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To Cairstiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairstiona for the beta.

Chapter 11:  Flight of the Eagle

   Thorongil often counselled Ecthelion that the strength of the rebels in Umbar was a great peril to Gondor, and a threat to the fiefs of the south would prove deadly if Sauron moved to open war. At last he got leave to gather a small fleet….

Appendix A                                                                                       The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

   “We must act soon, my lord; it would be folly to delay any longer.” Thorongil’s voice was rising as he stopped himself slamming his fist on the table in frustration. He and Ecthelion were studying the map laid out before them on the great desk in Ecthelion’s study, but it did not seem to the captain that he was any nearer persuading the Steward of the need for urgency in removing this threat to Gondor’s borders.

   “I know we have discussed this before, Thorongil,” said Ecthelion, “but I can not commit the forces that would be needed for such a mission as this, especially on what, I have to say, does seem the scantest evidence. We do not know the Corsairs are planning to attack Lebennin and the Ethir.”

   “We do not need to know, my lord,” said Thorongil, with rapidly waning patience; “it is enough, surely, that they could take these fiefs if they chose to do so? If Mordor assaulted our eastern border, we could not also defeat a fleet from Umbar in open battle; a campaign by stealth now is our best hope.”

   Ecthelion considered his captain’s plan again. It was audacious at the very least and undeniably risky; if it failed it was quite conceivable that none of the troops would return alive. He glanced at his captain standing beside him, his face slightly flushed, eyes blazing; daring him to deny him yet again. In the twelve years he had known Thorongil, he had come to trust him above all others. The man had never failed him and it was obvious how eagerly he wanted to do this. Any other captain, he would have refused outright, but if Thorongil really believed he could pull this off, then perhaps he was wrong to doubt him.

   At length he sighed and said: “If you can destroy the Corsair fleet at its moorings in Umbar with just half a dozen ships and three hundred men, then you have my blessing to undertake this venture.”

   Thorongil’s face lit up and he beamed at his Steward. “Thank you, my lord; I can be ready to leave in two days.” But as he prepared to take his leave, Ecthelion put out his hand to stop him.

 “Thorongil, if this goes ill, you realise you will be beyond my aid,” he said quietly. “Be careful, son.”

  Thorongil nodded. “I will, my lord, I promise,” he said, but as he left the Steward’s study, Ecthelion could not fail to notice how his eyes shone with excitement nor how eagerly he sough out his men to break the news to them. The Steward was still ill at ease with his decision, yet he could only hope, for the sake of his captain, he had made the right one.

~oo0oo~

   Thorongil had no difficulty attracting volunteers. None of his Company elected to remain behind. He immediately ensured preparations for the campaign were swiftly underway, although he demanded that all activity be kept as secret as possible; spies had been known to thwart excursions before. At such short notice, rations for only part of the ten day mission could be procured from within the city. The rest of the supplies would be taken on board when the ships docked briefly at Pelargir.

  The day after his conversation with Ecthelion, he was alone in his rooms on the Sixth Circle, when he recieved an unexpected visitor. Answering a knock at the door, he was confronted by a grey cloaked figure in a pointed hat, who smiled at him through a long, white beard.

   “Gandalf!” cried Thorongil, in delight at seeing his old friend again. “This is a surprise and a timely one at that, for I leave on the morrow.”

   “So I have heard,” said Gandalf, taking Thorongil’s hand. “But then arriving at precisely the right moment is something of a skill of mine.”

   Thorongil laughed, “So I have noticed. I can assume there is a good reason for your visit then. It has been over a year, my friend, since last you came this way.”

   “There is indeed a good reason for my visit,” said Gandalf, removing his hat and settling himself down by the fire in Thorongil’s rather sparsely decorated living room.

   “But all in good time. How about a bite to eat first? I have ridden a long way.”

   “Of course, I’m sure I can find you something,” said Thorongil, knowing he could never hurry the wizard, although, as always, he was hoping Gandalf brought news from Rivendell and the North.

   As Gandalf ate, he told Thorongil the news, such as it was. It seemed that little had changed with his foster family and the Dúnedain were much as they always were. It was a relief, as ever, to hear that his people were managing without him, but it did not prevent a wave of guilt assailing him as he was reminded once again that his prolonged absence would not be helping their situation in the slightest.

