XI.) The Great Armament
From the balcony of the highest tower of Andunie, King Ar-Pharazon the Golden looked at the sight before him. And he was mightily pleased at what he saw.
It was the first light of dawn. The day was bright and clear; he could even see the beacon from the White Tower of Avallone gleaming on the Western horizon. But his attention was focused on the harbour below. Across the length and breadth of the Bay of Andunie, indeed far out to sea, sat the ships of the Great Armament. Just as the Valar had staged their rebellion against Melkor, their so-called War of Wrath, against the One True God ages before, so now His followers, the King's Men, were coming in wrath to execute the vengeance of Melkor upon them. Not merely to avenge, but to gain the spoils of war, which in this case were nothing less than eternal life and Godhood!
There were more than two thousand ships of war, the gold trim on their black sails gleaming under the rising Sun. Within their holds waited more than two-million warriors of Numenor, a thousand men to a ship. Some were hardened veterans of many campaigns waged in Middle Earth. Others were new recruits who, whether mere lads or aging grandfathers, were eager to prove their valour and attain their prize! For the purpose, and the rewards of the expedition, had recently been made clear to all the Men. The fire of Melkor was in their hearts, and they reacted to the proclamation of war against the Valar, not with the craven dread of servants of Eru, but with the boldness of their true master!
"A stunning sight, my liege" said the clear, high voice of the one who stood beside the King. "And an auspicious day to sail into the West and fulfil your destiny." Sauron was clothed as ever in his robes of black and red, the script on his golden ring gleaming palely as the Sun rose over the mountains to the East. The marble skin of his chiseled features remained as white as ever, in spite of the sea breeze that brought a trace of colour to the King's graying cheeks.
"An auspicious day indeed" replied Ar-Pharazon. He was bedecked from head-to-toe in armour of intricately wrought gold and silver, and wore a flowing red cape bearing the design of the black serpent. The bejeweled silver crown of Numenor encircled his head, and he held its golden scepter in his right hand. A mighty sword of steel, fashioned by Sauron himself as a gift for his King, hung in an ebon scabbard from his richly-worked leather belt. The design of the sword was plain and elegant, though the pommel was carved into a curious shape, rather like the eye of a great jungle-cat of Far Harad.
"Your device for navigating the Enchanted Isles is installed on my ship?" enquired Ar-Pharazon.
"You can see it yourself, your Majesty!" said Sauron. On the forecastle of the King's flagship – Alcondaras, Castle of the Sea - was installed a ring of silver, ten paces in diameter, engraved with curious runes, and framing a panel of what looked like pinkish glass. The Sea was quite visible through it, although stained pink by the tint of the glass.
"I have already instructed your Admirals in its use, my leige" said Sauron. "When you look though it, the fogs of the Enhanted Isles will appear to vanish. Or more accurately, they will be revealed not to exist, since they are but an illusion that coulds the minds of Men. So long as your other ships carefully follow your flagship, one tied to the other like a great serpent, you should have no difficulty navigating your way through the barren rocks Men call the Enchanted Isles. Then, after you sail for a time, you will see the shores of Valinor before you!
Ar-Pharazon gave a throaty chuckle, his face beaming with anticipation. But then, a frown spread across his withered face. "And you are sure that you will not accompany me, Lord Sauron? Your presence in battle would be most welcome."
"Indeed, your majesty" said Sauron. "But we have discussed this before. Your mission will only succeed with the grace of Melkor behind it. To ensure that grace, I must remain in the Temple of our Master – indeed, I must return to it forthwith, for already I am overdue. It is as crucial to your victory, my King, that I remain in the Temple, officiating at the many sacrifices to Melkor that I must conduct throughout this campaign, as it is that your Generals and Admirals accompany you, to lead your Men in the fierce battles that lie ahead."
"Yes, yes" said the King, somewhat petulantly. "I shouldn't question your judgment about the will of Melkor, I suppose." His train of thought was interrupted by a clatter of iron-shod feet up the stairs to the tower's roof. The King's bodyguards stepped back from the doorway, to admit a tall, bearded man, garbed in a robe of scarlet embroided with cloth of gold – the King's Herald.
The Herald stepped forward, saluted the King, and bowed his head to Sauron. He then said "My liege, I apologize for the delay in my reporting to you. You set out for Andunie before I returned from Romenna, and I have been riding hard on your heels ever since, clear across the span of Numenor." He paused. "I have spoken to Lord Elendil at Romenna, and conveyed your commands to him. It is now my duty to inform you of his reply." The man swallowed, looking visibly uncomfortable.
"Well, what did he have to say for himself?" asked the King. "His fortnight is up, and I see no sign of the Men or ships of Romenna here at Andunie. Has he some excuse for his delay, or has he actually sunk so deep in the mire of folly as to have refused my commands?"
Ashen-faced, the Herald stared in terror at Ar-Pharazon, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
"This is a novelty" smiled Sauron, showing a glimpse of his ivory teeth. "A Herald who is a mute." Then he narrowed his clear blue eyes. "Come, servant. Tell us, precisely, what Elendil said to you. You are but a messenger, and not accountable for his words."
Trembling, the pitiful Herald sputtered "He...my lord...my liege...he s-said...that...and I quote him, I do not blaspheme myself!...my liege, Elendil said that 'not one man, nor one ship of Romenna, will serve Pharazon the Usurper, the puppet of Sauron the Abhorred, and willing servant of foul Morgoth Bauglir.'"
"WHAT!?" shouted the King, his face flushed purple with rage, his fiery blue eyes gleaming with wrath and malice. The Herald dropped to his knees and bowed in supplication, whimpering with fear.
Sauron, his chisled features betraying no emotion, stared down at the cringing Herald. The palsied man looked ready to die of fright. Truly, Sauron thought to himself, these mortal beings were weak, even more fragile than he had realized.
"Patience, my liege" said Sauron smoothly. "There is no need to take offense at this Herald. He has merely performed his duty, in relaying to you the foul words of Elendil the Traitor. He is to be commended for his bravery, in speaking thus with frankness." Turning to the Herald, he said. "The performance of your duties has been noted, and is received with thanks. You may go, and board your vessal forthwith."
"My lord" bowed the Herald, who looked ready to kiss Sauron's sandled feet. Rising, he again saluted the King, and then turned and went down the stairs, slowly at first, then as fast as his legs could carry him.
Smiling wryly, Sauron turned to the King. Ar-Pharazon's face was now ashen, as his initial shock at the Herald's words had subsided into a cold, simmering anger.
"My leige" said Sauron, "for years we have allowed the scum of Andunie to sit in their hovel at Romenna, and to gather to themselves the heretics of this land, like ants attracted to a honey-pot. Indeed, it was for that purpose I recommended you authorize their exile to Romenna. By making of them objects of sympathy amongst those disloyal to you, we have rooted out the many traitors who have flocked to their banner, and who might otherwise have long remained hidden before I could discover them one by one."
Sauron frowned. "But the time for tolerating their presence in this isle has ended. Ever since Amandil's diasappearance some months ago, on who knows what evil errand, his whelp Elendil has led the heretics of Romenna. He has long defied your laws by sheltering that Wolf's Head, Isildur. Now he has brazenly defied your commands in time of war, my liege, and added insult to injury! It is treason! Will you allow this Elf-friend, this puppet of the Valar, to defy you from the soil of your own land?"
"Infidel!" spat the King. "He dares to challenge me, to mock Ar-Pharazon the Golden, King of Men and Lord of the Earth! By Melkor, we shall send our armies against Romenna, and quickly! We have left a single regiment of Men at Armenelos, to maintain order there in my absence. They now have a more important mission; they shall march to Romenna, and demand the surrender of Elendil, and of Isildur as well. And if their demands are refused, they shall break open the accursed walls of that nest of vipers, no matter what the cost!" He smiled grimly. "I will not rest until Elendil's head is mounted on the Traitor's Gate, beside that of his whelp Isildur!"
"But what of Anarion, my leige?" asked Sauron demurely.
