''

As they walked side by side up the hill to the village, Romach stole sidelong glances at the tall king striding beside him. He seemed still a man in his prime, stern of face and mighty of limb, though he had looked just the same a half century before when Romach was only a child.

For Isildur was not like other men. He was a Dúnadan, of the race of men that had long ago sailed from Middle-earth to Númenor in the west. Dwelling there near to the Blessed Lands all those long centuries, they had become tall and long-lived and powerful, wise in the lore and arts of their friends the Elves. But those who remained in Middle-earth, the Uialedain or the Men of the Twilight, had fallen into rivalries and petty wars, and they dwindled and their years ever lessened. Many fell under the sway of Sauron, the Dark Lord of Mordor, and turned to evil and their houses declined.

But then Númenor had been thrown down and the few survivors, led by Isildur's father Elendil, had returned to Middle-earth. They established great kingdoms and set themselves up as lords over the Uialedain. Many welcomed their return, thankful for the peace and unity the Dúnedain had brought to the war-torn land. But not all Uialedain lords were pleased to bow to the Men of the West.

Romach showed the king into his hall. Isildur stooped under the door, for he was nearly a head taller than Romach. He looked around as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark interior of the hall. A large fire smoldered in a pit in the center, the smoke rising among blackened beams to escape from a hole in the center of the roof. Along either side, behind rows of carved and painted wooden columns, were raised bed platforms, heaped with skins and woolen blankets in disarray from the morning's hurried departure.

Romach led Isildur to the platform at the head of the hall, where stood a high-backed wooden throne behind a massive oaken table. He pulled two stools from under the table and he and Isildur sat.

``I am sorry, Sire, that there are none to wait on you. We sent the servants with the women and children to take refuge when we spied your approach.''

``It matters not,'' said Isildur, stretching out his legs and sighing. ``We do not seek your hospitality, Romach. Sending your people to safety is a wise precaution in these troubled times. I remember there are extensive caverns at the head of this valley. Is that where they are?''

Romach seemed surprised that the king was aware of the caves. ``Aye,'' he said. ``Were we to fall here, it would take a mighty army to roust them out of those dark ways. Only we Eredrim know the hundreds of twisting tunnels under the Ered Nimrais. Why, some of the ways pierce the very mountain's heart, so that a bold and resolute man may enter at Erech and emerge in Dunharrow on the borders of Calenardhon, a dozen miles away. Our people are safe indeed in the caverns of Erech.''

Isildur nodded his approval. ``You were very quick to take action when you saw us. Have you then seen enemies in your land before?''

Romach shrugged. ``Bands of brigands occasionally appear and cause some trouble in the higher valleys, especially in summer when many of the men are up in the high pastures with the herds. They're outlanders, wandered up from strange lands in the south, `tis said. And occasionally, I'm sorry to say, they're joined by some of the local lads, the wild ones, after the excitement, or the plunder. We are ever watchful. But we did not expect the King of Gondor, especially coming from the west.''

``I daresay you did not expect me on any road.''

``True enough, Sire. It has been long since so much as a merchant has been to see us from Gondor. We could well do with the trade.''

``Things are going ill in Gondor,'' Isildur admitted grimly. ``Most of the men have been long away, fighting in Gorgoroth, and we have little time for governance or commerce. I am afraid all the provinces are forced onto their own resources. We can send you neither aid nor supplies, nor can the wealthier citizens of Osgiliath escape the summer heat by visiting your fair valleys, as they once were wont.''

``Do any still dwell in Osgiliath? We had heard that city was destroyed.''

``Then you have heard more than the truth. It is true that in the first onslaught the enemy captured and defiled the eastern districts of the city, beyond the Anduin. The people have fled to the west shore. But the Great Bridge still stands, and a strong garrison guards it. The river is now the frontier.''

``Ithilien then remains in enemy hands?''

``The province is held by neither side and is a land of great danger for all, be they Elf, Man, or orc. We occasionally sortie into East Osgiliath or into the countryside beyond and there have been many skirmishes, but nothing decisive as yet. My own capital of Minas Ithil is yet held by the Úlairi, the most fell of Sauron's servants.''

``You cannot retake your capital?'' asked Romach in surprise. ``Is the mighty army of Gondor not strong enough to take one city?

Isildur's jaw tightened, but his voice was still even. ``We dare not even attempt it. Our forces encircle Sauron in the Dark Tower, but he is yet mighty. He is besieged, but we are no less trapped than he. We dare not break our siege to assail Minas Ithil. And so my beautiful city remains in the hands of the enemy, while we are helpless to free it.''

``But we rejoiced when we heard that the men of Gondor had broken the Black Gate and entered Mordor itself. We thought to hear soon that you had taken the Black Tower. But years have passed, and yet you say the Barad-dûr still stands?''

Isildur was becoming irritated by Romach's questions. Surely such news of the war had long since reached even these remote valleys. Romach seemed to be emphasizing the Alliance's ineffectiveness so far against Sauron. But why?

``The Barad-dûr is mighty beyond belief,'' Isildur replied. ``You should see it, Romach. All who approach it are filled with dread and black despair. I have seen brave men quail at the sight. It is built of black adamant so hewn and joined that it is as smooth as glass for hundreds of feet up to the first parapet. It stands close-ringed by a chasm so deep we have never been able to sound it, preventing us from close approach to the walls. The only entrance is by an immense bridge of black iron, and that leads to a massive steel gate that has long been shut.

``Smokes and reeks constantly obscure the plain, so that only the upper towers of the Barad-dûr can be seen standing above the murk. Poisonous fumes boil out of the abyss, but we know not whether from the design of the Enemy, or from some effect of Mount Orodruin, the fire mountain which stands but a few leagues away and is ever active. We can bring no siege engines to bear against the walls or gate. No catapult can overtop the walls, but Sauron assails us at will with arrows and darts, and burning missles. Many a brave Man or Elf has died in the siege. My own younger brother Anárion was slain last year by a great stone cast from the Tower. It is maddening. Seven years now have the combined armies of Gondor and of Lindon besieged it, but still Sauron mocks us from within.''

``He must be mighty indeed,'' said Romach with wonder in his voice.

``He wields great powers,'' acknowledged Isildur, ``But we are not without powers of our own. The Army of the Alliance is the most powerful force ever assembled since the Great Armament of Ar-Pharazôn. It is led by the greatest kings and heros of Elves and Men. And we have the famous weapons: Gil-galad's spear Aeglos the Snowpoint, that none may withstand; and Elendil's blade Narsil, MoonFire. Both these weapons were doomed at their making to be the Bane of Sauron. When we assailed Mordor, Sauron himself quaked in fear.

``Though the Black Gate of Mordor was guarded by Sauron's most trusted and loyal troops, the Morannon was thrown down and the defenders ran shrieking across the vale of Udûn. We took Udûn and swept over the Plains of Gorgoroth, and we have kept him bottled up within the Tower for seven years now. But Sauron is mighty and canny and learned in the ancient lore.''

``He is said to be ages old,'' said Romach. ``Perhaps he cannot be slain. How then can you hope to defeat him?''

Isildur's irritation flared suddenly into anger. ``We hope because there is no alternative,'' he snapped. ``I assure you, Romach, the Barad-dûr will yet fall. I have sworn it beside my brother's pyre. I will throw down the Black Tower and fling it stone by stone into the chasm. I have foretold its doom, and so it shall be.''

Romach flinched back at the sudden glint of fire in Isildur's eye, the tightness of his voice. He was reminded that Isildur came long ago from fabled Númenor, where deeds of trained will and Elvish arts were practiced. Romach did not know what powers Isildur might wield, but he was rumored to be able to augur the future and to cast spells of power. He looked on Isildur in new wonder, and trembled. Never had he met a man more resolute, more determined to exact revenge.

And Isildur was but one of the lesser lords at the head of that army in Gorgoroth. The immortal Elves were led by Gil-galad, King of Lindon, the greatest living warrior of any race. With him were many noble Elf-lords, veterans of the wars against Sauron's former master Morgoth the Enemy, thousands of years ago. The men of Gondor and Arnor were commanded by Isildur's father Elendil, high king of the Dúnedain, founder of the Realms in Exile.

``I am sure you are right, Isildur,'' he said placatingly. ``The Tower must fall. And as you say, Sauron is trapped within. What can he hope to accomplish?''

``Do not think he is helpless in his captivity. He has powerful allies yet. His minions continue his depredations throughout the land. Orcs infest the Misty Mountains, wild Easterlings fall on our outposts in Harondor and the Nindalf, Corsairs raid the coasts. Even here in Lamedon, far from the Mountains of Shadow, brigands roam and plunder. These are not independent incidents -- they are the plan and the will of Sauron.''

Romach gave a thin smile. ``You ascribe all the misfortunes of the world to him, Sire. Is it not more likely that these other peoples are merely opportunists? People on the outside of power, uneasily watching the rising might of Gondor, now seeing their chance when she is weakened, distracted by Sauron?''

Isildur shook his head quickly. ``Most of our neighbors view us as protectors and friends. Throughout the Dark Years each petty kingdom was at constant war with its neighbors, instigated by Sauron himself. We Dúnedain have brought peace and understanding throughout the many lands of the Uialedain. We have not come to conquer you nor to take your land. We come as friends, with skills and assistance to offer you. Their lords are happy to have us here. Lords like yourself, Romach, who have long seen the wisdom of joining us for the mutual good of our peoples. You know Gondor is not a threat to you. Your people have long been our allies.''

``Aye,'' agreed Romach carefully. ``We have ever been on friendly terms with the kings of Gondor.''

Soon a stocky man came in wearing Isildur's livery. Romach recognized him as the herald who had announced the king.

``Ah, there you are,'' called Isildur. ``Lord Romach, this is Ohtar, my esquire and friend. What news from the camp, Ohtar? How are the men?''

``Weary and dusty, Sire, and glad of a stop. The people of Lefnui are finding it hard to maintain the pace.''

``I am sorry for that, but it cannot be helped.''

``Ethir Lefnui?'' exclaimed Romach with a start. ``The men of Ethir Lefnui are among you?'' Isildur gave him a sharp look.

``That surprises you?''

Romach fought to contain his surprise. ``No, it..., well, yes. I have never known Ethir Lefnui to send her men to fight in another land's cause.''

``It is their cause as well. They bear the same hatred for the enemy as I, and for the same cause: he has destroyed our homes. Ethir Lefnui is no more.''

``Be it not so! How did this happen?''

``Aye, not these ten days past, lord,'' said Ohtar. ``We were bound there from Anglond, and in the Nanbrethil Valley, between the mountains and the Green Hills, we came upon a ragged party of thirty men and women, the sole survivors of Ethir Lefnui. It was the Corsairs. The cursed Black Númenóreans, servants of Sauron.''

Romach nodded absently, seemingly lost in thought. ``We have heard they were abroad again, though we fear them little. Our mountain valleys are far from the sea.''

``Perhaps not far enough,'' said Isildur. ``They have assailed the strong-walled city of Anglond, and it is well up the river Anga. They nearly took it, too. Their black ships could sail far up the Morthond, and it is not impossible that you could see not friends but Corsairs coming up the west road one day soon.''

Romach smiled. ``We are strong and well prepared. In truth we do not fear an attack from the seamen of Umbar. Still, we stand ever ready.''

``It would seem so. You marshalled your forces quickly.''

``Yes, we use horns to call the men of the other valleys. They are trained to come at the first alarm.''

``Mighty must those horns be,'' said Ohtar, ``if they can be heard to the next valley. The ramparts of the Ered Nimrais are high indeed.''

Romach nodded. ``We use the horns of the wild kine of Araw. They are as long as a man and give a sound when well winded that will carry for many miles.''

Ohtar turned to Isildur. ``Such a horn would be of great use in a battle, Sire,'' he said.

``Indeed it would,'' agreed Isildur. ``Oft it is that the men cannot hear their orders in the tumult of battle. Armies have been lost because of it.''

``If you wish, Sire,'' said Romach, ``I can have a horn brought for you. A gift from the Eredrim.''

``That would please us indeed, Romach. We thank you. But we are here to ask you for a far greater gift.''

``Indeed?'' said Romach, his smile fading. But he was clearly not surprised.

``Yes. We have need of your help, to aid us in the war against Sauron. We have tried to spare the western provinces as much as possible. At first it was thought that with the aid of the Elves, the men of Ithilien and Anórien would be sufficient. I also believe my father just wanted to know that there was a corner of the realm as yet untouched by the Shadow, where people could live in peace as before. Therefore we have never called upon the people of the Ered Nimrais and the western coasts, though we have had many volunteers from Lamedon and Lebennin and even as far as Anfalas. But as you see, the war in the east does not go well. The men are weary of the long siege on the plain of Gorgoroth. Gondor has need of your help. We need every man you can spare from the needs of your own safety. I must call on you at last to fulfill the oath of the Eredrim, as was sworn to me by Karmach on this very spot nearly six score years ago.''

``The Oath of Karmach is well-remembered by the Eredrim,'' Romach assured them. ``Although it was a very long time ago. Karmach has slept in his barrow these ninety years now.'' He was finding it hard to reconcile the man before him with the semi-religious royal figure out of the old legends. This man had actually spoken with Romach's distant ancestor, the founder of his line.

``Karmach was a good man and a brave warrior,'' said Isildur, his eyes distant as he stared into the past. ``And well-loved by his people.'' He smiled. ``I can still hear their cheers when he announced our alliance. He was a wise and far-sighted king.''

Romach was less than certain that his ancestor had acted wisely in joining the fortunes of his people to those of the Dúnedain. He couldn't help wondering if old Karmach hadn't been simply seeking the strongest ally in a dangerous time. After all, his old master Sauron, who had guided and advised the Eredrim for centuries, was suddenly and unexpectedly undone, lost in the downfall of Númenor that he had helped to bring about. Now enemies threatened on every side. And here were these newcomers, these Dúnedain, borne on the wings of storm out of the sea, asking if he wanted to be their allies. They were numerous and mighty, fierce warriors, a hundred or more years old, learned in all arts, bearers of magical weapons and Elvish sorcery. How far-sighted did he have to be to see which way the wind blew?

But things were different now. Sauron, whom all thought lost, had returned in another form, no longer fair to look upon, it was said, but more powerful than ever. In all these years of war, the Dúnedain and the Elves have been able to accomplish little more than retake a few miles of desert.

But Romach was careful to let none of these thoughts show on his face. He licked his lips anxiously. Much depended on how he chose his next words.

``Much has changed in the world since those times, Sire,'' he said, watching Isildur's face. ``Karmach was speaking for a nomadic tribe of a few thousands, helpless against its warlike neighbors. But now our neighbors are our friends. And we Eredrim have not been idle. We number nearer a hundred thousands now, and we have villages in every bay of the mountains from Nanbrethil to Gilrain. We watch the mountain passes and the fords of the great roads for Gondor.''

``Much has changed,'' said Isildur calmly, though Ohtar saw the hard dark gleam in his eye that always bode ill for someone. ``But much remains the same. The Gondorrim and the Eredrim are still allies, and common enemies still threaten. Karmach swore to me on the Great Stone that the Eredrim would always come at need if called by the King of Gondor. As I swore for Gondor's part to aid the Eredrim against any attack. And we both did agree that these oaths would be binding on our descendants and successors. It was a solemn bond. Such things do not change.''

``Of, course, Sire,'' said Romach quickly. ``The Oath of Karmach is taught to every child. Indeed, it has been but recently the subject of much discussion among the people. To be honest, Sire, many of my people feel that we should remain here to guard our homes. They have little interest in the war between Gondor and Mordor. They feel it does not concern them.''

``And what of you, Romach,'' asked Isildur. ``Do you deem the war with Sauron is of no concern to you?''

``Of course we are concerned. It is most uncomfortable when one's neighbors are at war with each other. It is difficult not to become involved. After all, our friends are suffering, and our trade is disrupted.''

``You will have more than your trade disrupted if Gondor falls.''

``We know that. But we are no longer bands of wandering warriors. We are a nation of herdsmen and farmers. We have no mighty army to send with you.''

``Were you not just praising the readiness of your army?'' asked Isildur slyly.

``Our army, as you call it, is but a militia.They are ready at a horn's call to defend their homes, but they return to their homes after each call to arms. They are bold and well-trained, but they are no knights errant, to pack up and troop off to war. Who would defend our homes, our families?''

``I do not ask you to leave your homes unguarded,'' replied Isildur. ``But many of us have already lost our homes, are some are still losing them, as at the Ethir Lefnui. There is no longer safety in remaining behind in your mountain fastnesses, Romach. If Gondor falls and Sauron prevails, there will be no safe haven in any land.''

``But Sire,'' said Romach. ``We guard the western approaches to Gondor. We cannot leave the fords unguarded. We could protect Gondor better by remaining here.''

Isildur's eyes blazed. ``Of course the fords must be guarded, and your lands and villages. But you are a numerous people and your men are renowned fighters. Gondor has need of your help.'' The king bent his eyes upon Romach's. ``Are you saying you would refuse the summons?'' he growled, and Romach's face blanched.

``No, my king,'' he exclaimed quickly. ``I am only explaining that it will take some time to call all the valleys together, to make known what is required, to establish suitable defenses for those that remain. Provisions must be gathered, transportation arranged, compensation provided. Such things cannot be done quickly.''

``And yet I say unto you,'' said Isildur, ``that haste is vital at this critical hour. We are all but a small piece of a much greater whole. Even as we speak, great forces are moving, gathering, throughout all of Middle-earth. All are to be drawn together this Midsummer's Day, now but three weeks away. Then much that is hidden will be revealed. There will plans be made and all our efforts bent to a final deciding conflict.

``According to the schedule arranged, I was to have been at Erech weeks ago. But at Angrenost and again at Anglond I was delayed by the designs of the Enemy. Now time is short indeed. You must move with all haste.''

``I will send messengers to all the valleys tomorrow,'' said Romach. ``Within three days, I will have the Elders of every tribe of the Eredrim before you.''

``We do not need your Elders,'' said Isildur. ``We need your warriors.''

``I am not a king,'' exclaimed Romach. ``I am the lord only of Erech. The Eredrim are a confederation of tribes. The Elders must be consulted on any decision so momentous.''

Isildur stared, struggling to control his frustration. Romach was frightened, but surely he didn't dare break the oath. Perhaps he was just speaking the truth.

``Summon your Elders, then,'' he growled. ``But let the messengers carry word also to the valleys that the Eredrim are summoned. Let the weapontake begin at once.''

``So it shall be done,'' said Romach.

They slept that night in their tents beside the hill of Erech, but Ohtar woke during the night to find Isildur gone from his bed. Scrambling quickly out of the tent, he saw a tall figure standing beside the stone at the top of the hill. Ohtar wrapped his cloak about him and climbed shivering up to join him. Isildur turned at his approach.

``This great stone once stood in the court of the palace at Rómenna in Númenor,'' he said, stroking it with his hand. ``It had been uncovered deep in the mountain not long after the founding of Númenor, when the foundations of the palace were hewn. No one knew whence it had come; whether it had been left there by the Valar who created the island, or whether some other still more ancient race had lived in that land before them. Elros at first would have his stonemasons cut it for use in the palace then building, but they felt some power in the strange black stone and would not. The people of the court, and especially those of the royal blood, felt drawn to it and it became an heirloom of our family. In the end it was set up in the midst of the palace with fountains playing round about and flowering trees leaning above. Yet even in that lovely setting, it seemed strange and mysterious.

"In my youth I felt myself strangely drawn to it and I spent many hours sitting near it. Father sometimes said that some of the strange powers I later discovered in myself were due to my affinity for the Black Stone. Whether that is true or not, I still feel a bond with it, as if my own powers are stronger in its proximity.

"When the Downfall of Númenor approached, father bade us leave the stone, but I would not have it lost and with great effort of many men we bore it to the havens and secured it deep in my ship, next the keel. When at length we landed at Pelargir we set it up there, but later removed it here as a token of the power and friendship of Gondor here in the western provinces. It has long been revered by the Eredrim, so they must sense its power as well.''

He was silent a while, his hand yet resting on the smooth black stone.

``I am uneasy, Ohtar. I fear Romach is up to something.''

``You think he means to break the Oath?''

``Surely not. I cannot think he would dare to openly defy us. It seemed rather that he was stalling, purposely playing for time.''

``Why would he do that?''

``I don't know.'' They stood together, watching the gibbous moon sinking behind the western cliffs.

``Some of our people were drinking with the locals tonight,'' said Ohtar. ``They told me they thought the Eredrim were not eager to join our cause.''

``Clear it is that Romach is not.''

``They also said the Eredrim, or at least Romach, seemed to be expecting someone else when we appeared this morning.''

Isildur was silent and said no more. They stood there together in the darkness for some time. Eventually Ohtar grew cold and returned to the tent, but it was much later before he heard Isildur come in.

They rose early to a fine morning. The Eredrim women brought them olives and mutton and white goat cheese with which to break their fast. Isildur sent Ohtar to seek out Romach, and he found him in his hall, in council with several of his lieutenants.

``But surely he will turn back when he sees that the Gondorrim are here?'' asked one.

``I would hope so, but you know how arrogant he...'' began Romach, then his eye fell on Ohtar at the door. ``Yes?'' he called loudly, clearly a sign to the others to break off the discussion.

``My lord Isildur sends to know if any word has been received from the other tribes.''

``No, not yet. The first are expected this afternoon. We will send word when they arrive.''

Ohtar bowed and departed, feeling their eyes on his back. He paused just outside the door, but the door warden stepped towards him and he hurried back to Isildur.

``So they do expect other visitors,'' said Isildur when Ohtar reported what he had overheard.

``Yes, someone who would not want to appear while we're here.''

``Some mischief is afoot here, but I cannot guess what it might be. We must remain alert. Pass the word to your friends among the men to see if they can learn anything.''

The men were employed repairing their gear and sharpening their weapons. Isildur met with his lieutenants, informing them they would likely remain in Erech several more days. In midmorning Ohtar heard shouting and looked up from his grindstone. The watchman that Romach kept posted at the Stone was running as fast as he could toward Romach's hall. Others of the Eredrim were gathering nearby. Ohtar joined them and found Isildur already there.

Romach and his lieutenants were whispering excitedly among themselves. Isildur strode up to them.

``What is it, Romach?'' he demanded. Romach's face blanched white. Ohtar noticed he was trembling.

``R-riders are approaching, Sire,'' he stammered.

``The Elders from the other tribes?''

``No, Sire. An embassy from another land.''

``An embassy? You did not mention yesterday that you were expecting an embassy.''

``No.'' He wiped his sweating face. Hoof beats could now be heard from the direction of the ford. ``We did not expect them to...'' he gulped. ``We did not expect them today, Sire,'' he finished.

``And whom do they represent? If they are from Anfalas, it would save me a long ride to Ringlond to meet with their lord.''

``They rode from Ringlond, Sire, but they are not the men of Anfalas.''

``Not Anfalas? Then who are they, Romach? Stop stammering and...''

Suddenly a high shrill wail cut through the babble of voices. It was a woman's scream, full of grief and terror, and it chilled the hearts of every man there. All fell silent in amazement.

Even as they wheeled to look, six riders thundered into the village under a white banner of truce. They were tall and dark, with swarthy, sun-darkened skin. Their raiment was black and red, and their leader wore a helm in the likeness of a sea eagle, its great hooked beak mirroring his own.

Ohtar gasped. ``Sire!'' he exclaimed. ``Those are no Uialedain!''

Isildur stared, his jaw set hard. ``No. We saw enough of their like at Anglond to ever forget them. The Corsairs of Umbar!''

A man came running up from the camp, sword in hand. He was followed by another, then another -- the men of Ethir Lefnui. Isildur's people grabbed up their weapons and came running as well.

``Stop!'' shouted Isildur. ``There will be no fighting until we know what game Romach is playing.''

The men stopped beside the king, but they glared at the riders, now calmly dismounting by Romach's hall. Their eyes were cold and hard, and their knuckles were white on their sword hilts. Ohtar called some of the Ithilien men to join them, but whether to attack the Corsairs or to restrain the men of Ethir Lefnui, no one was sure. Isildur stalked over to Romach's hall, his eyes blazing.

``What means this, Romach?'' he roared. ``Do you then betray us to our enemies?''

Before Romach could reply, the leader of the newcomers turned to Isildur.

``I am Malithôr,'' he said in a smooth unctuous voice. ``Ambassador of his Imperial Majesty Herumor of Umbar. And well do I know you, Isildur Elendilson. But I must point out to both you and my friend here,'' and he nodded toward the white-faced Romach, ``that your enemies, Isildur, are not necessarily his.'' The ambassador glared insolently at the king. He was nearly as tall as Isildur, but thin and narrow-shouldered, with a long face and high cheekbones. He stood drawn up to his full height, head thrown back proudly. Dark eyes glittered as he peered down his long nose. ``My lord Romach must first choose his friends before he may know his enemies,'' he said.

``The slaves of Sauron are the enemies of all free peoples,'' replied Isildur through clenched teeth.

The cold eyes kindled. ``The Men of Umbar are slaves to no one! We are our own agents, acting for our own ends.''

``Your ends are murder and pillage,'' growled Isildur. ``I was at Anglond when your ships attacked that city and slew many peaceable farmers.''

The ambassador of Umbar gave a grim smile. ``Peaceable farmers, were they? And what was your errand to Anglond, Isildur? We captured a few of those peaceable farmers alive, and upon questioning they told us you were there to turn them from farmers to soldiers.''

``Questioning? You mean torture.''

The ambassador shrugged. ``They required some persuasion, of course, but what of that? We needed to know why you were there and they were at first reluctant to tell us. We could learn nothing from their silence or their lies. In the end of course they told the truth, as they all do eventually. You're a soldier, Isildur. You know torture is the quickest and surest way to learn the truth.''

Isildur glared, his eyes full of hatred. ``We do not torture prisoners we capture. It is barbaric.''

``Then you are fools. I am sure you took a few of our people during the fighting at Anglond. They were brave and loyal men, I'm sure, but I have no doubt that torture, skillfully applied, would have induced them to tell you we planned to sail to the River Lefnui next. If you had known that, perhaps you could have saved that city.''

Isildur's face went red with anger. ``The sack of Ethir Lefnui is an outrage and a crime,'' shouted Isildur, his voice shaking. ``Those people had done nothing to you. They were no threat to you.''

The ambassador's face remained calm, even careless. ``That's quite true, of course. They were completely unimportant. The people of Lefnui have always been peaceful and trusting. But we needed to set an example, and burning Lefnui would cost us little trouble. We wanted the people of all lands to know that the hand of Umbar is long, and neither high walls nor the promised protection of Gondor will stay that hand when people insist on allying themselves with the wrong side.'' He glanced meaningfully toward Romach.

``You have a strange way of enlisting allies in your cause,'' said Isildur. ``Do you seek to make your friends by killing them?''

``We do not seek friends,'' snapped Malithôr. ``Umbar is so mighty it has no need of allies. But when a city threatens to rise up against us, it could give others ideas. And so we crush it, as we would a disobedient dog. Other lands that might have thought of wavering soon find new resolve to avoid a similar fate.'' He smiled at Romach. ``Might we go into your hall, my lord? We have much to speak of.''

Romach started. ``Yes, of course. Come in.'' He glanced at Isildur's face, now dark with fury. ``Both of you, come into my hall.'' He led the way under the low door. Isildur turned to Ohtar.

``Keep a close eye on the Umbardrim. And keep the Lefnui people away from them. They are under a flag of truce.'' He turned and entered the hall behind Malithôr.

``You have no right to threaten these people,'' he said as soon as the door was closed. ``They are free to choose their friends as they will.''

``We have every right to do whatever we want!'' replied Malithôr, showing signs of anger for the first time. ``Herumor is the rightful lord of all these lands, not your Elendil. Umbar was founded long ago by the mighty kings of Númenor, and we have ruled this land for long ages before Gondor existed. What would the Uialedain have been without us Dúnedain? We brought the first corn and wine to Middle-earth. We taught them farming and shipbuilding and constructing in stone. We have been their teachers, their protectors, their lords, for over two thousand years, while your forefathers sat in Andúnië and mooned after their friends the Elves. Where were your noble Elves when fair Númenor was torn asunder? Drinking, no doubt, with their allies the Valar, they who cast our homeland under the sea!

``We have lived with the men of Middle-earth for centuries. We know each other well. They have always looked to the mighty fleet of Umbar for their protection. They are our grateful wards. It is you, Isildur, and your father that have stirred them against us. We are merely bringing them back to their senses.''

``Does slaying them bring them to their senses, Malithôr? Do you truly believe that it is in their interests to bend their knees to Sauron?''

``Of course it is in their interest. It is always in one's interest to be aligned with a victor. It is fruitless to stand against Sauron. Do you think to defeat him with your puny weapons? He is not a man such as we, nor is he yet like to the Elves. For he is one of the Maiar, the mighty ones who were present when the world was made. You cannot dream to defeat him. Not all the Elves and Men in all of Middle-earth could so much as approach him. Why, he learned his powers at the feet of Melkor the Vala himself.''

``Speak not that name!'' spat Isildur. ``He forfeited his right to bear a name and shall ever be known only as Morgoth, the Black Enemy. Like his lackey Sauron, he too, once thought to set himself to be Lord of Middle-earth. Infinitely mightier than Sauron was he, and yet Elves and Men cast him down and he was driven from the circles of the world, and thus the Elder Days passed away and the New Age began.''

``He was overthrown only by the might of his fellow Valar, not by puny men nor Elves. Now the Valar have withdrawn from the world and they have sworn never to enter it again. And Sauron has grown much greater since his master's downfall.''

``You defend Sauron as if you spoke for him instead of your Emperor. Are you then Herumor's creature, or Sauron's?''

Malithôr's eyes flickered at that. ``I am a loyal subject of his Imperial Majesty Herumor of Umbar. His Majesty bows his knee to no one, not even Sauron. I was only pointing out the futility of your struggle against Sauron.''

``Sauron is bent on enslaving all the peoples of Middle-earth. Does your Emperor think to become one of his slaves? Or does he plan to stand against him when he moves to bring Umbar under his dominion?''

``Umbar will never be ruled by Sauron! But he is a great power to be reckoned with; it is not prudent to openly oppose him. Yet he can be appeased, placated. And when he is victorious over the Elves and you Gondorrim, he will remember his friends.'' With another significant glance at Romach, he added, ``As he will remember those who fought against him. And if you think Ethir Lefnui's fate hard, tempt not Sauron's anger.''

Isildur made a sound of disgust and abruptly broke off the debate. He turned to Romach.

``Do not be fooled by his lies, Romach. Do you fancy that you can ingratiate yourselves with such as Sauron? He does not make allies, he makes slaves. This Malithôr may deny it, but I tell you the Umbardrim are the agents of Sauron -- if not actually in his service, they are at best working his will for their own ends. Listen not to this tool of the Enemy. He says he is the ambassador of Umbar, but I say he is naught but the mouth of Sauron.''

Malithôr actually hissed. ``And you, Isildur, are the pawn of the Elves. Do you think they truly love Men? Gil-galad is using you as a minor distraction against Sauron, as a fallen warrior might throw dust into his enemy's eyes in the faint hope that his death stroke will go astray.''

``The Elves have ever been our friends and our allies,'' retorted Isildur. ``They fought beside us against Morgoth in the Elder Days, and they fight with us today against Sauron.''

Malithôr shook his head resignedly, as at a foolish and stubborn child. ``They are using you, Isildur. You spill the noble blood of Númenor for them, but the Elves are a fading race. They are no longer concerned with the affairs of Middle-earth. Always they are sailing away, never to return. Hardly a month goes by that a ship does not sail from the Grey Havens, bound back to their home in the west. Your Elvish allies will tire of the war and dwindle away. Soon all will be gone, and you will be facing Sauron alone. Would you still stand against him then?''

``Gil-galad and the Elves of Lindon will not abandon us while this war persists. And were there no Elves to aid us, still would we fight Sauron. Even if all hope of victory were gone, better to die his foes than to live his slaves.''

Malithôr gave a mirthless laugh. ``Bah. Your line has always been dreamers.''

``And you Black Númenóreans have ever been the tools of evil,'' snapped Isildur. ``Long have you harassed the people of these coasts, and many of them even now sit chained to the oars in your ships. You are nothing but common pirates.''

``Pirates?'' cried the ambassador. ``We are the descendants of the kings of Númenor. Are their deeds as naught to you? You are Númenórean yourself. Have you forgotten the glory and might of Ar-Pharazôn the Golden? He that landed at Umbar with a thousand ships, each with a thousand warriors? Even the mighty Sauron came then to his summons, and bent his knee before him and pledged fealty to him and gave himself up as hostage.''

``Yes, and lied and deceived and whispered until he rose from the king's prisoner to his chief councillor. And by his craft and urging he brought down all the might of Ar-Pharazôn and sank all our fair land beneath the waves.''

``It was not Sauron that destroyed Númenor,'' snapped Malithôr. ``It was your friends, the ever-protecting blessed Valar.''

``Do not speak ill of the Valar, Mouth of Sauron,'' roared Isildur, ``lest I forget your claim of emissary and have you hanged as a pirate!''

Malithôr's guards stepped forward. He started back, but he quickly regained his composure. He grinned insolently.

``But you wouldn't do that, Isildur. I am an emissary of my Emperor and I bear a flag of truce. You believe in diplomatic protection, surely.''

``I believe in honor, yes. I believe that the conventions of war must be observed, even to such as you.''

``And yet you know that we would feel no compunction in a similar situation.'' He nearly leered. ``Maddening, isn't it?''

``Civilized peoples must behave in a civilized manner. Your people were civilized once and did great works, but you destroyed it all and now merely prey on the shipping of your neighbors.''

``Their ships cross our territorial water carrying rich goods. If they will not pay our duties, we seize them. We are within our rights.''

``Your territorial waters? You raid all the way from Minhiriath to Harad. Both are a long sail from Umbar.''

``Such is our territory by ancient right. We have always been the masters of these seas. We provide for the safety of shipping. All seamen know no pirates prowl the sea lanes where Umbar rules. It is our custom to ask those who use our waters to make payment for our protection.''

``In exchange for it you mean. Your duties are nothing more than a ransom for the freedom of the captains and crews.''

``If they cannot pay our duty they must work it off in labor. It is a long-standing practice. Call it what you will.''

``I call it piracy,'' said Isildur. ``Know you that I will not rest until you have ceased your raiding and returned our people to us.''

Malithôr snorted. ``Then you shall go without your rest for a long time, Isildur Elendilson. Your threats are idle. You have neither the ships nor the time to contest the seas with us. Gondor has all it can do to try to contain Sauron. Do you think for a moment that he could not leave the Barad-dûr any time he wishes? He has no need to fight you. His reach and his sight ever lengthen, and his power grows even as you camp on his doorstep.''

Isildur seethed with rage, and only with difficulty did he contain his voice. He wheeled upon Romach, cowering back at the wrath of the two mighty Dúnedain.

``And what of you, Romach? You have heard the threats of the Mouth of Sauron. You are sworn allies of Gondor. You owe these Umbardrim nothing save the toe of your boot. Remember the Oath of Karmach.''

``Remember also Ethir Lefnui,'' whispered Malithôr.

``Yes, remember the people of Lefnui,'' said Isildur. ``They were your neighbors and trading partners, their race akin to yours. If they died as a lesson to you, let that lesson be that you cannot trust the Corsairs of Umbar. Send these pirates packing and join us against our foes.''

They both stared expectantly at Romach. Romach looked uneasily between their faces.

``It is a matter for the Elders to decide, my lords.'' he said. ``I cannot speak for the Eredrim.''

``The time to decide is now, Romach,'' said Malithôr.

``All the Elders will be here tonight, or in the morning at the latest. Tomorrow we will hold council together.''

``Let us hope they remember their friends of old,'' said Malithôr.

``Let us hope they remember their oath,'' growled Isildur, and he turned and stalked from the hall. The crowd of men near the door parted to let him pass, for none could withstand his glare.

Back in the camp, Isildur fumed up and down before his tent. None came near him, save Ohtar sitting on some packs nearby. Ohtar remained silent until he judged that Isildur's rage had cooled sufficiently to speak. ``Do you think he will keep their oath?'' he asked.

Isildur clenched his fists. ``He had better! I can not abide oathbreakers! Has the spirit of their race sunk so low that they will break their troth? Is honor and fealty as nothing to them?'' He stalked away, spun on his heel, stalked back, while Ohtar watched in sympathy and also some foreboding.

Ohtar well knew the depth of the sense of honor and virtue in Isildur. It was a large part of the reason he loved him, and it was the source of Ohtar's own unswerving loyalty to Isildur as his king and his friend. But he also knew that intensity of feeling created a blind spot in the king. It was inconceivable to Isildur why a man would break his bond. Isildur's confidence, his bone-felt certainty of what is right in every situation made him truly incapable of understanding the motives of lesser men.

Ohtar, however, was not a Dúnadan. He was but thirty, born long after fair Númenor sank beneath the waves. He had been a hunter in the forests of the Emyn Arnen, the hill country in southern Ithilien. He knew and understood the mixed feelings of many of the Uialedain lords to the Dúnedain kings. Many of them had been powerful local warlords when Isildur and Anárion's ships were driven upon this coast near their old trading station of Pelargir.

The Uialedain at first fled at their approach. The newcomers were numerous and well-armed, and looked like the feared Corsairs that the coastal dwellers knew all too well. But these new Dúnedain proved to be peaceable and generous, offering their help freely. Their healers cured the sick, their kings wielded powers that seemed as magic. None of the small states and tribes in the region dared stand against them. They were given land along the Great River and they built their cities of stone. Intervening in local conflicts and rivalries, they soon brought peace to a region that had never known it. The common people loved and feared them, but some of the lords yet longed for the days when people trembled at their names. And many liked it less when their children began to speak in the tongue of Gondor and there was estrangement between the generations.

Ohtar always felt it his part to speak for the Uialedain. He thought of himself not as an advocate, but as a translator.

``The Uialedain lords,'' he said when he felt the time was ripe, ``have learned by hard lessons that loyalties may change. They lack your long sight, Sire. Romach is frightened. Perhaps he values his honor less than his skin.''

``You think him merely craven? I fear he may be falling under the shadow of Sauron.''

``It is possible,'' Ohtar shrugged. ``But if you will pardon me, Sire, it seems to me that he is between a hammer and an anvil. Herumor openly threatens him and holds up the rape of Lefnui as a dreadful example.''

Isildur growled. ``A fair city destroyed, hundreds of innocents slain; all for no more than a demonstration that they are capable of it. Would that I faced that arrogant `ambassador' in battle. I'd separate that grinning head from his body. Sauron would have to speak through another mouth.''

``Still,'' said Ohtar, ``if Romach rode with us, Erech could face a like attack. He would have to leave a strong force behind.''

``We do not ask him to leave Erech undefended. But the Eredrim are numerous. He could yet muster a considerable army and fulfill the oath.''

``Perhaps he only speaks the truth. Perhaps he truly cannot make the decision alone.''

``I do not believe that, do you?''

``No. I deem that if he wished he could speak for the Eredrim without contradiction. But he thinks either decision is dangerous and he doesn't want to be the one to cast the die. I think he was stalling for time because he knew Malithôr was coming and he wanted to know the views of Umbar.''

``Yes. Though I think he would have much preferred to not have us both here at the same time.'' Isildur laughed suddenly, his great booming laugh.

``Hah! Did you mark Romach when I was contending with Malithôr?''

``Aye. His head was going back and forth like a shuttle,'' laughed Ohtar. ``His mouth dropped open when you called Malithôr a pirate.''

``The Mouth of Sauron bandied words with me, but they are no better than pirates. It matters little to a galley slave that he is serving a life sentence for being too poor to pay tribute. Would his bondage be more onerous if he had been captured by a pirate rather than a king's ship? He still loses both his ship and his freedom.

``And what of the dozens of small seaports and fishing villages along the coasts? Are they avoiding the duty fees of Umbar, too? The Corsairs make no apology for their plundering and murdering.''

``Aye,'' Ohtar agreed. ``They would say it is just part of protecting their trade.''

``The blackguards. If only we could win this war with Sauron, defeat him once and for all, then would I humble these Corsairs. Before the war Anárion and I had many debates about how best to deal with them. He ever counseled that we should build more ships and strengthen the fleet, then confront the Corsairs openly wherever we found them. But I was the elder, and had seen too much of battles at sea, of burning ships and good men borne down by their armour to graves in the deeps. I advised defense and patience. We strengthened our coastal cities. We set up strong places on the headlands and at the mouths of Anduin, with unsleeping watches to sound the alarm should the black sails be sighted.

``It worked, too. The Corsairs dared not attack Gondor or her allies, though they continued their depredations to the south. Then came the war, and the greater part of Gondor's strength was drawn away to fight Sauron. We thought the war would be won in a few months, but it has dragged on now for twelve years. The strong places were left undermanned, our ships without crews. The Corsairs were free to roam at will. They nibbled away at the edges at first, raiding fishing villages in the remote regions of Minhiriath, then small seaports on the Gwathlo. Two years ago they raided nearly to Tharbad, where the road to Arnor crosses the Gwathlo. Now even strong cities like Anglond are besieged. Anárion was right. We should have driven them from the seas when we could.

``I tell you, Ohtar, this stalemate in Gorgoroth is like to drive me mad with frustration. We can't get into the Tower or draw Sauron out, and yet we dare not leave or turn our attention to other pressing matters, such as retaking Minas Ithil and cleansing Ithilien, and driving these accursed Corsairs from our coasts. We have so much to do, and yet we sit here and wait while merchants like Romach weigh their loyalties like cheeses in the market.''

A man hurried up to Isildur. ``My king. Riders approach from the east.''

``What now?'' grumbled Isildur. ``Do the Easterlings seek to treat with the Eredrim too?'' But they walked toward Romach's hall. Many of the Eredrim were hurrying there as well.

A score of horsemen approached: young Eredrim warriors fully armed and four old grey-bearded men. They dismounted, and Romach emerged from his hall to greet them. As they spoke, Isildur noticed Malithôr watching from the door of the hall. Isildur strode forward quickly.

Romach was already talking with the Elders in a low voice when Isildur approached. He looked up sharply.

``Ah, there you are, Sire. Revered Elders, I have the honor to present Isildur Elendilson, King of Gondor. Sire, the Elders of the Eredrim.''

As Isildur was introduced to each in turn and was struggling to memorize their names, Ohtar studied the old men. He noticed each glancing uneasily to where Malithôr stood watching from the shadows. It appeared that the ambassador was already known to the Elders.

``Now,'' said Isildur. ``The Elders are present. Perhaps now we can take counsel together and come to a resolution.''

``Oh, no, Sire,'' stammered one of the Elders. ``We are not all here yet, Urmach of Kiril Vale has not arrived, nor Fornen from the high valleys of Fornoch in the west. We could not proceed without them.''

``Could we expect them soon?'' asked Isildur, irritation evident in his voice. ``Time is precious.''

``Urmach should be here before dark. It is possible that Fornen could arrive tonight as well.''

``But more likely tomorrow,''said another.

``Let me know when they arrive,'' growled Isildur, and returned to his tent. Ohtar saw the nervous looks exchanged among the Eredrim. It was all too clear that Isildur's patience was wearing thin. Ohtar remained long enough to see the Elders join Romach and Malithôr in the hall, then he returned to camp.

Isildur was still in a foul mood, and Ohtar made no attempt to break his silence. When night fell with no sign of the two remaining Elders, they said little, but sat long before the fire. At last, when the moon, now waning gibbous, peeped over the eastern cliffs, turning the valley to ebony and argent, they went to their beds.

That night Ohtar could hear Isildur rolling about in his bed, and knew the king was sleepless, thinking no doubt of all that depended on this fateful mission. Ohtar too was awake long, watching the moon as she crept slowly across the sky, her face demurely half-covered in her lacy veil.

Isildur was up at first light. A light frost had fallen, and mists hung above the Morthond stream. Isildur paced the camp silently, wrapped in his long black cloak. He startled more than one of the sentries and the sleepy cooks starting their fires when his tall dark figure appeared out of the mists, pacing slowly and acknowledging them not.

After the men had broken their fast, the mists wafted away on the morning breeze and the day came bright and clear. Isildur called his captains together.

``Have your companies prepare to march tomorrow,'' he said. ``The remaining Elders of the Eredrim should arrive this morning, and then we can take counsel together. I hope to see the muster well under way by the end of the day.''

The hours dragged by and still no riders appeared. Isildur, too anxious to wait quietly, called for his horse Fleetfoot. Leaving orders that he be summoned if the Elders appeared, he rode alone up to the head of the valley to see the Caverns of Erech.

The valley was deep in lush spring grass, high enough that Fleetfoot waded through it up to his belly. The valley narrowed and grew steeper as the high and rocky walls closed in on either hand. He came upon a beaten path beside the stream and followed it into a jumble of huge boulders that had fallen from the heights above. The stream tumbled among the boulders in dozens of small cascades. The valley narrowed until it was only a slit in the mountain, so close the rock on the left hand nearly brushed his knees, while the trail became but a narrow ledge above the rivulet. The walls soared away out of sight, so high that stars gleamed in a black sky, though it was not yet noon. Fleetfoot's hooves rang on the stony path, sending echoes clattering into the heights.

He rounded a sharp turn and the walls fell back, leaving an open space almost like a huge well. In the far wall was a broad stone arch leading into darkness. A black horse was hobbled beside the tunnel's mouth. Isildur dismounted and approached. He could feel the cold damp air wafting from the opening, like the breath of something ancient that brooded under the mountains. Here was the entrance to the vast Caverns of Erech.

As he looked into the darkness, something moved within. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. A harsh laugh came from the blackness before him. And then the long hawk-like face of Malithôr appeared, a beam of light cutting across it, leaving only the eyes in shadow.

``You will not need your sword, Isildur,'' he smiled. ``This land is yet neutral, and we are both emissaries here.''

``The Eredrim will not remain neutral for long, Malithôr. This day will Romach give his decision. Then you may take word back to your lord that the Eredrim shall always remain faithful to Gondor.''

``Do you really think that Romach is bold enough to defy Umbar? He and those other old fools wouldn't dare. Did you see him sweat when I reminded him of Lefnui? He is a fool.''

``Is your contempt only for him, or for all the Eredrim?''

``It encompasses all the tribes of the Uialedain. Come, Isildur. You're one of us. You know what they're like. They're born to serve us Dúnedain. They've proven time and again that they're incapable of ruling themselves. Why do you bother trying to forge alliances with them? They don't need allies, they need a strong hand to rule them.''

``Such as your emperor's, I suppose?''

``Why not? He at least has already proven himself capable of ruling them, which your father has not.''

``We do not seek to rule them. We want them as friends, not subjects.''

``Friends? Why would you wish to have such rabble as friends? They are a lesser race, Isildur, you cannot deny it. They know nothing of Númenor, its great history, its heroes, its beauties. Through the long rise of our civilization and its recent downfall, they have remained here tending their herds and living in their log houses. They are barbarians. They don't even speak our noble language, but only babble in their rude tongues. They live but a handful of years and die like dogs.''