  When Gandalf had eaten his fill, he produced a pouch from under his robes and gave it to his friend. The wizard tried not to think of it as a peace offering, but he was very aware that what he had come to say would not be well received.

   Thorongil opened the small leather pouch and sniffed.

   “Longbottom, if I am not mistaken,” he said with a grin.

   “I’m glad your senses remain as sharp as ever,” said Gandalf, smiling back at him.

    Thorongil filled his pipe before offering the pouch back to Gandalf. They then sat together in companionable silence for many minutes enjoying their favourite pipeweed. As Gandalf drew on his pipe, he leant back in his chair and, out of the corner of his eye, he studied his pupil thoughtfully. He had definitely changed, he thought. Although he was still young, he was a boy no longer; it was a mature man that sat on the opposite side of the table to him now. Gandalf noticed how he carried himself with the confidence of one who has earned, through his own hard endeavours, the respect and admiration currently afforded him. He knew all about the captain’s reputation within the City and was well pleased with what he had achieved in his time here.

   At last the anticipation of trying to guess the reason for Gandalf’s visit became too much for Thorongil and he could contain his curiosity no longer.

   “All right, Gandalf, you had better tell me. What is this all about?”

   Gandalf put down his pipe and looked the man in the eye. “It’s about you, my dear boy,” he said, “and what you do next.”

   “You know that. I am leaving tomorrow for Umbar.”

   “And after that?” asked Gandalf. “You have been in this city over twelve years. That is a long time in the life of a Man. You have accomplished much and I know how respected you are here, but as long as you remain, you will only ever be the servant of the Steward.”

   Thorongil was shocked at the direction of Gandalf’s words and wondered where they were leading.

   And Gandalf knew what he had to say next would not be welcome.

   “It is time for you to leave.”

   He was quite right; this was not what Thorongil wished to hear. The Captain did not reply right away but took a few moments to carefully compose his argument.

   “My time here has been good,” he said at last. “I have laboured hard in the service of the Steward and I hope my efforts have gone some way to strengthen Gondor’s defences. Not only that, my position here and the regard in which I believe I’m held, perhaps behoves that the time may soon be right for me to reveal my true identity.”

   He hesitated momentarily as he saw Gandalf’s eyebrows shoot up, but he continued regardless. “Ecthelion is old now and Denethor must soon succeed him. While I have the Steward’s respect and friendship, it is not so with his son. Ecthelion might accept me as Isildur’s Heir, but Denethor never will. If it is indeed my fate to reclaim the kingship, I should act soon or it may well be too late. I might never have such a chance again.”

   Gandalf took a long drag on his pipe before replying. He had never advocated claiming the crown at this time and he suspected that a simple longing to remain in the city he had come to call home might be at the root of Thorongil’s desire to do so now.

   “The time is not right, although I can see how it might seem otherwise,” he said. “The army, I imagine, is yours for the taking and I suspect the people of the city would welcome you, especially if you had the blessing of the Steward, but this is a large realm and your name means little in some of the more remote regions. Would you risk civil unrest if your claim was not accepted by all? Would you be prepared to stretch the loyalty of the army to subdue those that opposed you? And there is another consideration. If you declare yourself now you risk bringing the wrath of Sauron down hard upon Gondor. He would surely want to crush a new king before he reached his full strength. Would you wish this upon these people? And, as you must know, if Gondor falls, there will then be none with the strength to stand against the Dark Lord.”

   Thorongil sighed, realising the validity of all those arguments for he had long considered them himself. “Of course I do not wish for any of these things and I can see the wisdom of your council. But if I am not to do this, then why do you say I should leave? There is work to do here.”

   “Of course there is,” said Gandalf. “But there is still much that needs to be done elsewhere and you have other duties to attend to that you should not neglect.”

   Anger flared in Thorongil at that, but he replied as civilly as he could. “Gandalf, I have spent the last thirty years in the service of others. I risk my neck almost daily to try to keep these lands safe and free from evil. What more would you have me do?”

   Gandalf immediately reached over and gripped his friend’s arm.

   “Forgive me, Aragorn,” he said softly. “I did not intend to imply criticism.”

