Isildur

are ready, send them at once to the Ethir and see that no other unwanted visitors enter the River. Luindor, you have full use of all our resources. Use them to begin rebuilding your fleet. Amroth, Gilrondil, you're with me. Bring your esquires. The rest of you, give all necessary aid to the Men of Pelargir. If you are attacked, hold the line of the River at all costs. Now, let us away. Farewell to you all, people of Pelargir.'

And with that Cirdan strode from the hall. There was a moment of stunned silence, then everyone jumped to their feet and hurried to their duties. Amroth bade a hasty farewell to his new friends and hurried after Cirdan.

* * *

As they passed through the city they saw people busy on every side. Some were tending the many wounded, others were still dousing fires set by the Corsairs' catapults. A wagon rattled by with several still figures lying beneath shields. There was much emotion in the air, a mingled grief and joy. Many bold warriors wept openly even as they toiled, for nearly all had lost friends and comrades in the battle. And yet Amroth could see in many faces a light of happiness, for the battle was won and the city safe, at least for the moment. At the feast too, he had been struck by the almost carefree joy of many of the young Men and Women there, who only hours before had been prepared to die and leave the world forever. For his part, Amroth knew that the events of this day — the fear and horror of battle, the friends slain — would be in his heart for thousands of years. Amroth thought as he watched them how the emotions of Men seemed to flit through them more swiftly than do those of the Elves.

He had time to note also the city around them. This was his first glimpse of a city of Men. He had often heard tales of fair Annuminas, Elendil's city by Lake Nenuial, but he had never visited it, imagining it but a crude imitation of Mithlond or Caras Galadon. But now he saw he had misjudged Men. Pelargir was a much newer city than even the most recent of the Elvish settlements, though doubtless its people would think a thousand sun- rounds a long time. And it was not built with the arts of the Firstborn. It was built of stone, without spell or power to bind it save that of plain mortar. How many brief lives of men had it taken to cut these stones and drag them here and erect this city; to carve its columns; paint its frescoes; tile its courts; pave its streets? And each artisan knew that he could not hope to live to see the work completed. Did they build it for themselves, or for their children, or for some other goal? And he realized that he would like to return to this land in happier times, if such were ever to come again. He wished to know more of this curious race, to live among them for a time and learn their ways.

They reached the gate and waited but a few minutes for it to be dragged open, then hurried down to the ships. They gathered their belongings and called their esquires, Cirdan snapping out orders to his officers all the while. They had hardly finished when Duitirith's Man Glamrod appeared with six beautiful sleek horses.

'These are noble animals,' said Amroth, stroking the neck of one. 'They are from Duitirith's own stable, my lord,' said Glamrod. 'They will bear you with the speed of the wind.'

Cirdan leaped to the saddle of the first horse. 'They will be cared for and returned to your lord as soon as may be. Our thanks to you, and to your master.'

'Follow the road from the bridge, my lord,' Glamrod called. 'Take the larger road at each turning, and the second evening should find you before the walls of Osgiliath. A fair journey to you.'

Then the esquires ran up, still chewing their dinners, and began strapping the packs to the saddles. Gilrondil limped up, his wounded thigh wrapped in a linen bandage. He mounted without requiring aid. Amroth turned to the people of Pelargir who had come down to the strand to watch them.

'We thank you all, good people of Pelargir. You have made us feel at home in a distant land.'

'May Eru bless you and your city,' called Cirdan. 'Now, we ride.'

They spurred their horses up the bank to the road, turned left, and galloped up a long rise. At the crest they paused to look back at the city. The high towers of Pelargir gleamed against the afternoon sky. A thin smoke still trailed up from the valley of the Sirith just beyond.

'A fair city,' said Amroth. 'I would not like to see it a citadel of the Enemy.'

'Nor I,' said Cirdan, 'and if that is not to be its fate, we must ride as if borne by eagles.'

Then they turned and thundered down the slope to the long road winding away across the plains.

Chapter Eight The Council of Osgiliath

The Elves had rested but a few hours before they were roused by Cirdan. The eastern sky was lightening, but a bank of clouds hung above the jagged peaks of the Ephel Duath, hinting at thundershowers later in the day. They had some bites of lembas, then mounted their still weary horses and set off once more. By the time the sun broke free of the clouds they were well out into the plains of southern Anorien. It was a fair and pleasant land of pastures and forests, with many hay fields. This was the country in which were raised the sturdy horses for which Anorien was famed. They passed through a number of small villages of a few dozen houses grouped around a mill. Startled villagers came out to watch them gallop through. They stared in wide-eyed amazement at the tall Elves with their bright armor and strange outlandish banners.

The road was gradually descending into the wide vale of Anduin, dotted with small farms and villages. Many seemed nearly deserted, but they could see a few teams in the fields, already mowing the early wheat. It made Amroth realize how far south they had come, for in Lindon the wheat would not be ready for a month or more.

The Ered Nimrais, at first only a line of white peaks in the north, gradually drew nearer. The eastern end of the range terminated abruptly in a huge peak of blue-grey stone that loomed above the surrounding land. The road's many winding turns carried them northeast toward the mountain, until by late morning they were riding around its lower foothills. High in a deep-cleft valley they could see a gleaming white city rising tier above tier to an elegant white spire. A farmer they met on the road told them that the city was called Minas Anor and the mountain Mindolluin, 'Towering Bluehead'. They came to a fork in the road, the left winding up toward Minas Anor. They turned right, descending more steeply toward the River.

They had not seen the Anduin since the evening before, for it looped away into the flat lands to the east, while their road headed northeast, directly toward Osgiliath. They could trace the path of the River by a line of dark trees far off to the right amidst the green fields. Beyond the River, still hazy in the distance, rose the rounded green hills of the Emyn Arnen. They rode without stopping until the sun had passed its height, then paused beneath a copse of aromatic cedar trees to eat some of the food prepared for them by the Pelargrim.

'We should see Osgiliath in the next few hours if the map is accurate,' said Cirdan. 'A pity the horses are so tired or we could make better time. I begrudge each hour.'

'Where can Barathor be?' asked Amroth. 'Surely we should have seen him ere now.'

'It is still some distance to Osgiliath. And even after the messenger arrived, it would be some time before they could march. But we should meet him soon.'

'I only hope he did not go by the River, for we would be sure to miss him.'

'They will come by land. Even with the favoring current, the River is the longer and slower path. Barathor will travel as fast as he possibly can.'

Cirdan had them riding again in less than a quarter of an hour. Amroth was continually shifting his weight in the saddle. He was unused to riding and now even longed for the feel of a deck under his feet again.

The clouds gradually covered the sky as the day went on, until by mid-afternoon the sun was streaming in long diagonal rays from a few ragged holes in a woolen blanket of cloud. A light breeze sprang up from the east, bearing the smell of rain. The cool air in their faces was soothing, and the horses were able to quicken their pace slightly.

Amroth was trotting along, his eyes on the lowering sky, when an Elf near him shouted out.

'Riders! Riders approach ahead, my lord.'

Amroth stood in his stirrups, and there over a slight rise he could see a long line of riders coming down into a low flat valley. Cirdan led his people to the crest of the rise and halted, watching the approach of the column. They were four abreast, riding hard, their horses gleaming with sweat. At their head a blue banner streamed in the wind of their passage. It could only be the Pelargrim.