The Black Land Awakens
In the pine-forested hills of Ithilien, beneath the glowering peaks of the Mountains of Shadow, Erelont and Umarth paused from their chase of a fleet-footed hart to wipe their brows and catch their breath. It was early July, and the high summer was ever a time of searing heat and humidity in the lower vale of Anduin; but this summer waxed hotter than any in living memory.
"Pass that flask, Umarth," gasped Erelont. "I cannot go another step without a draught of water."
"You always were a soft one," grinned Umarth, pushing his lanky brown hair out of his eyes, and taking a swig from the flask himself before passing it to his cousin.
Erelont quelled his thirst, and then passed back the flask to his friend, hitched his quiver over his shoulder, and gripped his bow in his sweaty palms. "Think you this hart will elude us entirely?" he asked. "The beast seems to be able to run faster amid the heat than we can."
"We shall see," shrugged Umarth. "I hate to return to our village with nothing more than a coney for the cooking pot. Mother will be after me with her rolling pin again if I do."
"Indeed, your mother is the terror of all Ithilien," grinned Erelont.
"Mind your tone, boy!" frowned Umarth, half-jokingly.
"Don't call me boy!" replied Erelont. "I'm only two years younger than you, and your're not yet twenty-five. We're both yet boys, or neither of us are."
"Fair enough," nodded Umarth. "Neither, then. But to the point, already it is well past noon. The days are long at this time of year; but, we are far from home, with a long walk across the Emyn Arnen before us, and I would not return want to return in the dark. Let us chase the beast for perhaps another hour; if we still have not slain it, then we shall turn back."
"I won't gainsay that," replied Erelont, "though we should walk along the trail, not run. That will preserve our strength."
"Agreed," grunted Umarth. Without further word, they then followed the hart's trail, weaving across the grassy meadows and along the pine-needled floors of the shady forest glades. They had walked for perhaps half an hour, climbing eastward over the lower slopes of the mountains when they came upon the Harad Road, which ran from Carach Angren in the north to the Crossings of Poros in the south. Then Umarth stopped suddenly, holding up his hand.
"Hello," he said. "What have we here?"
"What are you talking about?" asked Erelont. "I don't see any sign of the hart. The beast has left us in the dust."
"Have your lost the use of your eyes, man?' asked Umarth. "Look at that sack lying by the roadside. It fair gleams with gold!"
Erelond looked, and then he saw it; a sack of black cloth, perhaps a foot across, lying half-open in a shallow ditch on the far side of the road. The top of the sack was partly open, revealing the glitter of heavy gold coins.
"Hello indeed!" cried Erelont. "What will they say in the village when we set out as hunters, but come back as rich Men? Rich as princes!"
"Rich as Kings!" laughed Umarth, as they dashed across the road to their prize. He was reaching down to the sack, when Erelont suddenly frowned and grabbed his arm.
"Hold on a minute," he said. "Folks don't just leave gold lying in the ditch, and this Harad Road is little used nowadays. You can see the weeds growing up between the flagstones. Why would someone leave such a treasure just lying around here, waiting for passersby?"
"Who knows and who cares?" grunted Umarth. "And don't worry – I saw it first, but we'll split it half and half. We are kinfolk, after all."
Umarth grabbed the sack, straining under the weight as he pulled it out of the ditch and onto the road. "We'll have to split up the load anyway," he puffed. "I can't carry all this weight back to the village single-handed. Open up your knapsack, and I'll pour half of it in there."
Erelont did as he was told, while Umarth examined the coins. Each was heavy and ruddy – true gold beyond any doubt – but he had never seen the like before. Once, as a youth, a passing nobleman had donated a gold sovereign to their village, for the relief of its poor, and Umarth had been fortunate enough to see it with his own eyes. Like the copper and silver coins he was used to, it had borne the head of the reigning King on the one side, and an image of the White Tree of Gondor on the other. But the coins that passed between his fingers now were quite odd indeed. One the one side, they bore a grinning skull; and on the other, a strange design that looked like a cat's eye.
"Funny old things," grunted Umarth. "Wonder who minted 'em. You ever seen the like?"
"No, and I don't know if I care to again," shuddered Umarth. "I don't know if that skull or the eye are worse. They both look like they're watching me."
"Don't be such a baby," chided Umarth. "Now hold your bag open." Erelont did so, as Umarth carefully upended the sack of coins, tipping out half its contents. As he did so, a flurry of black dust rose up from the coins, clouding the air and nearly choking both the Men. They dropped their sacks, and spent some moments coughing before they stood to their feet again.
"What was that stuff?" gasped Erelont. "It's left a bitter taste in my mouth."
"Just mold, surely," spat Umarth. He took another swig from their flask of water, passing it to Erelont, who likewise washed out his mouth. "Now let's load up these coins and get out of here," he grinned. "I'm keen to get home and start counting my new forture." They scooped up the coins into their knapsacks, tossing the empty black sack in which they had found the coins back in the ditch, and then turned and began their long march over the rolling hills and through the forest glades of the Emyn Arnen to their village of Calanaud.
The hours passed by, and yet the setting of the Sun in the West and the lengthening shadows of evening hardly brought any relief to the air, which was utterly still, and clung to them like a warm, sticky blanket. Umarth stumbled a few times, complaining of a dizzy spell which he blamed on the dreadful heat. Erelont helped him to his feet each time, trying to suppress the racking cough that had begun to torment his lungs.
By nightfall, they had reached the outskirts of Calanaud, and arrived at the doorstep of Umarths' house, which was the nearer of the two. Both Men were coughing now, and swayed unsteadily on their feet as they knocked on the door.
"Where have you been?" cried the elderly matron who opened the door, wiping her hands on her apron as she glared at them. "Haven't I told you to arrive home before nightfall, Umarth? I was worried sick about you!"
