Author's note: A warning to readers who are in the habit of skipping to the last chapter to pick up where they've left off, I've just uploaded thirteen chapters all at once. If things aren't making sense, perhaps that's why!

Recommended listening: Rachmaninov — Symphony No. 1

CHAPTER XXX: THE SIEGE OF CAIR ANDROS

Aragorn was last to join Blackbramble and the three Swan Knight sailors, who had gathered within a thicket of alder trees upon the eastern bank of Anduin, just out of enemy sight. No words were exchanged as the small company set out, keeping to what little cover there was in the sparse farmlands of Ithilien. Not half an hour had passed before they drew near the conflict raging in front of Osgiliath's eastern gate, where Captain Maeron himself was to be found beside a trebuchet – craftily reconfigured from one of the dromunds' siege weapons – aiding in its loading.

'How fares your assault?' Aragorn inquired.

'Well enough, milord,' Maeron answered. 'That is, if you consider gaining no advantage whatsoever a fair result. The Southrons entrenched themselves quite thoroughly, I'm afraid.'

'Have courage; your efforts are what prevent our adversaries from focusing the entirety of their strength on Captain Bardlorn and our navy,' said Aragon. 'But I must ask a further favour: fivescore warriors, at the least – any you can spare.'

'If my King wills it, so shall it be done,' said Maeron.

Thus it was with numbers greatly augmented that Aragorn and Blackbramble bade goodbye and farewell to the Captain but a short while later, making for the northern battlements of Osgiliath, where the Anduin flowed into the city. The sun had sunk low in the sky by the time they secreted themselves within a thicket of blackthorn, just on the far side of the defensive moat, from which they could easily observe the Southron guard. Two ships bobbed beneath the archways, the chatter of their sailors – happy to be in a position of safety, rather than where the fighting was thickest – floated up to the Gondorians' ears.

'One must be incapacitated; the other, we take,' said Aragorn quietly. 'The latter I leave to you, Blackbramble – for if Marshal Truva trusts in you, so shall I. Take half of the company and be prepared to make with all speed for Cair Andros when my warriors board.'

'Yes, milord,' said the soldier, a bright red flush creeping across his face visible even in the descending gloam.

'But let us wait until it is a little darker yet; our task shall be easier under the concealment of half-light.'

And so the company settled into the thicket and listened to the distant clash of Maeron's forces at the gate – sounds joined by the melodies of drab song thrushes, displeased to be suddenly sharing their home. The birds' flittering antics brought a breath of normalcy to the Gondorian's restless hearts, easing the tension and inactivity which grated at their nerves; night seemed as though it would never come.

A change of the Southron guard passed. These new warriors proved even merrier than their counterparts – perhaps the battle surged in their favour. But still the Gondorian company did not budge.

Aragorn gave no signal when it came time; there was no need. As soon as he was up on his feet, so were the others, moving stealthily through grasses made thicker by the growing darkness. They slipped into the moat and forged through its waters, which were waist-deep and powerful, having been diverted from the Anduin itself. When they scrambled out the opposite side and drew near where the garrison walls delved into the river, they paused briefly, assessing the guards' positions.

A stroke of luck at last! The black heraldry of Haradrim warriors outnumbered the Corsairs' blue.

With a quick series of signals, Aragorn assigned Blackbramble the nearer of the two vessels, then slipped into the water. The city wall, slippery though it was with stonewort, gave him good purchase against the weight of his armour as he drew out into the depths of Anduin. At the edge of the first pier, he made a quick calculation; the closest dromund was just within range, and its crew all gathered at the bow, distracted by their own revelry.

Clinging to the pile as best he could, Aragorn raised one grappling hook above his head, swung it about – and loosed.

