Isildur Page 29

  The black king shouldered the knight's horse from his path and saw before him Barathor of Pelargir on the very steps of the Citadel, and with him only his young standard-bearer. The boy paused not a second, but lowered his flagstaff and, wielding it like a spear, drove straight at the crowned specter. The golden sea gull surmounting the staff struck the mailed chest and snapped off, driving him back, but he was not felled. The lad turned and shouted to his master. "My Lord," he cried, "enter into the Citadel and bar the doors. Let Isildur deal with this carrion!" And then he died, struck down by two of the Ring-Wraiths at the same instant.

  Barathor looked on in horror, then unreasoning rage gripped him and he pressed forward into the midst of his foes, laying about with his sword. Once only his good steel sank into undead flesh and a high shriek pierced the roar of battle. But then Barathor too was pulled down and the black blades rose and fell.

  Some of the knights of Pelargir had heard the herald's last words, and they dashed up the stairs toward the open doors of the Citadel, shouting in triumph. But black arrows whistled out of the darkness within, and they fell tumbling down the marble steps. The Ring-Wraiths leaped over their bodies and raced through the door, one clutching at his dangling arm. With a loud rumble and crash of steel, a massive portcullis dropped from the darkness above the door. A flurry of arrows rattled through the grillwork from both sides, then the heavy doors slammed shut with a dull thud.

  Isildur's voice could be heard rising above all other sounds. "They have escaped!" he cried. "Lost! All is lost!"

  Chapter Ten

  The Barad-dûr

  Elendil the Tall, High King of the Realms in Exile, paced restlessly over dun hills of ash and slag, his feet stirring up clouds of fine grey dust that filled the nostrils and caked the lips. Fetid vapors of some great corruption drifted across the poisoned desert and swirled about him in hot gusts. Instinctively he drew a fold of his cape up over his nose against the dust and fumes, but he had long since ceased to notice them. For seven long years he had lived in this place of death and decay, so long that the memory of gentle breezes and running water and green growing things was like a lost scent from a beautiful dream, but dimly recalled.

  Elendil stalked on with head bowed, deep in thought, until a shadow fell across him, chilling the unclean air. He shivered then, stopped, and looked up. There, looming above him, blocking out the wan and sickly disk of the sun, stood a monstrous mountain of somber stone rising from a black chasm, as if the earth had vomited it up in some unimaginably violent paroxysm. And yet it was not a mountain but a made thing, built up over many centuries by the toil of hundreds of thousands of slaves. Walls and battlements and many steep-gabled roofs rose tier after tier into the dizzying misty heights. And above them all a blackened tower like an uncouth finger pointed toward the pallid and cheerless sky. Over all lay a darkness, even in the pale morning light, a shrouding of detail so that the immense whole confused the mind with its complexity. The eye could not follow its lines, but became lost among its countless angles and overhangs and impenetrable shadows. Such was the Barad-dûr, the Dark Tower. And somewhere within that impenetrable mass of stone brooded the evil that was Sauron.

  Elendil gazed silently at the monstrous structure as he had so many times during the seven weary years the Army of the Alliance had laid siege to it. That vast army lay deployed as it had for the last few years, in a huge semi-circle a short distance back from the precipitous edge of the chasm, from which the foundations of the Barad-dûr sprang smooth and unbroken for hundreds of feet. Three roads converged on the western rim of the chasm. One led northwest toward the Morannon, the Black Gate of Mordor, long since broken and cast down. The second wound south and east across the slag heaps stretching away to the murky horizon, leading eventually to the bitter inland Sea of Nûrn. The third, paved with slabs of hewn stone, ran arrow-straight into the west, past the great volcano of Orodruin a few leagues away, and on to Minas Ithil in the Mountains of Shadow. This road leaped across the chasm to the tower on a massive iron bridge without rail or parapet, ending at the Gate of Adamant, through which nothing passed, save with Sauron's leave.

  Many Men and Elves had died trying to cross that bridge and breach the gates, but none had ever succeeded. Now it stood silent and empty, for to set foot upon it was to invite a rain of huge rocks from the battlements above. Elendil thought bitterly of his younger son Anárion, who had fallen on the Iron Bridge, struck by a great stone as he stooped to help a wounded comrade. Then, as usual, his thoughts flew to his elder son Isildur, who had been constantly in his mind these long months since he had set out on his mission.

