Isildur Page 16

  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.

  Chapter Seven

  The Coming of the White Fleet

  "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 mig
hty 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.