If the Southrons heard any noise, they paid it no mind; their shouts continued to be of a cheerful nature. Slowly, cautiously, Aragorn took hold of the hook's long line and, inhaling a deep breath, dipped below the surface to follow it underwater. But even as he came upon the first ship's stern, followed close by the others, he cast another grapnel towards the second Corsair ship. It, too, went undetected, and so he and the first twoscore sailors struck out for the further ship, leaving Blackbramble's men to their task.

Once tucked beside the second dromund's hull, Aragorn scaled the grapnel line as silently as possible in raiment wet with river water. He had nearly gained the deck when a clangour went up from Blackbramble's ambush upon the distant Southrons, alerting their comrades. As one, the guards nearest the stern turned to spy Aragorn hauling himself over the bulwarks. They had scarcely drawn their bows and scimitars before he leapt onto the deck and charged, giving his brethren space to board.

Immediately finding himself surrounded by a trio of Haradrim warriors, Aragorn brandished Andúril. But these adversaries were not faint of heart; they shrank back only a brief moment before leaping into a dance of glimmering blades. All three struck and stepped and shoved as though they were of one mind, seeking the slightest of openings but finding none.

But nor could Aragorn find or craft his own opportunity. Each time one opponent was beaten back, the other two attacked in unison, leaving scarcely enough time to defend against them. Bent by the onslaught, Aragorn's feet shuffled a slow retreat towards the stern, drawing perilously close to the bulwarks.

The Corsairs, however, were not nearly so bold as their eastern allies, and were soon overwhelmed by the ferocity of this unexpected assault. Scarcely had the last Gondorian set foot on deck than the first Southron sailor leapt overboard, prompting his brethren to abandon ship en masse and leaving the Gondorian warriors free to come to their King's aid.

Abandoned by a significant portion of their force, only a handful of Haradrim were left to contend with the grim-faced and determined northerners. They mounted one last, half-hearted defence, taking cover behind a stock of barrels and clay pots. But once Aragorn gained one corner of their line, it became evident their attempts would not be met with success. The Haradrim dashed about the deck, setting fires all across the dromund before fleeing outright, casting themselves overboard after the Corsairs.

The northerners turned their bows at once upon their fleeing adversaries in the water below, but Aragorn called for them to halt.

'Save your arrows!' he cried. 'You will need every last one – and the resources of this ship, as well. Transfer these fire pots and all other weapons you find to Blackbramble's ship. But move quickly! As soon as the Southrons gain the quay, they will lift the harbour chains. We must be gone before then, else we are trapped.'

As the Gondorians manoeuvred the two dromunds abreast of one another, Aragorn descended below to the rowing deck and stripped each oar of its thong, casting it from its port until all drifted along on the current. When he returned above, the supplies had already been shifted in their entirety from one dromund to the other. Many of the Gondorians now made the short step across to where Blackbramble and his men rushed to put out flames set by the retreating Southrons.

Aiding in the destruction the Haradrim had wrought upon the second dromund, Aragorn fanned their fires until the vessel was irrecoverable, then vaulted over the bulwarks back into Blackbramble's company.

All eyes turned to him, anticipant.

'Set sail,' was all he said.

And so it was with renewed determination that the company embarked once more; yet their destination lay a great distance ahead, and though the winds were strong and hastened their progress, the sailors were few in number. Arduous shifts at the oars were followed by entirely too-short recoveries. As the evening wore on into deep night, the Gondorians' pace flagged and their expressions grew haggard.

'This blistering pace will serve to our advantage,' Aragorn reassured a new shift of sailors, having taken the first himself and fully intending to take the next, as well. 'We shall come upon our adversaries in the night, unexpected and undetected.'

But while these were not empty words, nor did they lend strength as rest or food or water did; exhaustion bit at the sailors' fingers, burned in their forearms, seared the muscles of their backs, pinched at the corners of their eyes. Still, it was most certainly not the first time any of them had endured miserable conditions or less than favourable circumstances; with stern countenance, the Gondorians tightened their grips and fell into a synchronous pattern, moving as one single, many-limbed organism skittering along the Anduin.