"Hello mother," gasped Umarth, wobbling slightly. Then he gasped, and fell to the ground, where he sprawled unconscious.
"Umarth!" she cried, dropping to her knees. "What's wrong with you, son?" She placed her hand across his forehead, and then cried aloud. "He's burning up!" she wailed. "I've never felt such a fever before. What have you too lads been up to?"
Erelont was about to answer, but instead was choked by series of wracking coughs. He dropped to his knees, coughing up spittle and blood as his face turned pale.
"Both of you are desperately ill!" she gasped. She waited for Erelont's spasm to subside, before pulling him to his feet.
"Quick!" she said. "Help me pull Umarth inside, before you start coughing again. Then you sit down right next to him. I'm sending for the barber; he's the only man in these parts that knows a bit about blood-letting."
She was gone for some minutes, and then returned with the barber, a heavy slab of a man. He frowned deeply when he saw the boys, and then stayed up all night, bleeding them, and forcing them to swallow foul-tasting herbal confections. But Umarth did not wake up, falling ever deeper into sleep, while Erelont began to cough uncontrollably, gasping for air, too weak to sit up, and yet unable to breathe when he lay down.
At dawn, the barber said gravely, "I can't help these lads. I'll need to go to the market town and bring back a real doctor." He coughed briefly, and strode out the door.
The Black Plague of the two-thousandth year of the Third Age of the Sun proved one of the worst calamities in the history of Gondor. Having begun in the backwoods of Ithilien, the plague swept like wildfire into the suburbs of Osgiliath, and from there west across the Anduin and into the thickly settled lands beyond. By early August the whole of Gondor was smitten by the plague, which proved deadly to all who contracted it, slaying young and old, men and women with abandon. The deadly illness confounded all efforts of even the most learned doctors to combat its fatal course.
Fear over the plague soon turned to panic, and then outright rioting and chaos. At first the army was sent out to quell the disturbances, and ensure the supply of food and medicine to the sick. But any soldiers who came into contact with the plague victims or their families were soon sick themselves, and entire regiments fell under the scythe of the disease.
Then King Earnil ordered all the fortresses of Gondor to shut and seal their doors, and leave those outside the walls to fend for themselves until the plague abated. Some fortresses had already been struck by the plague within their walls, and like the cities they were soon full only of the dead, their reek fouling the air like a charnel house; but Minas Anor, the heavily-guarded and well-provisioned summer capital of the Kings of Gondor, had mercifully escaped the plague before it could spread within. Alone in Gondor, behind its thick walls and iron gates, its people survived the disaster without loss.
All through the summer the plague raged, decimating the population, and driving the survivors from the pestiliential cities and farmlands into the wilds of the hills and mountains, scavenging in the forests and moorlands as best they could now that the delivery of grain had dwindeled to nothing. Others who dwelt by the shore took to sea, living off the catch of the day, and risking trips to the shore only to replace their dwindling supply of fresh water.
It was a hard life indeed, and many a fat townsman and a wealthy merchant who was used to heavily-laden tables and sumptuous banquests was reduced to little more than a trembling wreck before the summer was out. Famine began to slay the people where the plague had not reached, until it seemed that the torments of that evil year would have no limit. Not until the rains of autumn did the plague begin to abate, and not until the brief chill of winter froze the land was it squelched entirely. By then food was scarce indeed, and the famine raged across the land as fiercely as the plague had before.
When the spring of the following year finally arrived, King Earnil ordered parties of brave scouts to venture beyond the walls of Minas Anor, and return with their reports. They did return, after some weeks – proving that they had escaped infection by the plague, which slew Men within the space of six or seven days at the most. But though he plague had abated, their report was grim indeed; not only were the cities and fortresses abandoned and empty, but fully half of Gondor's civilians and its soldiers lay dead. What Gondor's enemies could not accomplish in over two-thousand years, the Black Plague and its resulting famine had accomplished in the space of a few seasons.
Prince Earnur, who had weathered the storm beside his father in the Citadel of Minas Anor, then led parties of Men forth from the walls. He first brought the remnants of the army back under his command, and then lured the civilians out from the forests and mountains to the croplands, so that they could till the soil and replenish Gondor's larders. They were saved from further famine only by fish from the sea, and by such grain as remained in the warehouses of the cities, and which had been abandoned along with the cities when people had fled the plague.
There soon proved even fewer survivors east than west of Anduin, and since the plague had begun in Ithilien, and Earnur feared that it might emerge there again, he resettled the remaining survivors of that land west of the Anduin. Ithilien, like Osgiliath, then lay deserted, save for a small force of soldiers that he deployed to Minas Ithil so that Gondor's presence east of Anduin would not be surrendered entirely.
Earnur had never had a head for book learning and record-keeping, but to his own surprise he soon proved as able a civil administrator as he was a military commander. It was necessary because his father rarely departed from his study, which required Earnur to assume the burdens of state on his own broad shoulders. While leaving the details to his scribes and officials, the Prince set about organizing the people into settled camps, and putting the able-bodied amongst them to work at the many tasks that faced them, from ploughing and sowing the fields to burning the withered bodies of the dead. Entire towns and villages were burned to the ground, where the dead lay thick enough, and many lands that had once been thickly settled now lay empty, weeds and saplings springing up in their fields as beasts and birds moved into lands that Men had abandoned. The surviving towns and cities were to be left empty until the following year, when enough grain would be stored in the warehouses to support the return of artisans and merchants to them.
Thus matters stood by the autumn of the year, when Earnur approached his father in the recesses of his study, a cool, marble-walled chamber that lay within the Citadel of Minas Anor, on the seventh and highest tier of that fortress. He found King Earnil leaning over a broad desk of onxy and chalcedony, holding a pair of calipers over a star-chart with one hand, and writing notes and calculations on a scroll of parchment with the other.
