"After we cross the bridge, the road winds across the valley and up the southern slopes to the city. The gate is in the northern wall. Just before we reach the gate we will divide our force. Let the Galadrim take the left flank and try to encircle the city to the east. Barathor, take your people to the right around the western and southern wall. If all goes well you will meet where the land rises quickly and you can ply your bows to best advantage over the wall. I will assail the gates with all the other companies. I would have the Ring-bearers with me, for I intend to challenge the Nine with my sword and I shall have need of your powers."
"What if the divisions become separated?" asked Barathor. "Should we not have a place appointed to gather?"
"Aye," said Isildur. "If we are separated, we will meet at the foot of the Tower of the Moon in the center of the Citadel."
Barathor opened his mouth to point out that they would have to take both the city and the Citadel before they could meet at the tower, but one look at Isildur's determined eye caused him to close his mouth again.
"Try to keep moving toward the gate whatever happens," Isildur went on. "Remember our primary purpose is to make them concentrate their defenses there. Elendur and his men will ride with the men of Pelargir, then drop off as they pass under the southern gate tower. Elendur, is your party ready?"
"Aye, father," answered Elendur. He had coils of rope over his shoulder and grappling hooks at his saddle horn, concealed under a blanket. His companions looked on grimly, their faces calm and set.
"Then let us arrange our formations," said Isildur. The captains rode back to their companies and passed on the king's orders. Swords were loosened in their scabbards, bows and quivers checked. In a few moments all were in readiness. Isildur raised his arm, then dropped it, and the companies spurred their mounts forward as one.
The sound of their hooves grew from a clatter to a drumming to a thunder as ten thousand horses surged forward and broke into a gallop. Then the van broke out of the trees and there across the valley stood the City of the Moon.
White it was, gleaming in the afternoon sun, a striking contrast to the dark rock of the mountains it guarded. It stood on a sharp rise jutting out from the southern shoulder of the valley. From its center rose a tall slim tower like an ivory needle, glowing coolly in the hot sun as if brimming with moonlight. At its feet stood a massive castle of many gables and battlements, the Citadel of Isildur. The road wound down from the city's gate, back and forth as it descended from the heights until it came to the single-arched bridge. Sirlos, the Snowstream, was that flood called, for it had its birth in the ice and snow of the pine woods at the summit of the mountains. Looking up to his left, Isildur was sickened to see that all those woods were gone, the slopes marked only by stumps. The lower valley too had changed. It was a tangle of bramble and thorns, with here and there a fire-blackened chimney or a wild rose or lilac to show that it had once been the site of farmhouses and homely cottages. The men of the Ithil Vale looked about grimly as they rode and tightened their grips on their spears and lances, determined to avenge these wrongs.
The road to the bridge was lined on either side by low stone walls, beyond which lay fair meadows dotted with white flowers. Now the van was thundering between those walls, now across the stone bridge, now pounding up the slope toward the city. Still there was no challenge.
Isildur rode at the head of the host, his eyes searching his city. Only now, when they were nearing the top of the slope and were but a few hundred yards from the gate, did he see any sign of alarm. Then he could see dark figures racing along the top of the wall. The gates were closed, but a small sally-port in one door stood open. Just outside, a company of men and orcs lounged idly, but as the horsemen crested the hill the guards saw their death approaching and they hurried through the door, pushing each other out of the way until arrows began to fall amongst them. The door slammed shut just as horns could be heard blaring frantically in the city.
Isildur's heralds sounded their own horns in reply and the host roared like a breaking sea. As they approached the gates, the van split into three columns. The Elves, led by Gildor, swept off to the left, their horses' hooves suddenly muffled as they left the road and pounded off across the springing turf. Isildur led the main force against the gate, signalling them to spread wide and halt just out of bowshot from the gate towers. The third column, led by Barathor, veered to the right and rode into the very shadow of the walls. The orc archers on the walls could not fire down on them without leaning out precariously, and then they were exposed to the deadly hail of arrows sent aloft by Isildur's bowmen.
The flanks swept around the city, those on the right compelled to ride single file due to the sudden drop of the land but a few feet from the foot of the wall. Along this perilous path Barathor sped in reckless haste, eager to reach the wider slopes behind the city. Within minutes, the path widened and started to climb. Then he was spurring his horse up the steep slopes, away from the walls. He reached a level meadow less than a hundred yards from the walls, but already above them. He signalled to his herald to sound the order to dismount and began ordering his formation of archers. Already the arrows were falling thick amongst them. One whistled past his ear as he dismounted.
Looking back to the city, he saw Gildor suddenly appear around a curve of the wall, riding hard toward him. Several horses in the Elvish column were now without riders, as were no few of his own. But he knew that some of those horses now running in confusion and terror in the midst of the battle had belonged to Elendur's party. He prayed they had reached the wall safely without being seen.
In fact, Elendur and his comrades were now standing not far away around the curve of the wall, their backs pressed hard against the cool white marble. They had waited anxiously as their friends had galloped away out of sight. After the long ride up from the River and the heart-pounding excitement of the cavalry charge, they now stood silent and motionless, listening, waiting for missiles to rain down on them at any moment. Their archers stood with bows drawn and aimed straight up the wall, ready to shoot if a head were to peer over the parapet. Off to their right they could hear the tumult of a great battle at the gate, thousands of voices shouting and cheering and cursing at the same time.
Without stepping away from the wall, they bent to their tasks. Elendur took from his shoulder a coil of slim greyish rope, as soft and supple as silk. Made by the Elves and no thicker than a man's smallest finger, it could yet bear the weight of a large man in armor. Beside him, Orth, the giant herdsman of Calembel, unslung from his back a stout and murderous-looking crossbow. Setting its nose on the ground between his feet, he began to crank back the string. Another man secured the line to a light four-barbed grappling hook. Then the bow was passed from hand to hand to Elendur, who seated the haft of the grapple securely into its track. The coil of line was flaked out ready to run free. Elendur raised the stock of the bow to his shoulder. Still no man had moved more than a foot from the wall.
Suddenly Elendur stepped away from the wall, turned, and fired. With a loud clatter, the grapple sailed up and disappeared over the wall. Instantly two men tailed onto the line and began pulling it back as quickly as they could. It caught, slipped, caught again. They gave it a hard jerk to set the hook. Elendur put his hand to the rope, but Orth stayed him.