Ashgash the Slobberer, Captain of the Dark Tower stepped out onto the
ramparts of the walls of the Barad-dûr. He took a deep breath with his
foul nostrils, slashed and tattered in a hundred battles. The air was rank
with the smell of orc. He smiled, revealing blackened teeth, filed into
points.
He kicked out at orcs lying drunk and prostate at his feet, snarling at them. They scrambled away, giving him a clear bath to the battlements. He stepped up to them and looked out over the barren plains of Gorgoroth. Out in the distance, he could just make out the dust-covered tents of the Last Alliance.
He frowned. Normally the camp was virtually buzzing with activity by midmorning, which it was. His tattered brows knitted; as a matter of fact, there had been very little activity since the great host of lightly armored elves had come in four days prior. Ashgash eyed the camp with suspicion. After six years of constant assaults and forays, all the silence was unnerving.
Ashgash took a swig of the orc draught in his hand, and wiped his mouth with a chain-mailed hand. He kicked at a smaller orc sitting back against the wall on the left side. It snarled at him, and he snarled back, than shouted in the gnashing tongue of the orcs,
"Garn you little maggot! Get me more whiskey or I'll make you wish you'd be born!"
It slunk off down the stairs, and Ashgash smiled. He turned back to the tents of the Last Alliance and took another swig of the whiskey. A small flash of the sun off metal caught his eye. Then, in the distance, trumpets sounded. Out from the rows of tents marched a host of all sorts.
There were men in silver mail, and long black-shafted spears. They formed up in long columns behind a tall man on a horse. There were dwarves, in mithril and iron, bearing large war axes, and screaming their war cries in Kuzdul. There were elves of all sorts, but many were in Noldorian armor, and it gleaned golden in the sun. Trumpets sounded again, and a great shout rose from the free peoples.
Ashgash turned to his right to look at another orc. The other was pointing at different companies and muttering under his breath. He crinkled his nose and turned to Ashgash.
"I only see," he turned back and swept a knobby finger over the host once again, then turned back to Ashgash, "Nine thousands. Wot are they up to? Where are all o' them elves that came in a few days ago?"
"I dunno, but get them maggots moving. Looks like we'll have ourselves a little fun tonight. There'll be man-flesh to eat!"
The orc he had sent for his whiskey came back with another bottle. Ashgash snatched it from him, and smashed the other over the orc's head. He took a long draught of the whiskey.
He wheeled about, "Get up you scum! There's knife-work here that needs doing!"
Anárion sat tall in his saddle at the head of the column. He had spent the previous night polishing his chest plate and helmet; if he was to die, he would die in fine dress. His sword was fresh sharpened, and he had the camp blacksmith make him a new shield. He held in his hand a weapon he had never used before; a lance, with a pennant embroidered with the seven stars and white tree of Gondor. His black cape flapped behind him in the mid-morning breeze. He looked every inch the king that he was.
His soldiers, well-rested and enflamed with a fury unrivaled by even the most belligerent of Sauron's servants, marched upright in straight columns, and they sang as they marched.
"To the Barad-dûr with doom we come!
Though the Barad-dûr is strong and hard!
As cold as stone and bare as bone!
We go, we go, we go to war!
To hew the stone and break the door!
To the land of gloom with the tramp of doom
With the roll of drum, we come, we come!
To the Barad-dûr with doom we come!"
And the roll of their voices was like thunder, and the trumpets blown by Elrond's host were drowned out by its fury. The dwarves joined in with Anárion's soldiers, and added cries of 'Khazâd ai-mênu!' after each line of 'To the Barad-dûr with doom we come'.
Anárion smiled, though he felt doubt in his heart. If he was to die today, he would die honorably, as befitted the lord of such a fell people. Glorfindel the Elf Lord rode on a white horse by his side, and he too was smiling. As he looked upon the marching host, he was brought back to days of old in Beleriand, where fair princes and lords rode before armies of tall soldiers in bright mail.
Some of the Noldor who had fought in those battles long ago rode with them. They were dressed in shining golden mail, and their shields were shaped as leaves, as is the fashion of the elves. Along with them marched many of the Sindar, lightly armored in silver and iron; they bore long bows and short, leaf-bladed spears for stabbing.
At the head of the elven column rode Elrond, dressed in armor made in Gondolin before its fall. He bore an elven blade, and on his right hand he bore Vilya. Beside him rode Círdan the mariner, in the armor he had worn in Elegast long ago. Behind them rode Galadriel and Celeborn, and though Celeborn wore a shirt of mail, Galadriel had declined to wear any armor. She wore pure-white robes, a hood about her blonde hair. Behind the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien rode Thranduil of Greenwood, and on the back of his horse rode Nalí Bloodtooth. The dwarf looked terribly uncomfortable about being on a horse, but Thranduil would not hear it. About them rode ten of the Greenwood Royal Guard.
They trotted across the barren plain, banners flapping and cloaks billowing; they paused momentarily to allow the foot soldiers to catch up. They passed by the place where the main host hid, and made a point of not looking at them. The black iron gates of the Barad-dûr rose up before them. There was no movement on the battlements, and the captains of the host reared the horses. Anárion trotted from one end of the gate to the other several times.
He leapt from his saddle, and walked up to the gate. He kicked at it. When no vengeful arrows shot down from the walls above him, he leaned against it, resting his forehead against the ash-covered iron. After a few moments, he looked up and backed away a dozen paces.
"Let the Captain of the Barad-dûr come forth! Justice shall be done upon him, whether he hide in his black tower or no! Let him come forth, or it will go evil with him!"
There was silence. Anárion turned back to the others, and smiled wryly,
"They obviously have no respect for us."
Glorfindel smiled grimly and drew his blade, "Then let us punish them for their great folly!" He turned in his saddle, "Bring up the rams!"
There was a shuffling in the ranks as two score Gondorians brought the great oaken rams forward to the gates. Four hundred more formed a shield wall about them to guard against arrows. No shots were fired from the wall, no hideous orc cries came from inside.
Anárion's soldiers looked about wildly, drawing their great shields close to their hearts. They muttered amongst themselves, and gripped their spears tighter. Anárion waved his blade at the ram bearers. They smote the great gate with it, once. Twice. Three times they pounded on the gates of the Barad-dûr. There was no answer.
Now even Glorfindel grew nervous. Was it possible that Sauron knew more than they thought? After a few moments, Anárion gave the signal once again. The ram-bearers smote the door again and again, and soon a steady rhythm of fire-hardened wood on iron began.
Anárion stamped his boots to the beat of the ram and smashed his sword against his shield. Glorfindel leapt down off his horse and did the same. Soon, every man in the host beat his shield and stamped his feet in time with the ram. Heralds blew their trumpets and shouted the names of their captains. The din was deafening, and yet there was still no movement on the battlements.
Eventually, the stamping and the clashing of sword on shield died down. Even the ram stopped. The host milled about, wondering what to do. Anárion stood ten yards from the gate, and stared up at the spiked black battlements. He turned to Glorfindel,
"What do we do?"
Glorfindel shook his head gravely, "I know not. I guess that we must stay put and wait for High King Gil-galad and King Elendil to attack," he looked meaningfully at Anárion, "I had expected that we would be attacked."
"As did I," Anárion nodded, "The Dark Lord must know more than we had guessed."
"Let us hope he does not know all our plans," Glorfindel muttered and turned away from the walls.
Thranduil, still on his horse, turned as much as he could to face Nalí. He grimaced, "I do not love war Master Dwarf, but this," he gestured to the high walls, "I like even less."
"My spirits would be lifted greatly if there were but a few orc-necks lined up before me," agreed Nalí.
"Where are they?" whispered Círdan to Elrond.
Elrond rubbed a thumb over Vilya nervously, "I do not know. I have been dreading this moment, but now that I am here, I find that I wish that the enemy would swarm us with overwhelming numbers."
Círdan shook his head, "I would rather have a clear sign that they were all dead," he looked at Elrond with a look of hope upon his face, "You do not think it possible that we have starved them out, do you?"
Elrond shook his head in disgust, "No. Orcs, being foul as they are, have no reservations to eating their own comrades in time of need."
Círdan closed his eyes, "They are the worst things to have ever walked the earth."
"No," said Ingold the Gondorian, coming up behind the pair on his horse, "The foulest thing to walk the earth is a man who breaks an oath. He is both without hope and without honor, and will end up without friends."
Elrond smiled at Ingold, "You have wisdom beyond your years, Captain. Let us hope you also have skill with a sword."
"I have no doubt that you shall soon find out," Ingold said.
Elendil the Tall, king of all Eriador, looked out from his hiding place to the north of the Barad-dûr. He saw what Anárion and his host were seeing at the south gate. The battlements were clear, and the tower was silent. He turned to Gil-galad, the normally shining armor of the elven king blackened by fire.
"None will answer my son's challenge," Elendil said at last, "The fortress of the enemy is silent."
"Will we stay to the plan?" asked Gil-galad.
"I see no reason why we should not," said Elendil, "This is merely unexpected. Remember that we are the bait, not Anárion and Glorfindel."
Gil-galad nodded and turned to the hosts that he and Elendil led. He waved at them, and slowly, in a great line, they marched down the gully. Most were hunched double, and their spears bore no banners, and their armor was blackened. On and on they marched past him, and there seemed to be no end to them. Yet this was only part of the host, and no doubt Sauron had many more than they. At last, men came with their horses. He and Elendil rode up the column, pressed flat against their horses.