In the smallest of hours, moonlight threw shimmering jewels across the Anduin. The only sound to be heard was the ke-wik of a tawny owl and of oars plunging into the river; otherwise, darkness lay thick about the dromund. Its crew simultaneously felt as though dawn must be near and that the night would never end, stretching the torment of suspense on for all eternity.

But then Blackbramble appeared suddenly on the oar deck, expression wild. 'Milord, you'd best come quick!' he exclaimed before disappearing again.

Aragorn leapt to his feet and raced up the stairs after Blackbramble's hulking form. They converged at the ship's prow, staring out ahead. Ever so indistinctly, the sounds of battle could once more be made out above the currents' rush, and a faint red glow illuminated the treeline ahead.

Thudding back down the stairs, Aragorn stuck his head through the doorframe. 'The time is now!'

The oarsmen grew frenzied at these words, cutting fleetly through the black waters at a terrifying pace. Small though their numbers were – and entrenched though they knew their foe would be – the Gondorians had precisely one advantage; they would have to exploit it to the fullest extent.

'Lower the Southron colours.' Aragorn issued this last, quiet command just moments before the dromund bowsprit drove into the nearest enemy ship.

With a lurch, handfuls of unsuspecting Southrons were cast overboard – for not even in the last seconds had the Gondorians' approach been detected. The groan of ship and siege weapon intermingled with the Southrons' cries as Aragorn and his warriors stormed the foremost ship, overwhelming its upper deck in a single rush.

But they would not take the remaining enemy ships so easily. No sooner had Aragorn ordered Blackbramble to man the catapult of the captured vessel than Corsair oarsmen poured forth from below, scimitars gleaming like waves upon the sea. But even as they fell upon the Gondorians, warriors from all sides were sent stumbling when the deck shuddered underfoot, having come under assault from a second Corsair vessel. Alerted by the commotion, the nearest dromunds turned to face this new threat, swiftly forming a line of attack.

Their advantage of secrecy now spent, Blackbramble raised a horn to his lips. Its sounding was soon answered by another from within the fortress of Elminas upon Cair Andros: that of Vorondil of Gondor, passed down through the many generations to Boromir, Captain-General of the White Tower – a horn once sundered, but now renewed.

Lord Faramir!

The horns' echoes slowly yielded to the clang of blade striking blade. Arrows fell thick about the Gondorians, though they continued to reserve their own, relying instead upon what little shelter was to be found aboard the captured ship as they sought to board the vessel which had struck them – simultaneously working to prevent the Corsairs' own attempts to do the very same thing.

There was even less room to manoeuvre here than in the stretches of Anduin between Osgiliath and Harlond; the Corsairs found themselves constrained, unable to take advantage of their superior numbers. Laying detachments between their own ships, the Corsairs rushed to assail the Gondorians' position, yet neither was able to gain sufficient opening to advance, and instead found themselves locked in unyielding combat.

Then upon the shore Aragorn heard a cry. From the fortress gates poured a stream of soldiers, garbed both in the livery of the Citadel and of Ithilien, their swords gleaming in the light of fires set upon the isle – now scorched by the Southrons' assault – as well as that of flaming ship wreckages.

'Take to our own vessel!' Aragorn commanded Blackbramble. 'Rejoin Lord Faramir!'

The Hidland soldier had scarcely nodded before he was gone. In the next moment, Aragorn and those who remained behind laid cover as the dromund by which they had advanced from Osgiliath disentangled itself and snaked towards the banks of Cair Andros. No sooner had Blackbramble's forces gained the isle than the ship drove back into the mêlée once more, falling upon the vessel already under attack from Aragorn's forces.

Unable to hold against multiple fronts of attack, the Corsairs – those that did not fall by the Gondorians' blade or arrow – raced back to their individual ships or dove into the waters below. Even those that manned the beleaguered first vessel sought safety among their comrades. All Southron dromunds now hung back, uneager to engage these redoubled Gondorian forces.