Earnur coughed loudly, and his father glanced up from his work. "Well?" asked the King. "What have you to report?"
"I have restored order to the land," replied Earnur, "as much as it has been possible to do so. The people will not starve this winter as they did in the last one. But I am gravely concerned."
"About what?" asked the King, frowning as he placed down his quill and pointed a long finger at a column on his chart.
"The defense of our land, father," replied Earnur, biting his lip to hide his displeasure. He had never understood his father's reading of the stars, finding the chart-scanning and calculations associated with such work to be skull-crackingly difficult and mind-numbingly boring; but in general he had no regard for such lore, preferring to rely on his own strength and his wits to get things done. His father, he knew, viewed matters differently, and indeed had spent ever more time at his charts and auguries since the plague of the previous year; he would be sorely angered were Earnur to express his opinions on the subject.
"What is the problem with our defenses?" asked Earnil, with a distracted air.
"Surely that's obvious!" exclaimed Earnur. "Half our army lies dead! Half our ships are unmanned, and we have but one garrison east of Anduin, at Minas Ithil. Carach Angren has been abandoned entirely, though I have still ordered patrols to visit it once a month. We are then wide open to invasion; from the East; the South; and the Sea."
"If half our army lies dead," replied Earnil dismissively, "the other half are still alive. Seventy-thousand Men, if I'm not mistaken. And we can always call on our auxiliaries amongst the Northmen of Rhovanion if we must."
"The Haradrim could muster half again as many warriors, if only they set aside their blood feuds and united under a single leader," shot back Earnur.
"But they haven't," said Earnil, "and they won't." He looked up, his eyes narrowing. "Now as you can see, Earnur, I am quite busy. What is it you want of me?"
"I am gravely concerned about the failure of our watch on Mordor," frowned Earnur. "For the best part of a year we kept no watch on that land at all, between the plague and famine, and even now our small garrison at Minas Ithil is the only permanent presence we have on its border. Who knows what foul creatures might have crept within the frontiers of the Black Land while our glance was turned elsewhere?"
"What sort of creatures could live in such a ghastly place?" asked Earnil, turning back to his chart, and adjusting his calipers. "Orcs, perhaps, but they are animals, of no account in small numbers."
"What of the Witch King?" asked Earnur darkly. "The Black Land would be a perfect
place for that foul sorcerer to hide, and stir up trouble against us."
Earnil glared at his son, and stood up from his desk. "The Witch King," he replied, with a scowl on his grey-bearded face. "I am tired of hearing of that musty wight, Earnur. You defeated him over twenty-five years ago, and yet again and again you rant on about him. I don't want to hear any more about your obsession with the Witch King! Now I'll ask again, what do you want of me?"
"Since order has been restored in the settled lands west of Anduin," replied Earnur – who suppressed a desire to smash his father's desk to pieces with a blow from his mighty fists - "we must not only redouble the vigilience of our navy along the shouthern shore, but also redeploy more troops to our eastern marches without delay. I seek permission to quadrudple our garrision at Minas Ithil to full-strength, from five-hundred to two-thousand Men. Futher, I seek permission to re-garrision Cirith Ungol and Carach Angren. Also we should send patrols into the waste of Gorgoroth, to scour the land, and ensure that no evil creatures have crept within. And we should have regular patrols from Emyn Muil to the Crossings of Poros, to keep an eye out for any trouble from the Easterlings and Southrons. A redeployment of at least ten-thousand Men east of Anduin, in sum."
"Impossible," replied Earnil, with a wave of his hand. "The stars forbid it."
"The stars forbid it?" asked Earnur, incredulous.
"Of course,"replied the King, stabbing a finger down on his star chart. "Surely that's obvious – though perhaps not to you, for you've always been a lackwit when it comes to astrological lore. Even so, if you gaze upon this chart, you see that Alcarinque is ascendant in the House of Namo, while Earendil has descended beneath the heliacal plane. Clearly, while there is some danger to the East, there is far greater danger to the West. Therefore our forces must remain west of Anduin. I would grudge even our garrion at Minas Ithil, but for the fact that it is small, and keeping a trace of our presence east of Anduin is importance for the people's morale."
"What on earth has any of this talk about who is ascending and descending where to do with anything?" exclaimed Earnur.
"The stars have spoken!" replied the King coolly. "As have I. Now begone, and leave me to my work. How you will chart Gondor's course when you assume the throne, given that you have no knowledge of star-lore and the auguries, I haven't the faintest idea," he muttered, bending down again over this desk.
Struggling to contain his temper, Earnur bowed perfunctorily, and then strode out of the room. In the corridor outside, he punched a massive fist into the wall, leaving a chip and several cracks in its smooth, cool marble.
"By the Valar, it's a dark night!" whispered Glirhuin, as he leaned over the battlements of Minas Ithil.
"Aye, the stars are veiled indeed," replied Drengist, shivering and pulling his cloak tighter about his armour. "Only the torches, and the ghost-light within the walls of this haunted place, allow us to see anything."
"Not ghost-light, but moonlight captured in the walls," corrected Glirhuin somewhat pedantically, as he rested his weight on his spear. "Or so I've heard."
"Whatever," scowled Drengist. "The sight of this accursed pile alone is enough to chill the blood. Everyone knows that Minas Ithil is haunted, and the pass of Cirith Ungol too. Fine luck we have, surviving plague and famine, only to receive the worse posting in all of Gondor!"
"It's not the worst," replied Glirhuin. "That would be Carach Angren. Or Cirith Ungol, perhaps."
"Ah, that hadn't occurred to me," shuddered Drengist again. "I wouldn't even want to go on patrol to those places!"
They both fell silent for a time, staring beyond the gently glowing walls of the fortress into the ebon night of the Ithil Vale before them. It is the small hours of a cold morning in early spring, and the two guards still had some hours left before their watch on this portion of the battlements came to an end and they could retreat to the Garrision Room in the Tower; the only place where the guards felt safe from the phantoms rumoured to haunt the lonely fortress.
