Isildur Page 2

  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.

  Chapter One

  The Men of the Mountains

  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?"