No one moved, either to aid him or to hinder him. He felt as if there was nothing in the world except himself and the burning eyes of the Ring-Wraiths. The glowing coals followed his slow and painful approach. One by one, their outstretched arms swung to point at his chest, and he felt the pressure against him increase. Still he pressed on, step after step. Unaware now of the thousands of watchers on all sides, he struggled on in a world of his own. He felt the despair pulling at him again, but he closed his mind to all thought except the placing of one foot in front of the other. His body ached with the strain; sweat poured down his face and chest.
Darkness closed around him, and he could see only nine glowing points of light before him, each a different shade of amber or gold. He kept his gaze fixed on the brightest, a pure yellow, glowing like the sun. It swam and danced before his dazzled vision, but at last he drew near it. Shaking his head to fling the sweat from his eyes, he drew himself up. He could dimly make out the tall cowled shape behind the glowing sun.
"Now," he gasped. "Look on me and taste despair yourself, thing of night, for I am Isildur Elendil's son of Númenor, and I have come to slay thee."
The figure threw back its cowl and those nearby cried out in horror, for no head supported the golden crown and the glowing eyes beneath. Isildur drew back in amazement. A deep hollow voice rang out as if out of some bottomless pit.
"Then you have come in vain, Elendil's spawn, for it was long ago foretold that I shall never be slain by Man nor Elf. You have come here seeking my death, Númenórean, but you have found your own!" Even as he spat out the last words, the black sword whipped up and scythed down toward Isildur's neck. But Isildur swept up his own blade and turned the stroke aside in a clash of sparks. The Úlairi grunted in surprise as his sword drove into the ground. Long had it been since he had needed to strike twice at any foe.
With a roar of rage he swept his blade up, just as Isildur brought his sword down with every ounce of his strength. With a bone-jarring impact, the blades met and the black blade broke asunder, ringing to the dust. The Ring-Wraith fell back as Isildur raised his sword for the death blow, but another black figure leaped to the aid of his king and closed with Isildur.
Isildur in his turn fell back, but then around him he saw other Men and Elves coming forward to the attack. A fierce struggle broke out, and the Úlairi, deprived of their shadow of fear, were soon hard-pressed by many foes. Unable to wield their rings and forced to depend on their blades, the last vestiges of the terror dissipated. More and more Men rushed forward, eager to avenge the terror and shame brought upon them. The orcs that remained rose up to fight as well, and the battle resumed.
A roar of noise from the far side of the city, and a few moments later Barathor's banners could be seen advancing into the square from the east. The Pelargrim had broken through the sally-port on that side and breached the wall. More men were still pouring in through the main gates, and Gildor's archers were now atop the wall, sending a deadly fire down into the enemy ranks. The orcs, surrounded on all sides, began milling in confusion, easy prey to the hungry blades of Gondor.
But even without their eldritch powers the Ring-Wraiths were bold and cunning swordsmen and many a brave warrior fell before the tide of battle truly turned against them. Then, as if at some signal, they gave back on either side, forming a wedge around their king, and slowly backed away toward the Citadel.
Isildur saw their design and moved to forestall it. "The Citadel!" he bellowed above the din. "They are making for the Citadel! They must not reach it or all is lost!"
Driven by desperation, he threw off his fatigue and fell to his sword work with a new fury. But the Ring-Wraiths maintained their formation and withdrew through the mass of shrieking terrified orcs. Isildur fought to pursue them, but always there were more foes pressing before him. The Úlairi continued to draw away, always closer to the safety of the Citadel.
Then the banner of Pelargir could be seen moving swiftly through the press behind the Ring-Wraiths. Barathor and his knights, still mounted, were forcing their way to the entrance of the Citadel, attempting to cut off their retreat. Seeing their danger, the Úlairi turned and raced to meet the new threat, leaving Isildur and his people far behind to cut through the leaderless and dispirited orcs.
The two groups met at the foot of the broad entrance steps. The Lord of the Wraiths sent up a shrill inhuman call like the cry of some fell bird of prey, the more terrible because it issued from no visible throat. They threw themselves in fury on the bold cavalry of Pelargir. The horses, trained as they were to battle, would not stand against these undead things and reared and screamed in terror. Some knights were unseated and quickly trampled in the shouting, shoving press of men and orcs and horses. Others dismounted and fought as well as they could in the throng. None could swing a blade for fear of striking his neighbor.
The Úlairi cared not and hacked their way through the press, slaying man and horse and orc alike, drawing ever nearer the doors of the Citadel. Isildur saw one knight, one of the few still mounted, spur his fear-maddened steed directly at the advancing Ring-Wraiths. He whirled his blood-stained mace at the unseen head of the King of the the Úlairi, but the stroke went wide and in an instant the knight was run through and fell.
The black king shouldered the knight's horse from his path and saw before him Barathor of Pelargir on the very steps of the Citadel, and with him only his young standard-bearer. The boy paused not a second, but lowered his flagstaff and, wielding it like a spear, drove straight at the crowned specter. The golden sea gull surmounting the staff struck the mailed chest and snapped off, driving him back, but he was not felled. The lad turned and shouted to his master. "My Lord," he cried, "enter into the Citadel and bar the doors. Let Isildur deal with this carrion!" And then he died, struck down by two of the Ring-Wraiths at the same instant.
Barathor looked on in horror, then unreasoning rage gripped him and he pressed forward into the midst of his foes, laying about with his sword. Once only his good steel sank into undead flesh and a high shriek pierced the roar of battle. But then Barathor too was pulled down and the black blades rose and fell.
Some of the knights of Pelargir had heard the herald's last words, and they dashed up the stairs toward the open doors of the Citadel, shouting in triumph. But black arrows whistled out of the darkness within, and they fell tumbling down the marble steps. The Ring-Wraiths leaped over their bodies and raced through the door, one clutching at his dangling arm. With a loud rumble and crash of steel, a massive portcullis dropped from the darkness above the door. A flurry of arrows rattled through the grillwork from both sides, then the heavy doors slammed shut with a dull thud.
Isildur's voice could be heard rising above all other sounds. "They have escaped!" he cried. "Lost! All is lost!"
Chapter Ten
The Barad-dûr
Elendil the Tall, High King of the Realms in Exile, paced restlessly over dun hills of ash and slag, his feet stirring up clouds of fine grey dust that filled the nostrils and caked the lips. Fetid vapors of some great corruption drifted across the poisoned desert and swirled about him in hot gusts. Instinctively he drew a fold of his cape up over his nose against the dust and fumes, but he had long since ceased to notice them. For seven long years he had lived in this place of death and decay, so long that the memory of gentle breezes and running water and green growing things was like a lost scent from a beautiful dream, but dimly recalled.