Isildur Read online

  "No!" he said. "It is mine. It has cost me my home and my brother, and now my father. I claim it as his weregild, and as recompense for all the losses suffered by Gondor and its people."

  "Isildur, pray think again," urged Elrond. "This was the focus of all of his evil. Let us destroy it now, while the flames are near at hand. Give it up. It can never be used for good, only for destruction."

  "Then I will use it to destroy the Barad-dûr and all the works of Sauron. That alone would be a noble deed. It is mine, I tell you. It is precious to me!" And he snatched up the Ring.

  Instantly he screamed and let it fall again. "Aieee! It is hot!" He clutched his wrist and looked at his hand in agony. The Ring had seared into his flesh, burning a bright red circle deep into his palm.

  "It glows still with the heat of Sauron's body," said Cirdan. "Let it be destroyed, Isildur. It is not for mortal Men."

  Isildur looked up sharply. "No more is it for Elves, Shipwright. You would not seek to take it from me?"

  "I have no desire for it myself, save to see it destroyed."

  "But you shall not take it from me," growled Isildur, his eyes wild. His hand strayed to the hilt of his sword.

  "If you mean take it by force, no, of course not," said Cirdan soothingly, looking at him curiously.

  "We do not wish it for ourselves, old friend," added Elrond. "But I agree with Cirdan. It is too dangerous for anyone."

  "Well, it is not too dangerous for me. I will keep it and it shall become an heirloom of my house, like the seedling of the White Tree, and like these, the shards of my father's sword."

  "Let us not argue amongst ourselves here at the end, my friend," said Cirdan. "Take it if you will. But I counsel you to wield it rarely, if at all, and let it never fall into lesser hands."

  Isildur drew his dirk from his belt and used it to gingerly lift the glowing Ring. He stood admiring it, turning it this way and that. "It is beautiful, is it not?" he asked. "In spite of its maker, I mean. Look, there is some inscription running around inside it."

  They peered closely, but none of them could read the letters of flowing fire. Isildur slashed a piece of leather from his harness and wrapped the Ring in that, then put the bundle against his breast.

  "Come, let us go down," he said. "We will return later and bear their bodies down in glory."

  Together the three companions turned and trudged back down the mountain.

  Chapter Thirteen

  At the Fields of Gladden

  On the second day of Cerveth in the year three thousand four hundred forty-one of the New Age, Sauron the Enemy, Lord of Night, was cast out and driven from the circles of the world. Gil-galad, King of the Noldor, was burned and perished in the deed. Elendil Amandilson, High King of the Realms in Exile, died also at Sauron's hand. An age of the World ended that day. What had been called the New Age was now known as the Second Age. And there amidst the pain and blood of Gorgoroth was born the first day of the first year of the Third Age of the world. The Lord Isildur Elendilson of Gondor ascended with the Kings to that last fateful combat on the heights of Orodruin. When he came down the Mountain he was a king, bearing the rule of the two greatest nations of Men. But he bore with him also his own doom.

  The Tale of Years

  When the battle was won and the last of Sauron's dispirited legions slain or taken, the great Army of the Alliance stood aghast in the reeks of Mordor. All about lay the bodies of many thousands of their comrades, heaped among those of their foes. Orodruin roared and coughed, sending dark clouds of foul-smelling fumes drifting across the dismal scene. Only then, in the awful stillness that comes after a great battle, did they learn of the even greater drama and combat that had taken place high above them while they fought.

  Rocks scrabbled on the slopes above and they whirled to face the shifting clouds of smoke, blood-drenched swords at the ready. A figure appeared, trudging slowly with downcast head and weary step. Just behind came two tall Elves, their bright eyes gone dim with a great sadness. Ohtar recognized his master, whom he had lost sight of when Sauron's Shadow fell upon them, and for whom he had been searching among the living and the dead.

  Ohtar hurried forward to meet them and Isildur cast such a look upon him as he would never forget. There was a grief in his eyes to stifle the soul, but a strange light also glowed there, of grim determination, Ohtar thought at the time. It seemed to him that Isildur had never looked more royal, nor more alone. His voice rang out clear and strong across the plain, so that many thousands heard his first words.

  "Sauron is overthrown. He is no more."

