X.) A Fateful Choice
Elendil stood in the balcony of his chambers, staring at the shimmering stars that bedecked the night sky. Earendil was well advanced in his nightly journey, the Slimaril jewel gleaming brightly from the prow of Vingilot, his enchanted ship.
"You were granted eternal life, my forefather, and are the envy of all Men" mused Elendil. "Yet who is to say whether your fate is a joyous one? Mayhap you stare down from your ship at the lands of Men, and long for hearth and home, wine and song, if for but a single night. Yet they are forever denied you by your strange fate."
He lowered his head and stared out to sea, a vast pool of darkness under the night sky. "And what of you, father?" asked Elendil. "Did your quest for Valinor succeed as did Earendil's? If so, what fate have the Valar assigned to you?" A faint breeze stirred the trees in the courtyard below, but no reply came.
Sighing, Elendil turned and headed for his bed, eager to set aside his troubles in his few hours of nightly sleep. As he pulled the blankets over his bearded chin, pleasant warmth crept over him, and soon he had departed for the land of dreams.
He dreamt that he was a bird, perhaps an Eagle, soaring high in the sky. The whole of the western world was spread out before him, from the lands of Middle Earth to the East, to the shores of Valinor, which glimmered faintly in the West. Yet it was with difficulty that he could see the lands and sea below, for all was obscured by a veil of shadow.
He stared down at Numenor, and managed to discern its landmarks through the veil. There was Romenna, where the veil appeared less thick, and he could clearly see its streets and wharves. To the West lay sprawling Armenelos, buried beneath a thick plume of black some from the accursed Temple of Melkor. Farther west still stood Meneltarma, its Hallow sadly empty and abandoned, shrubs and weeds invading its unkempt meadow. And on the westernmost shores, he could see Andunie, its white and turquoise houses as fair as he remembered them.
He stared again, and was astonished by the vast fleet that stood in the harbour of Andunie. How had he not noticed it a moment before? Yet there it was, thousands of ships of war, their sails of black and gold rippling in the winds.
Why, was this not what his father had seen in his dream, before departing for Valinor? Then he must be dreaming himself. Yet, despite his curious awareness of his dream-state, Elendil did not awaken. Instead, he felt compelled to watch the events unfolding before him.
From the mountains of Valinor, a blot of lightning shot forth, accompanied by the screams of Eagles. It struck squarely at the Temple of Melkor. There was a rumbling of the earth, and for a time smoke issued forth from a fissure which had opened in the sides of Meneltarma. Yet the disturbance in the land and mountain subsided, and Elendil, peering through the shadows, could see that the foul Temple still brooded over the city. Had the Valar heeded Amandil's plea, only for their efforts to prove ineffectual against the might of Sauron? Elendil trembled at the thought. If the Valar themselves could not defeat Sauron and the power of his Ring, then surely Men were doomed?
Elendil turned his gaze back to the West. As in his father's dream, the fleet had now departed, and sailed effortlessly through the Enchanted Isles. As in his father's dream, the fleet landed without hindrance on the shores of Valinor, and a great army of Men spewed forth, surging along the coast and up the Calacirya, the Pass of Light, while the brilliant white beacon atop Mount Taniquetal was stained by an angry crimson glow. And as in his father's dream, the Blessed Land fell under a veil of coulds from the Sea, and thunder and lighting joined the clash and clammer of war.
Then, a mighty voice pealed forth from the heavens, deeper than the depths of the Sea, and stronger than the foundations of the Earth. Three times it spoke to Elendil the Tall:
"The Doom of Numenor is at Hand!" rumbled the voice. Gazing beneath him, Elendil saw the isle of Numenor consumed by fire, shaking and trembling as was torn asunder, only to be consumed by the all-devouring Sea. Terror surged through Elendil as he witnessed the awful scene, which verily was as dreadful as that described by Amandil!
Yet his dream did not end with a vision of doom, as had his father's. Elendil felt compelled to turn his gaze to the East, where all was thickly veiled in Shadow. To his wonderment, a pale light shone forth by the river Anduin, near the borders of the Black Land. The light grew until it was as pure and bright as the beacon that had shone from Taniquetl. At length, it took shape, and Elendil realized that it had formed into the very image of the murdered White Tree, whose offspring had taken root in the Palace courtyard at Romenna! There was the smooth white bark, the leaves of dark green and silver, and the flowers and fruits of white. "Yet hope remains for the Elendili, the Faithful Ones" echoed the voice.
Elendil looked beneath him. To his astonishment, he saw that Valinor and Numenor had vanished! The whole shape of the world had changed, as if it were now a vast sphere. The Shadow had retreated from sea and land, through it still lingered within the walls of Mordor, singed by the pure light of the new White Tree.
Then the voice spoke to him for the third and last time. "Remember! Be ready and tarry not, for the time is near, and Doom waits for no Man!"
With a start, the rumbling voice still echoing within his mind, Elendil awoke in his own bed at Romenna. It was now early morning, and the pale light of dawn lay over the Sea to the East. Elendil sat up in his bed, shaken and bewildered. He rarely remembered his dreams after he awoke; they melted like the snows of fancy before the morning Sun. Yet this dream remained vividly in his mind – he could clearly recall every detail of it.
Shaking his head, Elendil arose, and looked out of his window at the sky, the glimmering stars fading in the growing light of Dawn, which now cast forth its pink radiance on the Eastern horizon. Pondering the dream again, Elendil was not quite sure what to make of it. Like his elder son Isildur, he had always been more a man of deeds than a scholar, and he could no longer ask his father, who had been wise in dream-lore, to interpret it
But then, he realized that another interpreter might be near at hand. Ever since their exile to Romenna nine years before, Amandil had taken it upon himself to tutor Anarion, who was so much like his grandfather in his serious demeanor and scholarly temperament. Might his younger son be able to interpret the dream for him? Donning his robes, Elendil decided to seek him out, and ask his counsel.
Sitting at a table in Anarion's chambers were Elendil, Anarion, and Isildur, who had been holding an early-morning conference with his brother when their father arrived unexpectedly. Elendil had told them of Amandil's dream after his departure for Valinor, though he had sworn both of them to secrecy concerning it. Elendil now related in detail his own dream, and while Isildur appeared as baffled as Elendil, Anarion turned pale. For a long time, Anarion was silent, his blue eyes gazing intently at the embers of the hearth across the room.
At length Anarion spoke, in his soft voice. "I am no loremaster as was grandfather Amandil, though I flatter myself a scholar of lore. I can only do my best to interpret this dream for you. That it was a message from the Valar, if not Eru himself, seems clear, for it began as did grandfather's dream. And its message is unmistakable – the doom of Numenor is at hand."
"Yet as with grandfather's, this dream was full of riddles" objected Isildur, impatient with lore and mummery. "No armada of mortal ships could breach the Enchanted Isles. Surely even Pharazon the Madman is not fool enough to send such an armada? And how could the isle of Numenor catch fire, when it is so frequently doused with cooling rains from the Sea? Moreover, this dream compounds the riddles of grandfather's dream with new ones. If the Valar were to strike at the Temple of Morgoth, how could they fail to destroy it? And, why would the new White Tree, which we have under guard day and night here in Romenna, take root in the East? Is not the East, the land of Middle Earth, the home of the Shadow that now afflicts us? Even I can see that the Shadow veiling the mortal lands in both dreams must symbolize the power of the Dark One who now styles himself the High Priest of Melkor."
