Isildur Read online

  Isildur rode back down the companies, greeting friends and acknowledging salutes, speaking words of encouragement. The men looked weary, as well they might after a long ride, a fierce battle, and a hard climb to the heights of the mountains. They were caked with dirt, the fine dust of the road clinging to their sweating faces and arms. They looked uneasily toward the low rise of land ahead, for they knew that beyond lay Mordor, that land of ancient terror that had darkened their world all their lives. Few among them had ever seen it but its very name bore a dread. There was fear there, certainly, but a grim determination looked out of their eyes as well. They were ready, even eager, to face what lay beyond. For too many years they had waited fearfully behind walls as Sauron's hordes wandered at will through Ithilien. Now Gondor was bringing the war into Sauron's homeland, and the men were eager to settle old scores and repay old griefs.

  Isildur reached the rear of the column. The quartermasters and healers were in their wagons, teams of oxen ready for the whip. He saluted them gravely, for they shared all the dangers and discomforts of a campaign, but precious little of the glory. But well he knew, and often told them, that without them they would not be an army.

  As he rode back to the van, he met Elendur and two of his captains carrying unlit torches. They hailed him and he stopped.

  "I thought that we raiders would be both more threatening and more visible if we carried torches," explained Elendur. "The orcs will see us and perhaps have more difficulty seeing the rest of the host."

  "A good thought," said Isildur. "Though a torch will make a good target for arrows as well."

  "I had thought to throw them down when we reach the tower. Perhaps they will waste some arrows shooting at the torches before they realize what we have done."

  "Good! Good, I like that. Let it be so."

  "Are all ready?"

  "Aye. Your company will ride first and make straight for the tower. We will keep to the road. When the last company is safely past, fall back and follow us. We shall wait for you."

  "Understood."

  "Take care, my son."

  "I shall, father."

  "Then let us ride."

  Elendur signalled to his men, the woodsmen and hunters of northern Ithilien, and they rode after him in single file, each carrying an unlighted torch dipped in pitch. Some men had been stationed just behind the last rocks by a great pile of dead wood, and as they saw Elendur approaching they set it alight. It blazed up with a roar, and as Elendur rode past, he swung his torch through the flames and galloped off toward the high pass, the torch's flames streaming behind him. His men followed his example, and soon a long line of lights could be seen streaming over the rise and disappearing into the darkness beyond.

  "Now ride!" shouted Isildur. "Ride into Mordor!" He spurred Fleetfoot forward, Ohtar beside him with the white standard of Gondor flickering in the wind of their passage. Behind him he could hear the growing thunder as thousands of hooves started pounding up the road. It was a long steep slope, and he could feel Fleetfoot's shoulders bunching and pulling, bunching and pulling, as he clawed his way up, his mighty rear legs thrusting them forward.

  When he reached the top he saw before him a world of blood. The setting sun turned every stone crimson. The road dropped away into darkness. In the far distance a great mountain spewed forth dark roiling clouds of smoke, laced with red flames beneath. Red streams crept down its sides, and a pulsing sullen glow lit all the wide land below.

  Immediately below them a round stone tower loomed, its top still lit by the dying sun, orange against the blood-red land beyond. Near its foot, a line of horsemen with guttering torches, pale and wan in the ruddy glow of the mountain, dashed headlong into a dark rabble of orcs. Cries and screams rose to his ears as he started down the road toward the tower.

  Isildur had to mind his path in the wavering, uncertain light, but he stole quick glances at the battle below. He saw the orcs break and scatter in all directions. Some riders left the column to deal with them, but most maintained their speed and rode straight for the tower. The gate was open, and he saw the lead riders disappear without a pause into the gaping dark maw. He had not expected the gate to be open, nor intended the raiders to enter it. But he knew that Elendur was like him — if he saw an opportunity, he would seize it instantly.

  His heart in his throat, he urged Fleetfoot forward. They plunged headlong down the steep road, the thunder of their hooves drowning any sounds of combat from the tower. He looked back over his shoulder as he drove past the turning to the tower but could see nothing but some dark forms lying still before the gate. Forcing his mind to the business at hand, he led the column down a long series of wide sweeping turns as the road worked its way down the eastern face of the ridge.