They came to where the front ranks of the army had assembled in front of the walls. Up and down in front of the ranks they rode, waiting for the rest to get into position. Gil-galad nervously rubbed his ring finger, at the spot where Vilya had once rested. He felt strangely naked without it. He looked up to find Elendil watching him concernedly. The man put his hand on Gil-galad's shoulder, and smiled slightly,
"A man who cannot part with a treasure at need is foolish, my friend. Let it be."
Gil-galad nodded, and put his hand on Elendil's shoulder. "Whatever happens today, my friend, I want you know that it has been an honor to fight beside you."
"And I have been honored to fight beside you, High King of the Noldor. Let us go now to meet our doom, whatever it may be."
Presently the host was in position, they stood in nervous ranks. Elves prayed to the Valar under their breath, while men fumbled with amulets and charms. Elendil turned his horse about to face them.
"Soldiers of the Alliance of Elves and Men! Hark to me! Today is the day where all our labor will bear fruit! The Barad-dûr will be broken, and the pits laid bare! Today is the day when the orcs of Sauron will all be slain! Today is the day that men will win renown! Beyond those walls lies the end to our struggle! Reach out! Take it! It is yours! Stand fast, warriors of the West!"
A great shout rose from the gathered host and many clashed together sword and shield. Elendil raised his sword up on high, and twirled it above his head. Men and elf alike cheered. Heralds blew trumpets and men beat on drums. They raised a terrible din, one that the enemy could not even pretend to ignore.
Orcs rose on the walls, their foul faces twisted with hatred. They held in their hands bows with black-feathered arrows, and they drew them back. The Galadhrim and the Greenwood elves, all under the command of King Gwathôl, positioned themselves in serried rows. At Gwathôl's command, the first row fired, and drew back to the rear of the formation. The second row drew, and fired, and retreated to the rear. In this efficient formation, the elven archers wreaked great destruction on the orcs on the walls.
The orcs did not return the volley. They ducked behind the battlements, but no vengeful shafts found the flesh of some hapless Alliance soldier. Slowly, and against the will of their commanders, many soldiers relaxed their guard slightly. Then, at some hidden signal, the orcs on the walls let their arrows loose. They fell in a rain on the ranks of the Last Alliance. Men and elves by the score fell pierced by barbed shafts. One caught Elendil in the thigh, but the King of Eriador pulled it from his leg and rallied his troops.
The Alliance's archers fired again, and orcs fell. Elves brought up a ram made of bronze and iron, and it hammered away at the gates, but to no avail. Orcs rained down arrows on the beleaguered soldiers of the Alliance. Mounds of the slain began to pile up.
Elendil rallied his soldiers, and long tall ladders of wood and iron were brought to the front. The bravest of the Nùmenorians and the Noldor climbed the ladders to where orcs rained down arrows and boiling oil. Gil- galad judged that the time was right. He signaled to his herald. The great trumpet sounded. Once, twice, three times!
On the other side of the tower, where Anárion and Glorfindel's host waited, the trumpet was heard. Beyond them, out in the ashen plains, Isildur's ears caught the plaintive tones. He raised his sword above his head and shouted to them,
"Elves and Men! My brothers! This is a day we have waited long for! Let us go forth and claim our victory! Now to wrath, and ruin, and the red dawn!"
And the men of Nùmenor shouted in return, "Isildur! Isildur! Our Prince! Lead us to victory! Forth Nùmenor!"
And the elves shouted, "To Ruin! Avi-i-eldar!"
With a last great shout, they surged from their hiding place. They ran at full tilt across the bare furlong of ashy ground. Isildur and the men of his house, along with Gildor and his house made up the vanguard. They unfurled their banners, and the gold tree upon green and the white tree upon black swayed in the fast-growing breeze.
The vanguard reached the gates, and the enemy did nothing. Anárion and Isildur pooled their men to make a great shield wall, behind which the archers crouched. The enemy did nothing. The remainder of the host reached the gate, and added their own shields to the shield wall. The enemy did nothing.
Escorted by a thousand of the Noldor, the terrible machines came up. All three were indeed five times the size of a man, just as Anárion had said. Great stones were brought up as well, borne in carts by dozens of horses. The machines were positioned behind the great shield wall, and they were swarmed by hundreds of Nùmenorians, who created a second, far tighter, shield wall about the machines themselves. Then the greater shield wall bent back into a half-circle, and Nùmenorian and Noldorian cavalry closed the rear.
Anárion wiped his brow; thus far, everything was going to plan. He turned to his brother, sitting beside him behind the shield wall. Isildur looked at him, his eyes grave. He gave Anárion a small nod, and then stood.
Isildur slung his great shield off his back, and held its black wood close to his heart. Pushing through the apex of the shield wall, he dropped his spear and drew his sword. Presently he came to the bare ground between the host and the wall. Boldly, he turned his back on the wall, and thrust his sword in the air.
All down the line men cheered, and cried 'Isildur! Isildur!'. The Nùmenorian prince turned back to the forbidding black walls of the Barad- dûr and waved his men onward. As one the host, cavalry, shield wall and machines, moved forward. With great speed they traversed the distance between themselves and the wall. When they stopped, Isildur stood with his nose nearly touching the black metal. He turned back to his host, and with some nervousness noted that the enemy had yet to show itself.
Presently the shield-wall parted and revealed the machines. The men and elves that made up the first shield wall scattered to the sides and rear of the machines. There they made smaller shield walls, and groups of archers crouched behind each wall. All had been well-drilled in the technique.
Dozens of men swarmed the horse drawn carts and began hastily unloading the carts. Anárion glanced up at the battlements. No orcs. None. He turned to Isildur, still standing in the open near the wall,
"Brother," he called, "What is afoot? Is Sauron hatching some new trickery for us, or have we been impossibly fortunate?"
Isildur backed away from the wall and out of the path of the machines. He crouched down by Anárion and wiped his ashy face with a hand covered in even more ash. "I suspect the latter," he said bitterly, "Sauron would taunt us like this before he squashes us like a fly."
"I intend to be the one doing the squashing," Anárion said sternly.
Isildur did not reply, but merely gave his brother an appraising look. Then he stood, and turned to the machines, where men were lifting boulders into the sacks. They nestled them into position, then backed away. One man was left at each, standing at the rear of the machine near a large lever. As one, they looked at Isildur and Anárion, waiting for their orders. Isildur removed his helmet, and stood still.
A few moments passed in overwhelming silence. Faint cries of the dying could be heard from across the three mile diameter of the Barad-dûr. Isildur stood as straight as a pine, a look of internal conflict upon his face. Anárion reached out and grabbed his brother by the belt, while at the same time shouting, "Fire!"
Anárion barely had enough time to shield his brother and himself with his shield before the three men had pulled the levers. Built up tension in three springs released, and from the siege weapons three stones were hurled at tremendous velocities.
The stones hit the black wall of the Barad-dûr in a blur of grey and white, and a sound emitted from the impact that made Anárion think the world was splitting asunder. White-hot fragments of molten rock flew past the soldiers of the Last Alliance. Some hit Anárion's shield with such force that they knocked both Anárion and Isildur back. From somewhere behind the brothers anguished screams issued from those struck by the shards of what had once been wall.
Behind the shards came a cloud of dark-grey dust, and for a few moments, the sounds of coughing drowned out everything else. The fine dust got everywhere; it was worse than the ash that made up the ground. A great deal of it got into Anárion's eyes, but he did not risk lowering his shield to clean it out.
Eventually, the dust settled. Isildur rose from the ashes, coughing and shaking his head. The dust that had settled in his black hair and beard made it seem as though he had aged thirty years in a few moments. He darted a forward and picked up his helmet, lying in the ash a few feet in front of the shield wall. There was a small dent in it, and one of the wings was twisted backwards. Isildur jammed it onto his head, and looked back.
Anárion was standing, blinking furiously to get the dust out of his eyes, and behind him the host was gathering their wits and advancing. It was a slow, cautious advance, but an advance nonetheless.
Anárion jammed his sword into the ashy earth, ripped the leather glove off of his hand, and feverishly rubbed the dust out his eyes. Isildur turned back to what was once the outer wall of the Barad-dûr, and advanced. The thirty Nùmenorians of Isildur's bodyguard broke away from the shield wall and dashed up to form a tight circle around their prince.
Isildur and his bodyguard climbed through the rubble, braced for an attack at any moment. It did not come. They walked cautiously forward for several yards, then stopped as Isildur signaled a halt. Very slightly, the bodyguard lowered their shields. Isildur lowered his sword and shield to his sides and turned on the spot, taking in the terrible glory of the Barad- dûr.
He spun quickly and raised his shield at the clatter of shifting rubble, and the bodyguards closest to the noise drew still closer together. Anárion stepped out of the gloom that hung in the gap in the wall. His bodyguard followed him, looking up in amazement as Isildur had done. Anárion smiled and walked over to his brother, easing his way through the circle of bodyguards.
"We did it." Anárion said simply.
"Not entirely," said Isildur, "We may be inside, but there are still orcs to manage. Sauron is playing a fine game, but I will not let him take down my guard."
