32 — A STORM IS COMING
Pippin felt more jolted than he ever had in all his short life, and he'd been hoisted over the shoulder of an Uruk-hai who would never be called a smooth runner. It wasn't that Gandalf's horse Shadowfax wasn't a good one – in fact, Pippin would go so far as to call him one of the best – but the fact of the matter was that hobbits simply were not meant for gallivanting around on horseback like the Big Folk.
He'd still somehow managed to doze, though. Merry had always said he'd had three talents: eating, smoking and snoring. And Gandalf had wrapped his cloak around him so that he didn't get cold. For all the grumbling the wizard did, he was a kindly old man at heart.
He nudged Pippin fully awake now as dawn spilled over the grassy plain.
"Look, Pippin," he said over the thunder of Shadowfax's hooves. "The White City."
Pippin's mouth fell open as he beheld Minas Tirith. It seemed to grow out of the mountain, like some kind of shining, enormous, layered mushroom. The thought made his stomach rumble.
Shadowfax closed the distance in mere minutes, but they slowed as they approached the gates. A guard dressed in black and white strode out to meet them, and the gates swung shut behind him. Pippin noticed that he had only one hand.
"Hail, strangers!" he cried. "Why come you to the City in such haste?"
"Not so strange, if your memory is long enough and your eyes sharp enough," Gandalf replied. "I am Gandalf, and I come to warn your lord of danger."
"It is an interesting warning," the guard said, pointing to the East with his good hand. "But I'm afraid we'd already guessed at it ourselves."
Pippin swivelled in the saddle to look over to the mountains of Mordor and caught his breath when he saw a huge cloud of darkness billowing toward them.
"Oh dear," he murmured.
The guard's eyes alighted on him, and his brow furrowed. "What creature is this?" he asked.
Pippin sniffed haughtily, turning back to face the front. "This creature is intelligent enough to answer questions addressed to his face, if you please!" He heard Gandalf's quiet snort behind him, but he ignored it and went on. "I am a hobbit – or a halfling, if you like, though we rarely do things by halves. I was a companion to Boromir of Minas Tirith, before he – he fell in battle."
Gandalf made an irritated sound, and immediately Pippin knew he'd said something wrong. "Keep your words a little closer, Pippin. It is not from your mouth that the death of their captain should be heard."
Pippin opened his mouth to apologise, but was silenced by the flash of pure, agonised grief that passed over the guard's face. It disappeared just as quickly.
"It matters little, for that much had already been guessed," he said stiffly. "My name is Ingold. If you are who you say, I shall take you into the City."
Understanding broke out on Gandalf's face. "Ah," he said, the old twinkle back in his eye. "Ingold of the Guard. I have heard one or two things about you, from friends of mine."
Ingold stiffened, but merely knocked on the gate for it to be opened. "You… you travelled with Captain Boromir, yes?" he asked neutrally.
"Yes," Pippin answered, his courage returning swiftly as the conversation returned to something he understood. "And with his companion, Tíniel. She also hailed from this city. Do you know of her?"
At this, Ingold looked up sharply. "There are few who do not know of her," he said. Still, his voice was carefully neutral. "Do you know if she… is she…"
"She lived, last we saw her," Gandalf said, "and that was not long ago."
Ingold physically sagged with relief, and the smallest of smiles graced his grim face. "That is well," he said. "Perhaps she will return. I hope her path will lead back to Minas Tirith one day."
"Sooner than you think," Gandalf replied, "and with company. Keep your eyes on the road to Rohan, my friend."
"With company?" Ingold mused. "Any number will be welcome in these times, provided they are sturdy of heart and can wield a blade. The darkness hastens toward us."
"And so must we to the Steward!" Gandalf declared. Pippin knew that tone of his voice; he had tired if the conversation. Obligingly, Ingold increased his pace, and the poor hobbit had to trot alongside them to keep up. It was a long way up to the first circle.
They rode like the very wind. Aragorn's hair streamed back in the wind as they galloped South, and despite his fatigue, he revelled in the feeling of Roheryn beneath him. They had been parted too long, and he was grateful that Halbarad had thought to bring his old horse from the North.