  They rode half an hour more, the horses' hooves throwing up sparks in the darkness as they wheeled around each turn, only to see yet another before them. Isildur's eyes swept the slope below, looking for a place where the host could dismount and wait for the others. Then he stiffened. A turn or two below them he could see a high stone bridge arching across a chasm to a lower ridge beyond. Lights moved on the bridge.

  "Cirdan," he called over his shoulder. "What do you see on yonder bridge?"

  "Orcs — perhaps threescore. I don't think they are guards; they carry heavy packs. Perhaps they were bringing supplies up to the tower. But they have seen or heard us — they are throwing down their packs and forming a line at this end of the bridge."

  "No doubt they haven't seen our numbers yet. Ride them down!"

  In three more minutes they had descended the last switchback and were driving across level ground toward the bridge. Now the orcs could see them clearly, row after row of armed men riding hard, the column winding down the whole mountainside, the end not yet in sight. They broke in terror and ran shrieking for the bridge. Isildur swept out his sword and drove after them. He caught the stragglers just as they reached the near end of the bridge and turned to make a desperate stand. He swept his blade down on one that was poised to loose an arrow at him, then grunted as the shaft bounced from his breastplate.

  Elrond drew and shot as he rode, his horse needing no guidance. Ohtar rode up alongside Isildur, as he often did in the heat of battle. He held the standard aloft in his left hand and waved his sword in the right, cutting down any foes that tried to attack his master.

  The orcs broke ranks and fled across the bridge. A particularly large one with orange-green scales leaped up onto the right parapet and drew back his scimitar for a stroke at Isildur as he passed. Isildur was turned to his left, slashing down at two orcs trying to grab his reins. Ohtar saw the scimitar start to sweep down, but he was too far back now to intervene in time. Then Cirdan sent a shaft straight and true that went through the orc's thigh. He screamed and dropped his blade, toppling onto the bridge just as Isildur pounded onto the span. Isildur saw his contorted face for one instant before it disappeared beneath Fleetfoot's hooves. The orcs fleeing across the bridge looked back and saw that they were about to be overtaken. They panicked: some falling to be trampled where they lay, others scrambling wildly over the parapet to launch themselves into the abyss. Cirdan and Ohtar ran down the last two. The bridge ended on a sharp lower ridge of the mountains. Where the road crossed the ridge a wide area had been levelled off before plunging down again beyond. Isildur raised his hand. "My Lords," he cried. "Let us halt here to rest and wait for the others."

  The order was passed back over and over until it faded into the dark. The rear of the army was still descending the many switchbacks and had only seen the action at the bridge from above. The Elves dismounted and walked over to the eastern parapet, talking together and pointing out over the red heart of Mordor. Isildur walked off by himself, watching the rest of the column spread out over the level area and thankfully dismount. Clearly the men were exhausted. They gulped water from their canteens and looked about for the wagons, but these had been left far behind in the rush over the pass. Ohtar hobbled their horses, then walked
over to join Isildur.

  "Don't be too anxious, Sire," he said. "Elendur will be here soon."

  "He didn't need to try to take the tower; only divert them."

  "You know how eager he is to rid Gondor of every last orc. But he is not foolish — he will not risk his men's lives needlessly."

  "Aye, I know that, but even if he survives the fight up there, he will be spared only to face that which waits for us out there in Gorgoroth. There is no safety anywhere in these terrible days. If I valued his safety above all else I would have left him in Annúminas with his brother Aratan, or in Rivendell with his mother."

  "Your sons are all serving their country and their king, Sire. Even Valandil serves by remaining to comfort his mother in Imladris."

  "Aye. She was grieved enough when we left. She could not have borne having me and all her sons away at the war."

  "You need not fear for any of them."

  "Easy enough for you to say, Ohtar. You have no family."

  "No woman would have me, you mean. But we have a loyal and capable host, Sire, and we ride now to join the mightiest army ever assembled in this age of the world. Even Sauron must quake at the thought of meeting us."