Then, in the gentle glow of firelight, Aragorn spied across the distance a sight most welcome: that of Lord Faramir – armour terrifically dented and exhaustion heavy upon his shoulders, tangled locks swept across his sweaty brow – yet alive. Aragorn clove a path along the captured ship deck and leapt aboard the second vessel, even as Faramir hailed him.

'My lord!' he exclaimed, making as if to bow. But Aragorn caught him by the arm and embraced him closely, as a brother.

'Great joy it brings me to see you, my friend! I was led to believe you were upon death's very threshold.'

'Blackbramble is stouthearted in battle, but less so in the infirmary,' said Faramir, the suggestion of humour in his eye. 'He must have greatly overestimated my injuries. You shall have to be gentle in your reprimand.'

'And Lady Éowyn? I trust she is safe and well?'

'I myself can but hope. I entrusted her and the others to a light guard in Ithilien, hoping the location's insignificance would prompt the Corsairs to pass it over – though to be quite forthright, I fear more for any who would dare threaten my dove and the infant Elboron. I rather think it is we who are in the greater danger.'

'Though she may have renounced her shieldmaiden ways for that of a healer, Lady Éowyn's spirit is no less fierce,' Aragorn concurred. 'But let us set our mind to the task at hand, all the sooner to be reunited with those we love. These few enemy ships that besets us now are but a small fraction of their fleet, as you well know – though what you do not know is that even more may yet come. We are desperately needed by those who wage battle in Osgiliath.'

And so the Gondorians turned their attention to the remaining Corsair dromunds. But not even with the added strength of Ithilien Rangers and soldiers of the White City could the Southrons be easily subdued. Aragorn led a wave of soldiers onto the next vessel, only to fall back before regrouping and attempting a second boarding. The Corsairs in turn found their resolve hardened, and did not forfeit any position freely; each of the Gondorians' advances was hard-won, and their setbacks bitter.

Then, as the battle raged on and another droumund fell under Gondorian possession, a peculiar sound could be discerned over that of blade striking blade and hull rending hull. It was faint at first, audible only between fleeting lulls in the chaos: a beating, like that of a heart — a steady pace, neither racing nor lethargic. It slowly crescendoed, a rhythmic pulse bearing down upon Cair Andros as night began to yield to day and the conflict between Gondor and the southron forces grew more fierce. But even when the first wash of light poured across the land, still the noise's source could not be spied.

The sunrise lent heart to the Gondorians, however, and at last they were able to wrest full control of the vessels they had succeeded in boarding. With their inescapable defeat near at hand, the Corsairs' spirits faltered entirely; the last two remaining dromonds turned and fled back towards Osgiliath and the protection of their brethren. The Southrons had thought their assault upon Cair Andros would be met with little resistance, and found themselves wildly mistaken.

Exhausted, the forces of Gondor tumbled onto the docks and flame-blackened banks of Cair Andros, soaking in the rising sun's gentle rays. Yet they soon roused themselves, for they were in no position to succumb to their enervation; there were fires to be put out on dromund and isle alike, and injured warriors to be rushed into the infirmary, and graves to be dug in the fortress' garden of remembrance. There was stock of resources to be taken, as well – including a full assessment of their numbers, and plans for rejoining the forces at Osgiliath made. But even as Aragorn bent before one injured Swan Knight to see how best to transport him, Faramir approached with hurried step.

'My lord, I have spoken with those who keep watch from within Elminas,' he said. 'It seems our lookouts have discovered the source of the beating we hear even now.'

Aragorn rose and cast his eyes upon the Steward, who met his concerned gaze in kind; the sound was unmistakable – it was that of an army on the move, approaching from no great distance.

'They come from the East,' Faramir continued, his voice a near-whisper. Aragorn's heart spasmed painfully to hear these words spoken, but Faramir's expression dampened the hope that crept in.

'Have they sent no envoy?'

Faramir shook his head. 'There has been no word, yet their forward companies are visible already; they make no attempt at secrecy.'

Aragorn's grimace narrowed to a thin, determined line. 'Let us first send our own scouts,' he said, beckoning to Blackbramble. 'Take the most fleet-footed amongst our soldiers. Determine the numbers of these new arrivals, and whatever else you can – but do not approach outright until we know whether they come to help or harm us.'

With a bow, Blackbramble leapt into action, darting off as the main company tramped up the hill towards Elminas and its southern postern door. The bailey garden, ravaged both by winter and war, lay painfully bare, as did the corridors and halls within the keep itself – for ever had the threat of attack come primarily from the south; even in the wake of Cair Andros' overrunning during the War, only the most essential of resources had been allocated to the isle.

Within the infirmary, those injured during the initial assault upon Osgiliath greeted their King's entrance with a murmur of gentle rustling. Aragorn acknowledged each in turn, working swiftly to assess who was in most desperate need of assistance while also directing the arrangement of new arrivals. Alongside the companies' own healers, he made his way through the ward, engaged in an unending series of bandaging and sewing and splinting and extracting.

Long were his labours. Strong beams of late afternoon sun streamed through the windows before he sat upon a stool with hands empty and limp, damp sweat upon his brow. One exceedingly young assistant – none other than the sailor Fofrin – brought him a bowl of water with which to wash up, but he was slow to do so, his mind as tumultuous as his body was still.

It was even as he was drying his hands that Faramir appeared in the doorway. A mere glance was all that passed between them before Aragorn rose and made a final sweep of the infirmary, then exited into the hallway beyond. As the pair ascended the stairs leading to the eastern battlements, Aragorn glanced obliquely at Faramir, whose step was uneven and who heavily favoured his right side.

'You yourself ought to be tended by a healer,' he chided gently.

'So that they may fuss and bother over me, and insist that I abandon my duties?' Faramir scoffed. 'I think not.' He threw the tower door open and strode along the wall-walk to where Blackbramble and the other scouts stood clustered above Elminas' eastern gate.

'How now, Master Blackbramble?' said Aragorn. 'What report have you to give?'

'They halt even now some three leagues distant from our position,' he replied, pointing out across the eastern branch of Anduin in the direction of Dagorlad, where a black shadow unrelated to the weather was cast upon the heathland. 'Their camp spans clear to the Ephel Dúath, each tent hosting half a dozen heads. They number in the thousands.'

'Of what people be these soldiers?' asked Faramir.

'I cannot say,' said Blackbramble. 'They don livery unfamiliar to me; it is not that worn by the Easterlings during the War – though their weaponry and insignia are unmistakably of that region.'

'Not twelvemonth has passed since we made peace with those lands,' Aragorn mused. 'There is yet a possibility we find them before our doors with no ill intent.'

'Perhaps they have heard of our tribulations, and come to grant us succour in our conflict against the Southrons,' suggested Faramir. 'I had news out of Osgiliath some time ago that Legolas, Gimli and Truva made for Rhûn – perhaps it is they who ride at the helm of this new host.'

Aragorn's stomach gave another sharp twist then, the cruel blade of uncertainty sinking deep between his ribs. Countless threads slipped through his mind, each more fearful than the last – for in spite of his spoken optimism, and Faramir's agreement, the danger they faced was grave indeed if they were incorrect. Both Umbar and Harad had been quick to abandon all pretence of accord; there was little hope the Easterlings were any more faithful.

Yet that was not the full extent of Aragorn's fears. Throughout his journey in the Sutherlands, some small, selfish corner of his heart had been comforted by the knowledge that Truva was elsewhere, beyond the reach of immediate danger. He did not wish to entertain the idea she had come amongst them again, into an ongoing conflict – however desperately her expertise was needed, or how fervently he hoped their reunion drew nigh.