"That insipid little fool?" sneered the King. "I fear him no more than a doormouse! Still, I cannot believe that he has played no part in his father's treason. Elendil, Isildur, Anarion – all three are known heretics, and I deem the sons to have conspired with their father in his treachery."
"A sound conclusion, my liege" said Sauron. "And when they are arrested, how precisely shall we proceed? You will not be at Armenelos to dispense formal judgment on them."
"I have already convicted them, in absentia, of treason" replied Ar-Pharazon. "I could have their heads forthwith. However" he continued, with a cruel smile, "I deem that as heretics, they have placed themselves beyond those processes of law provided for by the temporal authority. Therefore, upon their arrest, they shall be conveyed into the hands of the spiritual authority, as represented by you, Lord Sauron. You may deal with them as you see fit."
"His Majesty is as generous as he is wise" smiled Sauron. "It is fitting that your war against the Valar shall be inaugurated by the sacrifice of their chief agents in this land. Melkor will be most pleased to receive them in His Temple."
The King signalled one of the Guardsmen to fetch a scribe from the group of attendants awaiting their sovereign at the foot of the tower. Some minutes later, the scribe, an aging man in robes of grey, stepped through the doorway to the balcony, his breathing laboured from the effort of climbing the stairs. He pulled forth from his robes a blank scroll, pen, and ink pot, and recorded the King's warrant of arrest for Elendil and his two sons, as well as his command that upon arrest they be placed under Sauron's authority. The scribe handed the warrant to the King, who dismissed him abruptly. With a salute, the weary scribe turned and began his long climb down the stairs.
Ar-Pharazon had decided to carry the Royal Seal on his person, during the war, as a symbol of his office. Removing the Seal from a pouch on his belt, and a tablet of wax, he gestured to one of the Guards, who struck a flint and tinder, melting a few drops of wax on the parchment. The King then affixed the Seal to the warrant, and handed it to Sauron.
"I will convey your commands to the regiment stationed at Armenelos, the moment I return there" said Sauron, saluting crisply. "Rest assured, I shall put paid to Elendil and his brood before you reach the shores of Valinor."
Ar-Pharazon laughed harshly, delighted by the thought. But then his laughter died, and he frowned deeply, staring towards the West. "By Melkor, what is that?" he cried. Sauron turned towards the Western horizon, and for a moment stood speechless, as shocked as the King.
The entire Western sky was now as red as the morning sky to the East! Against its crminson glow, dark shapes were forming. The shapes took form, and revealed themselves to be the shilouettes of giant Eagles, their wings of each beast spanning for miles across the horizon. All Men knew that the Eagle was the symbol of Manwe, Lord of the West. His warning to the Men of Numenor could hardly have been clearer!
Despite the distance that separated them from the ships in the harbour, the murmuring of the Men on board could be heard, soon giving way to a deathly silence. The battle-lust of the Men of Numenor had been quelled. With his far-seeing eyes, Sauron noted that the Men on board the ships were pale and frightened, as they realized the enormity of what they were about to attempt. The Royal Household Guardsmen, standing near the King, appeared petrified by the awesome display of Manwe's power. Even Ar-Pharazon himself, his features rouged by the angry glare from the crimson sky, began to show doubt on his face. Eyes narrowed, he glanced at Sauron with suspicion.
For the second time, thought Sauron, the Valar sought to thwart him, to offer a clear warning to the Men of Numenor! He recognized that he had to act, and quickly.
"This is nothing more than an attempt to frighten you, my liege!" said Sauron, in his clearest, most persuasive tone of voice. "Are you and your Men schoolboys, who blanch when their tutor threatens them with a birch switch? If, with Melkor's aid, we defeated these flying beasts themselves when they assailed Armenelos, why should we now fear their shadows?"
Sauron took the King by the shoulder, staring intently into his eyes. "The Valar are conjurors and tricksters, my liege. Lords of Illusion, and nothing more. Manwe seeks to frighten you from departing on your expedition, because he knows he will not be able to defeat you once you set foot in the Undying Lands! This mummery is but a last act of desperation on his part!"
"Yes, it must be, by Melkor" said the King, his resolve soon returning under Sauron's comforting influence.
Sauron withdrew his hand from the King's shoulder. "It is indeed a tawdry device, my liege, nothing that could ever stay the purpose of the King of Men. But" Sauron warned, pointing a slender finger at the King's armoured chest, "lesser Men than yourself are not blessed with your clarity of vision, your Majesty. Therefore, you must board your ship and depart at once. Without a moment's delay! For this ruse of the Valar may sap the ardour of your Men, until they see that their King is not in the least afraid! Then they will rush to prove their valour to you, lest they be ashamed in front of their fellows."
"Quite right!" cried Ar-Pharazon, a beaming smile forming on his silver-bearded face.
"Your Admirals shall bear you through the Enchanted Isles to the shores of the Undying Lands" said Sauron. "Your own prowess in war, and that of your Officers and soldiers shall, with the aid of Melkor, do the rest. When next I see you, you shall be the immortal King of Gods, enthroned on Mount Everwhite by Melkor himself! Now, for my part, I must return to the Temple, and keep Melkor's grace secure. Farewell, brave King! To Victory!" Sauron gave the traditional salute of Numenor, right hand clenched in a fist in front of his left breast.
"For Earendil and Numenor! To Victory!" cried Ar-Pharazon, transferring his scepter to his left hand, and with his right hand drawing his sword. "To Victory!" cried the guards upon the stair, their fighting spirits raised by the valour of their King. They escorted Ar-Pharazon down from the tower and towards the pier, where, accompanied by his attendants, he boarded a skiff that would take them to the flagship. They continued shouting "To Victory!", and as the skiff navigated its way through the ships of the fleet, the cry was taken up by the Admirals, Generals, and their Officers as they saw Ar-Pharazon proudly brandishing his sword and sceptre. "Ho, there is the King! To Victory!" they shouted. Their Men joined-in, and soon the deafening cry was issuing from more than two-million throats, echoing against the mountains, and thundering the defiance of the Men of Numenor across the Sea, to the ears of those false gods with whom they would soon be at war.
As Sauron watched from the balcony, the King's skiff pulled alongside mighty Alcondaras, and he ascended the gangplank. He strode towards the rear-deck, to a canopy of gilded silk. Under the canopy stood a golden throne, newly fashioned for the King's campaign. Ar-Pharazon sheathed his sword, reclaimed his scepter in his right hand, and sat upon the throne, proud image of the King of Men. He let raise his standard, and gave the signal to depart.
One by one, the ships of the Great Armament weighed anchor, the countless slaves who manned their banks of oars pulling them on the first steps of their journey into the West of West. All the while, the western sky grew an ever-deeper shade of crimson, while the dark wings of Manwe's Eagles beat menacingly, in futile warning against the folly of Men.
Sauron, his black hair tossed to-and-fro by the sea-breeze, watched the fleet for many hours, as its black-and-gold sails grew ever smaller. At length, even his far-seeing eyes could no longer discern any trace of it. Then, he permitted a satisfied smile to appear on his ruby lips.
"Yes, to Victory" he said, quietly. "The Victory of Sauron of Mordor, Dark Lord of the Earth! Poor Manwe. The Lord of the West has always sought to serve Eru faithfully, yet ever has his blundering served the cause of my master. Or should I say my own cause, for Melkor has long since departed from the Circles of the World, and the Valar themselves could not so much as speak with him even if they wished it."
"And farewell to you, King Ar-Pharazon the Fool!" Sauron continued. "It pains me to cast away useful tools, for I have spent years shaping and sharpening you. But, your use is now at an end."
The script of the One Ring glowing fiery-bright on his hand, a sardonic laugh displacing his once clear voice, Sauron continued smiling as he strode down the stairs and began his journey to the Temple of Melkor.
"Hurry, Isildur!" cried Anarion, panting with exhaustion, his sword stained with blood. "We cannot hold them off any longer. Signal for a last volley of arrows from your ship, and we shall flee under their cover!"
