Disclaimer: All Star Trek related characters and concepts belong to Paramount; all Lord of the Rings related characters and concepts belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I am merely borrowing them.
:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:
THE SHADOW RIDERS
Chapter 15: The Siege Begins
[T]he old wisdom and beauty brought out of the West remained long in the realm of the sons of Elendil the Fair, and they linger there still. Yet even so it was Gondor that brought about its own decay, falling by degrees into dotage, and thinking that the Enemy was asleep, who was only banished not destroyed.
-J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings
:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:
The wizards sat alone in a silent alley, the sun streaming down on their backs. Neither spoke; the face of Faramir, resigned to his death in a fool's errand to retake Osgiliath, was foremost in their minds.
From the distant plain they heard the sounds of the orcs chanting battle- cries and the distant hisses of arrows zooming ahead. Malcolm wished he could close his ears and his heart---or else wring the neck of the mad Steward who now sat in his great hall, alone but for his attendants, safe among the statues of the leaders of the past.
"I have sent too many lives to their deaths," said Gandalf presently. Malcolm straightened from where he had been leaning his head on his hands and looked at the older wizard, unnerved to hear such an admission.
"You will tell me that it is not my place to be guilty," said the White Wizard sadly, meeting his younger counterpart's eyes. "And I know this is true, that I work to save more lives than will be lost. Still I cannot help but weep for those I knew best. Faramir used to help me when I looked for accounts of the Ring among the papers in the archives. And with his aid I found the answers I sought, of course."
He did not speak of Frodo, but Malcolm knew the old wizard thought of the young hobbit now, and wondered if he too would be among the numbers of the dead, Sam Gamgee along with him. "What is Cirith Ungol?" he asked bluntly. Gandalf had failed earlier to answer either his or Pippin's inquiries on the subject, saying he would explain later. Malcolm suspected it had something to do with Gandalf's despair.
"It is the lair of Shelob," said Gandalf bitterly. "I hope that perhaps Gollum will know a way through it where they will not have to face the great spider-queen. It is a way into Mordor, true, but one of the more dangerous roads to take."
"It is a secret way in?"
"There are two sets of stairs, a straight one and a curved one, and then a passage that leads to Torech Ungol, the lair of Shelob. On the other side is a fortress built by Gondor at the beginning of this age to watch over the lands of Mordor. It too is called Cirith Ungol, and it is presently guarded by Sauron's forces," replied Gandalf. "It is a dangerous road."
"It is indeed," said Malcolm, thinking on it.
Gandalf saw through his casual inquiry and said, "I would not have you take this road to rescue your friend, tórdilthen."
"What way did you plan to take when your Fellowship set out, then?"
Gandalf's brow furrowed. "In truth, Malcolm, I did not know. I thought of it little, preferring to wait until we reached the walls of Mordor to find a way inside." He shook his head. "I thought of wild scheme after wild scheme to take us in; I even considered having the Eagles fly us over the mountains to the Cracks of Doom, but the Nâzgul would of course have stopped us long before we reached Mount Doom."
"Too open," said Malcolm. "Too exposed. There's a better chance creeping about on the ground, where some cover might be found from the Eye."
"If indeed they make it that far," said Gandalf, standing and pacing.
"Could you look and see them, if you had a palantir?" asked Malcolm.
Gandalf gave him a curious glare. "Why do you ask?"
"Denethor has one in his tower."
"I might be able to, but to look into Sauron's land would attract his attention. He would see Sam and Frodo and send his servants to intercept them at once, and all would be lost. I have a little power to see him now anyway, without the palantir," said Gandalf. "Has the Steward been making use of it, do you think? Long has one been kept in the White Tower, but no Steward has before dared to make use of it, unless Denethor does it now."
"I do not doubt it," said Malcolm grimly. "He said he had seen me, and he spoke of knowing that Aragorn rode with Théoden. How else could he have known? I do not think Gondor's spy network reaches quite that far, especially in this time of war."
"True," said Gandalf, looking troubled. "I do not like what this bodes."
From the fields far below a distant thunder rumbled and did not cease. Malcolm and Gandalf shared a worried glance and hurried to the walls. Below them a formation of orcs marched out from Osgiliath, trolls beating the rhythm of the march on giant drums. All along the walls of the city circles below them, Malcolm saw the people of Minas Tirith watching in horror as death marched to their city gates.
