Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,
      Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
      One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.
      One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them.
      One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.

The idea for writing this book was suggested by my brother Gary. Together we developed the plot outline and sketched out the major characters. We divided up the chapters and began writing them, but then Gary moved to Virginia. The project continued by mail for a time, but gradually ground to a stop. The half-finished manuscript sat in a drawer for nearly twenty years. Then, as part of my nightly bedtime reading to my son Nathan, I read him first The Hobbit, then The Lord of the Rings.

It was a joy to me to see him moved by the same scenes that had moved me at my first reading some thirty years earlier. Together we sat in the firelight of the last homely house in Rivendell and heard the history of the Ring; together we hurtled through the dark lands of Rohan on Shadowfax with Gandalf and Pippin;together we stood with Sam on the high pass of Cirith Ungol and looked out into Mordor.

When all the tales were done at last, Nathan looked at me and said, ``I'm sorry we finished it. I wanted it to go on.'' Then I recalled the manuscript in my files. I pulled it out and reread what Gary and I had written so long ago. I resolved to finish it for Nathan, so we would have one more story of Middle-earth to share. I read the second draft to him as I wrote it, which kept me at the thankless job of revision because I had to have one night's reading done every day.

Without Gary's inspiration in the beginning and Nathan's at the end, I never would have been able to write this book. I give them my thanks and my love.

I also acknowledge my debt and thanks to Professor Tolkien, without whom Middle-earth itself would never have existed. He did not approve of other authors ``spinning off'' from his original work and would not give us permission to publish this book. It is therefore self-published only for the enjoyment of our family and friends. This is perhaps just as well, for I would not wish to have my work compared with the master's. Nevertheless, I shall always be grateful to him for enriching our lives with his creation.

Of all extant records of that ancient and remarkable race the hobbits, the best preserved and least fragmentary is of course the famous Red Book of Westmarch, by Bilbo Baggins and others, dating from the late Third Age and early Fourth. As well as being an invaluable source of information about a remote time, it contains many vivid accounts and stirring tales that can stand on their own as literature. Unlike most ancient documents, its fame has spread beyond the quiet world of scholarly research to achieve no little public acclaim, due largely to the excellent and entertaining novelized version published by Professor J. R. R. Tolkien of Oxford and called by him The Lord of the Rings. His popularization manages to bring fire and life to the old records without sacrificing historical accuracy. It has made history come alive for many thousands who otherwise would have been completely unaware of the people and events of those fascinating eras now known collectively and rather inaccurately as Middle-earth.

Many lay readers of Tolkien's work may however be unaware that the Red Book is far from the only record of Middle-earth. While nothing remains of the libraries of the Quendi (that mysterious people that Professor Tolkien translated as ``Elves'') or of the men of the era, some contemporary works have miraculously enough survived down to our time. In fact the hobbits kept excellent records, and the great library of the Tooks at the Great Smials in Tuckborough must have been truly magnificent in its heyday. Fortunately for us, hobbits were very diligent about protecting and preserving their ancient books, and a rather extensive remnant of the library has been preserved. Most of the original documents have of course long ago crumbled into dust, but careful copying over the millennia has preserved their contents.

Even the famous Red Book did not survive in the original. In fact, it has come down to us by a tortuous and fortuitous path. Peregrin Took, Thirty-Second Thain of the Shire, had ordered a copy made early in the Fourth Age. When he retired to Gondor in 64 Fourth Age, he took the copy with him and gave it to King Elessar I. It was long kept in the famed library of Minas Tirith, which burned, to our eternal loss, some four hundred years later. However, in 172 Fourth Age, Findegil, the Writer of King Eldarion II, made an exact copy of the Red Book at the request of Faramir II, Thirty-fifth Thain, and that copy went again north to be kept in the Took Library. This is the copy that has descended to us through countless generations of farsighted minds and careful hands. While the other surviving documents are less complete than the Red Book, they are no less interesting, for they tell us in detail of other fascinating matters not covered in the Red Book.

Of all the events of those far-off days, the most stirring are those that were recognized even by their participants as so momentous as to signal the end of an age and the beginning of a new. These are the times of great change and upheaval, of war and danger. But they are also the times when heroes stand forth, when brave men and women risk everything for their beliefs against seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Their struggles, their defeats, and their triumphs, reach across the gulfs of time to move us still.

As these words are being written, work is going forward on the translation, editing, and publishing of The Silmarillion, the account of the end of the First Age, as The Lord of the Rings told of the end of the Third. But nothing so far has been published of the momentous events at the end of the Second Age. The Red Book is sadly incomplete on that earlier war against the Great Enemy, Sauron. Fortunately, other chronicles exist that deal with the Second Age.

Shortly after the end of the War of the Rings, both Thain Peregrin and Meriadoc, Master of Buckland, resolved to preserve what they could of the old lore. They travelled extensively in Rohan, Gondor, and Rivendell, collecting information and documents from many sources. Peregrin and his many descendants organized and edited this material into a fascinating book, now called The Thain's Book. This remarkable manuscript is rich in the lore of the Second Age. In addition, a very few of the source documents for this book have survived, notably The Tale of Years, an anonymous history of Middle-earth from the point of view of the hobbits.

Several accounts exist of the important Council of Osgiliath which took place on Loëndë, Midsummer's Day, in 3441 Second Age. The source used for the current work is a set of large foolscap sheets, entirely covered with a very minute but legible hand. They were kept rolled in sheepskin, and the remains of a binding ribbon of indeterminate color may still be seen. The original source of this account was written in the first year of the Third Age by Halgon, King's Writer of Gondor, at the order of Isildur himself. It was presumably included in the now-lost Chronicle of the Kings, a history of the Kingdom of Gondor from its founding in 3320 Second Age until the end of the Telcontar dynasty over a thousand years later. The copy at Tuckborough bears the following preface: ``This tale and several others were copied by Peregrin the First, Thain of the Shire, on his visit to Minas Tirith in the year 1441 [20 Fourth Age]. A few archaic terms and forms have been altered to conform to modern Westron usage, but otherwise it is an exact copy of Halgon's manuscript. Copied by my hand, this year of 1486 [65 Fourth Age], by Isengar, son of Isembold, Thain's Scribe.''

The account of the great naval battle at Pelargir is extracted from the journal of Amroth, a lord of the Sindarin Elves. He kept this daily record from 2960 Second Age until he took the Straight Road and departed from Middle-earth in 1294 Third Age. Before he sailed he gave the journal to his friend Elrond Peredhil. Portions of it were lost or crumbled away over the centuries, but several volumes survived in the library at Rivendell. They were there copied by Meriadoc, Master of Buckland, and brought back to the Shire in 1428 Shire Reckoning (7 Fourth Age). This extract is from a copy in the library at Tuckborough, bearing the inscription, ``Master Meriadoc ordered this copy of Amroth's journal to be made as a gift for his friend Peregrin, Thain of the Shire. This I have done. By my hand, Anson Brandybuck, 6 Blotmath, 1436 [15 Fourth Age].''

The primary source of the material for this book comes from the invaluable Journal of Ohtar, a crumbling scroll in the great collection of the Tooks at Great Smials. All authorities agree that the handwriting is undoubtedly Bilbo's, but it bears corrections and marginal notes in another hand. These notes were apparently made soon after the manuscript was completed, as several take the form of notes to Bilbo. For this reason, most scholars believe this manuscript is a copy sent by Bilbo to another authority for correction and revision. Presumably it was then used to produce a final copy which has not survived.

The identity of this early editor is a subject of great debate among scholars. He was obviously very knowledgeable in the events of the tale and fluent in Sindarin, for some of Ohtar's errors and idiomatic expressions have been accurately translated. For this reason most authorities have identified the probable editor as Elrond Peredhil, Bilbo's longtime friend and host. The present editors, however, detect what we believe to be a Mannish outlook and attitudes in these marginal notes, and a strong case (see An Analysis of The Journal of Ohtar and Related MSS, by the editors) can be made that this may be the only extant sample of the hand of Elessar Telcontar, First King of the Reunited Kingdom.

Bilbo produced this manuscript during his residence at Rivendell, and there are numerous indications that it was completed before the War of the Rings, for there is no reference to the eventual fate of the One Ring nor his nephew Frodo's pivotal rôle in that war. This would place the manuscript between the years 3002 and 3018 Third Age. In translating Ohtar's work, Bilbo was in a position few historians enjoy. He enjoyed full access to the extensive library at Rivendell and also to its master, Elrond Peredhil, who of course was present at many of the events described. He could also consult his friends King Elessar (known as Aragorn or simply Strider in those days before his coronation) and the wizard Gandalf Greyhame, two of the greatest historians of his age.

Bilbo's scroll is a relatively short work, a condensation and translation into Westron of a very old book Bilbo had found in Elrond's library. In a foreward, Bilbo describes the original as ``a small black hide-bound volume, much worn and stained and with the back cover missing. On the front cover is written in a different hand: The Journal of Ohtar Kingsquire.'' It was in the format of a journal, though whether Ohtar actually carried it about and made daily entries, or if it was copied down later from the original journal, Bilbo was unable to determine. It was either brought to Rivendell by Ohtar or written by him soon after his arrival there. From other sources we know that Ohtar and his two companions arrived at Rivendell in the late summer or early fall of 3 Third Age and left with Isildur's son Valandil for Annúminas some months later, probably early in the year 4. As far as can be determined, Bilbo's is the only copy of it ever made. The original journal is assumed to have been included in Elrond's belongings when he went Over Sea with all the other surviving Ringbearers in 3021, bringing the end of the Third Age.

The present editors have had the privilege of examining these records at first hand. As we pored over the dusty archives in the laborious task of translating a fragmentary work in a complex and long-forgotten language, a fascinating tale began to emerge. Here was truly the stuff of legend. The heroes of that time seem like giants to us. Their joys and sorrows thrill us again as they did when the stories were read to young hobbits in the fire-lit halls of the Great Smials so many thousand of years ago. It occurred to us that these tales would also merit novelization and publication in the manner (if not the skill) of Professor Tolkien. But what should be the theme of the book; where should it begin and end? It needed a central character as a focus for the narrative.

Of all the heroes of those days, none stands out so clearly, none catches our attention and curiosity more than Isildur Elendilson. Remembered now chiefly for his fatal flaw -- his ill choice on Orodruin that doomed the world to another long age of struggle against Sauron -- he was nonetheless a remarkable man, a shrewd general, and a mighty king. He was of the House of Elros, greatest of all lines of Men, but in his veins flowed also the blood of both Elda and Vala [Elros was the great-grandson of Lúthien Tinúviel, daughter of Thingol Greycloak of Doriath and Melian the Vala]. He was a Númenórean prince, Lord of Ithilien, King of Arnor, and for two brief years the High King of the Realms in Exile. He founded a dynasty of kings that ruled the Dúnedain for five thousand years.

By nature a strong and resolute man; by training a powerful and canny king; born in the fires of civil war; tempered by the loss of his native land and the hard early years of the founding of Gondor; and hardened to adamant by a long and bloody war, Isildur Elendilson was not a man to be disregarded, even by Sauron himself.

He was a man of contradictions and paradoxes: a valiant and merciless warrior but also a loving husband and father; esteeming virtue and honor above all things but intolerant of the weaknesses of others; of noble lineage and demeanor but also comfortable with his subjects and beloved by them. Even the great error that doomed him and marred the age that followed was not due to weakness on his part. It was his very nobility and virtue, his confidence in his ability to control Sauron's Ring, that brought about his downfall.

His contemporaries heaped all praise and honor on him as a paragon of royal virtue, but his heirs had reason enough to curse his name. What sort of man was Isildur, the only Man to wear Sauron's One Ring? We decided to concentrate our research on this remarkable figure.

In the beginning was The One, Eru Ilúvatar, and he created the Holy Ones, the Ainur. And the Ainur were of two kinds: the great Valar and the lesser Maiar. And the Ainur took the mighty theme of Eru's thought and they raised their voices together and they sang the world into being. But Melkor, the mightiest of the Valar, thought to increase his own power and glory and introduced his own discords into the Music.