Nodding at his brother, Isildur whipped around, slashing his sword at one of the King's Men just before he could thrust his spear at Isildur's throat. As the man dropped to the ground, gurgling in his death agony, Isildur whistled to the archers on board his ship, which like Anarion's still stood by the pier.
At Isildur's signal, his Men gave a volley, cutting down the horde of red tunic'd enemy soldiers surging up the pier. "Now brother!" cried Isildur, and he and Anarion, turned and rushed toward their respective ships. No sooner had they stepped foot on the gangplanks than the sailors began to raise them into the air, depriving the King's Men of their quarry.
Isildur raced down the gangplank to the main deck, shouting "Heave to!" at the Captain. The grizzled officer nodded, and signaled to his sailors, who quickly weighed anchor. The ship, accompanied by Anarion's, sailed away from the pier, soon joining the seven other ships that awaited them in the harbour. A volley of crossbow bolts from the King's Men on the shore hurtled toward Isildur's ship before it sailed out of range, though but a few found their mark in the smooth white timbers of its hull.
As the Captain shouted instructions to his men, Isildur strode to the rear deck, and stared at the quays and wharfs of Romenna, now surging to the brim with thousands of red-tunic'd soldiers. He could hear their dimming cries drifting over the waters, as they mocked and jeered at himself and his kin. "Lord Sauron requests the presence of your company, at a feast to be held within the sacred confines of the Temple of Melkor" cried one, a black-bearded Sergeant with a deep, booming voice. "Surely you would not refuse his hospitality?" His men laughed, and jeered again at the Elendili. "Cowards, come back and get what's coming to you!" "Fools, where will you run? No land is beyond the reach of the King's long arm, or that of Lord Sauron!"
Cursing under his breath, Isildur ordered his standard to be raised from the mainmast, as Anarion had raised his own standard from his own ship, to signal to Elendil that he yet lived. He gave his sword to a servant for cleaning, and then looked back toward the shore, his gaze drifting from the town of Romenna, now swarming with the servants of Sauron, to the green mountains above, their peaks dusted with the first snows of autumn. Blood still racing through his veins, his thoughts turned to the events of that morning, when his father's plans had nearly met with disaster. Elendil had fixed this day for their departure, and had already boarded his own ship that previous night. His ship and six others, full of the citizens of Romenna, had spent the night at anchor in the harbour. Isildur and Anarion's ships remained at their pier, and Elendil's sons themselves had remained on land, racing frantically to make ready their departure. For though the White Tree had long since been stored under guard on Isildur's ship, and his family's valuables, weapons, horses and provinder had been efficiently secured below decks, some of the elderly, infirm, and less diligent citizens of Romenna had proved unready to depart, even though their peers had long since been ready to board the ships at Elendil's command. All night, Isildur and Anarion, accompanied by the guards and servants they could spare, had raced from house to house, gathering anyone they could find, forcing them to leave behind their valuables, and hurriedly escorting them onto the last two ships.
Then, shortly before dawn, when every last house in the city had been emptied, the skeleton force of guards manning the city's gate had sounded the alarm. Isildur and Anarion had raced toward the gate, only to crash into the fleeing guards, who told them that a vast army had appeared from the road to Armenelos, demanding the surrender of Elendil and his sons. When no reply was forthcoming, they had taken a battering ram and smashed their way through the gate, scouring the city for their quarry.
No sooner had the guards given their explanation, than a large party of the King's Men surged had around a corner, instantly recognizing Isildur and Anarion, whose robes were marked by the colours of their personal devices – blue and green for Isildur, blue and white for Anarion. Shouting exultantly, the King's Men rushed at the brothers, who realized that they had no choice but to run. Accompanied by the handful of their guards from the gate, they dashed along the winding streets and alleys toward the pier, an ever-growing pack of enemies dogging their heels. They had just reached the pier, and were within sight of their ships, when Isildur felt a crossbow bolt race past his head.
"Volley!" Isildur had shouted to the astonished sailors on his ship. "Enemies dog us! Fire a volley at them, hurry!" Realizing he could run no further, he and Anarion had turned, drawing their swords, hacking and slashing at the King's Men. As a volley of arrows from the small party of archers on Isildur's ship sank into the front lines of the enemy, Anarion had cried "To the ships, men! We'll follow!" The guards, whose spears had claimed the lives of their own share of enemies in defence of their lords, turned and ran toward the gangplanks, Isildur and Anarion close behind. But another wave of the King's Men had surged forth, and it had taken the second volley from Isildur's ship to clear the way for himself and his brother.
Isildur thanked the Valar for their narrow escape. Yet, as the exhilaration of victory began to fade, Isildur's heart felt heavy with regret. He had always held the fair emerald isle of Numenor dear, loving the land as much as its people – even more than its people, at times, if truth were to be told. Now he was losing his homeland, forever.
Although he cursed the folly of the mad King, he found his white-hot wrath directed against another. Sauron – the very thought of his name set Isildur's blood boiling. Sauron, and his accursed Ring, had been at the root of all the evil that had befallen the Numenoreans since his arrival, almost six decades ago, before Isildur himself had been born. Who would have thought, in that happy time, that the day would come when the Lords of Andunie and their followers would exile themselves for life from their homeland? Yet now it had come to pass. Isildur swore an oath by Eru that he would cut the accursed One Ring from Sauron's treacherous hand, and wave it in the Dark One's astonished face, now matter what the cost.
Isildur gazed at the green mountains of Romenna, their snowy peaks glistening in the first light of dawn. "Farewell, Numenor" he said quietly. "It is a pity that the Men who settled on your fair soil proved unworthy of your charms." Then he turned his gaze from the land, strode toward the helm and took his place by the ship's Captain.
For a time he stared across the harbour at the glittering Sea, and at the other eight ships of the Elendili. All the ships bore sails of snowy white, trimmed with cloth of blue and gold, flapping proudly in the sea breeze. Elendil's ship was in the lead, while Isildur's brought up the rear, Anarion's ship being the third ahead of Isildur's. The day was bright and clear, and well fit for navigation. The harbour chain had been opened the previous night, and following the others, Isildur's ship swiftly sailed past the city walls by the edge of the harbour and into the open Sea. Isildur turned his back to the shore, to take in a last, wistful glance at Numenor, Land of the Star. For a time, he stared at the snowy mountain peaks, as they faded into the vanishing West.
Then, Isildur's jaw dropped in astonishment, as he cried "By the Valar, what in Manwe's name is this?"
As the Eastern sky glowed with the rosy tint of dawn, Queen Miriel, mounted on an aging mare, ascended the slopes of Mount Meneltarma, on her way to the Hallow of Eru. Soft breezes restled the grasses of the mountain meadows, while the scent of rare flowers filled the air. Often, one could hear birds chirping as they flitted across the mountain meadows, yet Miriel was struck by their absence this morning as she ascended the mountain path. Had they already departed Numenor for the Southlands?
Miriel had not sought out the holy place since that long-ago day when the King had barred anyone from setting foot in the Hallow, under penalty of death. But now the King had departed, had been absent for weeks. Miriel had heard that the guards who barred entry to the Hallow of Eru had been dispatched to the muster at Andunie, and she felt thankful that the rumor appeared true.
Yesterday evening, she had stolen away from the Palace through her secret tunnel, dressed in the black and brown garb of one of her handmaids. At a public house amid the plains east of the city, she had paid coin to a fat, lame old innkeeper for a mare. The lecherous publican, leaning heavily on his crutches, had leered at her so openly that she felt fortunate she could escape his grasp with her horse, and her womanly honour, intact. Truly, the morals of the people had deteriorated markedly since the new religion of Melkor, which she believed to be a fraud concocted by Sauron, had been embraced by the King. In any case, she had ridden all night, and under cover of darkness began her ascent on horseback up the steep slopes of Meneltarma.
