The Siege of Fornost
"What kind of feast is this, brother?" laughed Prince Galdor, his blue eyes glinting mischievously. "We can't be short on ale, barely an hour into the festivities! Order the butler down to the cellars, and tell him to roll up the barrels forthwith!"
"Always thinking with you stomach, dear Galdor," replied Prince Aranath, shouting to make himself heard above the din of revelry. "But our stores of ale run low, and the barrels we have ordered from the Bree-town have not yet arrived here at Fornost. Even we Princes cannot conjure up ale with a snap of our fingers."
"No matter," observed Galdor, between draughts from his silvered flagon. "Let us drink while we may! What is the purpose of life, if not to take pleasure from it?"
"Some might wonder," replied Aranarth, his grey eyes falling as he felt his spirits dampen. The first of March, heralding the approaching spring was always a time for festivities, but he knew well that this feast-day was not like the others he had celebrated in his thirty-six years under the Sun. Indeed, it might well be their last such revelry within the solid walls of Fornost, before duty called them to the field of battle. They had not received any reports from their scouts for some days, but they knew well enough that their ancient foe, the Witch King of Angmar, was preparing for war against them.
Aranarth let his mind wander, looking way from his brother at their high table, and over the length of the Great Hall of Fornost, a stone-walled, vaulted room fully two-hundred feet in length, warmed by roaring fires from many hearths carved into the thick walls, and full of long trestle-tables. Tonight, those tables were heavily laden with plates of food and flagons of ale, and at them sat dozens of young nobles, gentlemen and ladies of Arnor, eagerly enjoying their revelry and merriment. The Hall echoed with the buzz of their gossip and the ringing of their laughter, as they recalled many happy days from years past, and whispered hopefully that perhaps the rumoured storms of war would pass them by for a season, allowing them a spring of ease and joy.
That was part of Arnor's problem, thought Aranarth, as he frowned in contemplation. Too many of its nobles sought only tranquility and comfort, looking to their own ends, when vigilance and war-craft should ever have been upmost in their thoughts. He was not sure whether more fault lay with the men, whose business should have been war, or the women, who should have strengthened the resolve of their beaus and husbands where it wavered, rather than turning their thoughts to home and hearth. But neither seemed willing to face the harsh realities of their age. It fell to the poor commoners to do the hard work of defending the shrinking realm, while the nobles lived for today, and laughed at prophecies of doom and ruin. "Has not Arnor stood for over two-thousand years?" they would say. "And so shall it stand for another two-thousand, Witch King or no!" they would finish, with a snap of their fingers and a bemused smile.
Galdor, who was Aranarth's younger brother, was a typical example of the breed. He had passed but twenty summers, and was radiant with the first flush of youth, as if he were still a mere stripling. He wore his long brown hair in scented curls, and favoured brightly-coloured robes and tunics of the finest cloth. He played at war in the sparring yards, but it was clear he had no concept of it. To him it was but a game, and the Witch King a bogey from ancient tales, whom he might personally put to flight with a gallant laugh and a single stroke from his gleaming blade.
Aranarth sighed, and stared at his reflection on the polished surface of his silver flagon. His own face showed the slightest trace of lines of care, but still looked only a little older than his brother's. Yet that was no wonder. Their father, King Arvedui, was full one-hundred and ten years old, though his black hair had barely begun to turn silver, and his face was still smooth. For the blood of Numenor was strong in their line, directly descended from Elendil the High-King of old, and his eldest son, the legendary Isildur himself. While others descended from Numenor, even the royal house of Gondor, had long mingled their blood with the Men of Middle Earth, the royal blood of Numenor ran nearly true in the veins of the Kings and Prices of the Dunedain of Arnor. Thus Arvedui, who had already lived longer than all but the most fortunate of ordinary Men, looked not a day older than a Man of fifty years, and had passed barely half the span of years allotted to Men of his kindred.
"Why so glum, brother?" laughed Galdor, hitting Aranarth in the shoulder of his grey tunic. "You look as if you're attending a funeral, not a feast."
"Mayhap I am," replied Aranarth glumly. "And you might be concerned yourself, if you were married as am I. I have my Princess to think of, not merely myself."
"Faugh!" snorted Galdor, with a wave of his slender hand. "Half the men here are married, and they're all in better spirits than you. Admit it, Aranarth, you're just an old sour-puss!"
"Old, am I?" replied Aranarth, with the trace of a mischievous smile. "You turn twenty-one soon, and then our father will be on the lookout for a suitable bride for you. No more flirting with the scullery maids for our gallant Prince Galdor!"
"That cannot be!" cried Galdor, in mock horror. "But if what you say is true, I must drown my sorrows in drink. Hence my call for more ale!"
Aranarth was about to respond, when he was suddenly interrupted.
"What's this?" boomed a great voice from behind them. "Feasting and drinking, when you ought to be at your studies, or out in the sparring yards?"
"My liege!" exclaimed the princes, dropping their flagons and jumping to their feet, their hands snapping to their breasts in crisp salutes. The whole throng suddenly ceased their gamboling and likewise snapped to attention, as they realized that they now stood in the presence of their King, who in recent years had but rarely attended feasts. Arvedui, garbed in robes of deep red, and wearing a cloth-of-sliver cape, stood well overl over six feet tall. His grey eyes and dark hair were reflected in the visage of Aranarth, while Galdor looked more like their mother Queen Firiel. The assembled nobles and their ladies gave a cheer and a salute for the King, but he waved at them abstractedly, and allowed them to turn back to their feasting as he directed his words to his sons alone.
"What would your mother say?" chided Arvedui, in mock seriousness. "She's already abed, as should you be if you're not doing any useful work. Especially you, young master Galdor."
"Oh! I'll be twenty-one and of age in two months, lest you forget!" insisted Galdor, pouting slightly.
"Ah, yes. I had forgotten," sighed the King. Then he turned to Aranarth. "In any case, I must have words with you, my son. In my study, and forthwith."
Aranarth brushed a lock of dark hair from his eyes, and replied "Of course, father." Bidding farewell to Galdor, who waved at him lazily, he followed the King through the oaken doors that lay beyond the high table, down a long, torch-lit corridor, and up a flight of stairs. The King turned to a door flanked by two steel-armoured guardsmen, who saluted before opening it for their liege. Arvedui stepped through, and Aranarth followed, closing the door behind him. His father strode across the cozy, wood-paneled room, stoked the fire with an iron, and then sat in the high seat behind his heavy oaken desk, gesturing for the Prince to be seated in one of the chairs facing it.
"What news, father?" asked Aranarth.
"No news, my lad," frowned Arvedui, running a thumb over his smooth-shaven chin. "And that's what worries me."
"Still no reports from our scouts in Angmar?" replied Aranarth.
"No, not from Rangers Uthel and Ivrin," said Arvedui. "We've not heard from them in six weeks. But that is not my chief concern."
"What troubles you, my liege?" asked the Prince.
"It is this," replied the King, sipping from a golden cup of mulled wine before completing his sentence. "In recent days, none of the scouts we have dispatched into the lands nearby, into the North Downs or the Weather Hills, have returned. They have gone out, but they have not come back."
Aranarth frowned. After some moments, he said, "All our Rangers are well-trained, father. They would not fail to return unless some grave peril preventing them from so doing."
"Yes, but what peril?" asked the King. "Is it the vanguard of the Witch King's army at last, or some other foe? Some new monstrosity conjured up in the dungeons of Carn Dum, and sent to harass our realm? I must know, my son. I cannot lead us without information, and I need my scouts to provide that information."
"I understand, father," sighed Aranarth. "I will lead a large detachment of Rangers and Cavalry into the wilds tomorrow – mounted and heavily armed. We will learn what has happened to our scouts, if we can."
"I knew I could rely on you, my boy," smiled Arvedui, reaching over the table to pat his son on the shoulder. "You have always been my rock, ever since your early youth. Not to gainsay your brother, of course. He is a good lad, though…"
"He is not a man of war, father," replied Aranarth. "Our mother has spoiled him, as well you know."
