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

And especial thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 32: The Black Ships

But when the dawn came, cold and pale, Aragorn rose at once, and led the Company forth upon the journey of greatest haste and weariness that any among them had known, save he alone, and only his will held them to go on.

The Passing of the Grey Company                                                  The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

    Calembel was deserted.

    There was no sign of life to be seen anywhere in the small, but thriving, market town which straddled the banks of the River Ciril as it made its hasty decent through Lamedon to the open sea beyond. It was late in the evening when the Grey Company passed through the main street, the horses’ hooves echoing eerily on the cobbled path. Doors gaped open and baskets of groceries lay abandoned on the empty pavements; the inhabitants had seemingly left in a great hurry.

   “Where do you suppose everyone has gone?” asked Gimli, looking about the deserted road. “A pint or two of ale and bite of supper at one of these fine looking inns wouldn’t have gone amiss after the day we’ve had.”

   Aragorn riding beside him, smiled grimly. “I doubt we will find many on this journey who will be prepared to stand and welcome us,” he said.

   “Well, I can’t say I blame them,” replied Gimli who was still casting his eyes around the empty dwellings in the hope of espying someone who might be prepared to offer them more enticing fare than the stale rations they carried with them. “It wouldn’t take much for me to be off myself with that bunch of rogues at our heels.”

   Aragorn said nothing. He too preferred not to glance behind at the Shadow Host more than was necessary. The long ride from the Stone of Erech with an army of dead men in their wake had left them all with ragged nerves. His men were weary and in need of a decent meal. But they would find none here. Instead they rode on through the cheerless streets until they crossed the river at the ford. Once they were clear of the town, Aragorn called a halt.

   “We will rest a while here,” he shouted. The Grey Company dismounted at once, grateful that their long day in the saddle was over. They immediately began their usual evening routine of setting up camp and caring for the horses, but all the while the Shadow host hovered a little apart. Aragorn could not help but notice how the men kept their eyes averted and their backs turned as they went about their tasks.

   Yet it was a beautiful evening, the sky a blaze of colour as the sun set like a red fire behind the Pinnath Gelin. It was a welcome sight, boding a fine day for the morrow if a cold night ahead. They had covered a reasonable distance that day and Aragorn felt he owned his men at least one night’s sleep after the wakeful and wretched one they had spent at Erech. A rest would serve them all better in the long run than pressing on with their journey into the night. He himself had barely slept for days and he had yet to completely shake off the weariness that had gripped him ever since his encounter with the Palantír. He stood for a moment rubbing fatigue from his eyes. None needed a respite more than he.

   “Estel? I would care for Roheryn for you, if you would permit it.”

   Aragorn opened his eyes to see Elrohir standing in front of him with a hand on his horse’s bridle.

   He was about to decline, not particularly wishing to appear as exhausted as he felt, but he was suddenly aware that Halbarad was kneeling on the ground a little apart from the others. He was silhouetted against the flaming sun but Aragorn could see the great banner laid out flat in front of him. He was furling it with extraordinary precision. Something about the meticulousness of his movements sparked a warning note in Aragorn’s mind and he decided to accept the offer after all.

   “Thank you, my brother; your offer is timely as I wish to speak with Halbarad.”

   As Elrohir led the horse away, Aragorn watched Halbarad for a moment longer, noticing the considered attention than his kinsman put into every cease and fold of the cloth. Before each turn of the staff, he carefully smoothed the jewels into place with his hand before winding the banner by another half turn. He would then pause and smooth the next section to his satisfaction before continuing.

   The sight unexpectedly pierced Aragorn’s heart. He could almost feel the reverence that went into every one of Halbarad’s movements and he realised the banner was very bit as much a symbol of hope for Halbarad as it was for himself. He wondered if all the men felt the same way. Ever since Halbarad had handed it to him on the plains of Rohan, he had hoped with every fibre of his being that one day they would all see the symbols of the  king flying from the top of the tower of Ecthelion, and with it would come a new era of prosperity for their people. But so much now rested on what he must achieve in the next few days and weeks if there was to be any hope of that ever coming to pass. The weight of expectation became almost crippling if he allowed himself to dwell upon such matters.

