Chapter twenty-four: The Game

From Swords Against Umbar, by Galion Whitesmith, F.A. 1700

To the modern eye, what is surprising about the war is how swift it was. Granted, the machinations of Umbar had been many months, even years, in the making. However, from the attempt on Elessar's life to the first deaths of the war, it was barely three weeks. In that time, you must remember, Elessar had mustered an army; taken it into the Brown Lands, which was then a trackless wasteland; negotiated a peace settlement; returned to Minas Tirith, and then left it again.

It is easy for us to look at our broad, smooth roads and think that things were different in the past. Nowadays, of course, our stage-coaches can take us in comfort from Osgiliath to Fornost in less than a fortnight. Boromir, son of the Denethor the Last, took a hundred and ten days to travel less far. However, when it comes to warfare, things were actually swifter then. Needless to say, armies cannot travel by stage-coach, so even today, their movement is limited by the distance a man can march in a day. Gear was lighter then, and the men-at-arms had recently fought a dreadful war, and were accustomed to hardship and long marches: longer than any captain would demand from their men today.

Nowadays, if a war calls for more men that are provided by our standing army, new soldiers must be recruited and trained, and uniforms and weapons found for them. All this takes time. In Elessar's time, however, things were different. For thousands of years, you must remember, Gondor had lived with the constant menace of Sauron and his allies. Even the humblest farm labourer knew how to fight. The southern fiefs, in particular, operated on a feudal system, by which land was held in exchange for military service. From great lords to humble tenant farmers, everyone with land was expected to provide a body of armed men, whether large or small, when their own lord asked them to.

As a result, Elessar and his lords could mobilise an army far faster than we could produce one now. In addition, armies were smaller then than they are now, which led to swift movement and swift battles.

However, even the swiftest army in the world is useless unless the intelligence is right.

Abrazîr had seldom landed like this. He had captained a ship for many years, but a wound had kept him from sailing against Gondor, so of all the veteran captains, he was one of the few who had survived the terror of the restless dead. He would avenge them now, ah yes!

Most landings came with swords and screaming. In his long years of working the coasts, he had taken countless slaves. They always struggled. It was more fun that way. More fun for the lads, anyway. Abrazîr was past taking enjoyment in such things. Terror was a weapon, and he loved it no more than he loved the knife at his belt.

Even so, it felt wrong to land like this in Gondor, so quiet and so unopposed. Other captains, younger captains, were even now ravaging the southern fiefs of Gondor. Just like the old times! he thought, but most of these were young men who didn't remember the good old days. There would be resistance, of course, because their black sails had been spotted coming in towards the coast. Most of the fighting men of Gondor had been tricked into marching north, too far away to cause any trouble. Most of the rest would even now be rushing towards their populated coastal areas, thrown into a panic by the sight of the black sails.

But Abrazîr and the others had broken away from the fleet long before it had been sighted. While the younger captains ravaged the lands on the inhabited side of the river, Abrazîr and a handful of ships had sailed quietly along the uninhabited coast, flying not black sails but sails the colour of sand. There were no lights on this coastline, and no slaves to be taken. No horns sounded across the water, announcing that they had been seen. Swiftly, silently, they had slipped along the narrowest and most hidden of the many mouths of the Anduin. Then had come the most perilous part of the journey, when they had sailed up the river at night, without any lights to show them the way. There were lights on the northern shore - the lights of enemies who could not be allowed to see them - but there were no lights on the southern shore, and nothing to keep the ships from running aground.

And now here they were, as close to the cities of Gondor as they dared. They turned into the broad mouth of the Poros, and there they made anchor. There, at last, did they land the troops that they carried. The slaves, too, they unchained and sent out with spears in their hands. They were not slaves from Gondor, of course, but slaves from the far south, who had cause to hate Gondor. "You will get your freedom if you fight well," Abrazîr told them. It might even be true, but it depended on what mood he was in when they returned. He needed men to row him home, after all.

Throughout it all, there was nobody to see them. There was nobody to resist them.