"Yes, I know it," sighed Arvedui. "But what can be done? By the time I realized how she was indulging him, it was too late. At least he is useful for keeping the people's spirits high."
"Keeping them distracted from their proper business, you mean," replied Aranarth.
"Now, now," frowned the King. "Don't be too hard on young Galdor. He is your brother, after all."
"I know that, father," replied the Prince. "And I do love him. But there are so many burdens on me of late; the welfare of Galdor, of my Rangers, of all our people at Fornost. I have been married to Princess Vana for a year now, and yet have spent but little time with her."
"I understand, my boy," replied Arvedui gravely. "But you are my eldest son, and my heir. Galdor does not have to bear the burdens that you do, because he will not someday have to bear the Sceptre of Arnor as will you. And think you that my duties sit lightly with me? Or that they sat lightly upon Elendil the Tall and Isildur the Brave?"
"No, my liege, of course not," replied Aranarth. "Forgive me; I do not mean to complain."
"No harm done," smiled Arvedui. "I know you mean well."
"With permission, father, I should seek my bed now," replied Aranarth, standing up from his chair. "I must needs get some rest, if I am to lead a scouting party first thing tomorrow."
"By all means," smiled the King. "Good night, and fare you well!"
Aranarth rose from his bed at the crack of dawn. He gazed at the long, tawny hair of his wife Vana, who still lay asleep on their down-feathered bed, and kissed her gently on the forehead. Then he dressed himself in a woolen jerkin, leathern pantaloons and tunic of beige and a woolen cloak of forest green. He quickly made his way down to the kitchens, taking for his breakfast a loaf of bread, a portion of cheese, and a handful of dried fruit, washed down with a mug of cider. After his meager repast, he proceeded down a stone-flagged corridor, and up a flight of stairs to the battlements of the highest tower of the Citadel of Fornost.
As he stepped into the chill air of morning and strode to the edge of the parapet, the guards on duty briefly saluted him before returning to their watch. Above the battlements flew the banner of Arnor; a white, five-pointed star, on a field of cloth of silver. Looking down from the grey-stoned walls of the Citadel, he gazed across the snowy courtyard, the inner wall, and the moat that separated the King's estate from the town of the common citizens. Their modest, half-timbered houses of two or three stories stretched a half-mile on all sides about the Citadel, hemmed in by the outer walls of the city; the crowded home of some twenty-thousand citizens. Puffs of smoke blew up from their chimneys of red brick, and the cobbled streets began to stir to life as the most diligent citizens began to go about their business of the day.
Beyond the outer walls, Aranarth had a clear view of the sweep of the countryside for miles around. To the west, under a light veil of snow, the land stretched away in level plains, full of fields, hedgerows, and the cottages of those farmers brave enough to dwell outside the city walls. This pastoral scene faded into moors and marshes that stretched towards the horizon, in the direction of Lake Evendim and the ruins of Annuminas; lands that had once lain under the plow, but had long since been abandoned. Beyond those lands, though too distant to be seen, lay the Blue Mountains and the realm of Lindon. That realm lay under the dominion of the ancient Elf-Lord, Cirdan of Mithlond, who despite his apparent distaste for the Men of Isildur's House had proven on many occasions to be a firm ally of Arnor in its struggle against the Witch King.
To the south, the land was also level, but the fields and hedgerows were bisected by a broad, straight road, flagged with light-grey bricks of limestone, that traveled arrow-straight towards the southern horizon. This was the great North-South road, of which Fornost was the northern terminus. Following that road, a Man would pass the eaves of the Chetwood through the town of Bree, some hundred miles distant, and then across countless leagues of empty lands, and the fords of Tharbad and Angren, before crossing the frontiers of the mighty realm of Gondor, the South Kingdom of Numenor-in-exile. There it turned east, and ran for many more miles until it reached the fabled fortress of Minas Anor and the nearby city of Osgiliath, the least suburb of which exceeded the entire population of Fornost by tens of thousands of citizens. It was from Gondor and its vast armies that the Men of Arnor hoped chiefly for aid, should they find themselves once again at war – even though, Aranarth knew well, King Earnil II had recently spurned their entreaties. Gondor, after all, was constantly at war with savage Easterlings and Southrons, and the sly and treacherous Men of Umbar.
To the east, the land rose up swiftly into the icy heights of the Weather Hills, above which rose the Sun amid a sky full of wooly clouds. He could not see beyond the wind-swept summits of those hills, though he knew beyond them in the land of Rhudaur lay many barren moors and dark woods that in recent years had been infested by the Witch King's foul creatures; Trolls, and Werewolves, and other fell beasts besides. But should a Man dare those perils and live, he would in time reach the foothills of the Misty Mountains, and the house of Elrond at Rivendell. Elrond Half-Elven was Arnor's friend in the East, and indeed he was distantly akin to the Men of both the royal houses of Arnor and Gondor. He had long proved an invaluable ally in the struggle against the forces of darkness.
Finally, and reluctantly, Aranarth turned his gaze to the north. The rocky slopes of the North Downs rose up from a broad plain, and he could see no farther over their summits than he could over the Weather Hills to the east. Yet he knew that northward and eastward over many long leagues lay the dreaded land of Angmar, and the fortress of Carn Dum, stronghold of the Witch King and his minions. It was from the north that the attack would come, when the Witch King chose to unleash his armies against the Arnor-men.
"I knew I'd find you hiding up here!" cried a voice from behind Aranarth – a deep yet slightly shrill voice that he knew as well as his own.
"Indeed, mother, it appears you have found me once again," replied Aranarth, turning to the Queen.
"You sound disappointed," frowned Queen Firiel. She was tall, and garbed in a flowing velvet dress of sable, embroidered with many glittering gems. She held an ermine wrap about her shoulders, to ward off the chill of late winter. Her long brown hair, tinged with grey, framed a face that had once been amongst the fairest in the realm, though much to her chagrin it had lately been etched with lines of age. Her pale blue eyes bored into Aranarth, as if she sought to peer into the depths of his mind.
"I'm not disappointed, mother," replied Aranarth. "It was merely an observation."
"Don't be flippant with me!" she snapped. "You know full well why I'm here. Your father told me every word you spoke against dear Prince Galdor last night!"
"Did he?" asked Aranarth, glancing about for some route of escape. He noted to his consternation that his mother stood squarely in front of the only door leading down from the battlements of the tower, which meant that he would be forced to endure the embarrassment of a tongue-lashing from her while in the presence of the stolid guardsmen. The Queen invariably treated guards and servants as if they did not exist.
"In the name of the Valar, mother…" began Aranarth, but he was interrupted by the slap of a heavy hand across his face, which left his skin ringing with pain for some moments.
"Don't blaspheme!" she cried, shaking a long finger as she scolded him. "And pay attention when I'm talking to you! There'll be no escape for you until I've had my say."
"By all means, mother," replied Aranarth, silently praying that the Valar might someday strike her mute.
The Queen stared at him for some moments, frowning. "I'll tell you your trouble," she huffed. "Instead of being raised properly by me, you were tutored at the hands of that so-called Wizard."
"You mean Gandalf the Grey, the King's most trusted councilor?" asked Aranarth.
"Yes, I mean him!" replied the Queen scornfully. "Shabby little man, dressed in shapeless old robes that are hardly better than rags. Who does he think he is, I wonder? He's older than the hills it seems, though he hasn't a drop of royal or even noble blood in him, and yet he strides around our castle as if he owned the place. You should hear some of the things he's said to you father the King, scolding him as if he were an arrant child! If I were your father I'd give him twenty lashes and send him packing."
"You might try," smiled Aranarth. "Whether you'd succeed…"
"Don't interrupt!" snapped the Queen. "In any case, we're off topic now. What I mean to say to you is this; don't ever insult my Galdor in front of your father, or anyone else ever again!"
"I didn't insult him, mother," insisted Aranarth.
"Don't lie to me!" she cried, pointing her finger at him. "You said he was not a man of war, and that I had spoiled him. Who do you think you are, to gainsay how I've raised by darling boy?"
"I'm your son too, you know," noted Aranarth.
