Chapter One
The Men of the Mountains
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 crowned 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 Dunadan, of the race of men that had long ago sailed from Middle-earth to Numenor 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 Numenor 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
