Isildur Read online

  "Men of the Southlands! Cheer not for me. All praise and honor should go unto you. I fight to recover my own country and to avenge wrongs done to me personally. But you, who are leaving your peaceful homes and your loved ones to fight with me in my cause, I salute you!" Again the court resounded with cheers.

  "You all know whom we strive against. I would have you know more clearly why. The Dark Lord has been an enemy to Men since he was but a servant of Morgoth the Damned, source of all the evil in Middle-earth. With all the strength and powers of all the free peoples of the West, and with great and irreparable loss, Morgoth was at last overthrown and the Elder Days of the world came to an end. The people of those times thought that evil was destroyed forever, root and branch, and they declared that a New Age had begun, free of the woes of the Old. It was a New Age, bright with hope and promise of peace, but it was also sadder, less innocent. All knew then that the Elves, the Firstborn that created so much beauty in the world, would be passing from it anon, that the wonders of the world were but passing, mortal things. Still, they did have peace, and the world was green and joyous again, as had not been for many a long year while Morgoth ruled. And yet a shadow remained, unmarked and unknown to all but the Wise.

  "Yes, Morgoth was cast out, but his servant Sauron had escaped the ruin of Thangorodrim. He fled into exile in the East and lay there long, nursing his hatred and his resentment, plotting his revenge. He perfected the arts taught him by his master of old, and he dabbled in things only the Valar should attempt. He created races that never walked in the songs of the Valar at the Beginning: the orcs, and the trolls, and other wights that should never have been.

  "When he deemed that his strength was sufficient, he arose again, and openly made war on the West. He attacked and destroyed Eregion, fairest of all the Elf-kingdoms; he despoiled the fair cities of Rhûn; he conquered the Uialedain kingdoms of men and enslaved their kings to his will, and he drew Harad into his realm. He seduced the mighty kings of Númenor and brought about the downfall of that great land, causing the deaths of untold thousands.

  "He is a mighty foe. We do not even know what manner of wight he is. He is neither Man nor Elf, but a creature wholly evil, intent on the destruction of all that is good and free and fair. He does not die, but he can be crushed and his power broken, or so the Wise tell us. The armed might of Gondor and Arnor, with the aid of our Elvish brothers, has succeeded in invading the Black Land and even encircling him there in his fortress of Barad-dûr. But his reach is yet long. The Corsairs of Umbar serve his purposes, and the cruel Haradrim work his will when they attack their neighbors. His evil is at work even here in the Southlands, for your neighbors of the mountains have become his pawns. The Eredrim have turned their backs on their friends of old and refused us their aid."

  An angry murmur arose. Most had not heard these tidings yet. One captain standing nearby called out. "But did they not swear fealty to you and yours at Erech long years ago? For such is the tale that is told."

  Isildur nodded grimly. "Aye, they swore, but their word is as dust in the wind. They have sold their honor to the Dark Lord."

  Then many men cried out in anger. "They are traitors. We should not leave them at our backs. Let us assail them in their mountain fastnesses before we set out. They dishonor all of us in the south. We shall teach them the price of treachery!"

  "No!" cried Isildur, and his voice was strong and commanding, echoing from the walls and drowning out all other voices. "Heed not the Eredrim. They serve us not, but they shall do us no more harm. They will hide in their deep places and never again come forth to trouble our councils, unless it be to fulfill their oath at last. I have laid a doom upon them that may not be broken. They are lost to themselves and the world!"

  Then did the men look with wonder on the king, for they saw that his eyes pierced regions unknown to lesser men, and he wielded weapons beyond their ken, powers learned in far lands that are now no more. Many shuddered at the cold, unforgiving tone in his voice, and counted themselves fortunate they had willingly answered his call.

  "No, we march not north against the Eredrim," he shouted, "but east, against the very source of the evil that threatens us. First we go to Pelargir to join with other allies there, then on to Osgiliath, where yet more friends will join us. There, on Midyear's Day, will be held a great council of many peoples." He swept out his blade and held it ringing above his head.

  "There shall an army be assembled that will shake even the Black Throne itself. Nay, we shall even throw it down and crush it into dust!"