As the Sun continued to ascend the Eastern sky, Miriel fell into a contemplative mood. Despite her isolation from the people, she knew from the gossiping of her handmaids that the land had been abuzz with activity for months, with every able-bodied male, from tender youths to stolid grandsires, conscripted into the King's army. Ar-Pharazon had told the people only that he planned to fight a mighty war, but that for reasons of security its object would not be revealed to the soldiers until all was ready. He had revealed nothing to Miriel, but then, he never did.
She had her suspicions, though. At first, she could not imagine how there could be an enemy left in the world against whom the King would require such an army. But after his departure, she had heard rumors from Andunie that the King's fleet had sailed into the West. For a time, she could not credit these rumors, for all Men knew that to sail into the West was banned.
But then, she recalled the fearsome assault by the giant Eagles, just prior to the King's departure for Andunie. The Eagles, she knew, were the servants of Manwe, and had surely been sent by the Valar as a warning against the blasphemy of the Numenoreans. Somehow, Sauron had used dark sorcery to drive away the Eagles, and had saved his foul Temple from their attacks. Since that episode, the people had fallen ever more firmly under Sauron's spell. Even now, the fiend was esconced in his Temple, performing his rites of devil-worship.
Still, she felt certain that Pharazon himself had been shaken by the sight of the Eagles, and their raid against his Palace and Temple. The night before his departure, she had seen him stalking around the Palace Garden, shaking his fists at the starry sky, and vowing revenge against the Valar. Thinking back on that night, Miriel now began to suspect that the King, whatever purpose he had originally envisioned for his armada, had sailed into the West, in a futile attempt to avenge himself against Manwe! It might seem utter folly, yet Miriel knew her wretched husband well enough to be certain that, in his madness, he was quite capable of such a scheme. If that were his design, then he would undoubtedly send dozens of his ships to crash against the rocks of the Enchanted Isles, before admitting the futility of his goal. No doubt Sauron had urged him on in the mad enterprise, and even now was laughing at him behind his back.
Fortunately, every cloud had its silver lining. Now that Pharazon was no longer here to oppress her, Miriel had welcomed the opportunity to escape from the Palace, and the wretched hedonism of her servants and courtiers. She keenly felt the need to soothe her troubled spirit in this place of sanctuary.
Her need for solace was especially acute, for some nights ago - several weeks after the King's departure from Armenelos - Miriel had been troubled by a strange dream. A mysterious presence had shown her a vision of the land of Numenor in flames, followed by a vision of the slain White Tree, growing anew in the soil of Middle Earth. The presence had warned her, as one the Faithful Ones, not to tarry in Numenor, but to depart with haste. Then, the dream had ended abruptly, and she had awakened in her chambers, trembling and full of doubt.
Miriel had pondered the dream ever since, and still did not fully grasp its meaning. She was loathe to abandon the ancient land of her Royal House. But, in any case, if she were not to tarry in Numenor, then where could she go? She could no more journey to the West than could any mortal. Yet, surely she was not meant to journey to the the East, to Middle Earth, for that was the land of Sauron the Abhorred himself.
That she should see the likeness of the White Tree growing from the soil of that distant land puzzled her. Isildur had taken a seed of Nimloth the Fair years before; did the vision reveal that he would now seek to plant it in Middle Earth? Was she being told she should accompany him, in spite of her belief that her duty was to remain at Armenelos? She had resolved to journey to the Hallow of Eru in the hope that, within its sacred precincts, she would receive guidance about the dream's meaning.
Miriel's thoughts were interrupted by a strange sound, a deep, booming roar, which she could compare to nothing in her experience. Curious, where did it come from? She looked up, towards the peak of Meneltarma. To her astonishment, she could see a thin trail of steam spewing forth from the Hallow of Eru, as if a fiery chamber far below had been unblocked, and was spewing vapour through a fissure in the mountain's skin to scorch the blue sky.
A sudden chill of fear ran down Miriel's spine, as her horse screamed and reared up. It threw her from her saddle to land flat on her back, knocking the wind out of her. She lay still for some minutes, gasping for breath, until she felt the strength to pull herself to her feet. Staring down the grassy slopes of the mountainside, she could see her mare galloping madly away from Meneltarma, as fast as its aging legs could carry it.
A great wave of heat rose up behind her and traced warm fingers along her back. Turning to face the summit of Meneltarma, she saw that huge tendrils of hot steam were surging for miles into the air. The ground began to shake beneath her feet, only slightly at first, but then sharply and suddenly, again throwing her flat on her back. As she began to slide down the mountain path, she grasped at the grasses with her right arm, seeking to steady herself, while her useless left arm dragged by her side. The booming noise she had heard earlier grew ever louder, and the western sky was plunged into utter darkness. She turned toward the West, and saw that Doom which was presaged by the thunderous roar echoing across the land.
Her face pale with fear, tears in her eyes, Miriel turned her pleading gaze to the heavens, crying out for Eru to spare her...
So far, Ar-Pharazon reflected, everything had gone according to his plans. Already, he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams of but a year before!
Three days after they had sailed beyond sight of Numenor, the Armada of Wrath had seen the shadowy mists of the Enchanted Isles rise before them. Using the device Sauron had mounted on his flagship, the King's captains had able to see through the mists, just as Sauron had said they could. Even so, it had taken several weeks of careful navigation to thread the long flotilla of ships through the razor- harp rocks that lay concealed in the mists. But the King's Admirals were excellent sailors, and they led the fleet through the Isles without the loss of a single ship. Then they set sail over the warm, aquamarine waters that girdled the land of Valinor.
Valinor! That place of legend, banned to Men, was now within reach! The once threatening signs in the sky, the great Eagles that had hovered over the Enchanted Isles, were no longer visible. They, like the mists of the Isles, had proved to be an illusion. The skies were now blue and clear. The Sun shone brightly during the day, and the Stars and Moon glistened at night, while a wind from the East filled the sails of the King's ships. Truly, the favour of Melkor was with the Men of Numenor. Ar-Pharazon thanked himself that he had listened to Sauron's advice, and allowed him to return to the Temple to ensure Melkor received the proper sacrifices due to Him.
The fleet sailed over the calms seas for some weeks. The King's Admirals had appeared somewhat puzzled that they could no longer see the beacon from the Tower of Avallone. Persumably, their Great Armament had been spotted, or the Falmari Sea Elves had received word of warning from the Valar, and in either case the beacon had been extinguished. The Admirals consulted the ancient maps of Valinor that the High Elves had given to one of the King's ancestors, ages before. Following the maps, and reading their position from the Sun and the Stars, the Admirals directed the fleet to sail steadily into the West.
On the afternoon of the seven and thirtieth day since their departure from Andunie, a long, white line appeared on the western horizon – the coast of Valinor itself! The Men let up a great cheer, blowing their brazen trumpets, and banging their mighty drums of war. Then this morning, at dawn on the the eight and thirtieth day, the land itself rose up before them. The vast, stony wall of the Pelori Mountains, their peaks enshrouded with snow, soared above from the western horizon. Towering over the Pelori stood Taniquetl, Mount Everwhite. A radiant beacon of the purest white light stood gleaming upon Oliosse, its uttermost summit.
As Ar-Pharazon stared at the snowy shoulder of Taniquetl, and gazed upon the beacon from the Palace of Manwe, he had felt a vague stirring of misgiving deep within his breast. The light from the beacon seemed to his eyes cold and harsh, devoid of pity or sympathy for Men. He knew that he could expect no mercy from the Valar, should he fail in his quest. Nor could he hope for clemency from Melkor, who, as Sauron had often told him, rewarded failure with death. He stood between these titans, and felt as if he were but a pawn on the game board of the Gods. It was far too late to turn back. Yet, now that Valinor was within his grasp, he hesitated to step forward.
But then he hardened his heart, and his old pride reasserted itself. Great reward entailed great risk, and only a giant among Men, fearless and bold, could hope to wrest from the Valar their Blessed Land. That giant was none other than himself! He was Ar-Pharazon the Golden, and, with the grace of Melkor, he would soon have dominion over this land, and those that dwelt therein!