"What say you to Isildur's objections, Anarion?" frowned Elendil. "They sound reasonable to me."
Anarion pondered these questions for some time. At length, he replied "I know not what is meant by the lightning bolt vainly hurled from Valinor against Morgoth's Temple, unless it symbolizes that the anger of the Valar has not turned our people away from Morgoth's cult. And I cannot explain how the King's armada could breech the Enchanted Isles. Yet the King has Sauron at his side, and who knows what power the Dark One's Ring gives to him? For the Elves can breech the barrier, and Sauron's mastery of lore is surely no less than theirs. Moreover, we know that a mighty army is being mustered, with ships summoned to Andunie, and more being built in the shipyards, as we speak – the recent refugees have told us as much."
"Then the King truly does plan to make war on the Valar, as Lord Amandil's dream also implied?" asked Elendil. "Egged on by Sauron, no doubt. Fool as well as madman! But what of the White Tree in the East?"
"I have thought upon this" said Anarion, "and I deem it not so strange as it appears. For if doom does come to Numenor, as the dream warns us it will, then wither shall we go? To the West? That is banned, and our own ships would surely smash against the barrier of the Isles, even as...". He was about to say even as Amandil's, but stifled the thought.
"To the East is the only way that lies open to us" he continued. "My conclusions about the dream are as follows: the Valar have instructed us to be ready to leave this place, and quickly, with all of our followers, and set out for the East. There, we may rebuild our Kingdom. We shall plant the sapling of the White Tree there, and its growth in your dream is both literal and symbolic, for it symbolizes the rebirth of the line of Elros and the people of Numenor in Middle Earth."
Isildur was appalled. "Abandon Numenor, the home of our people for three and a half thousand years, just like that? On account of dreams? You have lost your wits, brother. Our people left the savages of Middle Earth all those ages ago to build our civilization in this island, nigh to the dwelling-place of the Valar. Now you would have us leave it and return to the mire from which we escaped!"
Elendil silenced him with his hand. "Peace, Isildur."
Elendil was silent for many minutes. Then at length he said, "Isildur, you note that our ancestors came to this island ages ago to build our civilization here. And that they did. But can you deny our civilization is dying, nay is already dead? Can we still say the Men of Numenor are civilized, when they willingly sacrifice Eru's faithful servants, as well as countless women, infants and other innocents besides, on the altar of the Great Enemy? Can you, of all people, who alone amongst us has gazed upon the Rites of Morgoth in his foul Temple, deny that the doom of our people appears at hand, even if it were not for these dreams?"
Isildur was silent. Try as he might, he could not deny it.
"And we must face the facts, even leaving aside my father's dream and my own" said Elendil. "It is but a matter of time before Sauron and the King move openly against us, for we are the only bastion of resistance amongst Men to the new order. Indeed, it is a miracle that our reprieve has lasted as long as it has, especially given your audacity, Isildur, in saving a seed of Nimloth. In any case, the day is surely near when we must face a choice between death by siege in Numenor, or else exile for life in Middle Earth. Your grandfather recognized this truth, though he hoped to delay exile for as long as possible. Indeed, as I told you some months ago, your grandfather departed on his desperate mission to Valinor because he felt that only the aid of the Valar could save us from that terrible choice."
Elendil frowned. "I hope and pray that your grandfather's mission to the Valar will bear fruit. But, I must say frankly that I fear the time here of the Faithful Ones is passing. For nearly three and a half thousand years have we dwelt in Numenor. But we are mere mortals, and for our kind all things must come to an end in time. In my view, we should no longer think of this place, this land, as our home. For Numenor resides not in the land, but in the spirit of its people. My dream has but made clear what all of us have sought to avoid facing: we and our followers must be prepared to depart this island for a life of exile in Middle Earth. The day may soon come when the path of exile is the the only hope for our people."
"Therefore" commanded Elendil, "by virtue of my authority as Sovereign Lord of Andunie and Master of Romenna, as leader of the Faithful Ones, it is my order that all of us who dwell within Romenna are to make preparations to depart in exile for Middle Earth. The dream said that we must make haste, and I will not take issue with that. Though the preparations will require a massive effort, I command that all of our people shall be ready for embarkation within one month."
"We have nine ships-of-war at our disposal in this harbour" continued Elendil, "for I have not released them to answer the King's recall of all naval ships to Andunie. Nor shall I. Rather, I shall assign four ships to myself, three to Isildur, and two to Anarion. Each of us will be responsible for the disposition of his own ships. Our ships could accommodate one-thousand fully equipped soliders each, and all of their provinder, with room to spare. Including our soldiers, there are but twelve-thousand of us in Romenna, out of the teeming millions of this island. With effort, we should be able to accommodate on the nine ships all of our people, as most of them are civilians whose belongings are few."
"Provision the ships accordingly" Elendil instructed. "Instruct the people that they may only bring with them what goods they can carry in one rucksack to a family. Within a month they should have whatever possessions they deem most valuable stored in such a rucksack, ready to be stowed on the ships at any time. I shall instruct our stewards to immediately begin to stow on board the ships such of the books, scrolls and heirlooms of our house that we salvaged from Andunie, and bore with us in exile to Romenna, for these things are our legacy. You, Isildur, shall see to the careful uprooting of the White Tree from our courtyard, and the replanting of it in a suitable container. Place it on your flagship. It is our most valued possession, the only one we cannot possibly leave behind, so guard it accordingly, night and day. It will be more secure on your ship than it is here on land in any case, for I am ever in fear that a vandal, or one of the King's agents, will creep over the walls of our Palace courtyard to destroy it."
"Once everything is ready, one month from today" concluded Elendil, "I may choose to give the order to embark at any time, depending on what signs I receive from the Valar, or on the machinations of Sauron. Should I give the order, embarkation will take place over one day only – it must proceed quickly. We shall depart this land, and make for the Elf-haven of Mithlond on the Gulf of Lune. There, we shall consult with our Elven friends about where in Middle Earth we should establish our realm of Numenor-in-Exile." Isildur stared at his father solemly, while Anarion nodded.
"One last thing" said Elendil. "We know that the Queen has already told you, Isildur, that she will not abandon her home at Armenelos to join us, whatever her fate may be. This means that, should we be forced to depart this isle, we three will be the only heirs of our House, of the bloodline of Elros, who sail into exile. Therefore, to reduce the risk of all three of us being lost at sea, each of us must sail in separate vessels. Accordingly, while five the Palantiri will be stored on my flagship, I will give each of you a Palantir, which you will stow on your own ships. Use them to communicate with me, or with each other, should we be separated at sea. Now rise, and set to work, for there is no time to spare!"
Bowing before their father, Isildur and Anarion left the room, and set out to grapple with the thousand tasks they faced if they were to be ready by the appointed time.
Some weeks after his fateful dream, Elendil stood on the roof of the palace watchtower at Romenna, and gazed at the nine white ships anchored in the harbour, as groups of servants walked up and down the gangplanks, loading the ships with valuables and provinder in accordance with Elendil's instructions.
