"It was been a most anxious wait. Now at last you have come back to us, and with an army that could repulse the enemy, drive him from Ithilien, perhaps even throw down the Dark Tower itself. For the first time in years, we have felt true hope again. Now as the Black Hand is stretched forth for our throats, would you ride away again to leave us to our fate? Do not let the agony of Pelargir draw you from your true duty. The main attack, when it comes, will be against the capital. Your place is here in Osgiliath."
Then the king rose up tall and menacing and he shouted, "Tell me not my duty, Meneldil! You are my Steward, not my master. I am King of Gondor, and I take orders only from Elendil, High King of the Realms in Exile."
Meneldil fell back and bowed. It had been long since he had had to bow to any man. But still he was not cowed.
"Sire," he said. "I do not presume to tell you your duty. But this is a momentous decision. The fate of us all could ride on it. Perhaps if you consulted with your father…" He let his voice trail off, not sure how much he should say before all these foreigners.
"Yes," said Isildur. "The plans of the Lords of the West have gone all amiss now and we must plan anew. They must be made aware of what has happened."
"But Sire," said Barathor. "We must ride at once or Pelargir is lost."
"We have a means for speaking with Elendil in Gorgoroth, even from here in the Tower, Lord Barathor. I say to you, prepare your men to ride to Pelargir at once. I will give you my decision within the hour."
Barathor stared at him a moment, not understanding, but then he wheeled and hurried from the room, with Arador and the other Pelargrim close behind. Isildur watched them go with anguished eyes.
"My heart tells me to join them, Ohtar," he murmured privately. "But Meneldil is probably right. My place is in the capital." He looked then at the Elves standing near by. "My Lords of the Eldar," he said. "I would have you accompany me. We must take counsel with Gil-galad and my father. We must make the greatest haste. Come, into my private chambers. Ohtar, get thee to the camp and see that all is ready for a quick departure. Meneldil, look to the defenses of the city. Double the guards along the quays and riverbanks. The Corsairs could appear at any moment. The orcs too could take advantage of our confusion to attack at once. War is upon us, whether I stay or go!"
Then Isildur and the Eldar retired to the king's apartments, close behind the Dome of Stars. He led them into a small dark room without windows, lit only by a small hanging lamp. The only furniture was a marble pedestal in the center of the room, supporting something round covered by a cloth of gold. They gathered around it as Isildur closed the door. He stepped up to the pedestal and carefully drew off the cloth, and behold, atop the column was a great round crystal as large as a man's head. Dark it was, and yet something seemed to move within it, like a fire smoldering within a shroud of smoke. They stared at it in wonder.
"This is a treasure beyond value," whispered Celeborn.
"It is very beautiful," said Elrond. "But what is it?"
"This is a palantír," said Isildur. "One of the seven Seeing Stones, heirlooms of my house. It may be the oldest made object in all of Middle-earth."
"The palantíri were wrought by the hand of my uncle, Fëanor Firespirit himself, in Aman when the world was young," said Galadriel. "They remained long the pride of all his works, and it was a sign of the special esteem in which the Eldar hold your house, Isildur, that they were given to Amandil your grandsire."
"They were an aid and a comfort to us Faithful of Númenor," said Isildur, "and they remained there until its fall. My father brought them to Middle-earth, where we now use them to speak one to another, though vast distances separate us. This is the Master Stone, that can speak to each. I had another at Minas Ithil and took it with me when I was forced to abandon my city at the beginning of the war. My father now has it in his camp in Gorgoroth. That is the stone I must contact."
Then he laid his hands on the globe. The mists inside swirled at his touch and the red glow brightened, lighting Isildur's intent face. He bent his mind upon the stone, willing it to speak out to its mate in the plains of Mordor.
The others watched silently. The smoke writhed within, and images began to form. Tiny they were, as if viewed from a great height. Each cloudscape formed but for a moment before swirling away. The light grew and the images became clearer. There were mountains in the clouds now; black crags thrusting through a swirling reek. The red glow pulsed, as if a heart of fire beat beneath the clouds. Then another dark pinnacle appeared, but this was no mountain summit. High it reared, higher than any mountain, with sheer black sides and a jagged crown. Looking closer, they could see that it was a mighty fortress, with battlements on the parapets, and many turrets and a myriad of tiny windows glowing orange and red.
"Behold the Barad-dûr," said Isildur softly, and the room seemed to grow chill at the sound of that fell name.
The image grew, swelling larger and larger until it filled the globe, and it was as if they were descending through the clouds toward the Tower. Finally a torn and tortured land appeared far below. It was all a somber ash gray, slashed by deep cracks and crossed with black tongues of old lava flows. There on the very edge of a smoking chasm lay the only spot of color in all that wide land — a small square patch of many bright colors, like a scrap of embroidered cloth dropped near the brooding walls of the Tower. As the view continued to descend and grow, they saw that the bright square was in fact a huge city of tents for a vast army that now could be seen moving about the slag heaps.
The globe settled toward one of the larger tents, a pavilion of gold and white silk. There was a disorienting moment as the view seemed to pass through the roof of the tent. Then it was if they were gazing not into the globe, but out of it, at a group of men in armor. A tall man with long silver hair came close until his face filled all the globe. Like Isildur, he wore upon his brow a circlet set with a single glowing gem. This was Elendil, High King of the Realms in Exile, and eldest of Men.
"Ah, Isildur, my son," he said, his voice ringing clear in all their heads, though no sound emerged from the palantír. "I see you are with Elrond and the Galadrim. Are all then gathered for the council on the morrow? Did Elendur arrive safely?"
"Yes, father, but evil unlooked for has befallen us. Pelargir is assailed by the Corsairs."
Elendil's face showed his dismay. "Umbar? Oh, that Númenóreans should turn against Númenóreans in such times as these. Curse their black hearts. I wonder that they dare the attempt. The fleet should be more than a match for the Corsairs, as long as the wind holds."
"The fleet of Pelargir is already destroyed, Sire, and the city but lightly defended. It is not likely that they yet stand."
Elendil's eyes glared. "Why? Did the patrols not give ample warning? Were they not prepared for the attack? What was Barathor about?"
"My lord, Barathor and most of his warriors and seamen are here in Osgiliath. At my behest."
"You told them to leave the Gate of the South open to our enemies? But why?"
"Because I needed them here. You sent me throughout all of Gondor, and we had hoped to have fifteen or twenty thousand in our host by now. But at every turn we were thwarted. I told you from the Orthanc stone that Calenardhon and Angrenost had but few to spare from the raiding orcs. And at Anglond and again at Ethir Lefnui, the Corsairs attacked and slew many, and we had but few volunteers.
"Even Romach and the Eredrim have refused us. We had but three thousand when we reached Pelargir. There we met Gildor, just arrived from Mithlond. He told us that Cirdan's fleet would be at Pelargir in a day or two at most. And so Barathor agreed to withdraw the fleet and send every available man with us to Osgiliath. It seemed a necessary risk for a day or two."