Chapter Nineteen: The Steward and the Slave

I rushed back down to the bedroom. Darting inside, I hurried over to Gandalf's side and shook his shoulder. He came awake almost at once, frowning up at me. "What is it?"

"King Théoden told me to wake you," I told him. "Something bad has happened. He wants you and Aragorn to come to his throne room immediately."

"What's wrong?" Gandalf asked, sitting up.

"Lord Elrond told me he's just seen what Sauron's planning to do next," I replied. "He's going to attack Minas Tirith."

"When?" demanded Aragorn's voice. I looked up and saw him staring intently down at me.

"I don't know. I think we'll talk more about it in the throne room."

"Then we'd best go," said Gandalf. "Come along."

We hurried down the passageway, but suddenly I halted, turning back slightly. A faint sound behind me had caught my attention – a stifled gasp of pain, followed by voices.

"Quiet! You're going to get us caught!"

"It's not my fault! I didn't see that crack in the floor! This was your idea, anyway!"

"Shut up, Pip!"

Aragorn sighed, having obviously heard the voices as well. He turned back, calling down the hallway. "All right, gentlemen. If you're coming, then come."

Merry and Pippin hurried up the darkened hallway toward us, looking ashamed at being found out. Pippin was gingerly nursing a stubbed toe.

Gandalf shook his head, annoyed. "Meriadoc and Peregrin. I might have known."

"It was his idea!" Pippin protested.

"You were the one who squealed!" cried Merry.

"Quiet!" Aragorn shouted. "That's enough out of both of you. What are you doing here?"

"We want to know what's going on," said Merry defensively. "We want to help!"

"You can help by staying out of this," Aragorn told them. "Now go back to bed, both of you."

"He's going!" cried Pippin, pointing at me. "Why can't we?"

"I was told to come by King Théoden," I replied.

"But–" Merry began. Aragorn shook his head.

"No."

"But we–"

"No, Merry."

"But we have to go back anyway!" Pippin blurted out in a single breath. "Lord Denethor is waiting for us!"

Aragorn sighed, turning away. "Fine. Come on, then."

----

When we reached the throne room, it was clear that both Elrond and Théoden had been growing ever more impatient. They rose rather stiffly to greet us, though Elrond gave me a very brief smile.

"Finally," the king said rather curtly. "What kept you? Surely you didn't get lost?"

"We were held back, my lord," Gandalf explained.

"By whom?" Théoden asked, raising an eyebrow.

"A pair of eavesdroppers," Aragorn replied, moving aside to let Merry and Pippin come to the front. "They both insisted on accompanying us."

Elrond gave a disapproving sniff at the sight of the two hobbits. Théoden glanced at him before addressing the wizard. "Did they give you any clear reason as to why they should come?"

"They wanted to help us," Gandalf answered. "They believed that they should return to Minas Tirith, because of their loyalty to Lord Denethor."

"Very well." Théoden nodded, turning to the elf next to him. "Now, Lord Elrond, you were saying…?"

----

After a very long debate, a verdict was reached. Five of us would ride to the White City: Elrond, Gandalf, Merry, Pippin and I. By now the sun was shining, and the air was crisp and clear as my comrades and I made our way to the stables of Edoras.

Gandalf chose a pure white stallion to ride, and Elrond selected a dappled grey. Merry and Pippin clambered up behind the wizard, and I mounted behind the elf. Then Gandalf and Elrond spoke to their steeds.

"Run, Shadowfax," the wizard ordered. "Show us the meaning of haste!"

"Noro lim, Vannarion!" (Ride fast, Vannarion!) Elrond cried.

Both horses took off at a run, hurtling across the plains of Rohan. I had never ridden so fast before, and I flung my arms around Elrond's waist to keep from falling off. The elf glanced back at me, a slight smile playing on his lips. His look inquired in concern, "Will you be all right?"

I nodded, trying to fake my well-being. But my stomach was churning horribly, and I was very grateful that I hadn't had breakfast.

We rode east and south, following the White Mountains of Ered Nimrais. The journey took a little more than three days, as we had to stop occasionally to eat and sleep. But soon Minas Tirith stood tall against the horizon for a second time.

