Isildur Read online

  The orcs in the center of the front rank watched with growing uneasiness. When the Kings were only a few hundred yards away their intent became clear and panic fell on the orcs in their path. Some few turned to flee, but they were instantly cut down by their officers in the second rank. The others were driven forward with many blows and cruel cuts from the officers' whips.

  But none could withstand the onslaught of the Kings and their knights. The greatest fighters of many an age, all gathered together in one cause, driven in desperation to one final charge, were not to be turned aside by mere orcs. They struck with the impact of an avalanche, sweeping the terrified orcs aside, trampling them screaming under their hooves. The wedge of knights drove forward, each sweeping down with his sword as if mowing a field of wheat, and the orcs fell back before them.

  Now the flanks of the orc horde understood at last the nature of the attack. They abandoned their formations and rushed toward the center, howling as they came. But the press was so great around the allied column that few could approach close enough to strike a blow. Those unfortunate enough to be near found themselves pushed forward by their fellows, right into the cruel slashing blades of the Men. The Elvish archers could fire at will into the close-packed throng of orcs, sure of a kill with every shaft.

  At the head of the column, Elendil and Gil-galad chopped madly at the foes that attempted to strike at them or their mounts. They continued to drive forward so fast that each blow was against a new foe. Face after astonished face appeared before them, the horrible goblin features twisted in a grimace of terror, then they swept by or fell before their blades.

  Looking up quickly, Elendil saw that they had forced their way through all but the last two ranks of orcs. On the rise above him he could see a solid phalanx of tall Men mounted on black horses watching his approach with what appeared to be calm interest. Then an axe glanced off his thigh armor and he brought Narsil viciously downward, hewing a fur-clad Man nearly in two. Beside him Gil-galad wielded his spear with a cold efficiency, rarely letting a foe close enough to even strike a blow. Elendil stole a glance over his shoulder and saw that the column was still together and still moving like a white snake through a field of black. He could see, though, that many of the horses were now riderless, though they still pushed forward in the eagerness of battle.

  Slashing down at a pair of orcs that were thrusting at his horse's neck with their short knives, he spurred forward, riding down a knot of determined orcs. Then they were through. Before them was fifty yards of open ground, rising to the square of black-clad riders. The enemy knights had tightened up their formation, each rider stirrup-to-stirrup with his neighbor, all facing outwards, swords drawn and ready.

  Gil-galad hacked his way free of the press and rode up beside Elendil. He too looked up. "These are neither orcs nor wild Men," he gasped.

  "No," said Elendil. "They are Dúnedain. They must be knights of Umbar." He turned and looked back at the battle behind them. A few score of their knights were just fighting their way free, but most of the host was in a desperate battle, pressed from all sides. Many were now engaged in hand-to-hand combat with several determined foes on either side. Those that became separated from the main column were soon pulled from their horses and slain horribly. And yet the column could be seen to be visibly moving forward, still driving toward Sauron.

  Then came a roar of many voices, and Elendil wheeled about to see the enemy riders spurring their mounts forward and lowering their lances. They pounded down the short slope toward the few allies free to engage them. "For Umbar!" they cried. "Remember Númenor!"

  But Elendil's knights were not to be dismayed. "For Gondor!" they shouted. "Remember Númenor!" And so, with the same battle cry, the descendants of the Men of that long-lost island rode against each other, each blaming the others for its downfall.

  Outnumbered, exhausted, in many cases wounded, and riding up a steep hill, the knights of Gondor met the knights of Umbar, and never has such a conflict of mounted Men been more bitterly fought, with many a cruel blow and valiant death on both sides. The advance of the Allies wavered, then stopped. The mad impetus of the wild charge was broken at last. Elendil's horse fell back a step, then another. Gil-galad's horse screamed and went down kicking. Gil-galad rolled free and was on his feet in seconds, but he was soon surrounded by three mounted Umbardrim.

  Elendil rode back to help and slew one of the black knights with a sweep of Narsil. The other turned to engage him and they traded blow for blow. Gil-galad was in a fierce struggle with the third. The Corsair forced the Elf-lord back, but each mighty two-handed stroke of his sword was parried by Aeglos. One blow went wide and the force of it half-turned the knight. Before he could recover, Aeglos had pierced him through. His scream distracted Elendil's opponent, and in a second he lay stretched beside his companions.

  The Kings looked around. The white-clad Gondorrim and the black-clad Umbardrim were engaged in deadly single combats all around them — hundreds of individual battles between grunting, swearing, men with none to intervene or even see the desperate blows. But too few had fought clear of the orcs and those who had were cruelly outnumbered. Most of the Elves and Men were still trying to force their way through the orcs and could not get free to help. Everywhere the allies were being pressed back down the hill. The orcs swarmed forward to surround them. The Kings plunged back into the fight, each attacking the nearest enemy knight. They had neither time or breath for words, but both knew that the bold charge had failed. Now there was nothing more to do but to continue fighting, battling on and on until fatigue slowed their arms and their opponents found their chance.

  Then, from somewhere beyond the top of the hill came the sound of a horn: high and clear, cutting through all the roar of battle. A black knight with a mace raised to strike at Elendil paused instead and looked back at the sound. It was his last motion, for Narsil swept against his neck and he toppled headless from his horse. Then came a mighty roar from many throats, for over the summit of the hill appeared a solid mass of mounted figures, banners streaming and swords waving over their heads. They plunged down the slope without a pause: hundreds, then thousands of them.

  Gil-galad, standing by Elendil's stirrup, cried out in dismay. "More of these Númenóreans! It is over!"

  But Elendil could not speak for a moment. He watched a tall knight riding straight toward him, his sword whirling above his head. Behind him pounded another rider carrying a standard. And from the standard rippled the Crownéd Tree of Gondor.

  "Yes, it is over, old friend," said Elendil. "For there rides my son Isildur."

  * * *

  Isildur crested the ridge and a smoke-shrouded valley opened before him. There below lay two vast armies locked in mortal combat. It was like no battle he had ever seen. There were no lines, no front, no flanks. The floor of the valley was filled with a seething mass of black figures, all seemingly pressing inwards upon their fellows. In their midst was a thin white line of mounted warriors, laying about them on either side. He could see small parts of the white column cut off from the rest and rapidly shrinking, like a white floor being flooded with black ink.

  On the slope before them, another battle was raging between two groups of mounted knights, the white again badly outnumbered. In the midst of this wheeling mass of armored men rose a white banner bearing the Crownéd Tree.

  "There, Sire," shouted Ohtar. "Your father is there, by the banner."

  "I see him," called Isildur. "But he is very hard-pressed, and I do not see Gil-galad. I pray we are not too late! Ride, my brothers. Forget your weariness and ride like the wind. Ride to your king's standard!"

  "Elendil!" went up the cry. "Gondor for Elendil!"

  The Umbardrim heard that cry and knew themselves lost. They drew off and tried to form a defensive formation, but then the knights of Gondor were upon them. Coming down the steep slope, the force of their impact was like a wave crashing on a shore. In an instant the hillside was a mass of shouting, hacking men and wheeling ho
rses. Isildur and his companions drove straight for the king, slaying any who stood between them.

  For the first time Elendil had no foe before him. He paused to catch his breath and saw his son and grandson riding toward him. It came to him that never had they looked more kingly. Isildur reined in beside him and leaped from his horse. They clasped arms, their eyes revealing more than words could ever say.

  Isildur bowed his head. "My father and my king," he said. "We are come at last. I pray we are not too late."

  Too overcome at first for words, Elendil looked at Isildur's companions. There was his grandson Elendur, his smile beaming through a smoke-stained face. And there also were the Elves, Elrond Halfelven and Cirdan Shipwright, and his old friend and aide Gildor Inglorion. He was overwhelmed with emotion at seeing their faces again after so long.

  "No," he said. "No, I believe you may have come in time. Welcome, my Lords," he said to the Elves. Then Gil-galad, still on foot, came up to them. He gripped Cirdan's hands in his.

  "Well met, my friends," he said. "We are most glad to see you. I believe you have turned the tide of the battle."

  They stood there, a momentary island of calm in the midst of violent struggle, and looked out over the battle. All around them the knights of Umbar and Lindon and Arnor and Gondor were fighting fiercely, giving blow for blow, though it was the Umbardrim now being slowly driven back. Still, the balance was nearly even.

  In the valley below, however, it was a different story. The orcs, seeing Isildur's army continuing to pour down upon them, broke and fled, many throwing down their weapons for greater speed. The Army of the Alliance, though terribly reduced, took heart and redoubled their efforts, beating their foes back and giving themselves room to breathe. Isildur's men galloped to their aid, sweeping all before them. The orcs fell into complete confusion, running about in terror. The Kings sat and watched as their warriors attacked the last pockets of organized resistance.

  * * *

  Yet even as their hearts soared with joy, a darkness fell upon them. Sounds became muted, the very light of the sun seemed to dim. Warriors looked about in confusion and dismay. Suddenly the battle, the whole war, seemed hopeless, all their sufferings futile. The light faded from their eyes, the smiles from their lips. Isildur felt his shoulders sag, as if all his weariness were overcoming him at last. He knew it at once, for he had felt it at the battle for the Morannon so many years ago.

  "Do you feel it?" shouted Gil-galad. "It is Sauron. It is his Shadow. He is near."

  "Fight on," called Isildur to his captains. "It is Sauron's Shadow. You must fight on. We shall deal with Sauron."

  But even as he said it, he felt a wave of hopelessness sweep over him. Deal with Sauron? How could they possibly stand against someone so powerful that his mere presence sent fear knifing through the bravest heart?

  "Now, my Lords," said Gil-galad, "we are come to the final conflict of all. This is the hour of reckoning. Now we must wield all the powers at our command." He looked at Elrond and Cirdan. "Have you brought the Three? Where is Galadriel?"

  Cirdan shook his head. "We were unable to destroy the Ring-wraiths, my king. Galadriel and Celeborn remained at Minas Ithil to try to contain them there. She has Nenya with her."

  The news seemed to crush Gil-galad's spirit. His face sagged and went ashen. "The Three are not here? We go to do battle with Sauron himself and the Three are not here? How can we hope to dispel his Shadow without them?" The others only looked at him, unable to reply.

  Seeing his face, his friends were stricken with the sense that all hope had gone. Despair beat at them like black wings about their heads. Elrond struggled against it, knowing it for the fear he had felt near the Úlairi, only much, much stronger.

  "Cirdan still has Narya," he said, "and I have brought Vilya for you, Sire." They seemed but small words, hollow and weightless against the crushing despair. The others stared at him hopelessly. But then he withdrew the great blue ring and held it up gleaming in the light. And somehow, seeing it shining there in the gloom gave them all hope. They looked at each other in wonder.

  "Surely," said Gildor, "with such weapons we can defeat even Sauron."

  But Gil-galad shook his head. "Remember, they are not weapons at all," he said. "They cannot be used to attack him. But the Three together might have been enough at least to dispel his Shadow and allow us to see him more clearly. But with two only…" His voice trailed off.

  "Would that we knew what their effect will be," said Cirdan. "It is thought that he has some mystic link with them, that they will draw Sauron to them. But it is also possible that their use could give him some power over us. But we just don't know."

  Gil-galad stood leaning on his spear, looking at Vilya in Elrond's hand. "Long have I loved that bright shining thing," he said, "And yet for some reason I feel reluctant to don it now." He stepped back as if with an effort.

  "No, on reflection I believe I shall not bear Vilya into this conflict."

  They all looked at him in surprise. "Is that wise, my king?" asked Elrond. "I bore it through great peril so you would have it here at the final conflict. You are its rightful master, and on your hand its strength is greatest."

  Gil-galad patted the heavy ebony handle of his spear. "Aeglos here has always served me well. I will fight with the weapon I know."

  "But it could at least help guard you, Sire," pleaded Elrond, holding out the ring to him. "My mind would be easier if I knew you had its strength with you."

  "Hear him, Sire," said Gildor. "Let the Ring provide what protection it can."

  The old Elf-king shook his head, his long grey hair swaying beneath his helm. "No. Throughout this war Elendil and I have fought side by side on equal terms, sharing the labors and dangers equally. But the Three were wrought for Elvish hands and they would not serve a Man. Since Elendil has no Ring to protect him, I too shall face Sauron with only what courage I can summon. And Elendil and I have our enchanted weapons, in which I place my greatest faith.

  "Elrond, you and Cirdan do not have such weapons, but he will have his Narya. It is for you I fear, my old friend. Keep Vilya for me a little longer. Perhaps it will spare your life this day. For myself, I will trust to Aeglos here. It has never failed me yet."

  "But Sire," protested Elrond. "Vilya is yours. If it may indeed spare its bearer's life, I would have it on your hand, not mine."

  "Yes," agreed Cirdan. "Will you not reconsider, my King? You will need all the strength and courage you can muster to fight Sauron. Why will you not take Vilya?"

  "Strength and courage I will indeed need," Gil-galad replied. "But Vilya does not provide either. Any of us Elves can wear it to help dispel the Shadow. But wearing it also reveals its bearer more clearly to Sauron. Perhaps if I face Sauron without it, he will find me more difficult to fight."

  "But Sire," said Elrond. "Surely it…" But Gil-galad was already turning away, his eyes searching the battlefield.

  "No, I will face him with Aeglos alone," he called over his shoulder. "Wear Narya yourself, Shipmaster, and let Elrond wear Vilya. Elendil and Isildur and I will do the fighting, if it is possible against this Shadow. You must use your Rings' strength against it. Gildor, I put you in charge of the Elvish forces."

  "As you, Elendur," said Elendil, "shall command the armies of Men. Your father and I have duties that lie elsewhere. We have some debts to repay to Sauron."

  "But before we can fight him," said Gil-galad, "we must find him. We must find the source of the Shadow."

  He caught a riderless horse and swung onto its back. "Come," he called to the others. "This way. Do you feel it? He is this way."

  He veered off to the right, toward the lava flow that blocked the northern end of the valley. The others lords followed, slanting up across the slope. Looking beyond Gil-galad, Isildur saw the advancing wave of Gondorrim troops falter. Horses screamed and reared, riders toppling from their backs. He realized he was having trouble seeing the men clearly, though whether it was due to the growing pan
ic in his chest or to some disturbance in the air, he could not be sure. But the smoke and murk definitely seemed thicker in that direction.

  His horse faltered, shied, and stopped, trembling. He urged it forward, but it was no use. Fleetfoot had a great heart and had never shirked a battle, but he could not abide the Shadow. Not far ahead, Gil-galad was also having trouble with his new mount. He threw his leg over and dropped to the ground, still carrying his Aeglos. "Leave your horses," he shouted, his voice strangely distant. "They feel the Shadow too. We must go on foot."

  They dismounted and started up after Gil-galad. It felt as if they were walking through a pool of hot tar. It was all they could do to push their feet forward. And always there was that growing terror clutching at their hearts, the sense that this whole struggle was useless, that they could not hope to win. Still they could see Gil-galad above them, stumbling upward among the loose rocks.

  Gil-galad climbed out of the valley and stood swaying, looking around him. Elendil struggled up beside him. Then they turned to the right and began walking unsteadily upwards, towards the Mountain. The others followed, forcing themselves forward as if against a wind.

  When he reached the top of the ridge, Isildur paused to catch his breath. He was gasping for air. His chest felt tight, constricted, as if there were no air to breathe. And always there was that growing terror that threatened to turn into panic and send him screaming back down into the valley. Glancing back, he saw the battle continuing in the valley below. To his right, Elrond and Cirdan were starting up the long steep slope of cinders that formed the side of Orodruin. Their faces were drawn and white with the effort. Beyond them, the figures of Elendil and Gil-galad could be seen struggling upward, already partially obscured by drifting clouds of smoke. Gathering his strength and his courage, Isildur started after them.