  Elendil had feared much for him, well knowing how dangerous were the roads he must tread. He had been overjoyed to hear from him at last, when they had spoken through the palantíri three days ago. But Isildur's news was not good. It seemed that all their careful plans were coming unravelled, thwarted at every point by the will of the Enemy. They had thought to drive his forces out of Minas Ithil and reclaim all the kingdom of Gondor. But now Pelargir was under siege, and Osgiliath would be next. Their kingdom was under attack and he was not there to defend it. While his people fought and died, he languished out here on the burning plain of Gorgoroth, idle, useless.

  Midyear's Day was now two days past, and if all their plans had gone well, Isildur should have attacked Minas Ithil the prior afternoon. Elendil stared off to the west, burning to know what was happening there. Would Isildur's daring dash across Ithilien succeed? What if they were delayed? What if the Ring-wraiths knew of the attack and had had time to prepare? They could have secretly built up their force in East Osgiliath. Then when the Arannon was thrown open for Isildur's attack, the orcs would have poured into Osgiliath instead. Could anything stand against the combined force of the Nine? He had encountered them himself at the battle of the Morannon, and he well remembered the shadow of fear and despair that had enveloped him, shutting out all light, all hope. He shuddered to think of the Úlairi striding into the Dome of Stars, sweeping all before them. And what then of the Three? Angry with himself for the doubts gnawing at his resolve, he turned abruptly and walked back to the camp. He made his way among the tents to a large pavilion set up on the highest mound of slag, commanding a view of the area.

  Entering, he found a figure tall even for an Elf, bent over a map on a table. He was dressed in mail of mithril like the other officers, but his cloak was royal purple. His hair was the color of old ivory, once fair and golden, now streaked with silver. His face, save for his delicate Elvish features, could have been that of a Man in his late prime, an experienced warrior-king; perhaps sixty winters had cut their tracks in it. But Elendil knew full well that he had been Fëanor's lieutenant in the Sailing of the Noldor to Middle-earth over four thousand years ago. In his grey eyes dwelt the imperturbable wisdom that comes only of many centuries of the contemplative Elvish life. There shone also the light of pride and command, the confident strength of one long used to leadership and responsibility. Elendil was two hundred and twenty-seven years old, and had founded two mighty kingdoms, but he still felt like a child in the presence of Gil-galad, King of the Noldor.

  Elendil stepped up the the table. The map, much yellowed and worn, was of Mordor. Gil-galad was peering closely at the depiction of Minas Ithil, and Elendil knew his thoughts too were on the events now occurring in the Ephel Dúath.

  "Has aught been heard?" he asked. Gil-galad looked at Elendil's pale face, read the concern there.

  "No, my friend, nothing yet. But we could hardly expect to hear so soon."

  "Perhaps if we sent a small party to the mountains, on our swiftest horses. They might need our help."

  Gil-galad shook his head. "No. They come to help us. Their task is perilous indeed, but ours is of the first importance. We must do all in our power to keep Sauron here until they have taken Minas Ithil and ridden to us here. We shall need every Man and Elf here with us. Now above all, we must marshall our greatest strength, for the end is drawing nig
h. If Sauron has as we suspect some means of seeing that which occurs far away, he will soon know of the attack on Minas Ithil, if he does not already. And he will be filled with rage. Then the long stalemate will be broken and he will come forth to do battle. We have never fought against Sauron in open battle, army to army. The prospect is daunting in the extreme. I will not weaken our circle by sending more of our people against another foe."

  Elendil bowed. "I know, but still my heart misgives me. So much can go amiss. So much already has."

  Gil-galad nodded. "I know. And your son leads them. This is why you are so anxious. But that is exactly why I have every hope for their success. Your son is a wise and noble man. One day he will be a great king of Gondor and his name will be sung when the mountains have crumbled into dust.