"Then behave like one, and obey your mother!" replied the Queen primly. "And don't ever question how I've raised Galdor, especially not in front of your father. Your father left your upbringing to that infernal Wizard of yours; but Galdor is my own, my pride and joy. To insult Galdor is to insult your own mother, and to offend the royal dignity of the Queen of Arnor. Do you understand?"
Aranarth said nothing. She scowled, her pale blue eyes gazing coldly at him. "He is your brother, your own flesh and blood," she continued. "Why can you not love him with all your heart, as do I? Instead you insult him and belittle him behind his back, every chance you get!"
"Of course I love him, mother!" snapped Aranarth. "But that doesn't mean I have to cater to his every whim, like…"
"Like what?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Like I do, you were about to say? Well, I'll not hear any more of it. Go about your business, and leave Galdor's well-being to me. At least through my kindness he knows that someone cares for him, poor lad."
"As you wish, mother," sighed Aranarth. He dutifully kissed her proffered hand and then, ignoring the frowns on the weather-beaten faces of the guardsmen, made a rapid exit down the stairs and toward the armoury.
The Sun had risen high in the sky, and it was well past the fourth hour since dawn by the time Arnarth and his hand-picked party of two-score Rangers and Light Cavalry scouts had reached the dreary tablelands of the North Downs. The rolling terrain, covered with a thin layer of wind-sculpted snow, and dotted with frozen tarns and pools, did not afford a far view in any direction. Now and again a curlew gave an eerie cry, but apart from this there was no noise other than the footfalls of Aranarth's horses and the moaning of the East Wind over the moors.
They were searching for any signs of the scouting parties that had not returned, but so far they had found nothing. The missing scouts seemed simply to have vanished into thin air. The Rangers oft halted the party, dismounting to examine some broad depressions in the snow, only to return to their steeds in frustration. The Cavalrymen seemed bored with the whole affair, as if it were beneath their dignity to act as guards to a pack of Rangers – who, for the most part, stood at the bottom rung of the ladder of Arnor's military.
Aranarth adjusted the weight of his quiver on his back, and frowned grimly. He was only half paying attention to the events about him, for he was still angry at his mother's behaviour of a few hours before. Did she not realize how inappropriate it was for her to scold the Crown Prince in front of guardsmen of the Citadel, as if he were still a child? But she had ever been blind to the commoners about her, and to the means by which men could be motivated or demoralized. Her concerns started and ended with herself, Aranarth knew – Galdor was to her simply a prized possession. Hence her coddling him, when instead she should have girded him for war.
"Your highness!" cried one of the Rangers. "Prince Aranarth!"
"Eh?" asked the Prince, looking upwards. The other men had all halted their steeds, and he had inadvertently ridden some distance beyond them. "What is it, sergeant?" he asked, wheeling round and facing them.
"Your highness, can you not hear?" asked the man. "Listen!"
Aranarth did listen, and then he heard it – a low, ominous rumbling, almost like thunder, from over a crest of the downs far to the north. A curious sound indeed, given the frozen air. It was too early in the year for thunderstorms, and the sound was too regular in pattern. Where had he heard such a rythym before?
"Footfalls!" he gasped, his face pale with shock. "Tens of thousands of them! By the Valar…"
So distracted was Aranarth that he did not notice the moors were suddenly veiled in shadow, as if the Sun had been dimmed. Suddenly, his horse screamed, rearing back and throwing him off his saddle as its cries joined those of its panicked fellows. Aranarth sailed through the air, hearing the horrified cries and shouts of his men, before landing headfirst in a clutch of ice-frosted brambles that choked a narrow gully. In an instant he was rendered insensate as his skull struck the icy ground. Thus, he never heard the beating of gigantic wings, nor saw that which caused his Rangers and Cavalrymen to cry and shriek with terror…
"A fine view, is it not, father?" asked Prince Galdor, sniffing at a pomade he held under his nose. He was standing on the battlements of the very tower on which Prince Aranarth and Queen Firiel had stood some hours before. He often went to this spot to take in the view, when the noonday Sun shone clear and bright.
"Aye, it is," replied King Arvedui abstractedly, shielding his eyes with his hand as he searched along the crest of the North Downs. He rarely climbed the high tower these days, but was keen to see if there was any sign of Aranarth and his scouting party. Already he had begun to worry about him, even though he was not scheduled to return to Fornost until sunset. Aranarth was clever, strong and brave, that much the King knew; the ideal Man to choose for a dangerous mission. But what if he met the same unknown fate as that which had befallen the missing scouts before him? Arvedui understood well enough that he could not cosset his heir as Queen Firiel cosseted his younger son, but even so he began to wonder if he should have sent him on the mission at all.
"I say, father,"exclamed Galdor, with a frown that rarely appear on his serene features. "What's that noise?"
"Hmm?" asked the King, his eyes still scanning the horizon.
"That din, father," sniffed the Prince. "That unearthly racket, away up by the North Downs. I know I'm much younger than you, but surely you can hear it?"
Arvedui cupped his hands behind his ears. Galdor almost laughed at the gesture, though he retained enough presence of mind not to mock openly his King.
At first, Arvedui heard nothing. But then, it became clear; a rumbling like that of thunder, yet as regular as the tramping of an army on parade. And now new sounds were being added to it; deep drummings, and brazen peals as if from trumpets, sailed along the air from over the crest of the North Downs.
His face suddenly pale, Arvedui suddenly shifted his hands back over his eyes, staring desperately at the distant crest of the Downs. Then he saw what had made those noises, as did the Watchmen in the towers of Fornost, who began to sound the alarum on their silvered trumpets.
"Look!" cried the King, his arm thrusting toward the Downs with a quavering finger. "Already he has come! Alas, too soon, too soon!"
"Who is 'he', father?" asked Galdor, somewhat petulantly. Then he looked in the direction toward which his father pointed, and his jaw fell open as he dropped his pomade to the ground.
Along the crest of the Downs, a thin black line more than a mile across had appeared, a line bristling with spears and banners – the army of the Witch King of Angmar!
"My son, my son…" gasped Arvedui, steadying himself against the parapet.
"I'm here, father," said Galdor in a trembling voice, holding onto his father's forearm.
"Eh? Yes, of course," said the King distractedly, still gazing at the Downs. "If only Gandalf were here…why did he have to leave, just when we have greatest need of his aid? He hoped that two Wizards would fight in defence of Fornost, but now there will be none…"
"We don't need him, father," frowned Galdor. "The Queen has long said our own Men are more than enough to fight against the savages of Angmar, and…"
"The Queen knows nothing!" snapped Arvedui. "Let her stick to her needlework. We Men must carry the day now – and by ill fortune, we must do so without the aid of Wizards, or even of Elves, no matter how few our numbers." He pulled himself up to his full height, his resolve returning now that he had steeled himself for the battle that lay ahead.
"What must I do, father?" asked Galdor, who hoped that he at least appeared brave and eager, for all his pallor and trembling lip.
"You must do your duty, my son," replied Arvedui firmly. "Come with me to the armory at once. We will suit-up, and then take command of the defence of the city."
"Where is Aranarth?" asked Galdor. "If only we had his strong arm…"
"He is on another mission, and cannot aid us," replied the King swiftly. "You and I are here, and we must be enough."
"I understand, father," replied Galdor doubtfully.
"May we succor you , my liege?" asked one of the guards on the battlements, staring at the King and his son with concern.
"Nay!" cried the King. "Stay here and do as you must! Continue to sound the alarm, and spy out the progress of the enemy's army! I only hope all those who dwell outside the walls can make it safely inside the city, before we must close the Outer Gates of Fornost.
As the cries and trumpets of alarum sounded throughout the city, the panicked citizens raced from their workplaces to their own homes, clearing the streets for the soldiers of the King's army. As soon as they heard the alarum, the farmers in the cottages outside the walls dropped their handiwork, grabbed their wives and children, and ran for dear life, desperate to reach the gates of Fornost before they were closed shut. The gates of the city only faced West and South – to the North and East the walls were smooth and impassable.
Meanwhile, the vanguard of the Witch King's army left behind the North Downs and raced over the plains – hideous spear-wielding Orcs mounted on Wargs, giant wolves the size of horses. The Warg-riders scoured the countryside, slaying farm-animals and burning cottages, and slaying and devouring farmers too when they could catch them.