Men and elves and the occasional dwarf walked slowly through the gap in twos and threes. Nearly two hundred were inside. Anárion motioned to Ingold, who was captaining Anárion's bodyguard. The other man nodded, and signaled to three of the bodyguard, and they followed Anárion along the inside of the wall. Anárion looked closely at the wall, only occasionally looking up to see if there were any enemies.
He walked nearly forty feet along the wall until he found what he was searching for. There was a hidden set of rungs carved into the rock, and Anárion clambered up them, and at last, after six long years, stood on the battlements of the Barad-dûr. Ingold and his bodyguard came up behind him, panting for breath.
Anárion leaned out over the battlements to gaze down at the assembled host outside the walls. Even covered in dust and with very little light, there were still glimmers of armor far below. Ingold grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him back from the battlements.
Anárion raised an eyebrow at his Captain of the Guard, who gestured lifted his hands palm upward.
"It would be a very ignoble death, my lord," he said, "To fall off of a wall you have just conquered."
"The problem being, of course, that he hasn't conquered it yet," said a voice from behind them. They turned quickly to see Isildur standing on the edge of the walkway.
"Do not be so pessimistic brother," said Anárion, "Getting inside was half the battle, do you not remember?"
"Yes, brother," said Isildur, a touch coldly, "What you say is true, but it is the half that is left to be done that concerns me."
"As it should, I suppose," replied Anárion, "But do not spoil my joy brother. I have had precious little to spare for the past six years."
"Very well," said Isildur, "But do not let down your guard. He is not beaten yet." Isildur turned from them and shouted orders to the host down below.
Anárion sat down and leaned against the battlement. He took off his helmet and wiped his brow with a gloved hand. Ingold, leaning against the battlement as well, passed him a flask of water. Minutes passed. Men and Elves, all heavily armed, came up the rungs to stand on the walkway. Hundreds were assembled.
"Secure the walkway!" shouted Isildur, "And stay together! We haven't taken this pit yet."
Nearly a thousand black and silver clad Nùmenorians rushed off along the wall to where the battle was being fought. Elves in golden armor secured the turrets set at intervals into the walls. They reported only a few inattentive sentries, who were easily dispatched. Anárion began to feel uneasy at this news.
"And we made so much noise, brother," he said worriedly, "Surely even orcs are not that stupid."
Isildur scowled and shook his fist at the lofty citadel of the Barad- dûr, "Once again, Sauron tries to play us for fools. No, we are not as dim- witted as he believes us to be. Remain vigilant."
Anárion clambered down from the wall, and strode purposefully towards the Barad-dûr. At the deep chasm into the earth that separated the citadel from the outer wall, he stopped, and peered into the depths. He almost believed that he could see things moving in the dark and mists. He almost believed that he could here the scrape of metal on stone. Shaking his head, he backed away from the abyss.
In the deeps, foul things moved. They clambered up the sheer walls using nearly invisible handholds. Their armor clanked and scraped on the black stone. One or two lost their balance and fell, screaming, to the bottom of the pit where the metalworkers and blacksmiths plied their trade. The stopped a mere fathom beneath the rim, waiting, waiting. They would taste man flesh again. But not yet; the Dark Lord planned to toy with his victims for a few moments longer.
Anárion had climbed back up to the wall and sat in one of the wall towers that flanked the main gate, which had been flung open. He had a leather flask of water beside him, and his hands were laced behind his head. For a brief moment, he had managed to snatch a bit of peace. Below him, Elves and men marched through the gate, and they sang songs of victory.
Isildur silently sat beside his brother. For a moment, the two sat in silence, staring at the black interior of the turret. At last, Isildur spoke,
"I grow weary of the game Sauron plays with us brother. I wish he would cease tormenting the fly on his back and swat at it."
Anárion smiled grimly, "I believe we are somewhat greater than a fly, Isildur."
Isildur smiled as well, "You may be right. I wish to say something to you, Anárion."
"Indeed, you already are."
Isildur shook his head, "You are far too eager for a man in the greatest fortress of his greatest enemy."
"It must be the strain."
"Indeed." Isildur paused, as if considering what to say. After a moment, he spoke, "Anárion, no matter what happens on this day, I want you to know..."
What it was that Isildur wanted Anárion to know he would never find out, for at that moment a score of the Nùmenorians sent to the rear-gate returned. The brothers quickly stood up. Isildur stepped forward as the spokes-man kneeled before them.
"O Lord," he said, "We had merely to show are faces before the foul orcs, and they fled before us."
"This is an interesting piece of news," mused Isildur.
"Did you pursue them?" asked Anárion.
"To a point Lord," said the Nùmenorian, "They cast themselves into the abyss. We have unbarred the gates, but Elendil is suspicious. He sends this message to you: 'Sauron has some evil afoot. Be wary.'
"Nothing that we have not thought of ourselves," said Anárion bitterly.
"I will not cross the abyss," said Isildur firmly, "Who can say what evils lie within its depths?"
"Then let us bring up the weapons. We may fire them from the near side of the abyss."
Isildur waved a hand at the captain, "Make it so."
"I will, O' Lord," the man said. He turned and walked from the turret, his vanguard about him. Isildur turned back to his brother, and started at the look of fear on his brother's whitening face.
"What is it? What can you see?" he asked as he hurried over to the window where Anárion was standing.
Anárion pointed out to the sole bridge over the abyss. Crossing it was a mass of black and silver, with black banners emblazoned with the white tree. At the front of the company was Ingold, the captain of Anárion's guard.
"The fools!" snarled Anárion, "They'll all be killed," he turned and sprinted to the stairwell, "To the bridge! Quickly!"
Isildur raced out of the tower after his brother.
Ingold drew his sword as he stepped from the bridge onto the solid rock of the Barad-dûr's innermost sanctum. Before him there was a few yards of beaten rock that stretched out for a few dozen yards on either side, that cut a wedge from the base of the tower, which covered the entire pinnacle of stone. Above him rose the black metal gates, forty feet high. And up beyond them was the tower itself, black and menacing.
His company followed him nervously. Among them were only a few of Anárion's bodyguard; they were composed mostly of common foot-soldiers, and a fair number of swarthy men. Crowding together, they advanced on the great gates.
Slowly, cautiously, Ingold reached out with his blade and rapped smartly on the gate. The sound echoed ominously throughout the fortress. He stepped back and waited as the echoes faded away.
He became aware that someone was calling his name. He turned warily back to the far side of the abyss. There, running down from the walls, was Lord Anárion. He waved his sword above his head, and cried,
"Rally to me, Blood of Nùmenor! Let us make our Lord and Master proud! Storm the gates!"
There arose a great shout from the assembled soldiers, save only the swarthy men. They frowned and readied their stance.
And thus Anárion's shouts of dire warning were not heeded, and the company, three hundred strong, surged towards the gates. He continued to run towards them, Isildur and several curious soldiers at his heels. More were amassed at the bridge head. Many of those in the second row were more swarthy men. Anárion found this odd for some reason; the swarthy men were men that sat at the back awaiting victory.
He pushed forcefully through the assembled troops still shouting for Ingold to turn back. He watched, horrified, as the men on the far side of the abyss hammered without avail on the iron gate.
Near him a voice called out, "Should we go as well?"
"Nay!" called Anárion, "Send a man out to bring them back!"
A gold-clad elf detached himself from the front rank and trotted out onto the bridge. Setting his spear beside him, he called out, "Turn back, o' men of Nùmenor-" His call was ended by a short whistle and a thok, and he fell to the ground with an arrow in his chest.
And all was chaos.
Orcs by the hundreds sprung from the edge of the abyss on either side, and the gates of the Barad-dûr were suddenly flung wide, and from them issued a multitude of dark and terrible creatures. Panels in the tower, identical to all the others, swung open and innumerable orcs poured forth.
Ingold brandished his sword at a fearsome troll chieftain, and was snatched up in giant scaly hands and torn limb from limb. His blood rained upon the harried Nùmenorians, who were now beset by the swarthy men as well.
Words meant nothing to the swarthy men, and they now broke their oaths and slew many of the tall men of Nùmenor. Things would have gone ill if not for Glorfindel and the elves. They had sprung into action almost before their comrade had hit the ground. They easily out-matched the swarthy men in combat, and all that tried to slay them met their end on their leaf-shaped blades.
Glorfindel himself stood over the edge of the chasm and cast down all orcs that tried to rise near him. Few were so blessed as he, and many an elf or man near the edge was slain by the rising orcs or cast over the edge of the pit.
A dozen swarthy men rushed Anárion, recognizing him as their former lord. In a rage for the loss of his captain, Anárion slew four in a blur of motion, and the rest fled his wrath. He cut a swathe for himself through the confused mass of bodies and gradually his bodyguard gathered around him. They closed into a spinning circle of deadly swords and heavy shields, and all that attacked them fell.
The Noldor had the same fortune. Well trained in the art of warfare, they formed deadly serried ranks of swordsmen and spearmen. Orcs threw themselves upon their blades, and the ground was soaked with their blood, but still they came.
The lightly-armored Sindar suffered heavy losses initially. They were armed primarily with bows, and the swarthy men took great delight in slaying them, and they mocked their efforts at defense. But Thranduil rallied them, and they retreated to the wall-top, and with their slim shafts slew the swarthy men in their hundreds.