To his left rode Elrohir and Elladan, sitting lightly in their saddles, exhilaration written beneath the ever-present calm on their Elvish faces. To his right, Gimli bounced along behind Legolas. Behind them were the thirty Dúnedain that Halbarad had brought, their grey cloaks billowing as they galloped.
And behind them…
Suffice to say, his walk on the Paths of the Dead had been successful. Never had he seen his people – nor indeed Gimli – so deeply fearful as they had been the hours they walked through the darkness. But he had called, and they had answered.
And now they followed.
"Pelargir!" Elladan and Elrohir called to him as one, pointing ahead. Aragorn squinted into the distance, but all he was able to make out was the faint glitter of the Anduin.
"What is upon the water?" Legolas called from his right. "I see specks… black specks!"
Aragorn held up a fist, and the Company – and whatever followed – thundered to a stop.
"The Corsairs!" he panted. "The specks are Corsairs." He wheeled Roheryn to face his men. And his ghosts, he supposed.
"Ready your blades!" he cried, the wind carrying his voice. "To you, the Oathbreakers, I say this: I will hold your promise fulfilled when this land is cleaned of the minions of Sauron! And here are the first! After me!"
The Company cried out with him, and they galloped down the long slopes to the Great River.
Unfortunately, the pirates saw them coming. The second they were within range, the great black-sailed drummonds had anchored and were launching cannon balls toward the riders. Most sailed over their heads and fell somewhere amid the host of wraiths, but Aragorn didn't pause to see what effect they had.
"Now!" he roared, and just as the rangers' horses splashed into the shallows of the Anduin, they reigned themselves in. No worldly horse could walk on water, but luckily for Aragorn, most of his army was decidedly otherworldly. The army of the Dead rushed past them, and the Rangers watched with morbid fascination as the ghosts did all the hard work for them.
Only when the last of the pirates' screams were drowned in the Anduin did the ghost army stop.
"Well, that was awful," Dessa said cheerfully.
Pippin sat bleakly outside the throne room. It had been awful. He knew he'd gone and made a mess of it, though Gandalf had told him he'd done as well as could be expected. But Gandalf had always had very low expectations of him, he reasoned.
He stood up quickly when a tall man dressed in the uniform of the guards approached him and bowed.
"Good morning to you," the man said. "Are you the Halfling they call Peregrin?"
"Hobbit, and Pippin," he corrected. "But yes, that is me. And who are you?"
"My name is Beregond," the man said. "I've been assigned to take you about and teach you all the passwords while I am off duty, since you are sworn to our Steward."
"Ah," Pippin replied, drooping a little. He had a feeling that he was going to regret that particular oath.
"Chin up, now," Beregond said kindly. "He is not so cruel a master, and in such times as these I do not think his notice will fall often on you. Come!"
Beregond was kind, and to Pippin's relief, their first stop was to the soldier's mess where they were each given apples and bread. They sat up on a wall overlooking the plains beneath the city, and as they ate, Beregond told Pippin all the passwords he needed to tell the guards if he wished to pass the gates between the circles.
"It seems strange to have passwords for so small a thing," Pippin remarked. "What of ordinary people? Must they stay forever in the circle they are born?"
Beregond laughed. "Perhaps they would, if this was our practice all the time. But we only require passwords in certain circumstances." He looked out East and his expression darkened. "Times like these."
Pippin followed his eyeline, and the apples turned sour in his stomach. The mountains of Mordor sat on the Eastern horizon, black and ominous. But what drew Pippin's gaze was the billowing black cloud he had seen earlier. As he watched, it blotted out the sun and made it seem as though dusk was falling, though it was only late morning.
He wondered where Merry was, and if he saw the darkness too.
"I will have to leave you soon, for my duty begins at midday," Beregond said quietly, watching the hobbit with a measure of pity. "But I will bring you to someone who will keep you company if you would like."
"Yes, please," Pippin replied gratefully. "I'm a stranger to everyone here but Gandalf, and he is too occupied with great matters to bother with the likes of me."
"Wizards are strange creatures," Beregond agreed, and they left the wall.
Beregond took Pippin to a courtyard where a large group of boys were playing some kind of game. He pointed to one of the taller ones who was sprinting around the courtyard with fervour.
"My son," he said, with a touch of pride. "He can show you wherever you wish to go." Then he raised his voice. "Bergil!"