The ships of the fleet sailed ever westward, the land unfolding before them. Encompassed by the Pelori Mountains was the Bay of Eldamar, glistening in the rising Sun. Very near to the fleet, the emerald green isle of Tol Eressea rose up from the middle of the Bay. The Tower of Avallone was clearly visible, though its beacon had been extinguished.
Most curious was the utter silence and stillness that lay upon the land. Long ago, said the Chronicle of the Kings, the High Elves who had visited Numenor had told of dolphins playing in the waters of the Bay of Eldamar, of swans flying in the air above, and of sweet voices drifting over the Bay from Valinor. Yet now, apart from the lapping of the waters, and the noises of the sailors at work on their ships, there was no sound or movement at all. It was as if the land itself held its breath.
But the Men were not troubled in their hearts. They cheered and trumpeted and drummed again, for they were thrilled beyond measure to see these places of legend with their own eyes! And they were champing at the bit to land ashore: for their King had recently told them that they had merely to set foot on the soil of Valinor, and they would receive eternal life! They only hoped for fortune in the battle they knew lay ahead, since it would be a bitter irony to receive the eternal life of the Elves, only to have it stolen away by a well-aimed Elvish arrow.
Of the Elvish people there was no sign. The fleet tacked North-west, past the shores of Tol Eressea, verdant with exotic trees that bore both fruit and flower year round, past the Tower and the gleaming white houses of Avallone. The Men saw from their ships that the city was utterly empty. "One of the homes of the Falmari, the Sea Elves of the Undying Lands" said the King, lecturing his Admirals. "They have ever been a craven, faint hearted lot. When we land on the coast of Valinor, we'll doubtless find their city on the mainland, Aqualonde, is abandoned as well. It appears, as you suspected, that from their Tower at Eressea, they would have seen the black and golden sails of our ships some days ago. Thus they had ample time, not merely to extinguish their beacon, but to abandon their homes and flee inland."
Ar-Pharazon snorted with disdain. "Doubtless we shall not encounter any of these so-called High Elves, though I deem them but lackeys, until our army has marched up the Pass of Light, and arrived at fortress of Tirion. We cannot advance beyond, into the realm of the Valar proper, until we take that fortress. Since it is held by the Noldorin Elves - who, we must admit, have ever been a proud and warlike race - it is likely before the walls of Tirion that we will have our battle." The Admirals nodded, but remained silent. Their only concern was with lining the ships of the fleet along the shore without mishap – what took place after that was no longer their responsibility.
But the Admirals' task could not have been easier. They had feared a great fleet of the White Swan Ships of the Elves would sail out to meet them in battle, before they ever reached the shores of Valinor, and were prepared for that eventuality. Yet as their King had said, it appeared the Sea Elves were indeed craven, for they had left open the approaches to the Bay of Eldamar, and abandoned their corner of Elvenhome, without so much as a whisper of protest, not even daring to show their faces. Perhaps, whispered the Admirals amongst themselves, Ar-Pharazon had spoken truly - the High Elves and Valar were indeed weak behind all their mummery, and knew they could not withstand the armies of the King of Men.
Sailing nigh to Aqualonde, the Swan-Haven, whose walls and towers of white marble and lapis lazuli nestled at the foot of the Pelori Mountains, the ships of the Great Armament lined in a vast column along the Northern shore of the Bay. Each ship drew parallel to the coast, its starboard side facing landward so that the sailors could throw down its gangplank. In this configuration, all the ships of the fleet would be able to disgorge their cargo of Men and equipment simultaneously, so that the entire Army could disembark in a matter of hours.
The ships weighed anchor, furled their sable and golden sails, and then set their gangplanks upon the shore, which glittered with gems. Indeed, the Men could now see that where a land of mortals would have had a beach of sand, the entire length of the beach that lined the base of the great, stony mountains was made of gemstones! Fired by greed for wealth, as much as for life eternal, the soliders rushed down the gangplanks, whooping with joy when their feet set foot upon the shore. Dropping their siege equipment, they took-off their iron helmets and began scooping the gemstones into them. Soon they had the appearance of a disorganized rabble, wandering ever farther along the narrow shore.
The Admirals looked to the assembled Generals, still on the ships, and smiled grimly. Their work was done successfully – now it was the Generals' turn.
Barking orders, the whips of their Sergeants at the ready, the Generals and their Officers, armoured by plates of polished iron, and swathed in red tunics bearing the design of the black serpent, marched down the gangplank. Some lashings of the whip here, and the quick removal of a few swollen heads there, soon reminded the soldiers that while they might now be immortal, like the Elves, they were still just as vulnerable as Elves to implements of war. Their military discipline restored by threat of punishment, the soldiers cast the gemstones from their helmets – "Plenty of time for that AFTER the battle, lads" the Sergeants had shouted – and formed up into orderly regimental columns, their polished iron shields glinting in the Sun, their siege equipment held ready for use. Each column had its standard, a black serpent on a red field above the regiment's own design, held up proudly by its oldest or most experienced Man.
In this fashion, reflected Ar-Pharazon, had the day's events transpired. Now, it was late afternoon, and already the snows of the Pelori Mountains were brushed by a rosy glow as the Sun sank towards the uttermost West. The King, smiling with satisfaction, stood at the helm of his flagship Alcondaras, and gazed with swelling pride at the vast army of the Men of Numenor, two million strong, who stood at attention along before him. He had shown his power to the High Elves and the Valar – now the time had come for him to step ashore, and claim the seat of the Manwe for himself!
Striding down the gangplank, a magnificent figure in his flowing red cape, shining armour, and bejeweled silver crown, he set foot upon the land, the gemstones scraping beneath his silver-shod feet. The soldiers gasped for a moment as he sank to his knees, clasping the gems in his hands. Then he stood up to his full height, well over six feet, and held a pile of gems aloft in each fist. "Just as I have seized these gems" he cried "So have we all seized eternal life! So shall we seize all the length and breadth of this fair land! So shall we seize Godhood for ourselves!" A tremendous roar of approval issued forth from the Men, who began clashing their spears against their shields, their shouts and brazen trumpetings and warlike drumming echoing across the Bay of Eldamar to the far shore, and back again, trailing up to the heavens themselves.
A white steed was brought down the gangplank for the King, as well as horses for his Generals, and parties of trained cavalrymen. The Officers would lead their Men on foot, escorted by cavalry detachments along their flanks. The King mounted his horse, and one of his servants brought him his golden scepter, which he took with his left hand. Ar-Pharazon then drew his sword with his right hand, its steel blade flashing. "Onward to Victory!" he cried, and the Army surged forward, the deafening rumble of two million pairs of iron-shod feet almost drowning out the raucous calmour of the drums and trumpets.
Sheathing his sword, the King, followed by his Generals, rode his horse to the head of the cavalry vanguard, and led the Army along its planned route. For some hours, they marched along the shore, until they came upon a road paved with white flagstones. That road led out of the pearl-studded gates of Aqualonde, and ran westward up the Calacirya, the Pass of Light that lead over the Pelori Mountains into the plains of Valinor. The Men halted at the gates of the city, which appeared to have been abandoned. A small party of scouts was dispatched to ensure that there was not some sort of ruse, they reported that all was as it appeared – Aqualonde truly was empty.
Spitting on the ground with disgust at the cowardice of the Sea Elves, Ar-Pharazon turned his attention toward the Calacirya. He could now see the white and pink marble towers of the fortress of Tirion, perched on the crest of the Pass. Even with his aged eyes – though age no longer held any meaning for him! – he could see the light of the fast-setting Sun glinting off the golden armour of the Noldorin Elves, who, it appeared, had manned the walls of their fortress with many warriors.