Both wizards stared down at the masses of troops pouring from the ruined Osigiliath, all neatly in formation as they strode onto the Pelennor. "We must go," said Malcolm finally, wrenching himself away from the terrible sight. "Denethor will do nothing to rally the men. It is up to us."
Gondor's defenses, though Denethor had let them fall into disuse, were nevertheless easily repaired. Rubble lay in wait by the catapults, ready to be flung down onto the numberless orcs below; arrows by the thousands were stocked and ready for the archers; swords were sharpened and armor donned. Malcolm found it uncomfortably similar to the battle of Helm's Deep. Although they had more men, and trained soldiers at that from all the reaches of the kingdom, still the orc army outnumbered them five to one.
To Malcolm's relief, he found he and Gandalf need not command the entire army themselves; Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth had been garrisoned at Minas Tirith by Faramir's discreet request shortly before the wizards' arrival, and was quite capable of commanding his own sizeable forces as well as offering counsel to them both. None of the three spoke of Denethor and his inability to wage this war to the men; they merely went about their preparations as if acting upon the lord's own orders, and none save them knew the difference.
At dusk a lone horse galloped across the gap between the walls of Minas Tirith and the armies of Sauron, dragging behind it a forlorn knight in bloodstained armor. Malcolm saw from the fourth level of the city and met them at the tunnel under the great central outcrop of rock as the gate- guards, Prince Imrahil at their head, carried Faramir to the High Court where Denethor, attended by Pippin and some of the other Guards of the Citadel, anxiously waited.
"Your son has returned, lord, after great deeds," the Prince said imperiously to Denethor. The Steward spared him not a glance as he ran to his son, his old eyes wild and grief-stricken.
"Faramir!" he moaned, kneeling next to the pallet. "Say not that he has fallen!"
Malcolm's jaw clenched; now the Lord should feel remorse at his useless orders that sent an entire company of men to their deaths? Willingly had Faramir gone to fulfill an order he knew to be madness, guilt and bitterness heaped upon his shoulders by the very same man who now knelt over him, weeping.
"They were outnumbered," said Imrahil, his voice cracking like a whip. "No others survived, my Lord," and the Steward's title stuck in the Prince's mouth as though he had tasted something sour. Denethor appeared not to have heard him; indeed, Malcolm thought the Lord believed his son to be dead already.
"My sons are spent," cried Denethor, lurching upward from Faramir's still form. "My line has ended!"
Pippin dashed forward and cried to the Steward, "He's alive!"
"The House of Stewards has failed!" wailed Denethor, completely ignoring the hobbit.
"He needs medicine, my Lord!" cried Pippin after him in vain.
"My line has ended," said Denethor, staggering to the outer wall of the Court of the Fountain. He saw finally the black mass of orcs on the fields below and stared down in complete and utter shock. "Rohan has deserted us... Théoden has betrayed me!" A shot from an orkish catapult came flying towards the city, and all felt the rumble as it smashed into the houses on the third circle.
"Abandon your posts! Flee, flee for your lives!" bellowed Denethor, and his voice carried over the city below. Men looked up, frightened and confused, as Sauron's siege began in earnest. Something went past Malcolm like a fluttering moth, and the next moment Gandalf was at Denethor's side, with none of them really seeing how he had gotten there. The wizard dealt the Steward a swift and terrible blow, leaving him unconscious on the grass.
"Prepare for battle!" he cried over the walls, voice booming far louder than Denethor's had done. He turned and looked at Imrahil, Malcolm, and Pippin, still grouped around Faramir's unconscious body. "Rally your forces," he said to Imrahil, and the Prince nodded and hurried away. "You two, get Faramir and Denethor into the Tower and find healers to help Faramir. Malcolm, join me on the wall when you are finished." Then Gandalf strode away as quickly as he had come in the direction of the garrisons on the wall-tops.
Malcolm beckoned to one of the servants still standing nearby and took one end of the pallet himself. "Go get the healers," he told Pippin, and the hobbit dutifully went running. On the second level of the Tower was a bedroom, and into this bed they laid Faramir, carefully pulling away the heavy armor and chain mail covering the man's chest. He flinched as a wave of blood poured from the wound when they pulled away the clotting along with Faramir's undershirt, but it did not flow for more than a second.