Behind these hideous beasts surged the main force of the army. As it marched down the slopes of the hills, it formed into two broad columns; that to the east consisting of spear-bearing, iron-armoured Orcs, and that to the west consisting of club-wielding, fur-clad Hill-men of Hithaeglir and Rhudaur. Guarding the flanks of each column were Trolls from the Ettenmoors, their thick hides protected by the Witch King's sorcery so that they would not turn to stone under the light of the Sun. Each Troll bore a tree-trunk in its crude paws as a club, and their stony hides were naked, for they needed no armour to defend themselves from the puny spears and arrows of Men. By the first hour past Noon, the last trail of surviving refugees fled inside the West and outh Gates of the city, whose iron doors snapped shut with resounding metallic clangs. Nipping at their heels were the Warg-riders, who screeched and snarled at the soldiers on the battlements before wheeling about and retreating out of arrowshot. Not all retreated soon enough, and the archers on the walls cheered with joy each time they brought down a fearsome Warg and its vile Orc with well-aimed arrows.
But such victories were fleeting, and the guardsmen of Fornost son realized the enormity of their peril. The Witch King's army was vast – at least a hundred-thousand warriors, over ten times as many as those of Arnor. The columns of Orcs and Hill-men snaked around the city, forming a broad circle that encompassed its walls, just beyond arrowshot. They planted in the ground their hideous black banners, bearing the pale skull design of the Witch King, and began hurling blood-curdling threats and vicious jibes at the Arnor-men. Meanwhile, the Trolls stationed themselves some distance before the West and South Gates, also remaining out of arrowshot. Acting on orders from the King Arvedui, the Arnor-men ceased firing arrows at their foes until they came within range. But the Witch King's soliders, though they chanted and jeered and drummed and trumpeted, did not attack. It was almost as if they were waiting for something. But, waiting for what?
Then a shadow fell across the South Gate and the Men of the garrison looked upward, crying out with horror and despair. They had seen him – and knew that their doom was at hand. For like a vast missile launched from a catapult, Carakel the Silver descended upon the Gate from the heights of the Sky!
Carakel's vast, bat-like wings were spread wide open, spanning more than one-hundred and fifty feet. He was more than two-hundred feet long, from the arched nostrils of his snout to the barbed tip of his slender tail. His entire body was covered in a glistening sheen of silvery metal, the shards of countless pieces of Mithril that he had found and attached to his leathery hide over ages upon ages. No arrow or spear known to Man or even Elf could penetrate that hide – for Mithril was harder than adamant. His narrow, slanted eyes, which lay at the base of his long, spiny ears, shone with a hellish glow as of pale fire. A Cold Drake of Forodwaith from beyond the Grey Mountains, he had aligned himself with the Witch King of Angmar to destroy their common, ancient foe – the hated Men of the West.
The guards at the South Gate let up a futile round of arrows, which bounced harmlessly off Carakel's invulnerable hide as if they were matchsticks. Then, with a mighty roar that shook the earth itself, the Dragon smashed the full span of his body broadside into the Gate!
The iron doors of the Gate were flattened in an instant, and the heavy stones of the walls were smashed to pieces, as if they were made of children's building blocks. The Men on the gates were either crushed beneath the Dragon's vast bulk, or hurled through their air, their broken bodies smashed against the walls of the city. With an evil laugh, Carakel surged up from the ruin, his sinuous body moving with a speed incredible for his vast bulk. He crashed through the clustered houses of Fornost, dashing them to pieces with his tail, crushing them underfoot with his mighty heels, and slaying those citizens who survived the onslaught with pale clouds of poisonous Dragon's Breath.
In his wake surged the Trolls, bearing their tree-trunk clubs. With ferocious roars they scrambled up the broken walls of the city by the ruined South Gate, running along the parapets and slaying the astonished guardsmen with abandon. Their arrows and spears proved almost as useless against the Trolls' stony hides as against the Dragon's scales, and they soon realized they were doomed unless they made a hasty retreat. Flying from the walls, they ran through the winding streets of the city, only to find themselves entangled in fleeing mobs of citizens, who had abandoned their homes in terror at the sight of the ravages of Carakel, and were now desperately seeking the Citadel in the vain hope that it could offer them safety from the Dragon's assault. They soon found themselves harried from behind by hordes of Orcs and Hill-men, who had also surged through the broken South Gate, and now were fanning through the streets of Fornost, slaying all in their path, heedless of peril from the rampaging Dragon and his clouds of poisonous breath.
Decked out in his gilded armour, King Arvedui stood on the battlements of one of the lesser towers of the Citadel, tears streaming down his cheeks as he witnessed the destruction of Fornost and the deaths of countless thousands of his soldiers and citizens. With no warning of the assault, and without the aid of Wizardly or Elven magic, his Men were sitting ducks before the fiendish Dragon. The vast hordes of Trolls, Orcs and Hill-men merely served to hasten to doom of Arnor.
Arvedui knew what he must do, yet he felt ashamed to have failed his ancestors and his people. After enduring for more than two-thousand years, the realm of Arnor, the North Kingdom of Numenor-in-Exile, had reached a sudden and ignominious end. With its capital destroyed and its lands open to invasion, there would be nothing left for the few survivors of the inevitable massacre but to flee into the wilderness, and live like hunted animals for the rest of their lives.
"My liege!" shouted a general who had raced up to the battlements. He was an aging man whose face bore the scars of many skirmishes with Orcs and Hill-men. "My liege!" he repeated. "The situation is desperate! Even were we not so badly outnumbered, we have no means of fighting this foul Dragon! What are your commands?"
"We must retreat," whispered the King wearily, his knuckles turning white as he clenched the stones of the parapet.
"I shall sound the retreat then, sire," nodded the general gravely, as if he knew the inevitability of that order. "Our Men outside the Citadel shall be gathered up inside, along with those citizens we can accommodate in the courtyard."
"No, general," replied the King, unable to look the man in the eyes. "The Citadel will no more withstand the Dragon's assault than did the South Gate. We must retreat – every one of us."
"My liege," said the general, doubt clouding his face. "I don't understand…"
"What is there not to understand?" snapped the King. "Arnor is finished, and Fornost is doomed. There is no safety within these walls, and no hope that more than a handful of us shall survive this carnage. It is every man for himself now!"
"I…I see, my liege," gasped the general, in shock at the King's words. "And, what shall I tell the men?"
"Tell them to run for their lives into the deepest woods," replied the King bitterly. "They should travel only by nightfall, and preferably not when the moon is up. Let them make their way to Mithlond or Rivendell, if they can."
"I…I understand, my liege." He saluted the King mechanically, though his eyes still betrayed his disbelief at what he had just heard.
"Farewell, general," replied the King, as he left the battlements and strode into the depths of the Citadel. "And good luck."
Without further words to the man, the King raced toward the royal chambers, seeking for his wife and his daughter-in-law. He knew his son Galdor was in peril at his post by the Inner Gate, set amid the walls that encompassed the Citadel, but honour obliged him to see first to the safety of his womenfolk.
"Galdor!" screeched the Queen from the depths of the Citadel courtyard. "Come down here at once!"
"But mother," cried Galdor, shifting awkwardly under the unfamiliar weight of his steel armour as he stared down from the battlements. "My duty is here, with the Men of the garrison!"
"Your duty is to protect your Queen!" she insisted, stamping her foot. "Now get down here this minute!"
Muttering quietly, Galdor nodded, excusing himself from duty, and pretending not to see the sneers of the guardsmen as he left the tower and rushed down the stairs toward the courtyard. When he reached the yard, he dashed toward his mother, who stood wringing her hands.
"A horse, boy!" she cried. "Fetch us a steed from the stables! For it is plain that no one can resist that accursed Dragon. We shall flee via the Postern Gate, and then make for the West Gate of the city. It is a desperate chance, but our only hope is to flee from there into the depths of the countryside."
