Isildur Page 28

  The great oak staff swept like a scythe, reaping a terrible harvest of shattered bones and crushed skulls. Back and forth the strange combat flowed, the man taking wound after wound but fighting on, smiting down one foe after another as they pressed forward in the narrow passage. Then a black arrow flashed down from one of the high windows, striking Orth full in his broad back. He roared in pain and rage and fell to his knee, dropping his spear. Seeing their chance at last, three orcs leaped up on the battlements and jumped precariously from merlon to merlon, bearing down on the injured warrior. Elendur brought down one, and Orth swept a second over the side with a backhanded swipe of his huge arm, but the third brought down his scimitar in gory triumph. Even as he crowed in victory, two arrows pierced him and he fell across his victim. With a shout, the remaining orcs climbed over them both and raced to the foot of the tower. They were too late. The last man fell breathlessly through the window and the orcs howled in frustration as the rope flew up the wall and disappeared.

  "Elendur!" called one of the men at the door. "They are outside. They are trying to beat down the door!" Heavy crashes could be heard from without.

  "Let every man gather by the door with bow drawn. When I give the signal, raise the bar." They did as he commanded, standing in a tight semicircle around the door, every bow drawn to the full. Elendur drew his sword and nodded, and one of the men flung the bar from its brackets. The door burst open and three orcs tumbled to the floor with oaths of surprise, instantly cut short. Elendur leaped through the door and quickly cut down two more trying to flee. Leaving two men to hold off any pursuit from the upper levels of the tower, he led the other three down the narrow winding stairs.

  The stairs ended in a large vaulted room, the gatekeeper's hall. Two orcs looked up in surprise and ran forward with scimitars raised, but the men of Gondor met them and would not be denied. It was over in seconds.

  Elendur led them to an array of huge wooden gears and wheels along one wall of the room. A massive iron chain ran from the wheels and disappeared through a hole in the floor. Snatching up one of several long wooden poles in racks on the wall, Elendur thrust it at a huge pawl holding back the wheel and threw it back. With a heavy groan and rumble, the wheel began to turn slowly. The chain clanked down the hole, gathering momentum with each link. Then there came a deafening thud and the wheel thundered to a stop. The gate was open.

  A roar of sound, the shouting of thousands of men, came in the the tall slit windows in the front of the tower and quickly grew to a single mighty cry: "Gondor!" they cried, "To victory!" Then the sounds of battle, the ringing of metal on metal, came nearer and passed under their feet, drowning out all other sound. The companions grinned weakly at each other. They had done it!

  But there was no time to celebrate. They barred all the doors, then went back up the stairs and joined their companions. Room by room, floor by floor, they systematically went through the tower, slaying every foe they found. At last they reached the roof and found it empty. Rushing to the parapet, they looked out over the city as they had when first they topped the wall and found it much changed.

  The great gate below them now yawned wide and through it the hosts of the Southlands continued to pour. Everywhere was combat and carnage. On every street corner, in every doorway, it seemed, Men and Elves and orcs were locked in deadly combat, much of it hand to hand. In the huge court behind the gate the catapults had been overrun by Frar's company of dwarves and the fighting was fierce and merciless there. The orcs began to fall back under the onslaught. Swords and axes and lances rose and fell in the press and groans and screams mingled with the war cries on both sides.

  Then a new sound rose above all else: a high shrill keening of fear, of men struck dumb with despair. Elendur looked to the east side of the square, from whence the cry came, and lo, the throng melted back like wax from a flame, parted by an unseen hand. There stood three tall dark figures, each wearing a black cowled cloak over ebony armor and holding a long straight sword. Then they advanced as one, walking slowly forward, directly into the front ranks of the close-pressed army of Gondor. They held their swords in both hands and swung them back and forth with an unhurried sweep, hewing friend and foe alike. None raised a hand against them.