Boromir and Faramir were both waiting. As soon as we crossed the threshold, they came forth to greet us. Bowing their heads courteously to Elrond, they helped the two hobbits and I down from our mounts.

"So you all survived," said Boromir, smiling. "We were worried about you. But that's said and done, and no-one was seriously injured, I hope?"

"None of us," I replied. "But someone was badly wounded – killed, in fact."

"Oh?" Boromir's eyebrow lifted. "Who was that?"

I struggled to keep my voice free of emotion as I answered, "Saruman."

"Ah." Boromir nodded. "I see." He paused a moment and inquired softly, "Was it…?"

I nodded. Boromir's expression was unreadable, a combination of satisfaction, relief and something resembling pity. I didn't say a word. The silence was as thick as syrup.

"Well," Elrond said hesitantly, breaking the barrier of stillness around us, "I need to see your father, Boromir. It is extremely important. I fear your city will soon be under siege. Orcs from Mordor are joining with Sauron's other minions to lay siege to Minas Tirith. They'll be here within days."

Faramir nodded, turning slightly. "Come. My father is attending to other duties at the moment, but I'm sure he will listen to you."

We followed the brothers to Denethor's throne room. The Steward was seated upon his throne and speaking to someone; a short, dark-haired figure whose back was to us. Boromir coughed slightly to declare our presence.

Denethor paused and glanced up, nodding for us to enter and wait before continuing to address his guest.

"You say he was slain by an orc?" he asked.

"Yeth, thire," the other figure replied in an odd, lisping voice. "An orc in Gondorian clothing. He thlew him with a knife – thtabbed him in the throat. That wath after I thoved him out the window – Tharuman, not the orc."

"I see," Denethor said quietly. "And what happened then?"

"One of the elveth fired an arrow at me," the stranger explained. "It went thtraight by my ear; I think it wath only a warning thot. I moved away, and tripped over thomething on the floor. I landed right on my fathe, and knocked out about thix teeth, ath well ath hurting my jaw. That'th how I got thith lithp."

Denethor nodded. "And the orc?"

The stranger shrugged. "I haven't theen him thinthe."

"Did the orc ever mention his name?" the Steward wanted to know.

"Yeth," the stranger nodded. "He thaid hith name wath Ithilden."

"Isilden?" Denethor repeated softly. "Well, well…"

I saw his gaze move slowly back to where I stood, and our eyes met for a second. I suppressed a shudder, not quite knowing why.

Denethor nodded again to the stranger, standing up. "Thank you, Grima. You have been very helpful."

"Thank you, thire," Grima said with a polite bow. He turned to leave, and spotted me. I found myself staring into the face of a man I had seen only once before, right after he had pushed his master from a tower window. So, his name was Grima.

From the look in Grima's eyes, he probably thought I'd kill him as I had killed Saruman, if I got the chance. He stepped back a pace, as I remained where I was. But the Steward interrupted then.

"Come forward, Isilden," he called to me. "Don't be fooled," he assured Grima. "Beneath that orc-hide beats an elf's heart. You can trust him."

Grima nodded, but still regarded me suspiciously as I stepped toward Denethor, bowing my head in respect. The Steward smiled at me, apparently relieved. He must have been very worried, I thought. I wondered what he had been thinking of me, whether he thought I would desert him.

"Welcome back," he said calmly. "I was afraid you might have been slain. Have you anything to report?"

Remembering Elrond, I replied, "You're in danger, sire. The orcs are coming here next. They'll arrive in a few days, at the most."

The Steward's eyebrows arched. "How do you know of this?"

"Lord Elrond of Rivendell told me," I replied, glancing back over my shoulder at the elf. "He's here." I nodded to him, and he strode forward and spoke gravely.

"Lord Denethor, what Isilden says is indeed true. I witnessed the attack in a dream only nights ago, and my dreams never lie. Mordor is coming. Not only orcs, but also vast armies of men."

Denethor was silent, and the elf continued, "Minas Tirith alone cannot hold back so great an assault. You must call for aid. Light the Beacons; King Théoden would come, I know it. You are not alone in this fight, my lord."

Denethor did not reply immediately. After a moment's pause he nodded. "Yes. You are right, Lord Elrond. We cannot fight Mordor alone. I will summon Rohan."

Elrond nodded, satisfied. "Good."