And then Eru made his Children: the Firstborn, or Eldar; and the Followers, or Atani. The Eldar call themselves the Quendi, or Speakers, but the other races call them Elves. They age until they choose to stop and then they live forever unless they are slain, when they Cross through The Curtain and return to whence they came. At any time, they can choose to sail away into the West and follow the Straight Path that leaves the Circles of the World. Then they will be reunited with all their kindred that have already Crossed. In contrast, the Atani, or Men, always grow older until they die, then they go where none but Eru knows. This the Elves are forever denied, and for this reason Death is called the Gift of Man.

Then Fëanor the Elvensmith created the Silmarilli, The Great Jewels of Light. And Melkor coveted them and seized them for himself. Then was Melkor known as Morgoth, the Enemy. And that race of the Elves called the Noldor sailed east to the land of Middle-earth to contend with him. One house of the Men of Middle-earth, the Edain, aided the Noldor in their war against Morgoth. Still they suffered only defeats until one Man, Eärendil the Mariner, sailed away to the west and Crossed through the Curtain, the only mortal Man ever to do so, and he went to Valinor and sought the assistance of the Valar. In the end they consented and the world was changed. Morgoth was driven from the circles of the world and his fastness of Thangorodrim destroyed, but many of the northern lands of the Noldor were sunk beneath the sea. Valinor was removed from the reach of mortals and Eärendil himself was set in the sky as the Evening Star. Thus ended the First Age of the world.

After the war, some of the Noldorin Exiles sailed away from Middle-earth to return to their homes in Eldamar, near to the shores of Valinor. But many remained in Middle-earth, setting up new realms called Lindon and Eregion and Lothlórien. The Valar rewarded the Edain by granting them the great island of Elenna, between Middle-earth and Eldamar, but they placed upon them the Ban of the Valar, forbidding the ships of Men to travel west toward Eldamar and Valinor. The Men established the kingdom of Númenor there that grew mighty on its sea-borne trade. They became known as the Dúnedain, or Men of the West. Those Men who had remained in Middle-earth were known as the Uialedain, or Men of the Twilight, and they formed petty tribes, often at war with one another.

As the power and wealth of Númenor increased, its kings grew proud and came to resent the Ban of the Valar. The people of Númenor became divided, many sharing their king's envy of the immortality of the Elves and the Valar. But always a minority remained faithful to the Valar and maintained friendly relations with the Elves. The kings ceased to use the Elvish tongues and reverted to the ancient tongue of their ancestors, the Edain of Middle-earth. In the thirtieth century, King Ar-Adûnakhor persecuted the Faithful and they fled into the westernmost province of Andúnië where their party was strongest. Soon after this the use of the Elvish tongues was forbidden by royal decree.

In 3175 Tar-Palantír came to the throne and tried to end the division. He pardoned the Faithful, but feelings by this time were too high against them, and there was rebellion in the land. In 3255, Palantír died and the rebel leader, Palantír's nephew, seized the scepter and took the name Ar-Pharazôn. Palantír's heirs fled to Andúnië.

At this time a new evil arose in Middle-earth in the form of Sauron. He was a Maia, one of the lesser Ainur, and he had been Morgoth's chief lieutenant and student. In the mountain-ringed southeast portions of Middle-earth he had secretly built for himself the realm of Mordor, the Black Land, peopled by orcs, an evil race created by his master. He deceived Celebrimbor of Eregion into teaching him how he had made the Great Rings of Power, and he forged for himself the One Ring to absorb the powers of all the Great Rings. With this new weapon he rose against the Elves and the Uialedain, and he drove them back before the fury of his armies. The Elves were hard-pressed until Ar-Pharazôn in 3262 sent his mighty fleet to Middle-earth to intervene. The overwhelming might of the Númenorean fleet quickly prevailed, and Sauron was taken back to Númenor in chains. But over the years he gradually rose from captive to guest of the court to advisor, and finally to first minister. He fueled the pride and arrogance of the king and urged him to ever greater persecution of the Faithful; but Amandil, Lord of Andúnië, and his son Elendil steadfastly maintained their opposition to Pharazôn's policies. This was the troubled world into which Isildur was born.

Of Isildur's early life we know very little. He was born in 3289 Second Age in Dol Elros, the chief city of Andúnië. His father was Elendil, the Prince of Andúnië and the spiritual and political leader of the Party of the Faithful. In 3285, Elendil married Aldamirë, a woman of southern Númenor, and she gave him two sons, Isildur in 3289 and Anárion in 3296. Amandil was elderly by this time and the people rallied around the handsome and charismatic young prince Elendil, just as they would gather to his eldest son many years later. In 3310, the aging king Pharazôn, urged by Sauron, resolved to assail Valinor to acquire the immortality of the Valar for himself. He began building ships and engines of war to Sauron's designs. The Faithful tried to dissuade the lords and people of Númenor from their blasphemous course, but Pharazôn punished all dissent with death. A religious and patriotic fervor developed against the Faithful and Andúnië was isolated from the rest of the kingdom, an embattled fiefdom.

In 3319, the Great Armament sailed for Valinor. Elendil believed that all of Númenor would be destroyed when the Ban was broken, and he began preparing for a hasty evacuation. His father Amandil attempted to repeat Eärendil's feat by enlisting the aid of the Valar, but his expedition was never seen again. Pharazôn landed in Valinor and the Valar enforced their Ban by withdrawing their gift of the island of Elenna. The island crumbled and sank forever beneath the waves. Of the Great Armament, its hundreds of ships and thousands of men, no trace was ever found.

Elendil and his sons and hundreds of their followers escaped the destruction in a fleet of nine ships, taking with them the treasured relics of their ancient line: the Scepter of the Lords of Andúnië; the Ring of Barahir; a seedling of Nimloth, the White Tree; the nine Palantíri or seeing stones; and the great sword Narsil -- all gifts of the Eldar to the Lords of Andúnië.

Isildur was a young man of thirty as he stood in the prow of his ship and watched the domes and towers of his homeland torn asunder and cast beneath the waves. The forlorn little fleet was borne away by a terrible storm and became separated. Elendil at last reached Mithlond, the Grey Havens of the Elves of Lindon, and was taken in by his friend Gil-galad, King of the Noldor. Later he was granted land east of Lindon and he and his people removed there. They founded a realm with its capital at Annúminas beside lake Nenuial, and named the land Arnor, the Royal Land.

Isildur and Anárion landed near to the one haven of the Faithful in Middle-earth, the port city of Pelargir near the mouth of the Great River Anduin. They began the ordering of a great realm along the Anduin. They built their capital Osgiliath, Citadel of the Stars, where the mountains drew close to the river on either side. The fair lands along the River became dotted with farms and vineyards and orchards and the rocky land soon began to yield its richness. They named their new land Gondor, the Land of Stone, and divided it into two provinces separated by the River; Ithilien on the east under Isildur, and Anórien on the west ruled by Anárion. Isildur built a fortress city high in a pass of the Ephel Dúath and named it Minas Ithil, the Tower of the Rising Moon. On the slopes of Mindolluin, the easternmost peak of the Ered Nimrais, Anárion built Minas Anor, the Tower of the Setting Sun. For many years Arnor and Gondor, the Realms in Exile, prospered and grew in power and wealth, and the Great North Road was busy with many travelers and wagons bearing produce and goods between the sister kingdoms. In 3409 Isildur married Vorondomë, daughter of the Captain of the Ships of Ithilien. She gave him four sons between 3412 and 3429: Elendur, Aratan, Ciryon, and Valandil.

The future looked very bright for the young lord Isildur: a fair land to rule; a beautiful and loving queen; a growing family; and the prospect of one day becoming King of the Realms in Exile and ruling the greatest kingdom in Middle-earth. Then in the autumn of 3429, disaster struck. A huge force of barbarians, trolls, orcs, and many other fell creatures swept over the mountains out of Mordor. They were led by Sauron, in a new and even more powerful form, dead and yet not dead. All had thought him killed in the fall of Númenor, but he had escaped with his hatred for the Dúnedain unabated. His savage hordes swept across Ithilien and besieged Minas Ithil. After a brief but bitter struggle, the gates were breached and the enemy spread through the city, destroying all in their path. The defenders formed a wedge around their families and drove desperately through their attackers, eventually reaching Osgiliath.

The wave of the Black Host pursued them and swarmed around the walls of Osgiliath. The city withstood the siege, though the eastern portion was much damaged. That night, with Minas Ithil lost and ringing to the harsh cries and foul revelry of the orcs, Isildur stood helplessly on the walls of Osgiliath and watched the crofts and villages of his kingdom going up in flames. His wife Vorondomë was so shaken by the loss and horrors of that night she became a frightened, broken woman, never again in her life to laugh. Isildur looked out on his suffering realm and vowed to avenge the evils done that day.

Leaving his brother to hold the River and defend what remained of their kingdom, Isildur and his family fled down Anduin to the sea and eventually to his father at Annúminas. There they secured the help of their old ally, Gil-galad of Lindon. Uniting the armies of Arnor, Gondor, and Lindon, and drawing many volunteers from other neighboring realms, they formed the Army of the Alliance and marched against Sauron's hordes. Slowly they pressed their foes south and east, driving them back to the very doors of Sauron's own land of Mordor. There, in the wide fenny plains known as Dagorlad, was fought perhaps the greatest battle of ancient times. Tens of thousands fell on both sides, but eventually the allies prevailed and the Morannon, the Black Gate of Mordor was broken and taken. Sauron and his forces withdrew to the south and took refuge in his impregnable fortress of Barad-dûr. The Úlairi, the Nine Kings of Men turned into Ring-wraiths by the Great Rings they wear, ruled in Minas Ithil and launched frequent raids into Anórien. The allies besieged the Dark Tower but could neither force the gates nor draw Sauron out. Unable to prevail and unwilling to depart, the vast Army of the Alliance remained camped about the Tower for seven long years. Many attempts had been made to take the Tower, but all had failed. Finally, the Lords of the Alliance formed a bold new plan; one last desperate attempt that would end the stalemate and ensure either victory or total defeat.

The valley of Morthond was still, save for the tumble and splash of water on stone. Morning mists still hovered above the small icy stream winding down the floor of the valley. Though the year was drawing on to midsummer, frost sparkled from the tips of each grass blade, for the valley was high in the flanks of the Ered Nimrais, the White Mountains that are the rocky backbone of Gondor, Land of Stone.

Gradually the valley awoke. The hoarse croak of a raven drifted faintly down through the still air as the rising sun touched the rocky heights above. A clatter of small rocks betrayed the presence of a marmot setting out on his daily search for food among the rocks at the foot of the cliffs.

Then a low door creaked open and a woman stepped out of a rough stone cottage. She stood a moment, yawning and looking up at the brightening sky, then she picked up a wooden bucket and went down to the Morthond stream to fetch water. Soon others joined her, a woman or a child from each of the twenty or so low sod-roofed houses clustered along the stream. Soon a thin vertical stream of smoke was rising from each smoke-hole.

Then the first man appeared, stooping under the log lintel of his door. He too looked about at the day, stretching and scratching. He wore a long tunic of coarse-spun undyed wool, leather boots stuffed with straw against the chill air, and he had a large black fur drawn about his shoulders. He bent to splash his face with water from a basin filled by the woman. Then, puffing and blowing at the icy water, he pulled his cloak more tightly about himself and stalked up to the top of a rounded hill that stood beside the village.

At the top of the hill, half-buried in the ground, was a strange stone. It was a huge black globe, as smooth as glass. It must have been enormously heavy, for even half-buried it stood nearly as tall as the man as he stood beside it and gazed south down the valley. In the clear morning air he could see for league upon league as the land fell gradually away. The Morthond wound away south and west until it disappeared behind a range of low hills some miles away. His eyes swept slowly around to the west. Suddenly he stiffened and stared under his shading hand.

Miles away, a cloud of dust hung in the still air, marking the path of the road that wound up from the west, between the Morthond and the western walls of the valley. The morning sun turned the cloud to gold. He stood staring a moment or two more. Clearly the cloud was approaching. The man turned then and walked quickly back down to the village. He went to the largest house, a long hall built of massive logs, and stood before its door.

``Romach,'' he called, but the only answer was a low growl.

``Lord,'' he tried again, ``an host approaches.''