  It was a terrible sight. Now and again an especially courageous man stood forth against them, only to falter and stop, standing quivering before them like a child before a wolf, his weapons fallen forgotten to the ground as the swords swept toward him. Most threw themselves on the ground and lay sobbing piteously. But death came to all in the path of those three. Further away, where the terror was less strong, men and orcs alike turned and began clawing desperately at the throng around them, trying to escape the doom that approached. Everywhere in the court below was madness and horror. Everywhere, except near the catapults, where bright armor gleamed and colorful banners rippled in the air.

  * * *

  Isildur's face was grim and set as he wielded his sword, but his heart was singing within him. He had thought his heart would burst with joy when he saw the great gates suddenly swing wide. He knew also that it meant that Elendur probably yet lived, and the ache of fear was instantly lifted from his heart. Raising his sword above his head, he'd shouted for the charge, but none could hear him in the tumult. Nevertheless, the army had surged forward as one as the gates swung back, heedless of the darts and missiles raining down from the wall. They had swarmed through the gate, down the long dark passage beyond, the walls echoing with their shouts, and out into the bright sun of the square. He longed to take the time to look about, to see what they'd done to his city, but there was no time. A fierce flame of revenge was burning in his heart. Calling to those close enough to hear him, he'd ridden directly against the catapults that had sent such a deadly rain into their midst. Beside him were Frár and his bold dwarvish warriors.

  The fighting at the catapults was fierce and perilous, for these were seasoned, experienced orc soldiers and they were determined to hold their ground at any cost. One by one, however, they began to go down under the relentless attacks. There came a time when it was obvious to all combatants on both sides that the orcs were losing the fight. But they would not give up. Their fighting took on the reckless, fearless fury of those who know they have nothing to lose. Still it was only a matter of time.

  Then an unearthly shriek rose above the tumult, and Isildur's fire of battle turned to the ice of fear and despair. The orc before him turned at the sound and cowered to his knees. The roar of battle slowly subsided as the fighters one by one felt the despair close around their hearts, weakening their wills. What was the sense in fighting, when victory was impossible and even death in battle was but vanity and mockery? All around him, warriors sank to their knees or fell on their faces. Isildur, struggling against the clutching terror, looked over their heads and met the icy eyes of the Úlairi fixed on his, their swords rhythmically rising and falling as they advanced toward him. His heart shrank at the sight, but he fought off the despair. Tearing his eyes away, he saw the Elf-Lords nearby.

  "My Lords," he called, "there, to the east. They come!" Celeborn followed his gaze. "I see but three," he said. "Where are the others?"

  "There, my husband," called Galadriel, pointing south, "nigh to the gate of the Citadel."

  They wheeled about and saw six more of the fearsome creatures advancing steadily through the throng, unhindered by the despairing warriors grovelling before them. They moved with a grim determination, their visored heads turned only to the Elven-Lords, slaying only to clear a path.

  "The time is come at last," said Galadriel. "The time for concealment is past. Now must we unveil the Three and trust to their might." She unfastened the chain at her neck and took from it Nenya, the Ring of Adamant. Cirdan brought forth Narya, the Ring of Fire. Elrond alone hesitated. He bore Vilya only for his master Gil-galad, and had always hoped he would not be called upon to wield it himself. But he could not refuse. He drew it from its chain and held it on his trembling palm. The sun fla
shed from the gold and the brilliant sapphire stone.

  Isildur found his courage waning even as he stood watching. He felt a sudden wave of fear and doubt. How could these bright baubles stop the terrible Ring-Wraiths? Was it not the height of folly to even attempt it? Perhaps the Elves were wrong to put their faith in them. What did any of them know of their power, if they had any at all? They were made so long ago, and had lain unused for so long. These Elves were fools to think they could still be potent against such overwhelming might. And he was a greater fool to have followed them into this trap. Now there was no escape for any of them.