Despite his newfound responsibilities as Sovereign Lord and City Master, he found himself spending ever more time in this quiet place, alone with his thoughts. As always, they drifted toward his father's unknown fate. He wondered how he would ever learn whether Amandil's mission had been successful, short of the Valar descending on Numenor to wage war against Sauron. In the past, occasional Men of Numenor had sought out the Undying Lands by ship, whether out of curiosity, or folly, or merely a pious desire to gaze upon the land of the Valar in spite of their Ban. Such Men had always departed from Andunie, that part of Numenor that lay closest to Valinor, and the servants of the Lords of Andunie had always found the wreckage from their ships washed upon its shores a few months afterwards. But now that the Lords of Andunie lived in Romenna, and Audunie itself was occupied by the King's Men, Elendil had no way of knowing if his father's ship had even passed the barrier of the Enchanted Isles, let alone if the Valar would choose to listen to his pleas, were he given the chance to make them.
Elendil heard the door to the stair descending from the rooftop open behind him, and turned to see Isildur and Anarion.
"How goes it with you, father?" asked Isildur. "It is almost noon, time for our daily counsel meeting. We could not find you in your chambers, but Anarion suggested we would find you here."
"Right as ever" grinned Anarion.
"We three can take counsel here and now" said Elendil, "for I grow weary of the formalities of sovereign lordship. What news have we received from the latest refugees to arrive in Romenna?"
"We have had very few refugees in recent weeks" replied Anarion. "But those who have sought shelter here tell us that the King's military preparations continue, though no one is certain of their purpose. Apparently that purpose is a state secret, not to be revealed to the people until the King deems the time to be opportune. I think we three know the purpose, given your dream and grandfather Amandil's."
"Perhaps" said Elendil. "And what is the situation amongst the people themselves? What is their mood, now that their menfolk subject to conscription?"
"The King's subjects have sunk into decadence" said Isildur, his face twisted with disgust. "They would rather spend their days in idleness and debauchery, or in assaulting and slaying each other for trivial cause, than in serving at arms. Some of the wealthier young men, doubtless through bribery, have managed to evade their conscription for a time. Those commoners who cannot afford to pay a bribe, and openly protest their conscription, are promptly executed. But Sauron has walked to and fro amongst the rabble, telling them that Melkor expects them to serve the King loyally, and enlist in his army when they receive the call. He says they will receive great rewards for their obedience, and very soon. Whether through fear of the axe, or giving credence to Sauron's lies, most of the people obey the King's commands and report for service in his armies. There is certainly no prospect of an organized revolt against Pharazon, any more than there ever has been."
"Can the people not see that they are enslaved to a lie?" asked Elendil. Of course, he knew the answer. "I know not how to save them from their own folly. All our attempts to hinder the growth of Morgoth's cult have been in vain."
"Our efforts have been in vain, because we have not the strength to combat Sauron", Isildur replied bitterly. "All of the troubles of this land are rooted in Sauron, for the King is merely his figurehead. If only we could somehow strike down the Lord of Mordor, or even deny him his precious Ring of Power, then perhaps we could turn the tables on Pharazon, and restore Queen Miriel to the throne."
"There is no doubt Sauron is behind all our troubles" said Elendil. "I know not how powerful Sauron would be without his Ring. In any case, it is vain to consider the matter, for we have no hope of seizing it from him. King Gil-galad himself could not explain to me how we might deal Sauron a fatal blow, as opposed merely to enduring his assaults and harrying his efforts."
Elendil frowned. "I cannot forgive Pharazon. Gil-galad told me that no mortal could hope to resist Sauron's voice, through which he projects the power of the One Ring. Yet we have seen that Queen Miriel has not been seduced by the Dark Lord's lies. Perhaps the pure of heart are less susceptible to Sauron's influence than those who are corrupt. I have no doubt that it was Pharazon's overweening pride and grotesque folly that allowed Sauron to gain dominion in this isle. Pharazon must be judged harshly, for as the King, he is bound to a higher standard of wisdom and conduct than that demanded of ordinary Men. Still, I pity Sauron's other followers, from the King's Men to the lowest churl. It may be they were corrupt to begin with, and so fell under Sauron's spell. Yet now that Sauron has a hold on them, they have become mere pawns of a Power too great and terrible for any Man to control."
"My heart has no pity for those who serve Sauron" said Isildur coldly. "Have I not said that the refugees tell us Sauron's followers have become as rabid dogs? They ravish and slay each other with abandon, except where the King's Men employ the axe and the gallows to keep them in line. They are no longer Men, but fell beasts, fit only for slaughter."
"Peace, brother" chided Anarion. "They may serve evil, yet into this they were led by their King, in whom they had placed their trust. Not all Men have the wisdom to discern truth from lies, or the strength of will to turn back when their betters set them on the path of falsehood."
"Fine words, brother" shot back Isildur. "Did you read them in one of your mouldering scrolls from the library? Do not presume to tell me what to think of those who have embraced the darkness. When you have stood on the threshold of Morgoth's lair, and seen in full the nameless horrors of that place, I may deem that your opinion has some weight. Until then, you know not whereof you speak."
"Enough, Isildur" said Elendil, a warning tone in his voice. "Our House is gravely beset with troubles as it is. I will not tolerate dissension between you and your brother."
"Forgive me, father" said Isildur, lowering his eyes. "I find it difficult to restrain my passions when this subject is raised. And my apologies to you, Anarion, for my curt words."
"No offense was taken, Isildur" said Anarion glumly, turning from his brother to gaze over the Sea.
"These dark times place burdens on us all, more than Men should have to bear" sighed Elendil. "Anyone might lose their temper in such circumstances – though you should remember, Isildur, that it is your duty as my eldest son to set an example for others by your conduct. But as to my own burden, I can no longer endure to wait for a word that never arrives."
"What do you mean, father?" asked Isildur. Anarion turned and stared at Elendil, one eyebrow raised inquiringly.
"I must know what has happened to your grandfather, one way or another" replied Elendil. "If his voyage failed, then the wreckage of his ship may appear on the shores of Andunie, our old home. If there is no such wreckage, then perhaps there is still a glimmer of hope. Therefore I shall journey to Andunie in secret, and see there what I may see. If I can learn aught of the mighty fleet which rumor says the King is assembling there, so much the better."
"Lord Elendil, what you propose is very dangerous" said Anarion, his youthful features etched with concern. "What Isildur has said about the behaviour of the King's followers is true. Outside of those cities and camps controlled by the King's Men, the land is in a state of near chaos. Men are slain daily with complete impunity."
"Anarion is right, father" said Isildur. "There would be peril in such a long journey even if you were an ordinary Man. And if anyone should discover who you are..."
"I am well aware of the risks" replied Elendil. "I shall travel in disguise, and in secret, as a mere commoner, a tinker or peddler perhaps – a man too poor to be worth robbing. And I can think of another Man, my son, who took a much graver risk, not so long ago, to rescue the Fruit of Nimloth." Isildur pursed his lips, but remained silent.
"So, it is decided" said Elendil. "I depart before dawn tomorrow, and will not tarry during my mission. With the grace of the Valar, I will be back within a month. I place the two of you in joint command of Romenna during my absence. Should you have need of it, you may take counsel from Lord Earakhor of Eldalonde, who I deem the wisest of our followers. Inform the people that I am absent on urgent business, and that I shall soon return. Emphasize that my business is in no way connected with Amandil's departure, though we hope to hear word of Amandil's success in due time."
"As you command, Lord Elendil" replied Isildur and Anarion jointly, bowing their heads.