  And the men brandished their weapons and roared their approval. "Isildur!" they cried, "Isildur, for Gondor and the South!"

  Chapter Five

  Pelargir

  Throughout the following day the army set about preparing arms and equipment and organizing the chains of command. The camp was a hive of activity. Everywhere people were hurrying about bearing supplies. Guthmar provided huge wains drawn by teams of oxen, and the good people of Linhir filled them with grain and fruit and salted meats. Finally all was done and the men fell on their cots in exhaustion.

  They had slept but a few hours when the horns rang out in the early morning air. By the first hour after dawn, Ohtar raised the standard beside the king and the host set off to the cheers of the townspeople on the walls. They were a much larger company now, a true army at last. Behind the king's company rode the knights of Ithilien, followed by the lancers of Calenardhon and Angrenost. Then came the first of the infantry: the handful of seamen and fishermen of Anglond and the few grim survivors of Ethir Lefnui with their banner of azure and sable forever at half staff. Then came a large body of mounted hill men from Lamedon with Ingold at their head, and behind them strode a long column under the colors of Dor-en-ernil and even far Belfalas, away in the south. Next marched the farmers and herdsmen and weavers and vintners of Lebennin, thousands strong. Finally a long train of supply wains pulled by oxen joined the column, now winding away eastward towards Pelargir.

  The first day they covered no great distance, for many of the new foot soldiers were unused to long journeys. They held a slow and steady pace and had covered but a dozen miles by dark. They camped where they had halted, in a long line of tents down the center of the road, for the land was grown fenny and concealed many treacherous bogs. Each company built fires and the supply wains creaked slowly up the line, passing out the first night's dinner. Late it was before they pulled into the camp of the Ithilien knights in the vanguard, and later still before the teamsters had their animals fed and hobbled and could seek out their own dinner and rest.

  The army travelled thus through low hills and across wide fields dotted with wildflowers all that day and part of the next, then the road began gradually climbing until they were winding among tall downs. Then in the tenth hour of the day as their shadows were lengthening before them, they crested a hill and there below them lay the city of Pelargir gleaming in the westering sun.

  It was a city of great beauty, for it crowned a high domed hill set between two large rivers. It was ringed with a stout wall studded with many towers, and it was built of a pale rose granite that caught the light and sent back glints and sparks to the eye, as if stars twinkled within the stone. The city within the walls was lofty and well-proportioned. Many houses bore flat roofs where women could be seen at their work under parti-colored awnings. Here and there rose high-arched domes of white limestone or gilded wood. And from the very heart of the city, at the crest of the hill rose a tall slim tower with a conical roof and a gallery beneath, built all of sky-blue marble quarried high in the Ered Nimrais and hauled with much labor on sledges and barges to the city.

  A great gate yawned in the wall to the southwest and a broad avenue led down to the quays. Long river barges lay at the docks beside broad-beamed merchantmen and swift coastal luggers from a dozen ports. But towering over all the other craft were the white masts of the long ships of the fleet of Pelargir, and their sails were the color of deep waters.

 
The icy river Sirith tumbled down from the snowfields of the Ered Nimrais and curled about the western walls of Pelargir like a protective arm. Thence it flowed under a broad triple-arched bridge with strong towers at either end, the only point below the mountains where a man might cross the Sirith in any safety. The river, as if conquered at last, then yielded its blue waters to the brown flood of the mighty Anduin, greatest of all rivers of Middle-earth, for the last miles to the sea.

  The men of Pelargir built and fortified that bridge a thousand years ago, and it had never been unguarded since that day, for it was the only land route into the south of Anórien. Because Pelargir guarded both this bridge and the great river Anduin itself, it was known throughout Gondor as the Gate of the South. It was a title of which the men of Pelargir were justly proud, for in all those centuries no enemy had ever succeeded in passing Pelargir.

  As the van started down the hill toward the bridge, a horseman burst from the nearest bridge tower and rode hard to meet them. As he approached, they could see he wore jet black armor and a tall helm with a plume of peacock blue that streamed behind him as he thundered up the slope in a cloud of dust. He was riding hard and seemed so resolute and fierce that some began to doubt his intentions, but Isildur merely drew up Fleetfoot and awaited his arrival.