The other servants came in with Denethor and laid him on a couch standing against the wall. The old Steward seemed to be coming to, his eyelids fluttering as he moaned softly in his sleep. Gandalf, of course, had not hit him hard enough to do any lasting damage, and more the pity, Malcolm thought to himself.
The servants murmured among themselves, looking at the lord and his son, none of them doing anything at all useful. "Find the healers!" Malcolm shouted at them, rightfully annoyed. "Or else find some bandages and clean, hot water and get it up here." He gritted his teeth, watching the young captain's chest rise and fall ever so slightly. The skin around the arrow punctures (Malcolm thanked his stars that someone had already taken out the arrows; he didn't think he could deal with that) already showed streaks of red flaming out from the wounds themselves.
A long drag across the Pelennor Fields couldn't have helped the wounds much, Malcolm though angrily. He didn't really know what else to do except try and clean the injuries, but luckily Pippin, followed closely by a harried-looking young man with a large rucksack, burst through the door at that moment. The man stopped short at the sight of Faramir.
"Can you treat him?" Malcolm asked. He looked quickly at Denethor and met the old Steward's grey eyes, gazing in confusion around the room. The healer nodded and started pulling bandages from his pack. Denethor struggled up from the couch and began to lurch towards his son's bed.
"What are you doing? You mock death!" cried the Steward. Malcolm leapt forward and dragged Denethor away from the shocked healer and out of the room. Pippin followed them, pulling the door shut behind them.
"He's not dead!" cried the hobbit.
"It is only a matter of time," cried Denethor, struggling against Malcolm's grip. For an old man he was surprisingly strong; it didn't help that he held a fair advantage over Malcolm in size and weight. He broke free and flung the wizard against the wall, and dashed up the stairs to the top room before Malcolm could pull himself up. A scraping sound echoed through the stairwell, and when Pippin tried to pull the door open Malcolm realized that Denethor had locked himself in. Faintly he heard the Steward's voice, moaning and wailing, but he could not make out the words.
"He's not dead yet!" bellowed Malcolm through the wooden door, and the noise from within stopped.
"My line ends!" cried Denethor from the other side, though the door remained closed.
"Hardly," snapped Malcolm. "You have a duty to your city, my Lord. Will you fulfill it or not?"
"You wizards have stolen my city from under me!"
"You are a Steward! You knew you must return the city to her rightful king when he arrived!"
The lock slid back and the door flew open. "Rightful king," spat Denethor, grabbing the front of Malcolm's shirt. "That scruffy Ranger is no rightful king. The House of Steward should have taken the throne long ago. That bloodline grows ever weaker as the years pass."
"You think your blood is superior?" Malcolm said coolly, staring Denethor in the eye. "The palantir has driven you mad. You are weak, my Lord. Aragorn could use it to his advantage, but you, you have abandoned your city and your people under its thrall. Sauron has taken hold of your simple mind! He sows discord from within your own walls. And you, pitiful fool, you let him."
"Perhaps you are right," said the Steward, face inches away from Malcolm's. Malcolm wondered absurdly if Denethor would have dared this with Gandalf. "I called for aid... and I brought nothing to help. In my tower late one night, darkness filled my soul; despair filled my mind; and in a frenzy I sought out something that might turn the tides of this war."
Malcolm stiffened. "What?" he said in a low whisper.
"I dreamed of a great machine which flew through the stars," growled Denethor, his eyes glittering with madness. "A machine that carried powerful weapons that could defeat Sauron forever. I called to it; I begged it to come and aid us." He met Malcolm's glare and tightened his grip. "Little did I know that I would receive not weapons but a pair of useless weaklings!"
"You brought us here?" growled Malcolm, ripping his shirt from Denethor's grasp and driving the man back into the tower room, ignoring Pippin's astonished gasp. "You? Long have I wondered why I was here, and now I find it is at the mere behest of a madman? My friend is prisoner of Sauron! In her mind he can see things far beyond the abilities of any technology on Middle-earth! You have doomed your entire world!"