All across Gondor, the messengers were riding. As he rode out from Minas Tirith, Aragorn was the only one to ride slowly, lost in thought. All the pieces were on the board now, and it was now too late for many of them to be moved. The army from the Brown Lands would return when it could, but could not be hurried. The levies from Belfalas and Lebennin were defending their own coastlines, and that was where they had to remain. It was too late to move them, even if he wanted to.

But they were not pieces on a gaming board, of course, but living men who would die if he was wrong. Some would die anyway, because that was the way of war. Some would…

No, there was no time to think about that. Like any captain, a king had to do whatever was needed to bring about the best result. He could not lose himself in bitter regret for each lost life. He could not risk the lives of a hundred men in the hope of saving one. People died in war. The role of a captain was to ensure that their deaths were never wasted; that they died in the service of a good cause, and as few and as seldom as possible.

Did the lords of Umbar consider the value of each life? They were greatly weakened since the fall of Sauron; this he knew. From the start, their strategy had been based on their lack of numbers. That was why they had tried to weaken Gondor by sending an army to the north. That was why they attacked the southern fiefs even now, while on the far side of the river, their army marched up the old road from the south. It was a long march, through terrain ill-equipped to supply an army, and their numbers were few. They wanted to march into Ithilien and take Osgiliath. That, surely, was their goal. They were wagering everything on the road into Ithilien being undefended.

But if it was defended… He rode on, wondering. It was almost dawn, and the masts and warehouses of the Harlond were taking shape out of the gloom. If the road to Ithilien should prove to be defended, what plans did the lords of Umbar have for their army then?

They played it like a game, he thought, but with little concern for their pieces. The strategy behind it was clever. They had been cunning, launching feint after feint, trying to compensate for the fact that they were outnumbered and fighting far from home. But now they were throwing everything at Gondor in one last attack, and if it failed, they would be facing an empty game board, with no pieces left upon it.

But how to ensure that it failed? All across Gondor, men were taking up their positions, but where should Aragorn himself go? He had discussed it with Faramir long into the night; there had been no time, after all, to spend with Arwen. He could head to the crossroads to join the Rohirrim and the returning horsemen from the Brown Lands, but Éomer was already in command there. He could sail down to Pelargir, and take command of the southern levies, but the lords of those fiefs knew well how to defend their own lands and would order their own battles well, without his interference.

Or he could take a ship from the Harlond and cross the river, heading into the uninhabited lands between Mordor and the Anduin. There would be armies there, and soon. Companies had been raised from Minas Tirith and Osgiliath, ready to head south, but he had already sent the commands that would take them across the river instead. There were no bridges south of Osgiliath, but smaller forces could be transported across the river from Pelargir and the lands around.

That was where the battle would be; increasingly he realised that.

From A History of Lebennin, by Maethel of Pelargir, F.A. 380

The black sails of the Corsairs haunted too many nightmares. The merest rumour of them caused dread. That was the Corsairs' weakness, because it meant that the people of Lebennin were prepared to die rather than let the black ships return to their shores.

In the last decades of the Third Age, the coastal regions had been badly hit by Corsair slavers. During the War of the Ring, the ships disgorged great armies of men from Umbar and Harad, who ravaged the lovely plains of Lebennin. "Never again!" the people cried, when peace allowed them to return to their ravaged homes. They rebuilt what they could, and tore down and replaced those buildings that were beyond repair. They made their fields fair again, and they watched the coast. Always they watched the coast, determined never to be driven from their homes again.

It was to Belfalas that the news first came, but from Belfalas, it spread fast to Lebennin. The men of Lebennin are loyal and true, and they answered their lord's call. Swift ships came out of the Anduin, and prepared to board the ships of the Corsairs. It was a man of Lebennin who claimed the glory of making the first kill of the war, although the folk of Belfalas claim that glory for themselves.

Fierce was the fighting along the coast of Lebennin. Our bold mariners took two ships on the first day, landing grappling hooks on their decks, and boarding them, taking them after bitter fighting. One was wrecked, and its wreckage was left on the rocks that had claimed it. For many years, it stayed there, as the waves and the weather slowly rotted it away. Two more ships managed to land in a secluded cove, but the network of lookouts and watch towers proved true, and tidings of their approach were carried just in time. The Corsairs disembarked, but found themselves surrounded. Twelve brave men of Lebennin were slain in that battle, but of the Corsairs, not a single one returned to their black-sailed ships.

