"Would they not have attacked us as we entered the River?"
"A handful of picket galleys would be foolish to attack us. But if they concealed themselves among the myriad islands of the Ethir and allowed us to enter the River, they could even now be following us, waiting gleefully for us to meet their main fleet. Then we would be trapped between their forces."
"If that is true," said Amroth, "then the trap is already sprung, and we are already in its jaws. There would be nothing we could do."
"Aye," he said. "That is why, when all other eyes are looking up the River, I look down it."
Amroth looked astern with a shudder and imagined low sleek galleys pulling toward them with muffled oars, their brazen rams gliding along in the Elves' wakes. "Ah, Gilrondil," he sighed. "You have not brightened this night for me."
He turned and started down the ladder to the gallery again. But at that moment came a shout from many throats, and lo, the eastern sky was ablaze.
"Pelargir!" groaned the mariners. "The city is aflame. The Corsairs attack and we are yet many leagues away. Alas, alas, for Pelargir!"
Gilrondil leaped back up the ladder and stood gazing at the pulsing red glow ahead.
"Our friends are attacked," he said. "And yet even from this comes some comfort, Amroth. My fears were unfounded. Pelargir yet stands, and we come unlooked for. There is hope yet."
The flames of Pelargir gave them one more service: they could now see the River ahead. Cirdan ordered the reef shaken out of the sails and small triangular sails were set between the yards and the mastheads. Their speed increased noticeably.
All through the rest of that long night they watched the sky ahead. The wind became variable toward dawn and backed to the south. They feared that they would be becalmed, but then it steadied again. They braced round the yards and the ship heeled in the stiff breeze. Brown water coursed along the larboard scuppers.
As the sky lightened with the dawn, a great pall of smoke could be seen rising ahead, so the sun rose a baleful blood red. On either side, the growing light revealed low hills, green with trees and meadows. Now and again they passed lone cottages or small villages on the left bank, surrounded by tended fields and with a fishing coracle or two drawn up on the strand, but they saw no sign of life or movement. Still there was no evidence of damage, and they surmised that the people of Lebennin had fled from their homes in fear as the Umbardrim fleet passed.
The wind continued to back, reaching southeast, but as the River was trending now more to the northeast, the sails could still draw well with the tacks taken well forward. The sun was climbing high in the east and burning a sickly yellowish-red in the battle-wrack when they heard shouts from the ships to their left. The nearest ship hailed.
"Lord Cirdan!" cried her captain. "The ships to leeward report that Pelargir is just coming into sight around that furthest point, distant perhaps three leagues."
Cirdan lifted his speaking trumpet and called back. "Pass the word to close up to windward, Hithimir. If we skirt the east bank we can preserve secrecy as long as possible. How fares the city?"
Hithimir turned and spoke the next ship as the yards were braced up hard. The ships began to close with the flagship. There was a brief conversation they could not make out, then Hithimir turned back to them.
"Pelargir does not yet appear to be burning, my Lord, though it is wreathed in a great column of smoke that rises from someplace near the River. Anduin itself seems to be clear as far as they can see."
"What? No ships from either side? Where are they?"
Hithimir held up his hands. "They said no ships could be seen, my Lord."
Cirdan lowered his trumpet and turned to Gilrondil. "What think you of this, Sailing Master? Where is the fleet of Pelargir?"
The Master shook his head. "I know not. Perchance they were taken unawares at the quays and had not the time to cast off. And yet they have patrols in the River and watchers along the banks. There is some mischance or evil here we know not of."
"There will be no more mischances today!" cried Cirdan. "Clear for action! Let the archers prepare."
Then everyone hurried to their appointed tasks. Pots of pitch were brought out onto the castles and small fires were built under them. The round shields were taken down from the bulwarks and placed by each fighting station. Those Elves not at the sails or helm gathered atop the castles. Their esquires drew buckets of water and soaked the decks and rigging, then dipped cloths in the River, ready to beat out flames. Grappling hooks stood ready beside coils of line.
Finally all was in readiness. The fleet had drawn in hard against the eastern bank and formed into two columns. No word was spoken as they rounded the last bend and came in full sight of the city of Pelargir.
There before them in the angle between two rivers stood a high round hill, crowned by a great walled city. Banners fluttered from tower and battlement and from the highest point a tall slim spire pierced the sky. A great bridge arched over the smaller river on the left. At the eastern end of that bridge, under a bluff close beneath the western walls, the fleet of Pelargir was clustered at the quays. But lo, they were all aflame, and a great black column of smoke licked with red tongues of flame rose above the walls. Along the strand to the right, many long black galleys and galleasses were drawn up on the sand. A roar of many voices and the sound of clashing steel drifted across the water.
Cirdan steered directly for the quays, and with the wind more free the water curled back from their bows. Now they could see men on the shore, like a black tide flowing out of the galleys and up the road toward the city. Near their head some huge engine crept forward: a massive battering ram pulled by thousands of slaves.
Still they sailed on undisturbed. Now they could make out a group of men by the ships; officers, they supposed, from their high gilded helmets. They were all looking up at the city and the siege engine toiling slowly toward the gate. They seemed to have no eyes for the River at their backs.
Finally, when the Elves were nearly halfway across, someone must have turned and seen them. A lone trumpet sounded, high and clear above the tumult. And the men of Umbar turned at the sound and beheld the White Fleet of Lindon bearing down upon them with war, and they were smitten by a great fear. Then did Cirdan have all the trumpets be sounded and the Elves gave a great shout and clashed their arms together and made a fell clamor.
The legions of Umbar turned and raced for their ships, heedless of command. The slaves dragging the ram dropped their ropes and milled in confusion. Several of the ships cast off and backed desperately into the stream to meet the foe, their banks of oars flailing wildly. Others hesitated, waiting for their complements to return. Those arriving at the strand leaped aboard the nearest ship, so that many galleys sailed with barely a warrior aboard, and others with so many that there was but little room to stand. The slaves at the oars, hearing the trumpets and tumult but unable to see what was happening, panicked and crossed their oars and the helmsmen struggled to hold their courses.
Havoc reigned amidst the black fleet as each ship tried to back and turn to meet the foe. Ship collided with ship and men were thrown into the water. Oars clattered together as neighboring ships tried to gain room to maneuver. One long galleass became turned across the strand and was struck by several other ships attempting to move away from shore.
But the Corsairs were accomplished seamen and were soon bringing their ships under control. Within moments a score or more of bireme galleys and six or eight heavy trireme galleasses pulled free of the wheeling, jostling press of ships. Across the water came the beat of drums and the cracking of whips, and the banks of sweeps began to rise and fall as one. They looked like great birds of prey, the oars like beating wings. They quickly formed into a wide arc, the flanks slightly in advance of the center as they moved out to meet the new enemy.