  "Even we Quendi look on Isildur with great hope, for we know that our stewardship of Middle-earth is coming to its end, that we shall wane even as the races of Men increase. One day Men alone will rule and protect the world. Great leaders will be needed, Men of courage and strength and wisdom. Isildur could be their Sire. He has given you four strong grandsons. If we do succeed in casting down Sauron, it may well be that you have founded a dynasty of kings, my old friend. Kings that will rule this land for ages to come."

  Elendil smiled. "You flatter me, Sire, but your words bring comfort." His eyes went far away. "I had such great hopes for my sons. I had thought that upon my death Isildur would go to rule in Arnor and Anárion would become sole king of Gondor. The two lands would remain sister kingdoms, ruled by brothers, united in peace forever. That would be a legacy indeed for the dispossessed Last Lord of Andúnië to leave to his people. The glory that was Númenor might live again in the Realms in Exile."

  His face was alight and he trembled with emotion as he remembered his dreams. But then he sagged.

  "But such was not to be," he went on. "Just as the Realms were coming into good order and life was settling into a peaceful routine, Sauron fell upon us and wrested our lands from us. Minas Ithil fell and Isildur and his family fled to Arnor." Elendil's eyes turned from sad to cold.

  "And then he stole from me my greatest treasure: Anárion, the brave, the gentle. How can a life so full of strength and vitality, so full of promise, so much future before it, be suddenly crushed beneath a stone? How can mere dumb rock erase such a life, create in an instant a father and a brother bereft, a widow and an orphan grieving? By all the Valar, I swear that deed will be avenged. If by dint of might or strength of arms or lore or magic I may come against Sauron, I shall slay him, though I die in the deed!"

  Gil-galad said nothing for a few moments, seeing the father's pain swelling in his friend's eyes. Finally he spoke. "The fall of Anárion is a tragic loss that will ring in history. Thousands will weep at the tale. He was a Man like no other. He was always laughing, always smiling. The younger Elves, especially, were more than fond of him. Perhaps because he was so like them."

  Elendil sighed. "He took great pleasure in life. That is why it is so unjust that it is denied him. He was the happy one, carefree, ready with a joke. Isildur was always the serious one. He loved his younger brother, but he thought him too… frivolous, Isildur would call it."

  "Anárion was not frivolous," said Gil-galad confidently. "I had many talks with him and he thought deeply and took his responsibilities very seriously. It was his manner that was so different from Isildur's, not his character. He was a fine prince and would have been a great king."

  "I know that, and Isildur does too, I'm sure. But Isildur was always so serious about everything. His face was ever grim."

  "Your family has been through enough to turn anyone grim. The bitterness of the civil conflict in Númenor, where your own king exiled you to Andúnië. And then of course the Fall."

  "But Anárion went through it all as well — those terrifying last days, the towers toppling, the waves, the storm, the shipwreck." Elendil paused, remembering again those terrible times. "Of course, he was younger — still in his tweens. The young are more resilient to misfortune, don't you think? But Isildur was serious even as a boy. He had to excel at everything, could not stand to be beaten. He took every competition as a challenge. He always had to be the strongest, fastest, most heroic."

  "But he is hero. He may even be all those things. Many acknowledge him the greatest warrior in the army. And his character, too. He is noble as well as strong. His idealism and his resolve are almost frightening. Do you know he has pledged to throw the Barad-dûr stone by stone into the abyss?"

  Elendil had to smile. "Aye. And I think he will do it, too. But not Sauron. Him I will throw down myself, with this blade." And he slapped at the hilt of the ornate sword hanging at his side.

  Gil-galad nodded. "Aye, Narsil was forged for just such a task, though Sauron has outlived its maker by many a yén. Poor Telchar died in the the fall of Nargothrond and never knew that Morgoth the Enemy was even then in his death throes. Telchar would be well pleased if you slew Sauron with his blade."

  "Such is my dearest wish," answered Elendil grimly, "for he has much to answer for." He eyes strayed to the map unrolled upon the table, to the multiple ridges that made up the range known as Ephel Dúath, the Mountains of Shadow.

  "But for now," he continued, "I would be content with word of Isildur and his companions. Let no harm come to them, for if they fail there is but little hope for the rest of us."

  Gil-galad nodded. "If the Three be taken from them, there will be no more hope forever."