The boy stopped in his tracks, his face lighting up at the sound of his father's voice. He jogged over to meet them, watching Pippin with interest.
"Hello, father!" he said, breathless and red-faced. "I thought you would be on duty by now."
"I shall be in a moment," Beregond replied. "But first I have found you a new friend. This is Pippin. He is new to Minas Tirith, and in the Guard. I want you to keep him company and take him where he wishes to go." Swiftly, he planted a kiss on top of the boy's head. "I will see you tonight."
With that, he turned and left. Bergil looked critically down at Pippin. "You seem small to be in the Guard," he said. "Why, I could easily knock you down if I tried."
Pippin fought a smile. "I wouldn't be so sure," he countered. "I've knocked down enough sturdy fighters in my time to be sure of myself. Anyhow, where I'm from, I am not considered small in the least."
Bergil looked unimpressed. "Well, how old are you then?" he asked. "You must be younger than me, for I am almost a foot taller. And I am nine years old."
Pippin smirked. "Well I am twenty-nine, so make of that what you will."
Bergil looked as though he couldn't decide whether to be impressed or disbelieving. In the end, he simply changed the subject. "I am to show you around, I suppose," he said. "Where do you wish to go?"
"I'd like to have another look East," Pippin said, his mind going back to the great cloud of darkness and his mood dropping. "Is there somewhere we could do that?"
"The best view is from the circle below us," Bergil said, "but I suppose we cannot go there. The gates are locked to everyone."
"Suppose again," Pippin said, "and take me to the gate!"
Bergil was suitably impressed when Pippin gave the password to the guard to let them into the lower circle, and seemed more willing to like the hobbit. They went to the vantage point and looked out at the gathering gloom.
"What a miserable sight," Pippin said, sighing despondently.
"What is that?" Bergil asked suddenly, peering down at the Pelennor Fields. Pippin followed his gaze and caught his breath.
In the distance, four horsemen were galloping toward the city as though they were being pursued by death itself.
"Oh! Open the gates! Open the gates!" Bergil cried. Far below them, in the seventh circle, Pippin saw that it was being done.
"Who are they?" he asked. "And what are they trying to run from?"
"It is Captain Faramir and his men, without a doubt," Bergil said urgently. "Coming back from Cair Andros. But as for what they are escaping – oh."
He was cut off as a wave of distant dread suddenly washed over them. Pippin frowned as fear spiked through him. He remembered this feeling, though he couldn't quite place it…
At that moment, the black clouds parted and the beast descended.
"A Black Rider!" Pippin exclaimed in horror. Its steed flapped its huge wings, and with terrifying speed, it dove toward the riders. Then, like crows toward carrion, four more Nazgûl dropped out of the clouds after it.
"They're not going to make it," Bergil realised, his young voice despairing. "They aren't close enough."
"They might," Pippin said desperately, his eyes on the riders. One of them seemed to have succumbed to the despair radiating from the five quickly gaining Nazgûl above him, and his horse had slowed to a mere walk. One of the galloping horses wheeled and went back for him.
"That is the Captain," Bergil breathed. "He will never leave a man behind."
They were doomed, Pippin thought. Faramir grabbed the reigns of the walking horse and roused it and its rider back into a gallop. But they were too late; the Black Rider was almost upon them…
"There is Gandalf!" Bergil cried, and Pippin looked down to see a white rider on a white horse, galloping out to meet the enemy. He raised his staff, and it seemed to catch the last ray of sunlight and throw it back up like a spear to meet the Nazgûl. They shrieked, the sound sending shivers down Pippin's spine. They wheeled in the air like vultures, and one by one, they retreated back into the black cloud.
Bergil let out a whoop and leapt from his seat, pumping his fist into the air. "Victory to the White City!" he bellowed.
"Who can say for how long," Pippin said grimly.
Bergil shrugged, unconcerned. "The Captain is back now, so things are looking up," he said with certainty. "Come with me, and perhaps we may catch him riding up to the Tower!"
Aragorn stood at the prow of one of the ships. They were making good time up the Anduin, but he still feared they would be too late. It was good that they'd prevented the Corsairs from ravaging South Gondor, but to miss the battle… Halbarad seemed to sense his unrest.
"At the very least, we have overcome the Corsair fleet," he reassured. "That is one less enemy Gondor has to fight."
