CHAPTER III
"Ancestral voices prophesying war."
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
PART 1
The hooded rider entered Arndor's capital city for the first time in six months. Dirty and tired from extensive traveling, he desperately wished to stop at one of the many inns within the city, unfortunately he was here on business. Angmar, an Orc stronghold in the north since the Lord of Nazgul's abandonment, was empty. Although the discovery might seem like a blessing, it was in fact quite disturbing. For if the Orcs were not in Angmar, one must ask where they were and why they had left.
Consequently, he'd come to Tharbad to inform the King.
Tharbad had been Arndor's capitol since Fornost'si destruction in III 1974. Built on the south side of Greyflood River long before Elendil's death, the great metropolis was situated almost in the center of the Kingdom. Its balustrade rose just to the east side of the North-South Roadii. Greyflood was widened and the banks elevated to allow for huge stone docks and shipping berths. The project proved far more beneficial however, when the spring after the Fell Winteriii of III 2911 nearly flooded the city. The palace was built on the northern side of Greyflood before it met with the Hoarwell River. Ensconced between the two rivers, with the Misty Mountains at its back, the stronghold was virtually impenetrable.
Cloaked in a dark brown mantle and neutral colored tunic, leggings, and boots, Strider slowly made his way down Tharbad's crowded thoroughfare. Buildings of all shapes and sizes lined both sides of the busy street. Trees and hedges grew before them and within plazas, shielding against sunlight and capturing rainwater before it had the chance to gather. At each intersection along the main road, venders offered goods of every variety. From freshly baked pastries to Anorien forged swords, anything could be bought in the thriving harbor.
In the distance, he could hear the soft echo of the noon bells from the western belfry. The previous night's rainstorm produced drops of glistening sunlight on the far-off Library's domed roof. And the college's gleaming white towers rose above all else. Deeper within the city, far from the highway, homes flourished among gardens and parks. The capitol's constant increase in population had forced its growth across the road, so that rather than pack the original confines, they simply expanded.
At last, Mandos Yanwe'siv stone fore-pillars came into view. The white marble columns rose into the sky on both sides of the drawbridge. Of equal length and width, two massive overpasses spanned Greyflood's wide body too meet in the middle. On either side of the canal stood two guardhouses, each contained several centuries and a winch capable of raising the dual bridges. Thick chains ran from the pulleys up through the columns and down toward the front of each bridge. These allowed the great structures to be raised and lowered at will. It was one of two entrances to the Palace, which was located on the opposite side of the river.
A great stone causeway stretched from the North-South Road all the way to the foot of the Dwarven made bridge. It began once more on the other side of Greyflood and ran beneath the daunting battlements lining the river's bank. The twenty-foot high rampart - a mere two meters from the riverbank - was riddled with long, thin embrasures. Within the arched opening beneath the wall, swung a huge pair of metal-framed gates.
Stopping before the century on the city-side of the bridge, Strider pulled a small medallion from his tunic. On one side, gleamed a silver scepter, while the other side revealed an elaborate tree. It was the symbol of the Rangers, Arndor's protectors. They traveled far and wide: scouting the borders, protecting the provinces, and reporting transgressions. They were the King's justice; thus it did not matter to them whether the offender was a mere thrall or of noble blood. For the most part, the Rangers were incorruptible.
Leaning down to allow the century a better glimpse of the symbol, Strider patiently awaited leave to enter. His name and pass-code were sternly demanded. Briskly returning to the guard post, the soldier checked a thick, leather-bound registry for confirmation. With a negligent wave of his hand, the guard passed him through then turned his attention to the next person awaiting admittance.
Strider calmly rode his charcoal stallion into the cobbled courtyard beyond the mammoth fortification. The horse canted past the circular, bubbling fountain and toward the stables on the western side of the quad. Leaping from his mount's back, he tossed the reigns to the ostler.
Rather than cross the courtyard to the main entrance, Strider slipped to the back of the stable. His pace was slow due to the hay strewn about the brick-covered floor. The double doors at the back of the livery hung open, revealing a wide swath of green. He quickly strode across the grassy field, his steps faltering only slightly as he navigated around horse droppings. Coming to a single door sunken within the castle wall, he gave three consecutive knocks. When a small window slid open at eye level, Strider once more presented his medallion.