  "I know we had little choice," said Elendil, "but still I lie awake at night wondering if we have done the right thing. To send the Three against the Nine — it seems such a desperate chance."

  "It is indeed, and yet still I hope for success. The Great Rings of Power are not equals; each is unlike the others. The Nine and the Seven were always lesser than the Three, and they were made with Sauron's arts. His powers are mighty, but they are drawn from the well of evil, and it is my belief that evil can never finally triumph over good. The Three are unsullied; they derive their powers from that of the White Tree and The Golden, expressed through Celebrimbor's art."

  "Such things surpass my understanding," said Elendil with a shake of his head. What is it like to wield the Rings?" he asked. "How do you activate its powers?"

  Gil-galad considered. "It is difficult to describe, my friend. Long have I kept Vilya, and it is like no other object on Earth. I am always aware of it when it is near. Even after being away from it all these years, still it is often on my mind, wondering if it is safe. It preys on my thoughts, drawing them always to it. It is almost as if it were alive."

  "Alive? But is it not only metal and stone after all?"

  "It is metal and stone, to be sure. But it is more. I do not mean that it is truly alive, not as we know life. It is certainly not conscious. But it seems to have a will, a course that it would pursue if it can. What that will is, I do not know, save that it must be good. After a time, I believe, a Ring and its bearer come to share a bond. There is no doubt that we are changed by them. More so when we use them, but even by their mere possession. Each of the Three seems to have a will and a character all its own, so that over time the bearers themselves take on some of their nature.

  "Narya is the Ring of Fire, and it has great strength both to build and to destroy. It excels in bold, physical changes. With it Cirdan has built a mighty city at Mithlond, and some say that the beauty and perfection of form of his swanships is due at least in part to Narya. Cirdan too is strong and bold, unafraid, eager to move forward. Perhaps this too is Narya's influence.

  "Nenya, the Ring of Water, has long been Galadriel's charge. It promotes life and growth. Things touched by its power thrive and endure and do not fade. With its powers, the Lady has built Lothlórien, the Land of the Golden Wood, where the leaves never fall and winter never comes. Galadriel too, thrives and endures, for she yet looks very young and lovely, though she is nearly as old as I. She takes joy in living and growing things, in gardens and trees a
nd fair bowers. But is it Nenya or Galadriel that changed to become so alike, or was it both? We do not know.

  "Vilya, the Ring of Air, is acknowledged to be the mightiest of the Three, and yet its power is not revealed by great works of either the mason or the gardener. Like the air, it moves swiftly and powerfully, yet invisibly. It is said to give wisdom and judgement in leadership to its bearer, though if that be true, I wish I could be more certain of my decisions. Still, since I have possessed it I have risen from Fëanor's lieutenant to High King of all the Noldor. I do not believe I ever consciously wished to become king, yet here I am. Did I wish it without knowing it, or was it Vilya's wish? How could we ever distinguish?"

  "It seems a perilous thing," said Elendil, "to bear an object that might be bearing you."

  Gil-galad smiled. "It certainly makes one consider one's actions and motives, and even accomplishments. Still, I would not part with Vilya for my life. It was the hardest thing I have ever done, to leave it at home. It haunts my dreams every night."

  "Will Elrond be able to wield Vilya to advantage?"

  "I hope so. He too is wise and learned, and his heart is good to the core. If any other Eldar can bear Vilya safely, it is he. Still, I wish I were there."

  "As do I, but we must be visible here, lest Sauron perceive our absence and suspect the attack on the Nine. And do you truly think the Three are stronger than the Nine?"

  "No one knows. They have never been put to the test. But I believe so. If the Three are wielded in concert, they should be able to withstand the Nine, for each is complement to each, and their combined strength is more than their sum. Galadriel and Cirdan are both great mages and learned in the oldest arts. They have long borne their Rings and their knowledge and their courage will guide them all. At the very least, the Three will appear to Sauron as a threat to his power and a temptation to his greed. His sole motive is ever greater power, and the Three represent the greatest powers remaining in Middle-earth. Whatever the outcome of the battle at Minas Ithil, Sauron will come forth, I am sure of it."