Aragorn smiled tightly. "I know," he said. "But I will be happier when we get back."
"When you get back… into the arms of your beloved?" Halbarad suggested.
Aragorn gave him a long look. "No beloved waits for me in Minas Tirith."
"I see," Halbarad returned. "Does that mean she is free for the taking? For she's an impressive woman, and not ugly either."
"Can we leave it be?"
"I'm just saying, if you don't want her, someone else might. So you'd best lay claim."
"I haven't seen you for months, Halbarad, and the first opportunity we have to talk you've decided to lecture me on women."
"No one was ever in need of a good lecture on the subject more than you, my friend," Halbarad said with a grin. "Now, as for your choice in women: Arwen was strange enough, but I never imagined you'd go for a Khandi warlord. Or war-lady?"
"Warlord isn't the word I'd use," Aragorn said drily.
"So you admit it!" Halbarad said victoriously. "Not that everyone doesn't know already. The way you stare at her… and when you two disappeared into her tent the other night to talk –"
Aragorn was saved from replying by a breathless Dessa.
"Would you two pay attention for once?" she said. "While your mothers' meeting was going on, we are being pursued by a Corsair."
Aragorn and Halbarad immediately turned to scan the river behind them. Sure enough, there was a black-sailed drommond quickly gaining on them.
"Easy," Aragorn said. "We send the ghosts to clean them up, and maintain our route."
"Not so simple," Dessa said. "They're flying a white flag. They want to parley."
Aragorn ground his teeth at the delay. "Fine," he said shortly. "I'll speak with them. And this had better be quick, or Valar have mercy on them all."
The pirates were a curious lot. They certainly looked like pirates; their clothes were worn and patched, they were armed to the teeth and their smell was questionable, to put it kindly. But while the other ships had been organised according to race or tribe, this one seemed to be a mixture of many. Men with black skin, white skin and all shades between manned the ship. And on the hull was painted an Elvish name: the Haedannen.
"Ahoy!" cried one of them as Aragorn's ship drew alongside it. The pirate that spoke had skin as black as coal, and a faded yellow cloth tied around his head. "If you don't mind me asking, who are you?"
Aragorn frowned slightly, but gave no other sign that the odd question threw him off. "You are not the one to be asking questions here," he said. "Who are you, pirate?"
The man grinned, showing a row of surprisingly white teeth. "You could be a pirate yourself with those manners! I am Harûk, captain of the Haedannen." Most of the pirate crew snorted at this statement, and Harûk scowled. A second man, perhaps from Near Harad, stepped forward.
"We are in fact without our captain for the moment," he said. "I am Mahaya. We are not pirates, but we sailed in pursuit of the fleet that you appear to have defeated."
"A single boat sailing in pursuit of an entire fleet?" Aragorn said disbelievingly. "Unlikely."
"Maybe," Harûk drawled. "But also unlikely is the fact that you fought off said entire fleet with an army of green floaty things."
Aragorn glanced behind him at the ghosts. He supposed they had a point.
"We heard stories," the one called Mahaya pressed on, annoyed by his friend's lack of seriousness. "Stories of someone called the Queen of the East." The crew behind him perked up at this, and Aragorn hesitated.
"What about her?"
"We heard she dresses in red, and wields a curved sword," Harûk said. "If the rumours are true, and this Queen of the East exists…" the grin found its way back onto his face.
"Whoever she is, she resembles a friend of ours," Mahaya said. "We've come to find her, and help her. Do you know where she is?"
They had cheered for Faramir as he rode up the cobbled road to the top of the city. Pippin had caught a glimpse of a face that looked startlingly like Boromir's, and it had shaken him. But in the hours since then, they had milled around with little to do.
That is, until the next cry came from the walls. "The Outlanders are here!"
"Oh!" Bergil said, his face lighting up again. "That is good news! Come, let us watch them march in!"
Pippin had followed him back to their spot, and they had watched as a train of small armies marched up from the South.
'Forlong! Brave heart!' Pippin heard, and he craned his neck to see a man of impressive girth leading an army of two hundred swarthy men.
'That's old Forlong the Fat, lord of Lossanarch,' Bergil said desolately. 'We were hoping for more than ten times that number.'