With a loud thump and a rattle of keys, the heavy door was slowly pulled open. The Ranger hurried past the guards and made his way through the west-wing of the palace. His cloak billowed behind him as his soft leather boots tapped against the ceramic tiled floor. People stepped aside quickly, some barely avoiding his advancing form.
Rounding a corner, Strider stopped before a large oak desk. Behind the gold-varnished wood sat a plump secretary. The man's small, pig-like eyes narrowed in disapproval at the sight of the sword sheathed at the Ranger's hip. As his thin, pale lips parted, Strider pulled his medallion from the folds of his clothing. Jowls quivering, the secretary's mouth snapped shut. One stubby fingered hand waved the Ranger down the corridor.
The anteroom leading to the King's office resembled a short hall. On either side of the passage, six wing-backed, cushioned chairs lined the walls. Huge, ornate tapestries hung behind them. Vibrant colors and breath-taking realism, combined to create magnificent representations of nature, making the area appear larger than it actually was.
Strider came to an abrupt stop when he noticed the gray robed figure exiting the door at the opposite end of the hall. Slamming the large door closed, the tall man stalked toward him. Atop his head rested a pointed, wide-brimmed hat. It did little to obscure the long gnarled hair traveling down his back and over his shoulders. At which point it combined with the equally unkempt beard.
"Gandalf!" Strider exclaimed. Quickly marching toward the older man, he threw back his hood. "What are you doing here?"
"I had an audience with your father. And you..." The old wizard hugged the Ranger fondly. "I was told you were in the north, Aragorn."
"Orcs are gathering in force, old friend." Aragorn dropped into one of the large chairs. "They have abandoned Angmar and traveled I know not where."
"Mordor!" Gandalf snarled.
"What?" The Ranger's brow furrowed. "Why would they converge on that god-forsaken land?"
"Because the Dark Lord has woken, my boy."
Aragorn laughed. "Sauron? He's just a fairytale, like Elves or... or giant Eagles."
Straightening to his full height, the old wizard glared down at the Ranger. Fire flashed in his gray eyes. The very air seemed to darken ominously.
"He is as real as you or I," Gandalf growled. "Do you think me just a bedtime story, boy?"
Aragorn swallowed nervously. He'd never seen the older man so enraged. Shaking his head, he hurriedly appeased, "No, of course not. I... I just..."
"Men live such short, self-absorbed lives." The mage grumbled as though it were a curse. Turning away, he began pacing the hall. "The King will not see reason either. Sauron is gathering his army and all we do is sit and talk."
"Surely my father has informed the Council of your warning?" Aragorn questioned the wizard.
"He listens to Sarumon's counsel." The old wizard scowled. His robes whirled about his legs as he stalked to and fro. "Sarumon has refused all suggestions that we explore the east. Since Altar and Pallandov never returned, he has forbid us beyond the Misty Mountains. But because we did not try, we did not know of Sauron's return until he began rebuilding Barad-durvi. I fear we have lost to much time already."
"Has nothing been done?" demanded the Ranger.
"You are a Ranger and the heir to Arndor, yet you knew naught about it."
"Then I will speak to him," Aragorn placated. "Perhaps I can persuade him to convene the Council."
"May your fortune be better than mine, young Prince." Gandalf murmured before continuing down the hall. Within moments, he disappeared around the corner.
PART 2
Beyond the castle walls the wind blew furiously. Snow fell in great swaths, swirling and tumbling to the ground. It covered the thin sheen of ice stretching over Greyflood's wide surface. Piles of white built up along the battlements, buildings, and causeway. The fountain in the courtyard and the water in the palace wells froze. Laden with frost, bare tree limbs hung low to the ground. Both man and animal were resigned to remaining indoors for the duration of the storm.
The sudden flurry had sprung from a nearly perfect winter's day, halting road travel and shipping throughout the north. Its like had not been seen since the Fell Winter a hundred years previously. So great was the blizzard, day had become as dark and foreboding as night.