Galdor nodded grimly – from the inner wall that encompassed the Citadel, he had seen the fall of the South Gate of the outer wall with his own astonished eyes. He rushed to the stables, and returned some moments later bearing a large, dun-coloured stallion. He helped his mother mount the beast, and then climbed up behind her, grabbing the reins and spurring it forward.
"Hurry!" she cried, as the Dragon's earth-shaking roars and fiendish laughter drew ever-closer to the Citadel. "We must fly like the wind!"
"What about father, and sister Vana?" asked Galdor.
"Let your father worry about your sister-in-law!" shouted the Queen. "You worry about me, and about yourself!"
Without further words, Galdor nodded grimly, and then spurred the horse into action. It raced across the courtyard, reaching the narrow Postern Gate that stood along the northwestern section of the inner wall.
"Open in the name of the King!" cried Queen Firiel to the two astonished guards to stood by it the entrance to it. They saluted quickly, and then turned the lever that opened the Gate, just as ordered. Galdor spurred the horse the thick wall that encompassed the Citadel, and rode under the portcullis just as it had finished being draw up by its counterweights. He crossed the narrow bridge that spanned the icy moat, and spurred his horse into the narrow, twisting streets of the city, soon finding himself bogged down in the crowds of panicked civilians desperately trying to escape their doom.
By the ruins of the South Gate of Fornost, the hordes of ravening Orcs and Wild Men suddenly fell silent, and stood at attention. Through the broken archway passed a solitary figure, mounted on an ebon steed. In the steed's skeletal face were mounted two orbs of pale flame where eyes should have been. The rider himself was garbed from head to toe in glossy sable armour plate, and wore a flowing sable cape. He bore an unadorned sable shield, and a steel longsword hung from an ebon leathern scabbard at his waist. His dark helm was crowned by nine thin, narrow spikes, and bore a smooth faceplate in which were carved nine vertical slits. His face and eyes, however, were invisible – through the silts in his faceplate could be seen only shadow, darker than the blackest midnight.
As the Orcs chewed nervously on their scarred lips, and the Hill-men trembled fearfully, the rider turned in his saddle, and addressed an especially large, hideous Orc who served as an officer and standard-bearer.
"Report," he intoned, in a hollow, sepulchral voice.
"All is going well, my liege," slavered the Orc, his yellow eyes glinting fiercely. "The outer city has fallen, and its inhabitants are being put to the sword. All that remains is to capture the Citadel."
"Carakel the Silver has done well," replied the Witch King – for it was he. "I knew he would be of use. But now he must be restrained. I do not want the Citadel to suffer irreparable damage – for it is to serve as my new capital in the North."
"My liege," bowed the Orc.
The Witch King sniffed the air for several moments, as if searching for something. "Yes, the Worm is near the Citadel now. I must make haste!" He spurred his monstrous steed, which screamed, showering the nearby Orcs with acid foam, before it raced down the broad swath of destruction left in the wake of Carakel the Silver.
Prince Galdor and the Queen forced their way through the narrow, crowded streets of the city, the Queen often pushing off desperate civilians with her fists as they tried to climb on top of the horse, and speed their escape from the city. Galdor urged the steed through yet another such mob, and then into a square which surrounded a large, stone-flagged well.
Galdor suddenly pulled hard on the steed's reins, bringing it to a halt.
"What are you doing?" cried the Queen. "We cannot stay here. The mob will catch up with us in a moment!"
"Look!" replied Galdor, pointing across the square. The Queen then saw a number of girls and young maidens, who were being harried, slain and ravished by a party of nearly a dozen Orcs and Hill-men.
"I must save them!" cried Prince Galdor, alighting from the steed and drawing his sword.
"What are you talking about?" spat the Queen. "You're supposed to be saving me!"
"You are in less peril than they!" cried Galdor, and his mother shrank back in alarm as she saw the suddenly chivalrous gleam in his eyes. "The blood of Isildur the Brave flows in my veins," he continued, "just as in those of the King and of Aranarth! I shall not leave maidens to face torment and death, when I can save them. Wait here!" And with that he charged across the square, crying "Elendil!" as he attacked the nearest (and very surprised) Orcs.
"Come back, you fool!" hissed the Queen. She felt her horror turn to cold rage, as she realized that for once Prince Galdor would not obey her wishes.
"Curse you!" she cried. "If you will not save your Queen, I will save myself!" Spurring the steed, she charged out of the square, leaving Galdor to battle the Orcs and Hill-men on his own.
She had not gone far before she encountered another mob of frantic civilians, and a large party of Orcs who were hot on their heels, stabbing and slashing at them from behind. Cursing loudly, she wheeled about, driving her steed down a narrow alley as she sought for another route to the West Gate of the City.
Suddenly, her steed screamed loudly and reared up, throwing her from her saddle so that she landed flat on her back. She gasped with pain as the wind was knocked out of her. The buildings around her were shattered in a cloud of wooden splinters and shards of glass, and as she covered her face with her hands she screamed and the many cuts and scrapes they suffered. The earth itself was trembling now, and she pulled herself upright, gazing about dazedly at the ruins of the houses to see what could have caused such damage…
Galdor had taken the Orcs completely unawares, and slew three of them with his longsword before they could even react. But now the three surviving Orcs, and the six Hill-men who accompanied them, had turned their spears and clubs on him, seeking to slay this impudent whelp and return to their amusements.
"Flee for your lives! Make for the West Gate!" cried Galdor to the maidens, as he parried the spear-thrust of a snarling Orc. The women were not slow to comply, and as he slashed at one of the Hill-men they turned and fled.
There were five Hill-men and three Orcs left now, and they withdrew two paces and circled Galdor warily, now that they realized he would not be as easy a kill as they had expected. Galdor himself was surprised that he had already slain so many of them – he had practiced in the sparring-yards, of course, but this was his first real combat. He only wished that his father and brother could be here to see it, so that they would think more highly of him.
Sensing that the Hill-men feared him more than the Orcs, Galdor rushed at them. They slashed at him with their clubs, but his sword was long and sharp, and the Hill-men appeared to lack even the most basic knowledge of combat tactics, hacking and slashing blindly at him rather than following any system of moves. One, two, three – Galdor slew them in three quick strokes. There were only two Hill-men left now, and they suddenly turned and ran, seeking easier prey than this bold warrior.
Galdor wheeled about, gasping with pain as an Orcish spear crashed against his armoured side. The iron spear could not penetrate the steel plate, but even so he was grievously hurt by the force of the blow. Screaming with a rage that he never ever knew he possessed, Galdor smashed his sword down on the Orc, cleaving him nearly to the breast-bone. He turned and slashed at the spear of the second Orc, disemboweling him before making a mad lunge and his surviving foe. This Orc, its yellow eyes suddenly pale with fear, tried to turn and flee, but Galdor slashed at his neck, and sent his misshapen head flying through the air, trailing a shower of black ichor.
Suddenly exhausted from his exertions, Galdor sank to his knees, seeking to regain his breath. He looked about – the maidens were gone, but so was his mother! Had she been driven off, and would she soon return? He had now idea how he would find her amid the chaos of the streets, but he knew he must try.
Then, he heard the heavy footfalls of a horse not far behind him. Joy rising in his heart, he stood up and wheeled about - and found himself staring face-to-face at the Witch King of Angmar…
Still in a daze, the Queen looked about, desperate to recover her strength and rise to her feet. But the earth was shaking so terribly that she could not get up. She struggled desperately, until suddenly a shadow fell across her, and the earth ceased to move.
She looked up, and her mouth opened in wordless scream. For above her towered the Dragon himself!
His pale, glowing eyes stared at her from their sockets in his narrow head, which swayed slowly back and forth at the end of a long, sinuous neck. His hide gleamed all over from the sunlight reflected off his Mithril scales, so that the Queen could barely have endured to look at him even were his form not so terrible.
The Dragon sniffed the air. Then, to her amazement it spoke to her in a deep, harsh voice that caused the very earth to tremble, its foul breath nearly causing her to be sick.
"Do you know who I am, mortal?" asked the Dragon.
"I…have not had the pleasure of an introduction…" squeaked the Queen.
"I am Carakel the Silver! Am I not magnificent?" he asked, raising his wings and displaying proudly his armoured hide.
