Chapter Eight
The Council of Osgiliath
The Elves had rested but a few hours before they were roused by Cirdan. The eastern sky was lightening, but a bank of clouds hung above the jagged peaks of the Ephel Dúath, hinting at thundershowers later in the day. They had some bites of lembas, then mounted their still weary horses and set off once more. By the time the sun broke free of the clouds they were well out into the plains of southern Anórien. It was a fair and pleasant land of pastures and forests, with many hay fields. This was the country in which were raised the sturdy horses for which Anórien was famed. They passed through a number of small villages of a few dozen houses grouped around a mill. Startled villagers came out to watch them gallop through. They stared in wide-eyed amazement at the tall Elves with their bright armor and strange outlandish banners.
The road was gradually descending into the wide vale of Anduin, dotted with small farms and villages. Many seemed nearly deserted, but they could see a few teams in the fields, already mowing the early wheat. It made Amroth realize how far south they had come, for in Lindon the wheat would not be ready for a month or more.
The Ered Nimrais, at first only a line of white peaks in the north, gradually drew nearer. The eastern end of the range terminated abruptly in a huge peak of blue-grey stone that loomed above the surrounding land. The road's many winding turns carried them northeast toward the mountain, until by late morning they were riding around its lower foothills. High in a deep-cleft valley they could see a gleaming white city rising tier above tier to an elegant white spire. A farmer they met on the road told them that the city was called Minas Anor and the mountain Mindolluin, "Towering Bluehead". They came to a fork in the road, the left winding up toward Minas Anor. They turned right, descending more steeply toward the River.
They had not seen the Anduin since the evening before, for it looped away into the flat lands to the east, while their road headed northeast, directly toward Osgiliath. They could trace the path of the River by a line of dark trees far off to the right amidst the green fields. Beyond the River, still hazy in the distance, rose the rounded green hills of the Emyn Arnen. They rode without stopping until the sun had passed its height, then paused beneath a copse of aromatic cedar trees to eat some of the food prepared for them by the Pelargrim.
"We should see Osgiliath in the next few hours if the map is accurate," said Cirdan. "A pity the horses are so tired or we could make better time. I begrudge each hour."
"Where can Barathor be?" asked Amroth. "Surely we should have seen him ere now."
"It is still some distance to Osgiliath. And even after the messenger arrived, it would be some time before they could march. But we should meet him soon."
"I only hope he did not go by the River, for we would be sure to miss him."
"They will come by land. Even with the favoring current, the River is the longer and slower path. Barathor will travel as fast as he possibly can."
Cirdan had them riding again in less than a quarter of an hour. Amroth was continually shifting his weight in the saddle. He was unused to riding and now even longed for the feel of a deck under his feet again.
The clouds gradually covered the sky as the day went on, until by mid-afternoon the sun was streaming in long diagonal rays from a few ragged holes in a woolen blanket of cloud. A light breeze sprang up from the east, bearing the smell of rain. The cool air in their faces was soothing, and the horses were able to quicken their pace slightly.
Amroth was trotting along, his eyes on the lowering sky, when an Elf near him shouted out.
"Riders! Riders approach ahead, my lord."
Amroth stood in his stirrups, and there over a slight rise he could see a long line of riders coming down into a low flat valley. Cirdan led his people to the crest of the rise and halted, watching the approach of the column. They were four abreast, riding hard, their horses gleaming with sweat. At their head a blue banner streamed in the wind of their passage. It could only be the Pelargrim.
The lead riders saw the armed horsemen on the hilltop and reined in their mounts. One raised his arm and brought the column to a sharp halt in a choking cloud of dust. A score of riders quickly fanned out on either side of the road. There was a brief conversation among the leaders. Then a dozen of the foremost horsemen rode on up the hill and stopped twenty yards from the Elves. Their cloaks were dripping and their long hair hung lank, though whether from a squall of rain or from the sweat of hard riding, Amroth was not sure. Their faces were grim and set and their eyes held a cold hard glint. Their leader was a large man wearing black and gold armor. A long blue plume trailed from his helm.
"Who are you strangers to ride thus armed in Gondor?" he called. "And if you came from Pelargir, what do you know of its fate?"
Then Cirdan urged his horse forward. The man's eyes widened as he realized he was addressing not Men but Elves.
"From your haste, sir," said Cirdan with a smile "I take you to be Lord Barathor. I am Cirdan, called the Shipwright, Master of Mithlond in the land of Lindon. And as for your city, it is safe."
Barathor's people cried out in amazement. Their astonishment and the change in their faces was wonderful to behold.
"But…," Barathor stammered, at a loss for words. "But we heard the city was besieged. We have ridden with images of fire and slaughter before our eyes. We feared it already lost."
"The fleet is destroyed, it is true, but your banner yet flies from the Blue Tower. The walls are blackened and many defenders have fallen, but your son and his people held the walls until we arrived."
"You saw my son?" asked Barathor, his voice tight with tension. He paused, as if afraid to ask the next question.
"He is alive and unhurt. We left him feasting in thanksgiving this hour two days past. Your Lady was with him."
Barathor's relief was evident in his face, but he quickly asked, "And the Corsairs?"
"We fell on them from the rear as they attacked the city. They are utterly destroyed. The Black Fleet will trouble you no more."
Then Barathor's dark face was split by a wide white grin. He whipped out his sword and threw it spinning high above his head. It glinted and flashed in the bright sun before he caught it deftly by the hilt. The Men back in the main column were staring at him in wonder. No doubt they thought him struck fey. But two of the knights were already spurring their horses back to deliver the news. In a moment a great cheer broke out in the foremost ranks and rolled back through the column as the word spread.
Barathor directed his men to fall out in a field beside the road and the Elves joined them to tell what they knew of the battle. The mood was festive. Flagons of wine were broken out and passed around. Amroth soon realized that many of the soldiers were in fact mariners from the fleet of Pelargir. There were many downcast faces when they were told of the burning of the fleet, but they asked the Elves over and over to tell them the details of the naval engagement. They laughed aloud at the confusion of their ancient enemies when the White Fleet had appeared completely unlooked for at their rear. But the listeners' mood became more somber as they came to realize the losses suffered by the defenders.
"And what of young Foradan?" asked Barathor. "He was at the bridge over the Sirith.It was his first command."
"I know not, my lord," replied Cirdan, but Amroth shook his head.
"Lost, my lord, with all his garrison," he said. "I heard the tale at the feast. The quays were so crowded with the ships of both fleets, many in flames, that some of the Corsairs landed on the other side of the Sirith. Many of the Pelargir people who had gone down to the docks were still rushing back to the gates. If the Corsairs had won across the bridge quickly they could have cut them off. The situation was desperate, because the gates were of course still open. Foradan's men held the bridge long enough to allow the people to escape and to close the gates before the Corsairs could reach them. It was a hopeless struggle, but every man of them held his ground until he was slain. They delayed the Umbardrim just long enough.