  Though this had been their goal for so many long and weary years, there was no rejoicing at the news. They were too dazed and battle-weary to fully appreciate the import of his words. Then too, there was neither triumph nor joy in the face of he who spoke them. They knew that he bore ill news as well, and they waited in silence for his next words.

  "He was slain by Gil-galad of Lindon, King of the Noldor, who will be seen no more this side of the Sundering Sea. With him perished Elendil, High King of the Realms in Exile."

  For long moments no one moved or spoke. Then a man dropped to his knees in the dust, and others followed. One by one they all did the same. The mighty army that all of Sauron's hordes had been unable to bow, now knelt in wordless awe. Cirdan and Elrond too bowed under their emotion. Then, last of all, Isildur too bent his knee and his neck. And in all that vast and bloody field, every living person knelt in homage, in gratitude, and in mourning. Knights and squires, hostlers and healers, Elves and Men and Dwarves; all knew that they had both gained and lost much that day and that the world would be changed forever.

  * * *

  Isildur's first deeds as High King were no joyous ceremonies of coronation. The first task was to tend to the many thousands of warriors who lay wounded, many of them grievously. The healers and leeches worked feverishly and even Isildur, whose royal hands could heal many wounds, labored day and night in the hospital tents. But in spite of their efforts, many survived the battle only to succumb to their wounds in the days that followed. The fetid fumes and filthy conditions took their toll, and many died of wounds that had at first seemed minor.

  At the same time, others were gathering up the fallen. Men and Elves and Dwarves were laid upon the huge pyres, shoulder-to-shoulder as they had fought. The remains of Gil-galad and Elendil were brought down from the mountain and many wept for them, the greatest kings of Middle-earth. It was not their custom to burn kings, but the twisted basalts of Gorgoroth denied them a howe, and they were laid on the biers alongside their subjects. Many a fair Elf and brave Man burned those terrible first days, far from their homes and families. The smokes of their burning shrouded the sun and even Orodruin seemed dimmed. Indeed the eruptions ceased after the battle and the almost constant trembling of the ground subsided.

  The day after the battle a contingent of Elves under Gildor made their sad farewells and rode back to Minas Ithil to bear word of the battle to Galadriel and Celeborn. The Dwarf Flár led the few survivors of his band back to Khazad-dûm. Isildur yearned to return to his city and his people, but there was yet so much to be done in Mordor. The surviving prisoners had been gathered into a huge enclosure at the upper end of the valley. Thousands had fled in fear when the battle turned against them, and now they were being chased down and rooted out of their holes by the scouting parties that were scouring all the plains. The prisoners were put to work dragging off the bodies of their dead, though they showed more interest in robbing the corpses than showing them any care or respect. They built an immense bonfire as near as Isildur would permit and made a great show of bearing off their fallen comrades, but many of their honored dead ended up dumped in ditches and fissures on the way.

  On the second day after the battle, messengers arrived from Minas Ithil. They reported that at dawn on the prior morning the Ring-wraiths had made a sudden concerted attack from the Citadel. As she had feared, Galadriel and Nenya were unable to withstand their Shado
w and the Elves fell back before them. But the Ring-wraiths had no interest in fighting, save to reach the gates of the city. They and their few remaining subjects raced through the gate and fled into the wild high country south of the city. Searches had been mounted, but no trace had yet been found. Isildur cursed the delay that had kept him from returning to help the Galadrim, but he could see nothing that could be done now.

  At last the field was cleared and the long trains of wagons bearing the wounded creaked slowly away toward the Morannon and home. But Isildur led the rest of the army not home, but east, back to the Barad-dûr. With Orodruin quiet at last and the reeks of the burnings dissipated, the noisome air of Mordor was gradually clearing. When the army marched again into their old despised camp, they found the sun shining brightly for the first time on Sauron's vast fortress.

