Isildur Page 11

  "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 famili
es 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. "Luind
or, 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."