At the river Gilrain they came at last upon the enemy, contesting the fords with the brave folk of Lamedon. Their plight was great. Mariners from Umbar had stolen upriver in boats and swarmed ashore on both sides, driving the defenders to the fords and hemming them in, until they had no place left to stand but the shoals themselves. A black tar had been cast upon the waters. Now the river steamed and flared with billowing fire, and the reeds along the banks put forth a thick dark smoke that shrouded even the light of the flames. Yet this proved the enemy's undoing, for it served to cloak the Gray Company's arrival.
Through the smoke burst Aragorn, escorted by a silent shower of arrows. Some burned as they came raining down. Water flew like sparks from the horses' legs, part of it ablaze, part merely giving back the light of the flames. Legolas and Gimli, hard on his heels, shot past him and clove their way through to the far side of the river. There they leapt down and held the bank side by side, challenging any who tried to flee. Timdaur and his company spread out, racing to encircle the attackers as they had done to Lamedon's folk. In the smoke the elves' numbers were hidden, and their pure, fearless voices put terror into the men of the south, who had not met their kind before.
There was a madness upon Aragorn as he drove into the fray. Eighty-three leagues and three days he had ridden with almost no rest, with darkness before him and shadows of the Dead at his back. Hundreds of miles more had he walked alone or with few comrades, dreading and looking ahead to Gondor's final days. Now the storm was unleashed. With every stroke that brought him closer to his own people, he fought more savagely. It was as if he were trying to tear the darkness from the sky or win back lives from the ashes of Ethring. The men of Lamedon took up his war-cry of Elendil and roused themselves from despair, not knowing what or who had come among them. They rallied around the war-horse and turned upon their foes. Again and again Aragorn's weapon came crashing down, felling those who did not shrink from him in dismay. The dwarf and elf had good sport on the bank.
Yet the skirmish was over too soon for Gimli's liking. The Dead's coming tipped the scales. Awaiting Aragorn's word, they did not cross, but formed a cold wall of menace upon the western bank, a wave frozen in the instant before it broke. Their pallid mail and swords were dim in the dark, giving back no warmth or light from the flames; only their red eyes burned. But they did not need to be seen to work their spell. Friend and foe alike gave up the battle, hurled weapons down and ran, struggling wildly for the opposite shore.
Soon all that could be heard was the occasional twang of a bowstring and the slam of Gimli's axe, the moans of the dying, the hissing of reeds, and the plash of water over cobbles and the bodies of men. The elves began to form up behind Aragorn again, knowing his urgency: even for the wounded, they could not turn aside.
One man alone barred their way on a horse that trembled. His sword was bent, blood trickled from his helm to his grizzled beard, and his silver-edged blue cloak was torn and stained with soot. Dread was in his eyes. But he did not yield. Doggedly the rider spurred his way into Aragorn's path and challenged him at swordpoint. Who claims the fords of Gilrain? he demanded hoarsely. Ghosts or wights, this land is Gondor's, and not yours! Name yourselves, or some of you will not leave the river. So says Angbor, Lord of Lamedon.
Bows bent in answer.
Aragorn was gulping air that burned throat and lungs, and for a moment the two men faced off sword to sword, one wrestling with terror, the other with the fading embers of battle's fury. Smoke drifted around them, flickering a dull orange like the eastern sky. Then, slowly, the ranger withdrew his weapon and sheathed it. he said harshly, commanding the elves to back down their bows. Finally he raised his hands, palms forward. Aragorn son of Arathorn am I, Dúnadan out of the north, Isildur's Heir. But I make no claim now. My business is with Gondor's enemies, whom we have travelled long leagues to fight.
There was too little light to see what impression these words made upon the lord, but his sword wavered. Rumor of your riding came to us, he muttered. But also King of the Dead,' who leads wraiths like those which are the talons of the Dark Tower. Proof of one I see. He risked an uneasy glance at the western shore.
They are the Oathbreakers. Their tale is still told in Lamedon, is it not?
It is told, the man allowed. He looked upon Aragorn as one in anguish, afraid to use a rope to escape a burning tower lest it prove too slender for his weight.
The ranger held out a hand, gray eyes steady. On the shore behind him, Legolas stood in defiance of his last command with an arrow nocked, answering Gimli's glance with a terse nod that reaffirmed an old vow: He will die before his stroke falls. Aragorn, however, paid no heed to the bloody point hovering near his heart. His soft-spoken manner reasserted itself: earnest, gentle, but unyielding. My company and I have an errand in Pelargir, which will soon fall if we cannot bring aid. It would grieve me if we had to force our way past you.
Angbor's eye was drawn to the White Tree that glimmered on the vambrace covering his wrist. Then the lord caught sight of the ranger's ancient ring, its elvish silver untouched by the grime of battle. His fingers loosened. The sword fell, ringing out as it struck the stones below. His mount shied violently, but he held his seat and reached out across the gap to clasp Aragorn's hand. The Ring of Barahir, he said, voice hushed. Command me, lord.
Aragorn closed his left hand over Angbor's right, smiling. I see there are still loremasters in Lamedon. But why are you so far from your hold? And where is Prince Imrahil?
Pride touched the battered warrior's face. My liege has taken the Knights of the Swan to Minas Tirith. The White City will be safe if all else fails. The conviction behind his words was absolute. More grimly, he added, As for Edhellond, it burns.
That name drew keen glances from the waiting Galadhrim. Edhellond had been an elf-haven long ago, as its name signified, but it had been a thousand years since their last king had leapt from the ship and perished. None had sailed since.
Edhellond is taken? Aragorn asked sharply.
It was given. Angbor sagged when he released the ranger's hand. Fatigue and horror were starting to take their toll. It was just as well for him that Timdaur had come over, unnoticed, to soothe his frightened horse while they spoke.
I had neither men nor walls to defend it, Angbor went on, so I led my people to Dol Amroth and left my best archers with the garrison. The rest I led forth to add to the defense of Pelargir, but the enemy moves swiftly, and we are cut off.
The fords are cleared, Timdaur stated.
Angbor flinched at the strange voice. Blinking, the lord peered around himself, suddenly realizing what manner of folk had come to his aid.
Very good, said Aragorn. Explanations would have to wait. Angbor, we will clear a way. Rest, tend your wounded, then gather what men you can and follow. At Pelargir the Heir of Isildur will have need of you.
My lord. The weary warrior saluted him, and edged his horse to one side.
Aragorn waited for Timdaur to remount and Legolas and Gimli to rejoin them. Then Brego leapt forward and cleared the flames dying in the shallows. The host surged ahead. Angbor did not move. He sat dumb and dazed while elves and shadows parted ranks and flowed around him.
Long after the sound of galloping hooves had faded into the dusk, the lord stirred. he repeated. Then he drew a horn from his hip and blew a long note, summoning his scattered men.