``No, like us, they die as Men and leave their widows grieving. Though our lines were sundered long ago before the world was changed, still they are our brothers. Malithôr, listen to me. You are a learned man. Herumor deems that he is acting for the greater glory of Umbar, but he is but Sauron's creature. Sauron sends forth his long arm and the Umbardrim sail to war. Do you not see the evil that Sauron represents?''

``I see only that he is the more powerful.'' Malithôr studied Isildur a moment, considering. ``I will tell you this in confidence, Isildur, speaking as one Dúnadan to another. I have lived in Middle-earth a long time, far longer than you, and I have seen kings come and go. Sauron cannot be defeated by Gondor or Umbar or the Elves, or by any alliance save that of the Valar themselves, and that will not happen again. He is mighty beyond our comprehension, and he is determined to rule all of Middle-earth. Nothing can stop him. I intend to survive this war, and that means standing with Sauron, whatever the Emperor desires.''

``I thought you were His Imperial Majesty's man.''

Malithôr looked at Isildur with a wry smile. He lowered his voice even further. ``No. You were quite right. Long have I served in the court of Umbar and the Emperor considers me his most loyal and trusted advisor, but as you guessed, I am in fact Sauron's agent. I manipulate the Emperor to keep the policies of Umbar to Sauron's liking, though Herumor thinks he is acting only for his own ends. Yesterday in your anger you called me the Mouth of Sauron. You meant it as an insult, but I acknowledge the compliment with gratitude.'' He drew himself up and his eyes flashed with pride. ``I do give Sauron's will a voice. I am proud that the Master trusts me to speak for him to Herumor, and through Herumor to these Uialedain savages. Sauron and I work together well. We understand each other.''

``Sauron knows me as well,'' replied Isildur. ``Often did I speak against him in the palace at Armenelos when he whispered his treacheries into the ear of King Ar-Pharazôn.''

``Aye, he remembers you as well, Isildur. He has spoken of you many times. He seems to bear a particular enmity towards you. Something I did not fully grasp, about a tree, I believe?''

Isildur gave a mirthless laugh. ``Yes. Once long ago in Númenor, he had at last convinced Ar-Pharazôn to burn Nimloth, the White Tree that grew in his court. He had no reason to do it, save spite and his hatred of all things Elvish, for it had been given to all Númenóreans by the Elves. I would not see it destroyed, and so alone and in stealth I entered into the palace in disguise and I took from the tree one fruit. I was discovered and attacked. Though I was grievously wounded, yet did I win back to Andúnië with the fruit and its seed.''

``All that for a mere fruit tree? Why?''

``Nimloth was more than a tree. It was a token of the undying friendship of the Eldar and also a reminder of the Valar, for it was a scion of Celeborn, and that of Galathilion, and that of Telperion, Mother of Trees.''

``You do indeed revere the old ways, Isildur, foolish and vain though they may be. A bold but senseless adventure. But in spite of your disguise Sauron learned that you were the thief?''

``Yes. He burned Nimloth, but he never learned where the seed was hidden. Years later I planted it before my hall in Minas Ithil and it grew tall and fair, even as Nimloth had.''

``It was in Minas Ithil?'' asked Malithôr. ``Then Sauron...''

``Yes. Now Sauron has burned that tree too, curse him. But tell your friend this when next you meet: know that the tree bore many fruits and the seed of each was kept. Many were planted in secret places, others were sent away to safe and distant lands. He can never destroy the White Tree, just as he cannot sunder the friendship between Elves and Men.''

``The Master,'' said Malithôr, ``holds another opinion. Whether or not the Elves remain allies of Men is unimportant. The Elves and all their powers and works are passing from the world. Their interest in events this side of the Sea is fading. They are leaving, sailing forever from our shores. Soon they will all be gone, and you will stand at last helpless and alone before the Master. These nuts you have squirreled away will not help you then, Isildur. All shall fall on their faces before him. All save those of us who stand beside him.''

``The Elves will never desert us,'' said Isildur. ``They will leave Middle-earth one day, it is true, but that day is not yet come. They returned hither from far Elvenhome to defeat the evil of Morgoth, and while Sauron yet rules their task is not completed. The Army of the Alliance will camp next the Barad-dûr until he comes out, and then they will destroy him.''

``Destroy Sauron?'' laughed Malithôr. ``There is no power on Earth that can harm him while he wields the One Ring. You may throw yourselves against his walls until he tires of your noise. He is but biding his time. Soon he will ride forth and wrest all the lands of the west from you. Then his enemies will be thrown down and his friends raised up.'' He drew himself up with a malicious smile. ``Perhaps then I shall be Lord of Ithilien, or even King of Gondor.''

``You may be the Mouth of Sauron, Malithôr, but you do not know his mind. You are more likely to become a slave than a king. There were once many high and noble kings of men who thought to be Sauron's lieutenants. Many were learned mages and wielded great powers of their own. No doubt they thought to be kings as you do. And Sauron honored them with gifts of the Great Rings of Power, and now they are now naught but shades of men, ghosts that must do his bidding like puppets dancing on his strings.''

Malithôr's dark face paled. ``You should not mock the Nazgûl, for they are fell and dangerous. A fear goes before them, and none may stand against them.''

``Yet stand against them I shall,'' replied Isildur. ``And I shall prevail, for they occupy my fair Minas Ithil. You can advise Romach to break his oath and kneel to Sauron, but I am not so easily swayed or corrupted.'' Suddenly he threw back his cloak and swept his sword out and held it up ringing before him.

``I make an oath to you, Malithôr: I shall scour Sauron's scum from Minas Ithil and all of my land, and if it is within my power I shall slay Sauron and cut the One Ring from his hand myself. Then all of Sauron's works and spells, his creatures and poisons, and all those who aided him, shall be thrown down.''

``You do not th...'' began Malithôr, but then they both turned as a horn rang clear and true in the distance. Isildur hurried to Fleetfoot. ``It is the horns of Erech,'' he called as he mounted, ``the Elders are come at last.'' But Malithôr was already racing for his horse. Isildur gave Fleetfoot his head, and the horse flew through the long grass like a ship plowing the sea. Malithôr was soon left far behind.

Isildur galloped into camp and hurried to his tent. Ohtar was already there.

``Is it another Elder?'' Isildur asked.

``Two. They arrived nearly together less than half an hour ago. They have been closeted with Romach since then.'' Ohtar looked at the king's face. ``Did you see the Caverns, Sire?''

``No. I reached them, but found another already there. The ambassador was there as well.''

``You met him? I knew I should have gone with you.''

``He is not fool enough to raise his hand against me. We had a most interesting talk. I'll tell you later what he said. Now, I must dress for the meeting with the Elders. I shall wear my mithril armor and the blue cloak. I want them to see with whom they are dealing. Now help me with this thong. Where's the other end of it?''

Isildur shifted uneasily in his chair. The meeting had been going on now for several hours, and still the Elders had not reached a decision. Isildur pleaded his case and they seemed to favor him for a while. But then Malithôr addressed them and he was both eloquent and threatening, and the Elders wavered again.

To Isildur the choice was clear. At last he could stand it no longer. He jumped to his feet, interrupting a seemingly endless speech about the impact on local trade of an alliance with Umbar.

``Only one argument need be considered,'' he suddenly cried.

Urmach, the Elder who had been speaking, looked at Isildur in surprise. He was not used to being interrupted. He blinked in annoyance. ``I beg your pardon, Sire?''

``The Oath of Karmach. Your lord Karmach gave his solemn oath that our two peoples would be allies for all time -- that if either were assailed, the other would come to its aid if called. Well, Gondor has been attacked and is in a struggle to the death with Mordor. I am the King of Gondor, and I am asking for the help of the Eredrim. There is but one response for honorable men. You are foresworn.''

There was an awkward silence. No one would meet his eyes, though there were many quick sidelong glances among the Eredrim.

``Karmach?'' said Malithôr in an innocent tone. ``I have not met this lord. Why is he not here today?''

There was a nervous chuckle. ``Karmach was the great-great-grandfather of Lord Romach,'' whispered Urmach to Malithôr.

``Oh, so he is dead?''

``Of course. His barrow has been green since before my father was born.''

``Are the living then to be ruled by the dead?''

``Yes!'' roared Isildur, his voice echoing back down from the rafters. ``Karmach swore his oath to me personally, and he bound his heirs to it forever.''

But Malithôr was not fazed.

``But none of you Revered Elders was alive at the time of this oath?''

``No, of course not,'' said the Elder. ``This is all ancient history.''

``But the world changes, nations and leaders rise and fall. Who knows that if Karmach yet lived he would not repudiate his vow?''

``Karmach was a man of honor!'' said Isildur angrily. ``His oath was without conditions or time limits of any kind. Karmach would never have countenanced any suggestion of breaking the vow.''

``So you say,'' said the ambassador. ``But he is not here to speak for himself. None of these Revered Elders heard his oath, nor can they ask him to clarify his thoughts and intentions at the time he made the oath.''

``His thoughts were to protect his people and their land, and Gondor offered that protection. He mentioned to me often in later years, how for the first time he had no fear of war upon his borders.''

``That may have been so at that time, when Gondor was the only nation strong enough to protect the Eredrim. But now Umbar too offers its protection. Gondor is pledged to protect you, but it is embroiled in a hopeless war against Sauron. Have they sent their legions here to protect you in these dangerous times? Did they protect the people of Ethir Lefnui? No. They are too busy fighting in Gorgoroth. Instead they ask you to leave your families unprotected and ride away to die in their war in some strange land far away.

``But Umbar offers its protection freely, without asking anything in return: no oaths, no sending your young men away to someone else's war. Umbar is not at war, with Sauron or anyone else. And his Imperial Majesty Herumor is on close terms with Sauron. He can protect you from Sauron's wrath. Or from Gondor's, for that matter.''

Isildur's rage burst forth at that. ``You do not need protection from Gondor, lords, whether or not you honor your oath. It is not our way to attack our neighbors. But you may well need protection from Umbar. They have a long-standing policy of destroying those who do not bow to them. Herumor is only seeking to add your lands to his empire. His very kind offer of protection is but a thinly veiled threat. He is extorting you at the point of a sword!''

Malithôr smiled. ``Thank you, Isildur, I could not have put it better myself. Umbar offers you the open hand of friendship if you join with us. But if you refuse that open hand, you may find it mailed when next you see it. The Empire will not tolerate disobedience. I say unto you, Revered Elders, that if you ride now with Isildur, his Imperial Majesty will have no choice but to view you as a threat to the Empire.''

``We are enemies of neither Gondor nor Umbar,'' said Romach pleadingly. ``Neither of you has aught to fear from us, and well you know it. We are but simple herdsmen who desire only to be left alone.''

``That is true today, yes,'' replied Malithôr. ``But if you were to acknowledge Isildur's claim on you, you would be forced to take up arms against Sauron. And know you that the friendship between Mordor and Umbar is very close, very close indeed. Herumor would certainly judge that an enemy of our ally is but another enemy of ours. Because of my esteem for you, I would of course plead for you at the court, but Herumor is given to sudden passions against those by whom he feels betrayed. I am afraid I could not answer for your safety.''

The Elders stared glumly from one to the other. For a time no one spoke. Then Romach broke the tense silence.

``We Eredrim are a people of peaceful commerce. We know little of the wars of the great. But when the diplomatic niceties are put aside, your messages come down to this: if we ally ourselves with either of you, the other will destroy us.''

``No,'' said Isildur. ``That is not my message. Gondor would never attack you, unless you were to take up arms against her.''

``That we would never do, Sire. We have no quarrel at all with Gondor, I assure you. Our only wish is to remain neutral.''

``Then the matter is settled,'' said Malithôr with obvious gloating on his face. ``The Eredrim shall remain neutral, and safely at home.'' The Elders brightened visibly. One moved to rise.

``No,'' said Isildur, and his voice was hard and cold. ``It is not settled. The Oath of Karmach still remains, and I shall not release you from it. Do not dishonor the noble Lord Karmach by becoming oathbreakers. If you fear the threats of this Mouth of Sauron, you must keep a strong well-armed force in reserve to protect your land from the Corsairs. But those you can spare, let them ride with me.''

The Elder who had risen collapsed back into his chair. ``Then you are leaving us no option, Sire?''

``Yes. I leave you one option. The option to do what is right and honorable, to ally yourselves with the people of good will and to strive against the forces of evil. Honor your oath and stand with Gondor and Arnor and Lindon and all the other free lands of the west. Help us to defeat Sauron and free the world of his evil. Then together we can begin to make the seas safe for travel. When the war with Sauron is over, I promise you Gondor will deal with these blustering, threatening Umbardrim and drive them from our shores forever.''

Malithôr's face grew even darker. He opened his mouth to reply, but Isildur cut him off by rising to his feet. He threw back his sky-blue cloak and his mithril armor glowed red in the firelight. He seemed to grow taller, filling the hall, and he looked fell and grim.

``This I say unto you, Men of the Mountains,'' his voice boomed out. ``I am leaving now to break my camp and make ready to depart at first light tomorrow.''

``Good,'' said Malithôr. ``You need not wake us.''

Isildur ignored him, but those near him saw his jaw clench tighter.

``But before we ride,'' he continued, ``I shall go to the great stone on the hill, the one you call the Stone of Isildur. There I shall sound the great horn that Romach gave us. And I shall call the Eredrim to fulfill their oath. Let any who think to ignore that call take long and careful thought. The oath shall never be forgiven.''

And he stalked quickly from the hall, his cloak flying behind him like the wings of a great sea bird.

Ohtar finished packing the last of their gear and men carried the bundles out to where the pack horses stood stamping in the early morning chill. On all sides tents and pavilions were fluttering to the ground. A pink glow was just beginning to suffuse the eastern sky when the last bundles were being lashed in place. As he worked, Ohtar kept looking around, hoping to see some sign of the Eredrim making preparations as well. But so far none could be seen. Glancing up the hill toward the Erech Stone, Ohtar could just make out the figure of Isildur standing there silent and motionless, wrapped in his long travel cloak against the cold mountain air. Finally all was ready. Ohtar picked up the long horn Romach had given them and climbed to stand beside Isildur. The men stood wtching in silence.

``Shall we give them a little more time, Sire?'' he asked.

``No. The sun is nearly risen. Sound the horn.''

Ohtar raised the immense horn and put his lips to its cup. Taking a deep breath, he blew as hard as he could. A deep mournful blast of sound, shockingly loud in the pre-dawn stillness, rent the air and reverberated from valley to valley.

``People of the Mountains!'' roared Isildur, and the echoes from the cliffs magnified his voice so that it might have been the voice of Aulë calling in the wilderness when the world was made. ``I, Isildur Elendilson of the House of Elros, King of Gondor, call upon you to fulfill the Oath of Karmach. Gondor has need of your aid. Will you answer her call?''

Several minutes passed, while the echoes gradually faded and died. There was no sign of life at any house. Finally a door creaked and a man stepped out of Romach's hall and stood looking up the hill toward them in the growing light. Ohtar realized he was too tall to be Romach, or any Eredrim. It was Malithôr.

``Isildur of Gondor,'' he called back. ``I speak for the Eredrim. They have no quarrel with you and do not wish to detain you any longer. But they have no wish to enlist in your war against Mordor. They declare themselves a neutral and sovereign state, in the service of neither Gondor nor Mordor, nor of any other state. They repudiate the oath made by Karmach and refuse to be bound by it.''

Isildur stared long and hard at Malithôr, hatred and a hot fury gleaming in his eye. Then Isildur drew himself up, and it seemed to those watching that they looked upon one of the old kings of Númenor, so mighty and so terrible did he seem. Then his great voice rolled out again over the valley. No Eredrim could be seen, but he knew they were cowering unseen in their houses, trembling as they listened to his voice.

``Then hear me, Romach,'' he roared. ``Thou shalt be the last king. And if the West prove mightier than thy black Master, this curse I lay upon thee and thy folk: to rest never until your oath is fulfilled. For this war will last through years uncounted, and you shall be summoned once again ere the end. The Eredrim will never again grow and prosper, but will dwindle until the last of your children's children fade and pass into the shadows, reviled by all honorable peoples. Then these valleys shall stand desolate and barren and even the names and deeds of your people shall be forgotten.

``Even death shall not release you from your oath. You shall find no rest in your long barrows and your shades shall wander the deep places under the earth. And so you shall remain forever, lest in some future time you find a way to fulfill your oath to me. This doom do I pronounce on you and all your descendants unto the end of time. Farewell forever, Oathbreakers!''

His dire words rang out over the village and came echoing back from the cliffs, as if the mountains themselves were repeating the terrible doom. But Isildur now was boiling with cold fury, all his intolerance for faithlessness burning in his voice.

Then he called Ohtar to bring him his horse, and he sprang upon Fleetfoot's back and he galloped down the hill, straight to Malithôr. The ambassador looked up at him with a triumphant sneer, but then he sensed Isildur's righteous power and the sneer faded.

``As for you, foul Mouth of Sauron,'' said Isildur. ``I will not slay you as you deserve for this treachery. But I lay a doom upon you also. You shall live long in the service of Sauron, but you shall ever diminish until you are naught but his mindless tool. All shall forget your name; even yourself. And my gifts for far-seeing tell me more than this -- that these Eredrim you have ruined will yet be the ruin of Umbar.''

Then he jerked the reins angrily, wheeled Fleetfoot around, and led his host on the eastward road. Only when the last companies had disappeared over the edge of the valley did the Eredrim start creeping cautiously from their homes. But the day that had dawned so fair was turning dark and ominous, and already they could feel a dread drawing about their hearts. Malithôr and his escort departed hurriedly for the south without a word, unwilling to meet the eyes of the people who stood staring in horror after them.

The column wended through the narrow defiles of Tarlang's Neck, the pass between the valleys of the Morthond and the Kiril. High crow-haunted cliffs rose close on either hand so that only a ribbon of sky could be seen above. The men were uneasy. An army could lie hidden in those bleak crags and deal destruction with impunity on those below. They marched in silence, their eyes ever alert for the slightest movement in the rocks above, their ears straining for the sound of sliding rocks or twanging bow strings. But except for the occasional hoarse croak of a raven, they heard only their own sounds: the creak of leather harness, the clink of mail, their boots and hooves thudding on the rocky ground.

Ohtar walked beside Isildur's horse, his fingers entwined in the horse's bridle, for the great charger that would plunge through ranks of howling enemies was now skittish and uneasy. Once, as they rounded a shoulder and yet another vista of close confining canyon opened before them, the horse reared, tearing from Ohtar's hand, and gave voice to his fear. The sudden shrill sound reverberated again and again in the close ways, startling the entire company. Isildur quickly brought him under control and Ohtar stroked his velvet nose soothingly.

``It would seem Fleetfoot likes not these pressing walls, Ohtar,'' said Isildur. ``He comes from the wide plains of Calenardhon, where a horse may run a hundred miles with never an obstacle to his speed. Such a steed takes joy in open plains and long flowing grass. He finds naught to comfort him in this close and dreary place.''

``Nor is it to my liking, my liege. I would give much to walk again in the green hills of our Ithilien.'' The king's eyes grew distant at this and Ohtar knew his thoughts flew far to the east, to their homeland, even now being trampled beneath the coarse boots of orcs.

``Aye,'' Isildur said at last, ``remember you, Ohtar old friend, how we would stand of a summer's eve on the parapet of the Moon Tower and gaze out to the west? The sun would finally hide her blushing face behind blue Mindolluin and cast the city into shadow, though the peaks above us glowed red still, as though lit by a fire within.''

Ohtar nodded, smiling. ``Then would the lights be kindled one by one in the cottages of the Ithil Vale far below, until the night mists rose from the stream to blur the lights, turning them into glowing haloes in the twilight. And the cattle would come lowing and clanking to their fold, led by barefoot girls with wildflowers twined in their hair. Often as not, one would tarry overlong and return after the gates were shut and we could hear the door warden laughing and bargaining for a kiss to let her in.''

The king laughed softly. ``And then one of my boys would come out to call us to our meat -- the proud and strutting Elendur, or the musician Aratan, lute in hand. Sometimes all would come together, even little Ciryon in his mother's...'' He stopped then and the soft light went from his eyes. Ohtar turned his face then and attended to his footing. No more was said between them, but before them both hovered the figure of Isildur's dark and beautiful queen Vorondomë who would never again stand with them on the walls of Minas Ithil. After being driven in terror from her home by the hideous orcs, she had sworn never to return to her defiled home. With their young son Valandil, she waited for Isildur now in Imladris, the hidden refuge of the Elves in the north. Of all of Sauron's crimes which Isildur had sworn to avenge, not least was this: his beloved Vorondomë a sad, frightened, and broken creature, who once had been so fair, so proud.

At long last the frowning cliffs fell back and there before them lay the highland meadows of Lamedon, crossed here and there by icy snow-fed freshets tumbling through the long grass to join the chill river Kiril, far below to their right. Beyond, two great peaks reared their purple heads in the east, forming another arm of the Ered Nimrais, like to the one they had just passed through. The valley was hemmed by steep mountains on three sides, but to the south it fell away to lush green fields washed with the gold and blue of wildflowers. The company's hearts were lifted by the sight and they pressed forward, knowing the road would be easier now.

They camped that night in the heather of Lamedon and in the morning began the long descent. All that day they marched and on the second day they came nigh to the Kiril, chuckling and tumbling in its rocky bed. They began seeing tended fields and an occasional cottage huddled under a stand of trees in a protected dale. The road then bore off to the east and descended steeply to the ancient Ford of Calembel. On the far side, the citadel of Calembel perched on a hill overlooking the fords. It was only a small town, but strongly fortified, with walls of grey stone ringing a cluster of roofs tiled with blue-grey slate. From the highest turret fluttered a green banner crossed with a silver stream. Armed men stood motionless on the walls and watched as the column splashed into the river. Before the van reached the far shore, however, a deep drum sounded from the battlements and a man called down to them.

``Hold there! I am charged with the guarding of this ford, and it is decreed that no armed host shall cross this river without the permission of the king. Who are you and what is your purpose in this land?''

Ohtar stepped forward to unfurl the standard and herald the king, but Isildur bade him hold. Instead, Isildur rose in his stirrups and called up to the walls.

``Can you not count spears, guardian? I have a score of men to each of yours. I could seize this pretty little town of yours and level it before dark. Think again, I beg you. Will you not let us pass?''

The guardian swept out his sword and held it aloft, shining in the sun.

``You may indeed take Calembel this day, Outlander. But you must needs slay every man of this garrison first, and you would not have so many bright spears to count when you rode on. If you seek death, stranger, step from the river and your wish shall be granted.''

``You speak boldly, guardian. Who is this distant king you would serve so valiantly?''

``We are liege men of Isildur, King of Gondor, and you would do well to speak no ill of him.''

Then did Isildur throw back his head and his great laugh rang out.

``I will indeed speak no ill of your king, faithful guardian. Be you at your ease, for in sooth I am Isildur Elendilson, and these are the men of Gondor you would die to protect.'' Then at his sign Ohtar and the standard bearers stood forth and broke the banners of the hosts, and foremost among them, snapping in the wind, the White Tree of Gondor, surmounted by the Silver Crown and stars of the house of Elros.

When the men on the walls saw this they gave a shout of joy and fell on their knees. The guardian, recovering from his surprise, turned and shouted to those within the walls.

``It is Isildur himself! The king is come to Calembel! Throw open the gates! Strike ye the drum!'' Then the drum rolled again in the tower and the hills resounded. A great shout rent the air and they turned in surprise and lo, the ridge behind them was lined with mounted and armed men. They shook their lances and hailed their king. Isildur laughed again.

``So, Ohtar, it would seem our guardian is not only valiant but also canny in the ways of war. You see he did not let us see all of his forces until he knew our purpose. We have a valuable ally here.'' Then he turned and rode toward the city, the water spraying up like diamonds about Fleetfoot's prancing hooves. The guardian, breathless from his hurried dash from the parapet, met them at the gates and fell to his knees before the king, presenting his sword.

``Hail, Isildur King,'' he said. ``I am Ingold, master of Calembel and your humble servant. I do beseech your pardon at my uncivil greeting, my liege, but these are troubled times and we knew you not.''

Isildur dismounted and bade him rise, saying, ``You were not meant to know me, good master Ingold, until I was sure of your allegiance. These are indeed unquiet times, and old fealties may no longer be honored. In truth, you could not have given me a greeting more welcome to my ears.''

``The men of Calembel are your faithful servants, my liege, and so it has been since you first brought peace to this land in the time of my father's father's father. You need fear no enemy while you abide in the land of Lamedon.''

Isildur clasped his arms. ```Tis good to be again amongst friends, Ingold. May you and your people prosper.'' Ingold bowed and ushered them into his humble court where red wine and meat and good goat cheese was set before them. As they supped, Ingold asked of their errand.

``What brings you to our poor corner of the kingdom, Sire? And whence came you, if you will forgive my curiosity? It is rare indeed that any traveller comes to us from the north, still less when the king himself appears with an army at his back. And I see standards and faces from many lands among your folk. You say they are the men of Gondor, but not all are from Ithilien or Anórien, I would wager.''

``You would win the wager. They are men of many lands, but all sworn to the defense of the realm. From Erech we come now, though our journey began many months ago and far away in the east, yea, even from the black plains of Mordor itself.'' As he spoke the fell name, the hall fell silent and the people glanced uneasily at each other.

``The Dark Tower is encircled and constantly besieged. But think not that its master is at bay. He has vast forces still at his command, and powers yet untested. Even now he weaves his dark webs about us. My own city, Minas Ithil, is still despoiled by orcs and ruled by wights yet more fearsome -- hideous undead things that were once great kings of men. No land is safe while the Enemy yet rules. All our efforts are bent on breaking his power.

``We have fought to a stalemate in Mordor, but we have so far been unable to break the Barad-dûr. Now a new stroke is planned. But much help is needed. Thus far the people of the western provinces have been spared the horrors of the war. But now I am come to seek your help. We have great need of every man who can and will fight. I ask you now, Ingold, before your men and your chief citizens: will the men of Lamedon march with me to lift this shadow of evil from our land and the world?''

When the king had spoken, the hall grew still and it was as if a chill vapor out of the east had filled the chamber. Ingold drew his cloak about his shoulders and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

``Please do not misunderstand my hesitation, Sire,'' he said finally. ``It is not that we shrink from a fight, or from helping our friends. But we heard years ago that the Alliance had broken the Morannon and encircled the Dark Tower. We rejoiced at your triumphs and looked daily for messengers flying up from the lowlands with the news of your final victory. But that is more than six years ago now. If the mighty armies of the Elves and the Dúnedain are unable to force him out, what can this small army hope to accomplish? In truth, Sire, is victory still possible against so mighty a foe?''

Isildur studied Ingold closely. Ohtar again saw that dark glint of suspicion in Isildur's eyes. He leaned forward. ``He is strong beyond your dreams,'' he said. ``He is neither Man nor Elf. If truth, we do not even know if it is possible for him to be slain. But we too have our powers. The mighty magic and ancient strength of the Elves is at our side. Gil-galad of the Elves bears his mighty spear Aeglos, Snowpoint the Bright, forged in Gondolin an age ago, doomed by great spells to be Sauron's Bane. And beside Gil-galad stands my father Elendil the Tall, High King of the Realms in Exile and he wields Narsil Flameheart, the blade that none may withstand. They lead the warriors of Gondor and Arnor and the Elves of Lindon, and our friends of many other lands beside. If there be any in Middle-earth in these later days who might best the Dark Lord, these be they.

``And yet the balance is close. It is our hope that a cunning stroke, unlooked for, might yet carry the day. To this end the Kings have sent me throughout the provinces to seek out brave men wherever they can be found who will aid us in this our hour of greatest need.''

Ingold stroked his beard thoughtfully. ``You say you have come from Erech in the land of Romach. They are a strong and bold people, yet I do not see the banner of the Eredrim in your host. Did you not meet with Romach?''

The king's eyes searched those of Ingold intently. He did not like this hesitation. Perhaps the men of Calembel too would prove unwilling. He spoke sternly. ``The Eredrim swore allegiance to me a century ago when first I came to this land. Now when I call them to fulfill their oath, they refuse. They have become willing tools of the Enemy. I have laid a doom upon them, and they are lost both to us and to hope. I urge you to have no further dealings with them. But enough of the faithless Eredrim. Now what of the men of Lamedon? Are you allies of Elendil or of Sauron?''

Ingold met the king's gaze levelly. Then he suddenly rose to his feet and swept out his sword with a ringing clang. Ohtar started and his hand dropped beneath the table to his hilt, but the king made no move. Then Ingold turned the sword in his hand and offered the hilt to Isildur.

``Isildur King,'' he cried in a loud voice, ``we are your subjects and your friends! The men of Lamedon shall ride with you wheresoever you lead, yea, even unto death!'' At this the men of Lamedon rose as one and raised their swords. ``For Isildur!'' they cried, ``For Isildur and Gondor.''

Then Isildur rose too and smiled at them. ``You are brave men and loyal friends. Glad will I be to have you at my side.'' He raised his cup in salute to the soldiers. ``But I pray that I lead you not to death, but to victory. But for now, it will be neither. We are bound now only to Linhir and thence to Pelargir. My folk must ride as soon as they are fed and rested. Ingold, I would have you muster as many men as you can spare and join us in Linhir three days hence. But I pray you, leave a capable garrison at Tarlang's Neck, for Romach is no longer to be trusted. I doubt that he will attack, but this Lamedon of yours is a fair land and I would not have it fall into evil hands.''

``Nor I, Sire,'' answered Ingold. ``It shall be done as you command. Messengers shall be dispatched to every corner of Lamedon this very hour. And the ancient watchtowers above the Neck shall be manned again, as has not been since the dark days ere you Dúnedain brought peace to the southern shores. But the time is short and we are not a numerous people. I fear we cannot raise more than a few hundreds.''

``I have seen this day an example of the valor of your people. If all are as these in Calembel, your hundreds shall be worth thousands of the enemy. To Linhir, then, and may success crown our alliance.'' Isildur turned to depart, but Ingold spoke again.

``A moment more, Sire, if you please. If haste is required, perhaps I can be of some further help. Your army is afoot and travels but slowly. The men of Ringlo away in the south are our brothers. In the great green valley of the Gilrain too live many stout folk who bear no love for Sauron's orcs. It would take you days to travel to all the settlements. Let me send riders to Ethring and to the hill men who live nigh to the sources of the Ringlo. We can ask them to join us in Linhir.''

The king clapped his hand on Ingold's shoulder. ``I see you have more than your courage and strong right arm to offer us. Let it be done as you suggest. We shall wait in Linhir for two days to gather our new forces. My thanks to you, Ingold of Calembel. Now, Ohtar, let us ride.''

Within the hour the army was assembled without the walls. As they set out, horsemen thundered from the gate and galloped past the column and down the long hill toward Ethring. Others wheeled as they left the gates and spurred their mounts up the steep slopes to the north and east. The great drum of Calembel boomed and rolled in the hollows of the hills, and from the high meadows came back, shrill and faint, the horns of shepherds and cotsmen. As they topped a rise, Isildur turned in his saddle and looked back at the great tilted green bowl of Lamedon with little Calembel nestled at its lip.

``A pleasant place, is it not, Ohtar?'' he said as they rode on. ``Oftimes I think I might have been a happier man had I been born a goatherd in such a place as this. Then would many-towered Osgiliath be but a fair name in travellers' tales, and the Enemy but a shadow with which to frighten unruly children. I would tend my goats and raise my family in peace, and let the world and its cares pass by unmarked on the road below. It would not be a bad life.''

``But Sire,'' objected Ohtar. ``If you were not a king then you would not have your faithful squire at your side. Would you have me go back to scratching at the unforgiving rocks of the Emyn Arnen for a living?''

Isildur gave his great laugh. ``No, no, that would never do. I fear we must all fulfill whatever is our doom.''

At that moment they spied a very large man hurrying down a precipitous path to the road before them. He wore the hides of a herdsman and his matted beard and bristling brows jutted from beneath a close-fitting goatskin cap pulled down over his ears. In one calloused hand he bore a massive spear, its wooden point blackened by fire. He scrambled down the bank in a slither of rock and stood blocking the road. A fierce and determined barbarian he looked, with his bare legs spread wide beneath his tunic of stained skins. As the van of the column approached he called out in a booming voice.

``Stand! The drums of war call in Calembel and I answer to find armed strangers in the land. Tell me quickly: are you friends or foes of Lamedon?''

Isildur raised his hand, halting the column. The men stared at the man in some astonishment, but the king answered him civilly enough. ``We are friends of this land and its people. We have just come from an interview with your Master Ingold,'' he said.

The giant stood unmoving in the road and his gaze took in the king from helm to hoof. At last he grunted. ``Aye,'' he said. ``I believe you. You may pass.'' He stood aside.

``We thank you, yeoman, for your trust,'' said the king, spurring Fleetfoot forward. The line marched forward again. ``And the drums call the men of Lamedon to war against the powers of the east. We go now to fight the Enemy.''

The herdsman looked up the road toward Calembel. ``I will go then,'' he said. ``They may need my help.'' He strode off up the road with never a glance at the long column of armed men marching past.

Isildur turned to Ohtar and answered his grin with his own. ``Stalwart men, these herdsmen of Lamedon. I wonder what he would have done if I had said we were foes. Did you see the size of him? He is nearly a giant.''

``Have I not told you, Sire, never to underestimate us hill folk?''

``Aye, have you not, endlessly,'' he sighed.

The road slanted down across the wide shoulder of the mountains. Now and again it dipped into a dell where a rocky stream tumbled noisily beneath pine and aspen. At one especially deep chasm the road leaped across on a high stone bridge of many arches. On the parapet crouched misshapen stone figures covered in orange and green lichen, rounded by ages of weather. They were stubby fat seated figures with crossed legs and hands. They seemed human and yet undefinably alien, and they were ancient. They were hewn by a folk who had disappeared so long ago that they were forgotten even to legend, save as a single word: Púkel. They were gone without a trace, save for a handful of huge bridges, causeways, and viaducts scattered about in the higher, more remote valleys. And all were sound yet, most in daily use. What was their world like, that they should expend such energies building excellent roads in an age when all other ways in Middle-earth were but animal trails. But the Púkel-men had disappeared before ever the fathers of the Edain had come to the shores of Middle-earth. What manner of folk they were, whence they had come and whither gone, none could guess. Perhaps even the silent stones had forgotten.

On the second day from Calembel they descended with many turnings into the valley of the Ringlo. On the banks of that river they came to Ethring, a small settlement consisting of only a few rough dwellings clustered at the fords. As they entered the town, a small crowd gathered and cheered their progress. Noticing that most were women and children, Isildur stopped and beckoned an old farmwife holding a child by the hand.

They both came shyly forward to stand beside the huge black charger, clearly in awe of the stern dark man towering above them. The toddler stared up wide-eyed. But the king smiled kindly down.

"Good people, be not afraid of us. We will neither harm you nor rob you."

Her wrinkled face broke into a smile.

"Oh, I know that, Sire. A rider from Calembel dashed through yesterday, and now all the menfolk are riding about the hills, spreading the alarm. He said you were coming, and I wanted the boy to see you." She bent down to the boy now examining the mailed foot in a jeweled stirrup just above his head.

"Uri, this is a real king." The boy looked up and for the first time met the eyes of the knight on the horse.

"My name is Isildur," said the king. The boy only stared, and the woman laughed.

``Welcome to Ethring, my lord,'' she said. ``Tomorrow midday should see two hundred ready to ride to Linhir, if you please, sir.''

``My thanks and long life to you, good woman,'' Isildur replied. ``It does please me indeed. The heralds of Calembel have done their work well, it would seem. My blessing and my thanks to the town of Ethring,'' he called, and the people cheered and called out good wishes as they passed.

From Ethring the road turned south and climbed a steep ridge. It was the last rolling outlier of the mighty Ered Nimrais, now gleaming white in the north far behind them. Their peaks were lost in caps of grey cloud.

The army camped that night in the saddle between two rounded peaks. As they broke camp in the morning, the sun rose out of a haze in the east and cast long rays across the broad land of Lebennin at their feet. It was a land of undulating hills and green fields, with copses of oak and vanella. Streams meandered among cottonwoods as the land gradually flattened until, away to the south, they fell away to meet the distant gleam of the sea. Here and there thin columns of smoke rose vertically in the still air, marking isolated cottages hidden in the folds of the land. The road broadened as it descended from the hills, and the land became more settled. The men marched now between hedgerows. People rushed across the fields to stare and wave as they passed.

They pressed on and covered many leagues on the good road. At dusk they camped on a greensward by a homestead whose folk were most kind and helpful. When the men woke in the morning, crying gulls were circling above, heralding the sea at last. They hurried on, spirits rising as they saw on every hand the signs of many men preparing to join them. Just before evening, they came to Linhir near the mouth of the Gilrain.

It was a sizable town with no wall, but large earthworks had been thrown up around it. The triple ramparts were arranged in the shape of a star, so that a foe assaulting one part of the wall must expose his back to another. The mounds were not overly high, but very steep on the outer side, and their crests hid trenches for the defenders. Their inner sides were gently sloped so that if one rampart were taken its defenders could fall back to the next. Within the inmost rampart lay a wide moat with but a single bridge cunningly devised so it could be turned by a great windlass. These defenses had been thrown up but a few years before against the pirates who had started again to raid the coast.

The Gilrain at this point was wide and swift but not deep, easily crossed at many points near the town. But at the spring flood tides a sizable bore rushes up the river and well past the town to the confluence of the Serni, and woe then to any traveller caught in the fords.

On this day the people of Linhir were lining the ramparts to greet their king. The column clattered across the wooden bridge and entered the city, and women leaned from upper windows to throw garlands to the king. One caught on the wing of his helmet and he laughed and threw it back up at the giggling girl who had dropped it.

In the center of the town they came to a large open court, and there they were met by an old gray-bearded man in a long blue robe, wearing a massive silver medallion about his neck.

``Greetings, Isildur King!'' he cried in a loud but quavering voice. ``I am Guthmar, Elder of Linhir and keeper of the Ethir Anduin. We have had already tidings out of Lamedon and we know your errand. Know you that for two days the men have been gathering for your muster. The people of Lebennin are with you, Sire, and all our resources are at your disposal. Welcome to Linhir.''

Isildur dismounted and clasped his hand. ``A fair speech and a fair city, Elder Guthmar. It is long indeed since last I visited Linhir and it is a joy to find it as fair, and as loyal, as I recalled it. May you and yours prosper forever.''

Guthmar bowed his head and led them into his hall, a long stone room with a high arched ceiling and columned galleries on either side. They looked about them with wonder, for the walls above the galleries were lined with immense tapestries. The hangings were wondrous to look upon, alive with gulls and rocky coastlines and the colors of sea and sky. All were beautiful, but Ohtar's eye was caught by the largest, which hung at the far end of the hall behind a great carved oak table set with many candles.

The huge tapestry was also blue and grey, but it was shot with many glistening gold threads too, and it showed a towering city on a rugged precipice high above an azure bay. Pines lined the cliffs and from the shapely towers pennants fluttered in a stiff sea breeze. Ohtar turned to Guthmar in amazement.

``What a magnificent scene! Can that be a mortal place, Elder, or is it some artist's dream of deathless Avallónë?'' Guthmar smiled and opened his mouth to reply, but to their surprise it was Isildur instead who answered.

``That place was all too mortal, Ohtar. It is Rómenna, a great haven of Númenor that is no more. Mark you that shady strand there beneath the leaning trees? It is said that Elros Peredhil, founder of Númenor and of my line, first set foot on the island of Elenna at that place when the New Age was young.

``Ah, Rómenna, fairest of the cities of Men, would I could walk your fair broad streets again. But now only the octopus treads those stones and schools of fish dart through the open windows of those towers. O city that gave me birth, would that I could return the gift and bring you again to life. But alas, even Osgiliath, that I tried to build in your image, is fair no more, but despoiled. But not for ever, I swear it.'' His eyes roamed from detail to detail of the vast image, but they were filled with sadness.

Guthmar clapped for his servants. ``My lord, I am sorry, I did not think... I will have it covered.'' But Isildur waved away the pages who were hurrying forward. ``No, Guthmar, it is not necessary. It brings me pain, it is true, but it is a sweet pang indeed to see Rómenna again, as I thought I never should. But how comes it here?''

``The work was done long ago by Fornen, our city's greatest artisan. Linhir was founded by Númenórean mariners, as were Pelargir and Anglond, and even Umbar far to the south, though the last has fallen from her former glory. Though there are few here now with pure Dúnadan blood, still we look with pride to our Númenórean heritage. Fornen lived in Rómenna before he emigrated here. In his old age he created this tapestry, working solely from memory.''

``From memory?'' exclaimed Isildur. ``I dwelt in that city for thirty years and I could not recall all those towers, yet I swear they were just as the artist depicted them. This image must be old indeed, for it shows only two quays in the harbor, yet a third was twice an hundred years old when I was a boy there. This tapestry of yours is priceless, Guthmar. Protect it well.''

``It is guarded both day and night, Sire, for it is our most prized heirloom. It is said that while it endures the kingdom will be safe.''

``Then may your guards never sleep, good Elder, for we have need of every help in these troubled times.''

Then they went to table and food was set before them. When they had supped, Guthmar asked after their journey. He was dismayed to learn of the Corsairs' attack upon Anglond, for Linhir lived always in fear of their raids, and Anglond was a far stronger city, though further from the protection of the fleet of Gondor at Pelargir.

``And so Anglond feared to send its men with you, my king?'' he exclaimed. ``I can little blame them, for our watchmen, too, are always watching for the black sails at the horizon. Still, we will offer you what men we can spare. But tell me, Sire, did the men of Anfalas not rise to your banner?''

Isildur shook his head sadly. ``Alas, no. And that is the most dire news of all, Elder Guthmar. On the second day of Nórui, we departed Anglond, bound south over the hills of the Pinnath Gelin. In the afternoon of the third day we reached the long deep-cleft valley of Nanbrethil, where the road crests the hills and begins to fall away to Anfalas. There we spied coming toward us a ragged band of people, men and women, young and old. They were afoot and plodded slowly, though they bore no baggage. Then one of the women raised her eyes, saw us, and gave a shriek of terror. The others saw us and scattered, the women clambering into the rocks on either side of the road, the men drawing their swords and forming a line across the road. There was grim determination in their eyes, but not a glimmer of hope. We moved forward cautiously, making no hostile sign. They stood their ground against our much greater numbers, their knuckles white on their sword hilts. We halted at a small distance. I raised my arm in greeting, but at the same moment one of the strangers cried out.

```The White Tree!' He turned to a large man beside him, clutching his shoulder and pointing. `Look, Turgon! See you their banner? They bear the Tree of Gondor!'

``And I called out, `You see before you both Gondor's Tree and her King, for I am Isildur Elendilson, and if you be friends of that land you have nothing to fear from us.'

``Then the men sheathed their swords and called their women forth. They seemed greatly relieved but I saw no smiles nor signs of gladness at our meeting. I spoke to the large man, who was wearing rich clothes, though much torn and stained. `You are called Turgon?' I asked. `Of what city are you?'

``He gave me a hard look. `Of no city, my lord,' he answered grimly, and one of the women turned away with a stifled sob.

``I was much puzzled by this answer. `You are not dressed as country folk. Surely you come from Ethir Lefnui or some other city in these parts.'

``Turgon replied tight-lipped. `We are the people of Ethir Lefnui, but there is no city of that name.'

``Those of my people standing near cried out. `No Ethir Lefnui? Is he mad?'

``A young man beside Turgon fell to his knees, his sword fallen unheeded into the dust. `Turgon speaks true,' he wailed. `They have destroyed our city. Ethir Lefnui is dead. Its gardens are desert, its fields burned, its very walls thrown down. They have murdered our lord, they have slain our friends and families, they have destroyed our temples and holy places. We are homeless, we are penniless, we are dead!' He pressed his face to the ground and sobbed into the dust.

``We gazed at him in pity and horror, but his companions looked on with eyes devoid of emotion as the boy sobbed out his anguish. Turgon looked at me.

```He saw his father, mother, and two sisters slaughtered, He was not discovered and they died relatively swift deaths. Others here were not so fortunate.' I looked from face to face and read the horrors writ there by a cruel hand.

```Lefnui gone?' I cried. `But your walls were high and your people numerous and valiant. Surely there are not orcs enough in all the Ered Nimrais to cast down so great a city.'

```Orcs, my lord?' said a tall man, stepping forward angrily. `It was not orcs that did this, but Men. Men of high lineage and claiming brave Elros as their Sire. Dúnedain, my lord, like unto yourself!' His eyes flashed as he spat out these words and I thought for a moment he was going to strike at me, but Turgon caught his arm.

```Forgive him, my lord. He is nearly out of his mind with grief, he knows not what he says. It was the Corsairs, my lord, the men of Umbar, may they rot for the deed.'

``Then I cast back my cloak and dismounted before them. `Do I look a pirate to you, yeoman? The Corsairs are indeed Dúnedain, but my line was severed from theirs a long age ago. My ancestors, the Faithful lords of Andúnië, came among you thousands of years ago and founded Pelargir on Anduin. That city has always been your friend and ally. They brought peace and prosperity to a land that had never known them in all the deeps of time before. Why, it was we Faithful who helped you to raise Ethir Lefnui in the Dark Years when all the rest of Middle-earth was but a wilderness peopled by roving bands of barbarians.

```Aye, the Corsairs are Dúnedain as you say, but they were touched long ago by the hand and mind of the Enemy, and they have been turned to evil. They have done little for the Uialedain of Middle-earth but raid and pillage and enslave you. The rape of Ethir Lefnui is not due to Númenórean blood, but to the evil designs of Sauron.

```But still I say I am proud of my heritage. My family has brought unity and many years of peace to all the lands of the West. We have long been friends and allies to the Uialedain. Let us not allow our common enemies to divide us now, when our need is greatest.'

``The man stared open-mouthed, then stepped back a pace and stammered, `Forgive me, my lord. I... I....'

```I know. You have lost much and borne much. I know what it is to lose your homeland utterly. I know what it is to see your loved ones slain. You are sorely wronged and you wish to strike back against those who have done this to you. But turn that rage upon the proper enemy. Let Sauron feel your vengeance, not we who share your pain. Ride with me now and together we will return the blows he has dealt us.'

``The man bent his head. `My lord,' he said through clenched teeth. `I will serve you to the end.' Then Turgon held aloft his sword and cried, `And I, my king.' And his fellows followed him, making a brave but pitiable sight.

``I called Turgon to me then. `We had planned to go next to Lefnui and thence to Ringlond. Might there not be others of your people still at Lefnui? Did you search the city thoroughly?' But he shook his head grimly. `Naught lives there now, save the lizards and the rats. The thrice-cursed pirates leveled the city until stone no longer stood upon stone. That which was Ethir Lefnui is dead. Even the memory of the city is poisoned for us. If we ever rebuild it shall be in some other place and it shall bear another name.'

``I nodded, understanding his feelings. `So be it then,' I said. ``Thus passes a fair city of Men.' Turning then to my esquire, I said, `We shall not take the South Road then, but bear away to the east immediately and follow the skirts of the mountains to Erech in the valley of the Morthond. Our journey will thereby be shortened by near a hundred leagues and we may yet come to Osgiliath by the appointed time. Curse the Umbardrim for traitors! I had thought to have gathered a mighty army by this time, but we have but few more than we started with two months ago.'