"You think I wanted two mongrel crew from that great machine?" snarled Denethor. "It was pure chance that you appeared! A fleeting wish, never meant to be fulfilled, and yet it was, much to the dismay of all! Get out of my tower!"
"You tear your son's heart into pieces, you abandon your city in its time of need," said Malcolm. "And you make this mistake, and then do nothing to rectify it." He stepped backwards, towards the tower door, repulsed by the instability in the Steward's glare. He put a hand on Pippin's shoulder, leading him from the room, and closed the door behind them.
"I must get to the walls," said Malcolm as they reached the outer door. "We've been called out to fight."
He strode away from the hobbit without looking back, his longer legs quickly outdistancing Pippin. Vaguely in the back of his mind he registered the sound of Pippin calling after him in concern, but he was too furious to stop. So he and Hoshi were trapped here merely because a crazy old man had called them from the future! Somehow he had thought before this that there was a reason, some deeper purpose for their presence here... and now, he knew, there was nothing. He wanted to wring the old man's neck. To put them through this for no reason at all...
How did Denethor manage it? Malcolm didn't know if anything like this had ever happened before---and how had it happened now? The palantir were seeing stones. The palantir were only supposed to be useful for seeing the present! It was not out of the realm of possibility to see the future in one, he supposed, but to call someone back through the palantir from the future to the past? How was it possible?
He stopped dead in the streets just as a catapulted boulder smashed into the walls above him, raining plaster and bits of rubble down onto the surrounding street. Oblivious to the dust in the air and the close brush he'd just had, Malcolm stared out at the massive army on the fields below. If Denethor's mind was powerful enough---or insane enough---to pull two people through time on a whim, what then could Sauron bring back? What had he seen in Hoshi's mind? Phase cannons? Torpedoes? Orcs armed with phase pistols and plasma rifles did not present a very appealing picture.
Whatever Sauron wanted, it meant nothing good for Middle-earth, of that Malcolm was certain. He broke into a run, heading towards the lowest circles. Gandalf must know about this, immediately. Regardless of the way they had arrived, they were here now, and they presented a terrible danger to Middle-earth.
And as he ran, he thought of how they had come, and wondered why he should have seen a pair of burning hands in the stone...
:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:
:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:
THE SHADOW RIDERS
Chapter 15: The Siege Begins
[T]he old wisdom and beauty brought out of the West remained long in the realm of the sons of Elendil the Fair, and they linger there still. Yet even so it was Gondor that brought about its own decay, falling by degrees into dotage, and thinking that the Enemy was asleep, who was only banished not destroyed.
-J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings
:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:
The wizards sat alone in a silent alley, the sun streaming down on their backs. Neither spoke; the face of Faramir, resigned to his death in a fool's errand to retake Osgiliath, was foremost in their minds.
From the distant plain they heard the sounds of the orcs chanting battle- cries and the distant hisses of arrows zooming ahead. Malcolm wished he could close his ears and his heart---or else wring the neck of the mad Steward who now sat in his great hall, alone but for his attendants, safe among the statues of the leaders of the past.
"I have sent too many lives to their deaths," said Gandalf presently. Malcolm straightened from where he had been leaning his head on his hands and looked at the older wizard, unnerved to hear such an admission.
"You will tell me that it is not my place to be guilty," said the White Wizard sadly, meeting his younger counterpart's eyes. "And I know this is true, that I work to save more lives than will be lost. Still I cannot help but weep for those I knew best. Faramir used to help me when I looked for accounts of the Ring among the papers in the archives. And with his aid I found the answers I sought, of course."
He did not speak of Frodo, but Malcolm knew the old wizard thought of the young hobbit now, and wondered if he too would be among the numbers of the dead, Sam Gamgee along with him. "What is Cirith Ungol?" he asked bluntly. Gandalf had failed earlier to answer either his or Pippin's inquiries on the subject, saying he would explain later. Malcolm suspected it had something to do with Gandalf's despair.
"It is the lair of Shelob," said Gandalf bitterly. "I hope that perhaps Gollum will know a way through it where they will not have to face the great spider-queen. It is a way into Mordor, true, but one of the more dangerous roads to take."
"It is a secret way in?"