"Hey, Glirhuin," whispered Drengist. "You had any dreams lately?"
"Dreams?" asked Glirhuin.
"Well, you know," said Drengist, "nightmares more like."
"Nah, I slept like a log last night, and the night before," replied Glirhuin. "And you?"
"I had an awful dream before waking up for guard duty," replied Drengist. "I saw hideous faces, thousands of 'em, all passing through the dark."
"How could you see 'em if it was dark?" quipped Glirhuin, pleased to have scored another point against his counterpart.
"What does that matter?" scowled Drengist. "I saw 'em just the same. And behind them was something, something darker than dark…" His voice trailed off into muttering and whispered prayers.
"You don't drink enough," replied Glirhuin. "That's your trouble. I down two flagons of ale a night before turning in, and I sleep like a baby. In fact, I've seen no proof this place is haunted at all. Fairy tales, that's all that is."
"Brave words, very brave," replied Drengist. "Let's see you spend a night off in one of the high Tower rooms by yourself then, rather than in the Garrison Room."
"Well, that would be a long climb…" replied Glirhuin, scuffing his iron-shod feet against the stonework of the battlements.
"I knew it!" smiled Drengist triumphantly. "It's one thing to talk brave, quite another to put your silver where your mouth is, as they say."
Glirhuin frowned gloomily, and they fell into silence again for a time. Then he frowned even more deeply, and said, "Hey, Drengist?"
"What is it?"
"You hear something?" continued Glirhuin.
"Hear what exactly?" replied Drengist.
"I don't know," said Glirhuin. "Sounds like thunder, to the east. A low rumbling, but far off like."
"That's your imagination," insisted Drengist. "Thunderstorms don't come from the East in these parts, anyhow."
"So now you're an expert on the weather?" spat Glirhuin. "Well, keep your ears peeled, just the same." The fell silent for perhaps a quarter of an hour, when Glirhuin spoke again.
"Now don't tell me you can't hear that!" said Glirhuin. "Listen!"
Drengist did listen, and then he placed a hand on the wall of the battlements, clenching the hard stone tightly in his grip.
"By the Valar!" cried Drengist. "I do hear it. From the east, and roundabout. A real rumbling and thundering it is, but from the ground, not the sky."
"Blast this dark!" cursed Glirhuin. "I can't see even half an arrowshot beyond the walls. Anything could be down there."
They listened in increasing alarm, as the rumbling grew louder, and drew closer to the fortress. Now other watchmen on the battlements were stirring, exclaming in alarm as they heard the ominous noise.
"Hey Glirhuin," said Drengist. "You were present at the Battle of the Poros, right? When we slew all them Haradrim of the Desert Fox tribe. Well doesn't that damned noise sound to you like an army on the march? Like thousands of…"
He never finished the sentence, for suddenly a black-feathered arrow was lodged in his throat!
"Drengist!" cried Glirhuin, dropping behind the battlements as a shower of arrows soared over the walls, clattering on the stones of the courtyard below. Drengist was quite dead, but the cries of other slain guardsmen echoed across the courtyard, as the survivors on the watch rang the alarm bells, and a murmur of activity stirred from the garrison room at the base of the Tower keep.
Whispering a prayer for his friend, Glirhuin pulled an arrow from his quiver, ready to fire it through the arrowholes of the battlements at the unseen foes beneath – however futile such a gesture might appear in the dark. But before he could fire, he dropped his bow and arrow and clamped his hands over his ears, screaming in terror as his blood turned to icewater.
For from the darkness beyond the walls issued a low, eerie, blood-curdling cry, that soon rose to a deafening, ear-shattering screech. The evil cry first echoed from the stones of Minas Ithil, but then was taken up by them, until it seemed that the entire fortress was alive and screaming, venting its rage and fury against the Gondor-men who dared to dwell within!
Crawling on his hands and knees, Glirhuin made his way off the battlements and down to the courtyard, where he found the surviving members of the garrison, rushing toward the Outer Gate of the fortress. Many of them fell under a second volley of arrows that soared over the walls, all of them stopped up their ears at the inhuman wail issuing from very stone of Minas Ithil that threatened to shatter their eardrums, and freeze their blood to ice.
"This accursed place is alive!" cried one. "It is possessed by demons!" cried another. "Flee for your lives!" They all surged under the high, narrow archway in the walls towards the Outer Gate, heedless of the unseen foes outside as they pulled down the lever that swung open its heavy iron doors. In their madness they had no thought but to flee the fortress, which had to them become a place of terror and death.
The gates opened fully with a heavy groan, and the Gondor-men rushed out, running for their lives – and straight into another volley of black-feathered arrows, fired at them from point-blank range. Then there was a charge towards the fortress, as thousands upon thousands of Orcs, iron-clad and slavering with blood-lust, fell upon and cut down the last survivors of the garrison, surging through the open gates and across the courtyard, filing into the Tower keep and occupying the outer walls. Within half an hour, it was over; Minas Ithil had fallen, and not a Man of Gondor remained alive to tell the tale. The hideous screeching from the walls fell silent, and only the vile bleats and scufflings of the Orcs could be heard.
As the Orcs shambled across the courtyard, snorting and yammering, jostling and scuttling, their hideous faces were suddenly marred even further by a nameless fear. They gibbered and whined as they rushed away from the Outer Gate, leaving a clear path from there and clear across the courtyard to the Tower.
A solitary figure rode up to the Outer Gate, and paused on its threshold. It was mounted on a gaunt black steed, and was dressed all in black robes, draped over armour of sable-tinted steel. Under its cowl there was no face, but only an ebon blackness, darker even than that outside the fortress walls.