``This is grim tidings indeed, Sire,'' said Guthmar. ``The people of Anfalas, and especially the weavers of Ethir Lefnui, have long been our friends. It is hard to believe that they are gone.''

``Nonetheless,'' said Isildur, ``all that remain of that people are in my camp without your walls.''

``I will see that my people give them special care and attention,'' said Guthmar, and he gave such orders at once. He and Isildur sat late and talked of olden times and the deeds of mighty folk of the past. Guthmar was an avid student of the lore of the elder days. His knowledge was great, and Isildur loved nothing better than to share his interest in the past.

They told each other tales of the heros of old: of Tuor and Barahir and Eärendil the Mariner. They talked of famous lovers: of Beren One-hand and Lúthien Tinúviel; of Idril and Tuor. There was much ale and laughter too, in which Ohtar took more interest, though he stayed close to Isildur. He noticed that as Guthmar spoke, the king's eyes strayed back to the magnificent tapestry above them. It was late before all were abed and the city quiet at last.

They passed the following morning in leisure, walking in Guthmar's rich orchards and watching parties of men riding into Linhir from all directions. They came in small groups, rarely numbering more than a score or two; hunters from the highlands of the Gilrain, bird-snarers from the marshes of the Ethir Anduin, and tillers and husbandmen from Dor-en-Ernil and the broad open lands about the river Serni. Then in the afternoon a larger column of horsemen rode in from the north, led by Ingold of Calembel, and Isildur went to meet him.

``So you have come as promised, brave Ingold,'' he called as the men dismounted and were led to their place in the large camp before the city gates.

``Aye, my lord, but I could find but five hundreds all told between Lamedon and here, and none are seasoned warriors, I fear. Many of our abler men mustered to the earlier call of your father and are with him yet in Gorgoroth. Too many of these new men are beardless youths, who were too young to follow Elendil in `30. They are as like as not to trip over their own swords. But they are strong and eager and will fight when the time comes.''

``You have done very well, Ingold. Courage and strength will stand a man in good stead in a battle, be it his first or his last. There are many more like them already in this camp, and more arriving each hour. Go you among them after you have encamped, and form them into companies according to the provinces from which they came. Have each company elect a leader to lead them in battle, one they will follow and who can keep his head when tumult is all around. Hopefully there is at least one experienced warrior in each company, and if the men know their lives will depend on him, we can trust their choice.

``Then have each company make a standard for their province if they have not one, so they can march beneath the colors of their homeland. A trusted commander and a fluttering banner they can see will lend strength and resolve that may surprise the lads. A man fights the harder when he fights alongside his neighbors under the banner of his homeland. The sight reminds him of his home and loved ones for whom he fights. When all this is done, have each company commander come to the square in the center of the city in the twelfth hour tonight. I would address them.

``Ohtar, you will take charge of the armaments. Speak to Guthmar and see if he can find arms enough for all the men. I see too many carrying hoes and pitchforks when swords or spears would serve them better. And pass the word to our own companies. The twelfth hour for the council.''

That evening, as the sun turned the towers of Linhir a rose pink, Isildur met with his new lieutenants in the great square of Linhir. He wore the high helm of the Kings of the Realms in Exile, and Ohtar stood by his side bearing aloft the great standard of Gondor. When they appeared with Guthmar from the doors of his court, the assembled host gave a great cheer, for it seemed to them that they saw before them one of the great sea-kings of old. Isildur raised his hand to still the cheering and cried out loudly, his voice ringing across the square.

``Men of the Southlands! Cheer not for me. All praise and honor should go unto you. I fight to recover my own country and to avenge wrongs done to me personally. But you, who are leaving your peaceful homes and your loved ones to fight with me in my cause, I salute you!'' Again the court resounded with cheers.

``You all know whom we strive against. I would have you know more clearly why. The Dark Lord has been an enemy to Men since he was but a servant of Morgoth the Damned, source of all the evil in Middle-earth. With all the strength and powers of all the free peoples of the West, and with great and irreparable loss, Morgoth was at last overthrown and the Elder Days of the world came to an end. The people of those times thought that evil was destroyed forever, root and branch, and they declared that a New Age had begun, free of the woes of the Old. It was a New Age, bright with hope and promise of peace, but it was also sadder, less innocent. All knew then that the Elves, the Firstborn that created so much beauty in the world, would be passing from it anon, that the wonders of the world were but passing, mortal things. Still, they did have peace, and the world was green and joyous again, as had not been for many a long year while Morgoth ruled. And yet a shadow remained, unmarked and unknown to all but the Wise.

``Yes, Morgoth was cast out, but his servant Sauron had escaped the ruin of Thangorodrim. He fled into exile in the East and lay there long, nursing his hatred and his resentment, plotting his revenge. He perfected the arts taught him by his master of old, and he dabbled in things only the Valar should attempt. He created races that never walked in the songs of the Valar at the Beginning: the orcs, and the trolls, and other wights that should never have been.

``When he deemed that his strength was sufficient, he arose again, and openly made war on the West. He attacked and destroyed Eregion, fairest of all the Elf-kingdoms; he despoiled the fair cities of Rhûn; he conquered the Uialedain kingdoms of men and enslaved their kings to his will, and he drew Harad into his realm. He seduced the mighty kings of Númenor and brought about the downfall of that great land, causing the deaths of untold thousands.

``He is a mighty foe. We do not even know what manner of wight he is. He is neither Man nor Elf, but a creature wholly evil, intent on the destruction of all that is good and free and fair. He does not die, but he can be crushed and his power broken, or so the Wise tell us. The armed might of Gondor and Arnor, with the aid of our Elvish brothers, has succeeded in invading the Black Land and even encircling him there in his fortress of Barad-dûr. But his reach is yet long. The Corsairs of Umbar serve his purposes, and the cruel Haradrim work his will when they attack their neighbors. His evil is at work even here in the Southlands, for your neighbors of the mountains have become his pawns. The Eredrim have turned their backs on their friends of old and refused us their aid.''

An angry murmur arose. Most had not heard these tidings yet. One captain standing nearby called out. ``But did they not swear fealty to you and yours at Erech long years ago? For such is the tale that is told.''

Isildur nodded grimly. ``Aye, they swore, but their word is as dust in the wind. They have sold their honor to the Dark Lord.''

Then many men cried out in anger. ``They are traitors. We should not leave them at our backs. Let us assail them in their mountain fastnesses before we set out. They dishonor all of us in the south. We shall teach them the price of treachery!''

``No!'' cried Isildur, and his voice was strong and commanding, echoing from the walls and drowning out all other voices. ``Heed not the Eredrim. They serve us not, but they shall do us no more harm. They will hide in their deep places and never again come forth to trouble our councils, unless it be to fulfill their oath at last. I have laid a doom upon them that may not be broken. They are lost to themselves and the world!''

Then did the men look with wonder on the king, for they saw that his eyes pierced regions unknown to lesser men, and he wielded weapons beyond their ken, powers learned in far lands that are now no more. Many shuddered at the cold, unforgiving tone in his voice, and counted themselves fortunate they had willingly answered his call.

``No, we march not north against the Eredrim,'' he shouted, ``but east, against the very source of the evil that threatens us. First we go to Pelargir to join with other allies there, then on to Osgiliath, where yet more friends will join us. There, on Midyear's Day, will be held a great council of many peoples.'' He swept out his blade and held it ringing above his head.

``There shall an army be assembled that will shake even the Black Throne itself. Nay, we shall even throw it down and crush it into dust!''

And the men brandished their weapons and roared their approval. ``Isildur!'' they cried, ``Isildur, for Gondor and the South!''

Throughout the following day the army set about preparing arms and equipment and organizing the chains of command. The camp was a hive of activity. Everywhere people were hurrying about bearing supplies. Guthmar provided huge wains drawn by teams of oxen, and the good people of Linhir filled them with grain and fruit and salted meats. Finally all was done and the men fell on their cots in exhaustion.

They had slept but a few hours when the horns rang out in the early morning air. By the first hour after dawn, Ohtar raised the standard beside the king and the host set off to the cheers of the townspeople on the walls. They were a much larger company now, a true army at last. Behind the king's company rode the knights of Ithilien, followed by the lancers of Calenardhon and Angrenost. Then came the first of the infantry: the handful of seamen and fishermen of Anglond and the few grim survivors of Ethir Lefnui with their banner of azure and sable forever at half staff. Then came a large body of mounted hill men from Lamedon with Ingold at their head, and behind them strode a long column under the colors of Dor-en-ernil and even far Belfalas, away in the south. Next marched the farmers and herdsmen and weavers and vintners of Lebennin, thousands strong. Finally a long train of supply wains pulled by oxen joined the column, now winding away eastward towards Pelargir.

The first day they covered no great distance, for many of the new foot soldiers were unused to long journeys. They held a slow and steady pace and had covered but a dozen miles by dark. They camped where they had halted, in a long line of tents down the center of the road, for the land was grown fenny and concealed many treacherous bogs. Each company built fires and the supply wains creaked slowly up the line, passing out the first night's dinner. Late it was before they pulled into the camp of the Ithilien knights in the vanguard, and later still before the teamsters had their animals fed and hobbled and could seek out their own dinner and rest.

The army travelled thus through low hills and across wide fields dotted with wildflowers all that day and part of the next, then the road began gradually climbing until they were winding among tall downs. Then in the tenth hour of the day as their shadows were lengthening before them, they crested a hill and there below them lay the city of Pelargir gleaming in the westering sun.

It was a city of great beauty, for it crowned a high domed hill set between two large rivers. It was ringed with a stout wall studded with many towers, and it was built of a pale rose granite that caught the light and sent back glints and sparks to the eye, as if stars twinkled within the stone. The city within the walls was lofty and well-proportioned. Many houses bore flat roofs where women could be seen at their work under parti-colored awnings. Here and there rose high-arched domes of white limestone or gilded wood. And from the very heart of the city, at the crest of the hill rose a tall slim tower with a conical roof and a gallery beneath, built all of sky-blue marble quarried high in the Ered Nimrais and hauled with much labor on sledges and barges to the city.

A great gate yawned in the wall to the southwest and a broad avenue led down to the quays. Long river barges lay at the docks beside broad-beamed merchantmen and swift coastal luggers from a dozen ports. But towering over all the other craft were the white masts of the long ships of the fleet of Pelargir, and their sails were the color of deep waters.

The icy river Sirith tumbled down from the snowfields of the Ered Nimrais and curled about the western walls of Pelargir like a protective arm. Thence it flowed under a broad triple-arched bridge with strong towers at either end, the only point below the mountains where a man might cross the Sirith in any safety. The river, as if conquered at last, then yielded its blue waters to the brown flood of the mighty Anduin, greatest of all rivers of Middle-earth, for the last miles to the sea.

The men of Pelargir built and fortified that bridge a thousand years ago, and it had never been unguarded since that day, for it was the only land route into the south of Anórien. Because Pelargir guarded both this bridge and the great river Anduin itself, it was known throughout Gondor as the Gate of the South. It was a title of which the men of Pelargir were justly proud, for in all those centuries no enemy had ever succeeded in passing Pelargir.

As the van started down the hill toward the bridge, a horseman burst from the nearest bridge tower and rode hard to meet them. As he approached, they could see he wore jet black armor and a tall helm with a plume of peacock blue that streamed behind him as he thundered up the slope in a cloud of dust. He was riding hard and seemed so resolute and fierce that some began to doubt his intentions, but Isildur merely drew up Fleetfoot and awaited his arrival.

The dark horseman drew up before the king so suddenly that his horse reared and neighed, a ghostly shadow in the cloud of dust that now surrounded him. The knight leaped nimbly to the ground and swept off his helmet. He was a young man with a strong and noble face, and his eyes gleamed with pride.

``Isildur my king,'' he cried with a stately bow. ``I have the honor to welcome you to Pelargir in the name of Barathor, Lord of Pelargir and Keeper of the Gate of the South. I am Duitirith, his son and heir.''

Isildur greeted him saying, ``We thank you, Duitirith, son of Barathor. We have met before, though you would not remember it. The last time we were in your father's court, you were but a child on your father's lap.''

Duitirith blushed. ``Too many years have passed since last you honored us, Sire,'' he said. ``As you see, I have grown to manhood in your absence. And yet I do indeed remember you, Sire, for it was the sight of you and your kind words that have stood always as my model and my inspiration.''

Isildur's laugh rang out. ``Is that so? Well, young Duitirith, your fair speech complements your appearance and bearing. I am pleased to see you again and to find you grown tall and straight. Lead us now to your father that we may speak with him.''

Duitirith bowed low. ``It is my honor as well as my pleasure, Sire, for the city is prepared to greet you and bid you welcome.'' So saying, he mounted and rode with them down to the bridge. The garrison there had lined both sides of the bridge and stood now at attention, their arms held aloft and their panoply gleaming in the setting sun. A trumpet sounded high above their heads and the banners of Gondor and Pelargir broke from every tower in the city. As they cantered over the span, Isildur turned to his guide.

``Duitirith. Your name means Guardian of the River in the Eldarin tongue. Are you then commander of this garrison, charged with the keeping of this bridge?''

Duitirith laughed. ``I am indeed charged with that honor, Sire, and a good company they are. I chose and trained each one myself. But my name does not refer to the Sirith, but to Anduin himself. One day I shall rule Pelargir and guard the Great River for Gondor. You may be assured, Sire, that no enemy shall ever pass this city when I wear the Lord's Ring.''

``I doubt it not,'' smiled Isildur, watching the eager, intent faces of Duitirith's men, now lining the parapet with their spears arching above the road. Then they came to the gates of the city, but the gates were yet closed. The column halted. A voice called down from the parapets above the gate.

``You are come to Pelargir upon Anduin. State your name and your land and the name of the lord you serve.'' Duitirith turned to the king. ``We mean no disrespect, Sire. We know well who you are. But that is the traditional gate challenge and it has been asked of every traveller to cross this bridge for over a thousand years. None may enter without replying satisfactorily to the challenge.''

``We are not offended, good Duitirith. It pleases us to see the Gate of the South guarded yet against our enemies. We know the challenge well. I answered it first when my people arrived at these quays out of storm and tumult at the downfall of Númenor.'' He stood in his stirrups and called out in his booming clear voice.

``I am called Isildur Elendilson of Gondor and I serve my liege, Elendil, High King of the Realms in Exile.''

``You are then a friend of this city,'' cried the unseen voice. ``Enter in peace, Isildur of Gondor.'' The great gates creaked slowly open and a tall black portcullis rattled up into the shadows above the door. A group of knights in the livery of the Lord of Pelargir waited beyond.

``These men will escort you to the Blue Tower, Sire,'' said Duitirith. ``I must excuse myself, for I may not leave my post until I am relieved. I shall see you at dinner. Farewell and welcome again.'' He wheeled his horse to return to his post at the bridge.

Trumpets rang out again, and Isildur and his army rode into the city amid the cheers of thousands of people. They were dressed in every bright color and were very fair to look upon. Petals of rose and elanor fluttered down on the men from the balconies and rooftops, while minstrels strummed citterns and lutes and winded their pipes. The people's faces were shining with joy and wonder as they gazed upon their king, for they loved him well. Often in the old days before the war Isildur would board the ferry to visit Pelargir and walk among them with his open countenance and his great rolling laugh. Few of these people had ever visited far-off Osgiliath, and Isildur had been to them the symbol of the royal might of Gondor. Now they welcomed him as a friend returning after a long absence, and they felt his gladness too.

As the long column wended through the streets of the city the infectious mood of gaiety began to spread among the soldiers and the long grim march turned into a joyous parade. From somewhere in the ranks a deep baritone voice burst into song and soon others joined in, blending their voices of many lands in an ancient song of homecoming. The words were in the ancestral tongue of these people of the Southlands, and they spoke of the days before the coming among them of the people of the West. The people of the city joined in joyfully. The Dúnedain among the host, though they could understand but few of the words, felt their hearts lifted at the sound of tens of thousands of voices raised in welcome. The Uialedain tongue is at its most beautiful in lyric song and poetry, and the people's voices blended as in a choir.

And so they came at last in song to the Blue Tower in the heart of the city. There they were ushered into the great court where sat Barathor, Lord of Pelargir. He sat in a tall throne fashioned after the outspread wings of a sea bird, as if the seat were about to take flight. It was set with uncountable tiles and stones, each a different shade of blue. The floor too was of blue mosaic, with wide bands of gold radiating from the central dais. Barathor wore a long cloak of white feathers and on his hand was a ring of mithril, the Lord's Ring. His hair was gray and his face lined, but his back was still straight as a lance and his eyes clear. He rose as Isildur entered and went to greet him.

``Welcome, Isildur, my king and my friend.''

Isildur clasped arms with him. ``So, Barathor, we meet again as of old, though the world has changed much since last we feasted together in your hall.''

``Aye, the world has changed, but you have not, my liege. Ten years' leaves have withered and fallen, but you look just as you did then. It is your royal blood. The heirs of Elros have ever been a long-lived line.''

At that moment a striking woman with flaming red hair appeared and came to Barathor's side. He took her hand and turned to Isildur. ``I hope you have not forgotten my lady?''

Isildur smiled at her. ``How could I forget the lovely Heleth? I have spoken with your son, lady, and his bearing and countenance are a compliment to you.''

She smiled. ``You are kind, Isildur King. We are indeed proud of him.''

``But come,'' said Barathor. ``You must be tired. First you must bathe and rest. Then tonight we shall sit at board together and it will be again as it was.''

Isildur called to his squire. ``Come, Ohtar, a bath calls us. Let us scrub the soil of Lebennin from our limbs.''

Later, washed and dressed in fresh garments, they dined with Barathor and his family. It was a noble feast, full welcome after the weary months of marching. When at last the groaning boards were cleared, they sat and sipped good wine and listened to the strains of music. There sang the lute and the recorder, sweet and pure, soothing to their hearts. Barathor called for Isildur's cup to be refilled.

``My king,'' he said. ``you march with a great army at your back and glad we are to see the banners of our allies before our walls in these troubled times. But I fear your errand is not the defense of Pelargir. Whither are you bound?''

Isildur met Barathor's level gaze. ``We march to Osgiliath to meet with our allies the Elves. There will be assembled a host so mighty that the servants of evil shall quail before it. Then shall Ithilien be freed at last, and I shall once more sit in the high seat of Minas Ithil.''

``Such is our wish also, my king,'' said Barathor. ``Nothing would gladden our hearts more than to see you restored to your own and the fields of Ithilien swept clean of the foul orcs. They are a sore trial to us. Our villages near the river are often raided by roving bands of orcs from South Ithilien, but they have done their foul deeds and crawled back to their holes before we can come against them.

``It is maddening,'' exclaimed Duitirith. ``We could stop them if we could man all the old guard posts along the banks of Anduin as of old. But we dare not spare the men from the fleet. We are caught between two evils and cannot turn all our forces against either. Those blackguard Corsairs of Umbar sail forth each year to harry our fishing villages and ships. We never know where they're going to strike next. They have pillaged and murdered in dozens of our smaller ports over the years. Our ships patrol the coast, but it is rare that we get sight of them and rarer still that we can lay alongside them. The Corsairs sail smaller ships, no more than two hundred men in each, but they are well-handled and devilish fast. We chase them, but they lay closer to the wind than our ships. It drives us mad, watching them sail away, knowing they are carrying our people into slavery.

``Every year the Corsairs grow more powerful and more bold. Their attack last year was on a settlement in the Ethir Anduin, not twenty leagues from here. Some there are who whisper that they might even attempt an attack on Pelargir herself, though I myself believe they would not be so foolish. Still, they could be at sea even as we speak.''

``They are indeed,'' said Isildur suddenly. ``It is most certain.''

Heleth blanched and gripped the hand of her husband, and the guests glimpsed for a moment the great fear with which the Pelargrim share their lives.

``We have had no reports of pirates off the coasts this half year or more,'' protested Barathor.

``I have seen them with my own eyes,'' replied Isildur, ``and within the month past has this blade been crossed with those of Umbar.''

``Alas,'' cried Heleth. ``Full oft do the black sails ghost through our nightmares. But it is chilling indeed to know they sail again in reality.''

Barathor looked close at Isildur. ``It would seem there are tales and tales here. If the Corsairs are abroad again I would know all you can tell me.''

``Aye, there is a tale indeed, though it is not a pleasant one. Know you that we have marched around the whole of the Ered Nimrais, seeking allies for our struggle with the Dark Lord. But we crossed all of Calenardhon with little aid to us, and we grew discouraged. When we came unto Anglond it was at peace and many there were eager to ride with us to the relief of Ithilien. But the very day we arrived, the Pirates of Umbar fell upon the city and we were besieged there. They came in many long ships and they put the fields and the farms to the torch, until the sky was darkened with the reek. The folk of the country flew to arms and most reached the safety of the walls, but those caught in the fields or on the roads, the old and the lame, were hacked down like wheat before our eyes.'' Heleth hid her face in her hands.

``Two weeks were we besieged there, while all about us bands of pirates pillaged the land, taking all they could bear off and despoiling the rest. Again and again they drove against the walls, but we held firm, and in the end they withdrew and sailed away to the south.''

``They remained in siege for two weeks?'' exclaimed Barathor. ``They have grown bold indeed. They usually strike quickly and are gone in a few hours. It is not like them to lay a siege against a strongly held town.''

``Aye,'' agreed Ohtar, ``the people of Anglond were not prepared for so strong an assault. There was but little rejoicing when they sailed at last, for many had died and the spring crops were destroyed, the livestock slain. We fear they will have a hard time of it when winter comes. We tarried with them until the dead were buried and the defenses repaired, but when we left that sad place, few indeed of the brave knights of Anglond marched with us. Many were needed to rebuild the town and the farms, others to toil in the fields to gather what might be gained before autumn, and still more mouldered beneath the great down and tall menhir before the gates of the city.''

``This is grave news indeed,'' mourned Barathor. ``The people of Anglond are our friends and allies, and we have good trade with them in safer times. May they find peace.'' He was silent for a moment, but then he looked again at Isildur.

``But you say you received little help from Calenardhon? What of the brave lords of the vast grasslands? Did they not rally to you?''

Isildur shook his head. ``The plains of Calenardhon are vast indeed, but few people live there. The only town of any size is at the great citadel of Angrenost in the southern end of the Mountains of Mist. The army of Gondor has long maintained a garrison there, for it is a wild and strange country, bordered as it is by the wild lands of Dunland and the mysterious Forest of Fangorn. The mountains have always been dangerous, but they have become much more so of late. Trolls and orcs and huge wolves roam those dark forests, and it is even said that the trees walk in the deep reaches of Fangorn. Of this we cannot swear, but the orcs are real enough, for we spied several roaming bands in the brief time we were there. The garrison was already undermanned since the muster for the war in the east, and they could spare but few. Still, threescore volunteered to join us, and they have proven fierce warriors and horsemen without equal.''

Duitirith struck his fist down on the table. ``A curse on all the servants of evil! They thwart us on every side. And were there no others to aid you in all the northern provinces?''

Isildur shook his head sadly. ``No. We had hoped for a thousand or more, and as many from Anglond, but it was not to be.''

``Then all the host we see with you now is from the southlands?'' asked Duitirith. ``Still, I should have thought more would have risen to you.''

``The worst is not yet told,'' said Isildur. Heleth raised her eyes to him, and he could see that tears already brimmed there. ``I am sorry, lady, to be the bearer of such ill tidings, but we live in evil times.''

``Tell us all, Sire,'' said Barathor.

``After leaving Anglond we marched toward Ethir Lefnui in Anfalas. But on the way we met the remnants of the people of that city. The Corsairs have sacked Lefnui and destroyed it utterly.'' Heleth gave a wail of grief and all nearby gasped in dismay.

``There were no more than thirty survivors all told. The rest were slain. The city was pulled down to ruin. There was no longer any point in journeying there. And so we pressed on through the highlands and crossed the river Lefnui near its source, not at its mouth as we had intended. A week of hard travelling brought us to the banks of the Morthond. There we struck the road which follows the river up from Ringlond, away down on the coast. Turning north, we passed through the great Blackroot Gorge with the river roaring and foaming far below, and emerged at last into the high valley of Erech. There indeed my chief hope lay, for the Eredrim are a strong nation and already sworn to our aid.

``We met there with their lord Romach and I called them to fulfill their oath. But they had taken evil counsel and they refused me in despite of their word. For their minds had been turned against us by an emissary from Umbar.''

``The cursed Black Pirates again,'' cried Duitirith, leaping to his feet. ``They have ever conspired against us and harassed our ports and shipping. I urge you again, father. Let us sail against them and drive them forever from the sea!'' Several of the younger knights shouted their agreement.

Barathor shook his head. ``We dare not. Not yet. They are mighty indeed, and we are sorely weakened by the war. It is all we can do to keep them from our shores.''

``They are the tools of the Dark Lord,'' said Isildur. ``They work his will, thinking in their vanity that they will rule beside him when we are destroyed. They are but poor pawns to be swept from the board when he has no more use for them. We must first unite to strike down Sauron, then gladly will I take ship with you against Umbar.''

But Barathor's brow was knitted with concern. ``Yet now it seems we have yet another enemy at our door. The Eredrim are many and fierce in battle, and Romach a clever and experienced commander. If they marched against us, we could be hard-pressed to hold the bridge against them.''

``I do not believe that the Eredrim will assail you,'' said Isildur. ``They have refused us their aid, it is true, but I doubt that they would take up arms against us. Romach hopes to hide in his fastnesses beneath the mountains until the war is over, then seek the favor of the victor. But they swore allegiance to me many years ago and they shall not so easily evade their duty. Romach has chosen to wait in the mountains and not come down. But he shall abide there much longer than he had thought, for I have read their weird and laid their fate. They shall remain forever in their holds, to death and beyond, until they fulfill their oath.'' And he fell silent, grim and thoughtful.

Then did the company look upon their king with wonder. Again they were reminded of the strangeness and power of this man from the far places of the lost West. Those that knew him best read his grim eyes and saw the anger that burned there. This treachery of the Eredrim had struck deep, the last and cruelest blow to all his plans for victory. The Lords of the Alliance had expected a great host to be in his train by the time he reached Pelargir, and for many more to join him here. And they had placed their greatest hopes in the Eredrim. He thought of Malithôr with his proud heritage and bearing, meanly performing Sauron's errands, and his fist clenched on his wine horn.

Then Isildur became aware of the long silence that had fallen on the company and their fearful stares as they looked on him.

``But enough of sad tales and the litany of our woes,'' he said. ``No more shall we bear the insults of our enemies. The time for a final stroke approaches. The need is great and the time is short. My Lord Barathor, I have need of all the men and supplies of war that you can spare.''

Barathor stared down at the table and paused long before replying. ``I had expected your request, Sire, and I burn with shame at the reply I must give. I can offer you perhaps five hundred stout yeomen, my liege. More we cannot spare.''

``Five hundred?'' exclaimed the king in dismay. ``But I need ten times that number. Barathor, you know well our need.''

Barathor looked up sadly and held out his empty hands. ``My king, I can give you food, arms, and a few of the other supplies you require. But I cannot give you what you most request of me. Some six thousand of our men marched with Belrund to join your father at Dagorlad. That is seven years past now and still they have not returned. They are sorely missed, for we are threatened on every side and continuously harassed. We are a large city with broad and productive fields and many villages round about. We are spread thin to protect what we have. And we are charged with the guard of the bridge, and of the Great River as well. Our fleet patrols the myriad channels of the Ethir Anduin and all the coast as far as the rockbound shores of Linhir. We can barely hold our own with fifty ships afloat, and all sorely undermanned. My captains are constantly begging me for more men, but there are none to spare.

``Our men are needed here in Pelargir, my liege, or the Gate of the South will be but an open door to our enemies. With a reduced force we could perhaps hold the bridge and beat back the orc raids, but we dare not reduce the fleet or I could not answer for the safety of the Anduin. As you yourself told us, the Corsairs are abroad. They could come up the River at any time. If Pelargir falls, it is but a short sail to Osgiliath herself. It will be to no avail for us to ride to victory in Mordor, only to find all of Gondor in the hands of the Corsairs upon our return.''

Isildur looked hard at the Lord of Pelargir. ``Barathor, we have been friends for many years. There has never been deceit between us. I know that you speak truly and that the safety of Pelargir and indeed all of Gondor is your only concern. But I say unto you that final victory or defeat will come in the next few weeks. Victory may be within our grasp, but only if we act now in a concerted stroke. The Alliance is in dire need of your aid. Gil-galad and my father considered all the options carefully, and well they know the dangers you face. But they felt that the risk must be taken. Without your assistance, we have but little hope. The fate of the West is in your hands. I tell you in all candor that the situation in Mordor is grave beyond your reckoning.''

``Grave no doubt, but is the Dark Lord not shut up within his Tower? You at least know where your foe is and can turn a united face against him. But we have foes on every hand and must guard all the ways at once. You are in a position of power in Gorgoroth, while we can do little but wait for an unseen blow to fall.''

Isildur nodded. ``We encircle the Barad-dûr, it is true, but think not that Sauron is our prisoner. We are as much his. The Tower is impregnable, we have learned that to our cost. We can neither enter in nor force him out. And the long siege is no hardship to him. His slaves and his resources are unlimited and time has no meaning for such as he, who has lived through long ages of the earth. He waits in comfort in his own halls, while we endure in the desert, fighting and dying every day and growing the weaker for it. Seven years! Seven years, lords, and we are no nearer victory than when we first saw that accursed Tower. The truth is, my friends, that we cannot defeat him with the forces we have. A new weapon must be brought to bear on him, a new army to attack where and when he does not expect it. I can say no more at this time, but it is my errand to gather all available men for this assault. Other forces too are gathering at Osgiliath for a great council on Midsummer's Day. There all will be revealed. I have scoured half of Middle-earth and been thwarted at every turn. Pelargir is our last hope. There are no others to be called upon.''

Barathor sat with anguish writ plain upon his face. ``Isildur, my king, do I not love you as a brother? Does my heart not grieve for your many tragedies? It pains me to have you think me either disloyal or shy of combat. My wealth, my honor, my life will I gladly give for you. But you ask the one thing I cannot give -- I cannot give you my city, for it is not mine to give. It belongs to its people and to their ancestors who died for it, and to their descendants who would live here in peace. If I sent them to war with you, Isildur, they would almost certainly find no city upon their return. Is this then what you demand?''

Isildur stared long at him, but then he touched his arm gently, saying, ``I do not doubt either the loyalty or the courage of you or Pelargir, Barathor. I know all too well the perils you face. I know you are acting as your conscience demands.'' He sat a while in deep and gloomy thought, then looked again at his friend.

``But perhaps there is yet a way. Other events are occurring across the wide face of Middle-earth that may yet resolve your dilemma.'' He leaned close to whisper in the lord's ear. ``Barathor, would you trust all in this hall with knowledge that could mean life or death to Pelargir and even all of Gondor?''

Barathor looked about the table, eyes searching each face. Then he nodded. ``There is no danger here, Sire. All are friends or kinsmen and their loyalty is long proven.''

Isildur nodded. He turned and addressed the company. ``Then I may entrust to you a secret known to none but myself and the Lords of the Alliance, and that must not become known to the Enemy or we are all lost.

``You say you need your men to guard the Great River against the Corsairs. But what if the River were guarded by others, if you could be certain that no pirates could slip up it? Could you not then grant my request?''

The company stared at him in amazement. Duitirith was the first to find his voice. ``But Sire, it is not just the count of men that guard the River, but the many strong ships and experienced seamen to sail and fight them. You cannot replace them with soldiers or farmers. What force save our own could guard the River? Is this a jest?''

``Isildur does not jest in such things, Duitirith,'' said his father. ``I say unto you, Isildur, that if the River were guarded, and guarded, mind you, so well that none could pass despite their numbers, then we would fear no attack. Our walls and the bridge are strong. A few hundred picked men could hold them at need against a far stronger foe. But the River is the weak point in our shield wall. There is no other fleet in all of Middle-earth mighty enough to stop the Corsairs if they should come in force.''

Isildur smiled grimly. ``None other? What of the White Fleet of Lindon?''

``The Elves?'' stammered Duitirith. ``But... Elves sailing in these waters? Oft have we heard the tales of the mighty Sea-Elves of Lindon, but never in the memory of our oldest grandsires has a swan ship breasted the seas of the south. In truth, many of us have come to believe they are but figures in the old stories. But they are said to be legendary sailors and mighty warriors.''

``If the tales be true,'' said Barathor, ``they are mighty indeed. But the tales also tell us the Grey Havens are far, far to the north, a ride of many weeks or even months away. And even if they were willing and able to come to our aid immediately, it would take weeks to prepare and provision their ships and a fortnight more at least to sail here. If a rider left today we could not hope to see them before mid-winter. Even then we would have to recall all our ships and gather and organize the seamen and then ride to Osgiliath. And yet you say you want us in Osgiliath on Midsummer's Day, and that is but a week away.''

Isildur was nodding his head. ``All that you say is true, my lords,'' he said. ``And yet I say unto you, people of Pelargir,'' and he raised his voice so all could hear, ``that even as we speak here tonight, the White Fleet of Lindon is at sea, and should now be approaching the Mouths of Anduin.''

The hall erupted in confusion, with everyone speaking at once. ``The Elves?'' ``Did he say the Elves were coming here?'' ``But... but...,'' stammered Barathor. ``But how could this be?''

Isildur held up his hand for silence, and the tumult gradually subsided. ``You know that we have ridden around the Ered Nimrais, mustering all the fighting men we could gather. But we are not alone. Even as we left Gorgoroth on this long journey, others were setting out on another, far longer, journey. Gildor Inglorion, one of the greatest of the Elvish captains, rode north at the bidding of his lord Gil-galad. He was to ride north, to seek aid in the lands of Lothlórien and Khazad-dûm. From thence he was to ride to Cirdan the Shipwright at Mithlond. Gil-galad's orders to Cirdan were to put the White Fleet in readiness and to sail to Osgiliath at once with every ship that can swim.''

``But could he have reached Mithlond already?'' asked Guthmar. ``That is four hundred leagues at least.''

``It is two months and more since we departed from the Barad-dûr together, and Elves ride very swiftly at need. Gildor was told to make all haste, so that they should be at Osgiliath for the Council. They should be sighted any day.''

``But this is news good beyond all hope,'' cried Heleth, her lovely smile breaking out for the first time. ``To think that Elves would sail all that long way for our help. Elves! I have never even seen one of the Firstborn. Elves to guard us! Oh, I feel as if a weight has been lifted from me!''

``Aye,'' said Barathor. ``With the Elves beside us, we would fear no enemy.'' But he gave Isildur a canny glance. ``But they were not summoned here to protect Pelargir. I suspect the Alliance had other plans for Cirdan's Sea-Elves. Is that not so, Sire?''

Isildur nodded. ``The Lords of the Alliance had thought to send the Elves against Mordor with us. But in truth they are more used to decks beneath their feet than deserts. With the Corsairs abroad again, they could be better employed guarding the coast and defending the Anduin. Then if Pelargir were freed of those duties....'' He looked meaningfully at Barathor.

Barathor looked at his captains, judging their reactions as he spoke. ``I say unto you, Sire,'' he said, ``that if the White Fleet is as mighty as legends tell, and if they were deployed across the mouths of Anduin and at strategic points along the coast, we would feel more secure than we have in many a long year. Then the men of Pelargir would flock to your banner and follow you to the ends of the earth if need be.''

His men cheered long and lustily. Isildur realized how torn they had been between their duty to their king and their duty to their city and their families. Freed at last of the fear of the Corsairs, they were eager to go to the aid of their country. He looked on their faces with affection.

``Then you will ride with me when Cirdan arrives?'' he asked, and every man in the hall rose to his feet and shouted his allegiance. Isildur was truly touched.

But Barathor was clearly still worried. ``This messenger Gildor you spoke of, his road was long and perilous,'' he said, ``and Cirdan's course no less so. As seamen, we all know that the winds and seas play havoc with a schedule. Much could have befallen them that would make them late. I could not recall the fleet until the Elves arrive.''

``But we cannot wait,'' said Isildur. ``Many preparations must be made if you are to ride with me. And Cirdan may arrive only in time for the Council of Osgiliath. If we wait until he arrives it will be too late for us to march to Osgiliath. Can you not at least start the muster?''

Barathor thought for a moment. ``This much I can do, Sire. I will call the fleet back within the Anduin and withdraw them from the coasts and the Bay of Belfalas. The coastal settlements will like it not, but with luck they will be safe for a few days. With all the ships in the River I could recall them all in less than a day when the Elves arrive. In the meantime we shall begin the muster. We will be ready to ride with you as soon as the Elves are in place.''

``So be it,'' said Isildur, much relieved.

Barathor turned to a tall dark man near at hand. ``Telemnar!'' he called. ``Send the signals. All outlying ships are to be recalled. Let those patrolling off the Ethir Anduin withdraw into the River. I want only four scouts patrolling the bay, the fastest vessels you have. Have the best lookouts at the mastheads. When the Elves are sighted, they are to be contacted at once and instructed in Isildur's orders. See that they array themselves in sufficient strength and order at the Ethir, then all ships are to return to Pelargir with all possible speed.'' The man bowed and hurried away.

``Duitirith! Let heralds be sent to every corner of our realm. Every man capable of fighting is to arm himself and come to Pelargir as soon as possible. We shall ride to war with our king!''

For the next three days the city was a hive of activity. Merchants and townsmen were turning over their businesses and duties to their wives or to men too old or too young to go to the war. Companies of soldiers marched in from border checkpoints and strongholds along the banks of Anduin. Other groups marched up from the River, their rolling gait revealing them as seamen from the ships lying at the quays. Wagons and trains of loaded beasts passed in from all directions. The markets were frantically trying to meet the demand for food, weapons, clothing and blankets. Small groups of farmers and fishermen from the surrounding villages started arriving, mingling with the crowds in the streets and adding to the confusion. But still there was no word of the Elves.

On the third morning Isildur and Ohtar walked through the city streets to see Barathor. As they crossed one of the city's many large squares, they stopped to watch a ragged company of adolescent boys marching back and forth. Sweating heavily and wearing armor a size too large for them, they were being drilled in basic military maneuvers by a bellowing and exasperated old soldier.

``Step lively, there!'' he shouted. ``Try to at least look like soldiers, you young fools. Watch where you're marching! Within a week you'll be manning the walls, and I don't want you falling off the battlements!'' Isildur and Ohtar smiled to each other and hurried on.

The Hall of the Blue Tower was crowded with messengers, supplicants, and people just seeking instructions. Barathor and his people were swamped with questions, decisions, and disputes. One of the greatest needs was for messengers. All the usual heralds and runners had been pressed into service, but still Barathor grew frustrated waiting for replies or for someone to carry his orders. As Isildur approached the Lord, a young boy no more than ten or twelve raced past him and fell to his knee before the Lord.

``More messages, Lord Barathor?'' he gasped. Barathor thrust a paper into the boy's hand. ``Yes. Take this to Carlen, the master of the wainwright's guild. Put it in his hand, mind, not that of one of his apprentices. You know his hall?''

``Yes, lord,'' replied the boy. ``It is in the Rath Gelin, near to the square of the lion fountain.'' He was panting, still out of breath from running his last errand.

``Yes. Make haste now.'' Barathor stopped and looked down at the boy. ``Haven't I given you several messages already today?''

``Yes, lord,'' he gulped. ``Four so far. I have been running since before the dawn.''

``Here now, that's more than four hours gone. You must be exhausted, poor child. Rest a while and get something to eat. Let another boy carry this one.'' He glanced around for another runner, but there were none present at the moment.

``Please, my lord,'' the boy pleaded. ``I can run all day if need be. I want to help. My dad says I'm too young to fight this time, and then the war is likely to be all over before I get my chance. Well, I'll do what I can to help anyway, but I'd dearly love to meet that old Dark Lord. I'd give him a whack, I can tell you. He'd be sorry he ever peeked over those mountains.''

Some of those standing near smiled, but Barathor looked at him gravely. ``Well,'' he said. ``I see you are rather greater than we first thought. The Dark Lord had better hope he doesn't have to tangle with you. Go on then. But save your pretty speeches; you'll need all your breath for running.'' The boy ran out, glowing with pride.

Barathor spotted Isildur and came to meet him. ``Good morning, Sire,'' he said. ``The recall flag has been hoisted at all the signal stations along the coasts. Some of the scattered ships are starting to straggle in, but many are still far down the River. The first will not be in until late tonight.''

``How large a force are you keeping at the Mouths of Anduin?''

``We normally have between ten and twenty ships stationed in the Bay of Belfalas and patrolling the coast between Ringlond and Harondor, and that many again as pickets in the River. You know the Ethir Anduin is a maze of islands and treacherous channels, and we need that many to keep them all secure. I plan to leave but half of them on station. That will leave them spread thin indeed until the Elves arrive. Ah, here comes my son. He is to rule the city in my absence, you know.''

Duitirith strode across the hall with a young knight at his side. They bowed to Barathor and Isildur. ``You sent for me, father?''

``Yes. Have you turned the command of the bridge over to Foradan?''

Duitirith glanced at his companion's face. ``Yes, father, but he...''

``I would ride with you, lord,'' said Foradan, stepping forward quickly. ``I would be with you when you ride to Osgiliath,'' he said. ``I am a warrior.''

``Indeed you are,'' said Barathor, laying a hand on his shoulder. ``But you should feel honored, not slighted, by your new assignment. It is true that I shall ride to Osgiliath. But while we face the enemy in the east, we must not fear an enemy from the west. Nor should the men be worrying about their families back in Pelargir. The guardianship of the bridge has been the duty of the greatest warriors of Pelargir since the city was founded. Your own father's father was its captain for over forty years. Would you leave it unguarded now, Foradan?''

The young knight bowed deeply. ``No enemy shall cross the bridge while I live, my lord,'' he said. ``You can depend upon me.''

``We are all indeed depending on you, Foradan.'' He turned to his son. ``We are depending on all of you who remain here. The safety of the city is in your hands. Have you chosen your men well?''

``I did as you suggested, father. I retained only the youngest men, but also one experienced hand from each company. They know their duties, my lord. But they are so few. We could not withstand a concerted attack.''

``Remember you will be behind the shield wall of the White Fleet. With the River secure and you in command here, Duitirith, I shall not worry overmuch.''

At that moment Barathor spied a wiry old man wearing the livery of a ship's captain just entering the hall and peering about at the hurrying crowds. Barathor called to him, his voice booming above the uproar. ``Caladil! You are come at last. Excuse me, Sire,'' he said to Isildur. ``One of my commanders from the Tolfalas station.'' He hurried across the room and began issuing orders to his captain.

Isildur turned to Ohtar. ``It would seem that Barathor has matters well in hand here. We are but in his way. Let us return to camp and see to our own. Barathor!'' he shouted. The Lord of Pelargir looked up. Isildur signalled that they would be at their camp. Barathor waved and bowed, then resumed talking with Caladil. Isildur and Ohtar made their way through the crowds and returned to their camp, close under the western gate.

There they spied Ingold of Calembel standing before a blacksmith's tent. With him was the giant herdsman they had encountered on the road outside Calembel. The two were arguing with the smith, a brawny black-bearded fellow, who seemed to be trying to explain something to them, and not at all patiently.

``I've been shoeing horses and straightening spears half the night,'' the smith was saying as Isildur and Ohtar approached. ``Then at first light some lads from Lebennin up and borrowed my cart and they haven't brought it back yet. Where it's got to now I can't say, and I don't have time to go traipsing all over the city to find it. For all I know they've made off with it and gone home. But I've got my forge and all my tools right here, and if you want your axle fixed you'll have to bring your wagon here.''

``I can't bring the accursed wagon here, man,'' thundered Ingold in exasperation, pointing down the long slope to where a large wagon stood broken down by the bank of the Sirith. ``It takes a team of four to move it when it has all its wheels, which it doesn't because the blasted front axle's sheared in two. We'll have to move your forge down there.''

The smith stood chin to chin with Ingold. ``I've told you,'' he bellowed. ``I've got no cart and no team. Just how do you suggest we get my forge and all my gear down there?" He gestured at the clutter of tools on the ground all around him.

Ingold looked around at the tools and the forge. ``Can we carry it ourselves, think you?'' he asked, a little more quietly.

The smith threw up his hands. ``Oh, my mates and I can carry the tools all right, and I wager you and your men can carry the bellows, but what about this anvil? I can't mend your axle without an anvil, and it takes four strong men just to heave it up into my cart.''

They both stared glumly at the huge anvil resting in the shade of a ragged canopy. Then the giant herder spoke for the first time.

``That anvil there?'' he asked quietly. Both men nodded without looking up. The goatherd went to the anvil and, crouching down, locked his huge arms around its base. With a great heave, he slowly raised himself, then turned and started off down the hill to the wagon, the immense anvil cradled in his arms like a baby. The entire group just stared after him in wonder. Then the smithy bent and started gathering his tools. He grunted.

``I pray I never have reason to quarrel with that one,'' he muttered under his breath. He shouldered his tool box and staggered off after the goatherd. Then Ingold saw the king.

``Isildur! Greetings, my king. Good day to you, Ohtar."

``Good day, Ingold,'' answered Isildur. ``You have a mighty friend there. Does he handle a sword as well as an anvil?''

``To tell the truth, Sire, he likes not the sword. He uses only a great spear with a wooden point.''

``Wooden?'' asked Ohtar. ``Would not bronze or iron serve better?''

Ingold shrugged. ``He says his people have always fought thus. His spear is an heirloom of an ancient past. It is hardened in the fire and is devilishly strong and sharp. And it serves him well enough. I once saw him thrust the spear completely through the body of a huge grey wolf and pin it to the ground. In fact, had he not done so, I would not be standing here today.''

``Who is he? Do you know him?''

``Orth is his name, Sire, but I know not where he makes his home. He comes down into the Calembel market but once or twice a year and he speaks little. I don't think anyone knows him well. He seems perfectly content living in the high valleys alone with his goats. But if the alarm drums roll he is always there. Would I had a hundred like him.''

Bidding them good day, Ingold picked up the bellows and followed the others down toward the wagon, where Orth was just putting down the anvil.

Isildur, Ohtar, and the other officers spent the day seeing to the preparations and helping the Pelargrim whenever they could. In the evening Isildur and Ohtar climbed a watchtower on the southern wall, built for its commanding view down the River. Bands of villagers in leathern jerkins and bright copper helmets hurried down the River Road toward the gate. The dust of their passage rose in the soft evening air and hung motionless above the roads. Far below where they stood, they could see Foradan's men at the bridge, tallying the men, horses, and supplies as they poured into the city. Everywhere in the city rose clouds of dust and the crying of men, women, and horses, the clang of the armorer's hammer and the thudding of the wheelwright's mallet.

At last as the sun began her long descent over the hills of Belfalas, the roads began to clear. The milling throngs broke up into more orderly arrays as each group began making its camp. Fires sprang up here and there as meals were started.

Ohtar looked back down the River, then stared hard. ``A ship!''

Isildur peered through the fading evening light. A ship was approaching from the sea, its long sweeps rising and falling together like a water strider on a pond. ``I see no swan's head,'' he remarked.