Others Corsair ships stayed anchored, but landed boat-loads of warriors under the cover of darkness, who headed inland and started raiding. Most were captured within days or weeks, but some remained at large for months. Some were never captured, or so it was said. Whenever there was an unexplained death or sudden violence on the road, rumour blamed these Last Corsairs who had never been found. This continued for many decades, far longer than any true survivors could have lived. A hundred years later, the children of Lebennin liked to scare each other with tales of the Last Corsairs: phantom robbers who hid under beds or lurked on remote roads in the winter. Songs are sung about them even now.

But all that was for the future, then. At the time, all that the people of Lebennin knew was that they were under attack, and that the future of their homes - nay, the future of Gondor itself - depended on their courage and their skill at arms. And they fought bravely, and they fought hard.

Other battles were fought elsewhere in Gondor, of course, but nowhere are there men more bold and true than in fair Lebennin by the sea.

His hands were callused from the scythe and the hoe. Tuidor was a farmer, or so he liked to call himself. In truth, he was but a smallholder, farming barely thirty acres near the coast. He liked to think of the land as his own, although he held it from his lord. He had bled for it in the past, defending it from raiders who came from the sea. He had bled for his lord, too, turning out to fight for him when he was called.

Not that he needed much calling. His lord had only ever called him when Belfalas was in need. Tuidor would have fought then, and willingly, "But I wish I could stay here," he had said to his wife. "Stay here and defend our own acres. Defend you."

"You are defending me," she had said as she kissed him goodbye. "Go where our lord sends you. Even if you end up fighting a hundred miles away, I know you'll be fighting to defend these fields." She had smiled and kissed him again. "To defend me."

And so here he was, just one of the thousand farmers and husbandmen who owed military service to their lord. His callused hands knew how to hold a spear, for he had trained with it once a week, as had been the law for so many years. Beyond them, hidden by the hills, the Corsair ships approached across the bay. There were rumours of raiding parties abroad in the hills. People said that they had been fighting somewhere, but he didn't know where. Nobody seemed to know anything for certain.

No, he thought. No, that wasn't true. Many things were certain. They were defending their homes. No enemy would march through Belfalas, of that they were sure! They were ready, and if they had to die, they would die. Just fourteen years ago, Belfalas had been ravaged by the Corsairs. Never again!

His callused hands knew how to wield a spear, but today no spears were called for. Today his only weapon was the tool he used every day. Commanded by his lord, he used a spade, digging defences in case the enemy tried to take the inland road.

They will not do so! he swore. As he dug, he pictured his acres at home: the great oak that he hadn't the heart to fell; the white bell flowers of bindweed, twining in the hedges; the joyful bounding of young lambs; his wife's smile.

I fight for all this! he thought. If every man stayed at home and fought on his own acres, then one by one, every one of them would fall. But they had marched away. To defend their homes, they had marched away from them. Together they stood, because their oaths bound them. Together they stood, because together they could keep the enemy from entering Belfalas. By leaving their homes, they protected them.

I hope, he thought. I hope.

Calennor had been just sixteen years old when the Corsairs had stolen him from his home. He'd been foolish, thinking himself immortal. As he'd scrambled alone up the cliffs in search of eggs, he had slipped and fallen. By chance, he had missed the rocks and landed on one of the few patches of sand between them. And it was there, half-stunned, that he had been found by the Corsairs and taken as a slave.

For four years, he had rowed in their galleys. The first thing he had known of his liberation was the screaming. On the decks above, the Corsairs screamed as the Dead fell upon them. Calennor and his fellow slaves had known little of that, though. They hadn't seen the king in person, just one of his kinsmen, as tall and as welcome as a hero of old. They were free, he had told them. They were free, and their chains would be broken, but if they would consent to row for a few days longer…?

Calennor had rowed. He had rowed as he had never rowed before, and then the wind had changed and the sails had lent aid to their efforts. But everyone in Gondor knew that tale, although the names of the rowers would go forever unremembered. Everyone in Gondor knew what had happened after the ships had reached Minas Tirith.

He might have been expected to leave the sea after that. He had rowed for four years as a slave, and now he was free. What could he do? Farm, perhaps? Return to his village by the sea? He'd done that, of course, and found his father dead. His mother had embraced him, laughing and crying at the same time, and his brothers had wanted him to join them in making nets.

He had chosen the river and the sea. His mother and his brothers couldn't understand it. Four years a galley slave, and he had chosen to row as a free man. There were no whips now, and no chains, although sea captains were stern, strong men, and there was little softness, even when the crews were free. But he had come to love the water. He couldn't sleep without the feel of it.

"Pull!" came the command. "Pull! Pull!"

You couldn't see anything, down here with the oars. But he knew that the Corsairs were bearing down on them. Sometimes he heard the clatter of grappling hooks landing on the deck, and the screams of men who had been hit by them. He heard shouted commands as the ropes were severed, and the commands to send grappling hooks of their own. He knew that there would be a battle very soon. He had to win. They had to.

From Waiting for News: the Uncertainty of War, by Ornith of Dol Amroth, F.A. 1013

As a great historian once wrote, hindsight makes seers of us all. It is easy for us to forget what it was like for those at the time, who lacked our knowledge of what happened next. The war against Umbar was short, and when we look back at it now, it might seem to us that the result was never in doubt.

At the time, however, there was far less certainty. It took barely three days for news of battles to reach Minas Tirith, and as we look back from our perspective of long centuries later, three days seems like no time at all. But think how long those three days must have felt to someone awaiting the news of a son! Think how long they felt to a farmer from the coastal levies, who didn't know if his farm was still standing! Think how long they felt to a captain or even to a king, who had to decide where best to send his troops!

The uncertainty went deeper even than that, of course. Focus narrows during a war. A rower sees only his own oar. A fisherman desperately defending his home sees nothing but his own narrow stretch of shore. A soldier sees the only the men who are trying to kill him; sees them as swords, as faces, as flashes of movement, devoid of any sense of the larger pattern. A woman who has sent her son to war waits not for news of the victory of Gondor, but for news of the survival of her son. The smallest of things can remind her of her worry. As people line the walls, waiting for news, she might be found on her knees in the kitchen, clutching the shrivelled petal from a long-forgotten posy that her son once brought her. For her, the petal becomes the symbol of all those weeks of waiting and uncertainty.

Things stop during time of war, too. Normal life continues, as it always does, but people postpone making plans for the future. The reality of the war casts its shadow over everything, preventing them from sparing much thought for what might come after it. "I will do it after the war is over," they tell themselves. "I'll wait and see what happens with the war, and then I'll decide."

"After the war," they said, but at least they could see their way to an 'after.' The War of the Ring was so huge and terrible, that by the end of it, many people in Gondor had accepted that there could never be a good ending. There was uncertainty during the summer of '12, and there was fear, but there was always hope.

He would wait until the war was over, Seregon decided. He would wait and see who won. He would turn the decision over to a throw of the dice. If Umbar won…

I don't want Umbar to win.

And there it was, his answer. He tried to deny it. He tried to drive it away. Again and again, he repeated the vows he had made so long ago, and he reminded himself how much he hated Gondor and everything it stood for.

I don't want Umbar to win.

And at length, he ran out of ways to deny it. When he thought of Umbar victorious, all he could see were the faces of those proud lords who had considered him worthless, although he had sacrificed so many years to their cause. When he thought of Gondor victorious, he saw the hobbit, Pippin, talking so warmly about the homeland that he loved. He remembered what the hobbit had said, almost every word.

I don't want… No, there was no need to say it again. It was true. All that was left was the decide what to do about it.

He thought about it for the length of a sleepless night. What he wanted most of all, he decided, was to have the last twelve years again, and this time do it right. He would swear his oaths to Gondor again, and this time he would mean them. When his comrades cheered at the sight of the king, he would cheer wholeheartedly along with them. He would let himself have friends. Perhaps he would marry, even have a child. He had spent the last twelve years pushing people away, thinking of them as his enemies. He had seen the years as a sacrifice, but he could have made them a blessing.