"Minas Morgul," intoned the figure in a hollow, sepulchral voice. "After two-thousand years, once again you are mine. This time my dominion over you shall endure forver, even unto the breaking of the world." Then he rode under the archway and into the courtyard, and the iron gates of Minas Morgul swung shut behind him with a heavy clang.
"Fire another volley, by the Valar!" cried Earnur. "We must hold them off until the Western Bridge over Anduin is demolished entirely!" Swearing loudly as he dodged yet another black feathered Orc arrow, Earnur turned back toward the barricade that had been swiftly thrown up across the bridge, and which alone prevented the vast horde of Mordor Orcs from occupying the Isle of the Royal Palace on which he stood, and surging over to the western shore of Osgiliath.
Earnur had long feared that evil creatures might have entered Mordor when Gondor's watch failed; but, where so many Orcs had come from he had not the sightest idea. They surely could not have dwelt there for long, but rather must have bred in far distant places, waiting for the day when Gondor's vigilance would fail, and they could once again occupy the Black Land.
As for who was responsible for leading the Orcs – of that, Earnur had no doubt at all. At Fornost the Witch King had boasted that he had only begun to unleash his vengeance against the Men of the West. And the Mordor Orcs bore black banners like those of Angmar, only with the grinning skull set in a pale Moon as a corpse face – an obvious mockery of the capture of Minas Ithil, the Tower of the Rising Moon.
Just that morning his scouts in Ithilien had fled back to Osgiliath, reporting that Minas Ithil had fallen, and that a vast host of Orcs – thousands upon thousands – was heading straight for the Bridge across the Anduin. Gondor's army was scattered far and wide, maintaining order and rebuilding the land, and the best Earnur could do with so little warning was to dispatch the garrison of Minas Anor to Osgiliath, to hold the Bridge until it could be demolished. That would buy time for Gondor to redeploy its armies in a broad front along the western shore of the Anduin, and prevent an Orcish invasion of the westlands.
"Your Highness," shouted a general, running up to Earnur. "The last keystones of the Bridge between this island and the western shore have been removed. It is ready to fall on your command."
"Then we must order soldiers to fire another volley of arrows at the Orcs, and abandon this isle to the enemy," replied Earnur. "Though it galls me to think of Orcs overrunning the Royal Palace of Osgiliath – but we had not time to destroy the bridge to the eastern shore, before the Orcs were already swarming over it. We shall have to mount a counterattack, and destroy the Eastern Bridge at a later time. At least destroying the Western Bridge will halt the Black Tide of Mordor – for now."
"Your Highness," frowned the general. "What of the Palantir, the seeing stone in the Palace? Surely we cannot leave it to the enemy?"
"By the Valar!" swore Earnur. "I must be losing my wits, for I had forgotten it completely. Those scum have already captured the Ithil Stone, no doubt, to our grave misfortune. Very well – I will go to the Palace, and retrieve the Osgiliath Stone myself. Be ready to pull the Bridge – and if the enemy press heavily upon you, or break through the barricades, do not hesitate to pull it before I have crossed. I can swim back myself if I must, provided your archers provide cover with their arrows."
"It shall be as you command, Your Highness," vowed the general, saluting crisply before dashing to the barricades.
Earnur turned away from him, and dashed across the courtyard and up the steps of the Palace. Peals of smoke were pouring out of its windows, for there was no time to remove all of its documents, and Earnur had ordered them to be burned rather than fall into the hands of the enemy. He dashed into through the open silver doors, and down the long marble-pillared corridor that led to the throne room. He heard a great roar and a rumbling echo down the corridor as he did so, and realized that the army must have pulled the Bridge even sooner than he had expected. That meant that he was now on the wrong side of the Anduin, with thousands of Orcs for company.
Smiling grimly at the thought, he continued his dash across the sombre throne room, its statues of Isildur and Anarion staring mournfully at him, and ran through a doorway that sat behind the throne and led to the private chambers of the King. He turned down several corridors, keenly aware of the growing clamour echoing from behind him – clearly, the Orcs had already entered the Palace, perhaps under orders to retrieve the very seeing stone he was now trying to rescue.
Earnur reached his father's private apartments, which were guarded by a solid oaken door. He lacked a key, but without any thought ran at them full force, smashing into them with his massive shoulders. They gave a terrible groan, and were thrust inward off their hinges – enough that he could force his way through, and into the chambers beyond. They were bare of documents or other valuables, for King Earnil always transported such chattels to Minas Anor when he used that fortress as his summer capital, and he had not left Minas Anor since the plague of nearly two years before. But in a corner of one gilded, marble-walled chamber, on a pedestal, sat as always the Palantir of Osgiliath. It was smooth and round, yet its dark interior was animated by shifting smokes, as if it were a living thing.
Earnur picked up the Palantir in his free left hand, grunting at its surprising weight. He dashed out of the room to an antechamber illuminated by a broad, open window, and without hesitation jumped through it to the flower garden below – and straight into a score of very surprised Orcs.
The Orcs had not even time to screech or hiss before Earnur drew his sword was upon them, hewing and slashing at them with his mighty blade. Some of the Orcs cried for help from their comrades, but to no avail – within less than a minute all lay dead at Earnur's feet, in growing pools of their own black ichor. Earnur did not even bother to clean his sword, but ran across the gardens, trampling the delicate spring flowers as he dashed straight toward the shore of Anduin. More roving parties of Orcs had caught sight of him, and he cursed loudly as a volley of Orc-arrows whistled past him, several glancing off his steel armour with metallic clangs.
Earnur ignored these Orc-archers, and with a great leap sailed right off the stone-walled embankment by the shore and straight into the cold, swift-flowing river. He gasped in shock at the chill water, and then dropped his sword into the current, using his legs and his right hand to propel himself forward, while holding onto the Palantir in his left hand.