``No. Nor a white pennon such as Cirdan is said to fly. Still, they could bear news.'' They watched as the ship slowly approached the quays, already crowded with so many vessels they were moored three abreast. The ship docked, but no hurrying messengers appeared. Isildur and Ohtar descended and walked to the Blue Tower.

There in the Great Hall were gathered many of the chief elders and captains of Pelargir. Barathor sat in his high seat, talking with a stocky man with long grey hair, worn in a long braid down his back.

``Ah, Isildur,'' said Barathor as the king approached. ``I was about to send for you. This is Luindor, my Captain of Ships.'' The man bowed to Isildur and gave him a level, unsmiling glance.

``I am but now arrived from the Ethir,'' he said. ``I have been maintaining station within sight of the shore signal stations. My scout cutter was another ten leagues from shore, and they espied no Elven fleet.'' He stopped, leaving an accusatory tone hanging in the air.

``When was that?'' asked Isildur, ignoring the man's glare.

``I left the Ethir at dawn yestermorn, as my lord Barathor commanded.''

Ohtar broke the brief silence that followed. ``Then Cirdan could have come to Anduin yesterday, or today. He could be in the River already.''

Luindor snorted. ``He could be, aye, but is he? We don't know that he is coming at all.'' He appealed to Barathor. ``My lord, I don't like this drawing in of the fleet. The pickets are spread too thin. Meaning no disrespect to the king, but I think this policy is ill-considered.''

Barathor's brows bristled. ``Luindor, you go too far! No one questions your loyalty or your love for Pelargir. But Pelargir is a city of Gondor, and our allegiance to our king must ever be paramount.''

Luindor glanced quickly at the king, now standing quietly listening, his face giving away nothing. Most men would have been daunted, but Luindor had been Pelargir's Captain of Ships for many years, and he bore the scars of many battles. He was determined to speak his mind.

``My lord,'' he began, ``You can relieve me of command if you deem me disloyal, but I have something to say. I'm a seaman. My face has been turned to the sea all my life. Perhaps I may have paid too little attention to doings at the capital and in the east. Nevertheless, I well know the shadow that looms over us all. But my first responsibility is the safety of Pelargir, and I can no longer vouch for the fleet's ability to defend the city. Now that the fleet is being recalled, the outposts are left unmanned, whole provinces are undefended. Such a thing has never been allowed to happen in all the long years that Pelargir had been charged with the keeping of the Anduin. We should not be lying about here; we should be at sea.''

Barathor stared, his face grave. It was clear he liked the situation no more than Luindor. When Isildur had first spoken of the Elves, Barathor had felt only pleased and relieved, a great fear lifted from him. But now, as the time for departure approached and still no news came of Cirdan, he was less sure of his decision.

``You will not be relieved of your duty, Luindor,'' said Isildur. ``Fear not that I think you disloyal. It is your loyalty that makes you question my orders. And I like no more than you the withdrawing of our defenses. But the situation in Mordor is grave. The Lords of the Alliance have summoned all of us for the final stroke against Sauron. This is the best hope of protecting Pelargir and all of the West. If we succeed, the war will be over. If we fail and the West falls at last, then Pelargir will be swept away with the rest. You can not stand against The Enemy alone.''

``Hmph,'' grunted Luindor, unconvinced. ``Did the Lords tell you then to strip us bare? Did they order us to leave the Gate of the South standing open?''

``No,'' admitted Isildur. ``The Lords expected me to have a great army at my back when I reached Pelargir, gathered from Calenardhon, and Anglond, and Anfalas, and the southern provinces. Pelargir was just to send the men it could spare from its own defense. And they did not know that the Corsairs were abroad. The Enemy has thwarted our plans at every step.''

``Then perhaps the plans need to be changed. Can you not send to the Lords and seek new instructions?''

``There is no time now. The fate of Pelargir, indeed of all of Gondor, is but one piece of a great engine that has been set in motion. All will come together at the Council in Osgiliath, but six days hence. We must be there, and in sufficient force to be effective, or all hope of winning the war is lost.''

``But, Sire...'' began Luindor.

``Luindor,'' said Barathor, ``we have long been friends and we are as one on matters that concern the safety of Pelargir. But I also know Isildur and his love of the city and its people. I know he would not ask this of us if there were any other way. If he says Cirdan is coming, then he will come. And if he says we must ride to Osgiliath, then we must ride.''

``I do not doubt it, my lord, but yet I fear to leave our shores unguarded for even a moment.''

``You speak for all of us, Captain,'' said Isildur. ``But these are difficult times, and ours are hard choices. We cannot afford to do as our hearts list. I had dearly hoped to leave for Osgiliath today or tonight at the latest, but now we must delay another night. We must leave early tomorrow, whatever happens. Let us pray that Cirdan arrives tonight."

There was nothing more to be said, and all returned to their tasks. In the evening Isildur and Ohtar again climbed the tower and gazed out over the lamplit streets of the city. But their eyes looked beyond the roofs and chimneys of Pelargir, beyond the walls, to the broad Anduin, gleaming faintly in the dusk. In all that long reach of River, where yesterday all had been bustling activity, no craft now stirred. The greater part of the fleet and all of the merchant ships were tied up at the quays or moored nearby in the Sirith.

The city slowly quieted as final preparations were completed. The necessary supplies had been gathered, divided, and packed. The men were all armed and drawn up into companies. Now they fell to the harder task of waiting. A thin layer of smoke from the cooking fires rose above the walls to hang motionless in the darkling sky. The flaming color in the west faded to purple and the first stars appeared. Looking down, they could see other groups of people here and there along the parapets, straining their eyes into the dusk for a glimpse of the Elves. One by one these other watchers descended to their beds, leaving only the guards.

Isildur seemed determined to wait all night if he had to. Ohtar waited with him, but at last he settled into an embrasure, wrapped his cloak around him, and fell asleep. His last sight was of Isildur standing above him, tall against the stars, peering into the west.

It seemed only a moment later that Isildur clutched Ohtar's shoulder.

``The Elves are come,'' he said softly. Ohtar sprang up quickly, shaking off his dreams, and looked to the west. The moon, now waxing to first quarter, was setting beyond the River, turning it to glittering diamonds. For a moment he could see nothing. But then, far away at the edge of sight and still very small, he found one diamond that did not twinkle, but shone with a cool pure light. Behind it he could just begin to make out the outline of a ship, black against silver. It was beating up the River toward them, the gentle night wind just filling the sail.

``Your eyes are better than mine, Sire,'' he said. ``Is it indeed Cirdan at last?''

``It is an Elven ship, I am sure. A cog, I believe -- one of their lighter, faster ships. Odd that it should be in the van instead of Cirdan's flagship. Still, it would move more easily against the current. Perhaps they have outrun the rest of the fleet.''

At that moment a cry went up from the parapet below them. The lookouts too had now spied the ship. They heard a quick debate, then running feet, taking the word to the Lord of the city. A bell rang in a distant tower. The ship neared the far shore and tacked toward the city. They could hear faint shouting down at the quays now, and a jouncing lantern showed running legs coming up the lane from the River.

Isildur still peered into the west. ``Where are the rest?'' he muttered through tight lips. ``Where are the others?'' Then he whirled and rushed headlong down the winding stairs. Ohtar stumbled breathless after him.

They met Barathor near the gate leading a mounted party and bearing a blazing torch. Behind him in the dark were several other prominent citizens looking rumpled and sleepy, along with a score of soldiers. The gate creaked as it was opened.

``There you are, Sire,'' Barathor called when Isildur pelted out of an alley into the broad street. ``I have brought horses for you and your esquire.''

Clambering up, they set off at once down the road to the River. By the time they reached the quays the ship was much closer, heeling slightly in the gentle night breeze as it beat in to the shore. A crowd was already gathering at the head of the dock. An awe fell over them, and they stood silently watching. All could now see the long white pennon floating from the masthead. The ship was white, low and long, but broad amidships. The stern rose high and arched over the after part of the deck, ending in a carved swan's head. White wings sheltered the figures that stood there. The stem rose high and ended in a large oval lantern, like a cage of mithril silver. From it shone the strange cool white light that illumined now the faces of the watching throng.

The sail rattled down and several figures moved forward and quickly secured it along the yard. The ship ghosted silently toward the dock as if out of a dream, and indeed for most of those watching the Elves were as creatures out of legend. They knew they existed in far-off lands, but never had Elves sailed up Anduin since before the city was built over a thousand years ago. Pale figures could be seen moving about the deck, readying lines and mats for docking, but no sound could be heard save the gentle lapping at the cutwater.

Suddenly then the ship loomed large before them and soft gray lines looped through the night to land at their feet. The nearest men looked down at them for a few seconds, but then a seaman's rough voice rang out. ``Are you frozen, lads? Haul and make fast. Belay those lines!'' The spell was broken. The lines were secured and eager hands on both ends drew the ship against the dock. The ship was beautiful and magical, but it grated reassuringly real against the stones before a mat was adjusted. A plank was swung across to the shore and a tall figure in a long grey cloak strode across. He was fair and golden-haired. His mail was of mithril silver that caught the moon's light and set it dancing about his feet. Isildur stepped forth.

``Welcome to Gondor, Gildor Inglorion. Elen síla lúmenn omentilmo.'' The Elf clasped both the king's arms in affection and stood smiling at him. Tall as Isildur was, Gildor towered over him.

``Hail Isildur Elf-friend,'' he said. His voice was soft, like the sighing of leaves at twilight. ``I rejoice in our meeting. Long and perilous have been our ways since we parted in the thunder of the Falls of Rauros.''

``Glad indeed are we to see you also, my friend. But where is Cirdan and the rest of your fleet?''

Gildor smiled, glancing at the anxious faces all about him. ``Do not fear, good people of Gondor. I was sent ahead to bring you word that all is well. The Elves of Lindon will be at Osgiliath for the Council at the appointed hour. Cirdan's Fleet is nigh.''

These words were heard by many standing near, and a cry of joy went up from the Pelargrim. ``Cirdan is nigh! The Elves are here! We are saved!'' The word spread swiftly through the people now hurrying from the gate. Soon the glad cries could be heard at the gate, then from the walls, and soon the whole city was awake. Bells pealed from many towers. Gildor looked around in some surprise at the evident relief of the people. His smile faded as he saw the concern on every face.

``We have gathered far fewer men than we had hoped,'' Isildur explained, ``and the Corsairs are abroad again. The Lord of this city has pledged his aid, but he will not leave the Gate of the South ajar to the pirates of Umbar. He will not ride with us until Cirdan's ships are guarding the River.''

``We saw no sign of a Corsair fleet, neither at sea nor when we crossed the bay,'' said Gildor, ``and the White Fleet should arrive today.'' Then all were glad, and the Elves were ushered into the city in a joyous parade. They accompanied Isildur to his camp where they sat long around a campfire, exchanging news of their respective journeys. Isildur told them of the difficulties and disappointments he had encountered on his journey around the Ered Nimrais. He spoke bitterly of the betrayal of the Eredrim.

Gildor shook his head. ``These are evil times, when friends will not come to the aid of friends. I encountered much the same when I went to see the Dwarves in their great delvings at Hadhodrond, that they call in their own tongue Khazad-dûm. Those halls are great indeed, and filled with Dwarves of many kindreds. We had hoped that ten thousand would join us in our cause. They listened to my plea, and they met long and argued this way and that. At the last they decided that the war with Sauron was not their war, and they refused us. Of all the Dwarves only a handful of Durin's line seemed inclined to join us.''

``That is a great disappointment,'' said Isildur, ``for the Dwarves are fierce warriors and will not quail in a battle. But I am not surprised. They often remain aloof and keep their own counsels. Still, the ancient line of Durin has always been friendliest to Elves and Men.'' Isildur stifled a yawn.

``Now I am weary in my bones,'' he said. ``If you will excuse me, Gildor, I feel great need for sleep, for I hope that Cirdan will arrive tomorrow and there will be much to do.'' The Elves left him then and spent the night walking about the city, viewing the buildings and works of Men.

But dawn came and the sun climbed high and still but one swan floated at the quays. In mid-morning Barathor called a council in his Great Court. The chiefs of the Pelargrim were there, as were Isildur and Ingold and the leaders of their divisions. Then all eyes went to the main entrance, where Gildor and his Sea-Elves entered and bowed to Barathor and the king. They took their seats and looked about at the men and the hall with interest. Barathor opened the council and called first upon Gildor.

``Gildor Inglorion of Lindon, I bid you and your people welcome to Pelargir. Too long has it been since the Firstborn have visited us here in the south.''

``Thank you, Lord Barathor. Indeed it has been long since we walked in these lands, even in the reckoning of the Elves. For my own part it is a return to a land I once knew well. In fact, I once visited this very hill where your fair city now stands. It must be more than twelve yén ago now, before the first war with Sauron.''

The men looked at Gildor in astonishment, for they knew that a yén was one hundred forty-four years. And that meant that Gildor had been here centuries before the city was founded over a thousand years ago. They had come to accept that Isildur was over a century old, but this smiling Elf's casual comment struck them dumb with wonder.

Gildor appeared not to notice the sudden silence that fell on the listeners. ``Let us hope that we may exchange visits more often,'' he went on, ``now that our kindreds are acting in concert once again.''

``It would give us great pleasure to have the fair people as our guests at any time," said Barathor. "But you are especially welcome now, as we have been very anxious about the Corsairs of Umbar, especially as we withdrew our fleet from the Bay of Belfalas. We are most concerned how long we must lie thus open to attack. We must ask you for your best estimate of Cirdan's arrival at Pelargir.''

Gildor bowed to the Lord. ``The fleet was nearing readiness when I sailed from Mithlond on the eleventh day of this month,'' he said. ``The last ships were still being loaded. They would surely have sailed in another day or two at the most. My Varda travels somewhat faster than the fleet, of course. I would expect him this day or before the end of the next.''

The entire company relaxed and Barathor broke into a wide smile, the first seen on his face in many a day. ``Your news is most welcome, Gildor,'' he said. ``In these latter times we rarely have good news from any quarter, and my mind has not been easy in my decision to leave the River unguarded. Now at last we will have strong friends at our backs, so that we may advance. We are nearly in readiness. We shall ride with Isildur to Osgiliath as soon as Cirdan arrives.''

But Isildur then spoke. ``My lord, the time is very precious. Every day we tarry here, the enemy has one more day to learn of our plans and to plot against us. Only by a swift and united stroke can we hope to defeat the forces arrayed against us. Many peoples and armies are moving in Middle-earth as we sit here, and they will be gathering at Osgiliath only four days hence. We must leave tomorrow if we are to reach Osgiliath in time.''

``Then let us hope,'' said Barathor, ``that when the sun first tops the mountain in the morning, she sees a hundred swan ships in the roads.'' Many of the Pelargrim murmured their agreement.

That night Isildur went not to the Blue Tower, but left the watching to others. The walls and parapets were lined with eager eyes, each wishing to be the first to spy the Elves. Isildur left word to be awakened when the first sail was seen, but no call came and the night passed slowly. Morning found the River empty and the people growing again troubled and anxious. ``Will they never come?'' was the question on everyone's lips. When they had broken their fast, Isildur and Ohtar went to the Great Court seeking Barathor. They found him in his chambers near the court, speaking with Duitirith and Luindor.

Isildur hailed Barathor. ``Lord, the time has come. I must ride this morning for Osgiliath. Will you ride with me?''

Barathor glanced quickly at Luindor. ``My king,'' said he, ``some there are among my people who counsel me to abide here until Cirdan's forces are in place.''

Isildur turned to face Luindor. ``Well I understand your fears, Captain,'' he said. ``But we can wait no longer. Great events are afoot. Gildor assures you that Cirdan is near, perhaps even now meeting with your pickets at the Ethir. The time for caution is past. Would you have orcs streaming down the River Road, burning your lands and slaying your people before you march against them?''

``Nay, Sire,'' replied Luindor, flushing hot, ``but our men are needed here in Pelargir. We have a good bridge, high walls, and a strong fleet. Fully manned, we can hold the southlands against the minions of Mordor. But we must have the men. The walls alone will not stop the orcs for long. You would have us strip our defenses and bare our breasts to the Black Ones.''

``I would instead have you gird yourselves and confront the evil in its own places, so that Pelargir and the southlands may not be torn by the cloven hooves of War. I tell you the time to strike is now. Even now, watching eyes are peering across Anduin, spying out our encampment here. Perhaps they already know that I am here. Messengers may at this moment be hurrying to Mordor with the news. Soon Sauron will be pondering what it means, perhaps guessing where our stroke will fall, strengthening his forces there. We must not delay, not another hour. Great powers are gathering at Osgiliath, and we must be there.''

``But, Sire,'' said Duitirith, ``surely there can be no council until Cirdan himself comes. Could we not wait and ride with him to Osgiliath?''

Isildur's eyes flashed as his temper rose. ``Again I tell you nay. We will wait for no one, not even for Cirdan and his Sea-Elves. We go now to the capital to meet with others whose powers are greater even than Cirdan's, for all his Elvish magic. There can be no further delay. Events are already in motion that will change the world forever, for good or ill. Doom has taken up his gaming cup and we must be there when the die is cast. The time for talk is past. Captain, whom do you serve?''

Luindor stammered, taken aback by the question. ``Why... I serve the Lord of Pelargir, of course,'' he said firmly.

Isildur turned then upon Barathor. ``And you, Lord Barathor? Whom do you serve?''

Barathor at once fell to his knee. ``You, my king. Ever has Pelargir been loyal to the King of Gondor. I shall do now as both my king and my heart command. I shall be stayed no more by gainsayers. Today we ride to Osgiliath!''

Isildur clapped his arm on Barathor's shoulder. ``Well said, old friend. I knew you would not fail me at the last. Now, let us ride!''

Barathor sprang to his feet and began barking out orders to his messengers. Isildur sent Ohtar to the camp to pass the order to strike the tents. The court burst into activity as men hurried in every direction. Barathor turned then to his captains.

``You must not let any watching enemy realize just how short of men you are. Duitirith, you must try to maintain the usual number of guards upon the walls. They are the most conspicuous and any change in their number is sure to be noticed. Use every available man, and if you must, dress women or old men in armor and have them pace the walls. See that there are always figures moving about on the battlements. Have them carry torches at night. Give the impression of a well-fortified and prepared defense. After dark, have people go out and light campfires outside the walls. A score of boys should be able to keep a hundred fires burning all night, and it will look as if a thousand men are still camped before the walls.

``And Luindor, gather the remaining seamen together and take at least one ship out as often as possible. Sail a few leagues down the River, then hoist a sail of a different color and return. The enemy may think it is two ships. They must not realize the River is unguarded. Have people moving about on the ships at the quays, anywhere they can be seen from the far shore. Do what you can. The ruse should not have to work more than a day or two at the most. Before the orcs realize we're gone, the Elves will be here. Go now, and instruct your men.'' They bowed and left, just as Barathor's esquires arrived with his panoply and arms.

Soon all was ready. The tents were all struck and stowed on the wains and the army was formed up on the River Road along the east bank of the Sirith, hidden from any unfriendly eyes by the bluffs on the west bank of Anduin. Isildur rode with Ohtar and Gildor to meet Barathor at the city gates. They waited there a few moments in silence. Then came a thunder of hooves from the shadow of the gate and Barathor rode forth at the head of a long column of the knights of Pelargir. He sat a huge black war horse and both he and his mount gleamed in black armor chased in gold. From his helm streamed a long plume and beside him flew his banner, both the hue of the famed Blue Tower of Pelargir.

Four abreast, the knights of Pelargir poured forth from the gate, lances bristling to the sky, and the sound of their passing was as the breaking of the sea on the rock-bound coasts of Anfalas. Isildur spurred Fleetfoot and sped to the head of his column. Ohtar sounded the great horn of the Eredrim, and the men fell into line with the Pelargrim. Their forces merged into one army at last, Isildur and Barathor rode stirrup to stirrup into the north.

High in the Blue Tower, Duitirith and Luindor watched the great army wind slowly from view. Many hours passed before the last carts lumbered slowly into the clouds of dust and disappeared. At last the road stood empty.

``They are gone,'' said Duitirith. ``May good fortune go with them.''

``Aye,'' agreed Luindor. ``And may it abide with us. We shall have need of it.'' They looked down into the city and saw the empty squares, the closed shops and markets. Here and there lone figures hurried along silent streets. Down at the quays, the ships rocked quietly in the current. The wide brown waters of Anduin, normally crowded with shipping, stood empty. They realized for the first time how many sounds normally rose from the city, and how quiet it now was. The accustomed voices and cries, the rumble of wheels, the beating of hooves -- all was now silent. After the noise and bustle of the muster and departure, all seemed deathly still. They gazed silently for a few moments, then turned to their tasks.

Some time later a long lean warship, bristling with lances, its bulwarks lined with the shields of a hundred warriors, put off from the quays and ran out of sight down the River. A few hours later, under a patched and stained mainsail and with smoke rising from three cooking fires, she returned and tacked up the Sirith to a different dock. She made a brave sight, but Luindor from the tower could see down into the ship and through her ruse. Most of the lances were lashed to the gunwales. The fires were not surrounded by crowds of warriors, but were tended by a handful of seamen and a score of old men in rusty armor dragged from the attic for the occasion. Luindor gnashed his teeth to see this pathetic crew on one of Pelargir's proudest ships of the line.

``Will the Elves never come?'' he grumbled, and so said the sentries pacing on the walls, and the people in their houses. But the day waned and the sun sank, and still no sail appeared on the River. Just before dark, Luindor's seamen joined the three Elves posted to guard Gildor's cog Varda, to make another short run down the River. They rounded the point and there before them stretched more miles of empty River. They tarried there as long as they dared, hoping each minute to spy a line of sails beating toward them in the dusk, but at the last they had to return.

After full darkness had fallen, boys slipped out and lit the campfires, but to Duitirith watching from the Blue Tower, they seemed but a faint reflection of the blazes and noise that had existed there the night before.

``If the orcs have any brains at all in those ugly heads, they will know we are shamming,'' he thought. ``We can only hope it is more convincing at a distance.'' Late it was before he sought his bed, and later still ere he slept.

He was awakened by a hammering at his door. He sat up, confused. It was still dark.

``Captain Duitirith, awake, awake!'' cried his chamberlain. ``The Elves are come at last!''

Fully awake now, he leaped from his bed and began pulling on his clothes. ``Are you certain, man?'' he shouted through the door. ``Make no mistake in this.''

``Aye, my lord. The sentries spied them rounding the point. They made them out clearly against the setting moon. Many ships are approaching.''

Duitirith flung the door open. ``Come then,'' he called. ``Rouse the heralds and messengers, rouse the cooks, light the fires. Food must be prepared at once. The Elves have come far indeed. They will be hungry. Chamberlain, where is Luindor? Has he been called? Wake my esquire. Bring me my armor. Send to the stables to ready my horse. We shall go to meet them at the quays.''

The palace was in an uproar, with people rushing here and there, some carrying guttering torches, others still dressing as they ran. Horses were already snorting and blowing in the courtyard below. The chandeliers in the Great Hall had been lowered to the floor and were being lit from candles. Duitirith reached the Great Hall just as his esquire struggled up with a small wooden cart bearing his armor and weapons.

``Ah, Arador, there you are,'' he cried. ``Gird me now in my finest, for the Elves are come. Bring too the banners of Gondor and Pelargir and the devices of my house. We must greet the Elves with all the honor due to them, though we be but few.''

Armed and ready at last, Duitirith and his housecarls rode out under the great portcullis and drove hard for the quays. Now for the first time they could see the approaching fleet. At the confluence of the Sirith and the Anduin, a long line of bobbing red lights marked the advance of many ships. They were close to the shore now, not far from the rows of empty warships at the quays. Luindor's seamen were shifting a ship to one side to make room for the first of the Elven ships. Other citizens of the city were pelting down the road to the River, shouting with joy. Luindor's men greeted them with happy shouts as they stood on the ends of the dock, ready to take the Elven lines. Duitirith and his men reached the bluffs above the shore and started their descent. The first ships approached the quays.

But from the silently approaching ships came not mooring lines snaking out of the dark, but a hissing rain of arrows. Men screamed and toppled into the water, clutching at black-fletched shafts in their chests. Then came the rattle of catapults and flaming skins of oil arced through the night to burst with a roar among the watching crowds or across the moored ships. In an instant half a dozen ships were enveloped in flames.

On the road above the harbor, Duitirith and his people stopped, frozen in horror. They stared unbelieving as the close-packed ships of Pelargir burst into flame and the ghastly scene was lit by a lurid glare. From below came hoarse cries and the screams of the wounded. On the docks, men clambered over the dead and dying, clawing desperately to escape the rain of death still pouring from the sky.

The first ships reached the shore and great iron hooks whirled out of the night and bit into the soil of Pelargir. More catapults rattled and the sky was streaked with scores of lines of fire. With a sickening roar, more ships burst into flame. The ships were so closely moored that the flames leaped from deck to deck faster than a man could run. In less than a minute the whole once-proud fleet of Gondor was blazing. The sails and tarred cordage burned brightly, and by their light the invaders could be seen at last. Long and lean were their many-oared hulls and their sails were the color of night. Then a wail rose from every throat, for they knew their death was at hand.

``The Corsairs!'' they cried. ``The Pirates of Umbar are come upon us! We are lost!'' The people near the quays began to panic and dashed about in all directions, but suddenly a clear voice rang out from the bluffs above.

``People of Pelargir!'' cried Duitirith. ``Back! Back to the city. We can no longer save the ships, but we have yet a strong wall. We shall make the Corsairs pay dearly for their treachery this night. Sound the horns! Call everyone back within the walls!''

Then all who still could turned and fled in terror up the road they had descended in such joy but a moment before. Duitirith wheeled his horse and called to his esquire.

``Arador! Stay a moment!''

Arador reined in beside him and they sat side by side looking down on the ruin of the fleet. Already a dozen more black ships were drawn up on the strand and men were pouring out of them, overcoming the last feeble resistance of the Pelargrim defenders on the docks and shore. Some of the Corsairs had their yards tilted and were already hoisting out huge siege engines on wooden wheels. Out in the River, more ships jostled for room to land, eager for a share of the plunder.

``This is no raiding party,'' said Duitirith, ``but the full might of the fleet of Umbar. We cannot hope to stand against so many.''

``But the Elves,'' said Arador. ``Where are the Elves?''

``They must have met the Corsairs near the mouth of the River,'' replied Duitirith. ``The Elven fleet must already be destroyed.''

``Then we are doomed.''

Duitirith clutched Arador's sleeve. ``Ride, Arador!'' he cried. ``Ride thou like the wind and overtake if you can Lord Barathor. If he and Isildur can reach us in time there is yet a spark of hope. I only pray they have travelled slowly. Tell them we shall hold out here as long as we can. Ride now, Arador, and do not fail, for in truth the fate of Pelargir depends on you alone this night.''

Duitirith wheeled again and spurred his horse for the gate. Arador took one last look at the Corsairs now swarming up the hill, then dug in his spurs and plunged away for the River Road. The thunder of his hoofbeats was soon lost in the growing roar of the advancing hordes.

On the 30th day of the month of Lothron in the one hundred twenty-first year of the reign of Isildur Elendilson, the King returned to Osgiliath after an absence of many years. Then the Steward Meneldil let the trumpets be sounded and the heralds cried, ``Behold the coming of Isildur son of Elendil, Lord of Ithilien and King of Gondor.'' And the West Gate of the city was thrown open and the King entered in at the head of a long column of armed men. And their banners rippled in the sun, proclaiming the proud men of Calenardhon and Angrenost, and the tall warriors of the coasts of Anglond and Ringlond and Linhir, and the bold knights of Pelargir, mighty Gate of the South. They rode into the city and the people hailed them, for it had been long since such an army had been at Osgiliath. The people in the streets cheered as they caught sight of each new standard and knew that the stalwart warriors of that land had come to their aid.

Yet many of the more knowledgeable noted that the companies were much smaller than could have been expected. And when the banner of Ethir Lefnui passed, with its black tower above blue waves, and they saw that it was at half staff and followed by only a score or so of grim-faced people, they fell silent. And when the end of the column appeared, the men on the walls said to one another, ``Is this all the host? Where are the Eredrim? Where is Romach?'' For the red and gold eagle of the Eredrim flew not among the banners.

The legions turned aside then and began setting up camps on the wide green fields within the city walls along the west bank of the river, but the King and his captains continued to the Hall of the Dome of Stars. There men of the Guard ran out to take their horses' bridles and they dismounted and went up the broad stairs before the Hall. There Meneldil the king's nephew came out and knelt before him, holding out the white rod of his office.

``My King,'' said he, ``the Steward of Gondor begs leave to surrender his office.'' And he held out the Rod of the Steward. But the King took the Rod and returned it to him, saying, ``You are yet Steward, Meneldil. Keep you the Rod and govern the city in my stead as you have done so ably these several years since your father Anárion and I rode forth. For I come not to abide here, but only to return again to war.'' Then the Steward rose and led the King and his people into the Hall.

The Hall was long and lofty, with a high-arched ceiling supporting mighty columns of gold-veined marble. In the center of the Hall the ceiling rose into a vast round dome of deep blue stone. The dome was cunningly pierced in many places and the openings set with jewels, so that the sun shining through them caused them to sparkle like stars. And indeed the holes were arranged to match the sky as seen from the summit of Mount Meneltarma in long-lost Númenor. This was the Dome of Stars, renowned throughout all of Middle-earth.

Beneath the Dome of Stars stood on a raised dais the two thrones of Gondor. That on the west, the seat of Anárion Lord of Anórien, was surmounted by a golden sun. But the high seat was draped in white cloth and the sun's face was shrouded. The eastern throne, topped by a silver crescent moon, was that of Isildur Lord of Ithilien. A tall young man in armor stood before it. He turned as Isildur entered.

``Hello, father,'' he said, smiling.

Isildur stared in wonder a moment. ``Elendur!'' he cried, rushing forward. He embraced his eldest son in joy, their armor clashing together.

``But how come you here?'' Isildur asked. ``I thought you were with your grandfather in Gorgoroth.''

``He sent me hither that I might ride with you. I came with a small body of horse, through Cair Andros, but a week ago.''

``But that is wonderful. And what of your brothers? Have you had news of them? Are they coming to the council as well?''

``No, they remain at their posts, but they are well.''

``But why did father send you here? Were you not needed at the head of the Ithilien lancers?''

``I turned their command over to my lieutenant. To tell you the truth, father, I begged the High King to let me come to you.''

Isildur looked at his son. Though he still thought of him as a boy, he saw before him a strong confident man of thirty-eight, hardened by twelve years of war, eight of those in command of a thousand men. Elendur looked levelly back.

``You want Minas Ithil back, don't you? You want to be there.''

``More than anything, father. I was only in my tweens when we were driven from our home, but I remember still the screams of the dying, the bodies in the streets as we fled for our lives. Always in my dreams I see the city again. I can't bear the thought of orcs defiling our home. I want to live there again, to help cleanse it of their stink, to make it fair once more. I want to show my brothers through its halls and courts. Ciryon was only four, he remembers only the terror of that night. And of course Valandil never even saw it. He's never been in his own homeland. And I think poor mother will never smile again unless she see her old home swept clean again.''

``Aye,'' said Isildur. ``We are of one mind, my son. Now perhaps at last we shall have our chance.''

Isildur knelt briefly before his brother's shrouded seat, then mounted the Throne of the Moon and took his seat. Elendur stood beside him. Meneldil, as steward, sat in a plain stone seat at the foot of the dais.

Isildur looked at the captains and leaders of Gondor gathered around them. They watched him expectantly, awaiting his orders.

``Much evil has befallen our land," he began, "and many of our folk have fallen. But the war is not over. Many deeds are yet to be done and many more of our countrymen may fall before it is ended. And yet we may hope that the end is now nigh.'' He looked from one to another of the captains standing by, their faces grim and determined.

``Aye, for good or ill, the end is nigh. Then shall old debts be repaid,'' he said, glancing at his fallen brother's throne. ``The armies of the West are gathering now to Osgiliath. I have brought many allies, but more will arrive soon. Has aught been heard of the Galadrim?''

``Aye, Sire,'' said Meneldil. ``Our scouts report that they crossed the Mering Stream but yesternight. They should be here at any time.''

The King's face brightened. ``Ah, good news at last. Some at least of our plans may go aright. Now if the others arrive soon we may begin the Council.''

``The others, Sire?'' asked Meneldil. ``Mean you the Eredrim? Will Romach be here soon?''

Isildur's eyes flashed. ``No!'' he said harshly. ``The Eredrim will never come to Osgiliath. They are no longer men of honor. I called them and they refused me to my face. They are accursed!''

The men of Osgiliath blanched. ``Oh, alas,'' cried Meneldil. ``This is ill news indeed. We had great hopes that Romach would bring many thousands of his brave Eredrim to aid us in our need. I cannot believe that he would break the Oath of Karmach. Is he grown fey in his age?''

``Nay, but he was swayed by a servant of Sauron that openly threatened the Eredrim. Romach had not the strength of will to stand firm. But you shall hear all that has passed when all the allies are gathered and we take counsel together. For now, see that all my people are fed and cared for. Some have marched hundreds of leagues and they are weary indeed. Lodge the lords and captains here in the Tower and spare not the board, for they are valiant men and they have come to fight at our side. As for myself, I would be left alone this night.

Dawn was near, but light had only begun to creep into the sky above the Ephel Dúath when those watching from the walls heard the faint traces of distant singing from the darkness to the north. Deep and fair came the sound of many voices together. Ever and anon one clear voice rose alone, piercing the night like the first bird song of a new day. Men strained their eyes, peering north into the dark. Then there was a glimmer far away, though whether it was starlight on the road or some other radiance none could say. The music and the light slowly drew nearer, and then the faint clink and jingle of harness and arms could be heard. The road itself seemed to glow, though no lanterns could be seen. The strange light approached the gate. Then abruptly the song ceased and all was silent. At the same moment the sun climbed above the Ephel Dúath and lo, there before the gates stood a great host of Elves.

Tall and fair they were, with long dark hair streaming, though here and there golden hair flowed from beneath a helm, proclaiming the noble and ancient line of Finrod. They wore long cloaks of grey or pale green, though armor showed beneath. In their hands were sharp lances with points like golden leaves, and they carried long slender bows slung at their backs. They were led by three tall riders of royal bearing.

On a great black charger rode Celeborn, Lord of Lothlórien. His hood was thrown back and a golden crown shown on his head. Beside him on a white palfrey sat the Lady Galadriel, Queen of the Galadrim and the fairest of women. She wore a long green riding cloak that trailed nearly to the ground, and her golden hair was bound in a riband of verdant green. With them rode Elrond Peredhil, loremaster and standard bearer, wearing the white and gold livery of his master, Gil-galad, King of Lindon.

Then Elrond rode to the gates and called out in a loud voice. ``Behold, the Galadrim are come to Osgiliath. We would take counsel with your king.'' Then were the gates thrown open and the clarions rang out. Meneldil greeted them and welcomed them in the name of Isildur, then led them through the streets to the Tower. Isildur, Elendur, and Gildor came down the broad stairs to greet them.

``My Lord and Lady,'' said Isildur in his powerful voice, ``you are well come indeed to this our city. My people thank you for your offer of aid in these evil times. I believe you already know my eldest son Elendur, and of course Gildor of Lindon. Master Elrond, my friend and kinsman, my heart is gladdened that you should come at long last to see Osgiliath.''

And Celeborn replied, ``Well met again, Isildur King. Good day, Elendur. And greetings to you, friend Gildor Inglorion. So the two far travellers are united again, and their efforts may at last bear fruit.''

Then some of Meneldil's guards led the Galadrim host to the walled fields of the Westbank, where they made their camp nigh to that of the men of the south. But Isildur led their lords into the Great Hall to seats of honor beneath the Dome of Stars. After they had broken their fast and shared their news, the Elves expressed their interest in seeing this new city, which none of them had ever visited before. Isildur led them up into the Tower of Stone and they stood at a high window and looked out over the city stretching out on either side of the broad river Anduin.

On all sides, the sun gleamed on white buildings and red tile roofs. Many tall buildings and towers stretched to the sky, for this was the commercial center of the city. To the south, between the last residential street and the high walls of the city, lay the green fields of the Westbank, now covered with rows of brightly colored tents and the streaming banners of many lands. But to the east across the River, the scene was not so fair. There many walls were scorched and blackened, and some of the towers were broken like jagged teeth. Hollow windows and burned houses spoke of the war that had raged across that part of the city in the first assault of the orcs. Through the midst of the city flowed the placid brown Anduin, spanned by the many-arched Golden Bridge. Once that bridge had streamed with people and wagons, a life-giving artery across the city. Now it stood empty, with barricades at each end guarded by strong parties of soldiers. On the near bank, the homes and shops were abandoned and a rough boardwalk had been built across their roofs, forming a parapet for a sort of second wall in case the enemy attempted the bridge again. Men paced there and their arms glinted in the morning sun.

From the streets below the Tower came the cries of vendors and the rumble of wagons and carts. The market in the central square was thronged with people and the scene seemed normal and peaceful. Yet rare was the sound of laughter and now and then a smith would look up from his forge or a woman set down her child and they would look to the east, to the guards on the parapets. For just beyond lay the land of the Enemy, and those walls marked the frontier. Beyond lay the grey-shrouded Mountains of Shadow, looming high and dark yet in the early morning light, casting long shadows like fingers groping toward Osgiliath. Banks of clouds hung above them, threatening a summer storm.

Between the city and the mountains lay the land of Ithilien, the former fief of Isildur. It lay now all in darkness. There all was still and no motion or life could be seen, save only that a keen eye could mark, far off in a high valley, the faint smokes where orcs made their foul meals of luckless things they had caught in the night.

Long the Lords looked out over that scene in silence, then at last Celeborn spoke. ``This is a noble city you and your people have built, Isildur. Though it is yet new, still it has the potential for greatness. I remember that this was a fair site ere the Edain returned to Middle-earth, but your labors here have made it a place of much beauty.''

``It shines yet, does it not?'' said Isildur fondly. ``It was intended to remind us Dúnedain of Rómenna in Númenor. Would you had seen it when it was fair and clean. It was once gay and proud and many shapely towers stood where all now is blackened and burned.'' He looked sadly at the ruined parts of the city. ``I fear the damage will never be fully undone. Can that which Sauron has defiled ever be completely clean again?''

But then Galadriel spoke, and her voice was like moonlight on rushing water. ``It is not her white stones that make your city noble, Isildur, but her people. Long has the valor of the people of Gondor been a shield wall, defending the West against our enemies. We honor them.''

And Elrond said, ``And if our plans go not amiss, new towers may rise in Osgiliath and all will again call it Fairest of the Cities of Men.''

``Such is my dream,'' replied Isildur, ``though many might deem it foolish in these dark times.''

``Nay, Sire,'' said Meneldil, ``it is only foolish to despair. Surely with these good people as our allies we may dare to hope again. Do not Elvish eyes pierce the future? Is there not bright victory before us? Can you not see it, my lords?''

But Celeborn sighed. ``Alas, no. Our eyes may see beyond those of mortal men, but the future can not be seen with certainty by any eyes, not even the Lidless Eye of the Enemy. Therein lies both our fear and our hope. We must build our own future with such tools as we possess.''

Isildur looked up sharply at that and Galadriel caught his eye and nodded. ``Aye,'' she said. ``We have fulfilled our trust and have done as bid by Gil-galad. We come not empty-handed, though this is not the time nor place to speak of such things. For now we would rest from our journey and walk in your city. Farewell for now.'' And the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien descended from the Tower. But when Isildur rose to leave, Elrond bade him stay.

``Isildur, I would speak with you. You know the Lady referred to the Rings of Power. She herself bears Nenya, the Ring of Water, and wondrous indeed are the powers it bestows on its wearer. But few even of the Wise know this.'' And he pulled a fine gold chain from around his neck, and behold, it bore a gleaming ring of burnished gold with a single immense sapphire that shone with a clear blue light like a ring around the sun.

``This is Vilya,'' said Elrond. ``The Ring of Air, and mightiest of the Three.''

Isildur could only stare. The ring sparkled and glowed. Elrond dropped it again into his tunic.

``It was given to me for safekeeping by Gil-galad when he rode away to war. He bade me keep it until he called for it. But he also told me that he hoped he would not call for it while the war lasted, for it was very perilous.''

``And so it is,'' agreed Isildur. ``Sauron forged his One Ring especially to draw the Three Rings to him and to absorb their power into his. If it were to fall into his hands, he would be immeasurably stronger and all the good works made with Vilya's powers would fade and die.''

Elrond nodded. ``Aye. It was intended that the Three should be kept separately, far from Mordor, and would not be brought against him.''

``Except in the most desperate need. And the need is upon us now. This must be the final battle against Sauron. If we fall, there is not strength enough in all of Middle-earth to mount another attack. The time has come to use our last weapons.''

``I know,'' said Elrond. ``And I believe that Galadriel is ready to risk using Nenya in our cause. But she fears for Vilya. As the mightiest, it will surely be drawn most strongly. We do not know the true power of Sauron's One Ring, but we are told that he might even be able to sense the presence of the Three at a distance, to know when they are approaching.''

``Still, we have no choice but to make the attempt. And Vilya is Gil-galad's ring. He wore it long and built many wondrous and marvelous works with it. If he can wield it against Sauron, then Sauron would most likely be drawn forth from the Barad-dûr. Perhaps if he is distracted by Vilya's presence, we may yet...''

There was a sudden commotion on the stairs and a guard rushed out onto the balcony and fell on his knee before Isildur.

``Your pardon, Sire,'' he gasped. ``An envoy has come from Pelargir. He seeks the most urgent audience with you, Sire. He says that Pelargir is under attack.''

Isildur leaped forward in alarm. ``Pelargir attacked? I'll see him in the Dome of Stars, at once, do you hear?''

``Aye, Sire.'' The guard ran to the stairs, but Isildur was there before him, leaping down the winding stairs like a goat. The others followed as best they could.

They reached the Great Hall just as the guard led in a haggard man in the livery of Barathor, though it was difficult to make out the colors, so covered was he with dust. His pale face was lined with exhaustion and he seemed ready to fall. Isildur bade him sit and called for wine to wet his throat, but the man shook his head.

``Isildur King,'' he gasped, ``we are undone. Pelargir is besieged by a great host. The enemy is upon us. Fire and slaughter is at our gate. You must return before it is too late.''

``The enemy, did you say? Did you mark their livery?''

``Aye, Sire. They wore scarlet and black and bore the banner of Herumor. It is the Corsairs right enough, Sire.''

Isildur struck his fist against his own brow. ``How can this be true? We left but five days ago, and the Elves were no more than a day or two away.'' He sprang to his feet and began pacing distractedly. ``What can have happened? There was no sign of an attack. The picket ships were still on guard at Ethir Anduin.''

``Sire,'' blurted out the messenger. ``Forgive me, Sire, but there is no time to be lost. The attack was well under way when I left. The city may already have fallen.''

Isildur glared at him then, his eyes hard. He was not accustomed to being ordered about by a soldier. But as he looked, the man swayed and would have fallen, had not Elrond caught him and helped him to a chair.

``Yes, you are right, of course.'' He called to some officers standing nearby. ``You there! Find Lord Barathor and bid him come here at once. Elrond, summon if you will the Lord and Lady, and Gildor, too. Find Ohtar and have him bring all the chief captains. We must hold council at once. Make haste!''

The room was suddenly empty, save only Isildur and the messenger, slumped in his chair, his head down on the table. Isildur stood long, staring at his heaving back, thinking, calculating distances and marching speeds.

Barathor rushed unheralded into the hall with several of his officers. He was still straightening his clothes and he looked angry at the peremptory summons.

``What is it?'' he bellowed. ``What is the sudden hurry?'' Then the messenger looked up at his lord and struggled to his feet. Barathor saw him and started.

``Arador? Is that you? What are you doing here?'' Then seeing the look in Arador's eyes, his heart froze in his chest. ``What is it, man? What has happened?''

Arador struggled to Barathor and fell to his knees before him. ``Oh, my lord. Forgive this poor messenger. It was the Corsairs, my lord. They have burned the fleet. They are even now besieging Pelargir, if it still stands.''

Barathor seemed to shrink. His face went white. ``By all the Valar...'' he began, then he collected himself. He bade Arador return to his seat. ``Tell us what happened,'' he said.

Elrond came in with the Elven lords. They stopped when they saw the stricken faces of everyone in the hall.

``Two dawns past,'' Arador began, ``a great fleet came up the River in the dark to our quays. We went forth to greet them, thinking them to be Cirdan and his Elves...'' He looked quickly up at Isildur, then away. ``As you had told us, Sire,'' he added.

``But then arrows flew and fires sprang up among our ships and then we saw that the ships were black and filled with our enemies. They fell on us with great slaughter. The horns were sounded to call the people back into the city, but many were cut down before they could gain the gate, for few bore arms. My lord Duitirith sent me after you to bring you back. I have ridden here without stopping, hoping to catch you up on the road.''

The Pelargrim looked at one another in horror.

``What was the situation when you left?'' asked Barathor.

``A large number of people had gone down to the quays to greet the ships. Many died on the dock and along the quays, but the greater part were fleeing to the gate with Duitirith and some of his knights guarding their rear. They should have reached the gate. The Corsairs were still disembarking and unloading their siege engines.''

``How many were they?'' asked Gildor.

``I do not know. But many, many. They came in many large ships. It was still dark when I left, hard to see in the smoke and confusion, and many had not yet landed. But when I reached the rise of the road I looked back. I could see three score at least of biremes in the river and perhaps a dozen large galleasses.''

``But that must be every ship in Umbar!'' cried Barathor. ``That could be twenty thousand men at least, perhaps thirty. It will be ten to one at best.''

``You say it was still dark when you left,'' said Gildor. ``How can you be so sure of the number of ships?''

Arador looked at the king with a cold eye. ``They were easy to see by that time, Sire. The river was lighted up all the way to the far shore by our burning ships.''

``All of the ships?'' asked one of the Pelargrim captains. ``Did not one get away?''

``No. It all happened so suddenly. The Corsairs hurled burning skins of oil amongst the ships. All were alight in moments. If any men reached their ships, they died in them.''

``Think you that Duitirith can hold the walls?'' asked Meneldil.

Arador looked up proudly into the Steward's eyes. ``He will hold them or die in the attempt. His men are well-trained and they are fighting for the lives of their families. But they are so very few. And the Corsairs have siege engines. I would not think they could hold out for more than a few days.''

Barathor shook his head, envisioning the Umbardrim host around the walls of Pelargir, his son fighting the hopeless battle, the city in flames, the terrified women and children hiding in their homes.

``But what of Cirdan?'' he cried. ``Was he not guarding the river?''

``Nay, my lord. We saw no sign of the Elves.''

Barathor wheeled on Isildur. ``You said the Elves would be there! You said the River would be guarded!'' Isildur stared at him helplessly, unable to answer.

``Ah, my city!'' wailed Barathor. ``My son!'' He swung about aimlessly, like a caged bear unable to reach his tormentors. ``Why did I leave? Oh, Eru, why did I leave? What are we doing here while Pelargir burns?''

``We all came here to defend Gondor,'' said Ingold of Calembel, who had come in with the other captains while Arador was finishing his report.