"And may the Valar protect you" continued Anarion, while Isildur nodded solemnly.
"Thank you, my lads" smiled Elendil, as he embraced his sons fondly. "And fear not. I may be an old dodderer in your eyes, but my sword arm has not lost its strength."
The giant Mallorn groves of western Numenor were one of the greatest wonders of the land. Smooth-barked and golden-leaved, they soared for hundreds of feet into the sky, their heavy fragrance a delight to those who sought refuge under their boughs. A gift of the Elves of Eressea, the only counterparts of these Mallorns, beyond the Undying Lands, were found in Lothlorien, the domain in Middle Earth of the Elven Queen Galadriel. Yet even the Mallorns of that enchanted realm, it was said, were surpassed in height and girth by their Numenorean kin.
A solitary traveler, face hidden by a frayed hood and cape, led his dappled steed along a forest-path through the Mallorn groves. Ever West he traveled, for his object was the harbour of Andunie, to see what he might along its shores. For days he had traveled through the settled lands to the east, evading many perils, and witnessing from afar many acts of bloodshed and depravity carried out by the common people. His heart lightened as he drew westward, for the blissful Mallorns were a balm to his weary soul. The setting Sun shone through the Mallorn leaves, and it seemed as if they glowed with a brilliant inner light.
A wisp of smoke difting from behind a nearby hillock brought the traveler to a halt. Gruff voices echoed amongst the giant trees. Cursing, the traveller loosely tied his steed to a bush, and reached for the hilt of the sword hidden beneath his cape. He unsheathed his sword, and crept up the hillock to peer carefully over the brim.
In a hollow, sitting around a fire, he could see five of the King's soldiers. They were not members of the Royal Household Guard, but merely rank-and-file members of the infantry, their rough-spun woolen tunics dyed crimson and bedecked with the design of the black serpent. Two of the men tended to an iron kettle full of boiling water – preparing a meal, no doubt – and another worked on sharpening his iron sword, while the remaining two were engaged in conversation. The traveler noted their ages with surprise; the two conversing soldiers were old enough to be grandfathers, while the other three three were mere youths, not even out of their teens.
"...what it's about, no, on one knows" said one man, a hoary graybeard.
"He's gone soft in the head, methinks" replied the other, a sour-looking man with a sallow complexion. "A great army, mustered in the West. And for what? Who's left to conquer? Ain't we suppose to rule the world and all, right now? And there's nothing in the West, but the Sea. And them Valar and Elf-swine, hiding behind their mists and rocks, enjoying the good life while we Men have to grind away for our daily bread. Curse the lot of 'em!"
"Aye" said the graybeard. "No accounting for what Kings do, though, no mor'n what our Officers do. Take our Captain, now. He says, 'Fetch us some deer for our supper, right quick!' Why, there's enough beef and barley at the camp to last the Officers for a fortnight. But no, we 'ave to go running round these blasted woods, day and night, and can't come back till we got a deer to fill their fat bellies. But Melkor save us if we tried to eat a deer ourselves! We'd be hanged from the nearest tree, if we tried. 'Stealin' the King's game' they'd say. Well, if it's the King's game, why are his Officers allowed to eat it behind his back, eh?"
"Shut yer traps, the both of you" said the soldier sharpening his sword. He was barely more than a stripling, but had a grim set to his features. "You old doffers do nothing but talk. No doubt the three of us lads u'll have to catch the deer, while you two sit by the fire an' gab."
"Show some respect for your elders, runt!" spat the sallow-faced man in reply. The stripling stopped sharpening his sword, and glared at his antagonist. The other two youths ceased stoking fire under the kettle, and stared up, eager smiles lighting their faces.
"Runt, is it?" asked the stripling. "Respect? There's but one thing I respect, you old pig, and that's this sword in my hand. Maybe you'd like it buried in your rotten guts instead, eh?"
"Filth!" screamed the sallow man, as he unsheathed his dagger and lunged at the stripling. But he was too old for such a move against a younger foe. The youth easily dodged his thrust, and gave a backhand cut with his sword. The sword struck home in the back of the man's head, with a sickening thud, and he dropped to the ground, drenched in a growing pool of his own blood.
The two youths by the fire bared their teeth, and howled with delight. The old graybeard, meanwhile, was reaching for his own dagger. Quick as a flash, one of the youths kicked it out of his hand. 'Grab him! Tie him up!" shouted the sword-wielding stripling, and his two comrades soon had the old man gagged, and trussed up like a lamb for the slaughter.
The murderous stripling, a satisfied smile on his smooth features, held the tip of his still-bloody sword over the fire beneath the iron kettle. As the old man began to moan and stuggle, the light of panic in his eyes, the youths jeered at him. "No reason we can't have a bit of fun tonight, eh lads?" said one of them. "We can dump 'is carcass in the river, with the other doffer, when we're done with 'im, and tell whoever asks that they drowned. No one u'll ask too close about 'em."
"Aye, that's right" said the other. "We'll have a bit of sport now, and get our cursed deer in the morning."
"You might wish to try bigger game" said a cold voice from above. Startled, the youths looked-up, and saw the ragged traveller, bearing a mighty sword of steel.
For a few moments, the youths and the intruder stared at each other. Then, recovering his nerve, the sword-wielding youth narrowed his eyes, a mocking grin on his features. "Well, what 'ave we here lads? A bandit? A deserter? Tell me, trash, o'ws a vagrant like you, dressed like a swineherd, manage to own a fancy sword like that?"
The traveler remained silent, but pulled back his hood with one hand, revealing noble features behind a thick graying beard. He then placed both hands on the hilt of his sword, and stood combat-ready.
"You don't like answering questions, eh trash?" said the youth. "Well, I'll wager this. Whoever you stole that sword from knew how to use it better than you."
"Then you wager your life, with the odds against you" replied the traveler.
With an angry snarl, the youth rushed up the slope, his comrades, daggers-drawn, close at his heels. The sword-bearing youth raised his iron blade, readying for upward slash against his opponent.
Swift as lightning, the man struck at him. His steel blade cut the youth's iron sword in two, and cleaved his head to the breast-bone. As the youth's body, showering blood, crashed to the ground, another youth howled with rage, plunging his dagger at the traveler. The man gave a swift downward stroke, and severed the second youth's arms, followed by an upper cut which severed his head.
The third youth had turned from his charge, and raced back down the hill. He lifted the boiling kettle from the fire, and held it up by its wooden handles. Now grinning, he rushed again at the traveler, hurling the boiling water at him. But, agile as a cat, the man easily dodged the cascade of water, and sank a backhand stroke into his assailant's spine. The youth gurgled, then crashed to the ground, dead beside his erstwhile comrades.
Shaking his head, the traveler stared at the carnage, strewn across the leafy ground in shocking contrast to the beauty of the Mallorn grove. "It seems the King's Men are neither as well-equipped, nor as well trained, as they were in my day" he muttered. He wiped his blade clean on the tunic of one of his fallen adversaries, and then turned to the old graybeard, who stared goggle-eyed at him.
"I'll not leave an elder like you here to starve to death, or be savaged by wild beasts" said the traveler. "If I release you, will you behave yourself?" The old man nodded vigorously, strangled cries issuing from behind his gag. Reaching down, the traveler removed the gag, and heard the man say "Yes, sir! Just untie these ropes now, and I'll do anything you want."