Several Orc-arrows plunged into the water a handsbreath from his head, and he picked up his pace, cursing at the negligence of his own archers on the farther shore, whom he had instructed the general were to provide him with cover. But then, as if on cue, volley after volley of arrows began to soar eastward across the Anduin from the western shore, giving him the cover he needed to make it to safety.
Earnur was so pleased at the timely aid of his archers that for an instant he neglected his grip on the heavy, slippery Palantir – and in just that instant, it slipped out of his hand, plummeting straight down into the shadowy depths of the river!
Earnur swore loudly by gods and devils, but kept on swimming. He knew how futile it would be to search for the precious stone, especially when he was weighed down in heavy armour. He would have to mount a search for it, dredging the river once the eastern shore was again under Gondor's control – but at least he had prevented the Osgiliath Stone from following the Ithil Stone into the hands of the Witch King.
After many long minutes, Earnur finally found himself by the steep, slippery embankment of the western shore. He called for aid, and soon a rope was thrown down to him, which he used to rappel up the embankment and onto a broad avenue that had once been a busy street near the Great Market. He followed the archers behind an empty mansion, so that they would be safe from another volley of Orc-arrows. They were overjoyed to see that their beloved prince was still alive, but Earnur paid them little heed. He looked first to the site of the Western Bridge, which had fallen into the river when the final keystones were pulled, separating the Mordor Orcs from the western shore by a good quarter-mile span of deep, cold water. Then he stared ruefully into the waters of the river itself, wherein lay one of the foremost heirlooms of Gondor. His father, he knew would not be pleased at the loss of the Osgiliath Stone.
Earnur spent the night encamped in an empty hall of Osgiliath, organizing the redeployment of Gondor's army to the western shore. His Men still exchanged volleys of arrows with the Orcs who held the eastern shore and the Palace isle, but the Orcs made no attempt to cross the river – clearly, they had not come equipped for a marine assault on the western shore, should the Bridge be thrown down before them. Then he received a letter from a messenger signed by the King, ordering him to place the redployment of troops and the fortification of West Osgiliath in the hands of his generals and officers, while he himself returned at once to the Citadel at Minas Anor.
Earnur complied forthwith, and by the fifth hour past dawn he stood in the Throne Room of Minas Anor – he realized he would have to stop thinking of it as the 'Summer' Throne Room, now the true capital at Osgiliath had fallen into the hands of the enemy. There, amid its black onyx pillars and marble walls, he found the King seated on his throne of carven white chalcedony. To Earnur's surprise he also saw Gandalf the Grey – known in Gondor as Mithrandir – standing before him.
"You received my summons," nodded King Earnil, as Earnur bowed before him. "Good. You can see that Mithrandir has at last joined us."
"I arrived just this morning, only to find that things have gone from bad to worse," explained Gandalf. "I have already apologized to your father the King for not arriving to succor you when your need was greatest – but I have spent the past few years by Lake Esgaroth and the mountain Erebor, helping the refugees from Khazad-Dum become established at their new home there."
Earnur nodded briefly. He knew that Khazad-Dum, the ancient capital of the Dwarves in the heart of the Misty Mountains, had fallen to some dark terror that dwelt deep within its deepest caverns. The Dwarven halls sat empty now, and were known to Men as the Mines of Moria; the Black Pit.
"In any case," continued Gandalf, "word travels slowly in Middle Earth, and it was not until the Yuletide of last year that I first heard of the disaster that had befallen Gondor. I arrived here as quickly as I could, though it was a journey of many months – indeed, it's the second of April today, if I'm not mistaken."
"It is," nodded Earnur. "But our direst peril is yet before us, now that Ithilien and East Osgiliath have fallen to the Orcs. We only just pulled the Western Bridge in time, and by ill fate I lost the Palantir of Osgiliath in the river…"
A warning glare from the King silenced Earnur, but too late – Gandalf's bushy eyebrows had already shot up.
"So, that's three Palantiri lost now," muttered the Grey Wizard, "Annuminas, Amon Sul, and Osgiliath. And one captured, for the Ithil Stone must lie now in the hands of the Enemy. That is a grievous loss indeed."
Gandalf then stared up at the King and his son, and asked, "Why was Minas Ithil left so lightly guarded, when it contained a treasure of such value?"
Earnur held his tongue, while Gandalf's blue eyes flicked briefly between him and King Earnil, who scowled as his aged hands fidgeted with the creases of his grey robes. Then Gandalf turned to Earnur and winked conspiratorially, before changing the subject to one of even greater concern.
"Before you arrived, Prince Earnur" said the Grey Wizard, "I was just about to ask your father if you have heard any news from Saruman the White – Curunir, as he is known in these parts. He has long had dealings with the Gondor-men, and I had hoped that at the least he would offer what aid and counsel he could should Gondor find itself threatened by the Witch King and his minions. Yet I have searched far and wide and have heard no word of him, nor it seems has he offered Gondor any aid at all amid plague, famine and war."
"None one knows anything of Curunir's whereabouts," replied Earnur.
"Curunir has not been seen in Gondor for twenty-eight years," observed the King somberly. "He rode into the East to conducting some sort of research – into what topics, he would not say. No one has heard of him since."
"Perhaps he is dead," frowned Earnur. "He could have fallen to the wiles of the Witch King, or those of the Necromancer of Dol Guldur in Mirkwood, of whom we have heard rumor. Or perhaps he has finished the span of even his long years, and has gone on to his reward; he has surely lived uncommonly long by the measure of Men."
"Most unlikely on all counts," replied Gandalf briskly. "Saruman is more than capable of taking care of himself, even against such a foe as the Witch King. Though admittedly, neither I nor anyone else knows enough about the Necromancer to be certain of the abilities of that dark sorcerer."