  Isildur laughed and clapped Ohtar's shoulder. "Isn't that a thought, now? The mighty Sauron peering from his window in the Dark Tower and biting his nails."

  Ohtar smiled in relief to see Isildur laugh again. "Perhaps these tremors we feel in the ground are not the volcano's rumblings at all, but only old Sauron's knees knocking together." Isildur laughed again.

  "Ohtar, your nonsense makes me laugh even in this foul place. Thank you. Your loyalty and concern for me counters the gloomy spells and forebodings that hang over me."

  At last the wagons arrived and food was hastily prepared and passed out. The men slumped against their packs or sprawled on the ground, taking advantage of the brief respite. Servants carried food to the leaders where they sat on the parapet gazing out into the ruddy glow to the east.

  "This ridge is called the Morgai," said Isildur. "From here the road will be less steep."

  "The Black Fence," said Elrond around a mouthful of waybread. "A fitting name. Look at that tortured land. You would think nothing could live in that waste, and yet somewhere out there are Gil-galad and Elendil and all the Army of the Alliance. They must be anxious indeed for news of us."

  "Aye," said Isildur. "Their part has not been easy either. It is hard to sit and wait while your fate is decided by what others do elsewhere. For myself it is nearly unbearable to not be acting."

  Elrond glanced at him. "I think of Elendil," he said. "It must be hard for a father to send a son into battle alone for the first time."

  Isildur smiled. "Your subtlety is not lost on me, old friend. Ohtar too tried to reassure me. I am sure Elendur will be well."

  After their meal, Isildur and Ohtar walked around the camp. Some were tending their horses or seeing to their gear, but most were deeply asleep, lulled by the constant slow tread of the sentries around the camp. An hour passed, another. Isildur tried to sleep but could not.

  Then a clatter of hooves from the road above. Men leaped up, shaking the sleep from their heads and reaching for their weapons.

  "Hold," called one of the sentries. "It's our lads."

  Isildur hurried to the foot of the road and could dimly make out a line of horsemen descending the slope. Then he saw the rear of the line and realized the column was much shorter than that which had ridden into the tower. His eyes strained to see the figure at their head, but he could not be sure of him until they came around the last turn and rode slowly into the camp. It was indeed Elendur, but his head hung down and his white armor was splattered with blood, black in the dim light. Isildur's heart caught in his throat. He hurried to take the horse's bridle.

  "Elendur! Are you wounded?"

  Elendur's head snapped up. He looked about in confusion, then smiled down at Isildur.

  "No, father. I believe I had fallen asleep. I was rather tired."

  "But the blood…"

  Elendur looked down at his gory raiment. "Not mine, but that of a number of orcs. The action was hand-to-hand."

  "And how went the fight? Did you lose many men?"

  "Over a score, I'm afraid, father. You should have seen them. They were so eager to fight that many rode alone into large companies of orcs. The orcs thought them mad. They thought we were some sort of demons, I do believe. They stood their ground, though, I'll say that for them."

  "Orcs will fight fiercely if they are cornered. You know what they do to the poor devils they capture. I suppose they think the same thing would happen to them if they surrendered. So they usually fight to the last, asking no quarter."

  "So they did," said Elendur. "I know you said to just hold them off until you had passed, but the fighting was fierce from the start. It would have been more dangerous to turn our backs and try to withdraw. So we fought on. The last of them we drove back up the tower, step by step, fighting fiercely all the way. It was terrible, bloody work on those stairs in the dark, everybody shouting and swearing and slipping and falling over one another. At the end only three of them reached the roof, and when we fought our way out the door they threw themselves from the parapet."

  "Then the tower is ours?"

  "Aye, Sire," said Elendur with a weary grin. "The banner of Gondor once more flies from the tower of Cirith Ungol."

  "Well done! Well done indeed," beamed Isildur. "Rest now. We will not ride before dawn."

  The raiding party slipped from their horses, took some quick bites, and rolled themselves in their blankets to grab a few hours sleep. Soon the whole camp was quiet again, save for snoring and the soft tread of the oft-relieved sentries.