  He looked past the three Elves, and there were the three leading Úlairi coming toward him. Tall they were, taller even than Isildur, for they were of high-born blood, kings and wizards and magicians of ancient days. Their eyes glowed red within their cowls and bored into him, revealing every fear and doubt within him. As he looked, they seemed to grow taller and taller, with great shrouds of darkness wrapped about them like huge wings. He was dimly aware of his men moaning and writhing on the ground all around him. His heart was pounding against his ribs. A clear vision came to him, more vivid than daylight. He saw his body sprawled in the dust in a pool of blood, cloven nearly in half.

  So this is where I die, he thought. All my life I have travelled a path through the world and never knew that it ended here, in this court, on this day, beneath the blades of the Úlairi. He felt an overwhelming desire to just sink to the ground, to await the inevitable death in peace.

  But a voice crying far away broke into his black thoughts: a fair woman's voice, like the sound of water over cool stones on a moonlit night, crying his name. He fought against the voice, for it was drawing him back from the peace of death, back to the world of pain and suffering and struggle. Nevertheless, he turned dully toward the sound. Galadriel stood before him, her golden hair flying wild around her face. She looked anxiously into his face, searching his eyes.

  "Isildur!" she cried again. "Despair not, my Lord. It is but their aura that you sense. Do not give in to it! Behold now the power of the Three!"

  As she spoke a red light flared from her hand, as bright as the setting sun, though she herself seemed to fade and waver. He realized he could see through her to the walls beyond. Then she was gone. Cirdan too faded in a white flash. Turning, Isildur saw Elrond place Vilya on his finger, and he disappeared in a ball of blue light. The entire court was filled with a radiance of iridescent colors that shimmered and boiled around the point where the Elf-Lords had stood. Suddenly the terror that gripped him drained away and he saw clearly once more.

  He looked to the Ring-Wraiths. Their relentless advance slowed and stopped. They drew together and stood motionless, heedless of the blood and carnage all around them. Then the tallest slowly raised his arm, pointing straight toward Isildur and the light that pulsed around him. The sun glinted on something bright on the Ring-Wraith's hand. The others followed suit, until all nine of the Rings of Men were arrayed against the Three. The air became charged with a wavering, flickering glow of many changing colors. Isildur stood still, feeling the currents of power flowing around and through him as mighty forces beyond his ability to understand did invisible battle in the air. He felt his soul being pushed and pulled by invisible winds.

  But the fear was gone. Everywhere Men and Elves were struggling slowly to their feet, shaking their heads, looking about in confusion. Still the ethereal battle continued, with no one striking a visible blow. Isildur could feel the air around him crackling with tension.

  His heart leaped with hope. They had been stopped; perhaps they could even be beaten. But the Elf-Lords could only withstand them so long. They were risking their immortal souls to hold back the terror, but it was now up to him to meet the foe blade to blade. He must strike now. His sword felt like a bar of lead, but he raised it before him. He made to cheer his men on to attack, but only a hoarse croak escaped his throat. Forcing his feet to move, he began slogging forward, directly at the Lord of the Ring-Wraiths. He felt as if he were in neck-deep water, trying to run in his heavy armor. Step by step, he shuffled forward.

  No one moved, either to aid him or to hinder him. He felt as if there was nothing in the world except himself and the burning eyes of the Ring-Wraiths. The glowing coals followed his slow and painful approach. One by one, their outstretched arms swung to point at his chest, and he felt the pressure against him increase. Still he pressed on, step after step. Unaware now of the thousands of watchers on all sides, he struggled on in a world of his own. He felt the despair pulling at him again, but he closed his mind to all thought except the placing of one foot in front of the other. His body ached with the strain; sweat poured down his face and chest.

  Darkness closed around him, and he could see only nine glowing points of light before him, each a different shade of amber or gold. He kept his gaze fixed on the brightest, a pure yellow, glowing like the sun. It swam and danced before his dazzled vision, but at last he drew near it. Shaking his head to fling the sweat from his eyes, he drew himself up. He could dimly make out the tall cowled shape behind the glowing sun.