Gandalf's eyes narrowed contemplatively. "Perhaps I ought to hazard a visit to him myself, when I am satisfied that Gondor is in order. Long have I watched him from afar, without discerning his identity; yet he is he clearly is a servant of evil, and may well have played a role in Gondor's troubles. It could be the Orcs that assailed you from Mordor were in fact bred in Dol Guldur, and hid under the shadowy eaves of Mirkwood, until the Necromancer made alliance with the Witch King and dispatched his Orcs to the Black Land."
Gandalf then looked up, and concluded his thoughts on Saruman's fate. "As to Saruman's span of years," he continued, "suffice to say he is of a vigorous line, and has many years indeed ahead of him. Yes, you may be certain he is alive and well."
"Speaking of the Black Land," interjected the King, "I am astonished as well as dismayed at what has transpired in recent days. It was not in the stars, surely."
"You would be well advised to trust less to the stars, and more to you own wits, O King," chided Gandalf. The King frowned darkly at him, but Gandalf was not in the least intimidated.
"If only I had arrived here sooner, I would have counseled you to keep the strongest possible guard on your eastern marches," continued the Grey Wizard. "But what's done cannot be undone. At any rate, I wish I knew what Saruman was up to – though I have my suspicions. Sometimes I wonder if the welfare of Gondor is truly amongst his highest priorities."
"Curunir the White has always been a loyal ally of Gondor," replied the King sternly. "I am surprised you would gainsay him behind his back. Is he not your master?"
"Most certainly not!" exclaimed Gandalf. "He is the leader of my Order, but I am not his servant. You might think of him as first amongst equals, as far as we Wizards are concerned. I'm just advising you to keep your wits about you when he speaks to you, and not to follow the promptings of his Voice if they run against the grain of your heart. Only a Man of the strongest possible will can hope to deal on an even footing with the White Wizard."
"Then let us have your Counsel, Mithrandir," said Earnur, as ever getting to the point. "What are we to do, now that Ithilien has fallen? How are to we reclaim it for Gondor?"
"What you should do is what you've been doing this day," replied Gandalf. "Keep a strong watch and guard along the Anduin, for it is now the front line in a land at war. As for reclaiming Ithilien – you should not be too ambitious, for by all accounts the Orcs who serve the Enemy are many, and your army has been gravely weakened. Are not entire provinces of Gondor virtually depopulated in the wake of the plague?"
"Yes," replied Earnur. "Andrast is entirely abandoned, Anfalas and Calenardhon virtually empty. And of course we have now lost both North and South Ithilien. Anorien, Lossarnach, Lebennin, Lamedon and Belfalas are all that are left of our settled lands now, and even in those lands many towns and villages lie empty, and their fields are fallow."
"Then your ability to gain new recruits and make up for losses in battle has been gravely hindered," observed Gandalf. "If you want my advice, you will abandon any pretense of an offensive war for the time being. Gondor has passed the peak of its power and glory, and I foresee it will be on the defensive for many years to come. You must adjust your strategies and tactics accordingly."
"I care not for your denigration of Gondor, Mithrandir" frowned King Earnil. "The House of Anarion yet rules the jewel of all kingdoms. We have suffered setbacks, yes, terrible blows even. But we shall recover, and become stronger than ever."
"May it be so," nodded Gandalf. "And I am glad to see you have not lost hope, Your Majesty, despite the dark events of recent years. But I was not denigrating Gondor, merely counseling prudence. A Man who has been dealt a weak hand cannot play from a position of strength. I am cautioning you to consolidate your position, and not to squander such advantages as you still possess in reckless, foolhardy ventures." He turned and stared at Earnur meaningfully, and the Prince soon turned his gaze away.
"On another mater," said Earnur, seeking to change the subject, "what of the refugees from Osgiliath? Those from that city who survivied the plague and famine, and who have dwelt this past year and more in encampments on the Pelennor Fields. We were planning to resettle them in Osgiliath, but it is now the front line in a land at war, as you say. It can serve as military camp for our soldiers, perhaps, but we cannot permit civilians to live there any longer."
"Why not settle them here, at Minas Anor?" asked Gandalf.
"Minas Anor is a fortress, not a city," replied Earnur.
"True, the mightiest fortress in the world," replied Gandalf. "But there is no reason it can't be both. Minas Anor is now the capital of Gondor, de facto if not de jure. And a capital requires officials, and servants, and artisans, and would benefit from the presence of merchants and scholars and the like. So resettle them within the adamantine walls of this fortress. Most of the land between the walls is simply grassy meadows anyway – there is plenty of space in which to build solid houses of stone, and accommodate all the refugees of Osgiliath with room to spare."
"On that note, at least, I agree with you," nodded the King. "I took the auguries this morning, and they looked favourably upon this city and its prospects. Moreover I shall decree a change to this city's name. It shall no longer be Minas Anor, the Tower of the Setting Sun; for I name it Minas Tirith, the Tower of Guard. This place shall become the bastion of Gondor, until we regain the strength to destroy our enemies and reclaim the whole of the fair city of Osgiliath as our own. I fear I might not see that happy day in my lifetime, for I am old even by the measure of the Numenoreans. But I expect that you shall lead Gondor to its ultimate victory, my boy."
"I expect so as well, father," replied Earnur firmly.
Gandalf frowned, for in their talk of reclaiming Ithilien and East Osgiliath it seemed to him that they had not taken to heart his advice to be prudent and defensive, rather than rash and aggressive. But before he could interject, a sable-tunic'd messenger entered the Throne Room, bearing in his mail-gloved hand a long, black-feathered Orc-arrow, which pierced a scroll of parchment bound together by a black ribbon, and sealed in black wax with the image of a grinning skull.
"Where did you get that?" exclaimed Gandalf, dashing toward the messenger.
"It was fired across the river at Osgiliath, my lord," replied the man. "And lodged in the ground on the hither shore. The writing on the back of this scroll indicates that it is a message from the Lord of Minas Morgul – that means Minas Ithil, I reckon? – for the Crown Prince of Gondor."