'There has been word of an enemy fleet taking the Anduin,' an old man beside Pippin said to Bergil. 'Forlong must leave someone behind to defend his land.'
It seemed that the rest of the lords had done likewise, bringing only a tithe of their strength. There were three hundred from the Ringló Vale with their lord Dervorin, five hundred bowmen from the uplands of Morthond behind Duinhir and his sons, a few hastily assembled and badly equipped villagers from the household of Golasgil, a few grim hillmen from Lamedon, and a hundred fishermen from Ethir. Bergil pointed out his two favourites: Hirluin the Fair of Pinnath Gelin, followed by three hundred green-clad soldiers, and Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, who led a company of knights and seven hundred foot-soldiers, all tall and dark-haired.
It seemed that this lot was the last, and at that, Bergil's face fell a little.
"Less than three thousand all told," he said. "That is less than we hoped for, and even less than we need."
Pippin's spirits sank as well. He had hoped fervently that Rohan would send a number to help them, but he knew it was unlikely so soon after their battle at the Hornburg.
"Oh well," he said with false brightness. "We shall simply make do with what we have."
They turned away from the wall, but just as they did, another cry went up. Bergil looked over his shoulder and squinted. "What is that in the distance?" he said.
They returned to the wall, and Pippin narrowed his eyes to try and see better. There was something – or someone – coming up the road from Rohan.
"Could it be the Riders after all?" Bergil said, the excitement back in a flash. "But no – this lot is on foot, and certainly not wearing green."
"Can you hear that sound?" Pippin asked him.
The wind swept across the fields and into their faces, bringing with it the faint sound of a great number of voices.
"Is that singing?" Bergil asked. "Surely not. Who sings in such a way?"
"And who are they?" Pippin wondered.
It was agony to wait while the great host crept nearer. As time passed, the sound of singing grew louder. It was a tune that neither of them recognised, in words that they didn't know, but as they listened to it, excitement and determination crept into their hearts.
"Why, I feel as if I could march right into Mordor myself!" Pippin exclaimed, drawing his short sword.
"A battle song," Bergil agreed with equal enthusiasm. "Look how many of them there are! Thousands and thousands!"
They waited with growing impatience. The song grew louder and more invigorating, and the army drew closer. It wasn't until guards began running past them, down to the lower levels, that they realised something was wrong.
"Bergil!' came a voice, and Pippin looked up to see a woman running toward them.
"Mama!" he said. "What is happening?"
The woman eyed Pippin, but merely nodded at him. "They say that this is the first of the attacks," she said, her voice level. "That army is not of Gondor, Bergil, but the East. It has begun."
"And father?"
"He will go to fight them if he is ordered, of course," she said, this time her voice betraying a little more emotion. "That is his duty. But come, away from the walls! We are going home." Her eyes went back to Pippin. "You can bring your friend if you like."
Bergil dug his heels in. "Please, Mama, let us watch a little longer. They are not so near yet! Please?"
The woman hesitated, and Pippin could see that she herself was curious to see the enemy that her husband would soon face.
"Fine," she said shortly. "But the second I tell you to go, you must go." She turned to Pippin and bowed with her hand to her heart, as was the way in Gondor. "I am Anita," she said.
"Pippin," he returned, and they all turned to watch the army approach.
The walls were armed like she had never seen them before. Repairs and reinforcements had been made, and every inch of them was covered in archers. Tíniel felt rather than saw that most of them were pointed at her.
She held up a fist, and behind her the tribe stopped their march. For a moment, she allowed them to continue their song. With Denethor, every action carried meaning, and she wanted this song to show that she wasn't afraid. But after a moment, she raised her hand again, and silence fell.
She sat on her horse directly before the gates of Minas Tirith. About twenty yards behind her, Tcharum and Petakh were mounted too. And behind them, on foot, were seven thousand Maruvikh.
She let the silence continue, not wanting to be the one to speak first. She knew that she had to tread carefully here, and her heart beat quickly.
But her fears turned out to be unfounded.
"Who goes there?" came a cry from the wall at last. Tíniel scanned it until she saw who spoke, and she grinned and unwound her vadi.
"Ingold!" she yelled back. "Do you forget me so easily?" She pushed the vadi off her head so he could see her fully, and she saw his eyes widen. Whispers rippled across the wall as the men began to recognise her, and a few lowered their crossbows.