``Yes! We came here to defend Gondor. We guard Osgiliath and we left Pelargir unguarded. But all the time the attack was to be against Pelargir, not Osgiliath. Oh, Isildur, what have you done to us? And now fair Pelargir is destroyed. I have betrayed my trust and delivered my charge into the hands of our enemies. May my ancestors forgive me, for I will have no descendants!''

Then Arador cried out. ``Do not despair, my lord. Captain Duitirith sent me to you not to bring you news of defeat, but to seek your aid. I rode one mount to death and had to steal another, but I could not overtake you on the road. At every turn I prayed I would see you ahead and we would race back together like the wind. Always my last sight of the city was before my eyes. But each mile was another in the wrong direction. Now I have found you at last, will you not ride with me at once to Pelargir? The city may yet stand!''

Then Barathor looked to Isildur, standing with bowed head. ``Arador is right, Sire,'' said Barathor. ``We have made a terrible error by coming here. We may perchance yet save Pelargir. Or if not,'' he added grimly, ``we shall at least avenge it.''

But Meneldil stepped forward. ``My King, you must not leave Osgiliath now. If Pelargir is indeed fallen, the Corsairs will not long tarry there. They will strike here next. They may even now be sweeping up the River to assail us. Pelargir may be but the prelude to a concerted assault from the south and the east. It is too late to save Pelargir, but not Osgiliath. You must stand by us here.''

Barathor turned to the Steward, his fists clenched and his face dark with anger. ``My city is burning and my people cry to us for help, Meneldil. Would you have us stand idly by while they die? Can you think of nothing but Osgiliath? Is Pelargir but a worthless pawn to be sacrificed?''

Meneldil stepped back a pace, but he did not stand down. ``I am Lord of Osgiliath, Lord Barathor, and this city must always be my first concern. But I am also Steward of Gondor, and we must now think of standing together against our foes before we are all swept away. Pelargir is a staunch ally and her people are our brothers. My wife's family is there, and my brother's. My heart is heavy with grief. But this is not the hour for incaution and rash actions. Stay a moment and think what this could portend.

``If Pelargir is truly taken, then not only the Anduin is unguarded. The River Poros also is open to the Corsairs. If the border garrisons at the Crossings of the Poros be not taken already, they shall surely fall soon as well. We knew the Haradrim were strengthening their forces near the border. They could be pouring across the border into Harithilien already, marching to attack us. The Úlairi, those most fell servants of Sauron, hold Minas Ithil, but ten leagues from where we stand. We are threatended from the south and east. If the army now goes south to Pelargir, Osgiliath will surely share her fate. It is possible, as you say, that a great error has been made. History shall decide that, if there be any left to write it. But let us at least learn from our error, not repeat it and again draw our forces away from the point of attack.''

``You are too quick to concede the loss of Pelargir, Meneldil,'' said Barathor. ``If Pelargir has not yet fallen, then a swift blow from us now could yet save her and vanquish the Corsairs. Then the River could be guarded and Osgiliath would again be safe from attack from the south. We must ride at once.''

``The attack was already two days past,'' said Elendur. ``It will take two more to return. Could Pelargir stand for four days against so many, Lord Barathor? Undermanned and with her fleet destroyed? I know well your agony, but do you think it possible that Pelargir yet stands?''

``My people are brave and fierce in battle, Prince Elendur, and they are led by my son Duitirith. They will fight to the last man. They could yet be holding the walls. And if so, even now they will be looking over their shoulders to the River Road, watching for our return. Would you have us simply drink another glass of wine and let them be slaughtered without trying to come to their aid? No! I shall go to them at once, if I have to ride alone.''

Barathor turned to Isildur, who had still not spoken. ``What say you, my king?'' he asked. ``Will you not ride with us?''

Then Isildur looked up and met the eyes of Barathor and Arador and the other Pelargrim. His own eyes were filled with anguish and sorrow.

``My friends,'' he said. ``This is an evil choice. How can I choose between two cities that I love? Osgiliath is my own capital, the heart of my kingdom. But Pelargir too is part of Gondor and I am responsible for her safety as well. The people of Pelargir welcomed me and succored me when I was cast up on their shore on the wings of storm. They ceded me this land on which we stand, and they helped to haul the stones of this tower. Now, at my own behest Pelargir has left herself in mortal danger. Can I now ignore her calls for help in her hour of greatest need? How can I refuse my aid to either city?''

``Sire,'' cried Meneldil, ``this is your own city. It was conceived by you and my father. You laid out its very streets. If you leave us now you are casting away our only hope. For eleven years now we have fought and prepared, always waiting for the blow which must surely come. And all that time we knew we would not be able to withstand a concerted attack. With our kings and most of our fighting men away in Gorgoroth, what hope could we have against an all-out attack from Ithilien?

``It was been a most anxious wait. Now at last you have come back to us, and with an army that could repulse the enemy, drive him from Ithilien, perhaps even throw down the Dark Tower itself. For the first time in years, we have felt true hope again. Now as the Black Hand is stretched forth for our throats, would you ride away again to leave us to our fate? Do not let the agony of Pelargir draw you from your true duty. The main attack, when it comes, will be against the capital. Your place is here in Osgiliath.''

Then the king rose up tall and menacing and he shouted, ``Tell me not my duty, Meneldil! You are my Steward, not my master. I am King of Gondor, and I take orders only from Elendil, High King of the Realms in Exile.''

Meneldil fell back and bowed. It had been long since he had had to bow to any man. But still he was not cowed.

``Sire,'' he said. ``I do not presume to tell you your duty. But this is a momentous decision. The fate of us all could ride on it. Perhaps if you consulted with your father...'' He let his voice trail off, not sure how much he should say before all these foreigners.

``Yes,'' said Isildur. ``The plans of the Lords of the West have gone all amiss now and we must plan anew. They must be made aware of what has happened.''

``But Sire,'' said Barathor. ``We must ride at once or Pelargir is lost.''

``We have a means for speaking with Elendil in Gorgoroth, even from here in the Tower, Lord Barathor. I say to you, prepare your men to ride to Pelargir at once. I will give you my decision within the hour.''

Barathor stared at him a moment, not understanding, but then he wheeled and hurried from the room, with Arador and the other Pelargrim close behind. Isildur watched them go with anguished eyes.

``My heart tells me to join them, Ohtar,'' he murmured privately. ``But Meneldil is probably right. My place is in the capital.'' He looked then at the Elves standing near by. ``My Lords of the Eldar,'' he said. ``I would have you accompany me. We must take counsel with Gil-galad and my father. We must make the greatest haste. Come, into my private chambers. Ohtar, get thee to the camp and see that all is ready for a quick departure. Meneldil, look to the defenses of the city. Double the guards along the quays and riverbanks. The Corsairs could appear at any moment. The orcs too could take advantage of our confusion to attack at once. War is upon us, whether I stay or go!''

Then Isildur and the Eldar retired to the king's apartments, close behind the Dome of Stars. He led them into a small dark room without windows, lit only by a small hanging lamp. The only furniture was a marble pedestal in the center of the room, supporting something round covered by a cloth of gold. They gathered around it as Isildur closed the door. He stepped up to the pedestal and carefully drew off the cloth, and behold, atop the column was a great round crystal as large as a man's head. Dark it was, and yet something seemed to move within it, like a fire smoldering within a shroud of smoke. They stared at it in wonder.

``This is a treasure beyond value,'' whispered Celeborn.

``It is very beautiful,'' said Elrond. ``But what is it?''

``This is a palantír,'' said Isildur. ``One of the seven Seeing Stones, heirlooms of my house. It may be the oldest made object in all of Middle-earth.''

``The palantíri were wrought by the hand of my uncle, Fëanor Firespirit himself, in Aman when the world was young,'' said Galadriel. ``They remained long the pride of all his works, and it was a sign of the special esteem in which the Eldar hold your house, Isildur, that they were given to Amandil your grandsire.''

``They were an aid and a comfort to us Faithful of Númenor,'' said Isildur, ``and they remained there until its fall. My father brought them to Middle-earth, where we now use them to speak one to another, though vast distances separate us. This is the Master Stone, that can speak to each. I had another at Minas Ithil and took it with me when I was forced to abandon my city at the beginning of the war. My father now has it in his camp in Gorgoroth. That is the stone I must contact.''

Then he laid his hands on the globe. The mists inside swirled at his touch and the red glow brightened, lighting Isildur's intent face. He bent his mind upon the stone, willing it to speak out to its mate in the plains of Mordor.

The others watched silently. The smoke writhed within, and images began to form. Tiny they were, as if viewed from a great height. Each cloudscape formed but for a moment before swirling away. The light grew and the images became clearer. There were mountains in the clouds now; black crags thrusting through a swirling reek. The red glow pulsed, as if a heart of fire beat beneath the clouds. Then another dark pinnacle appeared, but this was no mountain summit. High it reared, higher than any mountain, with sheer black sides and a jagged crown. Looking closer, they could see that it was a mighty fortress, with battlements on the parapets, and many turrets and a myriad of tiny windows glowing orange and red.

``Behold the Barad-dûr,'' said Isildur softly, and the room seemed to grow chill at the sound of that fell name.

The image grew, swelling larger and larger until it filled the globe, and it was as if they were descending through the clouds toward the Tower. Finally a torn and tortured land appeared far below. It was all a somber ash gray, slashed by deep cracks and crossed with black tongues of old lava flows. There on the very edge of a smoking chasm lay the only spot of color in all that wide land -- a small square patch of many bright colors, like a scrap of embroidered cloth dropped near the brooding walls of the Tower. As the view continued to descend and grow, they saw that the bright square was in fact a huge city of tents for a vast army that now could be seen moving about the slag heaps.

The globe settled toward one of the larger tents, a pavilion of gold and white silk. There was a disorienting moment as the view seemed to pass through the roof of the tent. Then it was if they were gazing not into the globe, but out of it, at a group of men in armor. A tall man with long silver hair came close until his face filled all the globe. Like Isildur, he wore upon his brow a circlet set with a single glowing gem. This was Elendil, High King of the Realms in Exile, and eldest of Men.

``Ah, Isildur, my son,'' he said, his voice ringing clear in all their heads, though no sound emerged from the palantír. ``I see you are with Elrond and the Galadrim. Are all then gathered for the council on the morrow? Did Elendur arrive safely?''

``Yes, father, but evil unlooked for has befallen us. Pelargir is assailed by the Corsairs.''

Elendil's face showed his dismay. ``Umbar? Oh, that Númenóreans should turn against Númenóreans in such times as these. Curse their black hearts. I wonder that they dare the attempt. The fleet should be more than a match for the Corsairs, as long as the wind holds.''

``The fleet of Pelargir is already destroyed, Sire, and the city but lightly defended. It is not likely that they yet stand.''

Elendil's eyes glared. ``Why? Did the patrols not give ample warning? Were they not prepared for the attack? What was Barathor about?''

``My lord, Barathor and most of his warriors and seamen are here in Osgiliath. At my behest.''

``You told them to leave the Gate of the South open to our enemies? But why?''

``Because I needed them here. You sent me throughout all of Gondor, and we had hoped to have fifteen or twenty thousand in our host by now. But at every turn we were thwarted. I told you from the Orthanc stone that Calenardhon and Angrenost had but few to spare from the raiding orcs. And at Anglond and again at Ethir Lefnui, the Corsairs attacked and slew many, and we had but few volunteers.

``Even Romach and the Eredrim have refused us. We had but three thousand when we reached Pelargir. There we met Gildor, just arrived from Mithlond. He told us that Cirdan's fleet would be at Pelargir in a day or two at most. And so Barathor agreed to withdraw the fleet and send every available man with us to Osgiliath. It seemed a necessary risk for a day or two.''

Elendil's face stared grimly from the globe. ``Oh, my son, these are terrible tidings indeed,'' he said at last.

``Father, I knew the importance of our mission here. What hope would we have trying to attack Minas Ithil with but three thousand men, even with the help of the Elves? I deemed it essential that Barathor ride with us, even though it left Pelargir stripped bare. And loëndë was fast approaching. Cirdan's ships could guard the River, but we could not wait for him. Father, did I do wrong?''

``No, Isildur,'' said Elendil. ``You did not do wrong. It was a desperate gamble, indeed, but necessary. I suppose I would have done the same in your place. It is a token of the love and loyalty of Barathor that he would even consider leaving Pelargir undefended. But you were correct: if you do not have sufficient force to take Minas Ithil, the entire plan will fail, and we shall be certainly lost. What is the situation now?''

``We have just learned of the attack, and Barathor is returning to Pelargir. I urged him to remain, but he would fly to Pelargir at once and I didn't feel that I could in conscience try to prevent him.''

``No, of course not.''

``He wishes me to go with him, to take the whole army back to Pelargir. And as he only left at my repeated pleading, I feel responsible for the people he left behind.''

Elendil looked at his son with compassion in his eyes. ``And you are torn as to what you should do?''

``Yes. If I stay here, Pelargir is almost certain to fall if it has not already.''

``And if you go with Barathor, Sauron could choose that moment to attack Osgiliath.''

``Yes. If Pelargir is taken, the Corsairs will be at our gates in a few days. They could attack while we are on the road back to Pelargir. Either choice could bring disaster.'' Elendil nodded his head, a humorless tight smile on his lips.

``It is at such times that the crown wears heavy on the head, does it not?'' he said. ``What do you intend to do?''

``I will bid him go, but I shall remain here with the rest of my men. We shall continue with the plan as best we can.''

``Yes, that is probably the best. You should not leave Osgiliath unguarded now. You could find Pelargir sacked and return to find Osgiliath burning, and probably Minas Anor as well. But it is not easy to stand idly by and see our friends fall.'' He shook his head sadly. ``May the Powers be with you, and with the Pelargrim.''

``My lord,'' said Galadriel. ``Is Gil-galad nigh? I would speak with him on a different matter, though no less grave.''

``Aye, he is here.'' A proud and stately Elf appeared, clad in silver mail and a long blue cloak. ``Galadriel,'' he said with a smile. ``Greetings to you, cousin. You grow more beautiful as the yén flow by.''

"Elen síla lúmenn omentilmo,'' she replied. ``It is good to see you well. My king, I have done as you bade me.'' And she held up her hand. Nenya glinted like the Evenstar on her hand. ``And Elrond Halfelven is here, with your Vilya. We expect Cirdan any day with Narya.''

``Good. Then the Three are gathered together at last, as has never been since the day Sauron's treachery was revealed.''

``That is my concern,'' said Galadriel. ``Perhaps you are right and the time has come to use the Three against him. But is it wise to bring them all together? Was this not Sauron's whole purpose in this war: to draw them to him so he could take them all together?''

``It may well be so, Lady. But we know not if we still have the strength to oppose him. All our force of arms, great as it is, we fear insufficient to stop him if he emerges from the Tower in his full strength. We shall have need of all our weapons if that should occur.''

``But if we should fail; if he were to take the Three?''

``Then all would be lost and the West would be helpless against him.''

``Exactly. Can any reward be worth such a risk?''

``We have long debated just this question, Lady. Our thought was that if he knew the Three were near, he would be drawn out of his fortress and we could at last test our strength against his. We are sick and weary of this waiting. It has been too long, especially for our allies the Men.''

``You would risk all for this one confrontation?''

``We cannot hope to defeat him by waiting here. He is in no hurry. He can wait until we are so weakened and dispirited that our alliance founders. We must draw him out now. It is that or withdraw.''

``But would not one of the Three be sufficient? I will bring Nenya and we shall fight together, shoulder-to-shoulder as we did against Morgoth. But let Vilya and Narya remain here in case we fall.''

Gil-galad shook his head. ``We considered that path as well. We fear that any single ring might prove insufficient against the One. And perhaps be insufficient bait, as well.''

``But to reveal the Three! This is a desperate chance.''

``It is indeed. A desperate chance for desperate times.''

Galadriel bowed her head. ``We have great reservations about this course you have chosen, Gil-galad. But we will do as you bid.''

``Thank you, Lady. And thank you, Lord Celeborn. I well know what you are risking by bringing your rings here.''

Celeborn bowed his head grimly. ``Yes. All the good that we have done in Middle-earth could be undone in a moment. Lothlórien would cease to exist. But we defer to your judgement, O king.''

``Elrond, a word,'' said Gil-galad.

``Sire?'' answered Elrond, stepping forward.

``I would have you bring Vilya to me here. But I caution you against its use except in the most critical need. It is the mightiest of all the Three, and I fear lest any wear it save myself.''

``It shall be done as you say, Sire,'' replied Elrond.

Trumpets sounded from without. ``Barathor is preparing to depart,'' said Isildur. ``We must go.''

``Yes,'' said Gil-galad. ``And you must come to us here as quickly as you can. Orodruin's rumblings increase with each passing day. We suspect Sauron is preparing to attack. May Eru be with you.''

``And with you, Lords. Goodbye.''

The stone grew cloudy again and the light faded. Isildur covered it again, his face grave.

``It is as I thought,'' he said to Elrond. ``My duty must be here in Osgiliath. Yet if I were free I would fly to Pelargir as fast as Fleetfoot could run.''

They returned to the Dome of Stars and thence to the portico that fronted the Great Hall. The dark clouds they had seen at sunrise were now covering the sky, though here and there light slanted down, highlighting a gilded dome here, a white tower there. Just as they emerged, Barathor rode into the square with Arador and some others of the captains of Pelargir. They rode to the foot of the steps.

``We are ready to ride, Sire,'' called Barathor from his saddle. ``Will you not come with us? We need your strength.''

Isildur looked sadly at the Lord of Pelargir. ``My friend, I fear your choice is ill. The attack on Pelargir may well prove to be but the first stroke of Sauron's attack on Gondor. If so, it will not be long before the plains yonder will be black with orcs. Then will Osgiliath in turn need your strength. I would have you here when that attack comes. But I cannot stay you against your will. In your place I would no doubt do the same.

``I love you as a brother, Barathor son of Boromir, but I cannot ride with you. My place is here. If you must go, I beg you to part as friends and allies still. And when your task in Pelargir be finished, whether relief or revenge, I ask you to return to us. For the mind that directed the attack on Pelargir is not in that city, but there before us, in the east.''

``I understand, Sire,'' said Barathor. ``And I shall return when I can. Farewell, Isildur Elendilson.''

``Farewell, Barathor. Ride faster than the wind, and may you find the sea-blue pennant still fluttering from the walls of Pelargir.''

Then raising his sword, Barathor called, ``Ride, Men of Pelargir. Ride as you have never ridden before.'' His horse reared and gave a great cry like a call to war, then wheeled and plunged down the road to the south gate. His officers followed in a cloud of dust and a thunder of hooves.

Isildur stood and watched them go, then he and his party returned to the hall and ascended again the great tower. They stood looking out over the city. Isildur was deep in thought, his face as grave as it had ever been.

``My mind is much troubled,'' he said to no one in particular. ``Did I well or ill this day? I stayed here, dooming Pelargir to fire and pillage, so that Osgiliath might be protected. But now Barathor takes the greater part of my forces. It may be that his force is now too weak to save Pelargir and mine too weak to protect Osgiliath. Should I have tried to stop him? Might it not have been better to remain united and pursue one course or the other with our full strength?''

``Nay,'' said Galadriel. ``Fault not yourself in this. You could not in faith leave Osgiliath -- you saw that well enough. And yet you could not stay Barathor. He would not have been swayed by any words of yours or ours, and you cannot bind an ally to you against his will. You have done well at least to preserve the alliance. Perhaps he will yet return in time.''

Isildur glanced at the Lady sadly. ``Your words reassure me, Lady, but still am I uneasy in my heart. He will return quickly only if Pelargir and all her people are utterly destroyed. Even then, he will be gone at least five days, too late to help us. And I fear greatly for Cirdan. In our concern for Pelargir we have given but little thought to why he should be delayed. If he was in the Bay of Belfalas when the Black Fleet arrived at Anduin, they could have had an evil time of it. The Elves of Lindon are mighty mariners, unequaled in seamanship, but they are unused to the ways of war at sea. And the Corsairs have been masters of that art for a thousand years. Their ships are driven by many slaves, and they carry catapults that throw skins of flaming oil.

``The White Fleet is strong, but if they met this mighty assault fleet in the open sea, especially if the wind were light or fickle, I fear greatly for the outcome. We know both fleets must have been in the bay at the same time, and but one has emerged. I like it not.''

``I have had these same thoughts,'' said Celeborn, ``and yet one more: if Cirdan has indeed fallen to the Corsairs, might not that which he bore be even now on its way to Sauron?''

``Aye,'' said Isildur, his face growing even darker. ``If that were so, all our plans would be thwarted before they were begun. Already the tide seems to flow against us. We sought throughout the west for aid, but the Eredrim and the Dwarves refuse us and the men of Minhiriath and Anfalas cannot come, and now even the brave legions of Pelargir are denied us on the very eve of battle. If Cirdan too is lost, we lack even the strength to strike and can only helplessly await the end. Woe to us, and alas to all we love and seek to preserve!'' And his grief was writ plain upon his face.

``And yet we must not despair,'' said Galadriel. ``The Host of the Alliance is mighty yet and guards the enemy within his last refuge. The armies of Gondor and Lothlórien are strong and eager. We are alive, our powers are at the full. There is hope yet. While the sun yet shines, there is hope.''

At that moment there came another blare of trumpets and shouting from the walls of the city. On the fields of the Westbank, the men of Pelargir were forming a long column. Barathor and his cavalry could be seen riding to its head. The great doors of the gate swung open, and Barathor led his army out of the city.

For an instant the sun gleamed on sprearpoint and helm and Barathor's banner rippled beneath the arch. Then a cloud passed over the sun and a breeze sprang up from the east. Barathor's esquire sounded his horn, but the call seemed already faint with distance. Then a sudden cold rain pelted down and the riders were lost to the sight of those watching from the tower. And Isildur gazed up at the lowering clouds and repeated Galadriel's last words.

``While the sun yet shines,'' he murmured.

``Lord Amroth, a light has been sighted ahead!''

Amroth looked up from the journal in which he had been writing. His esquire Iorlas was standing in the door of the cabin, his head bowed under the low deck beams.

``What sort of light?''

``I don't know. We can't see it from the deck yet. Better put on a wrap. The sun's not up yet and the air is cool and damp. It's still blowing hard.''

Hastily wrapping a cloak around himself, Amroth followed Iorlas up the ladder to the deck. The wind was still fair and strong behind them. The stern rose to long rolling swells, sweeping up invisibly in the dark. As each sea passed under them, the ship teetered on the crest an instant, then rolled and slid away down its receding back. The newly repaired mainsail boomed and shuddered with the strain. Amroth stood and watched it a moment, but it seemed to be holding and drawing well. Looking about the deck, he saw that the storm damage was nearly all repaired now. Working without a stop for nearly three days, the skilled Sea-Elves had spliced and knotted and replaced the more serious damage wrought by the great storm. As Sindarin, or Wood-Elves, he and Iorlas were excused from such skilled work, even discouraged from helping. He had spent much of the last week in his cabin, keeping out of the way of the real mariners.

He sniffed the air and thought that there might be the faintest hint of land in it, but he well knew that his forest-dweller's nose was not as quick to catch the subtle changes as the mariners'. He made his way to the bows and found a group of Sea-Elves assembled there, peering ahead into the night and talking quietly. He heard Cirdan's deep voice among them.

Amroth peered ahead into the darkness but could see nothing except the creaming bow wave now and again thrown out wide on either side.