"At least now we shall have a proper battle" said the King to his Generals. "It would be dreadfully anti-climactic if this entire realm fell to us without any resistance. I would be almost disappointed. Onward!" he shouted, turning to the Army. "We have but to take this fortress, and this entire land shall be ours! There is nowhere in the plain beyond these mountains where the Elves can put up an effective defense against us!" The Officers relayed the King's words along the columns of Men, who let up another great cheer, and began their long march up the pass, toward the fortress of their High Elvish foes.
By the small hours of the morning, the rather winded Men of Numenor found themselves within the Pass of Light. Before them towered the walls of Tirion, which sat in a narrow cleft between the sheer rock faces of two vast mountains. Tirion itself was seemingly fragile. Its thin outer walls were formed of waving bands of white and pink marble, pierced by a single gate. The gate was covered by a drawbridge, formed of a strangely tinted metal. From the green hill of Tuná encircled by the walls grew many elaborately carved houses and towers of marble, crowned by the watch tower of Mindon Eldaliova.
The silver lamp which legend said ever blazed from the top of the watch tower had been extinguished by the Elves, presumably in a vain attempt to frustrate the night-assault of their Mannish foes by plunging the valley into darkness. The night sky was clear, and the light of the stars and the Moon showed the Men every detail of the valley, as well as the walls and towers of the fortress, and of their Elves who guarded them. A deep ravine sat between the walls of the fortress and the Men, the rushing waters from the mountains to the North roaring through it, and downward in a twisting easterly direction to the Bay of Eldamar. Many thousands of Noldorin warriors stood upon the battlements of Tirion, their famed Elvish bows in their hands, quivers full of arrows at their backs. Some of the Elves, golden haired and radiant, were armoured even more elaborately than the rest – apparently, a few of the Vanyar warriors of Valimar had chosen to join their Noldorin kin in the defence of Tirion.
Ar-Pharazon knew, from a chapter of the Chronicle of the Kings recording a visit to Numenor by the High Elves, that the delicate appearance of the fortress was deceptive. The thin, fluted marble walls were covered with a sheen of adamant, utterly impenetrable to any siege-engine or bombardment. The doors of the gate and the drawbridge, formed of mithril, were also invulnerable. Since the drawbridge had been drawn up in front of the gate, and the walls were quite impenetrable, the Men would need to bridge the ravine and climb atop the walls with their siege-ladders if they were to have any hope of taking Tirion. Take it they must, for the fortress guarded the only way to the exit from the Pass, and so to the rolling green meadows and forests of Valinor beyond.
Ar-Pharazon also knew that within the courtyard of the watch tower was planted Galthilion, the sacred White Tree of the Noldorin Elves, and parent of that White Tree of Numenor which he had ordered to be burned in the fires of Melkor. The King gloated at the thought of also offering up this parent Tree as a sacrifice to the Lord of Darkness. That it would soon burn within the smoking ruins of Tirion itself was an especially sweet revenge against the haughty Elves! He would permit those Noldor who survied the battle to witness the destruction of their beloved tree, before casting them into the flames after it.
Of course, first he had to take the fortress itself. Ever fond of pomp and ceremony, Ar-Pharazon sent forth his Herald to the edge of the ravine. The Herald, clad now in armour of gold and silver, and wearing a magnificent golden helmet topped by a red plume, stood still for some moments, stroking his brown beard, and glaring brazenly at his Elvish foes. Then he took up a scroll, and loudly read its demands that the Noldorin Elves of Tirion surrender their city to its new lord and master, King Ar-Pharazon the Golden. The Herald recived a hail of Elf-arrows in reply – all of them sank into the ground just below his feet, except for one, which sheared the red plume from his golden helmet, rendering his appearance rather absurd. Quivering with humiliation, he stalked back to his King.
"Are we to suffer this insult at the hands of a pack of womanly Elves, lads?" shouted Ar-Pharazon from his white steed. Drawing his sword with his right hand, while with his left hand brandishing his golden scepter, he cried "Bring forth your ladders! Up the walls and at them!" With a roar of battle-fury, the red-tunic'd, iron-clad Army, two-million strong, bearing their siege-ladders, surged forth in cohorts up the narrow Pass.
Then Men ran into the storm of Elf-arrows that hailed down from the walls of the Tirion, only to fall by the thousands to the ground, or into the depths of the ravine. The iron shields of the Men proved not strong enough to withstand the mighty steel-tipped arrows of the Elves. Some of the Vanyar cast enchanted spears, each of which skewered half-a-dozen Men at a time. As wave upon wave of Men were cut down, it seemed for a time that Tirion was invulnerable, that no hostile army could hope to break its defences
But then, the Elves began to realize that their own military strength paled in comparison to that of Numenor. For every Man who fell, ten were ready to take his place, screaming with blood-lust as they charged against their Elvish foes. The King's own archers fired crossbow bolts at the Elves, and brought down many of them. As the vast tide of Men surged closer, closer, inexorably, their siege-ladders were lifted up to the walls of Tirion.
The walls proved even more treacherous than the King had imagined. As the ladders tried to find a grip, the Elves turned levers that rotated sections of the battlements, throwing off the grapping-hooks and sending the ladders plunging into the ravine. Still, even as some were knocked away, bearing the Men surging up them to a watery death below, many other ladders found a firm grip on the walls.
Their store of arrows running desperately low, even though they had barely made a dent in the Numenorean Army, the Noldorin and Vanyar Warriors defending the battlements reached for their wicked-looking pikes. A pall of despair marring their fair faces, they prepared to meet their deaths at the hands of the Men of Numenor, who had once been Elf-friends.
From a safe distance, King Ar-Pharazon the Golden sat upon his white steed, and watched the battle rage under the stars and the Moonlight, until the pale light of dawn glimmered on the Eastern horizon. Soon, very soon, the way to Taniquetl, Mount Everwhite itself, would lie open and undefended! Soon he would reign as a God, the King of Gods, himself!
From the Palace of Manwe and his Queen Varda atop Taniquetl, the Valar looked down on the Calacirya with sorrow and despair. In spite of the warning signs in the sky that Manwe had offered them, in spite of the courageous resistance of the Noldor and Vanyar at Tirion, these Men of Numenor still would not turn back from their folly! The Valar could see that the Elves were badly outnumbered, and the fortress would fall to the King's Men by morning. Then there would be no obstacles to stop their march down the Pass into the plains of Valinor, to stop them from ravening though the defenseless, unwalled golden city of Valimar, and even up the hallowed slopes of Taniquetl itself!
What was to be done? Many of the Valar, and those Maiar spirits who served them, were crafters and shepherds – they were of no use in combat. Others were mighty in war, yet of these there were only a few. The High Elves of the Undying Lands had taken refuge at Tirion, the strongest fortress in the land. If Tirion fell, they would be annihilated, and nothing would stand between the Numenoreans and the Palace of Manwe itself.
The handful of Valar and Maiar who were skilled in the arts of war, aided by Manwe's Eagles, could do great damage. They could wade into the battle with their weapons of enchanted mithril, and with lightning, and fire, and frost, and winds, and mists, and other devices. Yet even these measures would not be enough to stop the vast surge of Men that would sweep over the plains of Valinor, before the Blessed Lands were reduced to a smoking ruin. That the Valar would not allow. But how were they to stop this vast army of Men without laying waste their own land? And how were they to prevent the survivors on the isle of Numenor from raising a new army, and sending it against them yet again?
At length spoke Manwe, King of the Valar, and Lord of the West. He sat beside Varda, known to the High Elves as Elbereth, their beloved Star-Queen. From his crystal throne, which glowed with a brilliant inner light, Manwe told his kindred what they already knew in their hearts. They could not stop the Men of Numenor themselves, except by measures that would leave the length and breadth of Valinor a blackened, ruined waste. Moreover, the Men of Numenor, under Sauron's dominion, would take only a few decades to replenish themsleves, and then the terrible cycle would begin again. If the Valar were to save themselves, their Elvish charges, and the Blessed Lands from such a fate, they had only one choice. They must call upon Eru Illuvatar himself to intervene, and do as he saw fit.