"Tíniel?" he called back. She could hear the note of gladness in his voice that he was trying to cover. "I heard you were coming, and I scarcely believed it. But who comes with you?"
"My army," she replied. "We come in peace, so you can lower your weapons." She raised her voice so more could hear. "Our people have long been enemies, it is true. But the evil we face now is an Enemy to all things that walk freely in Middle-earth. I have come with my people to defend this city from the onslaught that surely comes from the East. Will you have me?"
There were cheers of approval along the wall, and she saw Ingold hide a smile.
"That is not our decision to make," he said, "but our lord's. He will wish to speak with you."
"Then may he speak with haste," Tíniel replied. The gates jolted open a fraction, and the rest of the crossbows were lowered. Tíniel turned and cantered back to Tcharum and Petakh.
"Do you hear those cheers?" she said. "They're for us."
"Desperate times, if Gondorians are cheering for the Maruvikh on their doorstep," Petakh said.
Tíniel smiled wryly. "Desperate times, if the Maruvikh run to Minas Tirith for shelter."
"So they'll let us in?" Tcharum asked, an edge of anxiety to his voice.
"I must speak to their Khondyë to gain us entry. But the people are on our side, that is sure."
"What are our chances?" Tcharum asked.
She hesitated. "I cannot say. The Steward is a strange man. But he would be a fool to turn away our help at this stage."
"We will make do," Petakh said grimly.
"I want you both to come with me," she said. "I will leave Vagura in charge down here, and Mugura to translate if they need."
Tcharum took a deep breath. "Let's do this," he said.
They dismounted and went in through the great gates. Ingold was waiting on the other side, and Tíniel immediately went over to him. He wrapped her in a tight hug.
"By the stars, girl, I missed you more than I thought I would," he said so that only she could hear. "Is it true? About Boromir?"
She tightened her hold on him slightly. "Later," she whispered back. "We will speak of it later."
He nodded and let her go. She stepped back, only to be embraced by Beregond.
"About time you returned," he said, almost lifting her off the ground before letting her go. "Anita has been wild with worry."
She laughed. "She never needs to worry about me," she joked. "I steer clear of all trouble."
He snorted, and she turned to see who else was there. "Targon! How are you?"
The soldier stepped forward and clasped her hand, grinning. "Well enough, and better now you and your lot are here! We've heard all kinds of things about what you've been doing while you went away. You've made quite a name for yourself!"
"And you, Hirgon, how is your boy?"
"He joined the Guard after all, lady," the man replied, shaking his head ruefully. "You put too many ideas in his head."
"I blame you entirely," she grinned, and surveyed the small crowd before her. "Well, it's good to be back. I would greet you all, if I had enough hands and enough time, but I don't. The Steward hasn't been known to wait!"
There was general laughter, and Ingold gestured up the road. "After you, my lady."
They made their way quickly up the road. The news that the army was there to help rather than attack had preceded them, and people began emerging from their houses, doors and windows being flung open.
The cheers began in the second circle and persisted all the way to the first. Tíniel heard her name being called, and shouts of "Hail the Good Southron!" and "Hail the Queen from the East!"
She couldn't help a wry smile creeping onto her face. Denethor couldn't turn her away now without angering his people. She had their support – and not only that, but they liked her. This was going to be easier than she'd thought.
...but nothing is ever easy when it comes to that ratbag of a Steward, is it? Stay tuned for the next chapter, which currently has so much dialogue that it's called 'Mad Chats'. Hopefully I can come up with a better title than that by the time it goes out.
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EXTRA AUTHOR'S NOTE: I am writing to you in the midst of a bushfire crisis. The fires I mentioned before have grown cataclysmically worse, and for a country that is already running out of water, they're devastating. People are dying while they try to defend their homes, and a day ago in our capitol city, the first person died due to the hazardous air quality.
I thrust this information on you, my poor unwitting readers, because I don't know what to do except tell people. If I tell you, then at least one more person in the world knows what's happening. Otherwise I sit here, waiting to burn.
Fire conditions are only worsening, along with high winds and temperatures in the 40s. If you don't get another update for a while, it's because the fires have hit and I've lost power and internet. I hope it won't come to that, but be aware.
And on that bummer of a note, I leave you. Think of us!
S