``What is it, Lord Cirdan?'' he asked. Cirdan stood upon the rail, grasping the forestay, his body swaying easily with the pitching of the ship. He glanced down and looked away to the horizon again.

```Tis a light, Amroth. The lookout at the masthead believes it to be a burning afar off, though I confess I as yet see nothing.''

``There, my lord,'' cried one of the mariners, ``just to larboard of our head.'' Amroth recognized the gravelly voice of Gilrondil the sailing master.

``I saw it that time!'' said Cirdan. ``It is like a spark, very low on the horizon and we see it only from the crests. There! And there again. What make you of it, Gilrondil?''

The sailing master studied the faint flicker for a few minutes. ``No small light, I think, Lord, but a great flame far away. See how the sky above it seems to pulse with the flame?''

``Yes, I see that now. How distant would you reckon it?''

``It is most difficult to say, Lord. Not less than eight leagues, I would say.'' He shouted up to the lookout swaying high above at the masthead. ``What can you make of it, Lindir?''

A voice called down out of the dark. ``It is more than one now, master. There are two fires. No, three! Another to the right.''

``Are they on land, think you?''

``I cannot be certain, but I would guess they are either on the sea or perhaps on a strand. They appear to be low. Another! Four, four fires burn on the sea.''

``The glow is right ahead,'' said Cirdan. ``We should be nigh to them before daylight.''

They all stood watching those faint red sparks.

``It bodes ill, I fear,'' said Cirdan. ``It may be the flames of war we see.''

``Might they not be signals?'' Amroth suggested. ``Perhaps the people of Gondor have lit beacons on the shore to guide us.''

``Once there was such a beacon on the North Cape of the Ethir Anduin,'' said Gilrondil, ``but it has long been dark. In time of war such lights guide foes as well as friends. Nay, if fires burn at the Ethir it can only mean evil. We shall see what the dawn reveals.''

As the long night wore on, the glowing lights in the east gradually faded and one by one flickered out. Then a white light appeared in exactly the same place. Amroth was about to point it out to the others, but it soon rose from the sea and was seen to be Eärendil, the Morning Star, presaging the dawn. Soon after, a soft glow gathered on that same horizon and the looming seas around them took on long grey shapes. Then came a brilliant yellow gleam and suddenly the sun rose over the bow.

There behind them and on either side rode the great swan ships of Mithlond, their prows splitting the grey seas. Already a few were altering course slightly to close up around the flagship for the daylight formation. The new sun turned their sails a shell pink and cast diamonds into the spray at their bows. The fleet looked proud and strong, though they numbered but ten long swanships, thirty smaller corbitas, and a half dozen cogs. Most lay to windward, off their starboard quarter, and on each sail was emblazoned in gold the eight-pointed star of the Noldor. At each masthead flew the white banner of Galathilion, the Silver Tree.

Beyond the main body of the fleet loomed the dark mass of Tolfalas, the Island of Cliffs, which they had passed unseen in the night. Far away to larboard were the green rolling hills and white cliffs of Belfalas. Far ahead, just visible now in the slowly clearing haze, was a low dark line.

``What is that black shore ahead of us?'' asked Amroth.

``Those are the willows of the Ethir Anduin,'' answered Gilrondil. ``There among those immense trees, the mighty Anduin flows by many mouths into the sea.''

As the day waxed and the line of trees drew nearer, many gaps began to appear, marking the passages between islands. They made for the northernmost, close under the beetling cliffs of North Cape, for it was the widest and least troubled by rips and overfalls when the tide was in flood. As they drew near, Amroth climbed into the weather rigging and searched the coasts for any signs of life.

``What see you, Amroth?'' cried Gilrondil from the aftercastle. ``Are there any sails?''

``No. There is nothing.''

``That is not good. The Men of Pelargir keep always several picket ships at the Ethir. They should have challenged us long before. The Ethir is never unguarded. Keep a sharp eye.''

At that moment came a hail from the ship nearest to starboard. ``Something floats in the water, Lord Cirdan. Just ahead of us.''

Cirdan stepped quickly to the rail and called back. ``Heave to, Hithimir, and see what it is.'' The other ship quickly dropped its sail and its slow and stately pitch became a wallowing in the heavy seas. Amroth could see sailors rushing forward to peer down at some dark object rising and falling in the water.

``It appears to be wreckage, Lord,'' came the cry.

``Gilrondil!'' shouted Cirdan. ``Signal all ships to heave to. Bring us alongside Hithimir's ship.'' A string of flags flew to the masthead and the Elves leaped to the braces to haul the yard around into the wind. A moment of thundering canvas, then the sail was clewed up and bunted in. The ship lost way and drifted over toward Hithimir's ship. Soon they could all see the dark object bobbing in the clear blue water.

At first Amroth could make no sense of what it was. It seemed to be a jumble of blackened logs, skewed at every angle, entangled in vines. Suddenly Amroth realized he was looking at the rigging of a large ship. A crossed mast and yard drifted in a tangle of rope and blackened sailcloth. Then with a shock of horror he saw a body tangled in the rigging, floating face-downwards, the long brown hair drifting around it. Everything was burned and blackened, but the masthead was undamaged and a few feet beneath the surface a blue banner streamed in the water -- a gold citadel on a blue field.

``That is the banner of Pelargir,'' said Cirdan.

``There can no longer be any doubt,'' said Gilrondil. ``The pickets of Gondor are destroyed and the Ethir is taken.''

``A curse on the storm that delayed us! We have come too late.''

``This can only be the work of the Corsairs of Umbar. Pelargir may already be destroyed,'' said Gilrondil in a voice of despair.

Cirdan turned to him. ``The flames were but five hours past. The Corsairs could not have reached Pelargir yet. They must still be in the River.''

``They could be hidden among the islands, lying in wait for us,'' said Gilrondil.

``I think not. If they had known we were here they would have attacked us out here in the open bay. They would never let themselves be bottled up within the River, with us the stopper.''

Gilrondil studied the islands and the openings between them. He pointed to the North Cape. ``We could lie in wait beyond that headland and fall upon them as they return. If we strike just as they attempt this pass, we will have the weather gauge and they will be on a lee shore in close waters and will be sore hindered.''

But Cirdan shook his head. ``Gil-galad sent us to aid Gondor against its enemies. If Pelargir is now to be besieged, it would be small aid to its people to strike its attackers after the city is fallen. We must attempt to prevent the attack, not avenge it. Nay, our way lies up Anduin, and as fast as may be.''

``My Lord,'' said Gilrondil, ``it is unlikely we will overtake them, for they have at least five hours head start. From the look of those bluffs along the west bank, the wind is sure to be fickle in the River and we may have to tack against the current while they can row against it even if the wind dies completely. Also, if they dare to attack Pelargir they must be in their full force and must surely outnumber us. Even if we were to catch them in the River, the current will be in their favor. And they have great experience in combat in narrow waters. In pursuing them we are giving up every military advantage.''

``These things are all true, Gilrondil, and it is your duty to point them out to me. Nevertheless, it is my duty to help defend Pelargir. With the picket ships destroyed, most likely the city is unaware of the danger approaching. We have no choice but to try to warn them and give what assistance we can. The Corsairs must soon encounter the main body of the Pelargrim fleet, and it is mighty and experienced in these waters. No matter their strength, they cannot hope to pass up to Pelargir without heavy losses. Most likely the two fleets are engaged already. If we were to appear suddenly at their rear and fall upon them, they would be pinned between us and the Pelargrim. And we should have that most able of allies, surprise, at our side.

``Now we must fly before it is too late. If the Corsairs were to best the Pelargrim fleet before we arrive, we would have a hard time of it ourselves. Hoist the signals to get under way and to prepare for battle. We are unlikely to see them before they see us, so we must be ready to attack as soon as we sight them.''

Gilrondil bowed and raised his booming voice. ``Cast off the brails! Brace the yard round! Haul and belay! Sheet home! Sheet home!'' The mariners leaped to the rigging and the ship surged forward as if struck with a whip. At the same time the signals broke at the masthead and all around them the great sails dropped and bellied. The fleet formed up and drove for the northern mouth of Anduin.

As soon as all lines were coiled the mariners went below and brought forth bows and quivers and long slim swords. These were stowed in receptacles for that purpose just under the gunwales. The pieces of a small catapult were brought up from the hold and assembled on the forecastle. Long lances were fitted into sockets pointing outward from the rails and boarding nets were stretched between them.

Amroth donned his mailed shirt and his cuirass and helm. He set his bow and quiver ready to hand and buckled his sword belt. As he stood stringing his bow, Gilrondil called to him. ``You had best use one of our longbows, Lord Amroth. Your short Sindarin bow is unsuited for the long shots required at sea.''

Amroth looked askance at the tall weapon Gilrondil held. ``I am unused to your Noldorin bows, Master. I fear I would give too many shafts to the waves,'' he laughed. ``This bow of mine will bring down a stag at nigh a furlong, and yet it is small and light and easily handled, for it was designed for hunting in the forests of Greenwood the Great. When drawn by a steady hand, it is more accurate than your longer bows, and handier in close combat.''

Now it was Gilrondil's turn to look dubious. ``A furlong? Very well, Lord. Perhaps you are right. But for myself I shall keep this old yew of mine. It has served me well for many yén.''

They both strung their bows, fitted arrows, and drew several times. ``What will the range be, think you?'' Amroth asked. ``I know not the ways of war between ships. When should I shoot?''

Gilrondil lowered his bow and his voice. ``In truth, I know not. We have fought no pitched battles at sea since this New Age began. Many of us here were not yet born when last the Swanships of Mithlond fought an action. But distances can be deceiving at sea. When we rendezvous with another ship, I notice it often seems to take forever to approach within bowshot, then suddenly we are alongside. You can try a shot when you feel sure of hitting your mark. But I would think that except for a lucky shot or two, little damage could be done until the ships grapple one another. Then would the fighting be hand to hand and eye to eye and we will need our swords, not our bows.

``If the Corsairs have already landed, I would advise that we land at some small distance so that we might disembark, form up our companies, and fight a land engagement. I fear at sea the pirates would have the advantage of us, for they sail in long galleys with hundreds of slaves to draw the sweeps. They could easily outrun us, especially if the winds are light. Their ships are very long and narrow and I believe they would not maneuver easily, especially in narrow waters. If we can come upon then suddenly in some narrow strait, I believe we would be on nearly equal terms, for we could wheel and turn and attack their flanks. My greatest fear would be a calm, for then we would be at their mercy.

``They bear beneath their bows, below the waterline, long sharp rams which can tear the belly out a ship in seconds. Neither your bow nor mine would avail us then, Amroth. An Elf will not swim far in a suit of mail. So pray that the wind holds steady and fair.''

The wind did hold, and they raced up the broad lower reaches of Anduin hour after hour. The Great River at this point was many miles from shore to shore, and but for the smooth water, they would have thought they were yet at sea. League after league rolled by under their keels as the day wore on, but never a sight did they have of another vessel.

Just before dark they approached the confluence of the River Poros, which joins Anduin from the southeast, bringing the waters of the dread Ephel Dúath across many leagues of hot and barren sands. The Anduin narrowed considerably just above the Poros. Cirdan had reasoned that the Pelargrim might have fallen back to these straits so the galleys would be more hindered. He had hoped to find a battle in progress here, or even better, the Corsair ships lying on the strand under the colors of Pelargir. But the rivers and beaches were silent and empty. The lookouts strained their eyes for any hint of a masthead away up the Poros, for fear of an ambush after they passed, but there was no craft of any kind, nor even wreckage. It was difficult to believe that this land was at war. They could only assume that the Corsairs had run unopposed toward Pelargir. But no one could explain why the Gate of the South should stand thus open.

They passed the Poros and the banks of Anduin closed around them. They were passing now through a flat land, the banks lined with willows and cottonwoods, broken here and there by a sunny beach. It was a lovely peaceful land, cool and inviting, but they noted only how slowly the banks crept by, an indication of the strong current against them. At last night fell and some hours later the first quarter moon sank into the River behind them. Much against his will, Cirdan was forced to reduce sail to navigate the many turns of the River in the dark.

The mariners had feared the sun would draw the wind after it, as their saying goes, but it held and even increased, so that they fairly flew up the River. Even with reduced sail, their progress seemed more swift at night, for they could hear the water rippling along the side and the creaming wake rolled out astern, and they could not see the shore creeping past so slowly. The yard was braced nearly square now as the River bore more to the north.

The fleet swept on through the night, parting the black water with a white rush of foam. The great lanterns in the prows had not been lit, so the other ships were mere curling white waves astern. The smaller ships were falling back in the formation, though Cirdan was careful not to let the larger corbitas outrun them and divide the fleet.

Amroth stood on the aftercastle, just behind the two helmsmen at their steering sweeps. Gilrondil stood on the gallery at the stern, beneath the long curving neck of the swan. He leaned long on the rail, silhouetted against the glowing wake. At long last he climbed the ladder to the aftercastle.

``We are making a goodly speed, Master,'' said Amroth.

``Aye,'' said he. ``The log gives it as nearly eight knots, even under reduced sail, though the River must be taking back at least three of that. We should reach Pelargir before midday if we come not upon a battle before then.''

``Is it not most strange that the Corsairs have seemingly met so little resistance?'' asked Amroth. ``The River is swept clean. We sail through the heart of one of the largest and most populous nations in Middle-earth, yet we might as well be at sea for all the signs of life we see. Where can the fleet of Pelargir be?''

``I cannot guess. By all accounts the River should be full of ships. Besides their main fleet, their patrols along the coasts, and the pickets always at the Ethir, there are many smaller craft that always patrol the River, protecting trade and preventing crossings by the orcs that now infest southern Ithilien. And there is always much commercial traffic on Anduin, for it is not only Gondor's South Gate, but also bears the cargos of Pelargir and Lebennin, and even some from your lands far to the north, portaged around the falls of Rauros. The River is never empty, so we are told.

``I like it not,'' he said. ``The pirates could not have swept the River clear of all traffic so quickly. There is no sign of battle, no wreckage. It is as if the entire nation of Gondor has been swept away to the moon. No, there is much we do not know here, and that makes me most uneasy.''

He lowered his voice so that the helmsmen should not overhear. ``I have had another thought which sore troubles me, but I am loath to speak of it, for it involves a most evil chance.''

``Speak, my friend,'' said Amroth. ``I would know your fears, lest they prove true in the end.''

``Very well then. What if the Corsairs have already taken Pelargir some time ago? If they rule in Pelargir and their fleet guards the River, that would explain the absence of shipping or people on the shores.''

Amroth's heart chilled and he drew his cloak more closely about his shoulders. ``Then we would be hurrying to our doom. But what of the fires yesternight, the wreckage we saw?''

``If the Corsairs held the city and the River, would they not station their own pickets at the Ethir? And if ships of Pelargir returned unknowing from some long voyage?''

``Ah,'' said Amroth, seeing again the blackened timbers in the pellucid water, ``they would have been unprepared for an enemy lying in wait in the Ethir.''

``Aye, and they would have lighted the night for us.''

``But we saw no pickets, Corsair or otherwise.''

``But we came there at dawn, looking into the rising sun. The light would have lit our sails long before we could see the Ethir clearly. And if a Corsair picket sighted an Elvish fleet approaching?''

``Would they not have attacked us as we entered the River?''

``A handful of picket galleys would be foolish to attack us. But if they concealed themselves among the myriad islands of the Ethir and allowed us to enter the River, they could even now be following us, waiting gleefully for us to meet their main fleet. Then we would be trapped between their forces.''

``If that is true,'' said Amroth, ``then the trap is already sprung, and we are already in its jaws. There would be nothing we could do.''

``Aye,'' he said. ``That is why, when all other eyes are looking up the River, I look down it.''

Amroth looked astern with a shudder and imagined low sleek galleys pulling toward them with muffled oars, their brazen rams gliding along in the Elves' wakes. ``Ah, Gilrondil,'' he sighed. ``You have not brightened this night for me.''

He turned and started down the ladder to the gallery again. But at that moment came a shout from many throats, and lo, the eastern sky was ablaze.

``Pelargir!'' groaned the mariners. ``The city is aflame. The Corsairs attack and we are yet many leagues away. Alas, alas, for Pelargir!''

Gilrondil leaped back up the ladder and stood gazing at the pulsing red glow ahead.

``Our friends are attacked,'' he said. ``And yet even from this comes some comfort, Amroth. My fears were unfounded. Pelargir yet stands, and we come unlooked for. There is hope yet.''

The flames of Pelargir gave them one more service: they could now see the River ahead. Cirdan ordered the reef shaken out of the sails and small triangular sails were set between the yards and the mastheads. Their speed increased noticeably.

All through the rest of that long night they watched the sky ahead. The wind became variable toward dawn and backed to the south. They feared that they would be becalmed, but then it steadied again. They braced round the yards and the ship heeled in the stiff breeze. Brown water coursed along the larboard scuppers.

As the sky lightened with the dawn, a great pall of smoke could be seen rising ahead, so the sun rose a baleful blood red. On either side, the growing light revealed low hills, green with trees and meadows. Now and again they passed lone cottages or small villages on the left bank, surrounded by tended fields and with a fishing coracle or two drawn up on the strand, but they saw no sign of life or movement. Still there was no evidence of damage, and they surmised that the people of Lebennin had fled from their homes in fear as the Umbardrim fleet passed.

The wind continued to back, reaching southeast, but as the River was trending now more to the northeast, the sails could still draw well with the tacks taken well forward. The sun was climbing high in the east and burning a sickly yellowish-red in the battle-wrack when they heard shouts from the ships to their left. The nearest ship hailed.

``Lord Cirdan!'' cried her captain. ``The ships to leeward report that Pelargir is just coming into sight around that furthest point, distant perhaps three leagues.''

Cirdan lifted his speaking trumpet and called back. ``Pass the word to close up to windward, Hithimir. If we skirt the east bank we can preserve secrecy as long as possible. How fares the city?''

Hithimir turned and spoke the next ship as the yards were braced up hard. The ships began to close with the flagship. There was a brief conversation they could not make out, then Hithimir turned back to them.

``Pelargir does not yet appear to be burning, my Lord, though it is wreathed in a great column of smoke that rises from someplace near the River. Anduin itself seems to be clear as far as they can see.''

``What? No ships from either side? Where are they?''

Hithimir held up his hands. ``They said no ships could be seen, my Lord.''

Cirdan lowered his trumpet and turned to Gilrondil. ``What think you of this, Sailing Master? Where is the fleet of Pelargir?''

The Master shook his head. ``I know not. Perchance they were taken unawares at the quays and had not the time to cast off. And yet they have patrols in the River and watchers along the banks. There is some mischance or evil here we know not of.''

``There will be no more mischances today!'' cried Cirdan. ``Clear for action! Let the archers prepare.''

Then everyone hurried to their appointed tasks. Pots of pitch were brought out onto the castles and small fires were built under them. The round shields were taken down from the bulwarks and placed by each fighting station. Those Elves not at the sails or helm gathered atop the castles. Their esquires drew buckets of water and soaked the decks and rigging, then dipped cloths in the River, ready to beat out flames. Grappling hooks stood ready beside coils of line.

Finally all was in readiness. The fleet had drawn in hard against the eastern bank and formed into two columns. No word was spoken as they rounded the last bend and came in full sight of the city of Pelargir.

There before them in the angle between two rivers stood a high round hill, crowned by a great walled city. Banners fluttered from tower and battlement and from the highest point a tall slim spire pierced the sky. A great bridge arched over the smaller river on the left. At the eastern end of that bridge, under a bluff close beneath the western walls, the fleet of Pelargir was clustered at the quays. But lo, they were all aflame, and a great black column of smoke licked with red tongues of flame rose above the walls. Along the strand to the right, many long black galleys and galleasses were drawn up on the sand. A roar of many voices and the sound of clashing steel drifted across the water.

Cirdan steered directly for the quays, and with the wind more free the water curled back from their bows. Now they could see men on the shore, like a black tide flowing out of the galleys and up the road toward the city. Near their head some huge engine crept forward: a massive battering ram pulled by thousands of slaves.

Still they sailed on undisturbed. Now they could make out a group of men by the ships; officers, they supposed, from their high gilded helmets. They were all looking up at the city and the siege engine toiling slowly toward the gate. They seemed to have no eyes for the River at their backs.

Finally, when the Elves were nearly halfway across, someone must have turned and seen them. A lone trumpet sounded, high and clear above the tumult. And the men of Umbar turned at the sound and beheld the White Fleet of Lindon bearing down upon them with war, and they were smitten by a great fear. Then did Cirdan have all the trumpets be sounded and the Elves gave a great shout and clashed their arms together and made a fell clamor.

The legions of Umbar turned and raced for their ships, heedless of command. The slaves dragging the ram dropped their ropes and milled in confusion. Several of the ships cast off and backed desperately into the stream to meet the foe, their banks of oars flailing wildly. Others hesitated, waiting for their complements to return. Those arriving at the strand leaped aboard the nearest ship, so that many galleys sailed with barely a warrior aboard, and others with so many that there was but little room to stand. The slaves at the oars, hearing the trumpets and tumult but unable to see what was happening, panicked and crossed their oars and the helmsmen struggled to hold their courses.

Havoc reigned amidst the black fleet as each ship tried to back and turn to meet the foe. Ship collided with ship and men were thrown into the water. Oars clattered together as neighboring ships tried to gain room to maneuver. One long galleass became turned across the strand and was struck by several other ships attempting to move away from shore.

But the Corsairs were accomplished seamen and were soon bringing their ships under control. Within moments a score or more of bireme galleys and six or eight heavy trireme galleasses pulled free of the wheeling, jostling press of ships. Across the water came the beat of drums and the cracking of whips, and the banks of sweeps began to rise and fall as one. They looked like great birds of prey, the oars like beating wings. They quickly formed into a wide arc, the flanks slightly in advance of the center as they moved out to meet the new enemy.

As they approached, the Elves could make out better their appearance. The hulls were long, narrow, and low, the oarsmen protected by leather covers so that only their oars could be seen. Narrow raised walkways ran the length of the ships, and these were crowded with armed men. The sterns curved up into carved heads of dragons or other foul beasts, but their prows terminated in long brazen rams edged with sharpened teeth on either side.

Cirdan ordered the mainsail braced round to spill its wind and allow the rest of the fleet to form up into a wedge behind. The warriors stood motionless, gripping their weapons and watching in fascination as two thousand black oars dipped and fell and the Corsair fleet gathered speed.

When the fleets were separated by no more than two cables' lengths, the Elvish archers dipped their shafts in the burning pitch and sent a continuous rain of fire into the advancing galleys. Several sails burst into flame and men toppled from the fighting bridges as they were pierced by flaming arrows, but the line did not waver and the oars continued to dip and rise with a terrible regularity.

As the ships closed further Cirdan let a horn be sounded and the Elven ships behind wore ship to meet head-on the enemy flanks, now closing around them. But the flagship steered directly for the center, straight at the largest galleass, a giant trireme with a battlemented aftercastle. A few scattered arrows began to fall among them, but with little effect. The Corsair archers were pinned behind their shields by the hail of Elvish fire-arrows, and smoke now streamed from a hundred places on the hull.

Cirdan had the helm put over slightly to starboard, exposing his larboard bow to the cruel ram, now less than a hundred yards away. The galleass swerved slightly to keep the ram aimed at their bow. Cirdan snapped out a few quick orders and held his hand above his head. The ships rushed together at tremendous speed. Then, just as collision seemed inevitable, Cirdan dropped his arm. The yard was braced hard around just as the helm was thrown hard to larboard. The great sail was brought aback with a thunder of thrashing canvas. The ship lurched and groaned, but was nearly stopped by the sudden pressure of wind on the front of the sail.

The bow swung sharply toward the enemy. His ram frothed by but a few feet from their bow as, with a terrible rending and splintering, the entire starboard bank of oars was sheared off by the white hull. Then her aftercastle was drawing alongside Amroth where he stood in the stern. He saw her commander sitting in a high seat like a throne. He was leaning forward, shouting to his helmsmen, but before he could speak Amroth had put a shaft through his chest, pinning him to his seat. Quickly fitting another shaft, he brought down one of his officers and Gilrondil beside him felled another, even as they passed out of range astern, crippled and aflame. The Elves cheered as they leaped to the braces to come about while the esquires carried the wounded below. They had lost only two dead and three wounded and the galleass was destroyed.

As they wore ship close under the shore, Gilrondil turned to Amroth. ``Fine shooting, my Lord Amroth. You sent two shafts true to their mark before I could get one away.''

The Wood-Elf grinned. ``Perhaps my poor short Sindarin bow is not without its uses at sea, Master.'' But he thought Gilrondil still looked unconvinced as he bent again to his quiver. A young Elf ran by, his arms full of arrows, filling each archer's quiver.

Then they were heading back toward the fray and found a brief moment to look about. Several galleys lay motionless in the water, wreathed in flame, and men were leaping into the River, only to find themselves amidst a mass of maneuvering ships and razor-toothed rams. The River was choked with the wrack of ships and many white hulls lay split and broken. Finarthin's fair corbita was gone, and Linroth's, and Belcarnen's drifted rudderless and aflame.

Then out of the tumult and smoke, two lean galleys drew off and made straight for the flagship. One soon pulled ahead and the other followed close on his larboard quarter. The Elves again let fly their rain of flaming arrows, and in a moment had nearly swept the leading ship's forecastle clear.

``The helmsmen!'' Amroth shouted. ``Aim for the helmsmen on the second ship!'' A dozen keen-eyed Elves let fly at once and one helmsman slumped to the deck. Another leaped to his place just as the second helmsman clutched his chest and toppled into the River. A final deadly volley cleared the aftercastle and the galley rowed ahead with no hand to guide her. Seeing this, Cirdan put his helm to starboard and swung across their bows. The leading galley wheeled to engage them, and the other drove full into her side. The wounded ship was lifted high onto the other's prow, spilling men into the River and fouling her sister in rigging and wreckage.

Cirdan came about and hove to close to windward of the crossed hulls. He called for the grapples and three hooks looped out over the enemy ships. Many eager hands tailed on to the lines and drew the hulls alongside. While the archers sent a hail of arrows into the warriors clustered on their aftercastle, Gilrondil and a score of bold Elves leaped to the rail. ``Elbereth!'' they cried, ``Elbereth a Manwë!'' Then they threw themselves onto the enemy ship and cut a bloody path along the fighting bridge with their spears and swords.

At the foot of the ladder leading to the aftercastle, they were halted by a desperate defense. There stood a man, tall for his race, in a captain's lofty helmet, and surrounded by six knights. They held long curved sabers and their eyes were hard and fearless.

Gilrondil halted and called out, ``You are defeated, Men of Umbar. Lay down your weapons and your lives shall be spared.'' But their captain gave a grim laugh.

``Accursed Elvish meddlers! Would you spare my life? But I would rather take the life of an immortal!'' And he swept his saber over his head to slash down at Gilrondil, but he fell pierced through by Gilrondil's spear. The captain's knights fell upon the Elves fiercely, but in a few moments of deadly fury all lay sprawled on the deck, though two Elves lay stretched out beside them. Then Gilrondil took up the captain's saber and with a single stroke hacked the black banner of Umbar from its staff and it fluttered into the River. The boarding party freed the grapples and scrambled back to their own deck.

Their shipmates greeted their triumphal return with a cheer, but it died in their throats, for at that moment a trireme passed by close to larboard and sent a deadly fire into them. All around Amroth Elves fell to the deck, pierced by long black-feathered arrows. Gilrondil fell groaning, a shaft through his thigh. One of the helmsmen dropped and another took his place. The galley sheered off and swung about to engage them again. Amroth took careful aim as it receded and put a shaft through the back of its captain. The ship wavered and the drum stopped. The oars hesitated briefly, and in that moment an Elf on the forecastle let fly the catapult and sent a great stone hurtling toward her. It dropped through the leather shield into the slaves' benches and must have torn right out through the bottom, for the oarsmen on that side threw back the shield and began leaping into the water.

The Elves had no time to attend to them. They left the crippled ship dead in the water and listing heavily, and jibed to return to the fray. There near them was Hithimir's great corbita. Her forecastle was aflame and her decks were littered with the dead. Though there were few left to sail her, she was coming about to return to the battle with Cirdan. Side by side they drove grimly down on the wheeling, circling ships.

As they approached, a galleass moved out to meet them. Their fire raked her decks and took a terrible toll, but her men were staunch and quailed not, but stood and returned shaft for shaft. Then her catapult clattered and a huge ball of flame arced roaring toward Hithimir's ship. It burst full on the sail and burning oil drenched all the rigging and those on the deck below. Amroth could see Elves rolling on the deck and beating at their clothes, but soon the whole ship was aflame. Many leaped into the River but they could not aid them, for the galleass was nearly upon them now.

Cirdan tried his old trick, throwing down his helm and backing the sail. The bow veered to larboard and the flagship heeled steeply, dangerously close to capsizing. But the enemy captain was quick and swung his bow to point at their exposed side. They could hear the slavemaster's drum beating an ever-quickening rhythm and saw the warriors on her bridge clashing their swords on their shields and howling with the battle madness.

They braced themselves for the inevitable collision, but in that last moment came aid unlooked for in the shape of a hellish apparition. Between the two closing ships drifted a blazing tower of flame. For one instant they could see Hithimir at the helm of his ship in the midst of the flames. His clothes were scorched and blackened, his hair was smoking, but he seemed not to notice as his blistering hands strained at the steering sweep. Then came a deafening grinding crash and a long black ram burst out of the flames and stopped, quivering, a few feet from their side. Hithimir's blazing rigging toppled and fell with a roar over the black galleass, impaled on its own bane. Cirdan circled the burning ships, but from that inferno came none alive, neither Man nor Elf.

``Helm alee!'' cried Cirdan. ``After them!'' Amroth looked up from the burning ships and saw a black galley pulling away from the engagement, making for the eastern shore. It was just then passing close under their stern as they began their tack. Looking back, he saw a group of tall men in dark robes on her quarterdeck, not fifty yards from where he stood. Just forward of them, a group of seamen were clustered around some kind of engine he could not make out, but a column of smoke rose from it. They suddenly jumped clear, and with a loud explosion, a ball of flame arced straight toward Amroth.

He had only time to shout a warning and throw himself to one side. He heard a deep-throated roar and felt a blast of heat as the projectile sailed past his shoulder, then a crash behind him. Wheeling around, he saw that the ball had struck the quarterdeck rail, sending a wave of flame along the deck and down the side of the ship. Instantly a dozen Elves leaped forward, beating at the flames with their wet cloths. He heard a cry of triumph behind him and turned to see the Umbardrim officers jeering at them. One, taller than the rest, stepped to the rail and shook his fist at them. He had a long aquiline face and a great hooked nose. For an instant their eyes met, and Amroth was struck by the look of pure hatred in his gleaming eyes.

In spite of the flames licking around them, the Elves soon brought the ship around in pursuit of the fleeing galley. With the ship close-hauled, the wind fortunately carried the flames away from the sail and rigging. Soon a hose was brought into play and the pump manned, and the fire was extinguished. The galley was rowing into the eye of the southeast wind, so the Elves were forced to beat into it, losing ground to her at each tack. They were perhaps two hundred yards behind when she reached the shore opposite Pelargir and drove heedlessly straight into the strand at full speed. Her mast toppled forward, crashing down into the banks of rowers. All aboard were thrown from their feet, but the officers were soon up and running forward, clambering over the backs of those struggling to free themselves from the tangle of rigging that now covered the fore part of the ship.

Cirdan tacked once more, heading for the beach beside them. The boarders had already gathered on the forecastle, ready to leap ashore. Figures were now pouring out of the wrecked galley, jumping over the bows or clambering over the tangled mass of oars along the side. Most seemed to be in panic, trying to reach shore, but one group around the bow was still under command of the officers. A gangplank had been let down to the sand. Several figures jumped onto it to flee, but were shoved off by the officers. Then the Elves saw why. A great black horse, snorting and struggling in fear, was being led up from below. Somehow they managed to get that mighty stallion down the plank in the midst of much shouting and confusion. The swan ship's prow scraped onto the sand a hundred yards to the left of the galley.

With a cheer of ``Elbereth Gilthoniel,'' the boarding party leaped down. Amroth followed, his bow and short sword at the ready. After over two weeks at sea, the land seemed to be still rocking under his feet. Fifty strong, they quickly formed up and began trotting toward the stranded galley.

The horse was ashore now, and the officers were clustered around it. Amroth saw one mount the horse, and recognized again that sinister face he had seen glaring at him. He cast a quick look in their direction, then spurred the horse viciously and it leaped forward, throwing up sprays of sand at each stride. He was making for an opening in the trees that stood behind the beach. The Elves veered to their left to cut him off. He never slackened his pace, but drove straight toward them. Several Elves drew arrows from their quivers and prepared to bring him down, but he burst straight into their right flank. The horse simply rode down two of their number and the Corsair slashed down with his sword, slaying another Elf reaching for the reins. A dozen arrows whistled around him, two rebounding from his mail, but then he was past. The horse plunged up the steep slope of loose sand, then they were gone amid the trees. They last saw him riding hard, not south to his allies in Harondor, but northeast, toward the mountains of Mordor. A ragged cheer arose as the Corsairs saw their chief escape. The Elves turned and advanced toward them and the battle was joined in an instant.

Many deeds of bravery were done in the next few minutes, and many a brave Man and Elf died there, their lifeblood seeping away into the sand. But in no more than ten minutes the fight was over. Many of the slaves had refused to fight and stood now in a terrified group at the water's edge. But the Corsairs fought bravely and well, asking and giving no quarter. At the end only two of the Corsair officers remained, standing back to back amid a circle of their slain comrades. They would not yield and glared at the ring of Elves around them, waiting for the end. But then an Elf grabbed up a piece of boarding net lying there and threw it over them so they were encumbered. Several Elves leaped forward and bore them down, disarming them and binding their hands. They raged and cursed at their captors, as if by sparing them they had been done a grievous insult.

Cirdan called to the frightened slaves, saying ``You are now free men. If you wish, we will take you to Pelargir. If you give your bond not to take up arms against us or Gondor, we shall see what can be done to return you to your homes.''

The poor bedraggled group gave a weak cheer, and all gave their bond. Gilrondil led them and the two prisoners back to the ship, and in a few moments more they had pushed off and were returning to the battle on the River.

But lo, every sail they saw was white. On every side burning ships and capsized hulls settled hissing into the befouled water, now choked with bodies, and a brown smoke masked the scene. The pungent reek of battle burned their nostrils. After the shouting and tumult of battle, the River was again quiet, save for the crackling of burning ships.

They stood silent at the rails, gazing sadly out over what had been but moments before two proud fleets. The Black Fleet of Umbar was no more, but of the forty sails that had sailed from Lindon, two and twenty would never again part the blue river Lhûn, and many a fair Elf that should have lived yet long ages would never see Elvenhome.

At last Cirdan winded his horn and the remains of the White Fleet drew up behind him. Squaring their yards, they ran up the Sirith to the Havens of Pelargir.

A fierce battle was still raging between the city gate and the bridge ahead. Although their fleet was broken, the Men of Umbar were not yet defeated. Those who had been unable to reach their ships had made a determined stand. When the city's defenders had seen the fleets engage, they had sallied forth and fallen on their discomfited foes. The Men of Umbar, their means of escape destroyed and their ranks in great confusion and disorder, quickly found themselves on the defensive. Their slaves, ignored and leaderless, flung down their weapons and either fled the field or lay down in surrender. Their former masters had fallen back from the gate and regrouped, forming into tight-packed squares of archers with pikemen around the edges, forming a bristling wall. Now they were driving determinedly toward the bridge and the road to Lebennin. Even now they drew near the eastern towers of the bridge.

The Pelargrim defenders still held the bridge, but they seemed strangely few and greatly outnumbered. It was clear that they could hope only to hinder but not halt the retreat of the Umbardrim.

``Cirdan!'' Amroth cried. ``Land me on the west bank with a stout band and I will hold the bridge!''

He turned in surprise. ``Are you not yet weary of battle, Sinda? Or is it perhaps that you long for the land under your feet?''

Amroth grinned and pointed to the swan's head above him. ``Your swan has served us well this day, Lord, but I will not miss her overmuch. I prefer more solid footing when I fight.''

``So be it then. Curulin! Starboard your helm! Put her on the strand there nigh to the west end of the bridge. Our Wood-Elf here would go ashore. And not too near the rocks there. Gilrondil, signal the fleet of our intentions. Let all those who would follow Amroth have their chance.''

The war-torn little fleet drove its stems into the sand. Amroth lifted the staff and banner from the taffrail and leaped to the shore, followed by a score of archers. Then more and more mariners leaped down, until the ships stood nearly empty.

At last even Cirdan jumped down beside Amroth. He gave a quick smile. ``It would seem that I must follow if I am to continue to lead. Let us then fight together on land as we have at sea. And he took from him the flagstaff. ``Onward now!'' he cried. ``For Elbereth! Elbereth and Gil-galad!''

``Elbereth!'' went up the cry from many throats, ``Gil-galad our king!''

From every ship Elves poured down until a large company of several hundred lined the narrow beach. They climbed the bank to the road, formed up again, and marched to the bridge. There stood two strong towers with a lofty arch thrown between them. But their parapets were empty. Many of the Elvish archers climbed the towers and took their positions in the embrasures and in the windows. Those with pikes or spears knelt across the road under the arch, forming a triple wall. The rest stood behind them with arrows already notched to their strings.

A few minutes of waiting, then there came a triumphant shout and a body of armored men rushed over the crest of the arched bridge. Their panoply was black and crimson and their faces wild and fierce, streaked with sweat and smoke beneath their golden helms. One bore a staff with a standard of a sable ship on an red sea. The were looking over their shoulders as they ran, laughing and jeering at their pursuers. When they saw the Elves blocking the road they halted, cursing and looking from them to the men rapidly coming up behind them.

Cirdan stood forth and called to them in a loud voice. ``Men of Umbar!'' he shouted. ``Yield, for you are bested. Do not make widows of your wives!''

But the one carrying the banner spat toward him and shouted, ``The women of Umbar would rather be widows than the wives of cowards.'' Then he rushed forward with a hoarse bellow, followed by all his comrades. A hundred bowstrings sang as one, and not one of the Corsairs reached the lines unwounded. Their leader, pierced by many arrows, swung his standard like an axe, striking down several Elves, then he disappeared beneath a flurry of flashing swords. In a moment it was finished. Not one knight of Umbar remained alive.

Then came another company of men racing onto the bridge, but these bore plumes and shields of blue. They halted when they saw the Elves standing over the dead Corsairs. Cirdan and Amroth advanced to meet them at the center of the span. Their standard bearer dipped his banner and their captain lifted off his helm and knelt to Cirdan. He was fair of skin and dark of hair, with a stern and proud countenance. He had some of Isildur's and Elendil's look to him, but to Amroth's Elvish eyes he looked more like to those other Númenóreans who lay about them.

``Well come indeed, Firstborn,'' said the Man. ``I am Duitirith, son of Barathor, the Lord of Pelargir. And I say unto you: Pelargir is yours, for you have purchased it this day with your immortal blood. Come into the city, and Pelargir will do what it can to welcome you with honor and gratitude.''

But Cirdan bade him rise, saying, ``Nay, stand, Prince Duitirith, for today you have shown that you can stand against all odds. I am Cirdan, and we came not to accept your city but to aid you in your hour of need.''

``And verily,'' said Duitirith, rising, ``that hour had for us come, Lord Cirdan, for we could not have stood an hour more. Come, all you brave Elves, and visit the city you have preserved. We shall feast in your honor.''

And he led the Men and Elves together back to the city. As they approached, they could see that the walls were blackened and streaked with smoke. The huge oaken gates were cracked and splintered, and the immense brazen battering ram lay flung down beside the road amid piles of the fallen.

They reached the gates and stopped. A voice called down from the ramparts above.

``You are come to Pelargir upon Anduin. State your name and your land and the name of the lord you serve.''

Cirdan stepped forward and called out, ``I am called Cirdan Shipwright, Master of the Havens of Mithlond and Guardian of Lindon in lieu of my king, Ereinion the Gil-galad. These are my friends and allies, of many Elven lands.''

``You are then a friend of this city,'' replied the voice. ``Enter in peace, Cirdan of Mithlond.'' The gates creaked slowly open with a great rasping squeal, for the hinges were sprung and the timbers splintered. They trooped into the city as the citizens of Pelargir cheered from the rooftops and balconies.

Cirdan looked about in surprise as he walked slowly through the streets.

``I see many women and children, Prince Duitirith, but few men. Where are the rest of your warriors?''

``We had fewer than a thousand men in arms, all told, when the Corsairs fell upon us. I do not rightly know how many remain, my Lord.''

``How can this be?'' said Cirdan. ``Pelargir is a great city ringed with fertile fields and many villages.''

``Aye. Last week, my Lord, we had more than six thousand, but they have ridden with Barathor to Osgiliath to give aid to the king of Gondor.''

``The king? Isildur came here? When?''

``He rode from Linhir and the lands to the west, but five days past. He bore evil tales and ill tidings and sought our help against Mordor. But my father was loath to yield so many fighting men when we lay under the peril of a Corsair raid. Then did Gildor of your people arrive, saying you were but a day behind, and Barathor departed with the army of Pelargir, leaving us to hold the city until you arrived.''

``We would have been here two days ago, but we were delayed by a fierce tempest that swept down on us from the east and carried us many leagues from shore. Have you suffered heavy losses by our delay?''

``We needed every man upon the walls, and so dared not keep the fleet manned. We lost too many at the quays when they came on us in the night, but most of us reached the walls. We maintained some pickets at the Ethir, but they too must be destroyed.''

``Alas, it is so,'' said Cirdan. ``We saw the fires from afar yestermorn, but could not come to their aid in time to save them. We saw no survivors.''

``The Corsairs do not leave survivors. It is as we feared. Many good men have died.''

``They died unbowed, Prince, for their ship's wrack bore still the colors of Pelargir. They died in a hopeless fight, but not in vain, for the very fires of their death called us in haste to your aid. Grieve not overmuch, Duitirith. Your city yet stands, your people are still free. My fleet shall remain here with you and my shipwrights and sailmakers are at your disposal. We shall guard the Ethir and the coasts until your fleet is ready once more. And with the Black Fleet destroyed, there should be little fear of attack. Long will it be ere Umbar again sails against Pelargir.''

``Aye, my lord, our hearts are indeed gladdened in the midst of our sorrow. Long have we lived in the shadow of fear. It is difficult to realize it is over at last. We shall feast this night, a night we thought never to see but a few hours ago.''

They reached a great hall surmounted by a towering blue spire and entered in. A man came to greet them, his head bandaged and his arm in a bloody sling.

``Lord Cirdan,'' said the Prince, ``this is Luindor, Captain of the Ships of Pelargir. He has done great deeds this day.''

Luindor bowed to Cirdan and was surprised when Cirdan bowed in return.

``All the people of Pelargir have done much and borne much today,'' replied Cirdan.

``Thank you, Lord,'' said Luindor. ``From all the people of Pelargir, thank you. You have saved our city and our lives. I saw your engagement from the battlements near the gate, and I have never seen a naval maneuver carried out so handily.''

``We took them unawares and unprepared. If they had been fully manned and had time to prepare for us, the day could have had a very different outcome.''

``Nonetheless, you made use of your advantages and reacted with great alacrity. Smartly done, sir. I salute you, one naval commander to another.'' And he brought his sword across his chest in salute. Then his face darkened. ``But I forget myself. I am no longer a naval commander, for a city without a ship has no need for a Captain of Ships.''

``You will be Captain of Ships as long as you can stand a deck, Luindor,'' said Duitirith. ``The fleet shall be rebuilt immediately. Have you not told us many times that we needed newer ships? You are forever bringing us plans for more modern innovations you want to incorporate in the next ships. Hardly is the keel laid before you want to change the plans.''

``But they are all gone, my Lord. All my beautiful ships: Míriel, and stately Indis, and long-honored Melian, and... and all. Long will it be ere such ships grace Anduin again.''

``Perhaps not so long, Captain,'' said Cirdan. ``For among my people are many shipwrights and sailmakers and all the maritime trades, for we have been building ships in Mithlond all this age. They shall remain here to help you to rebuild. And I will send our own pickets to guard the Ethir and patrol the coasts, so that the South Gate of Gondor remains safe while your ships are building.''

Luindor's face brightened at once. ``I would be most happy to talk with the architects who designed your corbitas, my Lord. Never did I think a ship so large could turn in its own length, yet I swear I saw it happen more than once in the engagement. With a score of ships like that I could hold the Bay of Belfalas against all foes!''

Duitirith smiled at Luindor's eager face. The waterfront was still smoldering, and already Luindor had twenty swan-ships on the ways.

They were seated at long tables in a large and lovely hall. Platters of food, hastily prepared, were brought out with flagons of wine and mead. Then a beautiful woman appeared and bowed to the Elven lords. She wore a flowing green gown that accentuated her long red hair. She went to Duitirith and threw her arms about him. She held him tight as if to convince herself he really had survived the battle. Duitirith kissed her and smiled at his guests.

``My Lords, may I present my mother, Lady Heleth? Mother, this is Cirdan of Mithlond and his lords and allies.'' Cirdan introduced his companions, and her eyes were shining as each was named. Finally she burst into tears of joy.

``Welcome to Pelargir, my Lords,'' she said, wiping her eyes. ``Forgive me, but I cannot contain myself. Since the earliest hours of the morning we have seen our ships burned, our people slain, our gates shattered. We looked only for death before the evening. I tell you, Lords, when I looked out from the Blue Tower and saw your ships gleaming in the morning sun, I thought I saw Eärendil returned from the sky to save us. We shall forever be indebted to you.''

``Fair Lady,'' replied Cirdan. ``I am only sorry we did not arrive earlier and spare you this day of horror.''

``Lord Cirdan, you have freed us of a horror that has loomed over us all our lives. We have paid a terrible price, but if the might of Umbar is broken, the cost is well spent.''

They fell to their food then and all ate with good appetite, for none had broken fast that day. Men and Elves laughed and talked together and exchanged tales of their parts in the battle. Amroth sat between two ship captains, one of Pelargir and one of Mithlond. The Elf told of driving his ship toward a great trireme, using the Corsairs' own ramming tactic against them.

``I kept the helm over slightly,'' he said, ``so that we turned into them, like this.'' He swung two loaves of bread in the air, arcing one into the side of the other. ``They saw us coming at them and put their helm hard over. I could hear their slavemaster drumming for all he was worth. If they had pulled hard, they could have slipped past us, but the oars just drooped into the water and stopped. It was as if they just gave up and waited for us.

``Then the oarsmen on the side toward us threw back that leather cover they're under and stood up, shouting and waving their arms. I thought they had panicked, but just before we struck, I could hear what they were shouting. They were cheering, crying `Gondor! Gondor! Gondor!' Then I realized they must be captives taken from Gondor. They were being forced to attack their own city, and they would row no more for Umbar.'' He shook his head grimly. ``We cut them in two. We cut them in two and had to leave them there in the water, and still they cheered us. I'll never forget it.''

The Pelargir captain was silent a moment. ``It was always thus when we fought the Corsairs,'' he said. ``We knew they had our people at the oars, but what could we do? We had to do our best to sink them, knowing our brothers or sons might be aboard. Many more brave men of Gondor died today than fought in Pelargir.''

"None were braver than the garrison at the bridge," said a Man sitting on his other side. "Young Foradan had only twenty men to hold the bridge over the Sirith. Several of the Umbardrim galleys landed beyond the Sirith and their companies had to cross the bridge to come at the gates. I saw the battle from the top of the gate. Foradan's men formed a line across the road at the near tower, though hundreds of the enemy were already on the bridge. They didn't have a chance and they knew it. It was a terrible bloody fight and soon over, of course, but every one of them fell where he had stood. Not one had been pressed back a foot." He shook his head sadly. "Young lads, they were, all of them, not one more than eighteen."

Though their conversation was grim, many others in the hall were joyous, and laughter was often heard. The people of Pelargir felt as if delivered from a sentence of death, and the Eldar were ashore again after a long and perilous voyage. And all felt that strange guilty joy a soldier feels after a deadly battle when he realizes that, though many have fallen, he has survived.

Duitirith seemed in particularly good spirits. He offered toast after toast to Cirdan and the other Elven-lords. His young face glowed red with pleasure and with mead. Suddenly his clear laugh cut across the room. He was standing, holding up his drinking horn.

``I just want to see my father's face,'' he roared, ``when he returns in great haste and finds us not besieged but besotted!''

Cirdan turned to him in surprise. ``Lord Barathor is returning to Pelargir? You sent word to him?''

``Oh, aye, many hours ago. When the pirates first struck, I sent my esquire riding as fast as he could after him.''

``But this is not good,'' said Cirdan. ``If what you have told me of Isildur's fortunes is true, the loss of Barathor's men will leave Osgiliath but weakly defended.''

``But the battle is over,'' said Duitirith, suddenly sober. ``The Corsairs are destroyed and the Gate of the South is secure. We have won.''

``Do you think that because we have destroyed its fleet we have defeated Umbar? Umbar is mighty yet. It has other ships. It has great forces on land, and they have allies: the men of Harondor and Far Harad will rally to Herumor's banner. And Umbar is but one weapon in Sauron's arsenal. Even were the Empire of Umbar broken and humbled, he could discard it like a broken bow string and simply take up another. Nay, this was but a skirmish before the true battle begins.''

Duitirith paled and the hall fell quiet.

``The Lords of the West decreed that a council of all our allies be held in Osgiliath in but three day's time. If Barathor is not there the council could be delayed and our long-planned stroke go amiss. The war could yet turn on this chance. Indeed, this could have been the whole purpose of the Corsair attack -- not to take Pelargir, but to delay the council.'' He sat a moment, deep in thought.

``Duitirith, Lady Heleth,'' he said. ``We thank you much for your hospitality. Long has it been since we sat at board with friends and laughed. But we must go to Osgiliath with all possible speed.''

``Now?'' asked Duitirith in amazement. ``But you are just out of battle. You have barely eaten. Rest here tonight, and in the morning...''

``We cannot wait until morning. You do not know all that hangs on this. If our plans are thwarted and we are undone, you will find a far greater peril than the Corsairs of Umbar at your gates, and there will then be none to come to your aid. Cardur! When can we have a ship ready?''

Cirdan's senior surviving captain pulled himself gingerly to his feet, a bandage about his wounded leg. ``There is hardly a ship fit to sail, my Lord,'' he said. ``but in a few hours, I suppose, if we...''

``Good. Luindor! How long would it take a ship to reach Osgiliath?''

``It is sixty-five leagues, Lord Cirdan, against the current. Three days, at best.''

``And if we ride?''

``The road is but fifty leagues. A day and a half, perhaps.''

``Then we must ride. Just as well, we would have a better chance of intercepting Barathor. Prince Duitirith! Can you provide me with six swift horses?''

``Of course. Glamrod, make it so. Have them brought to the ships of the Elves. And provide them with plenty of provisions, for let it never be said that a guest of the Lord of Pelargir went away hungry.

"And Lord Cirdan,'' he went on, "when you meet my father he will wish to come here to help us. He must not. Urge him to return to Osgiliath with you, for the greater need is there. Assure him that we are well and with the help of your Sea-elves we are secure and repairing our defenses."

"My lord," said Cirdan, "I shall do so. Clear it is to me that you are managing a difficult situation admirably. You will be a great lord one day."

Duitirith fairly swelled with pride and pleasure at this compliment.

``Cardur,'' said Cirdan. ``I leave you in charge of the fleet. See first to the repair of the ships. When a dozen are ready, send them at once to the Ethir and see that no other unwanted visitors enter the River. Luindor, you have full use of all our resources. Use them to begin rebuilding your fleet. Amroth, Gilrondil, you're with me. Bring your esquires. The rest of you, give all necessary aid to the Men of Pelargir. If you are attacked, hold the line of the River at all costs. Now, let us away. Farewell to you all, people of Pelargir.''

And with that Cirdan strode from the hall. There was a moment of stunned silence, then everyone jumped to their feet and hurried to their duties. Amroth bade a hasty farewell to his new friends and hurried after Cirdan.

As they passed through the city they saw people busy on every side. Some were tending the many wounded, others were still dousing fires set by the Corsairs' catapults. A wagon rattled by with several still figures lying beneath shields. There was much emotion in the air, a mingled grief and joy. Many bold warriors wept openly even as they toiled, for nearly all had lost friends and comrades in the battle. And yet Amroth could see in many faces a light of happiness, for the battle was won and the city safe, at least for the moment. At the feast too, he had been struck by the almost carefree joy of many of the young Men and Women there, who only hours before had been prepared to die and leave the world forever. For his part, Amroth knew that the events of this day -- the fear and horror of battle, the friends slain -- would be in his heart for thousands of years. Amroth thought as he watched them how the emotions of Men seemed to flit through them more swiftly than do those of the Elves.

He had time to note also the city around them. This was his first glimpse of a city of Men. He had often heard tales of fair Annúminas, Elendil's city by Lake Nenuial, but he had never visited it, imagining it but a crude imitation of Mithlond or Caras Galadon. But now he saw he had misjudged Men. Pelargir was a much newer city than even the most recent of the Elvish settlements, though doubtless its people would think a thousand sun-rounds a long time. And it was not built with the arts of the Firstborn. It was built of stone, without spell or power to bind it save that of plain mortar. How many brief lives of men had it taken to cut these stones and drag them here and erect this city; to carve its columns; paint its frescoes; tile its courts; pave its streets? And each artisan knew that he could not hope to live to see the work completed. Did they build it for themselves, or for their children, or for some other goal? And he realized that he would like to return to this land in happier times, if such were ever to come again. He wished to know more of this curious race, to live among them for a time and learn their ways.

They reached the gate and waited but a few minutes for it to be dragged open, then hurried down to the ships. They gathered their belongings and called their esquires, Cirdan snapping out orders to his officers all the while. They had hardly finished when Duitirith's Man Glamrod appeared with six beautiful sleek horses.

``These are noble animals,'' said Amroth, stroking the neck of one. ``They are from Duitirith's own stable, my lord,'' said Glamrod. ``They will bear you with the speed of the wind.''

Cirdan leaped to the saddle of the first horse. ``They will be cared for and returned to your lord as soon as may be. Our thanks to you, and to your master.''

``Follow the road from the bridge, my lord,'' Glamrod called. ``Take the larger road at each turning, and the second evening should find you before the walls of Osgiliath. A fair journey to you.''

Then the esquires ran up, still chewing their dinners, and began strapping the packs to the saddles. Gilrondil limped up, his wounded thigh wrapped in a linen bandage. He mounted without requiring aid. Amroth turned to the people of Pelargir who had come down to the strand to watch them.

``We thank you all, good people of Pelargir. You have made us feel at home in a distant land.''

``May Eru bless you and your city,'' called Cirdan. ``Now, we ride.''

They spurred their horses up the bank to the road, turned left, and galloped up a long rise. At the crest they paused to look back at the city. The high towers of Pelargir gleamed against the afternoon sky. A thin smoke still trailed up from the valley of the Sirith just beyond.

``A fair city,'' said Amroth. ``I would not like to see it a citadel of the Enemy.''

``Nor I,'' said Cirdan, ``and if that is not to be its fate, we must ride as if borne by eagles.''

Then they turned and thundered down the slope to the long road winding away across the plains.

The Elves had rested but a few hours before they were roused by Cirdan. The eastern sky was lightening, but a bank of clouds hung above the jagged peaks of the Ephel Dúath, hinting at thundershowers later in the day. They had some bites of lembas, then mounted their still weary horses and set off once more. By the time the sun broke free of the clouds they were well out into the plains of southern Anórien. It was a fair and pleasant land of pastures and forests, with many hay fields. This was the country in which were raised the sturdy horses for which Anórien was famed. They passed through a number of small villages of a few dozen houses grouped around a mill. Startled villagers came out to watch them gallop through. They stared in wide-eyed amazement at the tall Elves with their bright armor and strange outlandish banners.

The road was gradually descending into the wide vale of Anduin, dotted with small farms and villages. Many seemed nearly deserted, but they could see a few teams in the fields, already mowing the early wheat. It made Amroth realize how far south they had come, for in Lindon the wheat would not be ready for a month or more.

The Ered Nimrais, at first only a line of white peaks in the north, gradually drew nearer. The eastern end of the range terminated abruptly in a huge peak of blue-grey stone that loomed above the surrounding land. The road's many winding turns carried them northeast toward the mountain, until by late morning they were riding around its lower foothills. High in a deep-cleft valley they could see a gleaming white city rising tier above tier to an elegant white spire. A farmer they met on the road told them that the city was called Minas Anor and the mountain Mindolluin, ``Towering Bluehead''. They came to a fork in the road, the left winding up toward Minas Anor. They turned right, descending more steeply toward the River.

They had not seen the Anduin since the evening before, for it looped away into the flat lands to the east, while their road headed northeast, directly toward Osgiliath. They could trace the path of the River by a line of dark trees far off to the right amidst the green fields. Beyond the River, still hazy in the distance, rose the rounded green hills of the Emyn Arnen. They rode without stopping until the sun had passed its height, then paused beneath a copse of aromatic cedar trees to eat some of the food prepared for them by the Pelargrim.

``We should see Osgiliath in the next few hours if the map is accurate,'' said Cirdan. ``A pity the horses are so tired or we could make better time. I begrudge each hour.''

``Where can Barathor be?'' asked Amroth. ``Surely we should have seen him ere now.''

``It is still some distance to Osgiliath. And even after the messenger arrived, it would be some time before they could march. But we should meet him soon.''

``I only hope he did not go by the River, for we would be sure to miss him.''

``They will come by land. Even with the favoring current, the River is the longer and slower path. Barathor will travel as fast as he possibly can.''

Cirdan had them riding again in less than a quarter of an hour. Amroth was continually shifting his weight in the saddle. He was unused to riding and now even longed for the feel of a deck under his feet again.

The clouds gradually covered the sky as the day went on, until by mid-afternoon the sun was streaming in long diagonal rays from a few ragged holes in a woolen blanket of cloud. A light breeze sprang up from the east, bearing the smell of rain. The cool air in their faces was soothing, and the horses were able to quicken their pace slightly.

Amroth was trotting along, his eyes on the lowering sky, when an Elf near him shouted out.

``Riders! Riders approach ahead, my lord.''

Amroth stood in his stirrups, and there over a slight rise he could see a long line of riders coming down into a low flat valley. Cirdan led his people to the crest of the rise and halted, watching the approach of the column. They were four abreast, riding hard, their horses gleaming with sweat. At their head a blue banner streamed in the wind of their passage. It could only be the Pelargrim.

The lead riders saw the armed horsemen on the hilltop and reined in their mounts. One raised his arm and brought the column to a sharp halt in a choking cloud of dust. A score of riders quickly fanned out on either side of the road. There was a brief conversation among the leaders. Then a dozen of the foremost horsemen rode on up the hill and stopped twenty yards from the Elves. Their cloaks were dripping and their long hair hung lank, though whether from a squall of rain or from the sweat of hard riding, Amroth was not sure. Their faces were grim and set and their eyes held a cold hard glint. Their leader was a large man wearing black and gold armor. A long blue plume trailed from his helm.

``Who are you strangers to ride thus armed in Gondor?'' he called. ``And if you came from Pelargir, what do you know of its fate?''

Then Cirdan urged his horse forward. The man's eyes widened as he realized he was addressing not Men but Elves.

``From your haste, sir,'' said Cirdan with a smile ``I take you to be Lord Barathor. I am Cirdan, called the Shipwright, Master of Mithlond in the land of Lindon. And as for your city, it is safe.''

Barathor's people cried out in amazement. Their astonishment and the change in their faces was wonderful to behold.

``But...,'' Barathor stammered, at a loss for words. ``But we heard the city was besieged. We have ridden with images of fire and slaughter before our eyes. We feared it already lost.''

``The fleet is destroyed, it is true, but your banner yet flies from the Blue Tower. The walls are blackened and many defenders have fallen, but your son and his people held the walls until we arrived.''

``You saw my son?'' asked Barathor, his voice tight with tension. He paused, as if afraid to ask the next question.

``He is alive and unhurt. We left him feasting in thanksgiving this hour two days past. Your Lady was with him.''

Barathor's relief was evident in his face, but he quickly asked, ``And the Corsairs?''

``We fell on them from the rear as they attacked the city. They are utterly destroyed. The Black Fleet will trouble you no more.''

Then Barathor's dark face was split by a wide white grin. He whipped out his sword and threw it spinning high above his head. It glinted and flashed in the bright sun before he caught it deftly by the hilt. The Men back in the main column were staring at him in wonder. No doubt they thought him struck fey. But two of the knights were already spurring their horses back to deliver the news. In a moment a great cheer broke out in the foremost ranks and rolled back through the column as the word spread.

Barathor directed his men to fall out in a field beside the road and the Elves joined them to tell what they knew of the battle. The mood was festive. Flagons of wine were broken out and passed around. Amroth soon realized that many of the soldiers were in fact mariners from the fleet of Pelargir. There were many downcast faces when they were told of the burning of the fleet, but they asked the Elves over and over to tell them the details of the naval engagement. They laughed aloud at the confusion of their ancient enemies when the White Fleet had appeared completely unlooked for at their rear. But the listeners' mood became more somber as they came to realize the losses suffered by the defenders.

"And what of young Foradan?" asked Barathor. "He was at the bridge over the Sirith.It was his first command."

"I know not, my lord," replied Cirdan, but Amroth shook his head.

"Lost, my lord, with all his garrison," he said. "I heard the tale at the feast. The quays were so crowded with the ships of both fleets, many in flames, that some of the Corsairs landed on the other side of the Sirith. Many of the Pelargir people who had gone down to the docks were still rushing back to the gates. If the Corsairs had won across the bridge quickly they could have cut them off. The situation was desperate, because the gates were of course still open. Foradan's men held the bridge long enough to allow the people to escape and to close the gates before the Corsairs could reach them. It was a hopeless struggle, but every man of them held his ground until he was slain. They delayed the Umbardrim just long enough.

Barathor shook his head sadly. "Foradan dead? That noble young man? He was so eager to ride with us, but I ordered him to hold the bridge."

"From all accounts, my lord, he did all that could be done."

"And you say losses were heavy? Do you need medical assistance? I have several skilled physicians with me."

"No, my lord," said Cirdan. "My own healers are among them now. They can get no better treatment anywhere in Middle-earth."

Cirdan assured them that his own ships would soon be on station at the Ethir and patrolling the River, and that his people were helping Luindor to begin rebuilding the fleet.

``Then there is no need for us to go to Pelargir?'' asked Barathor.

``None whatsoever,'' replied Cirdan. ``Your son told me particularly to tell you that he has everything well in hand. And it is true. With the people that I left there and the supplies we brought in the fleet, they lack for nothing. The mood of the city is one of thanksgiving.''

``Then we shall return to Osgiliath at once. These injuries we have suffered are the work of Sauron. Let us ride with Isildur and repay these debts. We shall take the war to Sauron's door and let him taste his own bitter medicine.''

His men cheered and clashed their weapons together, eager now for revenge.

``Come, my lads,'' he roared. ``Back to Osgiliath, and thence to Mordor!''

And so the column formed up again, back the way they had come. But what a difference in their manner! Instead of galloping at full speed, they now cantered easily, their helmets slung at their saddles. They laughed and called to one another and asked endless questions of the Elves. They passed through a few brief rain showers, but no one minded.

And thus after a hazardous voyage and a long ride, Cirdan and his Elves arrived at last at many-towered Osgiliath. Topping a small rise, they saw below them the capital of Gondor within its walls. It was the largest city many of them had ever seen. It stretched for over two miles along the banks of Anduin, with street after street of stately mansions and temples and public buildings. Domes and towers and minarets bristled into the sky. The wide Anduin wandered through the city, and across its heart stood an immense many-arched bridge like no other in Middle-earth. It was so large that it was lined with houses along both sides, each with several balconies and cloistered walkways out over the River. And beyond Anduin the city continued again, stretching away into the distance.

Amroth had been surprised by Pelargir, but he stared in wonder at this immense city, much larger even than Mithlond, and yet all so new in comparison. Few of the buildings had seen their first yén. It was as if it had sprung up overnight. Amroth wondered how mortal Men could build so much in such a short time, and all without even the most basic Elvish arts, that they in their ignorance call magic. He spurred his horse and caught up with Cirdan, now jogging along a little apart from the others.

``My Lord,'' he said. ``This city the Men have built is a wonder to behold.''

``Aye,'' he agreed. ``Isildur and Anárion have made much progress in a few short years. And Elendil's city at Annúminas is nearly as great.''

``Does it not surprise you, Lord, that creatures as ephemeral as these Atani find time enough in their brief lives to create such beauty, and on such a scale? Generations must toil and die that their descendants, whom they will never know, should have a fair home. It is as if they forget that they are mortal.''

Cirdan's eyes moved over the city, taking in detail after detail. Each tower seemed lovelier than the last; each house more stately; each monument and arch more impressive.

``Perhaps it is because they are aware of their mortality that they build so feverishly,'' he mused. ``Though they will be gone, the builders will be remembered as long as the buildings themselves stand. Perhaps it is their way of grasping at the ages that are our birthright.''

Amroth considered this. ``You may be right, my Lord,'' he conceded. ``But do you ever wonder, if our roles were reversed, would we Quendi do as well?''

``That we shall never know. The Gift of Man is forever denied us.''

``The Atani do not call death the Gift of Man but the Doom of Man.''

``It is because they do not know so much of life or death as we Quendi. They see death but as an ending, and they are reluctant to end.''

``And who is the more fortunate, I wonder? Their experience of life is brief, but is it not more intense for that? These Atani die quickly, but they also live quickly. They move and change more easily than do we. They have not our ancient wisdom, but they are clever and adaptable. They bear children when they are little more than children themselves, still in their tweens or even teens. Their numbers are constantly growing, while ours do not. And when we take the Straight Road and leave the circles of the world, they shall remain.''

Amroth thought about this for a while. ``I wonder what will come of the world when we Quendi have all sailed away and the world will be ruled by Men?''

``Only Eru knows that,'' Cirdan answered, ``but for my part I think it will be a sadder and less fair place when the lore and the arts and the music of the Elves has passed from the world. I am glad I will not be here to see it. But for now, the Atani are loyal and valuable allies against the Enemy. They are our only hope of casting down Sauron, as should have been done when his master was expelled forever from the circles of the world.''

Then they were approaching the gate and they turned their attention to the city. The gates were thrown open and they rode in to the cheers of the people of Osgiliath, for they had seen the Elves among the Pelargrim and knew what that signified.

Barathor led them through the city to the stairs of the great hall where the king dwelt. Isildur himself came down to meet them. He looked from Cirdan to Barathor's beaming face.

``My Lord Cirdan,'' he said. ``What news of Pelargir?''

``We arrived but a few hours after the siege began,'' replied Cirdan. ``Eru saw fit to give us the victory. The Corsairs are defeated and the city is safe. We left our people there and hurried to Osgiliath with all speed, for we knew Barathor had been summoned. I feared the alliance would be dissolved.''

``Welcome news at last,'' said Isildur, standing up straighter and a smile lighting his face. ``Welcome, Lords, to Osgiliath. Our undying thanks to you for your aid in our darkest hour.''

``We know not how dark our hours may yet become, Isildur. We have won a battle, but the war is yet to be decided.''

``True that is, but still we are much heartened that Pelargir is saved. And we are most happy to have our friend Barathor and his brave men with us again.''

Isildur and Barathor clasped arms. Amroth stood looking on, smiling at the relief in every face. Then a tall figure came down the stairs behind Isildur, and to Amroth's surprise he recognized a friend.

``Elrond Peredhil!'' he cried. ``Are you here as well?'' He looked at Amroth and smiled.

``Is that Lord Amroth?'' he called.

``It is, and a changed Elf you find me, for I have sailed upon the Sea and my heart is moved.''

``The Sea is always dangerous to the Noldor,'' said Elrond. ``Welcome to Osgiliath. You will find many here that you know, some even from your homeland. There are a number of Sindar among us.'' He bowed to Cirdan.

``And welcome to you, Lord Cirdan. It would seem you had an eventful voyage.''

``So we did. It is good to see you again, Elrond. I last saw you marching from Lindon in Gil-galad's host, ten sun-rounds ago.''

``Aye,'' he said. ``Much has been accomplished since that day, but not all that we had hoped.''

``I see we will have many tales to exchange,'' said Isildur. ``Now come into my hall, if you please, Lords, and we shall endeavor to make you feel welcome.'' And he led them up the broad stairs to his hall.

``This is a wondrous fair city, Isildur,'' Amroth said. ``We marvelled much when we first saw it. The towers seem to scrape the sky.''

``There are more wonders within,'' said Elrond. ``You have yet to see the Dome of Stars. I have never seen a more beautiful hall. You would think you were in Eldamar.''

``Such a sight I would gladly see,'' said Amroth, but Barathor took his leave, saying he wished to deliver the glad tidings himself to those of his people who had remained in Osgiliath.

``Farewell, Lords of the Firstborn,'' he called. ``And to you and all your folk goes the honor and praise of a grateful people. You will not be forgotten while Pelargir stands upon its hill.''

``Your thanks are not necessary, Lord Barathor,'' said Cirdan. ``Your enemies are ours. For are we not allies in a common cause? Your steadfast courage is known even in far-off Lindon, and we know you would come to our aid at need. And indeed you may get many opportunities in the days to come.''

``Farewell, Barathor,'' said Isildur. ``And the council will be in the Dome of Stars at the second hour tomorrow.''

``I shall be there, you may be sure. Farewell, my king.'' And Barathor led his men back to the fields near the southern gate where they had decamped but a few hours before.

Isildur showed the others into his hall, and there they were met by Celeborn and Galadriel, both dressed all in white. Celeborn wore a simple circlet of mithril about his brow, and the Lady had a garland of blossoms twined in her hair. She smiled at sight of them and came forward with open arms.

``Welcome, cousins,'' she said in her melodious voice. ``Elen síla lúmenn omentilmo.''

Lord Cirdan bowed deeply. ``Surely, lovely Lady,'' he said, ``a star does indeed shine on our meeting. I am heartened to see you and your people here in our common need. It has been many yén since last we met.''

``So it has, Shipwright,'' said Celeborn. ``We none of us travel so much as we were once wont, since these evil days have come upon the world. May all soon be again as it once was.''

``And Amroth,'' said Galadriel to the Sindarin lord, ``our neighbor of old. Long have you been away from the Golden Wood.''

``Yes, Lady,'' he replied, ``I have travelled much since I left my home in Lothlórien, and I have seen much of the world -- some that was fair and some that was horrible to look upon.''

``There is something fair in the Golden Wood that pines for a sight of you, Amroth,'' said Galadriel with a smile.

Amroth flushed. ``How is my Nimrodel?'' he asked.

``Lovelier than ever,'' said Celeborn, ``and when any traveller comes to the Wood she asks for news of you.''

``I would that I could come unto her again, but this war sends me ever hither and yon. I shall not return to Cerin Amroth until either Sauron is defeated or I lay slain.''

``Let us pray it is the former,'' said Celeborn, ``and not long delayed. Too long has that spawn of Melkor defiled the land. We too are come here to Osgiliath to see this through to the end.''

``And I,'' said Cirdan.

``And so for all of us,'' said Isildur. ``But that is for tomorrow. For tonight let us rest and take food and wine and such comforts as I can offer you.''

``Yes, certainly,'' said Amroth. ``But first let us see this famous chamber that Elrond praises so highly.''

Isildur led them through several wide passages until he came to a pair of great oaken doors that stretched nearly to the high vaulted roof. He set his hand to one of the doors and it swung back silently and effortlessly. They entered the Dome of Stars and stopped, struck by the beauty around them.

They stood in silence, heads craned back, slowly turning about to view the entire sky.

``Look there,'' Amroth said, pointing. ``There is Menelvagor the Swordsman with his belt. How the Pommel Star shines in his upraised hand. It must be a great ruby.''

``And there above him the netted Remmirath,'' exclaimed Cirdan. ``Isildur, I have gazed at the stars a thousand thousand nights, but they have never appeared more fair than this. Their beauty rivals nature's.''

``It is my father's design,'' Isildur smiled. ``He built it to honor the stars for guiding us safely back to Middle-earth after the downfall of Númenor. The stars are as they were when seen from the peak of Meneltarma in the midst of Númenor.''

``This is a great treasure, Isildur,'' said Cirdan.

``Other treasures the Gondorrim have in this hall,'' said Celeborn. ``Isildur showed us the great master palantír of Fëanor.''

``That is rumored to be among the greatest of all the works made by the Elves in the Elder Days,'' said Cirdan. ``Would it be permitted to view it?''

``Of course,'' bowed Isildur. ``I have it in my inner sanctum. And perhaps that would be a safer place to discuss other matters close to our hearts.''

A significant glance passed among the Lords. They accompanied Isildur into a small dark chamber lit by a single hanging lamp. In its center stood a short marble column shrouded in dark velvet. Isildur drew away the cloth, revealing a crystal globe..

``This is the Master Stone,'' said Isildur, ``the only palantír that can speak to each of the others. Watch you the globe.'' He stood by the column and laid his hands on either side of it. They all gathered around and watched intently as the darkness within the crystal swirled and cleared. Tiny shapes seemed to move and form within the mists. Then Amroth found himself looking out from a high place over a walled city. The city clung to a steep rocky slope at the head of a mountain valley. It dropped down step after step, each level ringed by its own wall. A road wound down from level to level, emerging finally from a massive gate and stretching away across a wide rolling land. In the distance he could see an even greater city with many towers and a river flowing through it. Suddenly he recognized that distant city.

``Why that is Osgiliath!'' he cried. ``I am over a mountain fortress, but I can see Osgiliath in the distance. I can make out the dome of the very hall where we now stand.''

``You must be seeing the Anor stone, Lord Amroth,'' said Isildur. ``That is in the city of Minas Anor to the west, in the Ered Nimrais. You may have seen it high above you as you approached Osgiliath.''

``I see a great rocky valley,'' said Galadriel, looking into the stone from the other side. ``A mighty spire of black rock thrusts up from its midst. That can only be Orthanc, in the valley of Angrenost. It is as if I were flying high above it.''

``I see something different,'' said Elrond. ``I see a wide land of brown hills amid scattered forests. One hill, standing alone, is crowned by a stone tower. I seem to be flying toward it. Why, surely that is Amon Sûl, not far from my home in Imladris. How strange to see it from above.''

``I see a great walled city beside a lake,'' said Celeborn. ``That can only be Elendil's city of Annúminas by Lake Nenuial.''

Cirdan stood in silence, then he murmured quietly. ``I see beyond this mortal world, to the mountains of Eldamar, far Elvenhome across the sea.''

``That would be the view from the Tower Hills,'' said Isildur. ``On the western borders of my father's kingdom of Arnor. From that stone alone can Eldamar be seen from Middle Earth.''

Isildur too looked in the stone, but he saw through the Ithil stone, now on the plains of Gorgoroth, and of what he saw he spoke not. Then he took his hands away and stepped back and the stone again grew dark.

``You have shown us great wonders, Isildur,'' said Cirdan, ``Yet I believe that the stone is perhaps not the greatest treasure in this chamber today.''

Galadriel looked at him gravely. ``Have you then brought your burden as Gil-galad asked, Shipwright?''

``I have,'' answered Cirdan, drawing forth from his pocket a small leather wallet on a chain. Reaching in, he withdrew a golden ring with a great glowing ruby that seemed to shine with its own light in the dim chamber. ``Here is Narya, the Ring of Fire, kept hidden since it was given to me by Celebrimbor more than twelve yén ago.''

Amroth looked at it in wonder. He had heard of the Three Rings of Power, of course, but they had been hidden so long and their location kept such a closely guarded secret, that he had never thought to see one. It loomed so large in the Elves' history and councils that he was somehow surprised to find it but a ring after all, though the loveliest he had ever seen.

Then Galadriel drew forth a fine silver chain from between her breasts, and lo, it bore a great ring of mithril with a single white adamant that sparkled like the Evenstar on a clear evening. ``And here is Nenya,'' she said, ``the Ring of Water.''

Amroth stood staring, shocked at the display of so much power gathered in one place. Then to his amazement, his friend Elrond beside him drew a similar chain from around his neck. It too bore a ring, this a startling sapphire blue the color of a summer sky. ``And here is Vilya,'' he said, ``the Ring of Sky, mightiest of all, which I bear for my king Ereinion the Gil-galad.''

The Ringbearers held them up and the small chamber was filled by the combined light of the Three, their colors mingling into a radiance that shimmered and scintillated, lighting their faces as they stood looking on in awe.

``And so the Three are together again,'' said Galadriel, ``as has not happened since the day Sauron forged the One and his treachery was revealed.''

``They are beautiful,'' breathed Amroth.

``Beautiful indeed,'' said Celeborn, ``and also mighty, for they embody the power imbued upon us Quendi by the Valar in the Beginning of Days.''

``Beautiful and mighty,'' said Galadriel, ``but also most perilous, for all that we have wrought in the world is made through them. If they are lost, all the good that we have ever done will be undone. The fate of the world lies in these Three Rings, my friends, and in that One Ring now on the hand of Sauron.

``For remember the words that Celebrimbor heard the day the One was forged:'' And her lovely clear voice turned harsh and cruel.

Ash nazg durbatulûk,
Ash nazg gimbatul,
Ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul!

They all stared in horror at the change that seemed to have come over Galadriel at these words. Her voice had become like the harsh croaking of some huge carrion bird. Cirdan started back aghast, Elrond's hands went to his ears. But Galadriel was unchanged, and her voice returned to normal as she translated:

One Ring to Rule them all,
One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them!

``You see,'' she went on, ignoring their horrified looks, ``Sauron desires the Three to be brought to him, so he can meld them with his own and absorb all of their power into himself. This has been at the heart of all his devices and stratagems from the beginning. I remember well the words of Celebrimbor the day he gave us the Three: `Take these Rings, each unto your own lands, and guard them well. Best that they lie unused, for when wielded they may draw Sauron's eye unto them. Above all, they must never be brought together again, for in concert they are more clearly perceived. Would that I had never made them, or that they could be unmade. I cannot keep them, for Sauron knows they are here and even now prepares a stroke against me, a stroke I fear I will be unable to withstand. But I give them unto the steadiest hands still to be found this side of the Sundering Sea.'

``That stroke he feared came soon after, and both Celebrimbor and all his land of Eregion are no more. Sauron has sought for the Three ever since. I ask you then, are we not playing into his hands to bring the Three into Mordor? Would he not rejoice to know of it?''

Cirdan shook his wise old head sadly. ``Those were black days indeed, Lady. But I fear these are blacker still. Long have we kept the Three hidden and Sauron is stronger than ever. He waits now within his Tower as we gradually weaken, until such time as he deems us sufficiently helpless. Then he will fall upon us as he has done in the past. He was rash when he razed Eregion and he was humbled at last and driven out by Tar-Minastir and Gil-galad. He is more cautious this time.

``But our time is near at last. Our strength will never be greater. We can only decline and diminish. Even now ships are sailing from Mithlond, bearing the Eldar back over the sea. No more will ever come. Sauron knows that and bides his time.

``If there is any hope of casting him out, we must strike now, united with the Men, and using all the weapons we possess. If the Three cannot defeat him together, how can we hope to stand against him alone? It is most perilous, but we cannot afford to not use the Three.''

``You speak wisely, Master,'' Galadriel replied. ``But the chance is great. If we fail, all the west is lost, the Atani shall be enslaved, and the light of the Quendi shall pass forever from the world.''

``All the more reason we should not falter or grow overcautious now, Lady,'' said Elrond. ``Think back to the Elder Days, when we fought Morgoth in Thangorodrim. We were cautious then, and it availed us naught. Only the rash courage and bold attack of the Man, Beren One-Hand, brought us the mastery at last. If he had not risked all in the tunnels of Thangorodrim and again in crossing the Shadows, we might all be freezing yet in the icy wastes of Angband, and facing a far greater foe.''

Galadriel nodded. ``Sauron was then but a servant of Melkor the Morgoth. Alas! Would we had caught him then in the wrack of Thangorodrim and cast him out with his master. Little did we imagine then the evil that would come from the escape of that poor broken wretch.''

She sighed. ``Yes, my friends, you are no doubt correct. We are only finishing a task that was begun long ago. We must see it through to the bitter end, no matter the danger. We must cleanse the world of the last shadow of Morgoth.''

``It is well,'' said Isildur. ``Now it is growing late and we must away to our rest. The council is on the morrow and there much will be revealed. Until then, I bid all of you good night.'' They separated then, Isildur to his sleep, the Quendi to that pensive silence that serves them for slumber.

The night, being midyear's eve, passed swiftly, and the first cock-crow found Amroth high in the tower above the Dome of Stars. He sat in rest, pondering the stars now fading in the rising glow of the sun as she crept above the Ephel Dúath. Their fading beauty, finally overwhelmed in the harsh glow of the advancing sun, brought to his mind the inevitable fading of the Quendi as they are replaced by the more earthly Atani. Sighing deeply, he rose and looked out over the vast city of Men as it awoke.

Far below him on the battlement he saw Celeborn and Galadriel walking slowly together, as they have for so many thousands of nights. He wondered what thoughts they shared on this eve of a great battle that could mean the end of all for which they have labored over the ages. If anyone truly knew the terrible danger they were now in, it was they. If Nenya were destroyed, the Golden Wood, their city of Caras Galadon, all of Lothlórien would quickly fade and die. And how each must fear for the other as they go into battle together. The love they share had become ever more legendary as the long ages passed. Amroth tried to imagine his feelings if he knew his beloved Nimrodel were riding into battle beside him.

Seeing the people of the city beginning to stir, he descended the tower. He found Cirdan in the chamber of the palantír, looking through it to the stone in the Emyn Beraid, and from thence to the distant towers of Eldamar, whence they would all one day return. They went together to the dining hall, where they found Elrond and Gildor Inglorion and the Lord and Lady already at table. They spoke little to one another, each lost in his own thoughts.

They had hardly broken their fast before messengers came to them, bidding them to come to the Dome of Stars, for the council was to begin. They were greeted there by a stocky dark man with his hair and his beard alike drawn into long braids. He wore a tunic of light green over good mail, and he greeted the Elves civilly with a deep bow.

``My Lords and Lady,'' he said. ``I am Ohtar, the king's esquire, and I welcome you to the Great Council of Osgiliath. I bid you to be patient a few moments more, for not all the guests have arrived.''

They were shown to seats at a great table shaped like a crescent moon. At the center of the curve stood two high thrones of ebony chased with many graceful designs in mithril, one draped in white shrouds. In the other sat Isildur, dressed all in white with a white stone bound upon his brow. He rose to greet his guests.

``Welcome, Firstborn,'' he called. ``Pray take your seats on my either hand. The others are even now arriving.''

They sat in the high-backed chairs and watched as the lords and captains of many lands entered the hall and took their seats, each dressed in the colors and livery of his homeland. There was Barathor, whom they already knew, but there were many others. Amroth had not realized how greatly the race of the Atani had come to vary over the ages. There were tall men of Númenórean descent, like unto Isildur. His son Elendur was the greatest of these. Others were shorter and broader, with long yellow hair and fair faces, having somewhat the coloring of the Noldor. Still others had ruddy faces and carrot-colored hair, while others were a deep brown or black, with curling black hair. A group of dwarves entered and bowed low to Isildur, their long beards sweeping the ground. A herald was announcing each of the nobles as they entered:

``Thardûn, Captain of Angrenost. Ingold, Master of Calembel. Súrion, Guardian of the isle of Cair Andros. Bergil, Mayor of Minas Anor. Halgon, Master of the Ships of the Harlond. Barathor, Lord of Pelargir. Turgon of Ethir Lefnui.''

Each looked at the Elves as they came in, some in wonder, some in surprise, some in open puzzlement. Few had ever seen Elves before. The names went on and on, but Amroth soon lost track of their many names and titles and lands. Some he did notice. One was a thin, studious-looking young man, Isildur's nephew Meneldil, Prince of Anórien since his father's death. At last all the chairs were filled and the room fell quiet. Isildur stood and called out.

``Lords, I greet you and welcome you to Osgiliath. We are gathered in answer to a summons from the Lords of the West: my father Elendil, High King of the Realms in Exile, and Gil-galad, King of the Eldar. We are called to decide matters of great moment today, decisions that will change the course of the world. For long now we have endeavored to keep our plans hidden, lest they reach the ears of the enemy. But now the time for secrecy is past; the time for decisive action is come. But to make such decisions we must know the risks and the costs, what can be gained, and what lost; and know how we have come to this pass.

``The tale of how this council came to be called is a long one, but it should be fully known to all here, whose lives and fortunes lie now in the balance. Many tales go into the making of this tale, and I would have each tell his part in turn. I will begin myself.

``You all know the history of this war with Sauron: how his forces swept down without warning on my city of Minas Ithil in the year `34. His most foul servants yet hold my city and much of the fair land of Ithilien, and they constantly harass us here in Osgiliath and in raids across the Anduin. His allies and agents elsewhere assail our ports and ships and towns, murdering our people and destroying what they cannot carry away. Sauron will not cease his attacks until Gondor and all the free lands of the West are in his power. We are resolved to oppose him while life endures.

``The good people of the Eldar, that you call Elves, have joined us in our struggle against Sauron. Gil-galad has long been a staunch friend of our people, and many an Elvish warrior has laid down his life in battle at our sides. You see here among us some of the greatest Lords of that noble race, come to offer us their assistance and support.

``At first all went well for the Army of the Alliance. United with the Elves, we defeated Sauron's best troops and threw down his Black Gate and took all of Udûn and much of the blasted plains of Gorgoroth. We encircled him in his Dark Tower, the Barad-dûr, but it is immeasurably strong, and our siege has been unavailing. For seven years now we have maintained the siege, at great cost to ourselves. Many fall in battle, others die of thirst and heat and weariness and the poisonous fumes that belch from the ground. Daily our comrades fall around us, and we can do the enemy but little hurt. They laugh at us as we waste ourselves on their adamantine walls. We had driven Sauron back into his last stronghold, but we could do no more, and it could be said that by maintaining the siege we are in fact losing the war, for our forces ever diminish and his do not.

``Last year my brother Anárion thought to make a last great attempt on the gate of the Barad-dûr. He designed a huge covered structure on wheels that contained both a wooden bridge that could be lowered across the chasm and an immense battering ram to force the gate. He built a model and showed it to the kings. It seemed a bold but likely plan. The permission was given and the construction of the engine was begun. Hundreds of huge trees had to be cut high in the northern valleys of the Ered Lithui and dragged and sledged with untold weary labor across many miles of broken terrain. After many months, the engine was completed and the men trained.

``On the appointed day, the entire host rose as one and assailed the Black Tower from every side. Anárion led his men with their engine to the gate. The huge bridge was lowered into place successfully and the engine advanced to the mighty gates. But hardly had the order been given to start the ram when Sauron's hordes unleashed a terrible rain of huge stones, glowing red with heat. Within moments the siege engine was struck by an immense boulder and the forward end collapsed. Many men and Elves were trapped within, doomed to certain death beneath the rain of missles. Anárion ran forward with a party of men and endeavored to free those caught beneath the wreckage. As he stood thus, bent low to help free an injured man, a great stone, cast from high in the Tower, smote him on the helmet and burst both helm and skull asunder. Gildor here and I crossed the now teetering bridge and freed some of our people, and I carried back the body of my brother. Hardly had we reached the ground again when the entire structure tilted, groaned, then collapsed into the bottomless depths, carrying with it a hundred or more of our brave soldiers. The attack was called off and the army withdrew to a safe distance.

``Within a few terrible moments, a king of Gondor and many hundreds of our people had died, our siege engine was destroyed, and with it went all our hopes of ever breaching the Black Tower. We all realized at last that we could besiege the Tower, but we could never take it. Sauron and his servants seemed to command limitless supplies of food and arms and missles. We knew not if the tower was filled with vast stores of supplies or if it was being replenished through some underground or even magical means.''

Isildur paused, looking around at the grim listening faces around him. ``Many who have not been to Mordor might cherish the illusion that Sauron is trapped and helpless within his Tower. The truth is rather that he does not bother to sortie against us. He has waited for his victory for thousands of years, he can afford to wait ten or twenty more while we grind ourselves to dust against his walls.''

There were murmurs in the room. Dark looks were exchanged. Many had not realized just how grim the situation in Gorgoroth had become.

``The Lords of the West took counsel together to determine our course of action. It was a grim and desperate gathering, you may be sure. Many proposals were advanced, discussed, and abandoned. At last Gil-galad disclosed an idea he had been harboring in secret. `If we cannot get into the Tower,' he said, `then we must lure Sauron out.'

``We could not be certain, of course, but we hoped that we could best Sauron's forces in an even fight in the open. But our great fear is his other unconquered fortress, my own city of Minas Ithil, in the mountains of the Ephel Dúath. It is ruled now by the Nine Kings, the Úlairi. Their powers too are very great, for they bear the Nine Rings of Men, wrought long ago by the Noldor, but long since corrupted by Sauron's One Ring and brought under his dominion. The Nine are like blades at our backs. We must always keep a part of our forces stationed on the road to the Ephel Dúath, lest they fall on our backs. We have become actually two armies back to back, and the division greatly weakens each. We dare not throw our full weight against either fortress, for the other cannot be left unguarded behind us.

``Gil-galad's plan then was this: to raise a third army far from Mordor and the spying eyes of the Enemy; to bring this army secretly against Minas Ithil from the west; to wrest that city from the Úlairi before Sauron knows it is assailed. Then all three armies would join at the Barad-dûr. It was hoped that the loss of Minas Ithil and his most valued servants would so anger Sauron that he would become rash and venture forth against us. Stripped of his allies and his walls, he would be at his weakest and we at our strongest. There, on the plains of Gorgoroth, the doom of the world would be cast in a single mighty test of arms.''

Isildur stopped and looked over the assembled lords. ``It must be clear to you all by now that we gathered here are to be that third army. But before we talk of the coming campaign, let us hear how Gil-galad's plan was to be realized. The greatest difficulty, of course, was to somehow locate as many warriors as possible, recruit them in our cause, and bring them all to Osgiliath in secrecy. To that end, three messengers were sent forth from Mordor: Elrond Peredhil to Lothlórien and the Vales of Anduin; Gildor Inglorion to Eriador and Lindon; and I to the lands around the Ered Nimrais and Pelargir.

``Now let us hear how each has fared. I will rest now and let the others tell their tales. I will call first upon Elrond Peredhil, known as Halfelven. For those of you who know not of him, he is great among the wise and ancient ones. He is the son of Eärendil the Mariner, the greatest hero of the Elder Days. Elrond dwells in Imladris, a valley far to the north in the western slopes of the Misty Mountains, not far from my father's realm of Arnor. He has long been a friend and a help to us Exiles, for his brother was Elros, the founder of Númenor and of my own line, so he is a living ancestor to me and to many of us here. Welcome, Master Elrond. Please tell us of your journey here.''

Isildur took his seat as Elrond stood, and the Men looked on the Elf with wonder, for he was ancient beyond their knowing, and his father was said to have been set in the sky as the Evening Star by Manwë himself. ``We three couriers,'' began Elrond, ``set out from Gorgoroth on the nineteenth day of Víressë. We rode together through the gates of the Morannon, which lay yet in ruin. We passed through the marshes of Dagorlad where so many of our people fell in the seige of the Morannon. We passed through the Brown Lands and crossed Anduin nigh to the Falls of Rauros. There we parted company, and Isildur turned west across the fens of Calenardhon. Gildor and I turned north and followed the west bank of the River to Lothlórien, the Land of the Golden Wood. There we took counsel with Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel and received their pledge to join our cause, as they have now done.'' Elrond bowed to the Lord and Lady. ``Gildor bided there but a short time before turning to the high road over the mountains. For my part, I continued north, travelling the length of the great forest of Taur Galen, called by Men Greenwood the Great, seeking always for friends to fight with us. I found several settlements of Men and sought their aid. I was received well, but all claimed that they could spare us no men, for they were often attacked by orcs and wolves and other fell creatures. Their lives were hard enough, and I did not press them further.

North of the confluence of the river Gladden, I came across a village of a small people of a race I knew not. To my knowledge they are not recorded in any of the ancient chronicles. They are as small as dwarves and like dwarves live beneath the ground, but with hair on their feet instead of their chins. They too welcomed me to their councils and heard my pleas, but they said they were a peaceful people and knew nothing of the arts of war. My arguments were unavailing, and I passed on.

I came at length to the realm of Thranduil, King of the Forest Elves, but he too was engaged in repelling frequent raids by orcs. His borders are weak and ill-defined, and he is hard-put to hold the margins of the forest. He has lost many of his Elves in the trackless deeps of the forest, where lurk orcs and great spiders and other dark things. He could spare no more than a score of his green-clad archers. I ranged throughout Rhovanion, but always the story was the same. The few people I met were all engaged in defending their own and could spare none for the `Westman's War,' as they called it.

At length I returned to Lothlórien and helped Celeborn and his Elves to clear the foes from their borders as best they could. Then, leaving the realm in good order, we marched south and came at last to Osgiliath, arriving but yestermorn. All told we number nigh to four thousand, each a tried warrior, skilled with bow and spear. We offer our services to you, Isildur.''

``Well said and well done, Master Elrond,'' said the king. ``We had hoped many more would rally to us, but you have done all you could, and we are very grateful to you and the people of Lothlórien, and to you, my Lord and Lady. The Galadrim are welcome allies in these or any times.

``Now I would have the account of the second courier, Gildor Inglorion of the House of Finrod, aide to king Gil-galad. Gildor, what of your journey?''

Now Gildor stood and bowed to the king, and he looked very imposing in his blue and gilt armor and his long cape of cloth of gold.

``My Lords,'' he began, ``many of you have travelled far to attend this council, but I wager that my road has been the longest. Like Master Elrond, I accomplished my task but brought far fewer than we hoped for that day in my king's tent in Gorgoroth.

``When I left Elrond at Caras Galadon in the Golden Wood, I climbed the Dimrill Stair to Nanduhirion, the high valley where lie the gates to the dwarvish city of Khazad-dûm. For those who do not know of it, there lies under the heart of the Misty Mountains a great underground city of the dwarves, delved by them in the Elder Days. Hall below hall, level below level, the earth is hollowed by their tunneling. At one time the Little People were more friendly with the Elves, and they bored a shaft through to the west side of the mountains to link their city with the land of Celebrimbor in Eregion. They traded with both Eregion and Lothlórien, and all profited thereby.

``But then Sauron's hordes swept out of the east and Eregion was attacked. Then the dwarves shut their gates and refused to have any part of the fight. Eregion was destroyed and Celebrimbor slain, but at last the forces of evil were driven out again by the Elves of Lindon. Still, the gates of Khazad-dûm have remained closed for many centuries. The dwarves resent us Elves, blaming Celebrimbor for bringing Sauron's wrath down on us all. They do not love us, but they are not an evil folk, and they hate Sauron, remembering his destruction of their northern cities in the Elder Days. We had not much hope of their aid, but thought it worth the attempt.

``I went therefore to their East Gate in Nanduhirion and sought an audience with their lord. They would not suffer me to enter, but after much debate their king came to the Gate. He was taller than most of his race, and his long white beard hung to his feet. `I am Durin,' said he, `the fourth of that name. For long we have sought only to be left in peace. What do the Big People want of us now?'

