Isildur Read online

  "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!"

  Chapter Nine

  Minas Ithil

  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 cu
rved 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 rider
s. 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.