Just off the West Garden, lay the King's office. Thick, dark velvet curtains covered the balcony doors and broad windows, blocking the raging storm outside. Vibrantly colored tapestries adorned the stone walls and thick throw rugs were strewn across the floors. Antique swords, daggers, and spears hung on display here and there, while ancient armor stood on stands throughout the room. A blazing fire in the hearth imbedded within the east wall warmed the massive office. Large wrought-iron bins on either side of the fireplace held cumbersome logs and slender sticks of kindling. An elegant redwood desk piled high with documents and leather-bound books dominated the spacious room.
The thin glass panes rattled in their frames.
King Arathorn briefly glanced away from the figure pacing before his desk. His fat cheeks jiggled slightly with the sudden movement. His eyes focused across the room, he studied the curtains as though it were possible to see through them given enough patience. Nearly hidden beneath the silken coif covering his remaining wisps of dark hair, Arathorn's thick brows furrowed over narrowed, gray orbs. The constant sessions on Arndor's safety had become tedious. Nearly everyone he met with, from administrators to Rangers, insisted the Kingdom was in danger. Both Gandalf and Aragorn had even tried to convince him to summon the Council over a frivolous matter some years previous. Had it not been for Sarumon's assurances that no harm would come to Arndor, he might have done so simply to gain some peace and quit.
Drawing a deep breath, the King pushed his musings to the back of his mind. He turned his attention back to Gandalf. The agitated wizard continued ranting, unbeknownst of Arathorn's preoccupation.
* * *
"... Time is of the essence, your Majesty." Gandalf desperately pleaded.
It had been thirty years since his last visit to Tharbad. Despite his warnings, Arathorn had not called the Council. The King had disregarded multiple Ranger reports of suspicious activity throughout both the Misty Mountains and Ithilienvii. He'd ignored administrators repeated suggestions to increase border strength. He'd even refused to send scouts into Mordor to gather information. His lack of action had not only put his kingdom in danger, it had potentially put all of Arda within Sauron's grasp.
"My friend, 'tis not that we distrust you." Arndor's King gently tried to appease, "We simply believe Sarumon's advice is not to be taken lightly."
"While Sarumon sits in the safety of Orthancviii, your people unknowingly breath their last taste of freedom." The old wizard snarled, "the One Ring has been found."
His eyes widening, Arathorn sat forward. The heavy fabric of his clothing strained against his large frame, seams nearly splitting under the immense pressure. "How is that possible? We thought it vanished into the Anduin when Isildur lost his hand at the Disaster of Gladden Fieldsix."
"For a time," Gandalf confirmed. "However, it did not stay lost. If Sauron gains possession of it once more, all of Middle-Earth will suffer."
"We shall call the Council of Nine to order, will that suffice for now?"
"If you wish your son to take your place in his time, you will send the summons the moment the blizzard recedes," Gandalf's rough, gravely voice warned. Brows furrowed, he glared at the rotund King coldly. "Tell no one of this meeting, your Majesty. You know not whose ears may be listening."
Spinning on his heel, the wizard stalked away from the King. He stopped before the double doors leading to the anteroom only long enough to fling one open. Arathorn's secretary leaped from his chair and scurried down the hall the moment Gandalf's menacing frame had passed. Storming through the busy corridors, the wizard felt the first stirrings of hope flutter within his belly. Perhaps all was not yet lost.
i Fornost: the capitol of Arnor after Annuminas was abandoned
ii North-South Road: runs from Fornost to Minas Tirith
iii Fell Winter: worst winter in Middle-Earth's history, white wolves attacked Eriador
iv Mandos Yanwe: Sindarin for 'Castle Bridge'
v Altar and Pallando: Two of the five Istari (wizards) sent to Middle-Earth
vi Bard-dur: Sauron's stronghold in Mordor
vii Ithilien: part of Gondor on the eastern banks of the Anduin
viii Orthanc: a mighty tower of unbreakable stone in Isengard
ix Disaster of Gladden Fields: the attack on the Anduin where the One Ring was lost and Isildur killed
"Ancestral voices prophesying war."