Grunting, the traveler nicked the ropes with the edge of his sword, and they fell from the old soldier, who quickly untangled himself. Standing to his feet, he stared in wonder at his fallen comrades, then turned to the mysterious stranger. "Why, that's quite the swordsmanship, sir" said the old soldier, turning to his benefactor. "Aye, quite the swordsmanship. And quite the sword, too. I'm surprised a man of your years with a sword-arm and weapon like that hasn't been drafted into the King's army. And a man of your bearing too, sir, if I may say so. You must have seen better days, for I can tell by your talk that you weren't born a beggar."
"I am here, on the road to Andunie, in response to the King's muster" replied the traveler. "I mean to make my way to one of the King's camps, and place my sword at his disposal."
"Is that so?" asked the old soldier, scratching his head. "Most men were summoned direct from their town or village and marched to Andunie by the King's sergeants. But no matter – I'm in your debt sir. These wolves here, they've no honour, none at all. You could see that for yourself. It's thanks to you that I'm not their sport right now. Hardor's the name, sir. And what might yours be?"
"My name is my business" replied the traveler curtly. "But if you are in my debt, you may repay it by answering me a question or two."
"Indeed, stranger" said the old soldier, narrowing his eyes warily. "Ask away, then."
"How many camps of the King's army lie between here and Andunie?" asked the traveler.
"Higher n' I can count, sir" said the soldier. "More'n the fingers on me hands, and the toes on me feet. They get thicker, the closer ye get to Andunie."
"Humph" grunted the traveler with a frown. "The beach by Andunie. How many camps along the shore?"
"Ah, none right along the shore sir" replied the soldier. "The King's ships, they're in the harbour there, now. Stretchin' as far as the eye can see, and more arrive each day. But the shore itself is clear. Rumor says it's to make it easier for us to board the ships, when the time comes. Keep the coast clear, as it were."
"And do you not know where are you headed, once you're on board the ships?" asked the traveler.
"That's three questions, sir. You did say one or two, and bless me if I can't count a bit higher than that sir. But I don't rightly know where we're a'goin, nor does no one else. We're mustering in the West, when as any graybeard like myself could tell ye, time was when musters was only held in the East, so's the Army and Navy could be sent to Middle Earth. Ain't nothing to the West but the misty rocks, and them Valar and Elves beyond 'em."
"Indeed" said the traveler. He looked at the camp about him. Turning back to the soldier, he said "Listen, friend, it will soon be nightfall. You still have a fire going. Permit me to spend the night here, rather than make camp for myself. Then I'll be on my way in the morning."
"Right enough, sir" said the soldier. "Though I don't know what I'm to do, for I'll be hard set to catch a deer without Mens' help, and my Officers have said I'm not to return to camp without one for their feast. I was a tailor by profession, sir, before I answered the King's call, and fear I know less than I should about deer hunting. I've never hunted larger game than coneys, meself."
"In the morning, I can help you dig a pit, full of stakes and covered with branches and leaves" said the traveler. "I'll place it somewhere a deer would feed, by some tender foliage, and you'll soon have your quarry. But, once I've made the trap for you, I must be on my way. The King's camps await me, and I would fain postpone my duty to our sovereign for longer than I have."
"Fair's fair, sir" said the old soldier. "A fine exchange that is. My fire, for your help with the deer-trap. Well, mayhap you can tend to the fire, for it's starting to go down a mite. I'll go fetch us some water from the river for the kettle, for that young sot lost all our water when he cast it at ye."
The traveler nodded his assent, and, sheathing his sword turned to the waning fire. Crouching on his hands and knees, he began to blow carefully on the tinder, and the flames showed newfound life. Meanwhile, the old soldier walked toward the kettle, picked it up with both arms, and walked behind the traveler, on his way to the river.
Suddenly, the traveler felt a blinding pain in the back of his head, and stars floated in front of his eyes. He fell forward, barely missing the fire, which singed his right shoulder and arm. As he struggled to recover from his stupor, he felt an iron-shod boot on his back, between his shoulder blades, and a sharp dagger at his throat.
"Well, stranger" whispered the old soldier into his ear "I would be much obliged to ye for yer help on a deer-pit. But, when I said you've quite the sword, I meant it. Thing is, I reckon it'd look a lot better hangin' from my belt, than from yours. But, don't see how I could take it from ye, as long as you've still got some life left in yer. Ye might surprise me as ye surprised them lads, and put paid to me as ye did them." He cackled, a dry gurgling sound. "Now, chin up, stranger. A bared throat is easiest to cut..."
Suddenly, the soldier pulled his dagger away from the traveler's throat, screaming as a thundering mass surged toward him. From the corner of his eye, the traveler saw his horse, which had pulled free from its tether, rear up and dash out the soldier's brains with a kick of its hooves. As the old cutthroat fell to the ground, the horse snorted, and then turned and ambled up to its master, sniffing at him, while gently licking the back of his head.
After some minutes, the traveler felt his pain begin to subside, and strength returned to his weary muscles. He sat up slowly, and stared at the bloody scene around him.
"Well, old friend" said the man, "my thanks once again for your help." He stroked the horse's muzzle with his hand. "What a grim irony it would have been, for Elendil son of Amandil to perish like a vagabond in his own sovereign lands."
Struggling to his feet, he stumbled over to the fire, and stamped it out. "I'll make camp elsewhere" Elendil muttered. "These Men were foul enough in life. I need not their vengeful shades to watch over me while I sleep."
The Bay of Andunie stretched for miles west of the ancient city that bore its name. Between the sea and the land stood a vast stretch of sandy dunes, anchored here and there by grasses and hardy bushes of scrub pine and birch.
Crouched on the rim of one of these dunes, his horse tethered to a nearby birch, Elendil, his long hair billowing in the stiff breeze that ever scoured those shores, gazed at the beach below him. He had spent days working his way along the beach, searching for the wreckage of his father's ship, while carefully avoiding detection. So far, he had found nothing, seen nothing but the foaming surf crash against the barren shore. Now, once again, he found his gaze drawn from the shore, to the sight before him in the harbour.
Two-thousand of the King's mighty ships of war, their black and gold sails fluttering in the sea-breeze, their whitewashed hulls bristling with rows of oars, sat at anchor. As Elendil stared at them, he felt his spirits sink, as they had many times on this futile journey. He knew that encamped behind the sands of the beach were hundreds of thousands of soldiers, waiting for the call to board their vessels. Elendil, while scouting the King's camps with his own eyes, had been forced to wind his way through them with great difficulty, in the dead of night, to reach in secret the dunes of the beach. Every day brought thousands of new arrivals to the camps, answering the summons to war.
Such awesome power was at the King's command...and therefore at Sauron's command. Was there any hope, wondered Elendil, in his struggle against them? Were he and his sons heroes, or fools?
Elendil felt keenly the bitter irony of King's muster taking place at Andunie, his own family's true home, the very land from which he had been driven in exile years before. He half-wondered if the King had chosen this site for the muster, simply to mock the Lords of Andunie. Turning back to land, he could see his hereditary palace on the northern horizon, rising up from the white and turquoise houses of the city. The palace watchtower thrust toward the heavens, its walls of polished marble gleaming in the Sun. Elendil would have given anything to stand on the balcony of that tower once again, to glimpse if he could the beacon of Avallone in the West. But he knew such hopes were in vain. For the tower was in the hands of the King's Men, and Elendil could clearly see the King's hateful banner, a black serpent on a red field, hanging from the battlements.