``Eh?'' A large head with long curling hair, black shot with grey, was thrust through the door. ``Ah, it must be the embassy from Umbar, come at last.''

``I think not, my lord. They are too many. An army rides toward us from Anfalas. Perhaps an hour or two away.''

``What say you? How is this?'' Romach emerged hurriedly. He was a big man, with a bearing of command. His shoulders and arms were broad and strong, but his skin was old and scarred, no longer the most powerful man in the tribe, as he had long been. He was dressed much like the other, save a jeweled belt and on his head was a thin gold circlet. ``Come,'' he said. ``Let me see.''

They ascended the hill again and stood staring into the west. The dust was closer now, and here and there beneath it bright points of metal flashed in the clear light.

``You are right, it is not the Umbardrim,'' said Romach. He peered into the distance. ``But hardly an army. I would guess no more than three hundreds. They will be here before the second hour. Could the ambassador have betrayed us?'' He turned suddenly and bounded down the slope, very nimbly for a man of his age and girth. He was shouting over his shoulder. ``We must be ready! Sound the horns! To arms!''

Soon the village was in an uproar. The women wakened the children and bustled them up toward the refuges in the head of the valley. A long ox horn was winded and soon answered from the valleys on either side, then from other valleys beyond. The men arrayed themselves for war and assembled at the broad shallow ford where the west road crossed the Morthond. In thirty minutes they had nearly two hundred and fifty drawn up, still buckling their harness, but ready to fight. In an hour the first companies from the other valleys could be seen, picking their way over the high green passes.

The approaching host had long been hidden by a fold of the land. Now they reappeared over a rise in the road, much closer. The men craned their heads to see what they were facing. First appeared spear heads and furled banners, then the flowing crests and gleaming helmets of the lead riders bobbed into sight. There was an uneasy murmur among the men. This was no band of robbers, as sometimes roamed the high valleys in summers, but heavily-armed, experienced soldiers. Fingers tightened on the hafts of weapons.

Romach glanced over his shoulder nervously. Two companies were just entering the village and a third could be seen riding hard down the east road. Reassured, he turned back to study the lead riders, now approaching the ford. From the corners of his eyes, he could see their scout riders splashing into the river a few hundred yards to either side.

Those in the van were mounted but riding slowly, for the greater part of the men were on foot. Their faces were set and grim. They bore the look of men that had made a hard journey. Their clothing was of many colors and styles, though all dusty and weather-stained. Many wore odd bits of armor. They trudged along strongly in the rapidly warming sun. They marched under many standards and bore the devices of many lords and masters unfamiliar to Romach. But at their head flew a broad emerald banner emblazoned with a white tree surmounted by a silver crown and seven stars. He stared for a moment, then roared to his men.

``Stay your hands!'' he bellowed. ``That is the banner of Gondor. These are not our foes.'' The men relaxed as one and stood whispering to one another as the newcomers approached. The first riders came to the bank of the river and paused. Their leader was a tall man, sitting straight on a huge white stallion. He wore a blue robe over a suit of mail, and he wore a crownéd helmet bearing the white wings of a seabird. Romach stared grimly, for well he knew that man, even before the newcomers' standard bearer spurred his horse forward into the midst of the stream.

``Greetings to the Men of the Mountains,'' the herald called in a loud voice. ``Isildur Elendilson, King of Gondor, seeks to meet with your lord.''

Romach stepped forward. ``I am Romach, Lord of the Eredrim. Welcome to Erech, Men of Gondor.''

Isildur came forward then and with his herald crossed the stream and rode up before Romach. He lifted off his winged helmet and held it beneath his arm. A long dark braid, black as night, tumbled over his shoulder to his waist. His keen grey eyes looked piercingly into Romach's. ``Greetings to you, Romach,'' he said. ``Long it is since last we spoke.''

``Aye, it is that, Isildur King,'' said Romach, looking up at him. ``Twenty winters have whitened the heads of the Ered Nimrais since that day.''

``I hope they have left you well?''

``Well, enough, though my head is whitened as well, as you see.''

Isildur smiled grimly, then dismounted to clasp arms with Romach. ``I come in great haste, Romach. We bear many tidings, but perhaps they would be best related in private.''

``Let us go to my hall, then,'' replied Romach. ``See that the king's people and their horses are given food and shelter,'' he called to his lieutenants. ``And send for the women to return.''

As they walked side by side up the hill to the village, Romach stole sidelong glances at the tall king striding beside him. He seemed still a man in his prime, stern of face and mighty of limb, though he had looked just the same a half century before when Romach was only a child.

For Isildur was not like other men. He was a Dúnadan, of the race of men that had long ago sailed from Middle-earth to Númenor in the west. Dwelling there near to the Blessed Lands all those long centuries, they had become tall and long-lived and powerful, wise in the lore and arts of their friends the Elves. But those who remained in Middle-earth, the Uialedain or the Men of the Twilight, had fallen into rivalries and petty wars, and they dwindled and their years ever lessened. Many fell under the sway of Sauron, the Dark Lord of Mordor, and turned to evil and their houses declined.

But then Númenor had been thrown down and the few survivors, led by Isildur's father Elendil, had returned to Middle-earth. They established great kingdoms and set themselves up as lords over the Uialedain. Many welcomed their return, thankful for the peace and unity the Dúnedain had brought to the war-torn land. But not all Uialedain lords were pleased to bow to the Men of the West.

Romach showed the king into his hall. Isildur stooped under the door, for he was nearly a head taller than Romach. He looked around as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark interior of the hall. A large fire smoldered in a pit in the center, the smoke rising among blackened beams to escape from a hole in the center of the roof. Along either side, behind rows of carved and painted wooden columns, were raised bed platforms, heaped with skins and woolen blankets in disarray from the morning's hurried departure.

Romach led Isildur to the platform at the head of the hall, where stood a high-backed wooden throne behind a massive oaken table. He pulled two stools from under the table and he and Isildur sat.

``I am sorry, Sire, that there are none to wait on you. We sent the servants with the women and children to take refuge when we spied your approach.''

``It matters not,'' said Isildur, stretching out his legs and sighing. ``We do not seek your hospitality, Romach. Sending your people to safety is a wise precaution in these troubled times. I remember there are extensive caverns at the head of this valley. Is that where they are?''

Romach seemed surprised that the king was aware of the caves. ``Aye,'' he said. ``Were we to fall here, it would take a mighty army to roust them out of those dark ways. Only we Eredrim know the hundreds of twisting tunnels under the Ered Nimrais. Why, some of the ways pierce the very mountain's heart, so that a bold and resolute man may enter at Erech and emerge in Dunharrow on the borders of Calenardhon, a dozen miles away. Our people are safe indeed in the caverns of Erech.''

Isildur nodded his approval. ``You were very quick to take action when you saw us. Have you then seen enemies in your land before?''

Romach shrugged. ``Bands of brigands occasionally appear and cause some trouble in the higher valleys, especially in summer when many of the men are up in the high pastures with the herds. They're outlanders, wandered up from strange lands in the south, `tis said. And occasionally, I'm sorry to say, they're joined by some of the local lads, the wild ones, after the excitement, or the plunder. We are ever watchful. But we did not expect the King of Gondor, especially coming from the west.''

``I daresay you did not expect me on any road.''

``True enough, Sire. It has been long since so much as a merchant has been to see us from Gondor. We could well do with the trade.''

``Things are going ill in Gondor,'' Isildur admitted grimly. ``Most of the men have been long away, fighting in Gorgoroth, and we have little time for governance or commerce. I am afraid all the provinces are forced onto their own resources. We can send you neither aid nor supplies, nor can the wealthier citizens of Osgiliath escape the summer heat by visiting your fair valleys, as they once were wont.''

``Do any still dwell in Osgiliath? We had heard that city was destroyed.''

``Then you have heard more than the truth. It is true that in the first onslaught the enemy captured and defiled the eastern districts of the city, beyond the Anduin. The people have fled to the west shore. But the Great Bridge still stands, and a strong garrison guards it. The river is now the frontier.''

``Ithilien then remains in enemy hands?''

``The province is held by neither side and is a land of great danger for all, be they Elf, Man, or orc. We occasionally sortie into East Osgiliath or into the countryside beyond and there have been many skirmishes, but nothing decisive as yet. My own capital of Minas Ithil is yet held by the Úlairi, the most fell of Sauron's servants.''

``You cannot retake your capital?'' asked Romach in surprise. ``Is the mighty army of Gondor not strong enough to take one city?

Isildur's jaw tightened, but his voice was still even. ``We dare not even attempt it. Our forces encircle Sauron in the Dark Tower, but he is yet mighty. He is besieged, but we are no less trapped than he. We dare not break our siege to assail Minas Ithil. And so my beautiful city remains in the hands of the enemy, while we are helpless to free it.''

``But we rejoiced when we heard that the men of Gondor had broken the Black Gate and entered Mordor itself. We thought to hear soon that you had taken the Black Tower. But years have passed, and yet you say the Barad-dûr still stands?''

Isildur was becoming irritated by Romach's questions. Surely such news of the war had long since reached even these remote valleys. Romach seemed to be emphasizing the Alliance's ineffectiveness so far against Sauron. But why?

``The Barad-dûr is mighty beyond belief,'' Isildur replied. ``You should see it, Romach. All who approach it are filled with dread and black despair. I have seen brave men quail at the sight. It is built of black adamant so hewn and joined that it is as smooth as glass for hundreds of feet up to the first parapet. It stands close-ringed by a chasm so deep we have never been able to sound it, preventing us from close approach to the walls. The only entrance is by an immense bridge of black iron, and that leads to a massive steel gate that has long been shut.

``Smokes and reeks constantly obscure the plain, so that only the upper towers of the Barad-dûr can be seen standing above the murk. Poisonous fumes boil out of the abyss, but we know not whether from the design of the Enemy, or from some effect of Mount Orodruin, the fire mountain which stands but a few leagues away and is ever active. We can bring no siege engines to bear against the walls or gate. No catapult can overtop the walls, but Sauron assails us at will with arrows and darts, and burning missles. Many a brave Man or Elf has died in the siege. My own younger brother Anárion was slain last year by a great stone cast from the Tower. It is maddening. Seven years now have the combined armies of Gondor and of Lindon besieged it, but still Sauron mocks us from within.''

``He must be mighty indeed,'' said Romach with wonder in his voice.

``He wields great powers,'' acknowledged Isildur, ``But we are not without powers of our own. The Army of the Alliance is the most powerful force ever assembled since the Great Armament of Ar-Pharazôn. It is led by the greatest kings and heros of Elves and Men. And we have the famous weapons: Gil-galad's spear Aeglos the Snowpoint, that none may withstand; and Elendil's blade Narsil, MoonFire. Both these weapons were doomed at their making to be the Bane of Sauron. When we assailed Mordor, Sauron himself quaked in fear.

``Though the Black Gate of Mordor was guarded by Sauron's most trusted and loyal troops, the Morannon was thrown down and the defenders ran shrieking across the vale of Udûn. We took Udûn and swept over the Plains of Gorgoroth, and we have kept him bottled up within the Tower for seven years now. But Sauron is mighty and canny and learned in the ancient lore.''

``He is said to be ages old,'' said Romach. ``Perhaps he cannot be slain. How then can you hope to defeat him?''

Isildur's irritation flared suddenly into anger. ``We hope because there is no alternative,'' he snapped. ``I assure you, Romach, the Barad-dûr will yet fall. I have sworn it beside my brother's pyre. I will throw down the Black Tower and fling it stone by stone into the chasm. I have foretold its doom, and so it shall be.''

Romach flinched back at the sudden glint of fire in Isildur's eye, the tightness of his voice. He was reminded that Isildur came long ago from fabled Númenor, where deeds of trained will and Elvish arts were practiced. Romach did not know what powers Isildur might wield, but he was rumored to be able to augur the future and to cast spells of power. He looked on Isildur in new wonder, and trembled. Never had he met a man more resolute, more determined to exact revenge.

And Isildur was but one of the lesser lords at the head of that army in Gorgoroth. The immortal Elves were led by Gil-galad, King of Lindon, the greatest living warrior of any race. With him were many noble Elf-lords, veterans of the wars against Sauron's former master Morgoth the Enemy, thousands of years ago. The men of Gondor and Arnor were commanded by Isildur's father Elendil, high king of the Dúnedain, founder of the Realms in Exile.

