blaming the others for its downfall.
Outnumbered, exhausted, in many cases wounded, and riding up a steep hill, the knights of Gondor met the knights of Umbar, and never has such a conflict of mounted Men been more bitterly fought, with many a cruel blow and valiant death on both sides. The advance of the Allies wavered, then stopped. The mad impetus of the wild charge was broken at last. Elendil's horse fell back a step, then another. Gil-galad's horse screamed and went down kicking. Gil-galad rolled free and was on his feet in seconds, but he was soon surrounded by three mounted Umbardrim.
Elendil rode back to help and slew one of the black knights with a sweep of Narsil. The other turned to engage him and they traded blow for blow. Gil-galad was in a fierce struggle with the third. The Corsair forced the Elf-lord back, but each mighty two-handed stroke of his sword was parried by Aeglos. One blow went wide and the force of it half-turned the knight. Before he could recover, Aeglos had pierced him through. His scream distracted Elendil's opponent, and in a second he lay stretched beside his companions.
The Kings looked around. The white-clad Gondorrim and the black-clad Umbardrim were engaged in deadly single combats all around them — hundreds of individual battles between grunting, swearing, men with none to intervene or even see the desperate blows. But too few had fought clear of the orcs and those who had were cruelly outnumbered. Most of the Elves and Men were still trying to force their way through the orcs and could not get free to help. Everywhere the allies were being pressed back down the hill. The orcs swarmed forward to surround them. The Kings plunged back into the fight, each attacking the nearest enemy knight. They had neither time or breath for words, but both knew that the bold charge had failed. Now there was nothing more to do but to continue fighting, battling on and on until fatigue slowed their arms and their opponents found their chance.
Then, from somewhere beyond the top of the hill came the sound of a horn: high and clear, cutting through all the roar of battle. A black knight with a mace raised to strike at Elendil paused instead and looked back at the sound. It was his last motion, for Narsil swept against his neck and he toppled headless from his horse. Then came a mighty roar from many throats, for over the summit of the hill appeared a solid mass of mounted figures, banners streaming and swords waving over their heads. They plunged down the slope without a pause: hundreds, then thousands of them.
Gil-galad, standing by Elendil's stirrup, cried out in dismay. 'More of these Numenoreans! It is over!'
But Elendil could not speak for a moment. He watched a tall knight riding straight toward him, his sword whirling above his head. Behind him pounded another rider carrying a standard. And from the standard rippled the Crowned Tree of Gondor.
'Yes, it is over, old friend,' said Elendil. 'For there rides my son Isildur.'
Isildur crested the ridge and a smoke-shrouded valley opened before him. There below lay two vast armies locked in mortal combat. It was like no battle he had ever seen. There were no lines, no front, no flanks. The floor of the valley was filled with a seething mass of black figures, all seemingly pressing inwards upon their fellows. In their midst was a thin white line of mounted warriors, laying about them on either side. He could see small parts of the white column cut off from the rest and rapidly shrinking, like a white floor being flooded with black ink.
On the slope before them, another battle was raging between two groups of mounted knights, the white again badly outnumbered. In the midst of this wheeling mass of armored men rose a white banner bearing the Crowned Tree.
'There, Sire,' shouted Ohtar. 'Your father is there, by the banner.'
'I see him,' called Isildur. 'But he is very hard-pressed, and I do not see Gil-galad. I pray we are not too late! Ride, my brothers. Forget your weariness and ride like the wind. Ride to your king's standard!'
'Elendil!' went up the cry. 'Gondor for Elendil!'
The Umbardrim heard that cry and knew themselves lost. They drew off and tried to form a defensive formation, but then the knights of Gondor were upon them. Coming down the steep slope, the force of their impact was like a wave crashing on a shore. In an instant the hillside was a mass of shouting, hacking men and wheeling horses. Isildur and his companions drove straight for the king, slaying any who stood between them.
For the first time Elendil had no foe before him. He paused to catch his breath and saw his son and grandson riding toward him. It came to him that never had they looked more kingly. Isildur reined in beside him and leaped from his horse. They clasped arms, their eyes revealing more than words could ever say.
Isildur bowed his head. 'My father and my king,' he said. 'We are come at last. I pray we are not too late.'
Too overcome at first for words, Elendil looked at Isildur's companions. There was his grandson Elendur, his smile beaming through a smoke-stained face. And there also were the Elves, Elrond Halfelven and Cirdan Shipwright, and his old friend and aide Gildor Inglorion. He was overwhelmed with emotion at seeing their faces again after so long.
'No,' he said. 'No, I believe you may have come in time. Welcome, my Lords,' he said to the Elves. Then Gil-galad, still on foot, came up to them. He gripped Cirdan's hands in his.
'Well met, my friends,' he said. 'We are most glad to see you. I believe you have turned the tide of the battle.'
They stood there, a momentary island of calm in the midst of violent struggle, and looked out over the battle. All around them the knights of Umbar and Lindon and Arnor and Gondor were fighting fiercely, giving blow for blow, though it was the Umbardrim now being slowly driven back. Still, the balance was nearly even.
In the valley below, however, it was a different story. The orcs, seeing Isildur's army continuing to pour down upon them, broke and fled, many throwing down their weapons for greater speed. The Army of the Alliance, though terribly reduced, took heart and redoubled their efforts, beating their foes back and giving themselves room to breathe. Isildur's men galloped to their aid, sweeping all before them. The orcs fell into complete confusion, running about in terror. The Kings sat and watched as their warriors attacked the last pockets of organized resistance.
Yet even as their hearts soared with joy, a darkness fell upon them. Sounds became muted, the very light of the sun seemed to dim. Warriors looked about in confusion and dismay. Suddenly the battle, the whole war, seemed hopeless, all their sufferings futile. The light faded from their eyes, the smiles from their lips. Isildur felt his shoulders sag, as if all his weariness were overcoming him at last. He knew it at once, for he had felt it at the battle for the Morannon so many years ago.
'Do you feel it?' shouted Gil-galad. 'It is Sauron. It is his Shadow. He is near.'
'Fight on,' called Isildur to his captains. 'It is Sauron's Shadow. You must fight on. We shall deal with Sauron.'
But even as he said it, he felt a wave of hopelessness sweep over him. Deal with Sauron? How could they possibly stand against someone so powerful that his mere presence sent fear knifing through the bravest heart?
'Now, my Lords,' said Gil-galad, 'we are come to the final conflict of all. This is the hour of reckoning. Now we must wield all the powers at our command.' He looked at Elrond and Cirdan. 'Have you brought the Three? Where is Galadriel?'
Cirdan shook his head. 'We were unable to destroy the Ring-wraiths, my king. Galadriel and Celeborn remained at Minas Ithil to try to contain them there. She has Nenya with her.'
The news seemed to crush Gil-galad's spirit. His face sagged and went ashen. 'The Three are not here? We go to do battle with Sauron himself and the Three are not here? How can we hope to dispel his Shadow without them?' The others only looked at him, unable to reply.
Seeing his face, his friends were stricken with the sense that all hope had gone. Despair beat at them like black wings about their heads. Elrond struggled against it, knowing it for the fear he had felt near the Ulairi, only much, much stronger.
'Cirdan still has Narya,' he said, 'and I have brought Vilya for you, Sire.' They seemed but small words, hollow and weightless against the crushing despair. The others stared at him hopelessly. But then he withdrew the great blue ring and held it up gleaming in the light. And somehow, seeing it shining there in the gloom gave them all hope. They looked at each other in wonder.
'Surely,' said Gildor, 'with such weapons we can defeat even Sauron.'
But Gil-galad shook his head. 'Remember, they are not weapons at all,' he said. 'They cannot be used to