Anárion reached the bridge to the Barad-dûr, and was met by still more orcs. Beyond the bridge, the last remnants of Ingold's company were slain by the trolls, who then turned on the swarthy men. Thus Sauron rewarded the treachery of the swarthy men with treachery of his own.
Their enemies defeated, the foul creatures turned their attention to Anárion and his guard. Livid with rage, Anárion screamed wordlessly and surged forward. His bodyguard followed, crying 'Anárion! Anárion!' Orcs and trolls and Uruks alike fell before the sword of Anárion, and it seemed as though none could touch him. He fought his way across the bridge, and stood on the other side. For a brief moment, he was alone, the orcs before him cowering in fear of this bright-eyed warrior, and those behind him slain or being slain.
Then the great Troll-chieftain that had slain Ingold stepped forward, brandishing a club that ended in a ball with covered with short sharp spikes of metal. Anárion brandished his sword at the beast and bellowed. It took a step back, then shook its small head and advanced on Anárion, its club raised on high.
As it reached Anárion, it swung the club downward. He leapt aside and lashed out at the troll. It made a small gash on its arm, and it bellowed at the creature that tormented it so. It swung its club around in an arc, and Anárion leapt forward so that he fell between the troll's legs.
Seizing his chance, Anárion stabbed upward into the troll's soft belly. It roared, but it was weaker now. He danced away as the troll swung its club at him once again. He leapt to the left to avoid being crushed by another blow and almost fell into the abyss. Orcs, standing in a wide circle around the two combatants, jeered at him.
Anárion darted forward, dodged another swing from the club, and, gripping his sword in both hands, he ran it across the troll's chest, which was as high as he could reach. It bellowed again, but it was a mere whisper compared to the others. It all happened in less than a minute.
Now Anárion's bodyguards caught up with him, and those that were armed with spears stabbed at the troll chieftain. The others re-formed the protective ring around their lord. Orcs, momentarily stunned by the loss of their greatest warrior, lowered their weapons and charged at the Nùmenorians.
The men of Anárion's bodyguard wreaked a terrible slaughter upon their attackers, but they were nevertheless driven back, step by step. Many fell, and their blood pooled on the stone.
Then, a group of Uruks broke through the defensive line and charged Anárion. He ran the fore-runner through, but was then overwhelmed. He felt a sharp pain in his leg and collapsed, his lacerated calf bleeding profusely. An Uruk stood above him, shouting its triumph to the world.
Suddenly, its head vanished in a spray of blood. And there was Isildur, eyes aglow and sword flashing. Behind him came a great press of men and elves, shouting various war cries.
For a moment, Isildur stood unopposed; the foul creature of Sauron cowed by his mighty presence. Then there arose a horrendous screech from the tower, and men threw themselves upon the ground and the elves cried aloud in dread. Than forth from the gates rode four horsemen, all in black. They were the Nazgûl, and men fled before them.
The foremost pointed his sword at Isildur, and the mighty man fell to his knees, unable to breathe. Never had things looked more grim. Anárion dragged himself as close to his brother as he could before he too was entrapped by the enchantment of terror.
Then from out of the seething mass of troops stepped Círdan, Elrond, and Galadriel accompanied by her husband Lord Celeborn. All three raised their hands, and they tapped the power of the rings. A great white light issued from them, and the Nazgûl fled in terror before it, as did the orcs.
Lord Celeborn stepped forward and helped Anárion to his feet, "How do you fare, my friend?" he asked, full of concern.
"I have been better," grunted Anárion, as he gingerly put weight on his injured leg, "How goes the battle on the other side?"
"Glorfindel and his company have held the orcs at the edge. We have suffered much loss, Lord Anárion. It is clear to me that we will not take this tower on this day. Shall we fall back and lose fewer?"
"We should seek counsel with my brother first, but I am in agreement with you Lord Celeborn," said Anárion grimly, "Why should we waste lives?"
Isildur was led over to the pair, surrounded by his bodyguards. He nodded curtly to Celeborn, then glanced down at Anárion's blood-stained leg, "You are wounded?" he asked.
"Not badly," lied Anárion quickly, "We must pull back."
"No! When will we have another chance like this?"
"Tomorrow?" suggested Celeborn, "Or the day after? They will not be able to repair that wall quickly, Lord Isildur."
"I suppose that you are right," conceded Isildur, "Then let us move, I do not wish to stay in this place."
They crossed the bridge, surrounded by troops. Isildur sighed once they were on the other side. Many warriors had already left the fortress and were amassing on the fields beyond the walls.
"Victory was within reach," said Isildur gloomily, "And it was snatched away from us."
"But we have retained our lives," replied Anárion, "Surely that must be worth something."
"This battle is not over," said Elrond, appearing at their side, "We are merely carrying it outside of these walls." He glanced at the brother's bewildered expressions, "Do you seriously think Sauron will allow us to simply escape?"
Isildur considered this for a moment, "No, that is not his way. He will crush us now, or be crushed himself."
And as Isildur spoke, orcs came racing around both sides of the tower, having amassed after climbing from the abyss. More had come along the walls, and were engaged in fierce hand-to-hand fighting with the Sindar. They were nearly surrounded.
"Through the gates! Quickly!" shouted Isildur, and men rushed to follow him. Anárion quickly fell behind, due to his leg. He snatched a shield from a fallen elf, and stood in the gate-way, as troops ran around him. He knew that this was the day he would die.
Isildur noticed his brother's absence and turned. He shouted as he saw his brother standing at the rear. He tried to wade through the oncoming tide of soldiers, but found he could not. Then his ears pricked at the sound of a horn.
It was a sinister horn, not bold, like the Nùmenorian-horns, or beautiful, as the elves. As it blew again, the long column of Easterlings that Anárion had seen before marched around the tower. Isildur tore his gaze from his brother and focused on the approaching enemy.
He approached the machine operators at a run, shouting, "Load the machines with arrows, bundles of arrows! And aim them at the Easterlings! Quickly!"
Hurriedly the machine-operators did as they were told. Isildur ran out in front of the machines and called,
"Elves and men! Rally to me! To me!"
And when they came he ordered them into ranks, and they crouched down below the line of fire of the machines. Isildur spared one last look back at his brother.
Anárion gutted another orc, danced awkwardly around a spear thrust, and impaled the would-be killer on his sword. He fell back. He was tired, and he was losing a great deal of blood from his calf and from three new wounds he had recently received. Four more orcs rushed him, backed up by a small troll.
He parried one, two, three blows from swords, beheaded an orc, ran another through, jumped forward and dragged his blade across the troll's neck. It fell onto his injured leg, and he collapsed, screaming in pain.
Another orc attempted to stab him, but fell to Anárion's sword with a gurgle. Two more rushed up and Anárion was still unable to move. He braced himself for the end...
And it didn't come.
He opened his eyes to find both orcs, and several more behind them, fallen with arrows through their throats and heads. A company of elven archers ran past, led by Thranduil. The elf grabbed Anárion by the arm and dragged him to his feet. Supported between two elves, Anárion was dragged back towards Alliance lines and safety.
The Easterlings were already approaching fast, then they broke into a trot, and their line widened, but did not seem to grow any thinner. Isildur stood behind the line of soldiers, and grimaced. Many of his men had fled to the barricades of the camp, and he was left with less than six thousands to face a far greater force.
But he had the machines, and he intended to use them. The Easterlings were within range.
"Fire!" he shouted.
"Fire!" the order was echoed.
And the three great war engines let loose their payloads of over five- hundred arrows each. They instantly burst into flame, and then into smaller fragments, and then vast swathes of the Easterling horde were swept clear by the flame.
But it did not slow them.
They crashed into the Alliance lines like a tidal wave, and there was great slaughter on both sides. The ash turned wet with blood of man and elf alike. For a moment the battle swayed as the machine-operators struggled to withdraw and reload at the same time. Then two trebuchets on the Barad-dûr let loose their stones.
They landed amongst the battling armies, crushing both Nùmenorian and Noldor and Easterling alike. The Alliance soldiers swayed, and the Easterling's pressed the advantage. It looked as though the Alliance would lose the day when there arose a great shout from behind the tower.
And out from their hiding place charged Gil-galad and Elendil's armies. They swept up the Easterlings in a tide of wrath and they slew nearly all of Sauron's servants. There were shouts of victory all around.
Then, from the main gate came a vast horde of orcs, and they smashed into the unprotected flank of the Alliance.
Anárion stood unsteadily in the hastily assembled shield wall facing the Barad-dûr. Orcs charged him, and he killed them. It became a steady rhythm; rush, parry, stab, slash. Rush, parry, stab, slash.
He had very little blood left, he knew. His hands were pale, and he felt far weaker than he should have. He fell backwards slightly before he caught himself, and he stood up in time to meet a spear. It slid between his ribs and he fell to his knees. He feebly stabbed the orc, who nevertheless died.
It was over, he knew. He just wished it would end, so he wouldn't have to feel so much pain. Pain from his wounds, yes, but pain also from the time he had spent in this wretched place. Wounds on his heart that would never heal. Wounds that Sauron's will had opened and he could not close. He wished it would end.
The trebuchets on the tower fired again, and one rolled through the lines and straight onto one of the machines, crushing it. It meant more difficulty for the Alliance.
But for Anárion, the stone had an entirely different meaning. It meant the end of the battle. It meant the end of life for Lord Anárion of Gondor, son of Elendil the Tall.
