The wave of the Black Host pursued them and swarmed around the walls of Osgiliath. The city withstood the siege, though the eastern portion was much damaged. That night, with Minas Ithil lost and ringing to the harsh cries and foul revelry of the orcs, Isildur stood helplessly on the walls of Osgiliath and watched the crofts and villages of his kingdom going up in flames. His wife Vorondomë was so shaken by the loss and horrors of that night she became a frightened, broken woman, never again in her life to laugh. Isildur looked out on his suffering realm and vowed to avenge the evils done that day.
Leaving his brother to hold the River and defend what remained of their kingdom, Isildur and his family fled down Anduin to the sea and eventually to his father at Annúminas. There they secured the help of their old ally, Gil-galad of Lindon. Uniting the armies of Arnor, Gondor, and Lindon, and drawing many volunteers from other neighboring realms, they formed the Army of the Alliance and marched against Sauron's hordes. Slowly they pressed their foes south and east, driving them back to the very doors of Sauron's own land of Mordor. There, in the wide fenny plains known as Dagorlad, was fought perhaps the greatest battle of ancient times. Tens of thousands fell on both sides, but eventually the allies prevailed and the Morannon, the Black Gate of Mordor was broken and taken. Sauron and his forces withdrew to the south and took refuge in his impregnable fortress of Barad-dûr. The Úlairi, the Nine Kings of Men turned into Ring-wraiths by the Great Rings they wear, ruled in Minas Ithil and launched frequent raids into Anórien. The allies besieged the Dark Tower but could neither force the gates nor draw Sauron out. Unable to prevail and unwilling to depart, the vast Army of the Alliance remained camped about the Tower for seven long years. Many attempts had been made to take the Tower, but all had failed. Finally, the Lords of the Alliance formed a bold new plan; one last desperate attempt that would end the stalemate and ensure either victory or total defeat.
Chapter One
The Men of the Mountains
The valley of Morthond was still, save for the tumble and splash of water on stone. Morning mists still hovered above the small icy stream winding down the floor of the valley. Though the year was drawing on to midsummer, frost sparkled from the tips of each grass blade, for the valley was high in the flanks of the Ered Nimrais, the White Mountains that are the rocky backbone of Gondor, Land of Stone.
Gradually the valley awoke. The hoarse croak of a raven drifted faintly down through the still air as the rising sun touched the rocky heights above. A clatter of small rocks betrayed the presence of a marmot setting out on his daily search for food among the rocks at the foot of the cliffs.
Then a low door creaked open and a woman stepped out of a rough stone cottage. She stood a moment, yawning and looking up at the brightening sky, then she picked up a wooden bucket and went down to the Morthond stream to fetch water. Soon others joined her, a woman or a child from each of the twenty or so low sod-roofed houses clustered along the stream. Soon a thin vertical stream of smoke was rising from each smoke-hole.
Then the first man appeared, stooping under the log lintel of his door. He too looked about at the day, stretching and scratching. He wore a long tunic of coarse-spun undyed wool, leather boots stuffed with straw against the chill air, and he had a large black fur drawn about his shoulders. He bent to splash his face with water from a basin filled by the woman. Then, puffing and blowing at the icy water, he pulled his cloak more tightly about himself and stalked up to the top of a rounded hill that stood beside the village.
At the top of the hill, half-buried in the ground, was a strange stone. It was a huge black globe, as smooth as glass. It must have been enormously heavy, for even half-buried it stood nearly as tall as the man as he stood beside it and gazed south down the valley. In the clear morning air he could see for league upon league as the land fell gradually away. The Morthond wound away south and west until it disappeared behind a range of low hills some miles away. His eyes swept slowly around to the west. Suddenly he stiffened and stared under his shading hand.
Miles away, a cloud of dust hung in the still air, marking the path of the road that wound up from the west, between the Morthond and the western walls of the valley. The morning sun turned the cloud to gold. He stood staring a moment or two more. Clearly the cloud was approaching. The man turned then and walked quickly back down to the village. He went to the largest house, a long hall built of massive logs, and stood before its door.
"Romach," he called, but the only answer was a low growl.
"Lord," he tried again, "an host approaches."
"Eh?" A large head with long curling hair, black shot with grey, was thrust through the door. "Ah, it must be the embassy from Umbar, come at last."
"I think not, my lord. They are too many. An army rides toward us from Anfalas. Perhaps an hour or two away."
"What say you? How is this?" Romach emerged hurriedly. He was a big man, with a bearing of command. His shoulders and arms were broad and strong, but his skin was old and scarred, no longer the most powerful man in the tribe, as he had long been. He was dressed much like the other, save a jeweled belt and on his head was a thin gold circlet. "Come," he said. "Let me see."
They ascended the hill again and stood staring into the west. The dust was closer now, and here and there beneath it bright points of metal flashed in the clear light.
"You are right, it is not the Umbardrim," said Romach. He peered into the distance. "But hardly an army. I would guess no more than three hundreds. They will be here before the second hour. Could the ambassador have betrayed us?" He turned suddenly and bounded down the slope, very nimbly for a man of his age and girth. He was shouting over his shoulder. "We must be ready! Sound the horns! To arms!"
Soon the village was in an uproar. The women wakened the children and bustled them up toward the refuges in the head of the valley. A long ox horn was winded and soon answered from the valleys on either side, then from other valleys beyond. The men arrayed themselves for war and assembled at the broad shallow ford where the west road crossed the Morthond. In thirty minutes they had nearly two hundred and fifty drawn up, still buckling their harness, but ready to fight. In an hour the first companies from the other valleys could be seen, picking their way over the high green passes.
The approaching host had long been hidden by a fold of the land. Now they reappeared over a rise in the road, much closer. The men craned their heads to see what they were facing. First appeared spear heads and furled banners, then the flowing crests and gleaming helmets of the lead riders bobbed into sight. There was an uneasy murmur among the men. This was no band of robbers, as sometimes roamed the high valleys in summers, but heavily-armed, experienced soldiers. Fingers tightened on the hafts of weapons.
Romach glanced over his shoulder nervously. Two companies were just entering the village and a third could be seen riding hard down the east road. Reassured, he turned back to study the lead riders, now approaching the ford. From the corners of his eyes, he could see their scout riders splashing into the river a few hundred yards to either side.
Those in the van were mounted but riding slowly, for the greater part of the men were on foot. Their faces were set and grim. They bore the look of men that had made a hard journey. Their clothing was of many colors and styles, though all dusty and weather-stained. Many wore odd bits of armor. They trudged along strongly in the rapidly warming sun. They marched under many standards and bore the devices of many lords and masters unfamiliar to Romach. But at their head flew a broad emerald banner emblazoned with a white tree surmounted by a silver crown and seven stars. He stared for a moment, then roared to his men.