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
PART 1
The hooded rider entered Arndor's capital city for the first time in six months. Dirty and tired from extensive traveling, he desperately wished to stop at one of the many inns within the city, unfortunately he was here on business. Angmar, an Orc stronghold in the north since the Lord of Nazgul's abandonment, was empty. Although the discovery might seem like a blessing, it was in fact quite disturbing. For if the Orcs were not in Angmar, one must ask where they were and why they had left.
Consequently, he'd come to Tharbad to inform the King.
Tharbad had been Arndor's capitol since Fornost'si destruction in III 1974. Built on the south side of Greyflood River long before Elendil's death, the great metropolis was situated almost in the center of the Kingdom. Its balustrade rose just to the east side of the North-South Roadii. Greyflood was widened and the banks elevated to allow for huge stone docks and shipping berths. The project proved far more beneficial however, when the spring after the Fell Winteriii of III 2911 nearly flooded the city. The palace was built on the northern side of Greyflood before it met with the Hoarwell River. Ensconced between the two rivers, with the Misty Mountains at its back, the stronghold was virtually impenetrable.
Cloaked in a dark brown mantle and neutral colored tunic, leggings, and boots, Strider slowly made his way down Tharbad's crowded thoroughfare. Buildings of all shapes and sizes lined both sides of the busy street. Trees and hedges grew before them and within plazas, shielding against sunlight and capturing rainwater before it had the chance to gather. At each intersection along the main road, venders offered goods of every variety. From freshly baked pastries to Anorien forged swords, anything could be bought in the thriving harbor.
In the distance, he could hear the soft echo of the noon bells from the western belfry. The previous night's rainstorm produced drops of glistening sunlight on the far-off Library's domed roof. And the college's gleaming white towers rose above all else. Deeper within the city, far from the highway, homes flourished among gardens and parks. The capitol's constant increase in population had forced its growth across the road, so that rather than pack the original confines, they simply expanded.
At last, Mandos Yanwe'siv stone fore-pillars came into view. The white marble columns rose into the sky on both sides of the drawbridge. Of equal length and width, two massive overpasses spanned Greyflood's wide body too meet in the middle. On either side of the canal stood two guardhouses, each contained several centuries and a winch capable of raising the dual bridges. Thick chains ran from the pulleys up through the columns and down toward the front of each bridge. These allowed the great structures to be raised and lowered at will. It was one of two entrances to the Palace, which was located on the opposite side of the river.
A great stone causeway stretched from the North-South Road all the way to the foot of the Dwarven made bridge. It began once more on the other side of Greyflood and ran beneath the daunting battlements lining the river's bank. The twenty-foot high rampart - a mere two meters from the riverbank - was riddled with long, thin embrasures. Within the arched opening beneath the wall, swung a huge pair of metal-framed gates.
Stopping before the century on the city-side of the bridge, Strider pulled a small medallion from his tunic. On one side, gleamed a silver scepter, while the other side revealed an elaborate tree. It was the symbol of the Rangers, Arndor's protectors. They traveled far and wide: scouting the borders, protecting the provinces, and reporting transgressions. They were the King's justice; thus it did not matter to them whether the offender was a mere thrall or of noble blood. For the most part, the Rangers were incorruptible.
Leaning down to allow the century a better glimpse of the symbol, Strider patiently awaited leave to enter. His name and pass-code were sternly demanded. Briskly returning to the guard post, the soldier checked a thick, leather-bound registry for confirmation. With a negligent wave of his hand, the guard passed him through then turned his attention to the next person awaiting admittance.
Strider calmly rode his charcoal stallion into the cobbled courtyard beyond the mammoth fortification. The horse canted past the circular, bubbling fountain and toward the stables on the western side of the quad. Leaping from his mount's back, he tossed the reigns to the ostler.
Rather than cross the courtyard to the main entrance, Strider slipped to the back of the stable. His pace was slow due to the hay strewn about the brick-covered floor. The double doors at the back of the livery hung open, revealing a wide swath of green. He quickly strode across the grassy field, his steps faltering only slightly as he navigated around horse droppings. Coming to a single door sunken within the castle wall, he gave three consecutive knocks. When a small window slid open at eye level, Strider once more presented his medallion.