"There are two sets of stairs, a straight one and a curved one, and then a passage that leads to Torech Ungol, the lair of Shelob. On the other side is a fortress built by Gondor at the beginning of this age to watch over the lands of Mordor. It too is called Cirith Ungol, and it is presently guarded by Sauron's forces," replied Gandalf. "It is a dangerous road."
"It is indeed," said Malcolm, thinking on it.
Gandalf saw through his casual inquiry and said, "I would not have you take this road to rescue your friend, tórdilthen."
"What way did you plan to take when your Fellowship set out, then?"
Gandalf's brow furrowed. "In truth, Malcolm, I did not know. I thought of it little, preferring to wait until we reached the walls of Mordor to find a way inside." He shook his head. "I thought of wild scheme after wild scheme to take us in; I even considered having the Eagles fly us over the mountains to the Cracks of Doom, but the Nâzgul would of course have stopped us long before we reached Mount Doom."
"Too open," said Malcolm. "Too exposed. There's a better chance creeping about on the ground, where some cover might be found from the Eye."
"If indeed they make it that far," said Gandalf, standing and pacing.
"Could you look and see them, if you had a palantir?" asked Malcolm.
Gandalf gave him a curious glare. "Why do you ask?"
"Denethor has one in his tower."
"I might be able to, but to look into Sauron's land would attract his attention. He would see Sam and Frodo and send his servants to intercept them at once, and all would be lost. I have a little power to see him now anyway, without the palantir," said Gandalf. "Has the Steward been making use of it, do you think? Long has one been kept in the White Tower, but no Steward has before dared to make use of it, unless Denethor does it now."
"I do not doubt it," said Malcolm grimly. "He said he had seen me, and he spoke of knowing that Aragorn rode with Théoden. How else could he have known? I do not think Gondor's spy network reaches quite that far, especially in this time of war."
"True," said Gandalf, looking troubled. "I do not like what this bodes."
From the fields far below a distant thunder rumbled and did not cease. Malcolm and Gandalf shared a worried glance and hurried to the walls. Below them a formation of orcs marched out from Osgiliath, trolls beating the rhythm of the march on giant drums. All along the walls of the city circles below them, Malcolm saw the people of Minas Tirith watching in horror as death marched to their city gates.
Both wizards stared down at the masses of troops pouring from the ruined Osigiliath, all neatly in formation as they strode onto the Pelennor. "We must go," said Malcolm finally, wrenching himself away from the terrible sight. "Denethor will do nothing to rally the men. It is up to us."
Gondor's defenses, though Denethor had let them fall into disuse, were nevertheless easily repaired. Rubble lay in wait by the catapults, ready to be flung down onto the numberless orcs below; arrows by the thousands were stocked and ready for the archers; swords were sharpened and armor donned. Malcolm found it uncomfortably similar to the battle of Helm's Deep. Although they had more men, and trained soldiers at that from all the reaches of the kingdom, still the orc army outnumbered them five to one.
To Malcolm's relief, he found he and Gandalf need not command the entire army themselves; Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth had been garrisoned at Minas Tirith by Faramir's discreet request shortly before the wizards' arrival, and was quite capable of commanding his own sizeable forces as well as offering counsel to them both. None of the three spoke of Denethor and his inability to wage this war to the men; they merely went about their preparations as if acting upon the lord's own orders, and none save them knew the difference.
At dusk a lone horse galloped across the gap between the walls of Minas Tirith and the armies of Sauron, dragging behind it a forlorn knight in bloodstained armor. Malcolm saw from the fourth level of the city and met them at the tunnel under the great central outcrop of rock as the gate- guards, Prince Imrahil at their head, carried Faramir to the High Court where Denethor, attended by Pippin and some of the other Guards of the Citadel, anxiously waited.
"Your son has returned, lord, after great deeds," the Prince said imperiously to Denethor. The Steward spared him not a glance as he ran to his son, his old eyes wild and grief-stricken.
"Faramir!" he moaned, kneeling next to the pallet. "Say not that he has fallen!"
Malcolm's jaw clenched; now the Lord should feel remorse at his useless orders that sent an entire company of men to their deaths? Willingly had Faramir gone to fulfill an order he knew to be madness, guilt and bitterness heaped upon his shoulders by the very same man who now knelt over him, weeping.