   Thorongil softened at the use of his true name; a name hardly anyone but Gandalf ever called him. He had now been Thorongil for far longer than he had been Aragorn.

   “I can not see all ends,” continued Gandalf, “but I do not believe your time is yet come. Something forewarns me that you should wait, that a means unlooked for at present may yet reveal itself. I have spoken to Elrond of this and found that we are in agreement. Sauron would destroy you, Aragorn, if you made your existence known to him now.”

   Aragorn silently rose from his seat at the table and moved to the window that overlooked the Pelennor Fields. He loved standing there where he could watch the ordinary day-to-day happenings of the realm far below. It brought him a sense of purpose and fuelled his resolve to achieve what he did. Although he missed the North and knew he would return sometime, he was happy in this city; it had become his home.

   And yet he knew in his heart that Gandalf was right. He had already begun to reconsider his position here as the time when Denethor would succeed his father was fast approaching. He doubted he could serve this man. Although their rivalry had never openly surfaced, Aragorn strongly suspected that Denethor had guessed who he really was. That incident with his ring had played on his mind greatly. He was sure that once his father was dead, Denethor would find some way to dispense with his services. He had hoped this signalled that his time to reclaim the crown was drawing nigh. He had not yet given any serious consideration to leaving, but he could see now he had no choice.

   He turned back to face Gandalf.

   “What would you have me do?” he asked.

   “Travel into the East,” said Gandalf. “I have never been there and I can not go now; I am needed elsewhere, but you could go. The Dark Lord works his evil in many ways, but we do not know all that passes there. To know of his plots and devices would be a great aid in our fight against him. It will be dangerous, but I can trust this venture to no other.”

   Aragorn nodded. “Very well, it will be as you ask.”

   “Thank you,” said Gandalf, but it saddened him to see how grim the man had become suddenly.

  “I do not think you will need to stay too long,” he said, trying to bring him some cheer, “perhaps little more than a year would suffice for our needs, then I am sure the Dúnedain of the North would welcome seeing their Chieftain again.”

   He was rewarded with a smile, but Aragorn felt the now familiar twisting of his insides as his world collapsed around him again. But this time there was not even the consolation of having new places to visit and new adventures to look forward to.

   He had no wish to see Mordor and the adventures he knew he would find there held no appeal whatsoever.

~oo0oo~

  The next day dawned dull and overcast, reflecting the Captain’s sombre mood as he and his Company prepared to depart from the City. Aragorn had decided to say nothing to Ecthelion of his plans to leave. In part, he did not know how to break it to him, but neither was he sure his resolve would hold if Ecthelion asked him to stay. Also he feared the Steward might change his mind about the mission, and it was too important for that. Aragorn had already begun to think of it as his parting gift to him.

   He walked at the head of his troops as they crossed the Pelennor Fields and made their way to the small fleet awaiting them by the docks at the Harlond. Once on board ship, and sailing down Anduin, Aragorn stood alone on the quarter deck and could not forebear to look back for one last glimpse of Minas Tirith before she passed from his sight. The depth of his grief at leaving had caught him by surprise. There were people there whom he loved dearly who he would never see again. He fully realised how much he was going to miss the life he had made for himself in that beautiful city. His grief was made all the harder to bear as there was no certainty that he would ever return.

   At last he cast his eyes back to watching the Great River widen before them.  He hardened his heart and contemplated the task before him. Ecthelion had been right; it was an audacious plan and undeniably risky. And sailing right into the haven of your enemies and destroying their fleet at its moorings was not a manoeuvre to be undertaken by a captain with his mind preoccupied with other matters. The operation must command his full attention.

    By late the following morning the ships had sailed the forty-two leagues from the Harlond to Pelargir where they docked for a few hours to load supplies before continuing on down Anduin to the Bay of Belfalas. The sound of a vast multitude of gulls, filling the sky above, heralded their arrival at the coast and the sound remained with them as they sailed through the great estuary of the Ethir. Once the fleet was clear of Tolfalas, Aragorn ordered all sails to be unfurled and soon the ships were cutting their way through the ever growing waves of the open sea.

