Cirdan's face was grim and set. "My heart misgives me," he said. "I fear our plans have gone awry. Sauron may even now be coming out of his tower, and we have many leagues still to ride. We must make great haste."
So the riders moved out again, at a trot. Hour after hour they rode across the steaming wastes. Ever the Mountain rumbled and belched forth streams of lava, but none toward the road. It seemed that the Mountain came no closer, but only grew taller and taller. Then at last they came to the lip of a broad and shallow valley and could see the road stretching out like a thin white line etched upon the blackened southern skirts of the Mountain.
Cirdan peered under a shading hand. "Elrond, do you mark an odd dark cloud above the road in the distance, beyond the Mountain's shoulder?"
"There is a blackness that seems almost solid, directly above the road."
Isildur squinted into the distance, but his eyes were not equal to the Elves'. "Could it be the pall which hangs always above the Barad-dûr?" he asked.
"It is very like," said Gildor. "But surely it is too near. The Tower is yet fifteen leagues beyond."
"I like it not," said Cirdan uneasily. "It has an evil look. Methinks I would not willingly ride under it."
"Is there no other way, father?" asked Elendur.
"No. This is the only road, and we dare not leave it, for the land is a maze of pits and vents masked by drifting ash. But perhaps the cloud is but smoke from the eruption. It may dissipate as we approach. Let us ride on."
"Hold!" said Elrond. "Look there!" They followed his pointing arm toward a line of smoking cinder cones off to their left.
First Cirdan, then the others, noticed a tiny dark figure struggling slowly along the side of the easternmost of the small volcanic vents. Clouds of dust rose as the steep cinder slope slid away from its feet.
"It is a Man, alone and on foot," said Elrond, squinting at the tiny black dot in the distance. "If it is our old friend Malithôr, he has chosen a difficult path," he added, watching the hurrying figure stumble and fall, then rise and struggle on.
"He no doubt wished to avoid the road, and us," said Isildur. "He is most determined to reach Sauron before we do. But it is hopeless on foot. If he continues on that course we should catch him somewhere near the southern foot of the Mountain. He cannot hope to reach the Barad-dûr before we do."
The column advanced down into the valley of black lava, blocking out the sight of the distant figure. Another hour passed, and still the Mountain quaked and still the ominous cloud hovered before them. All could see it now, and the men murmured uneasily, wondering what evil it might hold. They rode up across the southern skirts of the Mountain and several times had to pick their way across more recent lava flows that had buried the road. Then the road dropped away into a steep-sided ravine and they halted once more to pass around food and to water the horses.
"Surely, my lords," said Cirdan. "Yonder cloud is moving. When first we spied it, it was clearly above the plains east of the Mountain. Now it is further south and nearly before us. It is as if it were moving along the road we are on, coming toward us."
They watched a few moments, and soon there could be no doubt. The dark pall crept across the landscape like a living thing, following a weaving pattern that must mark the path of the road below.
"This is the work of Sauron," said Cirdan darkly. "It may be some weapon or pestilence of his making."
"Must we just sit here and wait for it to engulf us?" asked Elendur. "I believe I can smell it, or some change in the air — some reek of putrescence, of death." He shivered, even in the oppressive heat.
"But surely," said Isildur, "it seems to have just now stopped. See, it hovers but a league or two away."
"But hark ye," said Cirdan, bidding them to silence. Elrond sat unmoving a moment, then turned to Cirdan. "The sounds of battle: the clash of steel and the voices of many warriors."
The men strained their ears, but could hear nothing but the wind. Isildur shook his head. "Your Elvish ears are keen indeed. I hear nothing."
"Nevertheless, a great battle rages beneath that cloud," said Cirdan.
"Then it can only be the Kings!" said Elendur.
"Aye," said Cirdan, "and Sauron. The final battle is upon us."
"Men of Gondor and the Southlands!" shouted Isildur, rising in his stirrups and facing his men. "This is the final hour. The enemy is before us. Strike now, and strike well, or the West shall never strike again! The world rides on your shoulders. Forward now, for Gil-galad and Elendil!"
The thousands of riders gave a hoarse and ragged cheer, uncovering their shields and drawing their weapons. Then the column moved forward, down the slope into the ravine, and into the shadow of that black cloud. Ohtar drew forth the great horn of the Eredrim and gave wind to it in mighty blast after blast. High and clear the horn rang. Then the Host of the West was swallowed by the Night of Sauron and the horn became muted and faint. Soon no living thing could be seen moving in all that tortured plain, and only the cloud of darkness remained.
Chapter Twelve
Orodruin
Elendil drove his heels into his charger's sides, urging him on to greater speed. The great horse, already covered with sweat from the long gallop in the stifling heat, grunted but responded, stretching his stride and pulling away from the horses around him. Soon he was a dozen lengths in front of the pounding column of cavalry. No one spoke, their faces masked against the heat and dust, their reddened eyes intent on a column of dust and smoke always a few leagues ahead of them.
The walls of the road crept monotonously by, and still they drew no nearer their foes. The heat, the dust, the lava walls blurring by on either hand, combined to give a nightmarish sense of futility, as if they were doomed to ride thus forever. The only indication of their speed was the fiery summit of Orodruin rising above the black pall. It grew steadily closer. Now and again it shuddered and belched forth new streams of lava and clouds of black flame-laced smoke. Near its summit shone a gleaming red light like a baleful eye watching them — the door to the Sammath Naur, the Chambers of Fire.
Hours passed and they were forced to slow to a canter. The large heavy war horses were streaming with sweat, their great shining sides heaving as they gasped for air in the oppressive heat. Finally by unspoken consent they stopped and allowed the hostlers and grooms to catch up and water the horses from the leather sacks slung on their pack horses.
Elendil sat on the wall, breathing heavily and drinking from a water gourd, as Gil-galad turned from some of his captains and came over to him.
"We cannot keep up this pace much longer," said the Elf.
"We must," gasped Elendil. "Sauron is no more than a league or two before us."
"Aye. But his orcs are accustomed to this heat and short rations. And he has no compunctions about running them to death. If we exhaust our horses we can't hope to pursue him on foot."
"I suppose not. But it galls me to know he is so near and to be unable to bring him to bay."
"I know. But if we do catch him we must be ready to fight. Many of the people look ready to drop from their horses. This ride is destroying their fighting ability."
Elendil looked at his men slumped in the meager shade of the wall. Their faces were ashen and drawn, grey even under the dust. They did not speak, and ate and drank only mechanically.
"You are right. We must rest. But no more than an hour, or we may never catch him."
And so they rested, eyes closed against the blaze of the sun. It was high now, burning down like a copper coin through the smoky yellow haze. It bathed the barren landscape in a glare and heat that left the rocks too hot to comfortably touch and took all relief even from the few shadows. The Elves stood sentry duty, standing tall and dark against the orange sky, wrapped in their long grey cloaks that somehow sheltered them from the heat.