The stone crushed his body, and his soul departed for the far green country to which men's souls go. He was free.
He kicked out at orcs lying drunk and prostate at his feet, snarling at them. They scrambled away, giving him a clear bath to the battlements. He stepped up to them and looked out over the barren plains of Gorgoroth. Out in the distance, he could just make out the dust-covered tents of the Last Alliance.
He frowned. Normally the camp was virtually buzzing with activity by midmorning, which it was. His tattered brows knitted; as a matter of fact, there had been very little activity since the great host of lightly armored elves had come in four days prior. Ashgash eyed the camp with suspicion. After six years of constant assaults and forays, all the silence was unnerving.
Ashgash took a swig of the orc draught in his hand, and wiped his mouth with a chain-mailed hand. He kicked at a smaller orc sitting back against the wall on the left side. It snarled at him, and he snarled back, than shouted in the gnashing tongue of the orcs,
"Garn you little maggot! Get me more whiskey or I'll make you wish you'd be born!"
It slunk off down the stairs, and Ashgash smiled. He turned back to the tents of the Last Alliance and took another swig of the whiskey. A small flash of the sun off metal caught his eye. Then, in the distance, trumpets sounded. Out from the rows of tents marched a host of all sorts.
There were men in silver mail, and long black-shafted spears. They formed up in long columns behind a tall man on a horse. There were dwarves, in mithril and iron, bearing large war axes, and screaming their war cries in Kuzdul. There were elves of all sorts, but many were in Noldorian armor, and it gleaned golden in the sun. Trumpets sounded again, and a great shout rose from the free peoples.
Ashgash turned to his right to look at another orc. The other was pointing at different companies and muttering under his breath. He crinkled his nose and turned to Ashgash.
"I only see," he turned back and swept a knobby finger over the host once again, then turned back to Ashgash, "Nine thousands. Wot are they up to? Where are all o' them elves that came in a few days ago?"
"I dunno, but get them maggots moving. Looks like we'll have ourselves a little fun tonight. There'll be man-flesh to eat!"
The orc he had sent for his whiskey came back with another bottle. Ashgash snatched it from him, and smashed the other over the orc's head. He took a long draught of the whiskey.
He wheeled about, "Get up you scum! There's knife-work here that needs doing!"
Anárion sat tall in his saddle at the head of the column. He had spent the previous night polishing his chest plate and helmet; if he was to die, he would die in fine dress. His sword was fresh sharpened, and he had the camp blacksmith make him a new shield. He held in his hand a weapon he had never used before; a lance, with a pennant embroidered with the seven stars and white tree of Gondor. His black cape flapped behind him in the mid-morning breeze. He looked every inch the king that he was.
His soldiers, well-rested and enflamed with a fury unrivaled by even the most belligerent of Sauron's servants, marched upright in straight columns, and they sang as they marched.
"To the Barad-dûr with doom we come!
Though the Barad-dûr is strong and hard!
As cold as stone and bare as bone!
We go, we go, we go to war!
To hew the stone and break the door!
To the land of gloom with the tramp of doom
With the roll of drum, we come, we come!
To the Barad-dûr with doom we come!"
And the roll of their voices was like thunder, and the trumpets blown by Elrond's host were drowned out by its fury. The dwarves joined in with Anárion's soldiers, and added cries of 'Khazâd ai-mênu!' after each line of 'To the Barad-dûr with doom we come'.
Anárion smiled, though he felt doubt in his heart. If he was to die today, he would die honorably, as befitted the lord of such a fell people. Glorfindel the Elf Lord rode on a white horse by his side, and he too was smiling. As he looked upon the marching host, he was brought back to days of old in Beleriand, where fair princes and lords rode before armies of tall soldiers in bright mail.
Some of the Noldor who had fought in those battles long ago rode with them. They were dressed in shining golden mail, and their shields were shaped as leaves, as is the fashion of the elves. Along with them marched many of the Sindar, lightly armored in silver and iron; they bore long bows and short, leaf-bladed spears for stabbing.
At the head of the elven column rode Elrond, dressed in armor made in Gondolin before its fall. He bore an elven blade, and on his right hand he bore Vilya. Beside him rode Círdan the mariner, in the armor he had worn in Elegast long ago. Behind them rode Galadriel and Celeborn, and though Celeborn wore a shirt of mail, Galadriel had declined to wear any armor. She wore pure-white robes, a hood about her blonde hair. Behind the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien rode Thranduil of Greenwood, and on the back of his horse rode Nalí Bloodtooth. The dwarf looked terribly uncomfortable about being on a horse, but Thranduil would not hear it. About them rode ten of the Greenwood Royal Guard.
They trotted across the barren plain, banners flapping and cloaks billowing; they paused momentarily to allow the foot soldiers to catch up. They passed by the place where the main host hid, and made a point of not looking at them. The black iron gates of the Barad-dûr rose up before them. There was no movement on the battlements, and the captains of the host reared the horses. Anárion trotted from one end of the gate to the other several times.
He leapt from his saddle, and walked up to the gate. He kicked at it. When no vengeful arrows shot down from the walls above him, he leaned against it, resting his forehead against the ash-covered iron. After a few moments, he looked up and backed away a dozen paces.
"Let the Captain of the Barad-dûr come forth! Justice shall be done upon him, whether he hide in his black tower or no! Let him come forth, or it will go evil with him!"
There was silence. Anárion turned back to the others, and smiled wryly,
"They obviously have no respect for us."
Glorfindel smiled grimly and drew his blade, "Then let us punish them for their great folly!" He turned in his saddle, "Bring up the rams!"
There was a shuffling in the ranks as two score Gondorians brought the great oaken rams forward to the gates. Four hundred more formed a shield wall about them to guard against arrows. No shots were fired from the wall, no hideous orc cries came from inside.
Anárion's soldiers looked about wildly, drawing their great shields close to their hearts. They muttered amongst themselves, and gripped their spears tighter. Anárion waved his blade at the ram bearers. They smote the great gate with it, once. Twice. Three times they pounded on the gates of the Barad-dûr. There was no answer.
Now even Glorfindel grew nervous. Was it possible that Sauron knew more than they thought? After a few moments, Anárion gave the signal once again. The ram-bearers smote the door again and again, and soon a steady rhythm of fire-hardened wood on iron began.
Anárion stamped his boots to the beat of the ram and smashed his sword against his shield. Glorfindel leapt down off his horse and did the same. Soon, every man in the host beat his shield and stamped his feet in time with the ram. Heralds blew their trumpets and shouted the names of their captains. The din was deafening, and yet there was still no movement on the battlements.
Eventually, the stamping and the clashing of sword on shield died down. Even the ram stopped. The host milled about, wondering what to do. Anárion stood ten yards from the gate, and stared up at the spiked black battlements. He turned to Glorfindel,
"What do we do?"
Glorfindel shook his head gravely, "I know not. I guess that we must stay put and wait for High King Gil-galad and King Elendil to attack," he looked meaningfully at Anárion, "I had expected that we would be attacked."
"As did I," Anárion nodded, "The Dark Lord must know more than we had guessed."
"Let us hope he does not know all our plans," Glorfindel muttered and turned away from the walls.
Thranduil, still on his horse, turned as much as he could to face Nalí. He grimaced, "I do not love war Master Dwarf, but this," he gestured to the high walls, "I like even less."
"My spirits would be lifted greatly if there were but a few orc-necks lined up before me," agreed Nalí.
"Where are they?" whispered Círdan to Elrond.
Elrond rubbed a thumb over Vilya nervously, "I do not know. I have been dreading this moment, but now that I am here, I find that I wish that the enemy would swarm us with overwhelming numbers."
Círdan shook his head, "I would rather have a clear sign that they were all dead," he looked at Elrond with a look of hope upon his face, "You do not think it possible that we have starved them out, do you?"
Elrond shook his head in disgust, "No. Orcs, being foul as they are, have no reservations to eating their own comrades in time of need."
Círdan closed his eyes, "They are the worst things to have ever walked the earth."
"No," said Ingold the Gondorian, coming up behind the pair on his horse, "The foulest thing to walk the earth is a man who breaks an oath. He is both without hope and without honor, and will end up without friends."
Elrond smiled at Ingold, "You have wisdom beyond your years, Captain. Let us hope you also have skill with a sword."
"I have no doubt that you shall soon find out," Ingold said.
Elendil the Tall, king of all Eriador, looked out from his hiding place to the north of the Barad-dûr. He saw what Anárion and his host were seeing at the south gate. The battlements were clear, and the tower was silent. He turned to Gil-galad, the normally shining armor of the elven king blackened by fire.
"None will answer my son's challenge," Elendil said at last, "The fortress of the enemy is silent."
"Will we stay to the plan?" asked Gil-galad.
"I see no reason why we should not," said Elendil, "This is merely unexpected. Remember that we are the bait, not Anárion and Glorfindel."
Gil-galad nodded and turned to the hosts that he and Elendil led. He waved at them, and slowly, in a great line, they marched down the gully. Most were hunched double, and their spears bore no banners, and their armor was blackened. On and on they marched past him, and there seemed to be no end to them. Yet this was only part of the host, and no doubt Sauron had many more than they. At last, men came with their horses. He and Elendil rode up the column, pressed flat against their horses.