With a loud thump and a rattle of keys, the heavy door was slowly pulled open. The Ranger hurried past the guards and made his way through the west-wing of the palace. His cloak billowed behind him as his soft leather boots tapped against the ceramic tiled floor. People stepped aside quickly, some barely avoiding his advancing form.
Rounding a corner, Strider stopped before a large oak desk. Behind the gold-varnished wood sat a plump secretary. The man's small, pig-like eyes narrowed in disapproval at the sight of the sword sheathed at the Ranger's hip. As his thin, pale lips parted, Strider pulled his medallion from the folds of his clothing. Jowls quivering, the secretary's mouth snapped shut. One stubby fingered hand waved the Ranger down the corridor.
The anteroom leading to the King's office resembled a short hall. On either side of the passage, six wing-backed, cushioned chairs lined the walls. Huge, ornate tapestries hung behind them. Vibrant colors and breath-taking realism, combined to create magnificent representations of nature, making the area appear larger than it actually was.
Strider came to an abrupt stop when he noticed the gray robed figure exiting the door at the opposite end of the hall. Slamming the large door closed, the tall man stalked toward him. Atop his head rested a pointed, wide-brimmed hat. It did little to obscure the long gnarled hair traveling down his back and over his shoulders. At which point it combined with the equally unkempt beard.
"Gandalf!" Strider exclaimed. Quickly marching toward the older man, he threw back his hood. "What are you doing here?"
"I had an audience with your father. And you..." The old wizard hugged the Ranger fondly. "I was told you were in the north, Aragorn."
"Orcs are gathering in force, old friend." Aragorn dropped into one of the large chairs. "They have abandoned Angmar and traveled I know not where."
"Mordor!" Gandalf snarled.
"What?" The Ranger's brow furrowed. "Why would they converge on that god-forsaken land?"
"Because the Dark Lord has woken, my boy."
Aragorn laughed. "Sauron? He's just a fairytale, like Elves or... or giant Eagles."
Straightening to his full height, the old wizard glared down at the Ranger. Fire flashed in his gray eyes. The very air seemed to darken ominously.
"He is as real as you or I," Gandalf growled. "Do you think me just a bedtime story, boy?"
Aragorn swallowed nervously. He'd never seen the older man so enraged. Shaking his head, he hurriedly appeased, "No, of course not. I... I just..."
"Men live such short, self-absorbed lives." The mage grumbled as though it were a curse. Turning away, he began pacing the hall. "The King will not see reason either. Sauron is gathering his army and all we do is sit and talk."
"Surely my father has informed the Council of your warning?" Aragorn questioned the wizard.
"He listens to Sarumon's counsel." The old wizard scowled. His robes whirled about his legs as he stalked to and fro. "Sarumon has refused all suggestions that we explore the east. Since Altar and Pallandov never returned, he has forbid us beyond the Misty Mountains. But because we did not try, we did not know of Sauron's return until he began rebuilding Barad-durvi. I fear we have lost to much time already."
"Has nothing been done?" demanded the Ranger.
"You are a Ranger and the heir to Arndor, yet you knew naught about it."
"Then I will speak to him," Aragorn placated. "Perhaps I can persuade him to convene the Council."
"May your fortune be better than mine, young Prince." Gandalf murmured before continuing down the hall. Within moments, he disappeared around the corner.
PART 2
Beyond the castle walls the wind blew furiously. Snow fell in great swaths, swirling and tumbling to the ground. It covered the thin sheen of ice stretching over Greyflood's wide surface. Piles of white built up along the battlements, buildings, and causeway. The fountain in the courtyard and the water in the palace wells froze. Laden with frost, bare tree limbs hung low to the ground. Both man and animal were resigned to remaining indoors for the duration of the storm.
The sudden flurry had sprung from a nearly perfect winter's day, halting road travel and shipping throughout the north. Its like had not been seen since the Fell Winter a hundred years previously. So great was the blizzard, day had become as dark and foreboding as night.