   He walked across to his kinsman and stood over him as he worked.

   “I never asked you, Hal,” he said. “Is the banner very wearying on the arms to hold loft? I wondered if you tired of carrying it.”

   Halbarad immediately shook his head though he did not look up. “Nay, it is not a burden in the slightest,” he said firmly as he continued with what he was doing. The banner was fully furled now and he was securing the thongs that bound it to the staff.

   “And I would have no other carry it for you.”

   The job done, he got to his feet and looked Aragorn fully in the eye.

   “As long as I live and breathe, I would do this for you. You surely know that?”

   Aragorn was surprised by the passion in his old friend’s voice.

   “Hal, I would not even consider any other for this task.”

   But there was a strange look in Halbarad’s eye that Aragorn had not seen before and it troubled him. It was more one of sadness and regret than of fear. Suddenly, the words he had spoken as they stood on the threshold of the terrible door that led into the mountain returned to him.

   My death lies beyond it, he had said. Halbarad was not greatly given to foresight, as far as he knew, and at the time Aragorn had taken his words to be nothing more than the thoughts running through all their minds as they stood poised to enter that dreadful hole. Yet, as he thought of them now, he felt a sudden frisson of fear and had to resist the urge to draw Halbarad into his embrace.  

   Instead, he stared at him uncomfortably, wondering what, if anything, he should say, but then Halbarad’s face broke into a grin and the moment passed.

   “Well you might have had some foolish idea of asking one of your brothers to relieve me of it for a while.”

   But Aragorn was not so easily distracted and did not return his smile.

   “No, I would not do that,” he said, sensing that this mattered greatly to Halbarad. “Arwen asked you to bring this standard to me, not my brothers. She would have done that with good reason. This standard, if it is ever borne into battle, will herald the coming of the Northern Dúnedain to the South and I deem it is right that one of the Dúnedain, and a dúnadan alone, should bear it.”

   But Halbarad merely laughed, dismissing his concerns. “She is wise, your lady,” he said as he clapped Aragorn on the back. “Come, let us find something to eat,” and, as he strode off to where the men were setting up camp in search of supper, Aragorn let the matter drop.

~oo0oo~

   “What is all this do you suppose, Aragorn?” asked Gimli, looking up at the deep, unearthly darkness that filled the Eastern sky. There was no sign of the dawn, and the dense blackness creeping steadily towards them seemed to swallow the very night itself.

   “Even underground a Dwarf can tell the hour of the day and this Dwarf knows the sun should have risen by now.”

   “I believe you are right,” said Aragorn as he came to stand beside him, a cup of tea in his hand. “This darkness is not the natural dark of the World. Something is surely amiss.”

   “Well we can make a sound guess as to who is behind this,” said Gimli. Without thinking, his hands reached for his axe as if the culprit was standing right before him. “But I for one don’t care for it.”

  Aragorn stood considered this disturbing development for a moment. “Neither do I, Gimli, but perhaps it does not bode as ill as we fear,” he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “If the Enemy is moving then this is only as we hoped. But if this is so then so must we, and with all haste.” He poured the dregs of his tea into the grass and stashed his mug in his pack.

  “Come, we must be on our way at once,” he said as he picked up his few belongings and strode towards the horses which were picketed a little away from the camp.

   “We do not wait for the dawn,” Aragorn cried to his men as he went. Immediately the camp was a hive of activity as the men quickly rolled up blankets and doused the fire. Gimli followed him and waited beside Arod for Legolas.

   The men were soon ready to leave and tacking up their horses. Aragorn threw the saddle onto Roheryn and secured the girth.

   “I am sorry, my friend,” he said softly to the horse as he paused for a moment to pull his ears affectionately and scratch his forehead. “We have another hard ride in front of us today.”