``I am sure you are right, Isildur,'' he said placatingly. ``The Tower must fall. And as you say, Sauron is trapped within. What can he hope to accomplish?''

``Do not think he is helpless in his captivity. He has powerful allies yet. His minions continue his depredations throughout the land. Orcs infest the Misty Mountains, wild Easterlings fall on our outposts in Harondor and the Nindalf, Corsairs raid the coasts. Even here in Lamedon, far from the Mountains of Shadow, brigands roam and plunder. These are not independent incidents -- they are the plan and the will of Sauron.''

Romach gave a thin smile. ``You ascribe all the misfortunes of the world to him, Sire. Is it not more likely that these other peoples are merely opportunists? People on the outside of power, uneasily watching the rising might of Gondor, now seeing their chance when she is weakened, distracted by Sauron?''

Isildur shook his head quickly. ``Most of our neighbors view us as protectors and friends. Throughout the Dark Years each petty kingdom was at constant war with its neighbors, instigated by Sauron himself. We Dúnedain have brought peace and understanding throughout the many lands of the Uialedain. We have not come to conquer you nor to take your land. We come as friends, with skills and assistance to offer you. Their lords are happy to have us here. Lords like yourself, Romach, who have long seen the wisdom of joining us for the mutual good of our peoples. You know Gondor is not a threat to you. Your people have long been our allies.''

``Aye,'' agreed Romach carefully. ``We have ever been on friendly terms with the kings of Gondor.''

Soon a stocky man came in wearing Isildur's livery. Romach recognized him as the herald who had announced the king.

``Ah, there you are,'' called Isildur. ``Lord Romach, this is Ohtar, my esquire and friend. What news from the camp, Ohtar? How are the men?''

``Weary and dusty, Sire, and glad of a stop. The people of Lefnui are finding it hard to maintain the pace.''

``I am sorry for that, but it cannot be helped.''

``Ethir Lefnui?'' exclaimed Romach with a start. ``The men of Ethir Lefnui are among you?'' Isildur gave him a sharp look.

``That surprises you?''

Romach fought to contain his surprise. ``No, it..., well, yes. I have never known Ethir Lefnui to send her men to fight in another land's cause.''

``It is their cause as well. They bear the same hatred for the enemy as I, and for the same cause: he has destroyed our homes. Ethir Lefnui is no more.''

``Be it not so! How did this happen?''

``Aye, not these ten days past, lord,'' said Ohtar. ``We were bound there from Anglond, and in the Nanbrethil Valley, between the mountains and the Green Hills, we came upon a ragged party of thirty men and women, the sole survivors of Ethir Lefnui. It was the Corsairs. The cursed Black Númenóreans, servants of Sauron.''

Romach nodded absently, seemingly lost in thought. ``We have heard they were abroad again, though we fear them little. Our mountain valleys are far from the sea.''

``Perhaps not far enough,'' said Isildur. ``They have assailed the strong-walled city of Anglond, and it is well up the river Anga. They nearly took it, too. Their black ships could sail far up the Morthond, and it is not impossible that you could see not friends but Corsairs coming up the west road one day soon.''

Romach smiled. ``We are strong and well prepared. In truth we do not fear an attack from the seamen of Umbar. Still, we stand ever ready.''

``It would seem so. You marshalled your forces quickly.''

``Yes, we use horns to call the men of the other valleys. They are trained to come at the first alarm.''

``Mighty must those horns be,'' said Ohtar, ``if they can be heard to the next valley. The ramparts of the Ered Nimrais are high indeed.''

Romach nodded. ``We use the horns of the wild kine of Araw. They are as long as a man and give a sound when well winded that will carry for many miles.''

Ohtar turned to Isildur. ``Such a horn would be of great use in a battle, Sire,'' he said.

``Indeed it would,'' agreed Isildur. ``Oft it is that the men cannot hear their orders in the tumult of battle. Armies have been lost because of it.''

``If you wish, Sire,'' said Romach, ``I can have a horn brought for you. A gift from the Eredrim.''

``That would please us indeed, Romach. We thank you. But we are here to ask you for a far greater gift.''

``Indeed?'' said Romach, his smile fading. But he was clearly not surprised.

``Yes. We have need of your help, to aid us in the war against Sauron. We have tried to spare the western provinces as much as possible. At first it was thought that with the aid of the Elves, the men of Ithilien and Anórien would be sufficient. I also believe my father just wanted to know that there was a corner of the realm as yet untouched by the Shadow, where people could live in peace as before. Therefore we have never called upon the people of the Ered Nimrais and the western coasts, though we have had many volunteers from Lamedon and Lebennin and even as far as Anfalas. But as you see, the war in the east does not go well. The men are weary of the long siege on the plain of Gorgoroth. Gondor has need of your help. We need every man you can spare from the needs of your own safety. I must call on you at last to fulfill the oath of the Eredrim, as was sworn to me by Karmach on this very spot nearly six score years ago.''

``The Oath of Karmach is well-remembered by the Eredrim,'' Romach assured them. ``Although it was a very long time ago. Karmach has slept in his barrow these ninety years now.'' He was finding it hard to reconcile the man before him with the semi-religious royal figure out of the old legends. This man had actually spoken with Romach's distant ancestor, the founder of his line.

``Karmach was a good man and a brave warrior,'' said Isildur, his eyes distant as he stared into the past. ``And well-loved by his people.'' He smiled. ``I can still hear their cheers when he announced our alliance. He was a wise and far-sighted king.''

Romach was less than certain that his ancestor had acted wisely in joining the fortunes of his people to those of the Dúnedain. He couldn't help wondering if old Karmach hadn't been simply seeking the strongest ally in a dangerous time. After all, his old master Sauron, who had guided and advised the Eredrim for centuries, was suddenly and unexpectedly undone, lost in the downfall of Númenor that he had helped to bring about. Now enemies threatened on every side. And here were these newcomers, these Dúnedain, borne on the wings of storm out of the sea, asking if he wanted to be their allies. They were numerous and mighty, fierce warriors, a hundred or more years old, learned in all arts, bearers of magical weapons and Elvish sorcery. How far-sighted did he have to be to see which way the wind blew?

But things were different now. Sauron, whom all thought lost, had returned in another form, no longer fair to look upon, it was said, but more powerful than ever. In all these years of war, the Dúnedain and the Elves have been able to accomplish little more than retake a few miles of desert.

But Romach was careful to let none of these thoughts show on his face. He licked his lips anxiously. Much depended on how he chose his next words.

``Much has changed in the world since those times, Sire,'' he said, watching Isildur's face. ``Karmach was speaking for a nomadic tribe of a few thousands, helpless against its warlike neighbors. But now our neighbors are our friends. And we Eredrim have not been idle. We number nearer a hundred thousands now, and we have villages in every bay of the mountains from Nanbrethil to Gilrain. We watch the mountain passes and the fords of the great roads for Gondor.''

``Much has changed,'' said Isildur calmly, though Ohtar saw the hard dark gleam in his eye that always bode ill for someone. ``But much remains the same. The Gondorrim and the Eredrim are still allies, and common enemies still threaten. Karmach swore to me on the Great Stone that the Eredrim would always come at need if called by the King of Gondor. As I swore for Gondor's part to aid the Eredrim against any attack. And we both did agree that these oaths would be binding on our descendants and successors. It was a solemn bond. Such things do not change.''

``Of, course, Sire,'' said Romach quickly. ``The Oath of Karmach is taught to every child. Indeed, it has been but recently the subject of much discussion among the people. To be honest, Sire, many of my people feel that we should remain here to guard our homes. They have little interest in the war between Gondor and Mordor. They feel it does not concern them.''

``And what of you, Romach,'' asked Isildur. ``Do you deem the war with Sauron is of no concern to you?''

``Of course we are concerned. It is most uncomfortable when one's neighbors are at war with each other. It is difficult not to become involved. After all, our friends are suffering, and our trade is disrupted.''

``You will have more than your trade disrupted if Gondor falls.''

``We know that. But we are no longer bands of wandering warriors. We are a nation of herdsmen and farmers. We have no mighty army to send with you.''

``Were you not just praising the readiness of your army?'' asked Isildur slyly.

``Our army, as you call it, is but a militia.They are ready at a horn's call to defend their homes, but they return to their homes after each call to arms. They are bold and well-trained, but they are no knights errant, to pack up and troop off to war. Who would defend our homes, our families?''

``I do not ask you to leave your homes unguarded,'' replied Isildur. ``But many of us have already lost our homes, are some are still losing them, as at the Ethir Lefnui. There is no longer safety in remaining behind in your mountain fastnesses, Romach. If Gondor falls and Sauron prevails, there will be no safe haven in any land.''

``But Sire,'' said Romach. ``We guard the western approaches to Gondor. We cannot leave the fords unguarded. We could protect Gondor better by remaining here.''

Isildur's eyes blazed. ``Of course the fords must be guarded, and your lands and villages. But you are a numerous people and your men are renowned fighters. Gondor has need of your help.'' The king bent his eyes upon Romach's. ``Are you saying you would refuse the summons?'' he growled, and Romach's face blanched.

``No, my king,'' he exclaimed quickly. ``I am only explaining that it will take some time to call all the valleys together, to make known what is required, to establish suitable defenses for those that remain. Provisions must be gathered, transportation arranged, compensation provided. Such things cannot be done quickly.''

``And yet I say unto you,'' said Isildur, ``that haste is vital at this critical hour. We are all but a small piece of a much greater whole. Even as we speak, great forces are moving, gathering, throughout all of Middle-earth. All are to be drawn together this Midsummer's Day, now but three weeks away. Then much that is hidden will be revealed. There will plans be made and all our efforts bent to a final deciding conflict.

``According to the schedule arranged, I was to have been at Erech weeks ago. But at Angrenost and again at Anglond I was delayed by the designs of the Enemy. Now time is short indeed. You must move with all haste.''

``I will send messengers to all the valleys tomorrow,'' said Romach. ``Within three days, I will have the Elders of every tribe of the Eredrim before you.''

``We do not need your Elders,'' said Isildur. ``We need your warriors.''

``I am not a king,'' exclaimed Romach. ``I am the lord only of Erech. The Eredrim are a confederation of tribes. The Elders must be consulted on any decision so momentous.''

Isildur stared, struggling to control his frustration. Romach was frightened, but surely he didn't dare break the oath. Perhaps he was just speaking the truth.

``Summon your Elders, then,'' he growled. ``But let the messengers carry word also to the valleys that the Eredrim are summoned. Let the weapontake begin at once.''

``So it shall be done,'' said Romach.

They slept that night in their tents beside the hill of Erech, but Ohtar woke during the night to find Isildur gone from his bed. Scrambling quickly out of the tent, he saw a tall figure standing beside the stone at the top of the hill. Ohtar wrapped his cloak about him and climbed shivering up to join him. Isildur turned at his approach.

``This great stone once stood in the court of the palace at Rómenna in Númenor,'' he said, stroking it with his hand. ``It had been uncovered deep in the mountain not long after the founding of Númenor, when the foundations of the palace were hewn. No one knew whence it had come; whether it had been left there by the Valar who created the island, or whether some other still more ancient race had lived in that land before them. Elros at first would have his stonemasons cut it for use in the palace then building, but they felt some power in the strange black stone and would not. The people of the court, and especially those of the royal blood, felt drawn to it and it became an heirloom of our family. In the end it was set up in the midst of the palace with fountains playing round about and flowering trees leaning above. Yet even in that lovely setting, it seemed strange and mysterious.

"In my youth I felt myself strangely drawn to it and I spent many hours sitting near it. Father sometimes said that some of the strange powers I later discovered in myself were due to my affinity for the Black Stone. Whether that is true or not, I still feel a bond with it, as if my own powers are stronger in its proximity.

"When the Downfall of Númenor approached, father bade us leave the stone, but I would not have it lost and with great effort of many men we bore it to the havens and secured it deep in my ship, next the keel. When at length we landed at Pelargir we set it up there, but later removed it here as a token of the power and friendship of Gondor here in the western provinces. It has long been revered by the Eredrim, so they must sense its power as well.''