"Very.." gasped the Queen, desperately praying that she would not be sick in front of him.
"Into your garb are affixed many rare jewels, maiden," observed Carakel. "What is your name?"
"I…I am…" she stammered uncertainly.
"Are you of the Royal Blood?" inquired the Dragon.
"Yes!" she spat out, grasping at a straw of hope. "I am Firiel, Queen of Arnor!"
"Ah, the Queen herself!" exclaimed Carakel, rearing back his long neck as he regarded her from on high.
"Am…am I your prisoner?" she asked, unsure as to whether that was a hopeful prospect.
"Nay, my lady. You are not my prisoner," replied Carakel.
"Then…am I free to go?" asked the Queen, wondering at the sudden change in her fortune.
But her blood turned to icewater as she heard the Dragon's deep, harsh laughter. "The Royal Blood!" cried Carakel. "Know this, my lady. For six-thousand years have I lived under the Sun of this Middle Earth. I was reared by the hand of Melkor, the Lord of Darkness himself. And from that day to this, I have not tasted the flesh of a Queen."
Carakel smiled horribly. "Until now."
Queen Firiel tried to scream, but no sound would come from her frozen throat.
"Will you fight a man on foot from horseback?" cried Prince Galdor, hoping that his voice did not betray the tremor he felt in his legs. "Coward! Climb down, and fight me man to man!"
For a moment, the Witch King was silent. Then he began to wheeze, a thin, ghastly sound that Galdor realized to his horror was the closest this ancient sorcerer could come to laughter.
"Aye, boy," mocked the Witch King. "I shall climb down and fight thee on foot, as thou wishest. Thy end shall be the same."
Galdor held up his sword and drew back uncertainly, as the Witch King swiftly dismounted from his horse. It was only then that Galdor realized how tall the Witch King was – over seven feet from head to toe, and the thin spikes of his iron crown soared a further foot above his head. He drew his narrow sword, nearly four feet long, and then strode towards the Prince.
Praying to the Valar, Galdor slashed at the Witch King's blade – and was pushed flat on his back by the force of the Witch King's parry, which knocked Galdor's sword clean out of his hand, far across the square. The Prince reached for his belt, withdrawing a dagger to defend himself – though he knew such a puny weapon was no match against a sword.
"Thou fool," hissed the Witch King. "No Man can slay me!"
With a cry of rage, Galdor leapt to his feat, seeking to parry the Witch King's blade with his dagger and grab hold of the fiend by his throat. But with move faster than the eye could see, the Witch King sliced off Galdor's hand above the wrist. Then, before Galdor could even cry out in pain, the Witch King thrust his sword through Galdor's steel-plated armour, piercing his heart as the tip of the blade punched out through his back.
As Galdor grasped vainly at the blade with his left hand, the Witch King lifted him off the ground on his sword-point, hoisting him up in the air. A fountain of blood shot forth from Galdor's mouth, and then his head, glassy-eyed, fell over his breast.
The Witch King wheeled about, throwing Galdor off the end of the sword, and sending him crashing into the far wall of the square. He fell into a gutter and lay there, stone dead. The Witch King raised up his sword and unleashed a deafening, hideous screech of triumph which chilled the marrow of every living being within the walls of Fornost, and even disturbed the repose of Carakel the Silver, who was gnawing lazily on the Queen's remains. Then he turned and mounted his fearsome steed, once again making his way toward the gate of the Citadel.
Princess Vana huddled in her chambers, terrified by the din and clamour of the battle beyond the walls of the Citadel. She stared at herself in a mirror – tall, pale, brown-eyed and tawny-haired, garbed in a long dress of brilliant white cloth, unadorned with any gem. She was only twenty-four years old, and had planned to spend a long and happy life together with her love, Prince Aranarth. But now Aranarth was no where to be seen, and it appeared that her own life would end that very day. Cursing her fate, she turned her head into her pillows, weeping bitterly.
"Up, girl!" boomed a deep voice from behind her. She turned around to see the towering figure of King Arvedui, garbed in the plain brown tunic and pantaloons of a palace servant, and draped in the dark green cape and hood of a Ranger. A fringe of chain-mail could be seen from beneath the hem of his tunic skirt and sleeves. He bore an unadorned longsword from a scabbard on his belt, and carried the grey dress of a scullery maid under his arm, along with another green cape and hood.
"Here!" he said, flinging the dress and cape at her. "Take off your robes and put those on! Hurry!"
"But my liege!" she gasped.
"I won't look, for goodness' sake!" snapped the King, who turned around and strode back to the doorway, facing out into the hall. "But take off your robes and put on those clothes this minute! That's an order!"
Shocked and embarrassed, Vana never the less complied, taking off her long white dress (which was more difficult than it appeared to be, without any maids to help her) and slipping into the simple dress of coarse grey cloth and the rough Ranger's cloak that the King had thrown at her.
"By the Valar, girl, aren't you done yet!" cried the King. "You're not getting ready for a dance, you know!"
"I'm ready," she said, standing upright and staring at herself in the mirror. The dress, she noted, was shapeless, and not in the least flattering to her slim figure. No wonder the maids always looked so…
"Right!" cried the King, who had bounded back into the room. He seized her by the arm, and pulled her towards the door.
"But Your Majesty, where are we going?" cried the Princess.
"To safety!" he cried, pulled her out into the hall and marching her down the corridor. She scrambled to keep up with the rapid pace set by his long legs.
"But my liege, where can be safer than the Citadel?" asked Vana.
"Anywhere!" snapped the King, grabbing a torch from its mounting in the wall, and then urging her down a flight of stairs that led directly to the courtyard.
"But what of my husband?" she cried. "And the Queen? And Prince Galdor?"
"Your husband left this morning on a mission far beyond the city walls," replied the King swiftly. "If he is still alive, than he is the safest of any of us. I have looked for the Queen and Prince Galdor, but have not found them. I cannot afford to search any longer; mayhap they have already escaped, if they are lucky."
"But Your Majesty," she said.
"Silence, girl!" snapped the King. "Not another word out of you until I say so! Just follow my lead." Chastened, Vana nodded wordlessly.
They reached the base of the stairs, and ran out into the courtyard. Arvedui glanced swiftly to his left, and saw that the iron doors of the Inner Gate that exited from the Citadel courtyard were being battered inward, probably by Trolls. The Dragon was nowhere to be seen. The Postern Gate had been abandoned, and hung open; it appeared that the general and transmitted his orders, and the soldiers had fled the Citadel via the back door, which had not yet been discovered by the enemy.
The King strode past the Postern Gate, and into the open archway of another tower that stood amid the walls that encompassed the Citadel.
"But your Majesty," cried the Princess, "the Postern Gate…"
"What did I say?" replied the King. "Hush!"
He searched carefully along the wall with his hands, reaching high up with his long arms. At length, he found a stone that stuck out slightly from its fellows. He pressed hard on it. To Vana's amazement, a whole section of the wall gave way. The King seized Vana's arm again, and led her down another flight of stairs, which wound deep into the earth. He paused briefly to press another stone knob in the wall, which caused the secret door to close behind them, plunging them into a darkness illuminated by only by his flickering torch. Then he led her down the stairway until they reached a long, straight corridor that stretched an unfathomable distance toward the west.
"This is the only secret escape route from the Citadel," explained the King as they strode down the corridor. "It is as old as Fornost itself – nearly a thousand years old. The builders were sworn to secrecy concerning it, on pain of death. Since then, its existence has only been known to the Kings. Each King learns of it from a sealed scroll when he enters the Royal Vault for the first time."
"I've never heard of the Royal Vault," whispered the Princess, who had quite forgotten the King's injunction that she remain silent.
"Nor will you again, most likely," replied the King grimly. "In any event, this tunnel leads for five miles to the west; in the open fields far from the city, and far beyond the ring of barbarians who now encircle it."
"And then where shall we flee?" asked Vana.
"I am still pondering that," replied Arvedui. "Mithlond seems the obvious choice. But were you a man, I would say it would be better that we split up, and decrease the chances of our both being caught by the enemy. Now hush!"