   And the day after and the day after that, he thought ruefully to himself but there was no need to trouble the horse with what yet lay ahead. His pack securely in place, he risked a glance at the Shadow Host which had assembled nearer to them as they prepared to break camp. He did not relish riding all the way to Pelargir in this darkness with that ghostly hoard on their heels but it would appear they had no choice. It was ninety three leagues from Erech to Pelargir. In their first day’s ride from the Black Stone, they had not yet covered a quarter of that distance.

   In a matter of minutes, all were ready to depart and Aragorn leaped on to Roheryn’s back, though with noticeably less athleticism than he had two days ago. And immediately the Company set off at a steady trot into the grim darkness, his muscles began to complain at the renewed contact with the saddle.

      They continued steadily on their way through the uplands of Lamedon as they headed south-west towards the river Ringlo.   As soon as the going underfoot allowed, Aragorn eased Roheryn into a canter. Halbarad’s rode beside him, holding aloft the standard. Behind him were Legolas and Gimli, followed by the rest of the men. His brothers brought up the rear, and after them came the Shadow Host which appeared little more than a grey mist in the darkness yet none could forget their presence for a single moment.

   The terrain was rough and uneven, difficult for the horses to travel over at anything more than a steady canter. They picked their way as best they could under the black sky but they would have little opportunity for greater speed until they reached the lowlands. Then Aragorn knew he would need to take the horses and the men to the limits of their endurance if they were to reach Minas Tirith in time to prevent the city’s utter destruction.

   On they rode, for hour after endless hour. They passed small hamlets as well as sizeable villages but they saw no one. Few words passed between any of the men yet the tension in the air was almost palpable.   The Dead men made no sound as they drifted along effortlessly behind them. The Grey Company maintained their steady pace all morning until, as mid day approached, Aragorn allowed the horses a breather. But as they broke back to a walk, he suddenly became aware of a grey mist creeping forwards and swirling about him as if a sudden fog had descended. He heard shouts from some of the men and looked behind quickly.

    The Shadow host was overtaking the Grey Company.

    The Army of Dead men had grown stronger and even more terrible since they left Erech. None of the Dúnedain looked upon them if they could avoid it. Even by the light of day, the ghostly shapes of long dead warriors were terrifying enough. By this darkness of Mordor it was almost enough to send even the bravest man screaming into the cover of the hills. But Aragorn could not allow the dead to overtake the living. It was vital that he had complete command of them if they were to do their part. As the ghostly host continued to surge forward, he turned Roheryn to face them and cried in a great voice.

   “Wait, Men of the Mountain, I bid you do as Isildur’s Heir commands. Do not come forward until such time as you are summoned to honour your oath.”

   Behind him, his men immediately pulled up their horses. Then after a few agonising moments, and to Aragorn’s overwhelming relief, the Shadow host halted too. They were dreadful to behold close up. Their hollow faces were fell and terrible. They shook their spears and waved their swords but they did as they were commanded. It was a crucial moment and Aragorn silently let out a long breath.

   They might yet fulfil his need.

   “Ride on,” he cried to his Men over his shoulder as he circled Roheryn back to their path. And as they continued on their way, he noticed, with grim satisfaction, that the Host remained firmly at the rear and did not attempt to surge forward again.

~oo0oo~

   All day they rode on under the oppressive darkness which deepened as the day progressed. Aragorn was relentless in leading them all forward as fast as their horses could carry them. Late in the afternoon they stopped briefly for a few minutes when they reached the Ringlo. Here they refilled the water skins and allowed the horses to drink their fill. They were lathering badly in their thick winter coats and appreciated the chance to cool down as they waded through the deep water. As the Company emerged onto the far bank of the river, Halbarad rode up closer beside Aragorn and kept his voice low.

   “The men can not take much more of this,” he said. “We must stop, if only for a little while. It will soon be dusk by my reckoning and my stomach tells me it’s time to eat.”

   Aragorn looked behind him at the tired faces of his men. Their willingness to suffer so on his behalf stung his heart.