'Perhaps,' he muttered, half to himself. 'Perhaps it is so, and come morn we shall march to Osgiliath with numbers strengthened manifold. But until we have any such assurance, let us be circumspect, and spend the time left to us reinforcing our defences, or getting what rest we can – for if indeed this host is an enemy to us, we must not allow them to gain a foothold in so crucial a position as Cair Andros.'

'But if our friends are amongst them—' Blackbramble began, hope in his eyes.

'If our friends are amongst them, they will surely be swift to send word,' said Aragorn, laying a sympathetic hand upon the warrior's shoulder.

Together, the party descended into the halls of Elminas, gathering all unoccupied and able-bodied soldiers and setting about what few tasks could be accomplished before dawn – or earlier, should the fortress come under attack in the night. Under Faramir's direction, the soldiers readied arrows and combustible clay pots commandeered from the Corsairs' dromunds, or transferred rubble that had fallen during the onslaught to piles beside their own catapults. But even as Aragorn laboured amongst these industrious warriors, Faramir drew him aside.

'When was it that last you slept?' he asked. Aragorn searched his hazy memory, but the answer came too slow for Faramir's satisfaction. 'Aragorn, rest,' he insisted.

Aragorn had no retort – in all likelihood, an effect of not having slept a full night (let alone soundly) since fleeing Herumoros. His mind and movements were slow, and more taxing than he would care to admit.

'Very well,' he sighed, yielding to Faramir's insistent look without complaint.

His steps led him first to Elminas' dining hall, where stale waybread and water were being distributed to any who had not yet eaten; thus Aragorn was alone in taking advantage of their services. Then up, up the southeastern tower he climbed, where both encroaching army and contested stretch of Anduin could be observed. The emerald sea of Cormallen shimmered just beyond the isle's southern tip, cut by the small stream of Hennethír – a reminder of peaceful, joyous days free of anguish.

The umber wash of sunset warmed Aragorn's skin and filtered through the lids of his eyes even when he closed them, promising himself but a moment's respite. When next he woke, waybread still clutched loosely in hand, he had not even realised he slumbered – and yet the scene about him was fully dark. The Easterling encampment beyond Elminas' embrasures was a pattern of scarlet stars upon a sable field, their campfires seemingly outnumbering the stars of the sky.

Aragorn felt certain these were not welcome forces. But some nagging spark spoke to him of Truva, whispered of her strength and assurance, hinted at her presence—

A fool's hope. Aragorn rubbed his face with his hands; he ought not allow himself to be misguided by desire. All he could depend upon was all he had before him, however little it may be: six hundred men against an Easterling force thousands strong, under circumstances that offered no possibility of reinforcements. Every variable was immaculately set against Gondor; it made Aragorn uneasy in a way he could not articulate.

Darkness crept into dawn, but still no messenger was received. Then, as dawn turned to day and the Easterling fires became lost in the light, Aragorn descended to the bustling fortifications with hope diminished. He strode along the ramparts, hailing each bustling soldier as they hurried about completing last-minute preparations, until he came to the gate keep where Faramir and Blackbramble stood gazing out across the expanse with impassive expressions.

No greeting passed between the three; they merely watched in silence as formations emerged from the dark mass of the Easterling camp. Then the steady beat resumed – for the host marched once again, drawing ever nearer the isle of Cair Andros. They came and came, until the very stone of Elminas shuddered beneath their stamping feet, and their chants rattled the bones and teeth of those who stood upon the fortress battlements.

The morning sun was high in the sky when the first companies began to array themselves upon the bank opposite, stretching out like a patchwork of threatening selion fields. But even as the rear ranks of Easterlings continued to file forward, a fanfare trumpeted. One single rider bearing the white standard of parley rode forth. His lamellar armour gleamed in the sunlight, and his helm boasted the insignia of a silver sturgeon.

The Noyon halted in the very middle of the bridge spanning from bank to gate.