They came to where the front ranks of the army had assembled in front of the walls. Up and down in front of the ranks they rode, waiting for the rest to get into position. Gil-galad nervously rubbed his ring finger, at the spot where Vilya had once rested. He felt strangely naked without it. He looked up to find Elendil watching him concernedly. The man put his hand on Gil-galad's shoulder, and smiled slightly,
"A man who cannot part with a treasure at need is foolish, my friend. Let it be."
Gil-galad nodded, and put his hand on Elendil's shoulder. "Whatever happens today, my friend, I want you know that it has been an honor to fight beside you."
"And I have been honored to fight beside you, High King of the Noldor. Let us go now to meet our doom, whatever it may be."
Presently the host was in position, they stood in nervous ranks. Elves prayed to the Valar under their breath, while men fumbled with amulets and charms. Elendil turned his horse about to face them.
"Soldiers of the Alliance of Elves and Men! Hark to me! Today is the day where all our labor will bear fruit! The Barad-dûr will be broken, and the pits laid bare! Today is the day when the orcs of Sauron will all be slain! Today is the day that men will win renown! Beyond those walls lies the end to our struggle! Reach out! Take it! It is yours! Stand fast, warriors of the West!"
A great shout rose from the gathered host and many clashed together sword and shield. Elendil raised his sword up on high, and twirled it above his head. Men and elf alike cheered. Heralds blew trumpets and men beat on drums. They raised a terrible din, one that the enemy could not even pretend to ignore.
Orcs rose on the walls, their foul faces twisted with hatred. They held in their hands bows with black-feathered arrows, and they drew them back. The Galadhrim and the Greenwood elves, all under the command of King Gwathôl, positioned themselves in serried rows. At Gwathôl's command, the first row fired, and drew back to the rear of the formation. The second row drew, and fired, and retreated to the rear. In this efficient formation, the elven archers wreaked great destruction on the orcs on the walls.
The orcs did not return the volley. They ducked behind the battlements, but no vengeful shafts found the flesh of some hapless Alliance soldier. Slowly, and against the will of their commanders, many soldiers relaxed their guard slightly. Then, at some hidden signal, the orcs on the walls let their arrows loose. They fell in a rain on the ranks of the Last Alliance. Men and elves by the score fell pierced by barbed shafts. One caught Elendil in the thigh, but the King of Eriador pulled it from his leg and rallied his troops.
The Alliance's archers fired again, and orcs fell. Elves brought up a ram made of bronze and iron, and it hammered away at the gates, but to no avail. Orcs rained down arrows on the beleaguered soldiers of the Alliance. Mounds of the slain began to pile up.
Elendil rallied his soldiers, and long tall ladders of wood and iron were brought to the front. The bravest of the Nùmenorians and the Noldor climbed the ladders to where orcs rained down arrows and boiling oil. Gil- galad judged that the time was right. He signaled to his herald. The great trumpet sounded. Once, twice, three times!
On the other side of the tower, where Anárion and Glorfindel's host waited, the trumpet was heard. Beyond them, out in the ashen plains, Isildur's ears caught the plaintive tones. He raised his sword above his head and shouted to them,
"Elves and Men! My brothers! This is a day we have waited long for! Let us go forth and claim our victory! Now to wrath, and ruin, and the red dawn!"
And the men of Nùmenor shouted in return, "Isildur! Isildur! Our Prince! Lead us to victory! Forth Nùmenor!"
And the elves shouted, "To Ruin! Avi-i-eldar!"
With a last great shout, they surged from their hiding place. They ran at full tilt across the bare furlong of ashy ground. Isildur and the men of his house, along with Gildor and his house made up the vanguard. They unfurled their banners, and the gold tree upon green and the white tree upon black swayed in the fast-growing breeze.
The vanguard reached the gates, and the enemy did nothing. Anárion and Isildur pooled their men to make a great shield wall, behind which the archers crouched. The enemy did nothing. The remainder of the host reached the gate, and added their own shields to the shield wall. The enemy did nothing.
Escorted by a thousand of the Noldor, the terrible machines came up. All three were indeed five times the size of a man, just as Anárion had said. Great stones were brought up as well, borne in carts by dozens of horses. The machines were positioned behind the great shield wall, and they were swarmed by hundreds of Nùmenorians, who created a second, far tighter, shield wall about the machines themselves. Then the greater shield wall bent back into a half-circle, and Nùmenorian and Noldorian cavalry closed the rear.
Anárion wiped his brow; thus far, everything was going to plan. He turned to his brother, sitting beside him behind the shield wall. Isildur looked at him, his eyes grave. He gave Anárion a small nod, and then stood.
Isildur slung his great shield off his back, and held its black wood close to his heart. Pushing through the apex of the shield wall, he dropped his spear and drew his sword. Presently he came to the bare ground between the host and the wall. Boldly, he turned his back on the wall, and thrust his sword in the air.
All down the line men cheered, and cried 'Isildur! Isildur!'. The Nùmenorian prince turned back to the forbidding black walls of the Barad- dûr and waved his men onward. As one the host, cavalry, shield wall and machines, moved forward. With great speed they traversed the distance between themselves and the wall. When they stopped, Isildur stood with his nose nearly touching the black metal. He turned back to his host, and with some nervousness noted that the enemy had yet to show itself.
Presently the shield-wall parted and revealed the machines. The men and elves that made up the first shield wall scattered to the sides and rear of the machines. There they made smaller shield walls, and groups of archers crouched behind each wall. All had been well-drilled in the technique.
Dozens of men swarmed the horse drawn carts and began hastily unloading the carts. Anárion glanced up at the battlements. No orcs. None. He turned to Isildur, still standing in the open near the wall,
"Brother," he called, "What is afoot? Is Sauron hatching some new trickery for us, or have we been impossibly fortunate?"
Isildur backed away from the wall and out of the path of the machines. He crouched down by Anárion and wiped his ashy face with a hand covered in even more ash. "I suspect the latter," he said bitterly, "Sauron would taunt us like this before he squashes us like a fly."
"I intend to be the one doing the squashing," Anárion said sternly.
Isildur did not reply, but merely gave his brother an appraising look. Then he stood, and turned to the machines, where men were lifting boulders into the sacks. They nestled them into position, then backed away. One man was left at each, standing at the rear of the machine near a large lever. As one, they looked at Isildur and Anárion, waiting for their orders. Isildur removed his helmet, and stood still.
A few moments passed in overwhelming silence. Faint cries of the dying could be heard from across the three mile diameter of the Barad-dûr. Isildur stood as straight as a pine, a look of internal conflict upon his face. Anárion reached out and grabbed his brother by the belt, while at the same time shouting, "Fire!"
Anárion barely had enough time to shield his brother and himself with his shield before the three men had pulled the levers. Built up tension in three springs released, and from the siege weapons three stones were hurled at tremendous velocities.
The stones hit the black wall of the Barad-dûr in a blur of grey and white, and a sound emitted from the impact that made Anárion think the world was splitting asunder. White-hot fragments of molten rock flew past the soldiers of the Last Alliance. Some hit Anárion's shield with such force that they knocked both Anárion and Isildur back. From somewhere behind the brothers anguished screams issued from those struck by the shards of what had once been wall.
Behind the shards came a cloud of dark-grey dust, and for a few moments, the sounds of coughing drowned out everything else. The fine dust got everywhere; it was worse than the ash that made up the ground. A great deal of it got into Anárion's eyes, but he did not risk lowering his shield to clean it out.
Eventually, the dust settled. Isildur rose from the ashes, coughing and shaking his head. The dust that had settled in his black hair and beard made it seem as though he had aged thirty years in a few moments. He darted a forward and picked up his helmet, lying in the ash a few feet in front of the shield wall. There was a small dent in it, and one of the wings was twisted backwards. Isildur jammed it onto his head, and looked back.
Anárion was standing, blinking furiously to get the dust out of his eyes, and behind him the host was gathering their wits and advancing. It was a slow, cautious advance, but an advance nonetheless.
Anárion jammed his sword into the ashy earth, ripped the leather glove off of his hand, and feverishly rubbed the dust out his eyes. Isildur turned back to what was once the outer wall of the Barad-dûr, and advanced. The thirty Nùmenorians of Isildur's bodyguard broke away from the shield wall and dashed up to form a tight circle around their prince.
Isildur and his bodyguard climbed through the rubble, braced for an attack at any moment. It did not come. They walked cautiously forward for several yards, then stopped as Isildur signaled a halt. Very slightly, the bodyguard lowered their shields. Isildur lowered his sword and shield to his sides and turned on the spot, taking in the terrible glory of the Barad- dûr.
He spun quickly and raised his shield at the clatter of shifting rubble, and the bodyguards closest to the noise drew still closer together. Anárion stepped out of the gloom that hung in the gap in the wall. His bodyguard followed him, looking up in amazement as Isildur had done. Anárion smiled and walked over to his brother, easing his way through the circle of bodyguards.
"We did it." Anárion said simply.
"Not entirely," said Isildur, "We may be inside, but there are still orcs to manage. Sauron is playing a fine game, but I will not let him take down my guard."
Men and elves and the occasional dwarf walked slowly through the gap in twos and threes. Nearly two hundred were inside. Anárion motioned to Ingold, who was captaining Anárion's bodyguard. The other man nodded, and signaled to three of the bodyguard, and they followed Anárion along the inside of the wall. Anárion looked closely at the wall, only occasionally looking up to see if there were any enemies.