"They were outnumbered," said Imrahil, his voice cracking like a whip. "No others survived, my Lord," and the Steward's title stuck in the Prince's mouth as though he had tasted something sour. Denethor appeared not to have heard him; indeed, Malcolm thought the Lord believed his son to be dead already.
"My sons are spent," cried Denethor, lurching upward from Faramir's still form. "My line has ended!"
Pippin dashed forward and cried to the Steward, "He's alive!"
"The House of Stewards has failed!" wailed Denethor, completely ignoring the hobbit.
"He needs medicine, my Lord!" cried Pippin after him in vain.
"My line has ended," said Denethor, staggering to the outer wall of the Court of the Fountain. He saw finally the black mass of orcs on the fields below and stared down in complete and utter shock. "Rohan has deserted us... Théoden has betrayed me!" A shot from an orkish catapult came flying towards the city, and all felt the rumble as it smashed into the houses on the third circle.
"Abandon your posts! Flee, flee for your lives!" bellowed Denethor, and his voice carried over the city below. Men looked up, frightened and confused, as Sauron's siege began in earnest. Something went past Malcolm like a fluttering moth, and the next moment Gandalf was at Denethor's side, with none of them really seeing how he had gotten there. The wizard dealt the Steward a swift and terrible blow, leaving him unconscious on the grass.
"Prepare for battle!" he cried over the walls, voice booming far louder than Denethor's had done. He turned and looked at Imrahil, Malcolm, and Pippin, still grouped around Faramir's unconscious body. "Rally your forces," he said to Imrahil, and the Prince nodded and hurried away. "You two, get Faramir and Denethor into the Tower and find healers to help Faramir. Malcolm, join me on the wall when you are finished." Then Gandalf strode away as quickly as he had come in the direction of the garrisons on the wall-tops.
Malcolm beckoned to one of the servants still standing nearby and took one end of the pallet himself. "Go get the healers," he told Pippin, and the hobbit dutifully went running. On the second level of the Tower was a bedroom, and into this bed they laid Faramir, carefully pulling away the heavy armor and chain mail covering the man's chest. He flinched as a wave of blood poured from the wound when they pulled away the clotting along with Faramir's undershirt, but it did not flow for more than a second.
The other servants came in with Denethor and laid him on a couch standing against the wall. The old Steward seemed to be coming to, his eyelids fluttering as he moaned softly in his sleep. Gandalf, of course, had not hit him hard enough to do any lasting damage, and more the pity, Malcolm thought to himself.
The servants murmured among themselves, looking at the lord and his son, none of them doing anything at all useful. "Find the healers!" Malcolm shouted at them, rightfully annoyed. "Or else find some bandages and clean, hot water and get it up here." He gritted his teeth, watching the young captain's chest rise and fall ever so slightly. The skin around the arrow punctures (Malcolm thanked his stars that someone had already taken out the arrows; he didn't think he could deal with that) already showed streaks of red flaming out from the wounds themselves.
A long drag across the Pelennor Fields couldn't have helped the wounds much, Malcolm though angrily. He didn't really know what else to do except try and clean the injuries, but luckily Pippin, followed closely by a harried-looking young man with a large rucksack, burst through the door at that moment. The man stopped short at the sight of Faramir.
"Can you treat him?" Malcolm asked. He looked quickly at Denethor and met the old Steward's grey eyes, gazing in confusion around the room. The healer nodded and started pulling bandages from his pack. Denethor struggled up from the couch and began to lurch towards his son's bed.
"What are you doing? You mock death!" cried the Steward. Malcolm leapt forward and dragged Denethor away from the shocked healer and out of the room. Pippin followed them, pulling the door shut behind them.
"He's not dead!" cried the hobbit.
"It is only a matter of time," cried Denethor, struggling against Malcolm's grip. For an old man he was surprisingly strong; it didn't help that he held a fair advantage over Malcolm in size and weight. He broke free and flung the wizard against the wall, and dashed up the stairs to the top room before Malcolm could pull himself up. A scraping sound echoed through the stairwell, and when Pippin tried to pull the door open Malcolm realized that Denethor had locked himself in. Faintly he heard the Steward's voice, moaning and wailing, but he could not make out the words.