  The Elf-Lords sat apart from the rest and looked silently out over the vast plains of Gorgoroth. The violent eruptions had died down and the lowering clouds were but dimly seen in the dim orange glow from the gouts of lava still creeping down the mountain's slopes. Here and there steam and fumes drifted from cracks in the tortured earth. The Elves' eyes were turned upon that grim scene, but saw it not. They rested their minds in other realms — far worlds no mortal Man had ever seen. Of these the Firstborn do not speak even among themselves, save only, it is said, in old songs in the high Quenya tongue, which few even of the Elves of Middle-earth now remember.

  * * *

  Dawn came early on the exposed eastern flanks of the mountains. The sun crept up out of brown smoke and haze, dimming at last even the sullen glow of Orodruin. The men awoke and stood wrapped in their blankets against the morning chill, looking out over the plain far below that they must somehow cross. Orodruin itself was wreathed in sulphurous fumes and it loomed only as a dark shadow piercing the sullen roof of grey clouds. Nothing could be seen of what lay beyond the Mountain.

  Elendur woke to find his father already about, ordering the preparations for the day's march. He rose, stretching and bending to work the kinks out of his back after the night on the hard ground, then went to the eastern parapet and looked out over Gorgoroth. His father joined him there a few minutes later.

  "Whence comes this perpetual low gray cloud, father? Is it the fumes of the Mountain, or is it some devise of Sauron's?" They watched a spurt of flame suddenly shoot from a fissure in the plain, sending up a plume of black smoke.

  "Sauron's forges and foundries lie beneath the surface, in a vast warren of tunnels and caverns, tended by slaves who work endlessly in the dark and heat. Many of the tunnels are natural, formed when the lava flowed out from beneath its cooling skin. These were connected and expanded by many passages hewn out of the rock by his slaves. We suspect that there are secret underground entrances to the Barad-dûr through which they receive their supplies, for even orcs must eat. We have searched for them, but it is dangerous and bloody work to try to fight our way through the underground passages where the orcs have every advantage.

  "But the plain is also rent in many places by fumaroles and other vents for the fiery violence b
eneath. And it seems that Sauron even has some control over the volcano, for it is most active as his power waxes, and it is said it bursts forth in fury when he is angered. His power is great indeed."

  Even as he spoke the ground trembled beneath their feet. The Mountain grumbled and roared. Flame gushed from a red-lipped wound in its side. Elendur looked out over the ravaged, blasted plain, wavering in the heat and steam of the fumaroles. "He must be in a foul mood this day," he observed. "Why would even Sauron choose such a place in which to live?"

  "Sauron does not love life and light. He seeks only ever greater power. The natural furnaces of the Mountain power his machinery. He delights in bending the land to his will, forcing it to yield up weapons and engines of destruction. He would rather see flames and slag heaps than green growing things. He goes always in shadow and cloud.

  "But Orodruin is yet more to him. He is linked to the Mountain in some manner we do not understand. Celebrimbor, in his vision that revealed Sauron's treachery, saw that Sauron used the flames of the Sammath Naur, the great chambers of fire high on Orodruin's slopes, to forge the One Ring, the lens that focuses all his malice and power. Celebrimbor suspected that the Mountain was the earthly gate to the dread Flame of Udûn, and that this was the source of Sauron's power."

  Elendur looked upon the Mountain with loathing. "Must we go right to the Mountain, father? My heart quails at the sight of it."

  "No, even the mighty arts of Sauron cannot build on the heaving flanks of Orodruin itself. The Barad-dûr is beyond it to the east, upon a jagged southern spur of the Ered Lithui. It must be forty miles, I would guess, from the Mountain to the Tower, but Sauron has built a road from his gate to the foot of the Mountain, and from there it winds up to the mouth of the Sammath Naur itself. There he has built a door that faces directly toward the Barad-dûr, so that he might look out from his abode and see directly into the Flame of Udûn. Our road will pass close under its flanks before striking Sauron's Road, but we need go no closer."