He was silent a while, his hand yet resting on the smooth black stone.

``I am uneasy, Ohtar. I fear Romach is up to something.''

``You think he means to break the Oath?''

``Surely not. I cannot think he would dare to openly defy us. It seemed rather that he was stalling, purposely playing for time.''

``Why would he do that?''

``I don't know.'' They stood together, watching the gibbous moon sinking behind the western cliffs.

``Some of our people were drinking with the locals tonight,'' said Ohtar. ``They told me they thought the Eredrim were not eager to join our cause.''

``Clear it is that Romach is not.''

``They also said the Eredrim, or at least Romach, seemed to be expecting someone else when we appeared this morning.''

Isildur was silent and said no more. They stood there together in the darkness for some time. Eventually Ohtar grew cold and returned to the tent, but it was much later before he heard Isildur come in.

They rose early to a fine morning. The Eredrim women brought them olives and mutton and white goat cheese with which to break their fast. Isildur sent Ohtar to seek out Romach, and he found him in his hall, in council with several of his lieutenants.

``But surely he will turn back when he sees that the Gondorrim are here?'' asked one.

``I would hope so, but you know how arrogant he...'' began Romach, then his eye fell on Ohtar at the door. ``Yes?'' he called loudly, clearly a sign to the others to break off the discussion.

``My lord Isildur sends to know if any word has been received from the other tribes.''

``No, not yet. The first are expected this afternoon. We will send word when they arrive.''

Ohtar bowed and departed, feeling their eyes on his back. He paused just outside the door, but the door warden stepped towards him and he hurried back to Isildur.

``So they do expect other visitors,'' said Isildur when Ohtar reported what he had overheard.

``Yes, someone who would not want to appear while we're here.''

``Some mischief is afoot here, but I cannot guess what it might be. We must remain alert. Pass the word to your friends among the men to see if they can learn anything.''

The men were employed repairing their gear and sharpening their weapons. Isildur met with his lieutenants, informing them they would likely remain in Erech several more days. In midmorning Ohtar heard shouting and looked up from his grindstone. The watchman that Romach kept posted at the Stone was running as fast as he could toward Romach's hall. Others of the Eredrim were gathering nearby. Ohtar joined them and found Isildur already there.

Romach and his lieutenants were whispering excitedly among themselves. Isildur strode up to them.

``What is it, Romach?'' he demanded. Romach's face blanched white. Ohtar noticed he was trembling.

``R-riders are approaching, Sire,'' he stammered.

``The Elders from the other tribes?''

``No, Sire. An embassy from another land.''

``An embassy? You did not mention yesterday that you were expecting an embassy.''

``No.'' He wiped his sweating face. Hoof beats could now be heard from the direction of the ford. ``We did not expect them to...'' he gulped. ``We did not expect them today, Sire,'' he finished.

``And whom do they represent? If they are from Anfalas, it would save me a long ride to Ringlond to meet with their lord.''

``They rode from Ringlond, Sire, but they are not the men of Anfalas.''

``Not Anfalas? Then who are they, Romach? Stop stammering and...''

Suddenly a high shrill wail cut through the babble of voices. It was a woman's scream, full of grief and terror, and it chilled the hearts of every man there. All fell silent in amazement.

Even as they wheeled to look, six riders thundered into the village under a white banner of truce. They were tall and dark, with swarthy, sun-darkened skin. Their raiment was black and red, and their leader wore a helm in the likeness of a sea eagle, its great hooked beak mirroring his own.

Ohtar gasped. ``Sire!'' he exclaimed. ``Those are no Uialedain!''

Isildur stared, his jaw set hard. ``No. We saw enough of their like at Anglond to ever forget them. The Corsairs of Umbar!''

A man came running up from the camp, sword in hand. He was followed by another, then another -- the men of Ethir Lefnui. Isildur's people grabbed up their weapons and came running as well.

``Stop!'' shouted Isildur. ``There will be no fighting until we know what game Romach is playing.''

The men stopped beside the king, but they glared at the riders, now calmly dismounting by Romach's hall. Their eyes were cold and hard, and their knuckles were white on their sword hilts. Ohtar called some of the Ithilien men to join them, but whether to attack the Corsairs or to restrain the men of Ethir Lefnui, no one was sure. Isildur stalked over to Romach's hall, his eyes blazing.

``What means this, Romach?'' he roared. ``Do you then betray us to our enemies?''

Before Romach could reply, the leader of the newcomers turned to Isildur.

``I am Malithôr,'' he said in a smooth unctuous voice. ``Ambassador of his Imperial Majesty Herumor of Umbar. And well do I know you, Isildur Elendilson. But I must point out to both you and my friend here,'' and he nodded toward the white-faced Romach, ``that your enemies, Isildur, are not necessarily his.'' The ambassador glared insolently at the king. He was nearly as tall as Isildur, but thin and narrow-shouldered, with a long face and high cheekbones. He stood drawn up to his full height, head thrown back proudly. Dark eyes glittered as he peered down his long nose. ``My lord Romach must first choose his friends before he may know his enemies,'' he said.

``The slaves of Sauron are the enemies of all free peoples,'' replied Isildur through clenched teeth.

The cold eyes kindled. ``The Men of Umbar are slaves to no one! We are our own agents, acting for our own ends.''

``Your ends are murder and pillage,'' growled Isildur. ``I was at Anglond when your ships attacked that city and slew many peaceable farmers.''

The ambassador of Umbar gave a grim smile. ``Peaceable farmers, were they? And what was your errand to Anglond, Isildur? We captured a few of those peaceable farmers alive, and upon questioning they told us you were there to turn them from farmers to soldiers.''

``Questioning? You mean torture.''

The ambassador shrugged. ``They required some persuasion, of course, but what of that? We needed to know why you were there and they were at first reluctant to tell us. We could learn nothing from their silence or their lies. In the end of course they told the truth, as they all do eventually. You're a soldier, Isildur. You know torture is the quickest and surest way to learn the truth.''

Isildur glared, his eyes full of hatred. ``We do not torture prisoners we capture. It is barbaric.''

``Then you are fools. I am sure you took a few of our people during the fighting at Anglond. They were brave and loyal men, I'm sure, but I have no doubt that torture, skillfully applied, would have induced them to tell you we planned to sail to the River Lefnui next. If you had known that, perhaps you could have saved that city.''

Isildur's face went red with anger. ``The sack of Ethir Lefnui is an outrage and a crime,'' shouted Isildur, his voice shaking. ``Those people had done nothing to you. They were no threat to you.''

The ambassador's face remained calm, even careless. ``That's quite true, of course. They were completely unimportant. The people of Lefnui have always been peaceful and trusting. But we needed to set an example, and burning Lefnui would cost us little trouble. We wanted the people of all lands to know that the hand of Umbar is long, and neither high walls nor the promised protection of Gondor will stay that hand when people insist on allying themselves with the wrong side.'' He glanced meaningfully toward Romach.

``You have a strange way of enlisting allies in your cause,'' said Isildur. ``Do you seek to make your friends by killing them?''

``We do not seek friends,'' snapped Malithôr. ``Umbar is so mighty it has no need of allies. But when a city threatens to rise up against us, it could give others ideas. And so we crush it, as we would a disobedient dog. Other lands that might have thought of wavering soon find new resolve to avoid a similar fate.'' He smiled at Romach. ``Might we go into your hall, my lord? We have much to speak of.''

Romach started. ``Yes, of course. Come in.'' He glanced at Isildur's face, now dark with fury. ``Both of you, come into my hall.'' He led the way under the low door. Isildur turned to Ohtar.

``Keep a close eye on the Umbardrim. And keep the Lefnui people away from them. They are under a flag of truce.'' He turned and entered the hall behind Malithôr.

``You have no right to threaten these people,'' he said as soon as the door was closed. ``They are free to choose their friends as they will.''

``We have every right to do whatever we want!'' replied Malithôr, showing signs of anger for the first time. ``Herumor is the rightful lord of all these lands, not your Elendil. Umbar was founded long ago by the mighty kings of Númenor, and we have ruled this land for long ages before Gondor existed. What would the Uialedain have been without us Dúnedain? We brought the first corn and wine to Middle-earth. We taught them farming and shipbuilding and constructing in stone. We have been their teachers, their protectors, their lords, for over two thousand years, while your forefathers sat in Andúnië and mooned after their friends the Elves. Where were your noble Elves when fair Númenor was torn asunder? Drinking, no doubt, with their allies the Valar, they who cast our homeland under the sea!

``We have lived with the men of Middle-earth for centuries. We know each other well. They have always looked to the mighty fleet of Umbar for their protection. They are our grateful wards. It is you, Isildur, and your father that have stirred them against us. We are merely bringing them back to their senses.''

``Does slaying them bring them to their senses, Malithôr? Do you truly believe that it is in their interests to bend their knees to Sauron?''

``Of course it is in their interest. It is always in one's interest to be aligned with a victor. It is fruitless to stand against Sauron. Do you think to defeat him with your puny weapons? He is not a man such as we, nor is he yet like to the Elves. For he is one of the Maiar, the mighty ones who were present when the world was made. You cannot dream to defeat him. Not all the Elves and Men in all of Middle-earth could so much as approach him. Why, he learned his powers at the feet of Melkor the Vala himself.''

``Speak not that name!'' spat Isildur. ``He forfeited his right to bear a name and shall ever be known only as Morgoth, the Black Enemy. Like his lackey Sauron, he too, once thought to set himself to be Lord of Middle-earth. Infinitely mightier than Sauron was he, and yet Elves and Men cast him down and he was driven from the circles of the world, and thus the Elder Days passed away and the New Age began.''

``He was overthrown only by the might of his fellow Valar, not by puny men nor Elves. Now the Valar have withdrawn from the world and they have sworn never to enter it again. And Sauron has grown much greater since his master's downfall.''

``You defend Sauron as if you spoke for him instead of your Emperor. Are you then Herumor's creature, or Sauron's?''

Malithôr's eyes flickered at that. ``I am a loyal subject of his Imperial Majesty Herumor of Umbar. His Majesty bows his knee to no one, not even Sauron. I was only pointing out the futility of your struggle against Sauron.''

``Sauron is bent on enslaving all the peoples of Middle-earth. Does your Emperor think to become one of his slaves? Or does he plan to stand against him when he moves to bring Umbar under his dominion?''

``Umbar will never be ruled by Sauron! But he is a great power to be reckoned with; it is not prudent to openly oppose him. Yet he can be appeased, placated. And when he is victorious over the Elves and you Gondorrim, he will remember his friends.'' With another significant glance at Romach, he added, ``As he will remember those who fought against him. And if you think Ethir Lefnui's fate hard, tempt not Sauron's anger.''

Isildur made a sound of disgust and abruptly broke off the debate. He turned to Romach.

``Do not be fooled by his lies, Romach. Do you fancy that you can ingratiate yourselves with such as Sauron? He does not make allies, he makes slaves. This Malithôr may deny it, but I tell you the Umbardrim are the agents of Sauron -- if not actually in his service, they are at best working his will for their own ends. Listen not to this tool of the Enemy. He says he is the ambassador of Umbar, but I say he is naught but the mouth of Sauron.''

Malithôr actually hissed. ``And you, Isildur, are the pawn of the Elves. Do you think they truly love Men? Gil-galad is using you as a minor distraction against Sauron, as a fallen warrior might throw dust into his enemy's eyes in the faint hope that his death stroke will go astray.''

``The Elves have ever been our friends and our allies,'' retorted Isildur. ``They fought beside us against Morgoth in the Elder Days, and they fight with us today against Sauron.''

Malithôr shook his head resignedly, as at a foolish and stubborn child. ``They are using you, Isildur. You spill the noble blood of Númenor for them, but the Elves are a fading race. They are no longer concerned with the affairs of Middle-earth. Always they are sailing away, never to return. Hardly a month goes by that a ship does not sail from the Grey Havens, bound back to their home in the west. Your Elvish allies will tire of the war and dwindle away. Soon all will be gone, and you will be facing Sauron alone. Would you still stand against him then?''