```I am Gildor Inglorion of Lindon,' I said. `I met your father once while visiting in Eregion. I honor his name and his son. Our people were friends in those happier times.'

```Those times are gone,' he said gruffly, `and so is my father, no thanks to Elvish meddling in arts that did not concern them. Our gates are shut to you and to all Big Folk. We have no need of you and your troubles.'

```My lord Durin,' I said, `it was not Celebrimbor but Sauron who brought about the destruction of Eregion and the wars that followed. And Sauron yet rules in his Dark Tower. We seek to throw him down, but we are hard pressed. The Khazad are renowned warriors. We have need of your strength, lest he have the victory at last. Would you see us all enslaved?'

```What care I for the Big Folk?' Durin replied disdainfully. `Let them fight amongst themselves. Our gates are strong, we have all that we need. We shall wait safely in our homes for the storm to pass, as we have for over seventeen centuries. We are safe from Sauron here.'

```Have you forgotten the lessons of Belegost and Nogrod? Were they not mighty cities of your people, hewn deep into the living stone of the Ered Luin? Did they not have strong gates? Yet Morgoth and his servant Sauron crushed them as you would crack a bone to suck out the marrow. Many dwarves died in the Lost Cities. Would you again crouch in your holes and await the wrath of Sauron?'

``Then Durin's dark eyes flashed. `Aye,' he said. `Many died in the Lost Cities. They will never be forgotten. But it was the Elves who started that war by meddling in forbidden arts and setting themselves against Melkor the Vala. Our fathers sided with you in that war, and for their pains their cities were destroyed and their people slain. We learned our hard lesson, but you Elves evidently did not. Celebrimbor again sought to practice the forbidden arts and has brought evil down on our heads again. But Sauron stalks Elves and Men, he has no quarrel with us Khazad as long as we take no part in your war. If we stir him not, we shall be left in peace.'

```And if he does not leave you in peace?' I said. `Once he has defeated us, he will surely come against Khazad-dûm, for he cannot tolerate free people.'

```If he comes, we shall fight him. But we shall fight for our own people and our own homes. We have no desire to fight in far-off lands, dying so that Elves may live. Begone, Gildor of Lindon, you will find no help here!' And with that he went back in and the gates were closed.

``And so I turned away and climbed the long stairs over the high pass of Caradhras. Though it was then early Lótessë, there was still much snow on the sheltered northern slopes, and the passage was difficult. I hurried down then, past the West Gate of Khazad-dûm, where once throngs of people of all races passed in and out. The door is sealed now, and even the inscription, a gift of Celebrimbor, is fading.

``I followed the ancient highway beside the swift river Sirannon to the empty moors and rank meadows that were once the fair lawns of Eregion. I pondered much as I travelled those lonely leagues through what had once been a happy and prosperous land. Eregion had been built after the fall of Morgoth and it alone of the lands of Eriador was untainted by his evil. Those Noldor returning from the war in the north came to this land and ordered a fair realm. I thought of the destruction of Eregion; of the murder of Celebrimbor and his family; of the rift with the dwarves; and always my thoughts returned to the same agent -- Sauron.

``I thought of the people of Lindon and Lothlórien, of Gondor and Arnor, and even those of Khazad-dûm, with the long hand of Sauron stretched forth to destroy them. I spurred my horse ever faster, and at length reached Tharbad, where the Royal Road between Gondor and Arnor spans the River Gwathlo.

``Once it was a fair town of Men, the southernmost of Arnor, but I found it nearly deserted, with burned buildings and ruined farms giving evidence to acts of war. The few folk I found there told of a Corsair raid but a few weeks before. They were taken completely unaware, for Tharbad is over a hundred leagues from the sea. It must have taken the Corsairs a week of hard rowing to reach the town. Never before had they struck so far from the coasts, and none knew why they should suddenly sack a city never famous for its wealth.

``It occurred to me that the city's value was more likely to be its strategic location at the crossing of the largest road and the longest navigable river into the heart of Eriador. But surely, I thought, Umbar could not be contemplating an invasion of the North lands. But what if Sauron were thinking of such a stroke? Might he not first send his Corsair allies to destroy Tharbad and sever both the road and the river? Or worse yet, if he had somehow learned of our errand, he might have thought this a way to thwart our plans and perhaps even waylay me. If so, they struck too soon to take me. But they had done their master's work well. The survivors were frightened and disheartened and too busy rebuilding their town to listen to my talk of riding away to a distant war. I rode north alone.

``Now I travelled more quickly, for I was on the Royal Road which runs from Annúminas in Arnor through the Gap of Calenardhon even here to Osgiliath. I crossed the desolate Red Hills country and came at last to the broad Baranduin. Crossing safely on the small ferry there, I entered a fair green country of rolling downs and gentle air. It is a pleasant land with fertile soil, but only lightly tilled by the few men who dwell there. It is but a quiet corner of Arthedain, as the westernmost regions of Arnor are coming to be called.

Passing through this land with all speed, I saw away in the west the three towers of the Emyn Beraid looming high against the sky and knew I was nearing home at last. Gaining strength from the sight, I hurried thence and ascended the hills to stand at the foot of the towers, the tallest in all of Middle-earth. Of the three, the westernmost, called Elosterion, is the highest. I broke my journey there an hour so that I could climb the tower and view once again, through the Stone of Elendil, the vision of Elvenhome afar off across the sea. I had hoped perhaps even to see Varda Starkindler, as sometimes others have reported, standing upon the summit of Oiolossë and gazing into the east, as if waiting for us Exiles to return. But the peak was hidden in clouds and the view but hazy. I thanked the Guardian of the Stone and descended, turning again to the west.

``From Emyn Beraid the road drops down in long looping coils to the valley of the Lhûn. Rounding the last turn, I saw at last before me the high stone ramparts of the Havens of Mithlond. I was greeted warmly at the gate and admitted at once to Lord Cirdan's chambers, where he sat with a Sindarin Elf I did not know. Cirdan rose in surprise when I entered.

```Gildor Inglorion!' he said, `long has it been since you rode away with the king. Greetings and welcome home. This has been a week for meeting old friends returned from long journeys. This is Amroth, a Sindarin lord from lands far to the east.'

```Honor to you, Lord Amroth,' I said. `I have heard your name. Did you not once live in the Golden Wood, nigh to the Lady Galadriel?'

```Indeed yes,' he replied. `I dwelt long there, though for some yén now I have wandered alone in far lands, even to the Uttermost North. Much have I seen and learned, but when I returned again to the lands of our kindred, news of the war was on every lip. And so I came here to offer my services to my friend Cirdan.'

```You have come at an opportune moment then,' I said, `for I am come to seek aid for our king.' And I told them then of our mission. Cirdan immediately called his captains and lieutenants together and bade them set about readying the ships as speedily as possible. Amroth and I travelled throughout Lindon and the neighboring lands, gathering volunteers for the armada. In three weeks, warriors and supplies were pouring into Mithlond and the ships were being loaded.

``Since the time of the council was so nigh, Cirdan gave me the service of his cog Varda, the fastest vessel in the fleet, so that I might sail ahead and assure those awaiting us in the south that relief was near. And so, after a swift and uneventful passage, we came at last to Pelargir and were met on the quays by none other than Isildur himself. Two days later we rode here to Osgiliath. And so the tale of a long journey is told but in a few moments.''

So saying, Gildor resumed his seat. Isildur rose.

``Your journey was indeed long and weary, my friend, but you have succeeded well, perhaps better than you had thought. And your labors at Khazad-dûm were not wholly in vain, for as you see, there are representatives of the Khazad at this council. I present to you Frár of Khazad-dûm.'' The leader of the Dwarves stood up and bowed low to the company.

``Frár, son of Flói, at your service,'' he said in his deep voice. ``Master Gildor, I would apologize for the greeting you received from my Lord Durin at our gate. Much has happened over the years to strain the friendship that once obtained between our peoples. We have suffered much, and many blame our troubles on the Elves. But some of us do not, and we would see the old wounds healed at last. All the Khazad hate Sauron and his accursed orcs. And we have lived always on good terms with the Men of Gondor.

``After you left us, we had many debates among ourselves. I and some of my friends urged Durin to reconsider and send a strong force to your council. But as you know he is not one to turn his tunnel when once it is begun. In the end he agreed to let us call for volunteers and allowed me to lead them to Osgiliath. He insisted, however, that we not march under the banner of Khazad-dûm, and that we serve the king of Gondor, rather than any Elven lord. We have three hundred stout Khazad warriors ready to do as you bid, Isildur.''

``Your help is most welcome, Frár, and we honor you for your courage and your friendship. If you can cut through lines of orcs as well as you cut through stone, you will be mighty allies, no matter your numbers.I would be honored and grateful if you would march with me under my personal standard, if that would suit you. ''

Frár's bushy eyebrows went up in surprise. He swept off his hat and bowed low to the king. ``Isildur Elendilson,'' he said, ``we should be greatly honored to fight under your royal standard. Our axes are yours to command.'' He returned to his seat looking very pleased.

Isildur turned and smiled at Amroth. ``And besides Frár, Gildor has brought us Amroth, famed in song and legend as a mighty warrior and explorer of far lands. Welcome, Lord Amroth. Your feats of arms are renowned among the Men of the South.''

Amroth had to laugh at that. ``Are they indeed? But so are the Southlands famed in the North. But not enough, I find. For in sooth I say I have seen no mortal land more fair than your provinces of Belfalas and Anfalas. Happy are those that live with the towering Ered Nimrais at their backs and the southern sea spread before their feet.''

Isildur smiled. ``Fair spoken, Lord Amroth, and welcome to hear even in these times. Would you could see Gondor in peace, with the people working their fields and the land yielding its fruits. If the war should indeed fall to us, we would be most honored if you would visit us in Belfalas. I say unto you that if you wish, I will grant you land in Belfalas that you might dwell in sight of the sea.''

Amroth bowed. ``That I should be very pleased to do, my Lord. You are most gracious.''

``Now,'' said Isildur. ``You have heard the tales of the other couriers. It is time for my tale. It is a story of frustrations and disappointments, for at every step were our plans thwarted by the enemy.

``I went first to the great iron-bound valley of Angrenost, where is the northernmost fortress of Gondor, the mighty tower of Orthanc. We had hoped to recruit the greater part of the garrison there. But when I spoke with their commander, he told me of frequent repeated raids by orcs from the dark and mysterious forests that ring the valley on three sides. The orcs have often given trouble in the past, but only in small parties attacking a lonely farmhouse or hunters' camp. But of late they have come in ever greater numbers and accompanied by dire wolves of immense size. The orcs ride upon the wolves, and the wolves are clearly intelligent, at least as intelligent as the orcs, for they speak among themselves and to the orcs. Each attack is bolder and in greater numbers. Just the month before we came there, a company of twenty armed horsemen, seasoned soldiers of Gondor, was attacked in the narrows not far from the gates of Angrenost. They fought their way to the fortress, but not before losing six men.

``Their commander heard my request and was eager to help us in our cause, but his garrison has been at but half strength since the muster for the Army of the Alliance, and he feared to further weaken his forces. Nonetheless, he detached forty bold horsemen, all volunteers under Thardun here, to ride with us, though he feared the loss would leave him unable to send out patrols as had been his wont. And so we rode with but forty where we had hoped for four hundred. Yet it was a greater aid than I had at first thought, for they saved us all a week later at Anglond, as I shall tell.'' He gestured to a powerfully built man in armor much scored and dinted by many blows, who bowed respectfully to the king.

``With Thardun's men we then rode from Angrenost at the source of the River Anga to Anglond at its mouth, a distance of well over a hundred leagues. Again we were well received. Their lord offered us three hundred of his bravest knights and others there were who begged to join us. But before we could depart a fleet of black ships appeared from the sea and fell upon the outlying farms. The people fled in terror for the safety of the city walls, but many there were who were cut down in their flight. Perceiving the attack from afar, we sallied forth to protect the people. We expected to meet a band of savage sea raiders, bent only upon pillage and plunder, but we met instead a well-armed, well-commanded force of the knights of Umbar. They were formed up into orderly columns and were advancing purposely across the lands, slaying all before them -- man, beast, and crop. Every house and barn was burnt, the wells befouled. It was as if they sought to destroy Anglond and all its works utterly.

``We came against them though we were greatly outnumbered, and bravely did the men of Anglond and Angrenost fight. In the heat of the battle I was struck by a spear that was turned by my armor but unseated me from my horse. If not for Thardun and his strong sword arm, my head would now be swinging at the masthead of a galley on its way to Umbar. With his aid I was able to remount and we fell back within the city walls, though many fell without.

``For two weeks we were besieged there while the Corsairs ruined all the lands beyond the walls. The situation was grave, for our supplies were rapidly diminishing, and I could but count the days until we were due to be here at this council. Still, there seemed to be nothing we could do, for we were too few to attempt another sortie against so many.

``Then one day another Corsair galley came up the river and a party of men went to the tent where the leaders of the raid were headquartered. An hour later, all the raiders suddenly struck their tents, returned to their ships, and sailed away.

``We could imagine no reason for their withdrawal and suspected some trick or deception. But at last we ventured out. The Corsairs were gone, leaving nothing of use or value in the entire land thereabout. We did what we could to assist the people of Anglond, but then we were forced by the calendar to depart. We had ridden to Anglond in hopes of greatly increasing our numbers, but we left with our numbers sadly diminished. Now, more than a week behind our schedule, we hurried south to Anfalas, where we hoped to at last find many warriors ready to join us. Alas, worse was to come.

``While passing through the green hills of Pinnath Gelin, nigh to the River Lefnui, we came upon a handful of survivors of a Corsair raid on the city of Ethir Lefnui. That city, much smaller and more lightly defended than Anglond, could do little to defend itself and in but a few hours was reduced to smoking rubble, nearly all of its people slain.''

Several in the hall had not yet heard this news, and many gasped in horror and anger. There were growls and oaths of revenge.

``Then it was clear that the Corsairs had withdrawn from Anglond only to fall on Lefnui,'' Isildur continued. ``It was our thought that the solitary galley had brought orders to the raiders, directing them to Lefnui rather than spend any more time besieging Anglond to little profit. We believe that some hints or suspicions of our plans may have already reached the enemy, and that he is purposely moving to thwart us. The innocent people of Ethir Lefnui paid with their lives for that suspicion. Turgon here leads what remains of that people.'' All eyes turned in wonder and pity to the grim-faced chief who had borne so much. He stood and looked upon them.

``That which was Ethir Lefnui is no more,'' he said, ``save as a fair memory forever darkened and poisoned in our minds. When last the sun rose to her greatest height at midsummer, more than a thousand people danced in the streets of Lefnui to celebrate Loëndë. Now we are but thirty, and there will be no more celebrations for us, unless it be to dance upon the ruins of the Barad-dûr.'' And he sat down to silence.

Cirdan, who sat next to Amroth, leaned close and murmured in his ear, ``Woe to the foe that meets that one in battle, for he seeks only revenge and he does not fear death.''

Amroth nodded. ``He is one Man who might agree that death is the Gift of Men.''

Isildur then continued his tale. ``We journeyed then to Erech in the southern vales of the Ered Nimrais. We met there with Romach, Lord of the Eredrim. When my father and I discussed our prospects in the western and southern provinces, we had the greatest hopes for the Eredrim, for they are a numerous and formerly warlike people, and they long before swore to me a solemn oath of mutual aid. Though they tend to be reclusive and keep to their own valleys, still they have for many years been allies and friends to Gondor.

``But Romach was evasive and asked for time to make a decision. Soon enough we learned why, for the following day there arrived at Erech an emissary from Umbar.''

``What?'' came several voices at once. ``The Corsairs openly treat with the Eredrim? They should have been seized for their crimes!''

Isildur's voice grew harder still. ``It was with regret that we were forced to honor their flag of truce, especially as I thought it most likely that their emissary was the same that had ordered the attack on Ethir Lefnui. Malithôr is his name, but I called him the Mouth of Sauron, for though he pretends to speak for his Emperor Herumor, his thoughts and his speech are but the will of the Dark Lord.

``I warned Romach against his threats, but Romach is grown fearful and cautious in his old age, and he would not side with us. I think in the end he thought he would rather have Gondor as a betrayed ally than Umbar, for he knows we will not attack him for it.

``And so when I sounded my horn and called them to the aid of Gondor, they broke their oath and hid their faces from me. But Romach's cowardly cunning did not avail him, for I called upon my own not inconsiderable powers and laid a doom upon him and all his people. They shall remain undisturbed in their remote valleys as they wish, but they shall neither increase nor flourish. Their line shall wither and fade and their settlements and their works shall fall into disuse and ruin. They shall never find rest, neither in this life nor after it, until they fulfill their oath and answer the call of my horn.''

The hall remained silent, in awe and horror at this doom. Amroth studied Isildur in surprise. He could not say if Isildur had such power, but he looked so grim and determined that he doubted him not. He whispered to Elrond beside him. ``These Dúnedain seem to wield powers greater than many an Elf a hundred times older. We Quendi tend to think of Men as our younger brothers, but there may come a time when they rival or even exceed us.''

Elrond must have been thinking much the same thoughts, for he whispered back, ``With allies such as Isildur, perhaps we shall indeed prevail against the enemy.''

While they were thus engaged with their thoughts, Isildur had gone on to relate the tale of the council at Pelargir and his return to Osgiliath. When he was finished he called upon Cirdan, who told of his voyage, the storm at sea, their mad race up Anduin, and the battle at Pelargir. Since Amroth had taken part in these adventures, he was giving only half an ear as he scanned the faces in the hall. But then Cirdan said something that caught his attention.

``And near the end of the battle,'' Cirdan was saying, ``when it was clear that the Corsairs could not have the victory, one galley broke free and dashed for the eastern shore. We pursued it and caught it, but not before one of their officers took to a great black horse and escaped. Of all the men of Umbar in that fleet, I believe he is the only one to escape alive.''

``Lord Isildur,'' said Amroth. ``You told of an emissary from Umbar that came to Erech. What was his name?''

``Malithôr.''

``And what his likeness?''

``Very tall and dark, with a long face and a nose hooked like a hawk's.''

``It is the same man!'' exclaimed Amroth. ``Our eyes met as his galley swept past ours. Such a face, and such a look of hatred upon it. I would know him anywhere.''

``Which way did he ride?'' asked Isildur sharply.

``East and north, toward Mordor, my lord. We noted it at the time.''

``Returning to his true master, no doubt,'' said Isildur. ``Would you had caught him. Our entire enterprise depends on surprise. If he has learned or guessed our plans and bears them to Sauron, we have but little hope of success.''

``Then we must move swiftly,'' said Galadriel, speaking for the first time. All turned at the sound of her voice, like water falling in a fountain on a still night.

``I would urge the greatest possible haste,'' she continued. ``We have heard the reasons for this council and how we have been gathered here. This Malithôr threatens Gil-galad's plan, root and leaf. Our only hope is to strike before he can reach the Barad-dûr. What would you have us do, Isildur?''

Isildur nodded. ``All our tales are told. Now is the time for us to fulfill our part of the final acts of the war. The Lords of the West bid us to cross the Anduin and assail Minas Ithil using all the weapons at our disposal. Our task is to strike swiftly and rout the foul carrion things that now rule the Tower of the Moon before they can send to the Barad-dûr for aid. We are to secure the city as quickly as possible, then drive east without delay to join him in Gorgoroth. We have reason to believe that Sauron will soon perceive that the city has been attacked. He will be compelled to come forth to attack us. Gil-galad and Elendil will do all they can to stop him when he issues from his Tower. If fortune is on our side, they will have bested him before we arrive. If not, we will be there to finish him. This is my charge by my king and father. I will fulfill my duty, if I have to ride alone. But most of you are not subjects of Elendil. You are not compelled and must choose. I ask you all, will you ride with me?''

Turgon leaped to his feet. ``My king, if you go to assail Mordor, to the death would I follow you!''

``So say also the men of Pelargir, my lord,'' said Barathor. ``The Enemy tried to destroy our city. We are eager to return the compliment.''

``The men of Angrenost,'' said Thardun, ``will always serve our king, through both duty and love.''

``We too serve our king,'' said Cirdan, ``for Gil-galad has ruled us since the world was changed, and always we have fought against evil. We will do as he bids.''

``The Galadrim,'' said Celeborn, ``also recognize Gil-galad as High King of the Exiles. We will not shirk our duty.''

``My lord Isildur,'' said Súrion, ``the men of Cair Andros will also serve you.''

``And of the Harlond,'' shouted Halgon.

``And Linhir!'' ``And Calembel!'' ``And Emyn Arnen!'' ``And Minas Anor!'' Then all were shouting, calling out their support. Isildur stood smiling at them. Gradually the shouting ceased.

``My friends, my heart is moved by your loyalty and trust. We have a difficult task before us. I have sworn to slay Sauron and throw his Tower into the abyss. But now with your help we will surely have the victory at last and I will fulfill that oath.''

Then a great cheer broke out from many throats: ``Isildur! Isildur! Isildur!'' There were also many shouts of ``Elendil!'' and ``Gil-galad!'' Isildur acknowledged the cheers with a smile, but then he raised his hand for quiet.

``My friends,'' he shouted, ``with such allies, how can we fail? We are armed and ready. We should move as soon as possible.''

``A moment, Isildur,'' said Galadriel, rising, her soft voice cutting through the many voices in the room. ``One more tale needs to be told here today. If these good folk are risking their all to fight with us, they should be aware of all the forces that will enter the field. Do you not agree?''

Isildur's smile faded. He looked at her seriously, then at the watching faces.

``Aye, my lady, it is meet. The time for secrecy is now past. Will you tell the tale, since you know it best?''

She bowed gracefully in acceptance, then turned to the hall. ``My friends,'' she began, ``what I will now relate is known to many of the Elves here but probably to few of the others. The tale begins long ago, but if you will bear with me, I think you will see that it has great import to our enterprise now.

``Long ago as Men reckon the years, in Ost-in-Edhil, the city of the Elves of Eregion which is no more, one of the greatest of all the Noldorin smiths, Celebrimbor son of Curufin, labored at his forge. After many yén, he found a way of forging gold and incorporating into the metal the powers of the great Eldarin arts, those with which we create and maintain the wonderful beauties that surround us in our own realms and which remind us of our home in the immortal lands across the sea. These are arts only partially understood even by those of us who practice them. Most Men call them magic. Celebrimbor discovered the means of distilling the essence of these powers and mixing it with the molten metal. With this process, Celebrimbor forged many rings of power, rings which gave their bearers the power to alter the world around them. With each ring, his skill increased, until he created the greatest of all, the Three Great Rings: Nenya, Narya, and Vilya.