   His spirits rose as soon as he tasted the salt air. Sailing onboard ship had been a totally new and rather frightening experience for him when he first came to Gondor, but now he loved the motion of the vast hull beneath his feet and the illusion of freedom the remote horizon granted him. The sun was blazing overhead and the sea breeze was sufficient to lift the sails and allow the oarsmen a day of rest.

~oo0oo~

   It took four days to reach the narrow inlet in the coastline of Umbar that led to the Haven of the Corsairs. Darkness was descending as the ships dropped anchor a safe distance from the coast. A small rowing boat was lowered from near the stern of one of them and a group of select warriors climbed down into it, their mission to scale the cliffs and dispatch the enemy sentries in their look-outs Aragorn hated sending any of his men off without him, but he was in command of the fleet and that was where his main duty lay.

   He watched as his men battled their way through the waves to the cliffs that rose steeply before them. Then they disappeared from their captain’s sight. But they were not gone long, and as they rowed back into view, Aragorn could only assume they had been successful in their task. Once they were all safely returned to the ship, the small fleet made its way unobserved through the inlet.

   It was an overcast night, but with enough wind to dull any sound from the six great ships as they slid through the calm waters of the enclosed harbour. The sails were now furled and the ships were powered by the sweat of the oarsmen alone as, stroke by stroke, they pulled closer to the enemy stronghold. Half a league from the Haven, the signal was given to man the capstans and the anchors were dropped. Many rowing boats were lowered from the sides of the ships and most of the men descended into them, leaving only a skeleton crew behind to man each ship. It was now the depths of night and none marked their passage as the soldiers quietly rowed towards the distant lights of the harbour.

    At last the Men of Gondor had the fleet of the Corsairs in their sights. Very mighty it was; no less than fifty huge dromunds and an even greater number of smaller vessels. The rowing boats were brought stealthily along side the larger ships and as many of the smaller ones as their number allowed. Almost silently, the men climbed aboard the Corsair vessels, leaving just two men in each of the rowing boats to retreat with them to a safe distance.

   Aragorn deftly boarded the largest ship which was moored in the centre of the harbour. The attack had to be made as one and so he waited on deck, peering through the darkness to observe the progress of his men before giving the signal. When all were finally in position, he raised the white flag of the Steward of Gondor on the tallest mast among them. At this signal, the soldiers sprang into action, setting fires deep in the holds of the ships, before hastily leaping onto the quayside. There they drew their swords and readied themselves to engage the Corsairs and thus prevent them from rescuing their vessels. Aragorn stood at their head, his sword raised in front of him. His heart was already beating faster with the anticipation of the coming battle, and he noticed the familiar look of blended terror and mounting excitement on the faces of those around him as his men waited for the enemy to arrive.

   They did not have to wait long. All too suddenly the silence and peace of the night was shattered by shouting coming from the buildings along the waterfront. The alarm had been raised. Immediately there was a frantic ringing of bells and blowing of horns. Peopled started to appear in doorways, but many just stood and stared, shocked by the sight of the flame-engulfed ships.

  But in no time, the Garrison of the Harbour arrived and swiftly engaged the soldiers of Gondor in earnest. Their defence was vicious and intense, but woken from their sleep as they were and ill prepared for battle, their efforts were in disarray. Although outnumbered, Aragorn’s men fought valiantly and soon had the upper hand. He himself lent his sword wherever it was most needed and he quickly realized the worst fighting was in the centre of the quay.

   Springing into the fray, he was immediately engaged in a deadly duel with the Captain of the Haven himself. The man was an accomplished swordsman and he and the Captain from Gondor strove together on the water’s edge, locked in their own personal battle with neither able to gain the advantage. But for all the Corsair’s skill, he was not Elven trained and at last Aragorn felt his sword sheer through flesh and the commander fell dead at his feet.

   With their leader slain, the defence of the Corsair force fell apart and the few that survived the onslaught from Gondor soon retreated to the safety of the dark streets and alleyways behind the quay. By now the fleet was ablaze and beyond recovery.

   Aragorn raised to his lips the small horn he carried with him and blew the signal which ordered his men to make a swift departure and leave the deserting troops of their enemy to their flight. At this command, the rowing boats returned and the dead as well as the injured were quickly lowered into them. With a last look around the harbour for potential trouble, and seeing none, the soldiers followed their fallen comrades into the boats.