Varda, her radiant beauty tinged by her sorrow, spoke in favour of Manwe's arguments. She held that the time had come for the Valar to set aside their dominion over the World, and place all things in the hands of Eru. And though they quaked at the prospect of invoking the great Creator, whose thoughts were well nigh inscrutable to them, the Valar, at the last, assented reluctantly to the counsel of Manwe and Varda. In truth, they knew they had no other choice.
Manwe stood up from his throne, raised his hands in supplication, and in his deep, clear voice, called out to Eru:
"O Eru" he cried, "thou who kindled the Flame of Anor, who spoke the sacred Word that brought the World into being, knowest thou that the holy realm of Valinor is under siege? Yea, it is beseiged by the apostate Men of Numenor, who in their folly seek to become as gods themselves, rebuking the fate thou hast set for them. They have given credence to the lies of Sauron the Abhorred, and have worshiped the Great Enemy, Morgoth Bauglir, through many abominations. Yet none exceedeth this! We, the Valar, charged by thee with custody and safekeeping of this World, cannot drive off these apostates, save through grievous harm to the Blessed Lands. We throw up our hands, and implore thee for aid! Do thou what seemeth fit, to save this realm and its people, restore order to the World, and chastise these wicked Men!"
For a long time, there was silence. Then the Valar felt the clouds from the Sea begin to drift westward, forming a vast, dark bank of thunderheads that blotted out the light of the Stars and Moon, and cast the whole of the Undying Lands into shadow. The Valar looked at each other uncertainly, for they knew that summoning Eru meant invoking a Power far beyond their imagination, one whose mercurial ways and ultimate purposes were a mystery, even to them.
Then, a mighty voice, deeper than the depths of the Sea, and stronger than the foundations of the Earth, pealed forth from the Heavens. "IT IS DONE!"
The Valar hid their faces in their hands, and wept.
The cataclysm was unleashed in an instant. One moment, the vast Army of the Men of Numenor was surging up the siege ladders toward the walls of Tirion, its Elvish defenders preparing for a last desperate stand. The Numenorean Officers ignited and brandished their torches, for a thick bank of cloud had plunged the Pass into darkness, and the valley glittered with thousands of flickering orange lights.
Then, an immense surge of cold, white water rushed down the ravine, smashing against the walls. It swept away the ladders of the attackers, almost reaching up to wash away the astonished Elves who defended the battlements. A moment later, a titantic groan issued forth from the Pelori Mountains, and a mighty cracking sound reverberated across the Calacirya, as if an entire mountain had been torn from its roots.
The King and his Generals sat astride their proud steeds, which now reared back, screaming and foaming at the mouth with panic. Ar-Pharazon stared upward, and for a brief moment his face wore a blank expression of utter disbelief. Then, King Ar-Pharazon the Golden, his Generals, Officers and Sergeants, and his Army of two million Men of Numenor, were buried as the entire mountain to their north slid off its foundations, smiting them in its ruin. In future times, the Noldorin Elves of Tirion, whose city would be approached by a new road carved along the southern side of the Calacirya, would refer to this vast barrow mound as the Caves of the Forgotten. There the King and his Men would lie imprisoned until the Last Battle and the Day of Doom.
From their post along the shore, the King's Admirals and their crews, encamped on the gemstones of the beach, and pondering grimly the swirling storm clouds massing above them, heard a mighty cracking and rumbling echo down the Pass of Light, reverberating far across the Bay of Eldamar. They were puzzled, but never had a chance to learn what had happened - for a moment later the mountain beneath which they encamped itself gave forth a fearsome moan, and crashed down upon them! The surge of the Sea caused by the falling mountain, which grew into a vast wave a league high, swept away the more than two thousand ships of the King's fleet, and within minutes they capsized and sank to a watery grave.
Thus, in less than a quarter of an hour, the Great Armament, the mightiest fleet and the mightiest army ever assembled in the history of the World, was swept into oblivion by the Wrath of Eru.
That was only the beginning. For now a great trembling and shaking of the Earth swept across the disc of the World, from the West of West by the Door of Night on beyond the western frontiers of Valinor, to the East of East, those mysterious lands beyond Middle Earth that lay nigh to the Door of Morning. All across the World, the Seas boiled, the Winds howled, the Earth shook and groaned. And the focal point of all this chaos soon became clear – the Isle of Numenor, amidst the Western Sea.
In their Palace on the summit of Taniquetl, the Valar trembled, and prayed that the Power they had unleashed would relent before it destroyed all the World in its fury.
On the helm of Isildur's ship, the Captain and Officers turned and looked back towards land on hearing their lord's cry. Then their mouths gaped in amazement. Soon, they were joined by all the officers and crew who stood above decks on all the nine ships of the Elendili.
From the summit of Mount Meneltarma, which from this distance appeared a small eminence jutting above the Western horizon, a massive jet of white steam shot forth, dwarfing the puny smokes from the Temple of Melkor to the East. For several minutes the steam surged upwards, spreading in vast clouds across the land, while on the Western horizon immense thunderheads appeared, spreading East with incredible speed. A sudden wind picked up from the West, and within seconds turned into a mighty gale, pushing the ships of the Elendili eastward.
"Furl up the sails, quickly!" shouted Isildur to his Men, who scurried to comply as he turned his gaze back to the incredible scene. Now mighty waves were being lashed up by the winds, and Isildur had to grab hold of the wheel to steady himself. Yet even as the ship heaved up and down in the waves, which grew vaster with each moment, Isildur stared in awe and fear at the scene of doom before him.
For, with a mighty roar that echoed across the world, Mount Meneltarma had exploded! Where moments before had been a pillar of steam, now a towering pillar of fire, dwarfing that which he had seen inside the Temple of Melkor, shot up from the mountain until it singed the very Sky. The pillar of fire continued to ascend, and countless fiery rocks hurled from it over vast distances, until the whole isle of Numenor was pelted by them. Wherever they fell, they set fire to the grass, the trees, and anything else that would burn. Within ten minutes, the once-proud island, which was now visibly trembling in its death agony, burned with countless spreading fires, the dark smoke from their burning rising up and obscuring his view of the land.
Yet even that was not the end. From the West issued a vast, rumbling noise, which presaged a wave of such incredible height that those Men who saw it could scarce believe their eyes. More than a league high it stood, and as it rolled forth, quenching the fires of inner Earth that scarred the tortured land, the hills and mountains gave up their struggle, and were devoured by the Sea.
Lashed by heavy rains that poured forth from the dark clouds above, too awestruck and terrified to weep, Isildur merely stared as that land which he had known as Numenor, but which was later known to Men as Atlante, the Fallen Isle, slipped forever beneath the waves. He prayed that the Wrath of Eru - for such he now believed Amandil's and Elendil's dreams to portend - would never be directed against himself.
On his throne of carven ebony, Sauron sat motionless as he saw his Temple begin to collapse about him. The blast wave from the explosion of Meneltarma, which had swept away the Palace of Armenelos as if it were child's sandcastle on a beach, had barely scratched the Temple of Melkor. For the Temple had been built with the power of the One Ring, and no mere wind could do it harm.
But, Sauron reflected, as pieces of the Temple's silver-domed ceiling began to crash to the ground, and the screams of his terrified priests echoed in his ears, what the Sky's winds could not accomplish, the force of the Earth, the Sea, and perhaps of Fire, could. Mighty earthquakes shook the land, and a great surge of seawater welled up from the basin that had held the now extinguished fires of Melkor, even as huge fiery boulders crashed through the silver-domed roof, melting it in some places, and sending pieces of it tumbling to the floor in others.
One of Sauron's priests ran up to him, beseeching him to call upon Melkor, and end the wrath of the rebellious Valar. Sauron, somewhat absently, lashed out with his foot, which plunged through the Man's chest as if it were a rotten board. When the body hit the ground, he propped his other foot up on the priest's lifeless head, rested his chin on his fist, and allowed his thoughts to dwell upon how he had fallen victim to this catastrophe.
