"I will be there, father. And thank you. I will take the First Forithilien company if I may. They are familiar with the pass and the tower."
"May Elbereth protect you, my son." Isildur watched his son ride off back down the column with a mixture of pride and anxiety. Elrond saw the look on his face.
"It is hard to send your son into battle, is it not?"
"Aye. I want him to be a brave warrior, a strong leader. He will be king one day, and there is nothing to teach responsibility and leadership like leading men into war. But as a father I would rather have him walk in peace and safety and live to a ripe old age to dandle his grandchildren on his knee." Isildur smiled at the thought. Cirdan nodded, but said no more, his face grave. Whatever Elves saw of the fortunes to come, they seldom spoke of it to Men.
The column was broken into combat formation: many tight blocks of riders, four abreast, pikemen on the outer files, archers in the center. Each company rode under its own flag and was commanded by its own captain so it could operate independently if need be. The horses snorted and stamped, for they could sense the tension and excitement of their riders.
Isildur rode back down the companies, greeting friends and acknowledging salutes, speaking words of encouragement. The men looked weary, as well they might after a long ride, a fierce battle, and a hard climb to the heights of the mountains. They were caked with dirt, the fine dust of the road clinging to their sweating faces and arms. They looked uneasily toward the low rise of land ahead, for they knew that beyond lay Mordor, that land of ancient terror that had darkened their world all their lives. Few among them had ever seen it but its very name bore a dread. There was fear there, certainly, but a grim determination looked out of their eyes as well. They were ready, even eager, to face what lay beyond. For too many years they had waited fearfully behind walls as Sauron's hordes wandered at will through Ithilien. Now Gondor was bringing the war into Sauron's homeland, and the men were eager to settle old scores and repay old griefs.
Isildur reached the rear of the column. The quartermasters and healers were in their wagons, teams of oxen ready for the whip. He saluted them gravely, for they shared all the dangers and discomforts of a campaign, but precious little of the glory. But well he knew, and often told them, that without them they would not be an army.
As he rode back to the van, he met Elendur and two of his captains carrying unlit torches. They hailed him and he stopped.
"I thought that we raiders would be both more threatening and more visible if we carried torches," explained Elendur. "The orcs will see us and perhaps have more difficulty seeing the rest of the host."
"A good thought," said Isildur. "Though a torch will make a good target for arrows as well."
"I had thought to throw them down when we reach the tower. Perhaps they will waste some arrows shooting at the torches before they realize what we have done."
"Good! Good, I like that. Let it be so."
"Are all ready?"
"Aye. Your company will ride first and make straight for the tower. We will keep to the road. When the last company is safely past, fall back and follow us. We shall wait for you."
"Understood."
"Take care, my son."
"I shall, father."
"Then let us ride."
Elendur signalled to his men, the woodsmen and hunters of northern Ithilien, and they rode after him in single file, each carrying an unlighted torch dipped in pitch. Some men had been stationed just behind the last rocks by a great pile of dead wood, and as they saw Elendur approaching they set it alight. It blazed up with a roar, and as Elendur rode past, he swung his torch through the flames and galloped off toward the high pass, the torch's flames streaming behind him. His men followed his example, and soon a long line of lights could be seen streaming over the rise and disappearing into the darkness beyond.
"Now ride!" shouted Isildur. "Ride into Mordor!" He spurred Fleetfoot forward, Ohtar beside him with the white standard of Gondor flickering in the wind of their passage. Behind him he could hear the growing thunder as thousands of hooves started pounding up the road. It was a long steep slope, and he could feel Fleetfoot's shoulders bunching and pulling, bunching and pulling, as he clawed his way up, his mighty rear legs thrusting them forward.
When he reached the top he saw before him a world of blood. The setting sun turned every stone crimson. The road dropped away into darkness. In the far distance a great mountain spewed forth dark roiling clouds of smoke, laced with red flames beneath. Red streams crept down its sides, and a pulsing sullen glow lit all the wide land below.
Immediately below them a round stone tower loomed, its top still lit by the dying sun, orange against the blood-red land beyond. Near its foot, a line of horsemen with guttering torches, pale and wan in the ruddy glow of the mountain, dashed headlong into a dark rabble of orcs. Cries and screams rose to his ears as he started down the road toward the tower.
Isildur had to mind his path in the wavering, uncertain light, but he stole quick glances at the battle below. He saw the orcs break and scatter in all directions. Some riders left the column to deal with them, but most maintained their speed and rode straight for the tower. The gate was open, and he saw the lead riders disappear without a pause into the gaping dark maw. He had not expected the gate to be open, nor intended the raiders to enter it. But he knew that Elendur was like him — if he saw an opportunity, he would seize it instantly.
His heart in his throat, he urged Fleetfoot forward. They plunged headlong down the steep road, the thunder of their hooves drowning any sounds of combat from the tower. He looked back over his shoulder as he drove past the turning to the tower but could see nothing but some dark forms lying still before the gate. Forcing his mind to the business at hand, he led the column down a long series of wide sweeping turns as the road worked its way down the eastern face of the ridge.
They rode half an hour more, the horses' hooves throwing up sparks in the darkness as they wheeled around each turn, only to see yet another before them. Isildur's eyes swept the slope below, looking for a place where the host could dismount and wait for the others. Then he stiffened. A turn or two below them he could see a high stone bridge arching across a chasm to a lower ridge beyond. Lights moved on the bridge.
"Cirdan," he called over his shoulder. "What do you see on yonder bridge?"
"Orcs — perhaps threescore. I don't think they are guards; they carry heavy packs. Perhaps they were bringing supplies up to the tower. But they have seen or heard us — they are throwing down their packs and forming a line at this end of the bridge."
"No doubt they haven't seen our numbers yet. Ride them down!"
In three more minutes they had descended the last switchback and were driving across level ground toward the bridge. Now the orcs could see them clearly, row after row of armed men riding hard, the column winding down the whole mountainside, the end not yet in sight. They broke in terror and ran shrieking for the bridge. Isildur swept out his sword and drove after them. He caught the stragglers just as they reached the near end of the bridge and turned to make a desperate stand. He swept his blade down on one that was poised to loose an arrow at him, then grunted as the shaft bounced from his breastplate.
Elrond drew and shot as he rode, his horse needing no guidance. Ohtar rode up alongside Isildur, as he often did in the heat of battle. He held the standard aloft in his left hand and waved his sword in the right, cutting down any foes that tried to attack his master.
The orcs broke ranks and fled across the bridge. A particularly large one with orange-green scales leaped up onto the right parapet and drew back his scimitar for a stroke at Isildur as he passed. Isildur was turned to his left, slashing down at two orcs trying to grab his reins. Ohtar saw the scimitar start to sweep down, but he was too far back now to intervene in time. Then Cirdan sent a shaft straight and true that went through the orc's thigh. He screamed and dropped his blade, toppling onto the bridge just as Isildur pounded onto the span. Isildur saw his contorted face for one instant before it disappeared beneath Fleetfoot's hooves. The orcs fleeing across the bridge looked back and saw that they were about to be overtaken. They panicked: some falling to be trampled where they lay, others scrambling wildly over the parapet to launch themselves into the abyss. Cirdan and Ohtar ran down the last two. The bridge ended on a sharp lower ridge of the mountains. Where the road crossed the ridge a wide area had been levelled off before plunging down again beyond. Isildur raised his hand. "My Lords," he cried. "Let us halt here to rest and wait for the others."