  "Now," he gasped. "Look on me and taste despair yourself, thing of night, for I am Isildur Elendil's son of Númenor, and I have come to slay thee."

  The figure threw back its cowl and those nearby cried out in horror, for no head supported the golden crown and the glowing eyes beneath. Isildur drew back in amazement. A deep hollow voice rang out as if out of some bottomless pit.

  "Then you have come in vain, Elendil's spawn, for it was long ago foretold that I shall never be slain by Man nor Elf. You have come here seeking my death, Númenórean, but you have found your own!" Even as he spat out the last words, the black sword whipped up and scythed down toward Isildur's neck. But Isildur swept up his own blade and turned the stroke aside in a clash of sparks. The Úlairi grunted in surprise as his sword drove into the ground. Long had it been since he had needed to strike twice at any foe.

  With a roar of rage he swept his blade up, just as Isildur brought his sword down with every ounce of his strength. With a bone-jarring impact, the blades met and the black blade broke asunder, ringing to the dust. The Ring-Wraith fell back as Isildur raised his sword for the death blow, but another black figure leaped to the aid of his king and closed with Isildur.

  Isildur in his turn fell back, but then around him he saw other Men and Elves coming forward to the attack. A fierce struggle broke out, and the Úlairi, deprived of their shadow of fear, were soon hard-pressed by many foes. Unable to wield their rings and forced to depend on their blades, the last vestiges of the terror dissipated. More and more Men rushed forward, eager to avenge the terror and shame brought upon them. The orcs that remained rose up to fight as well, and the battle resumed.

  A roar of noise from the far side of the city, and a few moments later Barathor's banners could be seen advancing into the square from the east. The Pelargrim had broken through the sally-port on that side and breached the wall. More men were still pouring in through the main gates, and Gildor's archers were now atop the wall, sending a deadly fire down into the enemy ranks. The orcs, surrounded on all sides, began milling in confusion, easy prey to the hungry blades of Gondor.

  But even without their eldritch powers the Ring-Wraiths were bold and cunning swordsmen and many a brave warrior fell before the tide of battle truly turned against them. Then, as if at some signal, they gave back on either side, forming a wedge around their king, and slowly backed away toward the Citadel.

  Isildur saw their design and moved to forestall it. "The Citadel!" he bellowed above the din. "They are making for the Citadel! They must not reach it or all is lost!"

  Driven by desperation, he threw off his fatigue and fell to his sword work with a new fury. But the Ring-Wraiths maintained their formation and withdrew through the mass of shrieking terrified orcs. Isildur fought to pursue them, but always there were more foes pressing before him. The Úlairi continued to draw away, always closer to the safety of the Cita
del.

  Then the banner of Pelargir could be seen moving swiftly through the press behind the Ring-Wraiths. Barathor and his knights, still mounted, were forcing their way to the entrance of the Citadel, attempting to cut off their retreat. Seeing their danger, the Úlairi turned and raced to meet the new threat, leaving Isildur and his people far behind to cut through the leaderless and dispirited orcs.

  The two groups met at the foot of the broad entrance steps. The Lord of the Wraiths sent up a shrill inhuman call like the cry of some fell bird of prey, the more terrible because it issued from no visible throat. They threw themselves in fury on the bold cavalry of Pelargir. The horses, trained as they were to battle, would not stand against these undead things and reared and screamed in terror. Some knights were unseated and quickly trampled in the shouting, shoving press of men and orcs and horses. Others dismounted and fought as well as they could in the throng. None could swing a blade for fear of striking his neighbor.

  The Úlairi cared not and hacked their way through the press, slaying man and horse and orc alike, drawing ever nearer the doors of the Citadel. Isildur saw one knight, one of the few still mounted, spur his fear-maddened steed directly at the advancing Ring-Wraiths. He whirled his blood-stained mace at the unseen head of the King of the the Úlairi, but the stroke went wide and in an instant the knight was run through and fell.