Sauron was not a god, although he had long aspired to be one, and it often served his purposes to gull mortal fools into believing that he was. Eons before, in the days when the world was young, Sauron had been one of the Maiar, the army of elemental spirits that served the Valar, and assisted them in the shaping of the world. Sauron, for his part, had been an elemental spirit of the Earth, long before he had been seduced by Melkor into becoming a mighty demon who served the forces of Shadow and Flame. Sauron's bond to the living rock of Earth was still very strong, and even without the power of his One Ring, he could have felt the movement of the Earth as if were part of his own body.
He knew the convulsions of the Earth, centred upon Numenor, were spreading across the entire disk of the World. Everywhere he cast his thoughts, he could sense that the Earth was in turmoil, as if it were being rent from its very foundations. Volanoes were erupting, even in his own Orodruin in Mordor; earthquakes shook the lands; in some places, mountains were rising from the plains, while in others, they were sinking into the ground. Here new lands rose up from the Sea, and there, old lands plunged beneath it. He could feel the Sky and the Sea doing their part in the Earth's torment, lashing it with winds, and sending mountainous waves crashing against its shores. Moreover, were the Enchanted Isles had once stood, he felt a mighty chasm opening beneath the depths of the Western Sea, drawing Numenor down into the abyss. It was as if the disc of the World were being torn asunder, with Valinor pulled in one direction, Middle Earth and the East of East pulled in the other, and Numenor torn to pieces between them. He could even feel the Eastern, mortal lands welling up into a mighty dome, as if they were beginning to form a giant sphere.
Sauron had known full well that the wrath of the Valar would be awesome. His scheme, formed nearly six decades before, had always been to seduce that grandiose fool Ar-Pharazon into launching open war against them. He trusted the Valar to do their part by sweeping the Army and Navy of Numenor into the depths of the Sea, and then returning to their ancient slumber.
Afterwards, there would be no one left who could oppose his dominion over the mortal lands of Earth, from Numenor to the East of East. The women, whelps and old dotterers who survived on Numenor, and enquired of what had happened to their menfolk, would accept whatever story their High Priest told them. The Queen could be quietly dispatched if she caused any further trouble. The so-called Elendili, even if they escaped the King's Men, would be no match for his own vast armies in Middle Earth.
But, he had not expected the Valar's revenge to be so sweeping and terribleHe had not even believed it was possible – indeed, he knew it was not possible. Surely they had not been rash enough to call on Eru for aid? How did they know He would not shake the World to its very foundations in His wrath?
The Wrath of Eru was not a topic on which Sauron cared to dwell, especially as he began to realize that he was witnessing it, and that it was directed in large measure against himself. Sauron fought to quell a rising tide of panic within him. What did Eru intend? Surely He was not going to destroy the entire World, His own creation?
That Eru would be unwilling to do so had always been the foundation on which Sauron's plans had stood. Sauron's ultimate design was to gain power over all the mortal lands of Earth, and then hold them and their inhabitants hostage, while suing Eru for peace and recognition. Sauron would propose that just as Eru recognized the Valar as the Lords of the Undying Lands of the West, he would recognize Sauron as Lord of the Mortal Lands of the East. The Valar could claim sovereignty over the Elves, and to that effect Sauron would deport the remaining Elves of Middle Earth to Valinor. He would claim sovereignty over Men. Then, with the World divided between the Valar and himself, to he would bring order and dominion to the lands and the Men under his sway, and shape them as he saw fit. Sauron did not even imagine his intentions toward Men to be entirely malevolent. Once they learned to serve him without question, he would reward the most deserving amongst them with many gifts of skill and knowledge they could use to pull themselves up from the mire of Middle Earth, and find some purpose to their all too brief existences.
That Eru would reject such a scheme, and utterly destroy all the World, had not even entered into Sauron's mind. Had he made a fatal error? Was his ambitious scheme for dominion mere folly? Willing himself to be calm, as ever larger pieces of masonry crashed around him, and the last of his priests met their end, Sauron cast his mind deep into the Earth again.
After some moments, he realized with a flood of relief what Eru intended. He did not mean to destroy the World. Rather He was reshaping it, a great Change of the World. The Undying Lands of Valinor were being torn from the Earth, presumably so they could be set in some other plane of space and time, free from the risk of further ravages by Men. The mortal lands of Middle Earth and the East of East were welling into a giant sphere, its edges wrapping around itself so that the East of East, conjoined with new lands rising from the waters, would now lie to the West of Middle Earth across the bent Seas. The Sun and Moon were shifting their paths – it even seemed as if the new Earth would revolve around the Sun, although the Moon would continue to revolve around the Earth. The light from Earendil's Silmaril was taking on a new shape, forming a gleaming sphere between the Earth and the Sun. Sauron could also sense that an intangible bridge was forming between the North-western reaches of Middle Earth, and the Eastern reaches of Valinor – perhaps some means by which the Elves of Middle Earth could sail to the Undying Lands, even as those lands were placed beyond the reach of Men?
Only Numenor, then, was slated for destruction. Unfortunately, reflected Sauron, as a massive piece of masonry crashed within feet of him, and boiling hot sea water lapped at his feet, that left him with a difficult problem. How was he to escape from Numenor, amidst all this unforeseen chaos? Any boats in the waters nearest to Armenelos would already have been dashed to pieces by the giant waves surging against the shore. But he needed to devise a plan, and quickly, or his body and his One Ring would soon lie entombed forever beneath a heap of silver and marble at the bottom of the Sea.
Sauron focused his mind, and realized that only one path lay open to him. His corporeal body was the problem, but the One Ring offered the solution. With a tinge of regret, he realized that he would miss his current body. It had served him well for over two thousand years. He had even become somewhat vain about its comely looks, and had allowed himself to feel absurdly pleased when it received admiring glances, or was the object of flattery praising its ethereal beauty.
Still, it could not be helped. If he did not act swiftly, his body would soon be entombed beneath the waves in any event. So long as he was in physical contact with the One Ring, he could focus his power through it to dissolve his body in a controlled manner, one that would allow him to adopt a form more appropriate to his current situation, and would carry his spirit and the Ring back to Mordor.
He had consumed much of his power through the crafting of his present form, and doubted that he would ever be able to adopt another guise so pleasing to the eyes of Elves and Men. But then, he had no further need for such a form. The time for flattery and seduction was at an end; now it would be time for open war against the remnant that opposed him. He would forge a new body for himself, more appropriate for that purpose.
His object set, Sauron closed his clear, blue eyes for the last time, and focused all his will on the task at hand, the script of the One Ring glowing more brightly than ever before as he channeled all his power through it. Had any of the falling Temple's priests still been alive, they would have seen Sauron's black and crimson robes fall gently onto his ebon throne, while his body began to fade, until it became translucent, like a sheet of glass covered with hoar-frost. Then, his once-fair features began to shift and dissolve in a most disgusting manner. Curiously, the One Ring remained floating in the air where his hand had been, even as the rest of him dissolved into a writhing, shapeless mass. Now the mass was growing darker, until it took shape as a cloud of black, shifting smoke. The dark cloud drifted until it centered on the One Ring, which glowed brightly from its shadowy heart.
Great heaps of masonry and cinders of burning rock hurtled through the dark cloud, yet it was not in the least affected by them. Rising slowly into the air, it emerged through the collapsing dome of the Temple, where it was caught by a mighty surge of wind that poured out of the West. Unbeknownst to Sauron, that wind had been sent to hasten the passage of the Elendili from fallen Numenor to the shores of Middle Earth. Yet now it also served to carry the Shadow from the East back to the seat of its power.
As his shadowy form, bearing the One Ring, soared high over the roaring Seas, and the last remants of the isle of Numenor sank into the boiling waters, Sauron reflected on the curious ways of Eru. Even as He sent His winds to scour the world of the forces of darkness, He also helped those forces to attain their purpose all the more quickly. Even as Valinor had been forever removed from the grasp of Men, so Sauron, who no longer had to share the World with the Valar, could gain sole dominion over all the Earth.