  The dark horseman drew up before the king so suddenly that his horse reared and neighed, a ghostly shadow in the cloud of dust that now surrounded him. The knight leaped nimbly to the ground and swept off his helmet. He was a young man with a strong and noble face, and his eyes gleamed with pride.

  "Isildur my king," he cried with a stately bow. "I have the honor to welcome you to Pelargir in the name of Barathor, Lord of Pelargir and Keeper of the Gate of the South. I am Duitirith, his son and heir."

  Isildur greeted him saying, "We thank you, Duitirith, son of Barathor. We have met before, though you would not remember it. The last time we were in your father's court, you were but a child on your father's lap."

  Duitirith blushed. "Too many years have passed since last you honored us, Sire," he said. "As you see, I have grown to manhood in your absence. And yet I do indeed remember you, Sire, for it was the sight of you and your kind words that have stood always as my model and my inspiration."

  Isildur's laugh rang out. "Is that so? Well, young Duitirith, your fair speech complements your appearance and bearing. I am pleased to see you again and to find you grown tall and straight. Lead us now to your father that we may speak with him."

  Duitirith bowed low. "It is my honor as well as my pleasure, Sire, for the city is prepared to greet you and bid you welcome." So saying, he mounted and rode with them down to the bridge. The garrison there had lined both sides of the bridge and stood now at attention, their arms held aloft and their panoply gleaming in the setting sun. A trumpet sounded high above their heads and the banners of Gondor and Pelargir broke from every tower in the city. As they cantered over the span, Isildur turned to his guide.

  "Duitirith. Your name means Guardian of the River in the Eldarin tongue. Are you then commander of this garrison, charged with the keeping of this bridge?"

  Duitirith laughed. "I am indeed charged with that honor, Sire, and a good company they are. I chose and trained each one myself. But my name does not refer to the Sirith, but to Anduin himself. One day I shall rule Pelargir and guard the Great River for Gondor. You may be assured, Sire, that no enemy shall ever pass this city when I wear the Lord's Ring."

  "I doubt it not," smiled Isildur, watching the eager, intent faces of Duitirith's men, now lining the parapet with their spears arching above the road. Then they came to the gates of the city, but the gates were yet closed. The column halted. A voice called down from the parapets above the gate.

  "You are come to Pelargir upon Anduin. State your name and your land and the name of the lord you serve." Duitirith turned to the king. "We mean no disrespect, Sire. We know well who you are. But that is the traditional gate challenge and it has been asked of every traveller to cross this bridge for over a thousand years. None may enter without replying satisfactorily to the challenge."

  "We are not offended, good Duitirith. It pleases us to see the Gate of the South guarded yet against our enemies. We know the challenge well. I answered it first when my people arrived at these quays out of storm and tumult at the downfall of Númenor." He stood in his stirrups and called out in his booming clear voice.

  "I am called Isildur Elendilson of Gondor and I serve my liege, Elendil, High King of the Realms in Exile."

  "You are then a friend of this city," cried the unseen voice. "Enter in peace, Isildur of Gondor." The great gates creaked slowly open and a tall black portcullis rattled up into the shadows above the door. A group of knights in the livery of the Lord of Pelargir waited beyond.

  "These men will escort you to the Blue Tower, Sire," said Duitirith. "I must excuse myself, for I may not leave my post until I am relieved. I shall see you at dinner. Farewell and welcome again." He wheeled his horse to return to his post at the bridge.

  Trumpets rang out again, and Isildur and his army rode into the city amid the cheers of thousands of people. They were dressed in every bright color and were very fair to look upon. Petals of rose and elanor fluttered down on the men from the balconies and rooftops, while minstrels strummed citterns and lutes and winded their pipes. The people's faces were shining with joy and wonder as they gazed upon their king, for they loved him well. Often in the old days before the war Isildur would board the ferry to visit Pelargir and walk among them with his open countenance and his great rolling laugh. Few of these people had ever visited far-off Osgiliath, and Isildur had been to them the symbol of the royal might of Gondor. Now they welcomed him as a friend returning after a long absence, and they felt his gladness too.