Elendil knew that he might gaze directly at the Undying Lands through the Palantiri, yet that did not soothe the pain he felt at the theft of his birthright. How many times, as a child and a youth, had he stood on the balcony atop that tower, gazing on distant Avallone in wonder? How often, as a grown man, had he anticipated the day when his sons would bring their future grandchildren to the balcony, just has he had brought them in their infancy, so that their eyes might for the first time gaze upon the light from the Undying Lands?
Elendil's thoughts were scattered by a sudden booming and trumpeting from the ships of the King's fleet, answered by drumming from the Army's camps on land. The noise was deafening, and Elendil had to shield his hands with his hears, lest his eardrums shatter. His poor steed sank its knees, foaming at the mouth and rolling its eyes in terror at the harsh calmour. Elendil struggled down the slope of the dune, and placed a reassuring hand on the horse's flank, hoping to calm the beast lest in flee in panic.
The awful din ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Whispering to his horse, he urged it to its feet, until it stood upright on the stands, sniffing the air and neighing. For now a new sound could be heard – the tramp, tramp, tramp of thousands of iron-shod feet, marching from the camps inland toward the shore.
Elendil rushed back up the dune face, cursing as he slipped and struggled up the treacherous sands. Peering over the rim of the dune, he could see that several of the King's ships had pulled alongside the beach, their starboard sides parallel to the shore. The crews of each ship thrust a gangplank down to the beach, and at the foot of each gankplank a party of hundreds of the King's red-tunic'd soliders was assembling in orderly rows. When each row had its full compliment of soldiers, their Captains gave some signal, and the Men began marching up the planks onto their waiting vessels. Dozens of other ships were pulling up to the shore, ready to accommodate the soldiers assigned to them.
"So, Sauron, you have set your pawns in motion" whispered Elendil to himself.
He knew that he must discontinue his search for the remains of his father's vessel. It was too dangerous, now that the entire beach would soon be crawling with tens of thousands of his enemies. He dared not depart the way he had come, for the King's camps would be swarming hives of activity. He would have to thread his way through the dunes, heading southward, and negotiate his way up the steep headlands, before turning east on the paths that led to Romenna.
With a heavy heart, he took in one last, wistful glimpse of the city of his birth, the city where he should have dwelt for all his days, from cradle to grave, like his ancestors before him. He should have inherited this land from his father, and passed it on to his elder son in return, just as his ancestors had done in their time. Instead, he had to flee from his birthright, and return to a life of exile. The gleaming tower of Andunie now seemed to him like a giant finger, thrust toward the sky, warning him to depart and never return.
More bitter than death, thought Elendil, was the fate that had befallen himself and his sons.
Elendil slid down the dune, and strode toward his steed, wincing at the grains of sand which filled his shoes and dug deep into the skin of his feet. He untethered its reins, and mounted the saddle. He pulled the reins until the horse faced south, and then spurred it to ride quickly. The horse flew like the wind through the valleys between the dunes, eager to leave the barren sands and return to the grassy meadows and woodland glades dear to its heart.
As Elendil fled from his homeland, his sorrow was tinged by a ray of hope. He had searched for days for the wreckage of his father's ship, and found no sign. Of course, that could simply mean that the wreckage was father north than he had journeyed, or that it had been swept into the open Sea. And not his failure to find any trace of his father's ship be a sign, a proof that Amandil had succeeded in his quest for Valinor? And if Amandil had reached the shores of the Undying Lands, might the Valar take mercy on him, and grant his plea for their aid?
Elendil spurred his steed, urging it ever faster. In his heart, he felt that the hour of doom was drawing very near – though whether his own doom, or Pharazon's, or that of all the Men of Numenor, he could not say. He only knew that he must cease dwelling in the past, and turn his mind to the future. No matter what lay in store, his place now was with Isildur and Anarion. Not in the land, but with his sons, would he find his true home.
As the Sun set in the West, and Mount Meneltarma cast its shadow for miles over the East of Numenor, Elendil, mounted on his steed, sat on an eastern spur of the sacred mountain, glowering at the accursed city that sprawled in the valley beneath him.
Armenelos, the City of the King. Once, it was the proudest and fairest city in all the world, a city whose name was synonymous with beauty and grace, wealth and splendour. On its western edges, atop a gently sloping hill, lay the vast expanse of the Royal Palace, its stately domes and towers rising from tranquil gardens. To the east of the Palace lay the mansions and villas, the houses and warehouses, the inns and leisure houses, the gardens and courtyards of the citizens of Armenelos, woven together by smoothly-paved roads and alleys, and graceful bridges soaring over canals lined with flowering trees.
Yet all was a mockery. The Palace Garden was still there, yet Nimloth the Fair no longer dwelt within, for she had been murdered at the King's command. The stately mansions and solid houses were teeming with worshippers of Morgoth, who had sunk has low as any Orc in their degradation. Above all brooded the Temple of Melkor, its silvery dome stained black by the smokes that drifted ever-upward from the hellish fires within. Elendil recalled Isildur's tale of the horrors he had seen inside the Temple, and felt an icy hand trace its fingers along his spine.
The sky in the West grew blood red, and Elendil noted that a great mass of clouds was drifting eastward, settling high above the city. The sky darkened, and the clouds began to rumble with thunder. Elendil stared at them dourly, for he had hoped to ride past Armenelos in the dark of night, and so avoid being seen by the King's Men. A thunderstorm might obscure the vision of the King's sentries, but it would also greatly impede his own passage. He had no wish to still find himself a stone's throw from Pharazon's stronghold in the early morning.
Suddenly, a harsh cry rang out from above, and Elendil gasped as his horse nearly threw him from its back in a fit of terror. Calming the beast, he stared up at the sky, open-mouthed with amazement. Eagles! Yet Elendil had never seen the like, and stood awestruck as he gazed at the mighty beasts, at least a score of them soaring above the city from the West. Their golden wings spanned at least a hundred paces if they spanned a foot, and their azure eyes gleamed fiercely.
Elendil sat transfixed at the scene unfolding before him. The Eagles seemed to have the power to command the heavens, for some of them were unleashing hailstorms, while others began casting lighting bolts against the city. Again and again they struck, sweeping over the city in great arcs, until they flew nigh to the Temple of Melkor. Screeching and screaming with wrath, they assaulted the Temple furiously, great showers of sparks and molten slag spewing forth from it with every blow.
Elendil began to feel joy rising in his heart. Were not Eagles the servants of Manwe, King of the Valar? And surely these mighty beasts, with their ability to command the powers of the Sky, could only have come from Valinor itself! Though he had no proof of the outcome of his father's mission, he now felt certain that Amandil had been successful, and the Valar had listened to his pleas. Manwe had unleashed his Eagles, to destroy the Temple of Melkor itself!
Elendil realized instantly the brilliance of this strategy. Who amongst the people would continue to worship foul Morgoth, when he could not even defend his own Temple from assault? Morgoth would be revealed as the false idol that he was, Sauron would be exposed as a liar and a fraud, and the King would be proved a deluded fool. The destruction of Morgoth's Temple was surely a spark that would start a conflagration amongst the people. They would know they had been lied to, and would rise up in open rebellion against their oppressors, against Sauron, Pharazon, and the King's Men. If Elendil could but find some way to contact Queen Miriel, he could openly champion her as the true monarch of Numenor. She could lead the people to expel Sauron, throw off Pharazon's yoke, and restore order and justice in the land...