   “We can not rest yet, Hal,” he said. “I am sorry, but we must press on. Bear with me a few more hours yet; then we shall rest a while, I promise.”

   Halbarad did not argue and Aragorn felt even worse than if he had. For the rest of that day and well into the night, they pressed on through the foothills of the White Mountains, but when one of the horses stumbled throwing his rider, Aragorn finally decided to allow a break though too brief would the rest likely be. That night, the sons of Elrond kept watch while the men slept. Aragorn had tried to argue that they too must take their turn at finding rest but his objections had been soundly quashed.

   “Estel, if we have to sit on you and pin you to the ground for the rest of the night, you are not taking a turn on watch. Is that understood?” Elladan could still very effectively play the big brother when he chose to and in the end Aragorn gave up. On any other road he might have been tempted to remind Elladan of the difficulties he would encounter should he attempt to do any such thing, but he had no strength to spare on such foolish arguments now. Even so, half a night was all he would allow and at an hour well before a dawn that might have heralded a bright spring day, the Grey Company was swiftly on its way again.

   The unrelenting darkness was disorientating. It was impossible to say quite when they reached Linhir, the sprawling town that had grown up along either side of the fords on the river Gilrain, though it was sometime on that third day since leaving Erech. They had put the Uplands behind them and had been able to cover more ground now that the going was easier for the horses. But as they rode towards the town, they found the place in total uproar.

   An advance host from Umbar and Harad had sailed up the river and was engaging the men of Lamedon in battle. The fighting was fierce as the enemy was a sizable host and things looked to be going ill for the men of Gondor. But as the Grey Company approached with the Army of the Dead hard at their rear, all gave up the battle and fled in terror.

   “Ah, these dead men have their uses, I’ll grant them that,” said Gimli, grinning at the sight of so many fighting men reduced to whimpering fops by the terror of the approaching Shadow Host.  The men of Linhir found sanctuary within the town while the Haradrim, denied a retreat to their vessels, took flight across the ford and began the long road back to Pelargir. Only one stout hearted man found the courage to stand and face them. He stood proudly in the middle of the main street, waiting for the newcomers to approach, his sword held high and defiant.

   “Name yourselves,” he cried boldly, though the rift of terror in his voice was unmistakable.

   Aragorn immediately jumped down from Roheryn and raised a hand in a sign of peace.

   “Stay your sword and have no fear,” he said. “I am Aragorn son of Arathorn and Isildur’s Heir of Gondor.  I ride from the North with all speed to Pelargir to deliver her from our enemies.”

   He may have intended his words to ease the man’s heart, but they did no such thing. The man sank to his knees, shaking with uncontrollable fear which he felt as keenly for this strange man and his wild claim as for his unearthly companions. Yet his grip on his sword remained as strong as ever.

    “Isildur’s Heir? Did you say Isildur’s Heir?”

   Aragorn walked towards him and smiled.

  “Yes, my good man, you heard aright,” he said softly as he raised the trembling man to his feet. “Pray, tell me your name.”

   The man stood staring at him in amazement yet he managed to mumble: “Angbor is my name. I am the lord of Lamedon.”

  “Then, Angbor, lord of Lamedon, I bid you gather to you all men who can fight and come after us. I shall have need of every sword and every axe that Gondor can raise.”

   But the lord of Lamedon could not take his eyes of the Shadow Host. “But, but, what of the ghosts? None will follow the likes of them. And what of you, are you real, or are you some ghost yourself stepped out of some ancient legend?”

   “Oh, I am real enough,” said Aragorn with a gentle smile as he turned and walked back to his men. “And as for the ghosts, only the enemies of Gondor need fear them. Follow at a safe distance if it eases your fear but I beseech you to heed my call.” He paused to pick up Roheryn’s reins. “At Pelargir the Heir of Isildur will have need of you.” [1]

  Then he swung himself up into the saddle and with a wave of his hand, his Company departed across the ford, and the dead men swept after them.