  As the long column wended through the streets of the city the infectious mood of gaiety began to spread among the soldiers and the long grim march turned into a joyous parade. From somewhere in the ranks a deep baritone voice burst into song and soon others joined in, blending their voices of many lands in an ancient song of homecoming. The words were in the ancestral tongue of these people of the Southlands, and they spoke of the days before the coming among them of the people of the West. The people of the city joined in joyfully. The Dúnedain among the host, though they could understand but few of the words, felt their hearts lifted at the sound of tens of thousands of voices raised in welcome. The Uialedain tongue is at its most beautiful in lyric song and poetry, and the people's voices blended as in a choir.

  And so they came at last in song to the Blue Tower in the heart of the city. There they were ushered into the great court where sat Barathor, Lord of Pelargir. He sat in a tall throne fashioned after the outspread wings of a sea bird, as if the seat were about to take flight. It was set with uncountable tiles and stones, each a different shade of blue. The floor too was of blue mosaic, with wide bands of gold radiating from the central dais. Barathor wore a long cloak of white feathers and on his hand was a ring of mithril, the Lord's Ring. His hair was gray and his face lined, but his back was still straight as a lance and his eyes clear. He rose as Isildur entered and went to greet him.

  "Welcome, Isildur, my king and my friend."

  Isildur clasped arms with him. "So, Barathor, we meet again as of old, though the world has changed much since last we feasted together in your hall."

  "Aye, the world has changed, but you have not, my liege. Ten years' leaves have withered and fallen, but you look just as you did then. It is your royal blood. The heirs of Elros have ever been a long-lived line."

  At that moment a striking woman with flaming red hair appeared and came to Barathor's side. He took her hand and turned to Isildur. "I hope you have not forgotten my lady?"

  Isildur smiled at her. "How could I forget the lovely Heleth? I have spoken with your son, lady, and his bearing and countenance are a compliment to you."

  She smiled. "You are kind, Isildur King. We are indeed proud of him."

  "But
come," said Barathor. "You must be tired. First you must bathe and rest. Then tonight we shall sit at board together and it will be again as it was."

  Isildur called to his squire. "Come, Ohtar, a bath calls us. Let us scrub the soil of Lebennin from our limbs."

  Later, washed and dressed in fresh garments, they dined with Barathor and his family. It was a noble feast, full welcome after the weary months of marching. When at last the groaning boards were cleared, they sat and sipped good wine and listened to the strains of music. There sang the lute and the recorder, sweet and pure, soothing to their hearts. Barathor called for Isildur's cup to be refilled.

  "My king," he said. "you march with a great army at your back and glad we are to see the banners of our allies before our walls in these troubled times. But I fear your errand is not the defense of Pelargir. Whither are you bound?"

  Isildur met Barathor's level gaze. "We march to Osgiliath to meet with our allies the Elves. There will be assembled a host so mighty that the servants of evil shall quail before it. Then shall Ithilien be freed at last, and I shall once more sit in the high seat of Minas Ithil."

  "Such is our wish also, my king," said Barathor. "Nothing would gladden our hearts more than to see you restored to your own and the fields of Ithilien swept clean of the foul orcs. They are a sore trial to us. Our villages near the river are often raided by roving bands of orcs from South Ithilien, but they have done their foul deeds and crawled back to their holes before we can come against them.

  "It is maddening," exclaimed Duitirith. "We could stop them if we could man all the old guard posts along the banks of Anduin as of old. But we dare not spare the men from the fleet. We are caught between two evils and cannot turn all our forces against either. Those blackguard Corsairs of Umbar sail forth each year to harry our fishing villages and ships. We never know where they're going to strike next. They have pillaged and murdered in dozens of our smaller ports over the years. Our ships patrol the coast, but it is rare that we get sight of them and rarer still that we can lay alongside them. The Corsairs sail smaller ships, no more than two hundred men in each, but they are well-handled and devilish fast. We chase them, but they lay closer to the wind than our ships. It drives us mad, watching them sail away, knowing they are carrying our people into slavery.