``Gil-galad and the Elves of Lindon will not abandon us while this war persists. And were there no Elves to aid us, still would we fight Sauron. Even if all hope of victory were gone, better to die his foes than to live his slaves.''

Malithôr gave a mirthless laugh. ``Bah. Your line has always been dreamers.''

``And you Black Númenóreans have ever been the tools of evil,'' snapped Isildur. ``Long have you harassed the people of these coasts, and many of them even now sit chained to the oars in your ships. You are nothing but common pirates.''

``Pirates?'' cried the ambassador. ``We are the descendants of the kings of Númenor. Are their deeds as naught to you? You are Númenórean yourself. Have you forgotten the glory and might of Ar-Pharazôn the Golden? He that landed at Umbar with a thousand ships, each with a thousand warriors? Even the mighty Sauron came then to his summons, and bent his knee before him and pledged fealty to him and gave himself up as hostage.''

``Yes, and lied and deceived and whispered until he rose from the king's prisoner to his chief councillor. And by his craft and urging he brought down all the might of Ar-Pharazôn and sank all our fair land beneath the waves.''

``It was not Sauron that destroyed Númenor,'' snapped Malithôr. ``It was your friends, the ever-protecting blessed Valar.''

``Do not speak ill of the Valar, Mouth of Sauron,'' roared Isildur, ``lest I forget your claim of emissary and have you hanged as a pirate!''

Malithôr's guards stepped forward. He started back, but he quickly regained his composure. He grinned insolently.

``But you wouldn't do that, Isildur. I am an emissary of my Emperor and I bear a flag of truce. You believe in diplomatic protection, surely.''

``I believe in honor, yes. I believe that the conventions of war must be observed, even to such as you.''

``And yet you know that we would feel no compunction in a similar situation.'' He nearly leered. ``Maddening, isn't it?''

``Civilized peoples must behave in a civilized manner. Your people were civilized once and did great works, but you destroyed it all and now merely prey on the shipping of your neighbors.''

``Their ships cross our territorial water carrying rich goods. If they will not pay our duties, we seize them. We are within our rights.''

``Your territorial waters? You raid all the way from Minhiriath to Harad. Both are a long sail from Umbar.''

``Such is our territory by ancient right. We have always been the masters of these seas. We provide for the safety of shipping. All seamen know no pirates prowl the sea lanes where Umbar rules. It is our custom to ask those who use our waters to make payment for our protection.''

``In exchange for it you mean. Your duties are nothing more than a ransom for the freedom of the captains and crews.''

``If they cannot pay our duty they must work it off in labor. It is a long-standing practice. Call it what you will.''

``I call it piracy,'' said Isildur. ``Know you that I will not rest until you have ceased your raiding and returned our people to us.''

Malithôr snorted. ``Then you shall go without your rest for a long time, Isildur Elendilson. Your threats are idle. You have neither the ships nor the time to contest the seas with us. Gondor has all it can do to try to contain Sauron. Do you think for a moment that he could not leave the Barad-dûr any time he wishes? He has no need to fight you. His reach and his sight ever lengthen, and his power grows even as you camp on his doorstep.''

Isildur seethed with rage, and only with difficulty did he contain his voice. He wheeled upon Romach, cowering back at the wrath of the two mighty Dúnedain.

``And what of you, Romach? You have heard the threats of the Mouth of Sauron. You are sworn allies of Gondor. You owe these Umbardrim nothing save the toe of your boot. Remember the Oath of Karmach.''

``Remember also Ethir Lefnui,'' whispered Malithôr.

``Yes, remember the people of Lefnui,'' said Isildur. ``They were your neighbors and trading partners, their race akin to yours. If they died as a lesson to you, let that lesson be that you cannot trust the Corsairs of Umbar. Send these pirates packing and join us against our foes.''

They both stared expectantly at Romach. Romach looked uneasily between their faces.

``It is a matter for the Elders to decide, my lords.'' he said. ``I cannot speak for the Eredrim.''

``The time to decide is now, Romach,'' said Malithôr.

``All the Elders will be here tonight, or in the morning at the latest. Tomorrow we will hold council together.''

``Let us hope they remember their friends of old,'' said Malithôr.

``Let us hope they remember their oath,'' growled Isildur, and he turned and stalked from the hall. The crowd of men near the door parted to let him pass, for none could withstand his glare.

Back in the camp, Isildur fumed up and down before his tent. None came near him, save Ohtar sitting on some packs nearby. Ohtar remained silent until he judged that Isildur's rage had cooled sufficiently to speak. ``Do you think he will keep their oath?'' he asked.

Isildur clenched his fists. ``He had better! I can not abide oathbreakers! Has the spirit of their race sunk so low that they will break their troth? Is honor and fealty as nothing to them?'' He stalked away, spun on his heel, stalked back, while Ohtar watched in sympathy and also some foreboding.

Ohtar well knew the depth of the sense of honor and virtue in Isildur. It was a large part of the reason he loved him, and it was the source of Ohtar's own unswerving loyalty to Isildur as his king and his friend. But he also knew that intensity of feeling created a blind spot in the king. It was inconceivable to Isildur why a man would break his bond. Isildur's confidence, his bone-felt certainty of what is right in every situation made him truly incapable of understanding the motives of lesser men.

Ohtar, however, was not a Dúnadan. He was but thirty, born long after fair Númenor sank beneath the waves. He had been a hunter in the forests of the Emyn Arnen, the hill country in southern Ithilien. He knew and understood the mixed feelings of many of the Uialedain lords to the Dúnedain kings. Many of them had been powerful local warlords when Isildur and Anárion's ships were driven upon this coast near their old trading station of Pelargir.

The Uialedain at first fled at their approach. The newcomers were numerous and well-armed, and looked like the feared Corsairs that the coastal dwellers knew all too well. But these new Dúnedain proved to be peaceable and generous, offering their help freely. Their healers cured the sick, their kings wielded powers that seemed as magic. None of the small states and tribes in the region dared stand against them. They were given land along the Great River and they built their cities of stone. Intervening in local conflicts and rivalries, they soon brought peace to a region that had never known it. The common people loved and feared them, but some of the lords yet longed for the days when people trembled at their names. And many liked it less when their children began to speak in the tongue of Gondor and there was estrangement between the generations.

Ohtar always felt it his part to speak for the Uialedain. He thought of himself not as an advocate, but as a translator.

``The Uialedain lords,'' he said when he felt the time was ripe, ``have learned by hard lessons that loyalties may change. They lack your long sight, Sire. Romach is frightened. Perhaps he values his honor less than his skin.''

``You think him merely craven? I fear he may be falling under the shadow of Sauron.''

``It is possible,'' Ohtar shrugged. ``But if you will pardon me, Sire, it seems to me that he is between a hammer and an anvil. Herumor openly threatens him and holds up the rape of Lefnui as a dreadful example.''

Isildur growled. ``A fair city destroyed, hundreds of innocents slain; all for no more than a demonstration that they are capable of it. Would that I faced that arrogant `ambassador' in battle. I'd separate that grinning head from his body. Sauron would have to speak through another mouth.''

``Still,'' said Ohtar, ``if Romach rode with us, Erech could face a like attack. He would have to leave a strong force behind.''

``We do not ask him to leave Erech undefended. But the Eredrim are numerous. He could yet muster a considerable army and fulfill the oath.''

``Perhaps he only speaks the truth. Perhaps he truly cannot make the decision alone.''

``I do not believe that, do you?''

``No. I deem that if he wished he could speak for the Eredrim without contradiction. But he thinks either decision is dangerous and he doesn't want to be the one to cast the die. I think he was stalling for time because he knew Malithôr was coming and he wanted to know the views of Umbar.''

``Yes. Though I think he would have much preferred to not have us both here at the same time.'' Isildur laughed suddenly, his great booming laugh.

``Hah! Did you mark Romach when I was contending with Malithôr?''

``Aye. His head was going back and forth like a shuttle,'' laughed Ohtar. ``His mouth dropped open when you called Malithôr a pirate.''

``The Mouth of Sauron bandied words with me, but they are no better than pirates. It matters little to a galley slave that he is serving a life sentence for being too poor to pay tribute. Would his bondage be more onerous if he had been captured by a pirate rather than a king's ship? He still loses both his ship and his freedom.

``And what of the dozens of small seaports and fishing villages along the coasts? Are they avoiding the duty fees of Umbar, too? The Corsairs make no apology for their plundering and murdering.''

``Aye,'' Ohtar agreed. ``They would say it is just part of protecting their trade.''

``The blackguards. If only we could win this war with Sauron, defeat him once and for all, then would I humble these Corsairs. Before the war Anárion and I had many debates about how best to deal with them. He ever counseled that we should build more ships and strengthen the fleet, then confront the Corsairs openly wherever we found them. But I was the elder, and had seen too much of battles at sea, of burning ships and good men borne down by their armour to graves in the deeps. I advised defense and patience. We strengthened our coastal cities. We set up strong places on the headlands and at the mouths of Anduin, with unsleeping watches to sound the alarm should the black sails be sighted.

``It worked, too. The Corsairs dared not attack Gondor or her allies, though they continued their depredations to the south. Then came the war, and the greater part of Gondor's strength was drawn away to fight Sauron. We thought the war would be won in a few months, but it has dragged on now for twelve years. The strong places were left undermanned, our ships without crews. The Corsairs were free to roam at will. They nibbled away at the edges at first, raiding fishing villages in the remote regions of Minhiriath, then small seaports on the Gwathlo. Two years ago they raided nearly to Tharbad, where the road to Arnor crosses the Gwathlo. Now even strong cities like Anglond are besieged. Anárion was right. We should have driven them from the seas when we could.

``I tell you, Ohtar, this stalemate in Gorgoroth is like to drive me mad with frustration. We can't get into the Tower or draw Sauron out, and yet we dare not leave or turn our attention to other pressing matters, such as retaking Minas Ithil and cleansing Ithilien, and driving these accursed Corsairs from our coasts. We have so much to do, and yet we sit here and wait while merchants like Romach weigh their loyalties like cheeses in the market.''

A man hurried up to Isildur. ``My king. Riders approach from the east.''

``What now?'' grumbled Isildur. ``Do the Easterlings seek to treat with the Eredrim too?'' But they walked toward Romach's hall. Many of the Eredrim were hurrying there as well.

A score of horsemen approached: young Eredrim warriors fully armed and four old grey-bearded men. They dismounted, and Romach emerged from his hall to greet them. As they spoke, Isildur noticed Malithôr watching from the door of the hall. Isildur strode forward quickly.

Romach was already talking with the Elders in a low voice when Isildur approached. He looked up sharply.

``Ah, there you are, Sire. Revered Elders, I have the honor to present Isildur Elendilson, King of Gondor. Sire, the Elders of the Eredrim.''

As Isildur was introduced to each in turn and was struggling to memorize their names, Ohtar studied the old men. He noticed each glancing uneasily to where Malithôr stood watching from the shadows. It appeared that the ambassador was already known to the Elders.

``Now,'' said Isildur. ``The Elders are present. Perhaps now we can take counsel together and come to a resolution.''

``Oh, no, Sire,'' stammered one of the Elders. ``We are not all here yet, Urmach of Kiril Vale has not arrived, nor Fornen from the high valleys of Fornoch in the west. We could not proceed without them.''

``Could we expect them soon?'' asked Isildur, irritation evident in his voice. ``Time is precious.''

``Urmach should be here before dark. It is possible that Fornen could arrive tonight as well.''

``But more likely tomorrow,''said another.

``Let me know when they arrive,'' growled Isildur, and returned to his tent. Ohtar saw the nervous looks exchanged among the Eredrim. It was all too clear that Isildur's patience was wearing thin. Ohtar remained long enough to see the Elders join Romach and Malithôr in the hall, then he returned to camp.

Isildur was still in a foul mood, and Ohtar made no attempt to break his silence. When night fell with no sign of the two remaining Elders, they said little, but sat long before the fire. At last, when the moon, now waning gibbous, peeped over the eastern cliffs, turning the valley to ebony and argent, they went to their beds.

That night Ohtar could hear Isildur rolling about in his bed, and knew the king was sleepless, thinking no doubt of all that depended on this fateful mission. Ohtar too was awake long, watching the moon as she crept slowly across the sky, her face demurely half-covered in her lacy veil.