They walked for several hours along the corridor, until Vana's legs felt as if they were on fire, and she began to fear that in truth it was endless. Moreover, her cape was too long for her, and she feared she might trip on its hem. But then, at last, she saw a small glimmer of light from the end of the tunnel.
"There it is!" cried Arevedui. He increased their pace, and within a few minutes they had reached the end of the corridor. The light came through a narrow crack, which marked the site of stone door that lay across the entrance.
"Take this," said the King, offering the torch to Vana. As she took hold of it, he turned and applied his full weight to the door, pushing against it with his shoulder. For some moments the door stood still, and Arvedui began to groan with the effort, sweat glistening from his brow. But then, at last, the door opened; first just a crack, then falling down with a heavy thud into the snow that dusted an empty field.
"Dowse that torch!" said the King, instructing her to thrust the end into a sandy floor that stood within the doorway. Then he pulled her up into the daylight, applied himself to the stone, and gave it another mighty heave. With great effort, he at last pushed it back into place. Vana noted that the outside was rough and unfinished, so that it looked like nothing more than an ordinary boulder sticking up from a bank of earth.
"I must be getting old!" gasped Arvedui, wiping his sodden brow. "I first tested that door decades ago, when I assumed the Kingship, and it barely cost me any sweat at all to open or close it!" He turned to Vana. "You must be tired yourself, after such a long walk. We'll rest here for a little while, but then we must be on our way."
"And where is our way again?" inquired the Princess.
"West," gestured the King. "To Mithlond. At least until I can think of a better plan."
"West," she repeated. She stared westward over the vista of flat snowy fields and spare hedgerows, punctuated by small copses of Oak and Ash. "It's a long way from here to Mithlond on foot," she observed wryly.
"We have no choice, unless we manage to sprout wings," quipped the King. "You'll certainly be proficient at walking, if nothing else, by the time we are there."
"But we have no food, no water," she frowned.
"There is food and water all around us," replied the King, waving his hand expansively.
"I learned the skills of a Ranger in my youth. Fear not."
"And what of my husband, and your family?" frowned Vana.
"I know not," said the King. "For a certainty, Aranarth was not in the city when the enemy attacked us. Either he evaded them outside the walls, or he did not. If he did, then hopefully he will be sensible enough to meet us at Mithlond; though he might just as likely head to Rivendell instead. That would be a bit less of a journey, from his starting point on the North Downs, though also a more dangerous road, given that he would have to cross the wild lands of Rhudaur."
"And what of the Queen, and Prince Galdor?" asked the Princess.
"I know not, girl!" snapped the King. "If only the Queen had waited for me, I could have led her and Galdor to safety along with us. But she has always been a stubborn, headstrong woman, and I fear she may have done something rash. If she and Galdor tried to flee through the chaos of the city as it was being sacked – as they must have, for they were not in the Citadel, and knew nothing of the secret passage – then I fear their chances are not good. Very few will have escaped through the West Gate."
Vana then fell silent, as she contemplated the grim fate that might well have befallen them. Whatever had happened to the Queen and Galdor, she still clung to the hope that, somehow, Aranarth might have survived.
"Come, girl!" said the King at length. "Already the Sun sinks low in the West." Then he looked eastward, noting grimly the heavy column of smoke that soared into the sky – it appeared the Witch King had ordered the half-timbered houses of Fornost to be burnt to the ground.
"Let us fly!" he continued. And with that, Vana jumped to her feet, and followed the King across the snows.
Aranarth snapped awake, aware of the dull pain in his head. He realized suddenly that he was nearly upside down, suspending amid a tangle of icy brambles over a shallow gully.
With a curse, Aranarth gingerly pulled himself out of the brambles, winching each time another thorn slashed his hand or face. He shielded his eyes with his hand, thankful that he had not lost one or both eyes when he was thrown headlong into the bramble patch.
Blast his steed! What could have panicked the beast so badly?
He carefully pulled himself out of the brambles, picking up the arrows that had been scattered out of his quiver over the icy floor of the gully when he had been tipped head over heals. His bow was still slung over his shoulder, and he felt thankful again that it had not broken under this fall. Then he climbed up the slopes and back onto the tableland. He stared about, baffled – for he was utterly alone! Of his Men and their horses, not a trace was to be seen. There were some broad depressions in the snow like those they had found before, but that was all.
Aranarth turned his gaze to the southwest, noting that the Sun was well past noon. Then, his blood froze. A column of smoke was rising into the sky! It could only have come from Fornost. The city was burning!
Then he remembered; he and his Men had heard the tramping of thousands of heavy feet, just before his steed had thrown him. Fornost was under attack! Already, it was far too late to warn them. But why had his Men and beasts departed, and left him alone? He remembered too the shadow that had fallen on them just before he was thrown, and felt his skin crawl as he considered what sort of thing could cast a shadow so huge.
Shaking his head, Aranarth scooped handfuls of snow into his mouth to quench his thirst, for the water in his leathern flask had long since frozen solid. Then he began to jog, in the long, steady strides of a Ranger, over the long miles of moorland and plain that separated him from Fornost and his family. On their likely fate, he tried not to dwell too deeply.
As the Sun sank beneath the western horizon, and the shadows of evening lengthened, Arvedui and Vana quickened their pace. The King seemed strangely anxious, and urged the Princess to make as little noise as possible.
Then, they heard it; a deep, awful baying, as if of a gigantic wolf. It was no more than a mile behind them, following their trail. They were being tracked by a Warg-rider!
"Damn and blast!" whispered the King. He stared at the Princess, who was visibly trembling with feat, and then looked about. He saw an Oak tree some fifty paces to the
West.
"Quick!" he said, pulling her toward the tree. She ran with him, and soon found herself at the base.
"Climb!" cried the King.
"But I can't," began Vana.
"Surely you climbed trees when you where a girl?" asked Arvedui. The Princess nodded. "Then do it now!" he said. Frowning, she threw back her hood, and then tested the lowest branch of the tree.
"Take this," said the King, thrusting a small dagger into the pocket of her dress.
"What's it for?" she asked.
"To use, if you must," answered the King grimly. "Now climb! There's no hiding from this beast, now that he's picked up our trail. We must either slay him and his rider or die."
Wordlessly, wondering if this nightmare day would never end – save in death – she climbed the branches of the tree, and soon found herself on a limb some twenty feet up.
"That a girl!" cheered the King. "I knew you could do it! You're still young and limber, after all." The Princess blushed, and giggled slightly.
Then the Warg howled again, this time much closer, and Vana fell utterly silent. Meanwhile, the King had unsheathed his longsword, and stood with his back to the tree, the point of his blade facing outward. It was growing dark fast, now, and the first stars of evening were peering through the heavens above.
Suddenly, there was a trampling of heavy paws, and then the beast leapt over the nearest hedgerow! Indeed it was a Warg; like a shaggy grey wolf, but as big as a horse, it's cruel eyes gleaming with uncanny intelligence. Mounted on its back was a hideous Orc, armoured in crude plates of iron, and bearing a long spear.
"What's this, my pretties?" hissed the Orc, licking its lips with its black tongue as its yellow eyes gleamed with delight. The Warg turned and stared at Arvedui, growling and salvering.
"An Arnor-man," said the Orc. "And his wench cowering up the tree, half frightened to death by the smell of her." He sniffed deeply. "Fear makes the meat so much sweeter, don't you know?"
"Enough talk!" cried Arvedui, holding his sword up in a defensive posture. "Rush in and die, filth!"
Hissing incoherently, the Orc spurred his Warg-mount forward. He aimed at Arvedui with his spear, while the Warg leapt at him, aiming straight for this exposed throat.
At the last second, Arvedui dropped to the ground, thrusting upwards with his sword at the leaping Warg. The beast screamed in agony as his sword disemboweled it, throwing its Orc-rider to the ground before it collapsed in death.
Arvedui leapt to his feet, as did the Orc – who still clasped his long spear. "That was a pretty trick," snarled the Orc. "No one's escaped Grungir's attack before. He must have been getting old and soft."