Elendil was briefly distracted by a plume of dust, rising from the Palace. He noted with grim statisfaction that the dome above Pharazon's throne room had collapsed, destroyed by one of the giant Eagles. Perhaps it was too much to hope for that Pharazon – and even Sauron himself – were buried under the heaps of rubble that must now fill the throne room. Yet Elendil relished the prospect, for it would only be just, after all the evils they had inflicted on Numenor. He became lost in thought as he contemplated the specific steps he and his sons would have to take, and quickly, if they were to gain advantage from this turn in events...
He felt his eyes drawn back to the Temple of Melkor, for the Eagles had redoubled their assault against it with renewed fury. Yet something about the scene now troubled him. The smoke was rising from the Temple of Melkor, blacker and thicker than before. And what was this? Fire was now surging up from the silvered Dome, a great pillar of fire that thrust blasphemously toward the heavens, and scorched the very clouds!
The earth shook violently, an ominous rumble issuing forth from Mount Meneltarma. Elendil was almost thrown from his steed yet again, but managed to cling on, and turn his head to the distant peak that towered above him. His joy dissolved like a blissful dream in the cold light of dawn, for smoke and steam were issuing forth from the summit of the mountain, the Hallow of Eru! Only a thin trail of smoke curled up to the sky, yet even that was shocking. Elendil knew that Meneltarma had stood unmoving ever since Elros Half-Elven had set foot on the shores of Numenor. Why should it now stir with the fires of inner Earth?
Elendil turned his gaze back to the Temple of Melkor, and was petrified by what he saw. The pillar of fire, surging forth from the dome, had taken the shape of a luminous shield, defending the Temple against the assault of Manwe's Eagles!
Elendil watched in horror, as bolt after bolt of lightning was deflected harmlessly. The Eagles' assault was failing now, and he could hear a mournful cry issue forth from the greatest of them. Turning away from the Temple, they flew toward the West, and soon disappeared from sight. The fiery dome faded from sight, and the pillar of fire sank back into the depths of the Temple. The storm clouds above the city dispersed, and the dusky sky was bathed in an eerie scarlet glow.
Shaken to the core, Elendil knew only one Power could have defeated the Eagles of Manwe. Sauron! Had not Gil-galad told him that Sauron's One Ring had made possible his mastery of Middle Earth, that even the High Elves could not stand against Sauron when he wielded it? Elendil knew his thoughts verged on blasphemy, yet he feared even Manwe himself had underestimated the power of the Ring. Perhaps not even the Eagles of Manwe, but only Manwe and the Valar themselves, in personal battle with Sauron, could hope to defeat that ancient demon and his mighty weapon.
Trembling, Elendil spurred his frightened horse, determined to ride night and day until he reached the haven of Romenna. He knew that the people, indoctrinated in the lies of Sauron, would view the day's events not as a manifestation of Sauron's own power, but as proof that Melkor was more powerful than Manwe, and that it was indeed Melkor and not Eru who was the true God, just as Sauron had said. The people would rally behind Sauron and the King, and the position of the Faithful Ones in Romenna would be more desperate than ever before. Elendil felt his heart sink, for he knew he could no longer afford to delay the fateful decision now forced upon him.
As Elendil turned a corner on the dusty road, he could see over the barley fields the walls of Rommena, and its ivy-clad houses of grey granite clustered by its sheltered harbour. He had ridden for two days, day and night, and he could tell from the laboured breathing of his weary steed that it was as near as himself to exhaustion and collapse. "Not much longer now, my friend" said Elendil, patting the horse on its flank with his right hand. "Just another few miles, and then you will have the well-earned rest you deserve, and the finest oats and sweetest water I can offer!" His horse neighed plaintively, and then lowered its head and surged forward in a last burst of effort.
As Elendil reached the city gates, he made a sign to the gatekeepers, who despite his tattered robes and disheveled appearance recognized him immediately. The gates swung open, and he rode through the narrow alleys and courtyards of Romenna to the doorstep of his palace, a gracious, smooth marble-walling building, topped by its watchtower, which sat in the center of the city.
As the main door of the palace opened, and servants rushed down the steps, Elendil dismounted, patting his weary steed on its flank. While some of the servants took the horse by its reins, and led it to the stables, others, grim-faced, approached Elendil himself.
"My lord" said the eldest of them, a portly man who stood uncomfortably, fidgeting with a crease in his blue tunic nervously. Elendil stared impatiently at the man, for he was exhausted, and dispirited, and in no mood for small talk with his servants.
"Well, spit it out man!" exclaimed Elendil. "Can't you see I'm in no condition to stand on my doorstep all day? I need a washbowl of warm water – don't spare the soap – a change of clothes, a healthy quantity of wine and viands, and then my own soft bed. Any palace business can wait until this evening, after I've had a few hours rest."
"My lord" replied the servant, "all these things shall be provided to you." He snapped his fingers, and two of the other servants rushed back up the palace steps and through the open doorway. "Yet I fear there is no time for you, at present, to eat or rest, and barely enough time to wash or change your clothes" said the servant. "Not an hour before you, the King's Herald arrived at the city gates, accompanied by a small escort of the Royal Household Guard. We admitted them, though of course after disarming them, and keeping them under close watch by our own guards. This Herald bears a scroll, and says he has a vital message from the King for the eyes and ears of the Sovereign Lord of Andunie and Master of Romenna. He will not deliver this message to Lord Isildur or Lord Anarion – they are currently detaining him in the Great Hall. He insists that he will only deliver the message to you, my lord – though he did not make that clear when he was at the city gate, demanding admittance. When he did not find you at your palace, he then demanded to know where you were, and also began making open inquires concerning the whereabouts of Lord Amandil. And he and his guards have been taunting Lord Isildur, calling him Wolf's Head, and threatening to seize him right in his own palace, and drag him back to Armenelos to face justice. Lord Anarion is well set upon, between keeping an eye on the King's haughty servants, and restraining his brother from tearing them to pieces."
The servant swallowed nervously. "We did not know what to tell him concerning your whereabouts, my lord, for we did not know precisely when you would return from your mission, and of course did not wish to give them any information that might be used against you."
Elendil sighed. "It would have been better if you had detained them outside the palace walls, but it is too late for that now. There is no rest for the weary, it appears. Very well – I will wash and change as quickly as I can, and though my body cries out for food and rest, I will then proceed to the great hall at once, and listen to this Herald's message. Though I fancy I already half-suspect what the King has to say."
"My lord" replied the servant, bowing deeply, before he accompanied Elendil up the steps of his palace to assist him.
Elendil, who had hurriedly washed and changed into fresh woolen robes of blue and cloth of gold, strode into the Great Hall. The Hall itself was some twenty paces high and wide, and five times as long, swathed from floor to ceiling in richly carved Oak. Trestle tables and benches, for servants and commoners, lined the floor of the hall. At a dias on the the far end, opposite the doors to the hall, stood Elendil's own high table, with a high-backed chair for himself, flanked by the chairs of Isildur, Anarion, and any noble guests whom they might entertain.