He walked nearly forty feet along the wall until he found what he was searching for. There was a hidden set of rungs carved into the rock, and Anárion clambered up them, and at last, after six long years, stood on the battlements of the Barad-dûr. Ingold and his bodyguard came up behind him, panting for breath.
Anárion leaned out over the battlements to gaze down at the assembled host outside the walls. Even covered in dust and with very little light, there were still glimmers of armor far below. Ingold grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him back from the battlements.
Anárion raised an eyebrow at his Captain of the Guard, who gestured lifted his hands palm upward.
"It would be a very ignoble death, my lord," he said, "To fall off of a wall you have just conquered."
"The problem being, of course, that he hasn't conquered it yet," said a voice from behind them. They turned quickly to see Isildur standing on the edge of the walkway.
"Do not be so pessimistic brother," said Anárion, "Getting inside was half the battle, do you not remember?"
"Yes, brother," said Isildur, a touch coldly, "What you say is true, but it is the half that is left to be done that concerns me."
"As it should, I suppose," replied Anárion, "But do not spoil my joy brother. I have had precious little to spare for the past six years."
"Very well," said Isildur, "But do not let down your guard. He is not beaten yet." Isildur turned from them and shouted orders to the host down below.
Anárion sat down and leaned against the battlement. He took off his helmet and wiped his brow with a gloved hand. Ingold, leaning against the battlement as well, passed him a flask of water. Minutes passed. Men and Elves, all heavily armed, came up the rungs to stand on the walkway. Hundreds were assembled.
"Secure the walkway!" shouted Isildur, "And stay together! We haven't taken this pit yet."
Nearly a thousand black and silver clad Nùmenorians rushed off along the wall to where the battle was being fought. Elves in golden armor secured the turrets set at intervals into the walls. They reported only a few inattentive sentries, who were easily dispatched. Anárion began to feel uneasy at this news.
"And we made so much noise, brother," he said worriedly, "Surely even orcs are not that stupid."
Isildur scowled and shook his fist at the lofty citadel of the Barad- dûr, "Once again, Sauron tries to play us for fools. No, we are not as dim- witted as he believes us to be. Remain vigilant."
Anárion clambered down from the wall, and strode purposefully towards the Barad-dûr. At the deep chasm into the earth that separated the citadel from the outer wall, he stopped, and peered into the depths. He almost believed that he could see things moving in the dark and mists. He almost believed that he could here the scrape of metal on stone. Shaking his head, he backed away from the abyss.
In the deeps, foul things moved. They clambered up the sheer walls using nearly invisible handholds. Their armor clanked and scraped on the black stone. One or two lost their balance and fell, screaming, to the bottom of the pit where the metalworkers and blacksmiths plied their trade. The stopped a mere fathom beneath the rim, waiting, waiting. They would taste man flesh again. But not yet; the Dark Lord planned to toy with his victims for a few moments longer.
Anárion had climbed back up to the wall and sat in one of the wall towers that flanked the main gate, which had been flung open. He had a leather flask of water beside him, and his hands were laced behind his head. For a brief moment, he had managed to snatch a bit of peace. Below him, Elves and men marched through the gate, and they sang songs of victory.
Isildur silently sat beside his brother. For a moment, the two sat in silence, staring at the black interior of the turret. At last, Isildur spoke,
"I grow weary of the game Sauron plays with us brother. I wish he would cease tormenting the fly on his back and swat at it."
Anárion smiled grimly, "I believe we are somewhat greater than a fly, Isildur."
Isildur smiled as well, "You may be right. I wish to say something to you, Anárion."
"Indeed, you already are."
Isildur shook his head, "You are far too eager for a man in the greatest fortress of his greatest enemy."
"It must be the strain."
"Indeed." Isildur paused, as if considering what to say. After a moment, he spoke, "Anárion, no matter what happens on this day, I want you to know..."
What it was that Isildur wanted Anárion to know he would never find out, for at that moment a score of the Nùmenorians sent to the rear-gate returned. The brothers quickly stood up. Isildur stepped forward as the spokes-man kneeled before them.
"O Lord," he said, "We had merely to show are faces before the foul orcs, and they fled before us."
"This is an interesting piece of news," mused Isildur.
"Did you pursue them?" asked Anárion.
"To a point Lord," said the Nùmenorian, "They cast themselves into the abyss. We have unbarred the gates, but Elendil is suspicious. He sends this message to you: 'Sauron has some evil afoot. Be wary.'
"Nothing that we have not thought of ourselves," said Anárion bitterly.
"I will not cross the abyss," said Isildur firmly, "Who can say what evils lie within its depths?"
"Then let us bring up the weapons. We may fire them from the near side of the abyss."
Isildur waved a hand at the captain, "Make it so."
"I will, O' Lord," the man said. He turned and walked from the turret, his vanguard about him. Isildur turned back to his brother, and started at the look of fear on his brother's whitening face.
"What is it? What can you see?" he asked as he hurried over to the window where Anárion was standing.
Anárion pointed out to the sole bridge over the abyss. Crossing it was a mass of black and silver, with black banners emblazoned with the white tree. At the front of the company was Ingold, the captain of Anárion's guard.
"The fools!" snarled Anárion, "They'll all be killed," he turned and sprinted to the stairwell, "To the bridge! Quickly!"
Isildur raced out of the tower after his brother.
Ingold drew his sword as he stepped from the bridge onto the solid rock of the Barad-dûr's innermost sanctum. Before him there was a few yards of beaten rock that stretched out for a few dozen yards on either side, that cut a wedge from the base of the tower, which covered the entire pinnacle of stone. Above him rose the black metal gates, forty feet high. And up beyond them was the tower itself, black and menacing.
His company followed him nervously. Among them were only a few of Anárion's bodyguard; they were composed mostly of common foot-soldiers, and a fair number of swarthy men. Crowding together, they advanced on the great gates.
Slowly, cautiously, Ingold reached out with his blade and rapped smartly on the gate. The sound echoed ominously throughout the fortress. He stepped back and waited as the echoes faded away.
He became aware that someone was calling his name. He turned warily back to the far side of the abyss. There, running down from the walls, was Lord Anárion. He waved his sword above his head, and cried,
"Rally to me, Blood of Nùmenor! Let us make our Lord and Master proud! Storm the gates!"
There arose a great shout from the assembled soldiers, save only the swarthy men. They frowned and readied their stance.
And thus Anárion's shouts of dire warning were not heeded, and the company, three hundred strong, surged towards the gates. He continued to run towards them, Isildur and several curious soldiers at his heels. More were amassed at the bridge head. Many of those in the second row were more swarthy men. Anárion found this odd for some reason; the swarthy men were men that sat at the back awaiting victory.
He pushed forcefully through the assembled troops still shouting for Ingold to turn back. He watched, horrified, as the men on the far side of the abyss hammered without avail on the iron gate.
Near him a voice called out, "Should we go as well?"
"Nay!" called Anárion, "Send a man out to bring them back!"
A gold-clad elf detached himself from the front rank and trotted out onto the bridge. Setting his spear beside him, he called out, "Turn back, o' men of Nùmenor-" His call was ended by a short whistle and a thok, and he fell to the ground with an arrow in his chest.
And all was chaos.
Orcs by the hundreds sprung from the edge of the abyss on either side, and the gates of the Barad-dûr were suddenly flung wide, and from them issued a multitude of dark and terrible creatures. Panels in the tower, identical to all the others, swung open and innumerable orcs poured forth.
Ingold brandished his sword at a fearsome troll chieftain, and was snatched up in giant scaly hands and torn limb from limb. His blood rained upon the harried Nùmenorians, who were now beset by the swarthy men as well.
Words meant nothing to the swarthy men, and they now broke their oaths and slew many of the tall men of Nùmenor. Things would have gone ill if not for Glorfindel and the elves. They had sprung into action almost before their comrade had hit the ground. They easily out-matched the swarthy men in combat, and all that tried to slay them met their end on their leaf-shaped blades.
Glorfindel himself stood over the edge of the chasm and cast down all orcs that tried to rise near him. Few were so blessed as he, and many an elf or man near the edge was slain by the rising orcs or cast over the edge of the pit.
A dozen swarthy men rushed Anárion, recognizing him as their former lord. In a rage for the loss of his captain, Anárion slew four in a blur of motion, and the rest fled his wrath. He cut a swathe for himself through the confused mass of bodies and gradually his bodyguard gathered around him. They closed into a spinning circle of deadly swords and heavy shields, and all that attacked them fell.
The Noldor had the same fortune. Well trained in the art of warfare, they formed deadly serried ranks of swordsmen and spearmen. Orcs threw themselves upon their blades, and the ground was soaked with their blood, but still they came.
The lightly-armored Sindar suffered heavy losses initially. They were armed primarily with bows, and the swarthy men took great delight in slaying them, and they mocked their efforts at defense. But Thranduil rallied them, and they retreated to the wall-top, and with their slim shafts slew the swarthy men in their hundreds.
Anárion reached the bridge to the Barad-dûr, and was met by still more orcs. Beyond the bridge, the last remnants of Ingold's company were slain by the trolls, who then turned on the swarthy men. Thus Sauron rewarded the treachery of the swarthy men with treachery of his own.