   Angbor stood watching them go in stunned disbelief. “The Heir of Isildur will have need of you,” he said aloud to himself as the words slowly started to sink in. “The Heir of Isildur? Oh my word, the Heir of Isildur. Did you hear that?” He was practically screaming now. “Everyone, get out here and stop skulking. We’ve a war to go to!”

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn rode hard and fast through Lebennin. He spared neither man nor beast. Before them fled the invading host from Umbar as the Grey Company ruthlessly drove them back from hence they came. For the rest of that day, if they came upon their enemy, they engaged them in battle, but, for the most part, the terror of the men from Umbar was such that their passage to Pelargir was even swifter than that of the Grey Company.

   That night the Dúnedain were exhausted from their long day and the trials of many skirmishes and Aragorn allowed them a few hours rest. But while the men slept, he himself was restless and tossed and turned in his blanket on the ground. In spite of his tiredness, he woke often and his dreams were filled with terrible and vivid visions. Minas Tirith was besieged by a host so vast, the eye of a man could not see to the end of it. Great rolling weapons, drawn by unspeakable beasts bred by the Dark Lord for just this purpose, rained balls of fire down upon the beleaguered City. Minas Tirith was ablaze and hope was slowly dying for all those trapped within her walls.

   Aragorn suddenly sat upright in bed, shaken to wakefulness by the horror filling his mind. Gradually, as sleep left him, he realised the images had only been a dream but he had long ago learned that foresight had strange ways of revealing its message. His dreams had an unnerving habit of coming true.

   He looked about him in the grey gloom that could be either day or night. Legolas was on watch. The Elf had elected to remain awake that night which had earned him the gratitude of many an exhausted member of the Grey Company. Aragorn sensed it was not yet dawn but the images of the burning city would not leave his mind.

   They could rest no longer. They must not stop again until they reached Pelargir.

   He gently booted Halbarad. “Hal, help me wake the men, we must be on our way. Already Minas Tirith is assailed. I fear that it will fall ere we come to its aid.” [2]

   As the men emerged from their sleep, he was greeted by mumblings of disbelief that the far too brief respite was over, but in short time, the Dúnedain were all on their feet and back in the saddle. Aragorn pushed the horses even harder than before. He was convinced now that everything rested upon reaching Pelargir before the enemy had a chance to sail for Minas Tirith. If they did not, they would fail utterly. That they might arrive in battle practically on their knees with weariness preyed on his mind constantly. It went against all his military training to hamper his men’s fighting abilities in this way. Tactically, he knew he should hold something in reserve, but it was an uncomfortable truth he could ill afford to ignore that they must arrive in time, no matter their condition.

   Rested but late would be too late.

   They were heading due east, making directly for Pelargir now. Aragorn had vague recollections of having been in this land once before though it was many years ago. He urged Roheryn even faster as he stared ahead; grim-faced and resolute. Sheer, ruthless determination drove him onwards, though he was so tired he stayed in the saddle by instinct alone. His legs felt like wood and his muscles burned; he doubted he would even be able to stand upright when he finally dismounted, but on he rode. Every now and then he shouted encouragement to those behind but he did not dare turn around and look upon the faces of his men. He knew he was pushing them to their limits and beyond. None of them had ever endured a journey as unrelentingly hard as this. Even his brothers had not and he himself had but rarely. Quite how much more he could ask of any of them, he did not know. He hoped they would all remain with him to the end though he was stretching old loyalties to new lengths. Yet in spite of his dire need, still he would command none to continue who would rather turn aside.

    Roheryn stumbled for the third time in an hour. Aragorn leant forward and briefly stroked the horse’s neck, speaking softly to him as he did so. The horse’s red coat was white with lather and Aragorn knew he was nearing the end. They would never reach Pelargir if their horses dropped dead beneath them.