~oo0oo~

   The scene before the eyes of the Men of Gondor as they rowed back to their waiting ships was one of total carnage.  They themselves had suffered small loss, but the cries of the injured Corsairs, still lying where they fell, followed them pitifully across the water. Aragorn’s men had purposely spread the fires to the boatyards and barracks before they left, and these were now taking hold in the town itself. Screams of terror and pain filled the night air as slowly Aragorn and his soldiers pulled away from the horror they had created.

   It did not take long for the men to return to their own ships. The rowing boats carrying the injured were winched up onto the one vessel and once all were safely back onboard ship, the remaining boats were securely lashed to the sides of the ships and the anchors raised. With the oarsmen rowing at full stretch, the small fleet hastily retreated to the open sea.

   Aragorn sailed with the injured. He moved between them quickly, expertly assessing their wounds and prioritising their treatment. He and the fleet’s healers worked together through the remainder of the night tending the wounded. Fortunately there were few with life threatening injuries, but there were many slashed limbs that needed suturing. It was mid-day before Aragorn emerged from the healing rooms having done all he could for now. He was exhausted from his labours and staggered a little as he made his way to his cabin to snatch a few hours rest.

   But sleep eluded him as the images of the stricken men on the quayside replayed over and over in his mind. War still sickened him, no matter how often he went into battle. He could never get used to the sheer, mind-splitting brutality that always assailed him, wounding him almost as much as an actual blow. He had long ago learned how to hold his stomach at the sight of severed limbs and opened torsos. He had learned how to feign indifference to the suffering of his foes and callously walk away, delighting in the chalking up of another victory. But if he fooled those around him, he did not fool himself. In his heart he felt as much for those left lying on the quayside as he did his own injured men. Killing orcs was one thing, but these were soldiers, no different from his, save that they had been deceived by the Dark Lord and had come under his sway.

   Perhaps it was no bad thing after all that he was leaving. He was so tired of war.

~oo0oo~

   Four days later the fleet sailed into Pelargir. They rested there for some days while the wounded were taken ashore and the soldiers were granted some well earned leave. Aragorn wrote a formal message to the Steward, informing him of the outcome of the mission. But then he had the difficult task of composing a personal letter to the man who was not just his Steward but also his friend.

   “….Other tasks call me now lord, and much time and many perils must pass, ere I come again to Gondor, if that be my fate….” [1]

   How he wished he could just tell him the truth. After all that Ecthelion had done for him, he deserved that much.

   But harder even than that was his farewell to his men. They trusted him with their lives. There was nothing they would not do for him if he asked it, and he now he was rewarding their loyalty by deserting them. They were dismayed, begging him to reconsider, and such was his longing to do so he truly considered abandoning the burden of his destiny. But not for nothing did the blood of Beren and Luthien flow in his veins. He could not that easily forsake his duty, and so at last he said his farewells, and with a heavy heart, he sailed across Anduin to face the harsh unknown of Mordor.

~oo0oo~

   Ecthelion sat at his great desk reading the letter from his captain over and over again as if with each reading he hoped to find some further clue to explain Thorongil’s inexplicable departure. Opposite him sat his son whom he had summoned to him in the hope that he might be able to enlighten him as to Thorongil’s motives. He knew of Denethor’s hostility to his captain and felt it was probable the answer lay with his son somewhere. But what Denethor knew or guessed he would not say, though he himself was wracked with uncertainty. Thorongil where he could watch him and, to a certain extent, control him, was one thing; Thorongil on the loose and beyond his reach was quite another.

   “I can not understand it,” said Ecthelion, still staring at the letter. “He could have had anything he desired; no honour would have been too great. I would have granted him anything.”

   “Are you quiet sure of this father?” asked Denethor. “Would you really have given him anything, anything at all?”……

~oo0oo~

    …...and he came to Umbar by night, and there burned a great part of the ships of the Corsairs. He himself overthrew the Captain of the Haven in battle upon the quays, and then he withdrew his fleet with small loss. But when they returned to Pelargir, to men’s grief and wonder, he would not return to Minas Tirith, where great honour awaited him.

Appendix A                                                                                       The Return of the King

[1]    Appendix A                                                                            The Return of the King