'Will you not treat with us, King Aragorn, son of Arathorn, of the line of Elendil?' he cried, voice carrying over the sound of marching soldiers. 'Can we not be allies, deserving of consideration?'

'Did we not already give the Easterlings our promise of peace and fraternity?' Aragorn replied. 'Speak what words you will, and we will give them consideration.'

The Noyon's mount shifted slightly, but the commander himself gave no outward indication of discomfiture. 'I think you mistake us for our brethren,' he said calmly. 'We have made no such promise with you – though we greatly desire to do so. No, we come on a different campaign.'

'And what campaign is that?' demanded Blackbramble, having grown bold in his newfound responsibilities.

'Are you not beset upon by the armies of the Southlands?' asked the Noyon. 'We see the smouldering remnants of their black dromunds upon your shores even now.'

'How came you by this knowledge of distant lands' ships, and affairs in which you have no involvement?' Aragorn countered.

'Grant us an audience, and we may discuss all such matters at length.'

Aragorn glanced towards his companions, who returned his look of suspicion. Yet even as he contemplated how best to exact the information he sought without jeopardising the safety of his warriors, another figure stepped forward: a man old and wizened, garbed in robes of deepest midnight blue, and riding upon a chestnut and white pinto steed.

'Aragorn son of Arathorn, counsel of Olórin – known also as Mithrandir in these lands, or Gandalf more widely.' His voice was no louder than if he spoke in conversation beside all who listened, and yet it was easily discernible across the distance. 'Relinquish the lands of Anórien – north of Minas Tirith and east of Rohan's border, as far as Onodló and the Anduin itself – and those of the Wold, belonging to a people who once harassed my own. Do this, or we shall be called upon to wreak great destruction upon your paltry forces.'

Terror struck the hearts of all Gondorians gathered on the battlements. Hope of a peaceable resolution – which had not been great from the outset – vanished entirely.

'You come with so unreasonable a demand,' said Faramir, 'including for lands which none here hold dominion over. Methinks you wish to control all of Middle Earth!'

'On the contrary, it is King Aragorn who seeks uncurtailed power – for in reuniting the regions of Gondor and Arnor, he would bring under his fearful flag all the most fertile regions of Middle Earth, subjugating any who would question him. There can be no balance or equity in a world in which the Reunited Kingdom is allowed to exist.'

'If these be your demands, we shall not grant them,' said Aragorn, his words stark and bold.

Alatar's quiet chuckle in response trickled down the spines of his audience. 'You make your ruinous decisions far too rashly, Lord Aragorn.'

'And you make your extortionate demands far too confidently, Wizard,' said he. 'I have treated with your kind before; yea, and seen how greed corrupts and enfeebles your power. These are not things taught me by Mithrandir, but that I have seen with mine own eyes. You are of Saruman's ilk, sundered from your original purpose and slave to baser desires. There is nothing with which you can bargain that would possibly entice me to entrust even the smallest parcel of land into your care – for you will do nothing save exploit it to your own benefit, not that of its people.'

'So shall it be,' said Alatar. 'You have said it with your own words – there can be no arbitration between us. Your fate you have sealed yourself.'

He and the Noyon spun around and swiftly retreated from the bridge, back into the safety of their imposing ranks. Even as they did so, brazen trumpets rang out. From the shelter of Cormallen's culumalda trees emerged a parade of siege weapons, each more intimidating than the last – and makeshift bridges as well, to mount the short span between eastern bank and isle.

'How is this possible?' said Faramir, uncomprehending. 'My warriors and I swept the woods of North Ithilien with alarming regularity, especially following the attack we suffered in winter. These structures would have taken weeks to construct; how did we not discover their machinations?'

'Cormallen alone is vast, my friend – to say nothing of the woodlands throughout all of Ithilien; those who wish to be overlooked will find it easy to make it so.'

But before he could so much as issue a command, the battlements had already become a mill of activity. Soldiers darted about like minnows when a heron's shadow passes overhead, reinforcing the main eastern gate of Elminas and aligning Gondor's own weapons, moving to mitigate the looming threats' effects before they even occurred.