"He's not dead yet!" bellowed Malcolm through the wooden door, and the noise from within stopped.
"My line ends!" cried Denethor from the other side, though the door remained closed.
"Hardly," snapped Malcolm. "You have a duty to your city, my Lord. Will you fulfill it or not?"
"You wizards have stolen my city from under me!"
"You are a Steward! You knew you must return the city to her rightful king when he arrived!"
The lock slid back and the door flew open. "Rightful king," spat Denethor, grabbing the front of Malcolm's shirt. "That scruffy Ranger is no rightful king. The House of Steward should have taken the throne long ago. That bloodline grows ever weaker as the years pass."
"You think your blood is superior?" Malcolm said coolly, staring Denethor in the eye. "The palantir has driven you mad. You are weak, my Lord. Aragorn could use it to his advantage, but you, you have abandoned your city and your people under its thrall. Sauron has taken hold of your simple mind! He sows discord from within your own walls. And you, pitiful fool, you let him."
"Perhaps you are right," said the Steward, face inches away from Malcolm's. Malcolm wondered absurdly if Denethor would have dared this with Gandalf. "I called for aid... and I brought nothing to help. In my tower late one night, darkness filled my soul; despair filled my mind; and in a frenzy I sought out something that might turn the tides of this war."
Malcolm stiffened. "What?" he said in a low whisper.
"I dreamed of a great machine which flew through the stars," growled Denethor, his eyes glittering with madness. "A machine that carried powerful weapons that could defeat Sauron forever. I called to it; I begged it to come and aid us." He met Malcolm's glare and tightened his grip. "Little did I know that I would receive not weapons but a pair of useless weaklings!"
"You brought us here?" growled Malcolm, ripping his shirt from Denethor's grasp and driving the man back into the tower room, ignoring Pippin's astonished gasp. "You? Long have I wondered why I was here, and now I find it is at the mere behest of a madman? My friend is prisoner of Sauron! In her mind he can see things far beyond the abilities of any technology on Middle-earth! You have doomed your entire world!"
"You think I wanted two mongrel crew from that great machine?" snarled Denethor. "It was pure chance that you appeared! A fleeting wish, never meant to be fulfilled, and yet it was, much to the dismay of all! Get out of my tower!"
"You tear your son's heart into pieces, you abandon your city in its time of need," said Malcolm. "And you make this mistake, and then do nothing to rectify it." He stepped backwards, towards the tower door, repulsed by the instability in the Steward's glare. He put a hand on Pippin's shoulder, leading him from the room, and closed the door behind them.
"I must get to the walls," said Malcolm as they reached the outer door. "We've been called out to fight."
He strode away from the hobbit without looking back, his longer legs quickly outdistancing Pippin. Vaguely in the back of his mind he registered the sound of Pippin calling after him in concern, but he was too furious to stop. So he and Hoshi were trapped here merely because a crazy old man had called them from the future! Somehow he had thought before this that there was a reason, some deeper purpose for their presence here... and now, he knew, there was nothing. He wanted to wring the old man's neck. To put them through this for no reason at all...
How did Denethor manage it? Malcolm didn't know if anything like this had ever happened before---and how had it happened now? The palantir were seeing stones. The palantir were only supposed to be useful for seeing the present! It was not out of the realm of possibility to see the future in one, he supposed, but to call someone back through the palantir from the future to the past? How was it possible?
He stopped dead in the streets just as a catapulted boulder smashed into the walls above him, raining plaster and bits of rubble down onto the surrounding street. Oblivious to the dust in the air and the close brush he'd just had, Malcolm stared out at the massive army on the fields below. If Denethor's mind was powerful enough---or insane enough---to pull two people through time on a whim, what then could Sauron bring back? What had he seen in Hoshi's mind? Phase cannons? Torpedoes? Orcs armed with phase pistols and plasma rifles did not present a very appealing picture.
Whatever Sauron wanted, it meant nothing good for Middle-earth, of that Malcolm was certain. He broke into a run, heading towards the lowest circles. Gandalf must know about this, immediately. Regardless of the way they had arrived, they were here now, and they presented a terrible danger to Middle-earth.
And as he ran, he thought of how they had come, and wondered why he should have seen a pair of burning hands in the stone...
:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-: