Malithôr's face grew even darker. He opened his mouth to reply, but Isildur cut him off by rising to his feet. He threw back his sky-blue cloak and his mithril armor glowed red in the firelight. He seemed to grow taller, filling the hall, and he looked fell and grim.
"This I say unto you, Men of the Mountains," his voice boomed out. "I am leaving now to break my camp and make ready to depart at first light tomorrow."
"Good," said Malithôr. "You need not wake us."
Isildur ignored him, but those near him saw his jaw clench tighter.
"But before we ride," he continued, "I shall go to the great stone on the hill, the one you call the Stone of Isildur. There I shall sound the great horn that Romach gave us. And I shall call the Eredrim to fulfill their oath. Let any who think to ignore that call take long and careful thought. The oath shall never be forgiven."
And he stalked quickly from the hall, his cloak flying behind him like the wings of a great sea bird.
Ohtar finished packing the last of their gear and men carried the bundles out to where the pack horses stood stamping in the early morning chill. On all sides tents and pavilions were fluttering to the ground. A pink glow was just beginning to suffuse the eastern sky when the last bundles were being lashed in place. As he worked, Ohtar kept looking around, hoping to see some sign of the Eredrim making preparations as well. But so far none could be seen. Glancing up the hill toward the Erech Stone, Ohtar could just make out the figure of Isildur standing there silent and motionless, wrapped in his long travel cloak against the cold mountain air. Finally all was ready. Ohtar picked up the long horn Romach had given them and climbed to stand beside Isildur. The men stood wtching in silence.
"Shall we give them a little more time, Sire?" he asked.
"No. The sun is nearly risen. Sound the horn."
Ohtar raised the immense horn and put his lips to its cup. Taking a deep breath, he blew as hard as he could. A deep mournful blast of sound, shockingly loud in the pre-dawn stillness, rent the air and reverberated from valley to valley.
"People of the Mountains!" roared Isildur, and the echoes from the cliffs magnified his voice so that it might have been the voice of Aulë calling in the wilderness when the world was made. "I, Isildur Elendilson of the House of Elros, King of Gondor, call upon you to fulfill the Oath of Karmach. Gondor has need of your aid. Will you answer her call?"
Several minutes passed, while the echoes gradually faded and died. There was no sign of life at any house. Finally a door creaked and a man stepped out of Romach's hall and stood looking up the hill toward them in the growing light. Ohtar realized he was too tall to be Romach, or any Eredrim. It was Malithôr.
"Isildur of Gondor," he called back. "I speak for the Eredrim. They have no quarrel with you and do not wish to detain you any longer. But they have no wish to enlist in your war against Mordor. They declare themselves a neutral and sovereign state, in the service of neither Gondor nor Mordor, nor of any other state. They repudiate the oath made by Karmach and refuse to be bound by it."
Isildur stared long and hard at Malithôr, hatred and a hot fury gleaming in his eye. Then Isildur drew himself up, and it seemed to those watching that they looked upon one of the old kings of Númenor, so mighty and so terrible did he seem. Then his great voice rolled out again over the valley. No Eredrim could be seen, but he knew they were cowering unseen in their houses, trembling as they listened to his voice.
"Then hear me, Romach," he roared. "Thou shalt be the last king. And if the West prove mightier than thy black Master, this curse I lay upon thee and thy folk: to rest never until your oath is fulfilled. For this war will last through years uncounted, and you shall be summoned once again ere the end. The Eredrim will never again grow and prosper, but will dwindle until the last of your children's children fade and pass into the shadows, reviled by all honorable peoples. Then these valleys shall stand desolate and barren and even the names and deeds of your people shall be forgotten.
"Even death shall not release you from your oath. You shall find no rest in your long barrows and your shades shall wander the deep places under the earth. And so you shall remain forever, lest in some future time you find a way to fulfill your oath to me. This doom do I pronounce on you and all your descendants unto the end of time. Farewell forever, Oathbreakers!"
His dire words rang out over the village and came echoing back from the cliffs, as if the mountains themselves were repeating the terrible doom. But Isildur now was boiling with cold fury, all his intolerance for faithlessness burning in his voice.
Then he called Ohtar to bring him his horse, and he sprang upon Fleetfoot's back and he galloped down the hill, straight to Malithôr. The ambassador looked up at him with a triumphant sneer, but then he sensed Isildur's righteous power and the sneer faded.
"As for you, foul Mouth of Sauron," said Isildur. "I will not slay you as you deserve for this treachery. But I lay a doom upon you also. You shall live long in the service of Sauron, but you shall ever diminish until you are naught but his mindless tool. All shall forget your name; even yourself. And my gifts for far-seeing tell me more than this — that these Eredrim you have ruined will yet be the ruin of Umbar."
Then he jerked the reins angrily, wheeled Fleetfoot around, and led his host on the eastward road. Only when the last companies had disappeared over the edge of the valley did the Eredrim start creeping cautiously from their homes. But the day that had dawned so fair was turning dark and ominous, and already they could feel a dread drawing about their hearts. Malithôr and his escort departed hurriedly for the south without a word, unwilling to meet the eyes of the people who stood staring in horror after them.
Chapter Four
The Road to Linhir
The column wended through the narrow defiles of Tarlang's Neck, the pass between the valleys of the Morthond and the Kiril. High crow-haunted cliffs rose close on either hand so that only a ribbon of sky could be seen above. The men were uneasy. An army could lie hidden in those bleak crags and deal destruction with impunity on those below. They marched in silence, their eyes ever alert for the slightest movement in the rocks above, their ears straining for the sound of sliding rocks or twanging bow strings. But except for the occasional hoarse croak of a raven, they heard only their own sounds: the creak of leather harness, the clink of mail, their boots and hooves thudding on the rocky ground.
Ohtar walked beside Isildur's horse, his fingers entwined in the horse's bridle, for the great charger that would plunge through ranks of howling enemies was now skittish and uneasy. Once, as they rounded a shoulder and yet another vista of close confining canyon opened before them, the horse reared, tearing from Ohtar's hand, and gave voice to his fear. The sudden shrill sound reverberated again and again in the close ways, startling the entire company. Isildur quickly brought him under control and Ohtar stroked his velvet nose soothingly.
"It would seem Fleetfoot likes not these pressing walls, Ohtar," said Isildur. "He comes from the wide plains of Calenardhon, where a horse may run a hundred miles with never an obstacle to his speed. Such a steed takes joy in open plains and long flowing grass. He finds naught to comfort him in this close and dreary place."
"Nor is it to my liking, my liege. I would give much to walk again in the green hills of our Ithilien." The king's eyes grew distant at this and Ohtar knew his thoughts flew far to the east, to their homeland, even now being trampled beneath the coarse boots of orcs.