"You are fond of talking, aren't you?" asked Arvedui, before he rushed at his foe. Sreeching with bloodlust, the Orc thrust his spear at him. Arvedui tried to slice it in half, but the Orc was onto this move, and whipped it above his head, only to smash the blade down if it were a pike. The King lunged back – barely in time – and parried another thrust of the spear's iron blade.
"Garn, you're a good 'un!" sneered the Orc. "I've not had a bit of sport like this in awhile. Most of you damn Tarks die too easily. You'll be one for a tale around the campf…"
The Orc never finished his sentence, for he suddenly found the gleaming point of a green-feathered arrow sticking out of his throat. He gurgled incoherently, grasping vainly at the arrow before falling to the ground, as dead as his Warg.
Arvedui turned warily toward the snow-covered hedgerow from which the arrow had been fired, still bearing his sword upraised. A Man stood up from behind the hedge, dressed in the green hood and cloak of a Ranger of Arnor.
"Who are you?" asked the King. "Name yourself!"
The Ranger stood still for a moment. Then he dropped his bow, threw back his hood, leapt over the hedge and ran toward Arvedui.
"Father!" cried Aranarth, grasping the King by his arms.
"My son!" gasped Arvedui, dropping his sword and grabbing the Prince by his shoulders. "Bless you, you're alive and well!"
"My love!" cried a feminine voice from the boughs of the Oak tree.
"What?" gasped Aranarth, turning around. "Vana, you're alive! Thank the Valar! But what on earth are you doing up there?"
"Ask your father," she sniffed.
"Ask him," replied Arvedui, nodding at the Orc.
Aranarth laughed, and embraced his father. "Come along, Men!" he shouted toward the hedgerow. To Arvedui's surprise, some two-dozen Rangers leapt over the hedge and into the field.
"You mean you had all those fellows over there, and you let me tackle those beasts by myself?" chided the King. "What on earth's the matter with you?"
"Come, father, we only just arrived in the nick of time," replied the Prince. "We were tracking the Warg-rider, and he was tracking you, as it seems. I found these Men in the fields west of the city – they actually managed to escape from the West Gate. I've heard from them all about what happened." He shook his head grimly. "This is the darkest day in the history of Arnor."
"The history of Arnor is very nearly at a close," sighed Arvedui bitterly. "I shall have been its last King, for how can a Man be a King when he has no Kingdom? What your fate shall be, my son, I know not. But now is not the time for weighty councils."
"Where are Galdor and mother?" asked Aranarth.
"I know not," sighed the King. "If you have not encountered them in the fields west of the city, then I fear the worst."
Aranarth nodded silently, aware that now was not the time for tears or regrets. Vana had by this time climbed down from the tree, and she ran to her husband and embraced him closely.
"My love," she whispered. "I feared you were dead."
"Hush," he replied, kissing her. "I feared the same of you. But fate has preserved us, it seems."
Suddenly, another howl issued to the east, though far distant, and was joined by several others in a grim chorus.
"Quickly," said the King, as Aranarth released his bride. "We are being tracked. I was going to lead the Princess to Mithlond, but now our plans will change. You will take the princess and eight of these Men, and make for the Elven Havens yourself. I will take the other sixteen, and make for the Icebay of Forochel."
"Forochel?" frowned Aranarth. "That is many leagues from here, father, and no one lives up there at all, apart from the simple ice-men, the Lossoth."
"All the more reason to go there," replied the King. "Forodwaith is far distant from Mithlond. The pursuit will not know where to turn when it sees our trials part into to paths to far-distant destinations. Most of them will follow the larger trail, led by me and the Rangers I take with me. Fewer will follow you and the Princess, and your Men. With luck, that will increase the odds of your making it to Mithlond."
"But what of your odds?" objected the Prince. "You'll be pursued by many Wargs, and if you evade them you'll arrive in a barren wasteland."
"I am not slowed down by a woman who is inexperienced at war – meaning no offense to you, young lady," replied the King. "As for the wasteland; should you reach Mithlond, then ask Lord Cirdan to dispatch one of his Elven ships to Cape Forochel, so that it arrives there by the first of May. If I am still alive, I will be there waiting for it. If I am not there – then the ship will return with that news, and the rule of our people, or what is left to them, will pass to you."
He stared silently at Aranarth for some moments. Then he said, "Goodbye, my son. With luck we shall meet again."
"Goodbye, father" replied Aranarth, embracing Arvedui again.
"And goodbye to you, my daughter," said the King to Vana. "Fare you well, both of you!"
"Goodbye, Your Majesty," replied the Princess. "And good luck!"
"We shall all need plenty of that," nodded the King grimly. Then he picked up his sword, took command of sixteen of the Rangers, and led them at a rapid clip towards the North. Aranarth picked up his bow, took charge of the remaining eight Rangers, and fled with his Princess towards the West.
Darkness had fallen over the land, yet the embers of Fornost still burned brightly, casting an eerie red glow upon the stones of the walls and the Citadel. In the courtyard of the Citadel, inside the broken gate, sat the Witch King, mounted on his daemon-steed. The vast, shining bulk of Carakel the Silver filled up much of the rest of the yard. Several Orc-minions scurried about, while the generals of the Orcs and Hill-men kneeled before the Witch King, staring uneasily between their dreaded lord and his equally dreaded ally, the Dragon of Angmar.
"The Citadel is intact – for the most part," said the Witch King, staring up at the Dragon. "I am glad to see thou didst not destroy it, Carakel. I had feared that thou might – in which case I should have been most displeased."
"Is that so?" rumbled Carakel, picking his massive fangs with a sharp claw. "Well, your request that I preserve the Citadel had already been communicated to me by your lackeys. And that is just as well for you – otherwise you'd have to return to that dreadful hovel of yours up at Carn Dum." The Dragon then made a studious show of ignoring the Witch King, and returned to cleaning his teeth.
The Witch King stared silently at Carakel for some moments, and his generals crouched nervously on the ground, hoping fervently that they would be nowhere near should their dark master and his immense ally come to blows. But then the Witch King turned back to his generals, almost with a shrug, and spoke to them.
"We know," droned the Witch King, "that Prince Galdor lies dead – by my own hand, of course. And Queen Firiel also lies dead."
"She doesn't exactly lie anywhere at the moment," rumbled Carakel.
The Witch King ignored the beast, and continued his address. "Therefore," he hissed, "the question is; what of the other members of the Royal Family? Where are King Arvedui, Prince Aranarth, and Princess Vana?"
"We are tracking them, my liege," said one of the Orc-generals.
"Thou art tracking them, which is to say thou hast not yet found them?" enquired the Witch King.
"No, my liege," replied the Orc, wringing its hands nervously. "A trail was found leading north, and another to the west. We…."
The Orc's sentence was unceremoniously interrupted by the Witch King, who, with a lightning-fast move, unsheathed his sword and severed the Orc-general's head. As the Orc's body fell to the ground, and lay amid a growing pool of black ichor, the Witch King turned his attention to the now thoroughly-cowed contingent of his remaining generals.
"Know this," said the Witch King, in his most sepulchral tones. "The Royal Family must be found and they must die. All of them. The Heirs of Isildur must be exterminated."
He wheezed, and then continued. "The Princess is the least important, unless she is with child; for she herself is not of Isildur's bloodline. But, since mayhap she is with child, make certain to kill her as well. I want all of their heads brought before me, mounted on pikes."
"Yes, my liege!" assured the generals, bowing and scraping.
"Then begone," intoned the Witch King. "And remember; I will either have their heads, or thine."
With further obeisances, the generals rushed from the courtyard and through the gate to the ruins of the city, eager to escape for a time from the presence of their dreaded lord and master.
"If you think I'm going to clean up that mess for you," rumbled Carakel, gesturing at the fallen Orc's body with the wave of a claw, "you're sadly mistaken. I eat only fresh meat that I've slain myself. And besides, Orcs have a rather bitter aftertaste."
The Witch King turned to face the Dragon again, his mailed fist tightening on the grip of his sword. Then, cleaning the blade on his blood-spattered sable cape, he sheathed it and rode up the steps to the main doors of the Citadel itself, the new capital of his dominion in the North.