``Using the Three, the Noldor built many fair places in Middle-earth and imparted them with some of the eternal beauty of Valinor. Great works were done and much good was accomplished. Many places fouled by Morgoth in the Elder Days were cleansed and made fair again. But always Celebrimbor sought to make even greater rings to accomplish even more.

``Celebrimbor sought also for other great smiths with whom he could share his knowledge and from whom he could learn and improve his skills. Many master smiths came to his workshops and foundries in Eregion. The dwarves of nearby Khazad-dûm especially sent many to learn from him.

``Then one day a strange figure appeared at Celebrimbor's foundry. He gave his name as Annatar, which means Lord of Gifts, and he was a great smith in his own right. He became Celebrimbor's ablest student and chief assistant, then his colleague, for his skills were nearly equal to the master's. Together they worked in the smithy, day and night, year after year, their skills always increasing. Together they forged other Great Rings designed especially for the use of Men and Dwarves, as the Three were for Elves, and Celebrimbor gave them freely to the kings of those races, that they might use them for the good of their peoples.

``Then one day Annatar could not be found. He had left without a word, and none knew whence he had gone or why. Celebrimbor was much affected, for he felt that Annatar was close to achieving great success, even beyond his own. Then a few months later, Celebrimbor in a dream suddenly perceived his former student surrounded by flame. He was holding up a plain gold ring, his face transformed by triumph into a twisted mask of evil. Annatar held up the ring and spoke a dire spell. Though the language was harsh and horrible, Celebrimbor understood its meaning: `One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them!' Then Celebrimbor knew Annatar's mind and will, and all his treachery was revealed at last.

``Then he knew his former student to be Gorthaur, called also Sauron the Enemy, who had been Morgoth's most powerful servant -- a Maia from the origins of days, but turned entirely to evil. All had thought him lost in the downfall of Thangorodrim when the world was changed. And Celebrimbor knew also in that terrible moment that Sauron had succeeded in his desire to forge a Great Ring of Power. Working in the Sammath Naur, the Chambers of Fire within the volcano Orodruin in Mordor, he had forged a ring not only more powerful than the Three, for it contained much of his own great powers, but it gave him the ability to perceive the minds and doings of those who bore the other rings. Like a fisherman drawing in a net, the One could draw to it those who wielded the other Great Rings.

``Horrified, Celebrimbor immediately sent the Three into hiding and forbade their use. They were sent far away, for he knew that when Sauron learned that his betrayal was known he would attack Eregion to acquire the Three by force. And so it came to pass. Eregion was attacked and Celebrimbor himself fell in its defense. I am sure you all know of the war which followed, in which Eregion was destroyed and all of Eriador overrun, though all of us Exiles fought in its defense. We were hard-pressed even to defend Lindon itself, and we sought the aid of Tar-Minastir, mighty king of the Men of Númenor. He came with thousands of great ships full of warriors and together we swept across Middle-earth, driving the hosts of Sauron before us. Sauron fled into the east and was not seen again for many long yén. In the end he got his revenge upon Númenor by tricking its king Ar-Pharazôn into assailing Valinor, and all the land of Númenor was destroyed, though Sauron himself nearly perished in the deed.

``Now he is risen once more, and still he bears the One Ring, seeking always for the other Great Rings. Of the Seven given to the Dwarves, some were consumed by dragons, but the others have all been drawn at last to Sauron and their owners slain. Of the Nine given to the kings of Men, all are now in his power. The kings who bore them were once bold and mighty warriors, using their rings as they saw fit, some better, some worse. But one by one they were drawn to leave their own lands and ride into Mordor. We can but guess at their motives. Some no doubt sought their fortunes, others power or fame. Some perhaps in their folly even thought to contend with Sauron and bring him down, that like Beren of old they would be sung as heros. But all were brought down by their own vain pride and found only eternal slavery in Sauron's service.They are become undead things, living long past the normal span of years given to men, but they no longer are their own masters, for they are now Sauron's most powerful slaves. They are the Úlairi, that now rule in Minas Ithil.''

There was murmuring in the hall at this.

``My Lady,'' said Barathor. ``If we are to face these Úlairi we must know our enemy. What manner of powers do their rings give them?''

``We do not know the full extent of their powers, Lord Barathor,'' replied Galadriel. ``Even Celebrimbor who made the Nine knew nothing of the incantations with which Sauron must have secretly enchanted them. But the souls of those that bear them have been stretched and drawn until they are bound to bodies that should have long since mouldered into the soil.''

``Do we then fight things of air and ether?'' said Barathor. ``will our weapons even bite upon them?''

``They are living men yet,'' said Isildur, ``though long past the age granted to even the greatest of the Men of Númenor. Your weapons should slay them. But when they launched their surprise attack upon Minas Ithil the guards on the walls were struck by a terrible unreasoning fear. They called it the Shadow of the Nine. Some brave men threw down their weapons and fell on their faces, rather than resist the coming of the Nine. Others stood firm, but told me they trembled in every limb and could barely raise their weapons, such is the fear that goes before them.''

Many more voices were raised in concern. They were ready to assail any army, but how could they hope to fight the undead?

``If their powers be so great,'' said Ingold of Calembel, ``how can we hope to defeat them?''

Galadriel glanced at Isildur, and he nodded. Cirdan and Elrond, on either side of the Lady, rose to their feet. Then all three drew forth the chains around their necks and all could see the jewelled things shining there.

``Behold the Three,'' said Galadriel.

An awed hush fell over the hall, for all knew they were in the presence of power beyond all understanding.

``Long have the Three been hidden,'' said Galadriel, ``and never since their making have they been together in the same land, lest Sauron take them. Now all hiding is at an end, and the Three shall go to war.''

``But is it not dangerous in the extreme to bring them here?'' said Meneldil, the Lord of Osgiliath. ``Will they not draw Sauron here to Osgiliath?''

``It is our belief that Sauron cannot perceive them until we put on the rings and wield their powers,'' said Galadriel. ``Nevertheless, it is as you say dangerous in the extreme. Celebrimbor gave Vilya, the greatest of the Three, to Gil-galad, and it has been in his keeping ever since. But when the king went to war in Mordor, he deemed it unsafe to take Vilya with him and he left it in Lindon. Now at his bidding Elrond has fetched it here.''

``It is the hope of the Lords of the West,'' said Isildur, ``that the Three will give us the strength to defeat the Úlairi at Minas Ithil.''

``But surely,'' said Ingold, ``you are proposing to follow in the footsteps of them that became the Úlairi. Might not our Ringbearers become ensnared as were they? If Sauron's purpose is to draw the Three to himself, surely it is folly to bear them willingly to his doorstep.''

``It is a perilous chance indeed,'' Galadriel replied. ``And we take this desperate step only because all others have failed.''

``We hope to use them only against Minas Ithil,'' said Celeborn. ``We hope the Nine will not have power over the Three, which were never sullied by Sauron's evil. If we succeed there, it is our hope that the Army of the Alliance will destroy Sauron before he can come near the Three.''

``But think not,'' said Galadriel, ``that the Three will make their bearers invincible warriors. They are not weapons and cannot be used to do harm, nor will they protect us from the blows of our enemies. But it is hoped that they will at least dispel the shadow of fear that surrounds the Nine. The Úlairi will be seen as they really are, stripped of all spells and illusion. Then it will be the task of edge and shaft to destroy them, not the Three.''

``But won't Sauron perceive the Three if we use them against the Úlairi?'' asked Meneldil. ``Is that not taking a chance of giving Sauron exactly what he has sought for so long?''

``Yes, it is,'' admitted Isildur. ``And that is the other part of Gil-galad's plan. Only the lure of the Three could draw Sauron out of Barad-dûr. If he knows the Three are close at hand in Mordor, it is hoped he will not be able to resist attempting to take them.''

``Then we -- all of us -- are to be used as bait, to draw all of Sauron's forces against us?''

``Yes,'' said Galadriel quietly. ``That is why we thought you must know of the Three, though we feared to reveal them openly.''

There was another silence. ``And what if Sauron does sally forth and the kings cannot stop him? asked Turgon. ``What if he comes against us? Will the Three avail us against him? If he is a Maia, can he even be slain?''

``In truth,'' said Isildur, ``we do not know. Perhaps the Three together will have the strength to dispel the aura of despair that seems to fall on any who come near him. And we have other weapons of great power. My father's blade Narsil was wrought in the Elder Days by Telchar of Nogrod, greatest of the smiths of the Dwarves, and it has been borne by all our fathers since. Gil-galad's spear, Aeglos Snowpoint, was forged in Eldamar to be the weapon to slay Morgoth himself. Both are now charmed to be Sauron's bane, and no evil things can withstand their coming. These weapons should have the strength to pierce even the unholy flesh of Sauron, if only they can be brought to bear against him.''

``Then you believe the Three can overmaster the Nine?'' asked Barathor.

``It is our hope, but we cannot be certain until we make the attempt. The Nine are but slaves of the One. Their power is by terror, not by great magical strength.''

``Their Shadow is great for all that,'' said Elrond. ``I fought against them at the Black Gate, and I felt the fear myself. In the midst of our charge, our boldest warriors suddenly quailed. Elf and Man wandered in confusion and horses went mad. Seeing our disorder, the Úlairi led their forces out in a powerful sortie against us. But Gil-galad led a column in a swift flanking attack around behind them and burst through the open sally port and so took the Gate. Even in their defeat, the Shadow of the Nine went before them, and we could not prevent their retreat across Udûn and so back to Minas Ithil.

``I fear they have learned the folly of the extended sortie at Dagorlad. Had they remained on the walls they would be there yet. They will not repeat that error at Minas Ithil.''

``No,'' agreed Isildur. ``We must assail the city, break the gate, and destroy the Úlairi, all in one sweeping rush. We cannot hope to besiege them, not while they bear the Nine. There must be no delay, or Sauron will be able to move other forces against us. The stroke must be swift and complete. Half a victory means defeat.''

``Yes,'' said Cirdan. ``We Ringbearers will each lead a column. When we perceive the Shadow we shall place the Three on our hands and contend against it. We hope to dispel it or at least diminish it and force it back. Then you must do the rest.''

``You say you will contend against the Nine,'' said Barathor, ``but how will such a struggle appear to us mortals?''

``The Rings will change us as we wield them,'' said Cirdan. ``We will enter into that Twilight that is not of this world. Elves will perceive us but dimly, as shapes in a mist, and Men not at all. We know not of the Úlairi, but we believe that to them we will suddenly become more clear, for they dwell always in the Twilight. If so, we shall be clearly visible targets to them, and in a world unfamiliar to us but home to them. It will be a most dangerous time.''

``Even so,'' said Galadriel. ``Do not be dismayed at our disappearance, but press forward with all speed, for we may be unable to fight while we are wielding the Rings.''

``And what if you should fall while in that Twilight?'' asked Súrion.

``If we fall you will not see it, save that the protection of the Three will be lost. You must fight on.''

``But what would happen to you?'' he persisted.

``As you may know,'' said Galadriel quietly, ``when an Elf dies or is slain on this side of the sea, he will yet rejoin his friends beyond the Veil at the end of this world. But it is said that an Elf who dies in the Twilight may not pass through the Veil, but will be lost forever.''

``Then you risk more, perhaps, even than we mortals.'' Súrion looked sadly at Galadriel with her golden hair and her face and form of surpassing loveliness. Young and beautiful she seemed, more than any other woman who had ever lived.

``Tell me if you will,'' he said after a pause. ``Is it needful that an Elf-Maiden should bear one of the Three into battle? Among Men, women do not lead armies to war. I would not see you lost to the world.''

Galadriel laughed. ``And how am I to take that, Súrion? You compliment me as a Lady, but slight me as a commander. I am not unused to wearing mail, you know. I led an army of the Elves of Beleriand against Morgoth's fortress of Thangorodrim. I fought in the first war against Sauron and helped to drive him out of Eriador. I am no trembling shield-maiden.''

``My apologies, Lady,'' stammered the young captain of Cair Andros, his face burning. ``I am unused to the ways of the Eldar. You are fair and lovely and look no older than my sister, who has seen but twenty winters.''

Many of the Elves smiled at this. Galadriel laughed and said, ``You are indeed unused to us, Captain. You think me twenty? I am more than forty, and not in years, but yén. Save Gil-galad only, I am the eldest of our kindred in Middle-earth. Twenty years! Why, I had seen twenty centuries before ever I left Eldamar, and the sun has gone round nearly four thousand times since then.''

Súrion stared unbelieving, and Isildur laughed.

``Do you still fear to follow such a young girl into battle, Captain?''

``Nay, Sire,'' he gulped. ``I am honored, my Lady, and I will follow you to victory or to death, though still do I fear for your safety. Such beauty should not perish.''

She smiled at him. ``You are kind, Captain, but be not anxious for me. Think only of victory and it will surely come.''

``Now all tales are told!'' said Isildur, rising to his feet again. ``It is time to act. Do any here doubt the necessity or the wisdom of Gil-galad's plan?'' There were a few shouts of ``No!'' and ``Let us strike quickly!''

``Then we need only plan our attack. Since speed and surprise are our allies, I suggest a direct approach. We will cross the Great Bridge into East Osgiliath and press forward with all possible speed up the main road to Minas Ithil. It will mean crossing ten leagues of occupied territory, in clear view of their spies. Our only hope then is to travel faster than their spies and arrive at Minas Ithil before word can reach the city. As many of you know, it lies well up in a winding mountain valley. With any luck they should have little time to prepare their defence. Then we will have to surmount the walls. They are both strong and high, for I built them myself to withstand even a determined attack from any evil things that might issue out of Mordor.

``But ever since my family was driven out of Minas Ithil I have dreamed of reconquering it. I have given great thought to how it might best be done, and I think I know the way. The city stands on a rocky prominence on the southern side of the valley, and its main gate faces north with a strong tower on either side. The gate is set back between the feet of the towers, so attackers find themselves in a kind of courtyard, at the mercy of archers on the battlements above the gate and in the towers. The gate would be very difficult to take by any force and losses would be terribly high. In the center of the city is the fortress of the Citadel, enclosed within its own wall, with the Tower of the Moon at its heart. We must not let the Ring-Wraiths withdraw into the Citadel or we shall find it hard indeed to dislodge them.

``There are three sally ports let into the outer wall, but these too are well fortified and certain to be strongly guarded. A passage is let into the top of the walls, along which men can move to any point of attack, completely protected from their enemies. That passage is everywhere wide enough that four men may walk abreast, except at one point. The western tower of the gate is built close to the edge of a steep bank above a stream, with hardly room for a man to stand at its foot. It was built thus purposely so it would be difficult to come against it. But because of the nearness of the declivity, I was forced to narrow the passage atop the wall to but a few feet so defenders must pass in single file, though this is not apparent from without. ``Because of the steep slope, this tower appears impregnable on that side. I am hoping that the fewest defenders would be stationed there, especially as the narrow passage prevents many from gathering on that side of the tower. I propose that we make a strong feint to the gate, massing our strength there, but without allowing ourselves to enter the deadly fore court before the gate itself. Hopefully this will draw many defenders to those parts of the walls nearest the gate.

``At the same time, parties of mounted archers could sweep around the city, riding close under the walls on either side. It is difficult to see or attack fast-moving enemies hard against the wall. These parties would then climb the hills behind the town and lay down the heaviest possible fire at defenders on the walls. This should further distract the defenders and discourage them from putting their heads over to look down the wall.

``As the riders pass along the narrow path by the western tower, a small party would dismount. They will then attempt to scale the tower with the aid of grapples shot from crossbows. If they can gain the top and take the passage, it can be easily defended at both ends because of the closeness. With the passage held, a bold and agile man could enter the tower through a small window that overlooks the passage. Within the tower is the mechanism for the gates. They are counterweighted by huge stones that descend within the tower. It takes but a touch to open them.''

``A bold plan indeed, Sire,'' said Ingold. ``But who will scale the walls?''

``Not I, it pains me to say,'' replied Isildur, ``for I shall be looked for on the field of battle. The enemy knows me well, and if I am not seen leading the attack on the gate, they might suspect a feint. And yet it should be someone who knows the walls, and the gate mechanism.''

``I will open the gates,'' said a quiet voice and all turned at the sound. Elendur, Isildur's son, had spoken.

``Elendur, no,'' said Isildur. ``It should be an older, more experienced leader. You are yet too young.''

``Young and active enough to scale a wall,'' replied Elendur. ``I have led the Forithilien lancers these last three years. And I know that tower and the gate mechanisms well, for I played there as a boy. I was born in Minas Ithil. I will be Prince of Ithilien after you. Do not deny me this thing, father, for what is a prince without a land?''

``Ah, you strike deep there, Elendur. You know my own pain. What say you others here? Shall we trust our lives and fortunes to this lad?''

``Aye,'' said Meneldil. ``Elendur is right. He knows the city better than any of us.''

``Aye,'' said many voices. ``Give him his chance. He is no child.''

``So be it then, Elendur,'' said Isildur, though all could see he was not pleased at the decision. ``Choose you a bold party, no more than a dozen, with knowledge of Minas Ithil.''

``I will take my own housecarls that rode with me from Gorgoroth. We grew up together, and many's the day we defended the west tower against imaginary enemies of the king. We have fought together since the war started, and know one another's ways.''

``Very well. Prepare yourselves well. Draw what you need from the armory. And may tomorrow night find you again within the city of your birth.''

``Tomorrow?'' exclaimed several of the lords. ``Can we march so soon?''

``We must,'' replied Isildur. ``We hoped to have the surprise of them, but it may be that Malithôr is already there. If he tells them a great army is gathering here, they will guess where the blow is likely to fall. Thus our only hope is in speed. They will expect us to fight a long and bloody battle at the bridge, then move carefully through East Osgiliath and Ithilien, rooting out the orcs from every building and copse, before we attack them in Minas Ithil. But I say that a few scattered and dispirited orcs can cause little trouble if we take Minas Ithil. Let us not bother with them, but strike directly for their nest.

``My plan is to mount as many of our warriors as possible. We have six thousand mounted knights now. If we scour the city and all the nearby villages, we may find four thousand horses still capable of running. They need not be war chargers, nor the riders skilled in fighting from horseback. As soon as the bridge is taken, we should drive immediately for Minas Ithil. We can have ten thousand men-at-arms before their gates before the Úlairi know the bridge is assailed. It is but thirty miles. If the infantry keeps up a steady march, they will be but a few hours behind the cavalry.''

``But Sire,''said Meneldil. ``The defenses at the bridge are strong. It may take us long to overtop them. If it takes but three hours, a messenger will have arrived at Minas Ithil and our advantage will be lost.''

``That is so. But I propose to send a party across the River by boat tonight and land them near the southern walls of the city where there are many docks and empty commercial buildings. If they can move stealthily through the city and reach the bridge by daylight, they will be behind the defenders when we attack. Caught between our forces, the orcs will be helpless.''

``This is a sound plan, Isildur,'' said Elrond. ``If it can be carried out without discovery, it will be a brilliant stroke. You have planned well.''

``I have had twelve years with little else on my mind,'' said Isildur with a grim smile. ``We will not fail now.''

``Sire,'' said Turgon of Ethir Lefnui. ``A boon, if you will. Let me lead this boat party. I have spent most of my life on a river in all manner of small boats. And I have a great debt to repay.''

``Very well, Turgon. I estimate fifty men will be enough. Choose your men carefully, for in an enterprise of this sort each man's life will depend on the other's.''

Amroth rose to his feet. ``I too beg leave to go with Turgon. I too know small boats well. And an Elf can move silently where a Man cannot. I would take some bold Lothlórien Elves with me. Deer-stalkers, used to moving stealthily at night.''

``What say you, Turgon?'' said Isildur. ``Would you have Amroth accompany you?''

``It would be an honor, Sire. I welcome you, Lord Amroth.''

``Are we all agreed then?'' asked Celeborn. ``We attack tomorrow, and as Isildur has proposed?''

``Aye!'' shouted many voices. ``We have suffered their insults and their raids long enough. Let us take the war to their gates for a change.''

``It is well,'' said Isildur. ``Long have I waited for this day. Thardun, Ingold, go with your men and round up as many horses and saddles as you can find in Osgiliath. Meneldil, send to all the outlying villages and have every beast capable of trotting brought to the fields near the gates. Halgon, we will need six or eight boats near the southern walls by sundown, the smallest and lightest you can find. Barathor, I hope your yeomen can ride as well as plow with their horses.''

``They can learn,'' laughed Barathor.

``Good. And what of the Galadrim? Most of your host is on foot. Are they familiar with horses?''

``We rode horses before Men came to the West,'' said Gildor. ``The horses are our friends.''

``So?'' said Isildur. ``We shall see. Let us waste no more time in talking. There is much to be done. Tomorrow we go to war!''

When the last glimmers of the sun had faded behind Mount Mindolluin and Midsummer's Day had ended, a tense group gathered in a warehouse in the southernmost part of the city. Meneldil the Steward was there, and Bortil, the merchant who owned the building. Before them stood a group of Elves and Men dressed in cloaks of black and grey. Their hoods were thrown back, for the warehouse was still warm from the long summer day. Around the walls, before massive wooden racks holding large amphorae of wine, lay a dozen small round boats, stacked like bowls. They were light and crude, made of ox hide stretched over a frame of willow. In the center of the floor was a dark opening leading to a flight of dank and mossy stone steps. Water could be heard lapping gently below. The warehouse extended right out over the River for ease in loading and unloading the boats that came up the River from the vineyards of Emyn Arnen.

``These coracles,'' said Bortil, ``were once used as lighters for offloading the wine before I had the dock built below the warehouse. They are small and not built for speed, but each will hold two men and a half-dozen amphorae. I daresay six men could ride in each if they stay low.''

``They will serve well,'' said Amroth. ``In the old days we used craft not unlike them on the Nimrodel Stream at Lothlórien. Two will row, the rest will keep out of sight and lie still.''

``But are these stairs safe, Bortil?'' asked Turgon. ``They would seem to be an entrance into your city. Is it wise to leave them unguarded?''

``The water gate is closed by a portcullis at the outer end, Lord Turgon. In happier times it kept pilferers from sampling my vintages, but it serves to keep out orcs as well. I will raise it when you are ready.''

``We are ready now,'' said Turgon. ``My men thirst not for your wine, but for orc blood beneath their blades.''

``We shall have enough of that, I fear,'' said Amroth. He saw the lust for revenge in the eyes of Turgon and his men of Ethir Lefnui. ``But let no one make a rash move. Our mission tonight is not to slay orcs, but to elude them. We must be in position at the bridge when the sun again shows her face. Galdor, note the hour. Is the light full gone?''

Galdor, one of Lady Galadriel's boat steerers, peered out a dusty window. ``Aye, Lord Amroth. The sun is down. The moon, waxing gibbous, is already high. The night awaits us.''

``It would be better to wait until the moon has set,'' said Amroth, ``but I fear we cannot wait so long. We have a great deal of ground to cover before dawn. Let us begin. Turgon, you go first. Strike across the River and seek a secluded place to land. As quiet as ever you can, but be ready. We know not if the orcs keep sentries watching the River this far below the bridge. If you are attacked, raise a shout to warn the rest of us, then return at once. We can't hope to force a landing in these flimsy craft.''

The first boat was carried down the steps and set in the muddy water moving sluggishly past. Many hands steadied the coracle as one by one Turgon and five of his men climbed in. Two paddles were handed down.

``Keep your hoods over your faces and your weapons down,'' said Turgon. ``Let no metal show, for it might catch the moonlight. And for Eru's sake don't put your spear through the bottom of the boat.''

``Do not let the paddles strike the side of the boat,'' said Bortil. ``They resound like drums.''

The men wrapped their weapons in spare cloaks and stowed them carefully, then lay or crouched in the bottom of the boat. The two paddlers nodded. Bortil and some of the Elves put their shoulders to a large windlass and raised the portcullis dripping from the River. Blobs of black mud fell back into the water with soft wet splats.

``Go in good fortune,'' whispered Bortil, and the paddlers gave a few strong strokes. The bulky little boat bumped against the dock once, then wheeled ponderously out into the current and drifted downstream, out of sight. They all listened for shouts or the twang of bow strings, but there was only the soft lapping of the water on the stones. It was hard to believe that in spite of the silence, the great battle had already begun.

``Quickly now, quickly,'' Amroth whispered. One by one six other boats were filled and launched. Then he climbed into the last. It was very cramped in the bottom of the boat, and the round bottom meant they were constantly standing on each other's feet. Amroth crouched down with the others. Bortil and his apprentice shoved them away from the stone dock. Then they emerged from the tunnel. The night was bright and clear, too much so for Amroth's liking. The moon was only four days short of the full and stood nearly straight up. Away from the moon's glare, stars glimmered in the darkness. Amroth raised his head enough to peer ahead and saw the other boats like small round shadows on the water. They lay in a long curve as the current swept them downstream.

The Elves at the paddles began a steady stroke, struggling to keep the boat headed for the eastern shore. At first their attempts at steering only caused the coracle to spin, but they soon learned the trick of coordinating their strokes. The current was only moderate, but the coracles were so slow and unwieldy that they could see the towers of the city's southern walls approaching before they drew in under the shadow of the buildings lining the far shore. Now they were in easy bowshot of any guards on the east bank, but still no sound but the River met their straining ears.

Turgon and the other boats drew together in an eddy behind an outthrust stone pier. Amroth's boat paddled hard to reach it before they were swept past. At last they drew into the calmer water. No word was spoken. Turgon pointed silently toward a black inlet between two overhanging buildings, and without a word they all made for it. The current was nearly still here, and they slipped noiselessly into the shadows, breathing sighs of relief.

The larger building, apparently another warehouse, was built partially out over the water, and they pulled themselves among the concealing pilings. The smell of mud and rotting fish was intense in the close space.

``All here?'' whispered Amroth.

``Aye. Eight boats. Let's go.''

One of the Elves found an old wooden ladder on one of the pilings and scrambled up onto a rickety wooden walkway that went around the building. It took some time to unload each boat, for they had to maneuver the boat to the ladder, hand up the weapons and packs, clamber out, then work the boat out of the way and secure it before the next could be moved in. But in less than half an hour they were gathered at the end of a narrow alley, their cloaks wrapped about them, their weapons clutched in their hands.

``Carefully, carefully,'' whispered Amroth. ``Stay close to the walls and watch the windows and doorways. Above all, we must see them before they see us. If we are spotted, try to bring them down before they can give the alarm. If they don't see us, let them go. We'll get our chance to fight soon enough.'' He was still worried about Turgon's men, though they moved with discipline and order.

``We need to keep moving north,'' Turgon said. ``That's where the Bridge is.''

``And the orcs,'' someone replied grimly.

For nearly an hour, they moved noiselessly from shadow to shadow. There was no sign of life. All the buildings were dark and silent. Apparently this whole part of the city was deserted. They estimated they must be nearing the eastern end of the Great Bridge. Then, as they approached yet another cross street, they could hear the sound of marching feet and melted silently into doorways and arches. Amroth crept forward and peered cautiously around the crumbling corner of an old brick building.

A company of perhaps twenty orcs was approaching. They were squat and bent, but very powerful, with large chests and short bowed muscular legs and long arms that reached nearly to the ground. They were of many different breeds and lands, and their faces showed it. Some were thin vulture-like things with heavy curved beaks. Others were hairy beasts with muzzles like baboons. Some wore rough leather boots, others trotted barefoot on wide three-toed feet. They wore armor of black unburnished iron and bore swords with long jagged blades. They were trotting along at a good pace, but without any sign of caution. Clearly they did not know the raiders were there. Amroth ducked into a dark doorway.

The orcs turned the corner into their street and the raiders tightened their grips on their weapons. But the orcs turned into a building across the way. Their heavy feet clattered down a flight of stairs. Then they were gone. A moment later Turgon ran up.

``I would guess that is the Bridge garrison's day watch returning to their barracks,'' he whispered. ``Orcs prefer to sleep below ground if possible. If they have just come off watch, they are likely to sleep until near dawn.''

``Shall we go on to the Bridge or try to take them?'' asked one of the men.

``No. The night watch has just come on duty and will be fresh. A sound now will bring them all running. We will give them an hour to become drowsy and careless. But we can check on the exits from those barracks. If we can keep them in there instead of having to fight them, so much the better.''

A half-dozen Elves moved silently forward and examined the barracks on all sides.There were four small windows at ground level, but they were too low for even an orc to wriggle through. There was a second door at the rear of the building, though it looked as if it had not been opened in a long time. Some of Turgon's men found some wooden beams in a vacant lot down the block and wedged them carefully against the door. Leaving two men there and six more at the front door, the rest moved around the corner and down the next street. It was sloping gently to the River.

A small square opened before them, dominated on the far side by two round stone towers. Between them lay the gate of the Bridge, blocked by a wooden barricade bristling on the far side with spears. Four or five orcs lolled by the barricade, speaking in low harsh voices. A window in the northern tower showed a flickering red glow. As they peered from the shadows, they were startled by a resounding crash of broken glass, followed by shriek of pain and a roar of coarse laughter. Obviously most of the watch had retired to the tower for a bottle or two, leaving only a handful at the barrier.

Amroth signalled for the others to withdraw with him into a small courtyard opening off the square. ``They are but few,'' whispered one of the Elves. ``We could take them easily.''

``So it would seem,'' Amroth replied, ``but let us not be duped.''

``Aye,'' said Turgon. ``These buildings around the square could be full of orcs. If so, one sound would raise the alarm and the square would turn into a trap.''

``Yes. We must know how many are around the square. If we separate into small groups and move cautiously, we should be able to search all the buildings that actually front on the square. See if you can determine where the orcs are. Above all, we must avoid making any contact before dawn, for there are sure to be hundreds of orcs nearby. We could not hope to fight them all. If you must strike, be swift and silent. After you have searched your building, station yourselves at likely vantage points above the square where you can do some good when Isildur arrives at dawn. Let us go.''

They moved down a narrow alley that ran behind the buildings that fronted on the square. At each door three or four entered and began a silent search. Turgon and two Elves slipped into one large house and moved noiselessly down a long dark hallway. It had clearly once been a noble mansion with a marble floor and wood panelling, though all was now chipped and filthy. Approaching a closed door, they could hear loud snoring coming from behind it. Flitting quietly past, they found the rest of the floor empty, as was the level above. Then as they ascended the stairs to the third floor they froze in their tracks, for low speech could be heard above. Not daring to go up without knowing how many might be there, they secreted themselves in a small room near the stairs to await the dawn.

Galdor and Amroth with two other Elves tried the door of a large stately building with a domed roof and a tower overlooking the square. The door was locked, but they found a window they could open and soon they were all standing in a dark room. With bows drawn and arrows nocked, they carefully opened an inner door. Beyond was a large and elegant room, perhaps a ballroom, beneath the dome. On the far side, an arched doorway led to winding steps that must go up into the tower. They padded silently across the polished floor.

Suddenly a door flew open, light flooded into the hall, and an orc entered carrying a large sack. For an instant he stared, his mouth open and eyes wide, then he dropped the sack and raced back the way he had come. He had not taken three steps when two arrows pierced his back and his body slid to a stop in the doorway. The others waited, but there was no sound but their pounding hearts.

They dragged his body behind a column and closed the door that led into a kitchen. Examining his sack, they found two hard crusts of bread, two browning apples, and a clay flask full of a harsh red wine that smelled of vinegar.

``A good sign,'' whispered Galdor, his lips nearly touching Amroth's ear. ``No doubt provisions for guards in the tower. If there be but two, we may be able to take them quietly.'' Amroth nodded. Taking up the sack, they crept up the winding stairs, turn after turn until they lost all sense of direction. At the top they came to a heavy wooden door. They pushed gently, but it was latched or barred from the other side.

Galdor grinned. He stamped heavily on the floor, then dropped the sack beside the door. The flask broke with a clatter. There was commotion on the other side of the door. Then a hoarse voice croaked.

``Gordrog, you clumsy bag of pus! If you've fallen and spilled our wine I'll have your eyes out for it. Gordrog? Do you hear me, you maggot?'' Suddenly the door was yanked open and a very angry orc stormed out, still cursing. Amroth's sword flashed down and the orc's head bounded away down the stairs, the eyes wide and surprised, the lips still twisting in anger. His body fell heavily at their feet and they leaped over it into the chamber, weapons at the ready. But the room was empty. Gordrog must have been bringing food for the two of them.

It was a round room with shuttered windows on each side. A wooden table stood in the center, littered with filth and lit by a guttering candle. Various pieces of arms and armor lay scattered about the walls. Beside one window stood a large basket of arrows and crossbow bolts. A massive crossbow leaned against the wall. They snuffed the candle, then opened the shutter and peered cautiously out.

They were high above the square, looking down on all the neighboring buildings. Directly below was the barricade at the Bridge. They settled down to wait. An hour or so later, a dozen orcs came out of the building opposite and joined the others at the barricade. Angry words broke out, mixed with a string of curses. A scuffle broke out between two of them. The leader, a huge brownish orc with a long hooked beak, clubbed one with the haft of his spear to restore order. The stricken orc dropped senseless to the pavement. His comrades ignored him. They took up positions, lounging against the barricade. Four or five squatted in a corner and took to rolling dice, now and again breaking out into arguments.

Some time later, Galdor caught Amroth's sleeve and pointed to a rooftop across from them. Several dark shadows flitted swiftly across a patch of moonlight, but whether friend or foe they could not tell. The moon set soon after, throwing the city into blackness. They raiders withdrew into themselves, waiting silently for dawn, though their eyes were turned toward the dark shapes of the buildings and walls to the west across Anduin.

Isildur sat astride his grey charger Fleetfoot and patted his long muscular neck. The spirited animal was skittish, for he could smell the excitement and nervous tension in the many men and horses crowded around him. They were moving slowly and as silently as possible down a dark and narrow street, the horses' hooves muffled with rags. They turned corner after corner, always descending to the riverfront. When they at last reached the large square that had formerly been the bustling marketplace of the waterfront, they found it packed with armored riders. Isildur led his own housecarls, the men who had ridden with him from Gorgoroth, through the press. Ohtar rode at his knee, as he had at so many battles before. At last they came out of the crowd and there before them was the wide avenue leading east to the Great Bridge. It was empty and silent, for they had forbidden anyone to approach beyond the square.

The Elf-lords were already there: Celeborn and Gildor and Elrond and the Lady Galadriel, their grey cloaks drawn about them against the pre-dawn chill. They greeted one another with nods, no more. Isildur drew up beside the Lady and they looked down the long straight avenue to the dark loom of the gates, the gates that marked the western end of the Bridge.

``The false dawn came and went a few moments ago,'' said Galadriel, a mist escaping from her hood as she spoke. ``It will be true dawn soon.''

``Aye,'' said Isildur, looking to the eastern mountains. ``There is a hint of grey above the Ephel Dúath. Soon, away in the east, the sun will strike the summit of Orodruin. Elendil and Gil-galad will be there to see it, their thoughts bent on us here, wondering how we fare. And we will ride to them though all the hosts of Mordor stand between us.''

``And those hosts wait but on the other side of yonder gate,'' said Galadriel.

Isildur nodded. ``Arannon, the Gate of the King, it is called. Once it was but an arch, through which on festival days processions would march between the two parts of the city, with girls scattering blossoms before them. Heralds would stand atop the arch and sound fanfares on their long brazen trumpets. The sun would shine down on the crowds and you would swear that no two wore the same color.

``But then the war came and the entire eastern sector of the city was wrested from us. Only by fierce and bloody battle did we hold the Bridge. A strong wall was hastily thrown up and the arch became a gate. Never did they take it, though they tried it again and again. Occasionally we would throw open the gate and sortie out against them. After many assaults, they learned to respect and fear that gate, for, open or closed, it meant only death for them.

``They tried to cross at other points, but we had thrown down all the lesser bridges and our hails of arrows emptied their boats before they could cross. It is almost two years now since last they assailed us in force.That gate has been our shield all these years, and now we propose to throw it open and reach beyond it.''

``A shield which cannot be moved is of little use in a battle, Isildur,'' said Galadriel. ``We Ringbearers are Gondor's shield now, and you its sword. Neither shield nor sword can remain behind walls when the horns of war are calling. Perhaps soon those doors can be pulled down and it will become an arch of triumph for you!''

Isildur smiled. ``You speak fair words of hope, Lady. Spring they from Elvish visions of what will be, or are they but a woman's words of comfort to a warrior?''

``If there be a difference I know it not. For do we not all have visions of what the future may hold? And words of comfort may strengthen our cause as much as deeds of arms, and bring these visions to pass. My visions are not of what will be, but of what can be. Sauron too has his dream of what can be. It is our part to determine which vision shall prevail.''

Isildur lowered his voice so that only she could hear. ``Lady, if you can see somewhat of the future, tell me this: Can Sauron be defeated? Or do we ride to certain death, as I sometimes fear in this darkest hour of the night?''

A look of surprise crossed Galadriel's lovely face framed in its cowl. ``Of course it is possible to defeat him. My vision sees many possible futures, and in some he is indeed thrown down. But I am not shown how that can be accomplished. Is your view of the future so short that you cannot see even the possibility of victory?''

``My Lady, we Men share not your Elvish senses. The future is wholly dark to us.''

``And do you then suspect our task is hopeless?''

``I would never say it before any of my people, Lady, but when I think of his hideous might and power, his ruthless cruelty; truly, my heart misgives me.''

``You Atani never cease to surprise me,'' she said. ``We Quendi know, perhaps better than you, the terrible danger into which we ride and the desperate chance we take by doing so. But always we know that victory is possible; that the future good is never completely closed to us. But you Men, knowing nothing of all that, gird yourselves in nothing but baseless hope and ride into the glimmerless dark. Your path is never lighted, save behind you, where all futures have collapsed into one immutable past. We ride side by side against the same foes, and yet who shall say who has the greater courage?''

Isildur had no answer, but only raised his eyes to the dark brooding peaks of Mordor, now silhouetted against a glowing rose sky. What lay there now, waiting for them? He wondered what Elvish eyes saw in those distant crags.

He was called from his revery by the hurried arrival of Elendur.

``All is ready, father,'' he panted. ``The streets are filled with mounted men for many blocks to the north and west and south. All await your word.''

``Have you chosen your companions well?''

``Aye. Most are companions of my youth in Minas Ithil. A few are Osgiliath men I fought beside when the enemy attacked us here at the Arannon. And one is a bold shepherd fellow from Calembel, a giant of a man. He speaks little, but he came to me when he heard of our purpose and volunteered for our party. He would not be denied.''

Isildur laughed. ``I know the man, I believe. He threatened not to let my column pass until he had cleared us with Ingold. He is as strong as an ox and seems to know not fear. I am glad he is with you.''

He looked over his shoulder at Mindolluin looming behind the city. Already the sun was gilding its highest peaks. ``When the sun sends her rays upon the Tower of the Stone we shall ride,'' he said. ``Just before we reach the Arannon, have the gate wardens throw open the doors. May we never have need to close them again.

``We will make no attempt to capture the eastern sectors of the city. Their strongest defenses will be gathered at the east end of the Bridge. If we can break through there, we shall ride straight through the city and on up the road to Minas Ithil. As the infantry follows, they should spread across the city and sweep it clean of orcs. The militia of Osgiliath will retake the walls of the city and hold them against our return.''

The army stood silent, watching the growing dawn. The light crept down Mindolluin's slopes. No sound could be heard but the warbling of birds awakening in the eaves of the buildings.

``Since we have heard no sounds of battle,'' said Elendur, ``we can hope that Amroth and his raiding party have not yet been discovered. I pray they have succeeded and are now somewhere over there, waiting for us.''

Elrond rode over to them. ``Lo,'' he said. ``The sun strikes Minas Anor.'' They looked, and there, thrust up against a purple fold of Mindolluin's vast bulk, the Tower of the Sun gleamed like a white flame in the sun.

``May the sun shine as brightly upon Minas Ithil,'' said Celeborn. ``For orcs like not the light. It hurts their eyes and makes them fearful. And it will hearten the men against the Shadow.''

They waited a few moments more, the suspense and anticipation growing unbearable. At last a golden beam of sun broke through a pass high in the Ephel Dúath and struck the white banner fluttering bravely from the top of the Tower of Stone.

``The sun shines upon Gondor,'' said Isildur. ``It is time at last.'' He looked once at Minas Anor and the fair towers of Osgiliath, at the thousands of eager faces watching him. Then, with neither word nor sign, he wheeled Fleetfoot around and spurred him forward. For a moment he was the only moving object in the entire city. He galloped down the center of the empty street, the horse's hooves clattering loudly on the paving stones. Then Ohtar and Elendur and the royal guards of their house sprang forward and thundered behind him, followed by the Elf-lords and Barathor and the other great knights of the land. Ohtar pulled the bindings from the standard he bore and Isildur's banner broke free and rippled in the speed of his passage. Beside him Elrond and Gildor did the same, and all marvelled to see the Star of Gil-galad, the White Tree of Gondor, and the Golden Tree of Lothlórien riding together into the East.

Behind them, the square rapidly emptied as the river of mounted knights rushed away. Then street after street, alley after alley, poured its thousands of riders into the flood, swelling it to a great river, and it seemed that the column would never come to an end. The thunder of hooves was drowned in a roar of many voices shouting in hoarse and wild joy.

Isildur bore down on the gates of the Arannon, oblivious to the growing roar behind him. As the gates swung open he could see high before him the lofty mountains of his Ithilien. Then he was pounding across the Great Bridge, the empty houses and shops flashing past on either side. There before him was a wooden barricade and a dozen astonished orcs staring wide-eyed. Above the noise he could hear the raucous calling of a brass trumpet ahead, suddenly cut short, and orcs started pouring out of the buildings just beyond the barricade. He did not slacken his pace.

``For Gondor!'' he shouted, sweeping out his sword. The host at his back took up the cry. ``For Gondor! Gondor and the West!''

When the first shouts rang out, Galdor and Amroth leaped to the window. Orcs were streaming out of the guard tower, but they suddenly stopped, gaping in awe across the Bridge. Glancing there, the Elves saw that the massive gates were swinging slowly open. Through them rode a single rider dressed all in white with a great cape streaming behind him, his sword sweeping in shining circles above his head.

``Isildur comes,'' cried Amroth. A second later a phalanx of fierce horsemen, bellowing like madmen, burst from the gate, followed by the lords and standards of many lands, all riding as hard as they could straight for the barricade. Behind them came a thundering column of armored knights, row upon row.

The orcs dashed to the barricade. One raised a horn to his lips and started a blast of warning, but Galdor quickly sent a shaft through his body before he could draw a second breath. From the neighboring houses came a deadly rain of arrows that felled all but a few of the orcs at the barricade. The others fell back and ran shouting up the street, away from the River. Most were cut down by archers from the windows and rooftops.

Looking back to the Bridge, Galdor saw a second group of figures dash out of a house and run to the barricade. He drew his bow again, but then saw that these were not orcs but Men. Turning instead to shoot an orc trying to climb into the window of a house across the street, he turned back to see the men struggling to move the barricade. In moments they were joined by a half dozen Elves, and together they swung the heavy wooden structure back and to the side. Tipping it over the parapet, they cheered as it crashed into the River below with an immense splash.

They spun around just in time to see Isildur go pounding past, his speed unchecked. He looked neither to left nor right, but crossed the square and disappeared up the main road, still all alone. Then the square was suddenly filled with thousands of armed men and Elves, cheering wildly. Galdor and his companions ran down to join them, but Amroth remained in the tower.

Turgon's party were waiting beside the stairs when the trumpet sounded. Soon orcs, still stupid with sleep and fumbling with their harness, came pouring down the stairs. The men fell on them with merciless fury and many were slain, but it was some moments before the orcs realized the house was taken and they continued to run into the slaughter at the bottom of the stairs. When they heard the shouting and the pounding of hooves outside, they became wild with fear and threw themselves again at the grim-faced men. One man fell when an orc crept up on him from the floor below, but he was avenged before he struck the floor. At last the terrible work was done and all the orcs lay slain, their blood spreading across the marble tiles.

Leading his men to the street, Turgon found that although the square and main street thundered to the passage of the host of Gondor, the side streets were now teeming with terrified orcs. The raiders chased them from their holes and drove them yammering down the streets. Advancing a few blocks fairly quickly, they soon came against stronger resistance. After a short but fierce battle against a strong band of determined orcs in a large intersection, they could hear the sounds of another battle just around the corner.

Rushing on, they rounded the corner and found four of the men they had left guarding the barracks hard pressed by a much larger number of orcs that surrounded them. All about them lay the bodies of men and orcs. As Turgon's men ran forward, one of the four was cut down by a savage swipe of a jagged sword.

Howling with anger, they fell on the orcs with a cold fury, but two more men lay dead before the battle was won. They stood panting and looking at the carnage around them. One of the defenders wiped the blood from his eyes and looked at Turgon.

``Our thanks, my lord,'' he gasped. ``Six of us kept forty of the foe trapped in that cellar until Isildur's van passed by. Finally they burst through the door. We slew many, but at last they killed one of ours and broke out. Those you slew were the last.''

``Our thanks to you, yeomen,'' said Turgon. ``Your valor has spared the lives of many of our comrades. But our work is far from done. Let us move from house to house, clearing each of the vermin that infest it, until no living orc remains within the city. By nightfall this evening Osgiliath will be one city again.''

Just then the sounds of renewed battle reached them from the direction of the square. Hurrying there, they found that a large company of orcs from the northern part of the city had driven into the square from the north, endeavoring to cut off the infantry, now pouring across the bridge, from the cavalry, now racing out of the city.

A great battle filled the square, along with clouds of dust and the commotion of shouts of anger, cries of pain, and the clashing of metal on metal. These orcs were larger, better trained, and better armed. They wore steel armor over their thick scaly hides. They drove the men back by their sheer ferocity, slashing this way and that with their heavy crooked swords. Their leader, a huge greenish orc with a flat snakelike head, thrust viciously at his adversaries and then leaped atop their corpses to better wield his bloody trident. Howling in triumph, he thrust again and again at the press of men around him, taking a life with nearly every stroke. Several times arrows struck him, but always they bounced off his heavy armor. He raised his head and roared, striking terror in all who heard him.

Suddenly his roar changed to a scream of pain and outrage, and he stared down in horror at the feathers of a crossbow bolt protruding from his chest. Then a dozen hands grasped him and pulled him down among the flashing blades. Looking up, Galdor saw Amroth at the high tower window, smiling grimly and already rewinding the orcish crossbow. Again and again it twanged, dealing swift death to the orcs. Finally, leaderless, frightened, and confused, they broke and fled wailing down the street, closely pursued by the men of Gondor.

Gradually the tumult died away and the fighting moved away into other parts of the city. Amroth rested then and looked away to the east. Far away, a long dark line was climbing steadily toward the pine-clad Mountains of Shadow.

Isildur held Fleetfoot to a steady canter now, letting him rest from the long furious run. The road was smooth, wide, and straight, and the cavalry had formed up behind him in orderly ranks. Beside him rode Cirdan, Celeborn, and Galadriel, and in the rank just behind were Ohtar, Gildor, and Elrond with the banners. They had surprised several bands of orcs on the road but they had fled in terror at the first sight of the grim-faced warriors. The sun rose high before them.

The road approached a ring of huge pine trees where it crossed the road running up from Harad to the Morannon. As expected, the Crossroads was defended by a large garrison of orcs. T