Just off the West Garden, lay the King's office. Thick, dark velvet curtains covered the balcony doors and broad windows, blocking the raging storm outside. Vibrantly colored tapestries adorned the stone walls and thick throw rugs were strewn across the floors. Antique swords, daggers, and spears hung on display here and there, while ancient armor stood on stands throughout the room. A blazing fire in the hearth imbedded within the east wall warmed the massive office. Large wrought-iron bins on either side of the fireplace held cumbersome logs and slender sticks of kindling. An elegant redwood desk piled high with documents and leather-bound books dominated the spacious room.
The thin glass panes rattled in their frames.
King Arathorn briefly glanced away from the figure pacing before his desk. His fat cheeks jiggled slightly with the sudden movement. His eyes focused across the room, he studied the curtains as though it were possible to see through them given enough patience. Nearly hidden beneath the silken coif covering his remaining wisps of dark hair, Arathorn's thick brows furrowed over narrowed, gray orbs. The constant sessions on Arndor's safety had become tedious. Nearly everyone he met with, from administrators to Rangers, insisted the Kingdom was in danger. Both Gandalf and Aragorn had even tried to convince him to summon the Council over a frivolous matter some years previous. Had it not been for Sarumon's assurances that no harm would come to Arndor, he might have done so simply to gain some peace and quit.
Drawing a deep breath, the King pushed his musings to the back of his mind. He turned his attention back to Gandalf. The agitated wizard continued ranting, unbeknownst of Arathorn's preoccupation.
* * *
"... Time is of the essence, your Majesty." Gandalf desperately pleaded.
It had been thirty years since his last visit to Tharbad. Despite his warnings, Arathorn had not called the Council. The King had disregarded multiple Ranger reports of suspicious activity throughout both the Misty Mountains and Ithilienvii. He'd ignored administrators repeated suggestions to increase border strength. He'd even refused to send scouts into Mordor to gather information. His lack of action had not only put his kingdom in danger, it had potentially put all of Arda within Sauron's grasp.
"My friend, 'tis not that we distrust you." Arndor's King gently tried to appease, "We simply believe Sarumon's advice is not to be taken lightly."
"While Sarumon sits in the safety of Orthancviii, your people unknowingly breath their last taste of freedom." The old wizard snarled, "the One Ring has been found."
His eyes widening, Arathorn sat forward. The heavy fabric of his clothing strained against his large frame, seams nearly splitting under the immense pressure. "How is that possible? We thought it vanished into the Anduin when Isildur lost his hand at the Disaster of Gladden Fieldsix."
"For a time," Gandalf confirmed. "However, it did not stay lost. If Sauron gains possession of it once more, all of Middle-Earth will suffer."
"We shall call the Council of Nine to order, will that suffice for now?"
"If you wish your son to take your place in his time, you will send the summons the moment the blizzard recedes," Gandalf's rough, gravely voice warned. Brows furrowed, he glared at the rotund King coldly. "Tell no one of this meeting, your Majesty. You know not whose ears may be listening."
Spinning on his heel, the wizard stalked away from the King. He stopped before the double doors leading to the anteroom only long enough to fling one open. Arathorn's secretary leaped from his chair and scurried down the hall the moment Gandalf's menacing frame had passed. Storming through the busy corridors, the wizard felt the first stirrings of hope flutter within his belly. Perhaps all was not yet lost.
i Fornost: the capitol of Arnor after Annuminas was abandoned
ii North-South Road: runs from Fornost to Minas Tirith
iii Fell Winter: worst winter in Middle-Earth's history, white wolves attacked Eriador
iv Mandos Yanwe: Sindarin for 'Castle Bridge'
v Altar and Pallando: Two of the five Istari (wizards) sent to Middle-Earth
vi Bard-dur: Sauron's stronghold in Mordor
vii Ithilien: part of Gondor on the eastern banks of the Anduin
viii Orthanc: a mighty tower of unbreakable stone in Isengard
ix Disaster of Gladden Fields: the attack on the Anduin where the One Ring was lost and Isildur killed