On the steps of the dias stood Isildur and Anarion, dressed in robes of green and blue respectively. Isildur carried an iron longsword in a polished leather scabbard, displayed prominently from a leather belt on his hip. On the floor below, a party of more than a score of the blue and white-tunic'd guards of Romenna stood in a circle, shields and spears at the ready. Within this circle stood half a dozen crimson and sable-tunic'd Royal Household Guardsmen – all disarmed – and the King's Herald, a tall, bald, brown-bearded man dressed in a flowing robe of scarlet, trimmed by cloth of gold. In his right hand, the Herald tightly clasped a large scroll. Ignoring the spears of the Rommenian guards around him, his energies were focused on taunting Isildur, who glowered at him fiercely, while Anarion, who stood to Isildur's right, placed a cautioning hand on his brother's sword-arm.
"Is this what you've come to, Wolf's Head?" jeered the Herald. "A brigand, who dares not leave the walls of his hovel, for fear of assassination? Well, it is said that murderers always fear being murdered themselves, and rightly so, for by their crimes they stir up enmity against them. The rumour at Armenelos is that your father murdered your grandfather, to rule in his place. Have you now followed his example, and murdered your own father to lord it over this provincial village, and its populace of heretics and fish-mongers? Have a care – your brother might be inspired by your example, and soon take the Lord's high seat at your feast table!"
"Open your mouth a little wider, dog" snarled Isildur, drawing his sword, "so that I may more easily cut out your poisoned tongue!" The Royal Household Guardsmen formed a tight circle around the Herald, ready to defend him with their lives despite the odds against them. Anarion placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, and whispered urgently in his ear. Isildur looked up, and to his surprise saw Elendil, at the far end of the Hall.
"My lord" said Isildur, followed by Anarion, as they bowed their heads. Frowning, the Herald turned around, and saw Elendil standing silently at the entrance to the Hall.
"Well, well" said the Herald, raising his eyebrow. He waved at his bodyguards dismissively, and they stepped away from him, though still keeping wary eyes on the forest of spears about them. "Indeed, it is the great Lord Elendil himself, alive and in one piece" continued the Herald. "It appears I was mistaken, and your elder brat has not followed your patricidal example. At least, not yet. It is clear he has a hot head, and a sharp sword to match his sharp tongue. You had best be wary of him."
Isildur looked ready to fling himself at the Herald, but Elendil stilled his elder son with a wave of his hand, while Anarion restrained Isildur gently, coaxing him into sheathing his sword.
Turning to the Herald, and walking down the Hall toward him until he stood just outside the circle of guards, Elendil said "I care not to listen to your insults against me or my kin, servant. You claimed you have a message from Ar-Pharazon, to be delivered to me in person. Deliver it, and then begone."
"Very well" said the Herald, wrinkling his nose. He was tempted to make a barb concerning Elendil's olfactory resemblance to a horse, but something about the grim set of Elendil's steely blue eyes silenced him. Unrolling the scroll, he displayed it prominently, so that Elendil could see the Royal Seal affixed to it. He then turned it so that the script was facing him, and held it out in front of him, while speaking in a loud, authoritative voice that echoed across the Great Hall.
"To our vassal, Elendil son of Amandil, Sovereign Lord of Andunie and City Master of Romenna" said the Herald. "Greetings, from your liege lord and kinsman, Ar-Pharazon the Golden. As is doubtless known to you, we have commanded our soliders and ships to muster at Andunie, on a venture the purpose of which we shall reveal in due course. We require from every town and village, for service in our Army and Navy, the enlistment every man capable of bearing a pike or spear, from lads to grandsires. We require this of Romenna, no less than any other place within our territories on the isle of Numenor. And though you have offended our royal dignity by sheltering the Wolf's Head, Isildur, from justice, and have displeased us through your Elf-friendship, your stubborn support for heresy and resistance to the truth of Melkor, and your calumnies against Melkor's hierophant Lord Sauron, yet we shall offer you this one, final chance to redeem yourself in our sight. We command you to muster every man of Romenna capable of bearing arms, and dispatch them to Andunie. We command you also to deploy whatever ships of war lie in the harbour of Romenna for service at Andunie. We expect to receive delivery of these ships and these men within a fortnight of your being informed of our commands. We trust that you will obey us in this, for we are confident that you will not choose to add death to the dishonour that already lies upon you and your House, by making yourself known to us as a traitor to our sovereign majesty. Signed, Ar-Pharazon the Golden , and Sealed and Delivered on this date & c."
The Herald furled up the scroll, and smiled triumphantly at Elendil, who stared back at him wordlessly. The silence in the Great Hall was deafening, as the Herald passed the scroll to one of his bodyguards, who in turn passed it to one of Elendil's own guards. Holding it gingerly with his shield-arm, as if it might burn his hand, the guard stepped out of the circle for a moment, and passed the scroll to Elendil. Waving him aside, Elendil gestured to a nearby trestle table, and the guard set down the scroll on the table, before returning to his place amongst his comrades.
"You do not wish to read the scroll for yourself, Lord Elendil?" asked the Herald. "Well, there is no need in any case. I have informed you of the King's commands. Now, what are your estimates of the number of men at Romenna who are fit for the muster? Even lads as young as fourteen will do, as long as they have strong arms and legs."
"Tell your false King this" replied Elendil. "Not one man, nor one ship of Romenna, will serve Pharazon the Usurper, puppet of Sauron the Abhorred, and willing servant of Morgoth Bauglir."
The Herald stared open mouthed, shocked at hearing such blasphemy. His bodyguards stepped in towards him, eyeing their enemies grimly.
"Now get you gone from this place" said Elendil calmly, "or I shall cleave your bald pate from your shoulders myself."
The Herald uttered a strangled cry, his amber-green eyes bulging out of his bald head. He started forward at Elendil, only to find a quiver of spears aimed at his neck. Elendil stepped aside, and motioned to his blue tunic'd guards, who began prodding the Herald and his minions out of the great hall at spearpoint. "Do not take your eyes off them" said Elendil to his guards, "till they are through the gates, and escorted to the city's boundry marker, in the fields three miles west of the walls. Then return here on the double, and order the city's gates to be shut and barred against all comers."
After the speechless Herald and his bodyguards had been escorted from the great hall, Elendil walked up the steps to the dias, and embraced his sons. Then he stepped back from them, and stared at them wordlessly. Isildur, sheathing his sword, returned his stare in wonder. "By the Valar, father" said he, "those were bold words. I had thought you would chasten me, for replying in kind to the Herald's taunts. Yet my words were as nothing beside yours."
"Your words were not mere taunts" said Anarion, biting his lower lip, "but a declaration of open war. You know that, father."
"I know it, my son" replied Elendil. "But open war can no longer be postponed. I believe that your grandfather was successful in his mission, that the Valar agreed to aid us..."
Anarion cried out joyously, while a broad grin formed on Isildur's bearded face.
"And yet for all of that, his mission was in vain. I fear the Valar cannot save us in this isle."
"How can that be, father?" asked Anarion, puzzlement spreading across his features. Isildur frowned, and stared grimly at Elendil.
"I will explain all to you, not least what I saw at Armenelos, but two days ago" replied Elendil. "But then we must move quickly. The preparations we have made, in light of your grandfather's dream and my own, have proven all too necessary. Before this day is done, I will summon the people to the public square, and command them to make ready to board the ships. For though I hope for a sign from the Valar, the people must prepare themselves for the worst. They must prepare themselves for a life of exile in Middle Earth."