'Let us hope Captain Bardlorn's circumstances prove more fortunate than ours,' said Aragorn when the Easterling trebuchets came within range, 'for it is we who shall require rescuing, it seems, rather than the other way around.'

'And not for the first time,' quipped Blackbramble.

Just then, the first projectile came sailing towards Cair Andros. It splashed harmlessly into the waters of Anduin, but was followed immediately by a shuddering stroke to the battlements themselves.

'And so it begins,' said Faramir, the muscles of his jaw tight.

Archers raced to aid their brethren at the siege weapons, for the Easterling warriors still lingered beyond range of their bows. Others used blankets to extinguish a flaming, pitch-like substance lobbed onto the ramparts – and in an instant Aragorn discerned how Alatar had been so knowledgeable about the Southrons' assault, and why his timing was so impeccable.

'It is a coordinated attack!' shouted Faramir, having come to the same conclusion. 'They work together with the Southrons!'

A second boulder struck the fortress walls.

'That is an issue we must contend with if we are so fortunate as to survive this day,' Aragorn replied. 'But for now, it matters not; we face the same attack regardless of how it was conceived.'

It was the gate of Elminas itself that was struck this time. The defender's ears were met with a sharp splintering sound, but the gate held. Aragorn rushed to aid soldiers loading a trebuchet nearby, desperate for any activity to occupy his mind; sieges wearied him more thoroughly than any combat at close quarters, for there was entirely too much time to think – not only thoughts of strategy, but also of exhaustion, and of thirst, and despondency.

The trebuchet pin was released, and the first of the Easterling siege weapons was rendered to splinters as a result, only to be replaced by another – and a canopied battering ram.

'Ready the ram defences!' cried Faramir.

Aragorn yielded to the soldiers who ran towards his position at the trebuchet. 'I entrust the rampart defence to you,' he said to Faramir, who nodded. 'And do not overexert yourself; I see it pains you to walk, let alone lift a blade.'

'Go, milord,' said Farair, his expression half grimace, half amused smile. 'Go defend the gates, and see that I needn't unsheath my sword.'

With one final clasping of hands, Aragorn leapt down the exterior stairs four at a time and gained the main gate, where already a large contingent of soldiers led by Blackbramble had barricaded its rear. Shouts came from above and beyond, followed by the thud of ram upon plank. Dust drifted down and settled upon those gathered below as the Easterling ram struck a second time.

The worn leather grip of Andúril was soft in Aragorn's calloused palm; other soldiers clutched their weapons so tight they were in danger of needing new ones entirely – certainly more than a few fletching feathers were plucked by their wielders' nervous fidgeting.

A third strike sounded, then a fourth. The gate planking grew splintered at shoulder height. Archers adjusted their position to take advantage of any opening as soon as it might be cleared.

A fifth strike.

But then a trumpet sounded, clear upon the late morning air.

'The Horn of the House of Éofor!' Blackbramble exclaimed. 'It was by this horn the Eorlingas were led in their assault upon the Black Gates!'

He dashed off at once, making for the austere stables of Elminas. Aragorn gazed after the Hidlander in confusion a moment before racing to rejoin Faramir upon the ramparts, breathless. He dared not to hope, and yet—

Off to the north, a second force had materialised. Its ranks were arrayed upon the crest of a hill, just near enough for each individual to be distinguished. Bright, bold banners – the likes of which Aragorn in all his travels had never seen before – hung limp in the nonexistent breeze.

'Orcs!' gasped Faramir. 'I did not think our luck could turn any worse!'

'Yea, friend, yet listen!' said Aragorn.

A horn – unmistakably that of the Rohirrim – sounded again. The newly-arrived army stormed down the hill, like spring floodwater tumbling down a mountainside. One figure momentarily darted out ahead, bold and brash: Truva!