Isildur was up at first light. A light frost had fallen, and mists hung above the Morthond stream. Isildur paced the camp silently, wrapped in his long black cloak. He startled more than one of the sentries and the sleepy cooks starting their fires when his tall dark figure appeared out of the mists, pacing slowly and acknowledging them not.

After the men had broken their fast, the mists wafted away on the morning breeze and the day came bright and clear. Isildur called his captains together.

``Have your companies prepare to march tomorrow,'' he said. ``The remaining Elders of the Eredrim should arrive this morning, and then we can take counsel together. I hope to see the muster well under way by the end of the day.''

The hours dragged by and still no riders appeared. Isildur, too anxious to wait quietly, called for his horse Fleetfoot. Leaving orders that he be summoned if the Elders appeared, he rode alone up to the head of the valley to see the Caverns of Erech.

The valley was deep in lush spring grass, high enough that Fleetfoot waded through it up to his belly. The valley narrowed and grew steeper as the high and rocky walls closed in on either hand. He came upon a beaten path beside the stream and followed it into a jumble of huge boulders that had fallen from the heights above. The stream tumbled among the boulders in dozens of small cascades. The valley narrowed until it was only a slit in the mountain, so close the rock on the left hand nearly brushed his knees, while the trail became but a narrow ledge above the rivulet. The walls soared away out of sight, so high that stars gleamed in a black sky, though it was not yet noon. Fleetfoot's hooves rang on the stony path, sending echoes clattering into the heights.

He rounded a sharp turn and the walls fell back, leaving an open space almost like a huge well. In the far wall was a broad stone arch leading into darkness. A black horse was hobbled beside the tunnel's mouth. Isildur dismounted and approached. He could feel the cold damp air wafting from the opening, like the breath of something ancient that brooded under the mountains. Here was the entrance to the vast Caverns of Erech.

As he looked into the darkness, something moved within. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. A harsh laugh came from the blackness before him. And then the long hawk-like face of Malithôr appeared, a beam of light cutting across it, leaving only the eyes in shadow.

``You will not need your sword, Isildur,'' he smiled. ``This land is yet neutral, and we are both emissaries here.''

``The Eredrim will not remain neutral for long, Malithôr. This day will Romach give his decision. Then you may take word back to your lord that the Eredrim shall always remain faithful to Gondor.''

``Do you really think that Romach is bold enough to defy Umbar? He and those other old fools wouldn't dare. Did you see him sweat when I reminded him of Lefnui? He is a fool.''

``Is your contempt only for him, or for all the Eredrim?''

``It encompasses all the tribes of the Uialedain. Come, Isildur. You're one of us. You know what they're like. They're born to serve us Dúnedain. They've proven time and again that they're incapable of ruling themselves. Why do you bother trying to forge alliances with them? They don't need allies, they need a strong hand to rule them.''

``Such as your emperor's, I suppose?''

``Why not? He at least has already proven himself capable of ruling them, which your father has not.''

``We do not seek to rule them. We want them as friends, not subjects.''

``Friends? Why would you wish to have such rabble as friends? They are a lesser race, Isildur, you cannot deny it. They know nothing of Númenor, its great history, its heroes, its beauties. Through the long rise of our civilization and its recent downfall, they have remained here tending their herds and living in their log houses. They are barbarians. They don't even speak our noble language, but only babble in their rude tongues. They live but a handful of years and die like dogs.''

``No, like us, they die as Men and leave their widows grieving. Though our lines were sundered long ago before the world was changed, still they are our brothers. Malithôr, listen to me. You are a learned man. Herumor deems that he is acting for the greater glory of Umbar, but he is but Sauron's creature. Sauron sends forth his long arm and the Umbardrim sail to war. Do you not see the evil that Sauron represents?''

``I see only that he is the more powerful.'' Malithôr studied Isildur a moment, considering. ``I will tell you this in confidence, Isildur, speaking as one Dúnadan to another. I have lived in Middle-earth a long time, far longer than you, and I have seen kings come and go. Sauron cannot be defeated by Gondor or Umbar or the Elves, or by any alliance save that of the Valar themselves, and that will not happen again. He is mighty beyond our comprehension, and he is determined to rule all of Middle-earth. Nothing can stop him. I intend to survive this war, and that means standing with Sauron, whatever the Emperor desires.''

``I thought you were His Imperial Majesty's man.''

Malithôr looked at Isildur with a wry smile. He lowered his voice even further. ``No. You were quite right. Long have I served in the court of Umbar and the Emperor considers me his most loyal and trusted advisor, but as you guessed, I am in fact Sauron's agent. I manipulate the Emperor to keep the policies of Umbar to Sauron's liking, though Herumor thinks he is acting only for his own ends. Yesterday in your anger you called me the Mouth of Sauron. You meant it as an insult, but I acknowledge the compliment with gratitude.'' He drew himself up and his eyes flashed with pride. ``I do give Sauron's will a voice. I am proud that the Master trusts me to speak for him to Herumor, and through Herumor to these Uialedain savages. Sauron and I work together well. We understand each other.''

``Sauron knows me as well,'' replied Isildur. ``Often did I speak against him in the palace at Armenelos when he whispered his treacheries into the ear of King Ar-Pharazôn.''

``Aye, he remembers you as well, Isildur. He has spoken of you many times. He seems to bear a particular enmity towards you. Something I did not fully grasp, about a tree, I believe?''

Isildur gave a mirthless laugh. ``Yes. Once long ago in Númenor, he had at last convinced Ar-Pharazôn to burn Nimloth, the White Tree that grew in his court. He had no reason to do it, save spite and his hatred of all things Elvish, for it had been given to all Númenóreans by the Elves. I would not see it destroyed, and so alone and in stealth I entered into the palace in disguise and I took from the tree one fruit. I was discovered and attacked. Though I was grievously wounded, yet did I win back to Andúnië with the fruit and its seed.''

``All that for a mere fruit tree? Why?''

``Nimloth was more than a tree. It was a token of the undying friendship of the Eldar and also a reminder of the Valar, for it was a scion of Celeborn, and that of Galathilion, and that of Telperion, Mother of Trees.''

``You do indeed revere the old ways, Isildur, foolish and vain though they may be. A bold but senseless adventure. But in spite of your disguise Sauron learned that you were the thief?''

``Yes. He burned Nimloth, but he never learned where the seed was hidden. Years later I planted it before my hall in Minas Ithil and it grew tall and fair, even as Nimloth had.''

``It was in Minas Ithil?'' asked Malithôr. ``Then Sauron...''

``Yes. Now Sauron has burned that tree too, curse him. But tell your friend this when next you meet: know that the tree bore many fruits and the seed of each was kept. Many were planted in secret places, others were sent away to safe and distant lands. He can never destroy the White Tree, just as he cannot sunder the friendship between Elves and Men.''

``The Master,'' said Malithôr, ``holds another opinion. Whether or not the Elves remain allies of Men is unimportant. The Elves and all their powers and works are passing from the world. Their interest in events this side of the Sea is fading. They are leaving, sailing forever from our shores. Soon they will all be gone, and you will stand at last helpless and alone before the Master. These nuts you have squirreled away will not help you then, Isildur. All shall fall on their faces before him. All save those of us who stand beside him.''

``The Elves will never desert us,'' said Isildur. ``They will leave Middle-earth one day, it is true, but that day is not yet come. They returned hither from far Elvenhome to defeat the evil of Morgoth, and while Sauron yet rules their task is not completed. The Army of the Alliance will camp next the Barad-dûr until he comes out, and then they will destroy him.''

``Destroy Sauron?'' laughed Malithôr. ``There is no power on Earth that can harm him while he wields the One Ring. You may throw yourselves against his walls until he tires of your noise. He is but biding his time. Soon he will ride forth and wrest all the lands of the west from you. Then his enemies will be thrown down and his friends raised up.'' He drew himself up with a malicious smile. ``Perhaps then I shall be Lord of Ithilien, or even King of Gondor.''

``You may be the Mouth of Sauron, Malithôr, but you do not know his mind. You are more likely to become a slave than a king. There were once many high and noble kings of men who thought to be Sauron's lieutenants. Many were learned mages and wielded great powers of their own. No doubt they thought to be kings as you do. And Sauron honored them with gifts of the Great Rings of Power, and now they are now naught but shades of men, ghosts that must do his bidding like puppets dancing on his strings.''

Malithôr's dark face paled. ``You should not mock the Nazgûl, for they are fell and dangerous. A fear goes before them, and none may stand against them.''

``Yet stand against them I shall,'' replied Isildur. ``And I shall prevail, for they occupy my fair Minas Ithil. You can advise Romach to break his oath and kneel to Sauron, but I am not so easily swayed or corrupted.'' Suddenly he threw back his cloak and swept his sword out and held it up ringing before him.

``I make an oath to you, Malithôr: I shall scour Sauron's scum from Minas Ithil and all of my land, and if it is within my power I shall slay Sauron and cut the One Ring from his hand myself. Then all of Sauron's works and spells, his creatures and poisons, and all those who aided him, shall be thrown down.''

``You do not th...'' began Malithôr, but then they both turned as a horn rang clear and true in the distance. Isildur hurried to Fleetfoot. ``It is the horns of Erech,'' he called as he mounted, ``the Elders are come at last.'' But Malithôr was already racing for his horse. Isildur gave Fleetfoot his head, and the horse flew through the long grass like a ship plowing the sea. Malithôr was soon left far behind.

Isildur galloped into camp and hurried to his tent. Ohtar was already there.

``Is it another Elder?'' Isildur asked.

``Two. They arrived nearly together less than half an hour ago. They have been closeted with Romach since then.'' Ohtar looked at the king's face. ``Did you see the Caverns, Sire?''

``No. I reached them, but found another already there. The ambassador was there as well.''

``You met him? I knew I should have gone with you.''

``He is not fool enough to raise his hand against me. We had a most interesting talk. I'll tell you later what he said. Now, I must dress for the meeting with the Elders. I shall wear my mithril armor and the blue cloak. I want them to see with whom they are dealing. Now help me with this thong. Where's the other end of it?''

Isildur shifted uneasily in his chair. The meeting had been going on now for several hours, and still the Elders had not reached a decision. Isildur pleaded his case and they seemed to favor him for a while. But then Malithôr addressed them and he was both eloquent and threatening, and the Elders wavered again.

To Isildur the choice was clear. At last he could stand it no longer. He jumped to his feet, interrupting a seemingly endless speech about the impact on local trade of an alliance with Umbar.

``Only one argument need be considered,'' he suddenly cried.

Urmach, the Elder who had been speaking, looked at Isildur in surprise. He was not used to being interrupted. He blinked in annoyance. ``I beg your pardon, Sire?''

``The Oath of Karmach. Your lord Karmach gave his solemn oath that our two peoples would be allies for all time -- that if either were assailed, the other would come to its aid if called. Well, Gondor has been attacked and is in a struggle to the death with Mordor. I am the King of Gondor, and I am asking for the help of the Eredrim. There is but one response for honorable men. You are foresworn.''

There was an awkward silence. No one would meet his eyes, though there were many quick sidelong glances among the Eredrim.

``Karmach?'' said Malithôr in an innocent tone. ``I have not met this lord. Why is he not here today?''

There was a nervous chuckle. ``Karmach was the great-great-grandfather of Lord Romach,'' whispered Urmach to Malithôr.

``Oh, so he is dead?''

``Of course. His barrow has been green since before my father was born.''

``Are the living then to be ruled by the dead?''

``Yes!'' roared Isildur, his voice echoing back down from the rafters. ``Karmach swore his oath to me personally, and he bound his heirs to it forever.''

But Malithôr was not fazed.

``But none of you Revered Elders was alive at the time of this oath?''

``No, of course not,'' said the Elder. ``This is all ancient history.''

``But the world changes, nations and leaders rise and fall. Who knows that if Karmach yet lived he would not repudiate his vow?''

``Karmach was a man of honor!'' said Isildur angrily. ``His oath was without conditions or time limits of any kind. Karmach would never have countenanced any suggestion of breaking the vow.''