"Let me have that!" cried Earnur, striding toward the messenger. But Gandalf thrust out a hand and held Earnur back, displaying a strength that struck the Prince as incredible for a Man of Gandalf's hoary years and diminutive stature.
"Don't touch it!" cried the Grey Wizard. "Drop it on the ground at once, messenger, and leave us. And when you do, pull off that glove – careful not to touch it with your flesh! – and throw it somewhere dark and deep. The river Anduin itself, if nowhere else will do. Quick! Off with you, and do as I say!"
"Yes, my lord," nodded the messenger, who scurried from the room. Earnur stepped back, as Gandalf crouched over the arrow and scroll, running his fingers above them and whispering words in an unknown tongue.
"What's all this about?" asked King Earnil, clearly growing impatient. "What are you doing, Mithrandir?"
Gandalf was silent for a moment, but then sighed deeply, and picked up the arrow. "I feared the arrow and scroll were hexed or poisoned," explained Gandalf, "but I discern no danger in them." He removed the scroll, and broke the arrow across his knee, tossing it into a small brazier that glowed by the foot of the Throne. Then he broke the seal and removed the ribbon, likewise casting them into the brazier, before presenting the scroll to Earnur.
Earnur unfolded it, and read it slowly for several minutes, his brows knotting as he did so – the letters were of ancient Numenorean mode, written in a thin, spidery hand, and he found them difficult to read. But at length he stared up, and the scroll crumpled beneath his mighty fist.
"Well, Earnur, what does it say?" asked the King.
"It calls me to my fate," replied Earnur grimly. He opened the scroll again, and read it aloud:
"To Earnur, Crown Prince of Gondor, son of Earnil II of the House of Anarion, King of Gondor: Greetings. When last we met, thou wert full of idle boasts, and did think to best me in combat. Thou didst fight bravely and with skill, yet thy wiles were not enough to save thee from my sorcery, and only an Elven-blade spared thee from death. Yet I am not without honour, and having captured from the House of Anarion this tower from which I write, and the lands east of the swift Anduin, I propose to thee a challenge. Thou and I shall meet in the vale of Imlad Morgul, known to thee as Imlad Ithil, and face each other again in single combat at sunset on the eve of May. Thou shalt come alone, and I shall meet thee alone. I swear to thee by the Sun, the Moon, the Stars, the deeps of the Sea, and the foundations of the Earth, that I shall employ no sorcery against thee, nor any trickery, but rather shall I set my blade against thine. If thou can best me, then I shall withdraw my armies from the lands between the Anduin and the Mountains of Shadow, and return them as a gift to the House of Anarion. But if I best thee, then thou shalt submit to my yoke, and Gondor shalt pay tribute to me until the breaking of the world. In either case shall many of thy soldiers and thy people be spared, who shall otherwise surely perish in war. Therefore choose thou wisely, with a thought to the bravery of thy ancestors, and the royal dignity of thy House. Signed and sealed on this day etc., The Witch King of Angmar and Lord of Minas Morgul"
Earnur looked up again, crumpling the parchment once more in his fists. Gandalf frowned, but remained silent for the moment.
"This dog means to taunt us!" cried King Earnil, rising from his throne, and striding down to stand before Earnur and Gandalf. "By the Valar, the day will come when he shall pay for his insolence. To return Ithilien as a gift to the House of Anarion – does the thief return to his victim a purse that he stole from him, as a gift? What damned nonsense! It was not the thief's by right to begin with!"
"Then you agree I shall face this cur in single combat, father?" replied Earnur eagerly. "I shall certainly thrash him and worse! He will not escape me a second time."
Earnil scowled at his son. "Have you lost your wits?" he snapped. "I just told you that I deem this Witch King's taunts of no account. I'm not sending the heir to the Throne of Gondor – moreover one who is yet unmarried, and has as of yet no children to survive him – to perish in a trap that even a fool could smell from a mile away!"
"He gives his word of honour that there will be no treachery," exclamed Earnur. "And after such an oath, the code of the warrior would forbid it. Rather, he seeks a duel, a contest of one-on-one…"
"Honour and the code of the warrior mean nothing to a being such as the Witch King," interjected Gandalf, staring up sharply. "On this matter, Earnur, your father is certainly right."
"That I am, by the gods!" cried the King. "I do not want to hear another word of such foolishness from you, Prince. You will not walk into the Morgul Lord's trap, simply out of pride or folly, only to find yourself ambushed in the Ithil Vale by a thousand Orc-arrows. I forbid it! That is the end of the matter."
"But I have sworn an Oath by Eru!" rejoined Earnur hotly. "To slay the Witch King in combat, single handed. It is a proverb amongst Men that Eru shall bind all those who swear by His name, and shall exact their oaths from them to the last degree. And such an oath cannot be undone. Is that not so, Gandalf?" The Grey Wizard frowned, but did not reply.
"Do not speak of oaths to me!" cried King Earnil, his grey eyes glowering. "Hand me that parchment at once!" Reluctantly, Earnur did so, and Earnil tossed it directly into the fire on the brazier.
"That letter was addressed to me, not to you, father!" fumed Earnur. "And by my honour, I cannot gainsay my oaths, nor..:"
"You will do as I command!" shouted Earnil, his aged features flushing red in his choler. "I am both your father and your King, and as both I will receive your complete obedience! By my sovereign majesty, I decree the challenge null and void, and you will never again speak a word of it to me or to anyone; nor shall you answer it. Do you understand that clearly, boy?"
Earnur scowled, not least that his father had addressed him as "boy" when he was well past his fiftieth year. But then he bowed his head, and whispered sullenly, "I understand and obey, father."
The King stared at him briefly, before exhaling loudly and returning to his throne. Gandalf sighed and muttered under his breath, but was thankful that for now at least Gondor had been spared yet another disaster.