"Step lively, there!" he shouted. "Try to at least look like soldiers, you young fools. Watch where you're marching! Within a week you'll be manning the walls, and I don't want you falling off the battlements!" Isildur and Ohtar smiled to each other and hurried on.
The Hall of the Blue Tower was crowded with messengers, supplicants, and people just seeking instructions. Barathor and his people were swamped with questions, decisions, and disputes. One of the greatest needs was for messengers. All the usual heralds and runners had been pressed into service, but still Barathor grew frustrated waiting for replies or for someone to carry his orders. As Isildur approached the Lord, a young boy no more than ten or twelve raced past him and fell to his knee before the Lord.
"More messages, Lord Barathor?" he gasped. Barathor thrust a paper into the boy's hand. "Yes. Take this to Carlen, the master of the wainwright's guild. Put it in his hand, mind, not that of one of his apprentices. You know his hall?"
"Yes, lord," replied the boy. "It is in the Rath Gelin, near to the square of the lion fountain." He was panting, still out of breath from running his last errand.
"Yes. Make haste now." Barathor stopped and looked down at the boy. "Haven't I given you several messages already today?"
"Yes, lord," he gulped. "Four so far. I have been running since before the dawn."
"Here now, that's more than four hours gone. You must be exhausted, poor child. Rest a while and get something to eat. Let another boy carry this one." He glanced around for another runner, but there were none present at the moment.
"Please, my lord," the boy pleaded. "I can run all day if need be. I want to help. My dad says I'm too young to fight this time, and then the war is likely to be all over before I get my chance. Well, I'll do what I can to help anyway, but I'd dearly love to meet that old Dark Lord. I'd give him a whack, I can tell you. He'd be sorry he ever peeked over those mountains."
Some of those standing near smiled, but Barathor looked at him gravely. "Well," he said. "I see you are rather greater than we first thought. The Dark Lord had better hope he doesn't have to tangle with you. Go on then. But save your pretty speeches; you'll need all your breath for running." The boy ran out, glowing with pride.
Barathor spotted Isildur and came to meet him. "Good morning, Sire," he said. "The recall flag has been hoisted at all the signal stations along the coasts. Some of the scattered ships are starting to straggle in, but many are still far down the River. The first will not be in until late tonight."
"How large a force are you keeping at the Mouths of Anduin?"
"We normally have between ten and twenty ships stationed in the Bay of Belfalas and patrolling the coast between Ringlond and Harondor, and that many again as pickets in the River. You know the Ethir Anduin is a maze of islands and treacherous channels, and we need that many to keep them all secure. I plan to leave but half of them on station. That will leave them spread thin indeed until the Elves arrive. Ah, here comes my son. He is to rule the city in my absence, you know."
Duitirith strode across the hall with a young knight at his side. They bowed to Barathor and Isildur. "You sent for me, father?"
"Yes. Have you turned the command of the bridge over to Foradan?"
Duitirith glanced at his companion's face. "Yes, father, but he…"
"I would ride with you, lord," said Foradan, stepping forward quickly. "I would be with you when you ride to Osgiliath," he said. "I am a warrior."
"Indeed you are," said Barathor, laying a hand on his shoulder. "But you should feel honored, not slighted, by your new assignment. It is true that I shall ride to Osgiliath. But while we face the enemy in the east, we must not fear an enemy from the west. Nor should the men be worrying about their families back in Pelargir. The guardianship of the bridge has been the duty of the greatest warriors of Pelargir since the city was founded. Your own father's father was its captain for over forty years. Would you leave it unguarded now, Foradan?"
The young knight bowed deeply. "No enemy shall cross the bridge while I live, my lord," he said. "You can depend upon me."
"We are all indeed depending on you, Foradan." He turned to his son. "We are depending on all of you who remain here. The safety of the city is in your hands. Have you chosen your men well?"
"I did as you suggested, father. I retained only the youngest men, but also one experienced hand from each company. They know their duties, my lord. But they are so few. We could not withstand a concerted attack."
"Remember you will be behind the shield wall of the White Fleet. With the River secure and you in command here, Duitirith, I shall not worry overmuch."
At that moment Barathor spied a wiry old man wearing the livery of a ship's captain just entering the hall and peering about at the hurrying crowds. Barathor called to him, his voice booming above the uproar. "Caladil! You are come at last. Excuse me, Sire," he said to Isildur. "One of my commanders from the Tolfalas station." He hurried across the room and began issuing orders to his captain.
Isildur turned to Ohtar. "It would seem that Barathor has matters well in hand here. We are but in his way. Let us return to camp and see to our own. Barathor!" he shouted. The Lord of Pelargir looked up. Isildur signalled that they would be at their camp. Barathor waved and bowed, then resumed talking with Caladil. Isildur and Ohtar made their way through the crowds and returned to their camp, close under the western gate.
There they spied Ingold of Calembel standing before a blacksmith's tent. With him was the giant herdsman they had encountered on the road outside Calembel. The two were arguing with the smith, a brawny black-bearded fellow, who seemed to be trying to explain something to them, and not at all patiently.
"I've been shoeing horses and straightening spears half the night," the smith was saying as Isildur and Ohtar approached. "Then at first light some lads from Lebennin up and borrowed my cart and they haven't brought it back yet. Where it's got to now I can't say, and I don't have time to go traipsing all over the city to find it. For all I know they've made off with it and gone home. But I've got my forge and all my tools right here, and if you want your axle fixed you'll have to bring your wagon here."
"I can't bring the accursed wagon here, man," thundered Ingold in exasperation, pointing down the long slope to where a large wagon stood broken down by the bank of the Sirith. "It takes a team of four to move it when it has all its wheels, which it doesn't because the blasted front axle's sheared in two. We'll have to move your forge down there."
The smith stood chin to chin with Ingold. "I've told you," he bellowed. "I've got no cart and no team. Just how do you suggest we get my forge and all my gear down there?" He gestured at the clutter of tools on the ground all around him.
Ingold looked around at the tools and the forge. "Can we carry it ourselves, think you?" he asked, a little more quietly.
The smith threw up his hands. "Oh, my mates and I can carry the tools all right, and I wager you and your men can carry the bellows, but what about this anvil? I can't mend your axle without an anvil, and it takes four strong men just to heave it up into my cart."
They both stared glumly at the huge anvil resting in the shade of a ragged canopy. Then the giant herder spoke for the first time.
"That anvil there?" he asked quietly. Both men nodded without looking up. The goatherd went to the anvil and, crouching down, locked his huge arms around its base. With a great heave, he slowly raised himself, then turned and started off down the hill to the wagon, the immense anvil cradled in his arms like a baby. The entire group just stared after him in wonder. Then the smithy bent and started gathering his tools. He grunted.
"I pray I never have reason to quarrel with that one," he muttered under his breath. He shouldered his tool box and staggered off after the goatherd. Then Ingold saw the king.