``So you say,'' said the ambassador. ``But he is not here to speak for himself. None of these Revered Elders heard his oath, nor can they ask him to clarify his thoughts and intentions at the time he made the oath.''

``His thoughts were to protect his people and their land, and Gondor offered that protection. He mentioned to me often in later years, how for the first time he had no fear of war upon his borders.''

``That may have been so at that time, when Gondor was the only nation strong enough to protect the Eredrim. But now Umbar too offers its protection. Gondor is pledged to protect you, but it is embroiled in a hopeless war against Sauron. Have they sent their legions here to protect you in these dangerous times? Did they protect the people of Ethir Lefnui? No. They are too busy fighting in Gorgoroth. Instead they ask you to leave your families unprotected and ride away to die in their war in some strange land far away.

``But Umbar offers its protection freely, without asking anything in return: no oaths, no sending your young men away to someone else's war. Umbar is not at war, with Sauron or anyone else. And his Imperial Majesty Herumor is on close terms with Sauron. He can protect you from Sauron's wrath. Or from Gondor's, for that matter.''

Isildur's rage burst forth at that. ``You do not need protection from Gondor, lords, whether or not you honor your oath. It is not our way to attack our neighbors. But you may well need protection from Umbar. They have a long-standing policy of destroying those who do not bow to them. Herumor is only seeking to add your lands to his empire. His very kind offer of protection is but a thinly veiled threat. He is extorting you at the point of a sword!''

Malithôr smiled. ``Thank you, Isildur, I could not have put it better myself. Umbar offers you the open hand of friendship if you join with us. But if you refuse that open hand, you may find it mailed when next you see it. The Empire will not tolerate disobedience. I say unto you, Revered Elders, that if you ride now with Isildur, his Imperial Majesty will have no choice but to view you as a threat to the Empire.''

``We are enemies of neither Gondor nor Umbar,'' said Romach pleadingly. ``Neither of you has aught to fear from us, and well you know it. We are but simple herdsmen who desire only to be left alone.''

``That is true today, yes,'' replied Malithôr. ``But if you were to acknowledge Isildur's claim on you, you would be forced to take up arms against Sauron. And know you that the friendship between Mordor and Umbar is very close, very close indeed. Herumor would certainly judge that an enemy of our ally is but another enemy of ours. Because of my esteem for you, I would of course plead for you at the court, but Herumor is given to sudden passions against those by whom he feels betrayed. I am afraid I could not answer for your safety.''

The Elders stared glumly from one to the other. For a time no one spoke. Then Romach broke the tense silence.

``We Eredrim are a people of peaceful commerce. We know little of the wars of the great. But when the diplomatic niceties are put aside, your messages come down to this: if we ally ourselves with either of you, the other will destroy us.''

``No,'' said Isildur. ``That is not my message. Gondor would never attack you, unless you were to take up arms against her.''

``That we would never do, Sire. We have no quarrel at all with Gondor, I assure you. Our only wish is to remain neutral.''

``Then the matter is settled,'' said Malithôr with obvious gloating on his face. ``The Eredrim shall remain neutral, and safely at home.'' The Elders brightened visibly. One moved to rise.

``No,'' said Isildur, and his voice was hard and cold. ``It is not settled. The Oath of Karmach still remains, and I shall not release you from it. Do not dishonor the noble Lord Karmach by becoming oathbreakers. If you fear the threats of this Mouth of Sauron, you must keep a strong well-armed force in reserve to protect your land from the Corsairs. But those you can spare, let them ride with me.''

The Elder who had risen collapsed back into his chair. ``Then you are leaving us no option, Sire?''

``Yes. I leave you one option. The option to do what is right and honorable, to ally yourselves with the people of good will and to strive against the forces of evil. Honor your oath and stand with Gondor and Arnor and Lindon and all the other free lands of the west. Help us to defeat Sauron and free the world of his evil. Then together we can begin to make the seas safe for travel. When the war with Sauron is over, I promise you Gondor will deal with these blustering, threatening Umbardrim and drive them from our shores forever.''

Malithôr's face grew even darker. He opened his mouth to reply, but Isildur cut him off by rising to his feet. He threw back his sky-blue cloak and his mithril armor glowed red in the firelight. He seemed to grow taller, filling the hall, and he looked fell and grim.

``This I say unto you, Men of the Mountains,'' his voice boomed out. ``I am leaving now to break my camp and make ready to depart at first light tomorrow.''

``Good,'' said Malithôr. ``You need not wake us.''

Isildur ignored him, but those near him saw his jaw clench tighter.

``But before we ride,'' he continued, ``I shall go to the great stone on the hill, the one you call the Stone of Isildur. There I shall sound the great horn that Romach gave us. And I shall call the Eredrim to fulfill their oath. Let any who think to ignore that call take long and careful thought. The oath shall never be forgiven.''

And he stalked quickly from the hall, his cloak flying behind him like the wings of a great sea bird.

Ohtar finished packing the last of their gear and men carried the bundles out to where the pack horses stood stamping in the early morning chill. On all sides tents and pavilions were fluttering to the ground. A pink glow was just beginning to suffuse the eastern sky when the last bundles were being lashed in place. As he worked, Ohtar kept looking around, hoping to see some sign of the Eredrim making preparations as well. But so far none could be seen. Glancing up the hill toward the Erech Stone, Ohtar could just make out the figure of Isildur standing there silent and motionless, wrapped in his long travel cloak against the cold mountain air. Finally all was ready. Ohtar picked up the long horn Romach had given them and climbed to stand beside Isildur. The men stood wtching in silence.

``Shall we give them a little more time, Sire?'' he asked.

``No. The sun is nearly risen. Sound the horn.''

Ohtar raised the immense horn and put his lips to its cup. Taking a deep breath, he blew as hard as he could. A deep mournful blast of sound, shockingly loud in the pre-dawn stillness, rent the air and reverberated from valley to valley.

``People of the Mountains!'' roared Isildur, and the echoes from the cliffs magnified his voice so that it might have been the voice of Aulë calling in the wilderness when the world was made. ``I, Isildur Elendilson of the House of Elros, King of Gondor, call upon you to fulfill the Oath of Karmach. Gondor has need of your aid. Will you answer her call?''

Several minutes passed, while the echoes gradually faded and died. There was no sign of life at any house. Finally a door creaked and a man stepped out of Romach's hall and stood looking up the hill toward them in the growing light. Ohtar realized he was too tall to be Romach, or any Eredrim. It was Malithôr.

``Isildur of Gondor,'' he called back. ``I speak for the Eredrim. They have no quarrel with you and do not wish to detain you any longer. But they have no wish to enlist in your war against Mordor. They declare themselves a neutral and sovereign state, in the service of neither Gondor nor Mordor, nor of any other state. They repudiate the oath made by Karmach and refuse to be bound by it.''

Isildur stared long and hard at Malithôr, hatred and a hot fury gleaming in his eye. Then Isildur drew himself up, and it seemed to those watching that they looked upon one of the old kings of Númenor, so mighty and so terrible did he seem. Then his great voice rolled out again over the valley. No Eredrim could be seen, but he knew they were cowering unseen in their houses, trembling as they listened to his voice.

``Then hear me, Romach,'' he roared. ``Thou shalt be the last king. And if the West prove mightier than thy black Master, this curse I lay upon thee and thy folk: to rest never until your oath is fulfilled. For this war will last through years uncounted, and you shall be summoned once again ere the end. The Eredrim will never again grow and prosper, but will dwindle until the last of your children's children fade and pass into the shadows, reviled by all honorable peoples. Then these valleys shall stand desolate and barren and even the names and deeds of your people shall be forgotten.

``Even death shall not release you from your oath. You shall find no rest in your long barrows and your shades shall wander the deep places under the earth. And so you shall remain forever, lest in some future time you find a way to fulfill your oath to me. This doom do I pronounce on you and all your descendants unto the end of time. Farewell forever, Oathbreakers!''

His dire words rang out over the village and came echoing back from the cliffs, as if the mountains themselves were repeating the terrible doom. But Isildur now was boiling with cold fury, all his intolerance for faithlessness burning in his voice.

Then he called Ohtar to bring him his horse, and he sprang upon Fleetfoot's back and he galloped down the hill, straight to Malithôr. The ambassador looked up at him with a triumphant sneer, but then he sensed Isildur's righteous power and the sneer faded.

``As for you, foul Mouth of Sauron,'' said Isildur. ``I will not slay you as you deserve for this treachery. But I lay a doom upon you also. You shall live long in the service of Sauron, but you shall ever diminish until you are naught but his mindless tool. All shall forget your name; even yourself. And my gifts for far-seeing tell me more than this -- that these Eredrim you have ruined will yet be the ruin of Umbar.''

Then he jerked the reins angrily, wheeled Fleetfoot around, and led his host on the eastward road. Only when the last companies had disappeared over the edge of the valley did the Eredrim start creeping cautiously from their homes. But the day that had dawned so fair was turning dark and ominous, and already they could feel a dread drawing about their hearts. Malithôr and his escort departed hurriedly for the south without a word, unwilling to meet the eyes of the people who stood staring in horror after them.

The column wended through the narrow defiles of Tarlang's Neck, the pass between the valleys of the Morthond and the Kiril. High crow-haunted cliffs rose close on either hand so that only a ribbon of sky could be seen above. The men were uneasy. An army could lie hidden in those bleak crags and deal destruction with impunity on those below. They marched in silence, their eyes ever alert for the slightest movement in the rocks above, their ears straining for the sound of sliding rocks or twanging bow strings. But except for the occasional hoarse croak of a raven, they heard only their own sounds: the creak of leather harness, the clink of mail, their boots and hooves thudding on the rocky ground.

Ohtar walked beside Isildur's horse, his fingers entwined in the horse's bridle, for the great charger that would plunge through ranks of howling enemies was now skittish and uneasy. Once, as they rounded a shoulder and yet another vista of close confining canyon opened before them, the horse reared, tearing from Ohtar's hand, and gave voice to his fear. The sudden shrill sound reverberated again and again in the close ways, startling the entire company. Isildur quickly brought him under control and Ohtar stroked his velvet nose soothingly.

``It would seem Fleetfoot likes not these pressing walls, Ohtar,'' said Isildur. ``He comes from the wide plains of Calenardhon, where a horse may run a hundred miles with never an obstacle to his speed. Such a steed takes joy in open plains and long flowing grass. He finds naught to comfort him in this close and dreary place.''

``Nor is it to my liking, my liege. I would give much to walk again in the green hills of our Ithilien.'' The king's eyes grew distant at this and Ohtar knew his thoughts flew far to the east, to their homeland, even now being trampled beneath the coarse boots of orcs.

``Aye,'' Isildur said at last, ``remember you, Ohtar old friend, how we would stand of a summer's eve on the parapet of the Moon Tower and gaze out to the west? The sun would finally hide her blushing face behind blue Mindolluin and cast the city into shadow, though the peaks above us glowed red still, as though lit by a fire within.''

Ohtar nodded, smiling. ``Then would the lights be kindled one by one in the cottages of the Ithil Vale far below, until the night mists rose from the stream to blur the lights, turning them into glowing haloes in the twilight. And the cattle would come lowing and clanking to their fold, led by barefoot girls with wildflowers twined in their hair. Often as not, one would tarry overlong and return after the gates were shut and we could hear the door warden laughing and bargaining for a kiss to let her in.''

The king laughed softly. ``And then one of my boys would come out to call us to our meat -- the proud and strutting Elendur, or the musician Aratan, lute in hand. Sometimes all would come together, even little Ciryon in his mother's...'' He stopped then and the soft light went from his eyes. Ohtar turned his face then and attended to his footing. No more was said between them, but before them both hovered the figure of Isildur's dark and beautiful queen Vorondomë who would never again stand with them on the walls of Minas Ithil. After being driven in terror from her home by the hideous orcs, she had sworn never to return to her defiled home. With their young son Valandil, she waited for Isildur now in Imladris, the hidden refuge of the Elves in the north. Of all of Sauron's crimes which Isildur had sworn to avenge, not least was this: his beloved Vorondomë a sad, frightened, and broken creature, who once had been so fair, so proud.

At long last the frowning cliffs fell back and there before them lay the highland meadows of Lamedon, crossed here and there by icy snow-fed freshe