Their enemies defeated, the foul creatures turned their attention to Anárion and his guard. Livid with rage, Anárion screamed wordlessly and surged forward. His bodyguard followed, crying 'Anárion! Anárion!' Orcs and trolls and Uruks alike fell before the sword of Anárion, and it seemed as though none could touch him. He fought his way across the bridge, and stood on the other side. For a brief moment, he was alone, the orcs before him cowering in fear of this bright-eyed warrior, and those behind him slain or being slain.
Then the great Troll-chieftain that had slain Ingold stepped forward, brandishing a club that ended in a ball with covered with short sharp spikes of metal. Anárion brandished his sword at the beast and bellowed. It took a step back, then shook its small head and advanced on Anárion, its club raised on high.
As it reached Anárion, it swung the club downward. He leapt aside and lashed out at the troll. It made a small gash on its arm, and it bellowed at the creature that tormented it so. It swung its club around in an arc, and Anárion leapt forward so that he fell between the troll's legs.
Seizing his chance, Anárion stabbed upward into the troll's soft belly. It roared, but it was weaker now. He danced away as the troll swung its club at him once again. He leapt to the left to avoid being crushed by another blow and almost fell into the abyss. Orcs, standing in a wide circle around the two combatants, jeered at him.
Anárion darted forward, dodged another swing from the club, and, gripping his sword in both hands, he ran it across the troll's chest, which was as high as he could reach. It bellowed again, but it was a mere whisper compared to the others. It all happened in less than a minute.
Now Anárion's bodyguards caught up with him, and those that were armed with spears stabbed at the troll chieftain. The others re-formed the protective ring around their lord. Orcs, momentarily stunned by the loss of their greatest warrior, lowered their weapons and charged at the Nùmenorians.
The men of Anárion's bodyguard wreaked a terrible slaughter upon their attackers, but they were nevertheless driven back, step by step. Many fell, and their blood pooled on the stone.
Then, a group of Uruks broke through the defensive line and charged Anárion. He ran the fore-runner through, but was then overwhelmed. He felt a sharp pain in his leg and collapsed, his lacerated calf bleeding profusely. An Uruk stood above him, shouting its triumph to the world.
Suddenly, its head vanished in a spray of blood. And there was Isildur, eyes aglow and sword flashing. Behind him came a great press of men and elves, shouting various war cries.
For a moment, Isildur stood unopposed; the foul creature of Sauron cowed by his mighty presence. Then there arose a horrendous screech from the tower, and men threw themselves upon the ground and the elves cried aloud in dread. Than forth from the gates rode four horsemen, all in black. They were the Nazgûl, and men fled before them.
The foremost pointed his sword at Isildur, and the mighty man fell to his knees, unable to breathe. Never had things looked more grim. Anárion dragged himself as close to his brother as he could before he too was entrapped by the enchantment of terror.
Then from out of the seething mass of troops stepped Círdan, Elrond, and Galadriel accompanied by her husband Lord Celeborn. All three raised their hands, and they tapped the power of the rings. A great white light issued from them, and the Nazgûl fled in terror before it, as did the orcs.
Lord Celeborn stepped forward and helped Anárion to his feet, "How do you fare, my friend?" he asked, full of concern.
"I have been better," grunted Anárion, as he gingerly put weight on his injured leg, "How goes the battle on the other side?"
"Glorfindel and his company have held the orcs at the edge. We have suffered much loss, Lord Anárion. It is clear to me that we will not take this tower on this day. Shall we fall back and lose fewer?"
"We should seek counsel with my brother first, but I am in agreement with you Lord Celeborn," said Anárion grimly, "Why should we waste lives?"
Isildur was led over to the pair, surrounded by his bodyguards. He nodded curtly to Celeborn, then glanced down at Anárion's blood-stained leg, "You are wounded?" he asked.
"Not badly," lied Anárion quickly, "We must pull back."
"No! When will we have another chance like this?"
"Tomorrow?" suggested Celeborn, "Or the day after? They will not be able to repair that wall quickly, Lord Isildur."
"I suppose that you are right," conceded Isildur, "Then let us move, I do not wish to stay in this place."
They crossed the bridge, surrounded by troops. Isildur sighed once they were on the other side. Many warriors had already left the fortress and were amassing on the fields beyond the walls.
"Victory was within reach," said Isildur gloomily, "And it was snatched away from us."
"But we have retained our lives," replied Anárion, "Surely that must be worth something."
"This battle is not over," said Elrond, appearing at their side, "We are merely carrying it outside of these walls." He glanced at the brother's bewildered expressions, "Do you seriously think Sauron will allow us to simply escape?"
Isildur considered this for a moment, "No, that is not his way. He will crush us now, or be crushed himself."
And as Isildur spoke, orcs came racing around both sides of the tower, having amassed after climbing from the abyss. More had come along the walls, and were engaged in fierce hand-to-hand fighting with the Sindar. They were nearly surrounded.
"Through the gates! Quickly!" shouted Isildur, and men rushed to follow him. Anárion quickly fell behind, due to his leg. He snatched a shield from a fallen elf, and stood in the gate-way, as troops ran around him. He knew that this was the day he would die.
Isildur noticed his brother's absence and turned. He shouted as he saw his brother standing at the rear. He tried to wade through the oncoming tide of soldiers, but found he could not. Then his ears pricked at the sound of a horn.
It was a sinister horn, not bold, like the Nùmenorian-horns, or beautiful, as the elves. As it blew again, the long column of Easterlings that Anárion had seen before marched around the tower. Isildur tore his gaze from his brother and focused on the approaching enemy.
He approached the machine operators at a run, shouting, "Load the machines with arrows, bundles of arrows! And aim them at the Easterlings! Quickly!"
Hurriedly the machine-operators did as they were told. Isildur ran out in front of the machines and called,
"Elves and men! Rally to me! To me!"
And when they came he ordered them into ranks, and they crouched down below the line of fire of the machines. Isildur spared one last look back at his brother.
Anárion gutted another orc, danced awkwardly around a spear thrust, and impaled the would-be killer on his sword. He fell back. He was tired, and he was losing a great deal of blood from his calf and from three new wounds he had recently received. Four more orcs rushed him, backed up by a small troll.
He parried one, two, three blows from swords, beheaded an orc, ran another through, jumped forward and dragged his blade across the troll's neck. It fell onto his injured leg, and he collapsed, screaming in pain.
Another orc attempted to stab him, but fell to Anárion's sword with a gurgle. Two more rushed up and Anárion was still unable to move. He braced himself for the end...
And it didn't come.
He opened his eyes to find both orcs, and several more behind them, fallen with arrows through their throats and heads. A company of elven archers ran past, led by Thranduil. The elf grabbed Anárion by the arm and dragged him to his feet. Supported between two elves, Anárion was dragged back towards Alliance lines and safety.
The Easterlings were already approaching fast, then they broke into a trot, and their line widened, but did not seem to grow any thinner. Isildur stood behind the line of soldiers, and grimaced. Many of his men had fled to the barricades of the camp, and he was left with less than six thousands to face a far greater force.
But he had the machines, and he intended to use them. The Easterlings were within range.
"Fire!" he shouted.
"Fire!" the order was echoed.
And the three great war engines let loose their payloads of over five- hundred arrows each. They instantly burst into flame, and then into smaller fragments, and then vast swathes of the Easterling horde were swept clear by the flame.
But it did not slow them.
They crashed into the Alliance lines like a tidal wave, and there was great slaughter on both sides. The ash turned wet with blood of man and elf alike. For a moment the battle swayed as the machine-operators struggled to withdraw and reload at the same time. Then two trebuchets on the Barad-dûr let loose their stones.
They landed amongst the battling armies, crushing both Nùmenorian and Noldor and Easterling alike. The Alliance soldiers swayed, and the Easterling's pressed the advantage. It looked as though the Alliance would lose the day when there arose a great shout from behind the tower.
And out from their hiding place charged Gil-galad and Elendil's armies. They swept up the Easterlings in a tide of wrath and they slew nearly all of Sauron's servants. There were shouts of victory all around.
Then, from the main gate came a vast horde of orcs, and they smashed into the unprotected flank of the Alliance.
Anárion stood unsteadily in the hastily assembled shield wall facing the Barad-dûr. Orcs charged him, and he killed them. It became a steady rhythm; rush, parry, stab, slash. Rush, parry, stab, slash.
He had very little blood left, he knew. His hands were pale, and he felt far weaker than he should have. He fell backwards slightly before he caught himself, and he stood up in time to meet a spear. It slid between his ribs and he fell to his knees. He feebly stabbed the orc, who nevertheless died.
It was over, he knew. He just wished it would end, so he wouldn't have to feel so much pain. Pain from his wounds, yes, but pain also from the time he had spent in this wretched place. Wounds on his heart that would never heal. Wounds that Sauron's will had opened and he could not close. He wished it would end.
The trebuchets on the tower fired again, and one rolled through the lines and straight onto one of the machines, crushing it. It meant more difficulty for the Alliance.
But for Anárion, the stone had an entirely different meaning. It meant the end of the battle. It meant the end of life for Lord Anárion of Gondor, son of Elendil the Tall.
The stone crushed his body, and his soul departed for the far green country to which men's souls go. He was free.