  The jet black stone gave back no glints, returning nothing for all the sun's glare. But the Tower liked not the light, for from its yawning gates a stream of fleeing orcs boiled like black blood. They were the former servants of Sauron but they served him ill now, for they bore with them all they could carry of his treasures and stores. They sent up a great wail at the return of the allies. Many dropped their burdens and dashed wildly away to the south or east. But Isildur was swift and resolute. He sent companies of the fastest riders sweeping around them and cut them off, trapping them between the unscalable walls of the Ered Lithui and the bottomless abyss that surrounded the Tower. They were gathered together and driven shrieking and cowering to where Isildur sat upon a hill, grim and stern. There they were joined by the prisoners they had brought from Orodruin and they all trembled as they waited to learn their fate.

  They eyed the ring of bright lances hemming them in and the sheer chasm at their backs and looked upon Isildur in terror and despair. He glared cold-eyed over the host there assembled, and they quailed at his majesty.

  "I am Isildur Elendilson," he cried, his voice booming out across the plain. The orcs' frightened jabbering ceased.

  "By the strangest of dooms I am become lord of this land, and of yonder Tower, and of all of you. I do not mean to slay you as you deserve, but it is my will that you who served the Tower and its master should now serve to destroy it. Long ago I swore that the Barad-dûr should be pulled down stone by stone and thrown into the abyss. When all sign that it ever existed is erased from the land, then you too may go. This is the penance that I lay upon you. So it shall be done. Go now and begin, for you have much labor before you."

  Jostling and muttering, the orcs were driven back across the bridge and their former fortress became their prison. The walls were now lined with hard-eyed archers, their longbows and crossbows always at the ready. Under their direction, the orcs mounted to the highest pinnacles of the Tower. There, with bars and picks and much hard labor, they broke the mortar and tipped the immense blocks over the edge. The stones plummeted down, glancing off walls and smashing parapets, until they disappeared into the chasm. It was slow and backbreaking work, but the orcs kept at it, driven by their new masters and by the knowledge that their long servitude would be ended when the task was done.

  When the work was well under way, the Elves made ready to depart, for they had no wish to remain any longer in that sad land. On their last night, Cirdan came to the king in his tent. There, amid the splendor of tapestries and silver, Isildur brooded. Cirdan ducked his head beneath the curtain.

  "The Noldor are nearly ready, Lord," he said. The king bade him sit and take mead with him.

  "What are your plans, Shipwright?" asked Isildur. "Will you bide with us in Gondor a time? I hope to have this work completed before the days grow short again. I could show you the beauties of my land."

  The old Elf shook his grey head. "Nay, I thank you, Lord. But my people yearn for their ships and the sea. We shall sail for Mithlond within the month, before the equinoctial gales make the passage too difficult. We will leave enough ships at Pelargir to ensure the safety of the River until your fleet is rebuilt."

  "I will miss you, my friend," said Isildur. "But I would not seek to stay you. My people too are eager to see their homes."

  "For many of the Noldor, especially the elders," said Cirdan, "I think their stay in Mithlond will be short. There is much talk of Crossing the Sea. We Exiles returned to these shores to rid the world of Morgoth's evil. Now both he and his mightiest servant have been destroyed. Our mission here is finished, they say, and it is time to return Home. The New Age is over, and many feel the Third Age will be an age of Men, not Elves."

  "If so," replied Isildur, "we will always treasure the wisdom and advice of the Firstborn. I would not relish a world that does not echo now and again to Elvish singing. It would be a sadder and lonelier place without your people in it. But what of yourself? Will you Cross, too?"

  "Nay, not yet, I think. Many of my people will remain. We have lived long on these mortal shores, and before that in the wide East, but dimly remembered even in Quendi memory. This land is dear to us. It was ours before ever the first Men came out of the south, dressed in furs and bearing weapons of stone. Now many of us are loath to leave it, for we know there will be no returning again. Many ships are yet unbuilt. I will remain while my ships are needed and there are still Noldor on this side to sail in them."

  Isildur smiled, something he rarely did in these latter days. "I am glad to hear it, my friend. Men need such friends as the noble Cirdan. But Gil-galad left no heir. Will you assume the crown of Lindon?"

  "No. Gil-galad was King of the Noldor, but he was the last. Beleriand and Nargothrond were destroyed long ago, and Eregion is without a prince or a people. Our empire is no longer. We shall remain as we are, separate colonies with no lord over all. I shall be merely Shipmaster of Mithlond." He stared sadly at his hands. Then he looked up at Isildur. "But what of you, Lord? What are your plans when this work is finished?"

  "I shall return to Gondor and set the kingdom in order once more. But Arnor is now without a king. Meneldil is my brother's heir, and he has ruled Gondor well since our father left. It is in my mind to leave Gondor in his care and remove with my family to Arnor. I shall remain High King of the Realms in Exile, but it shall be only a nominal title. Meneldil shall be King of Gondor and I of Arnor, and the two realms shall be sister states."

  Cirdan nodded. "You will not return to Minas Ithil then?"

  "No. To say the truth, whether it is truly clean or foul, the land of Ithilien is poisoned forever in the mind of my dear wife Vorondomë. The terrors of that night when we were driven from our home are always with her. Where once she was gay and full of laughter, now she is somber and fearful. I think she could never be happy again in Minas Ithil. Better to start a new life in a new place. And Annúminas is a beautiful city. You should see it when the sun is setting beyond the still lake. I hope she will be happy there, far from the reminders of our lost contentment.

  "But before I leave I will purge both Osgiliath and Minas Ithil of the taint of Sauron. Both have been defiled and must be cleansed. That which was destroyed will be rebuilt, till Minas Ithil shines again as it did of old when the moonlight welled from its marble walls and towers."

  "You have set yourself some massive tasks, my friend. You seek to undo the work Sauron with all his powers and slaves labored a thousand years to complete. It will not be easy."

  Isildur strode to the opening of the tent and pulled back the flap. The full moon was rising, and silhouetted against it were the broken stubs of the once-lofty towers of the Barad-dûr. He pointed to the ruined fortress.

  "Yonder Tower was a symbol of his might, and you see it is already coming down. I will destroy all traces of him and his works before I am through. I owe it to my father and my brother and all the rest of my people he has slain. And I am not without powers of my own, now." And smiling slyly, he drew forth the One Ring from where it hung about his neck.

  Cirdan cast a dubious glance at the shining thing. "I like not your prize, Lord, and rue that we did not destroy it when we had the chance.
It was forged by evil for evil intent. Its power is that of Sauron himself. I fear that no good can come of its use."

  Isildur nodded, but his eyes remained fixed on the Ring as it swung idly from the chain. "Aye, Sauron wrought much terror and suffering with the help of this precious little bauble," he said. "But he is gone and will trouble us no more. His power is broken. Is it not meet that his own Ring should be used to redress the wrongs he committed with it? What could be more fitting? And as you say, we have great tasks ahead of us. Should we discard our best hope of rebuilding our lands? Let his handiwork undo his handiwork, I say."

  Cirdan watched Isildur's eyes as they followed the swaying Ring. The golden reflections glinted deep in his eyes. Cirdan shook his head.

  "I fear it is too perilous. We know so little of the Great Rings. Even Celebrimbor who made them did not fully understand the source of their powers. He told me once that he believed they drew on the unimaginable forces that drive the wandering planets in their appointed paths. And none but Sauron knew how the One was made. Who knows what effect it might have on another? Before you took it, it had known no hand but Sauron's.

  "Celebrimbor was a great smith and the Rings of Power were his greatest creation and his greatest pride. Yet even he urged great caution in their use. He came to me in the dark days of Sauron's rising, when we were only beginning to realize the enormity of his betrayal. Celebrimbor brought me Narya. He held it up and said, 'This is Narya Flameheart, the Ring of Fire. I made it to aid us in our labors, but now it may prove the means of our undoing. I fear I have brought a power into the world that is beyond my control. I give it into your hands, Shipwright. Guard it closely and keep it secret. Wield it, if at all, only in time of great need and with the utmost care and caution.' He hesitated then before handing it to me. 'It is strange,' he said. 'I have borne it but a few years, and yet I find it strangely difficult to surrender it to you. I both love and fear it. The Rings bestow great powers on their bearers, but they take something away as well. I feel that some part of myself has been absorbed into Narya, changing both it and me.' In the end of course, he did give it to me. I have now borne it many yén, and I know what he meant. Narya has become a part of me, and I a part of it. Is it not likely that the One has taken somewhat of its master's will and power? If anything of Sauron's malevolence survives, it is in that simple golden band. I should not willingly place it upon my hand."