But it was too late for that, of course. The years were gone. But they were a sacrifice! he wanted to protest. Maybe he had been wrong to think of it that way, but that was how it was. Nothing could change that. For twelve years, he had endured this empty life of his, and it didn't matter that he had been wrong to do so. He was committed now. He had to make those empty years mean something, or…

"No." This time he said it out loud, and he sat up in bed, pulling his knees up to his chest. What did it matter? He had wasted twelve years. Best not waste another day, then.

What he wanted to do was have those years back, but that could never happen. Next best was to stay exactly where he was. From this very moment, regardless of who won the war, he would be a model soldier of Gondor. He would make friends. He would live his life richly and well. He would become captain of the Sixth Gate, and maybe rise even higher after that. He would…

By now he was up and dressing, preparing to face the day. No, that, too, was out of the question. Even if Umbar lost, the lords would survive, and they would seek vengeance. They knew how to find him, and he would never be free from the fear that today would be the day that they found him. They would hold him to his oaths. They would demand such things!

And even if they did not, there would be the constant fear that the king and the Steward would discover what he had done. He would never feel safe. He would never be able to relax.

He looked at himself in the polished sheet of metal that served as a looking glass. The face that looked back at him was older than he liked to think of himself. You should give yourself up, he told his reflection. That was the honourable thing to do. That was what a true man of Gondor would do. He would confess that he had sworn false oaths to Gondor, while serving Umbar in his heart. He would confess to murdering his comrade and almost killing the Bloodhound. He would confess to stealing the token. He would confess to all…

But then he would die for it. The king was merciful, but his mercy would not extend to an oath-breaker. It could not.

"I don't want to die," he whispered, and it seemed that he was a coward after all, because it was only when he said it that he knew what he had to do.

A messenger was waiting for them at the Crossroads. Éomer took the letter, scanned it quickly, and nodded once. "Let me guess," said Gimli. "He's decided not to come back and join us. He's gone off somewhere by himself."

Éomer shook his head, although Gimli was not entirely wrong, of course. "He's gone down river, but not alone. He's commanded as many men as possible to cross the river to join him."

"So the enemy marches up the southern road, then?" Gimli asked.

"They do," Éomer says. "From the Crossings of Poros, they will come up into Ithilien, but that is not all. They have also landed a small force by the mouth of the Poros, and they think themselves unseen. Perhaps they think to sneak into Ithilien and take territory, even if their main army should be defeated. Or perhaps they intend to outflank any army of Gondor that marches south in response."

"So what are we to do?" Gimli asked. "What does the king command?"

There had been no commands in Aragorn's letter, of course. To Legolas and Gimli, as well as to Éomer and Faramir, he would give no commands. "He would like us to stop them, of course."

"Oh," said Gimli, patting the axe that hung at his horse's side. "Easy."

"Indeed." Éomer laughed. A levy was heading out of Osgiliath to defend the Crossroads if they failed. Under Captain Beregond, the levies of Emyn Arnen would defend their own hills and the road that passed it. Several thousand men were coming over from the ports between Minas Tirith and Pelargir. Several days behind them all, the army from the Brown Lands was moving south. The southern fiefs were under attack, that too Éomer knew. There would be no help from those parts, "but we have enough," he said out loud. "A thousand Riders of the Riddermark! They think to sneak up on Gondor unseen, do they? Well, they have never met the Sons of Eorl on our proud horses! They think we are a hundred miles away, embroiled in a war in the north. Let them learn their mistake! They seek to outflank us. Let them be outflanked! Let them face us!"

He had not meant it as a speech, but through it all, his voice had been rising. All those near him cheered as he finished, and cried out his name.

Let them face us! he thought, and he drew his sword from its scabbard, and held it aloft, gleaming in the morning sun. Once more, the Riders of the Riddermark were going to war in Gondor, but this time, the sun was shining and the shadow of Mordor was gone. Let them fear us! he thought, and he laughed aloud, and gave the command for his Riders to follow him into the south.

Note: I intend to post the final two chapters back-to-back tomorrow morning (UK time)