   He risked a quick glance behind, careful not to catch the eyes of any of his men. They followed but they were clearly exhausted. Halbarad was right behind him, still stalwartly holding aloft the banner. But his tired eyes met his for a moment. The mixture of fear and pain lurking behind them pricked Aragorn’s conscience. Four days and nights now they had ridden hard with barely any rest. Yet, much as it pained him to drive them so, he knew he had no choice; there was simply no time to spare. He could not allow them to stop, not yet.

   All night they continued to pursue their enemies, driving them ever before them like stampeding cattle until, when it felt as if they could not endure another moment in the saddle, ahead they saw the great expanse of the Anduin. In the strange darkness, the Great River loomed in front of them like some huge grey monster wallowing in the lush pastures of Lebennin. The sound of a multitude of gulls taking flight filled the air as they charged toward it.

   And on its banks, stood the port of Pelargir. Even on the brink of exhaustion, Aragorn felt a great surge of joy at seeing the ancient city once more. But this was far more than mere relief that the long road from Erech had finally reached its end.  Forty years had passed since Aragorn had led his fleet back to this very harbour following his victory over the Corsairs; now at last he was back in the Gondor he knew and loved and while there was still strength in his arm to raise his sword, he would do his utmost to defend her.

   He withdrew Andúril from its scabbard and behind him, he heard the clear ring of many swords being similarly unsheathed.

   “Ride, my friends, ride hard. Battle is before us, but Valar willing, we shall have victory and with it, may we find new hope.” It stirred his heart to hear the Grey Company quicken their pace at his words and as one they charged forward, raised swords held aloft.

   The outer ramparts of the port were guarded but none held to their posts as the Shadow Host drew near. Aragorn led the charge as they passed under the abandoned gateway; the horses’ hooves like thunder on the ancient stones. The Grey Company galloped headlong down the twisting streets and raced towards the quay. Before them ran the last of the fleeing invaders and on their heels, right behind them, was the Army of the Dead. And in their wake, still trailing a safe distance behind, came Angbor with a great host gathered from the valleys of Lamedon and Lebennin.

   They arrived at the harbour not a moment too soon. An entire fleet of fifty or more Black Ships was moored along the quay and the garrison of the port was struggling against the full might of Umbar. The invading host had the upper hand and now that they were joined by the remnants from the battle at Linhir, they vastly outnumbered the defenders. But the fleeing host brought with it rumour of an unspeakable terror that had hunted them all the way from the Uplands. Many of the Haradrim took flight at these tidings and several ships had already left the harbour as they tried to escape to the far side of the Anduin. But when those who remained could retreat no further, the enemy turned to face their pursuers. With their backs to the sea, the Haradrim were fearsome to look upon. Their long sabres were poised ready to severe heads from bodies of those who had pushed them to the brink. But as the Grey Company came face to face with their enemy, they unexpectedly heard the sound of laugher. It rang menacingly in the ears of the Dúnedain as they realised how puny an army they must seem in the eyes of their foe. Enheartened, the Haradrim prepared their deadly strike.

   But Aragorn cast aside his weariness and halted defiantly in front of them. If he had any doubts that the Shadow Host would finally fulfil their vow, not a flicker of uncertainty showed on his stern face. He sat up tall and straight on his great horse and in a loud and commanding voice, he cried: “Come now! By the Black Stone I call you!” [3]

   Silence descended on the harbour as the Haradrim waited in wonder, and then, from out of the shadows, swept the Army of the Dead.

   The grey mist surged forward and the Dead Men held aloft their ghostly swords as they charged towards the enemies of Gondor. Whether their blades had bite or not, it no longer mattered. The hearts of the Haradrim quailed before such an unearthly foe and none stood against them as terror swiftly unmanned the offensive of Umbar. The Shadow men swarmed along the harbour and up into every ship. The wide expanse of the Anduin was no barrier to them either as they raced across the river to halt the retreat of those ships already on the open water.

   The host of Umbar was completely routed. Many leapt into the river to escape their terrifying foe and were drowned. Others fled south and those that attempted to seek refuge in the town, were driven back mercilessly by Aragorn and his men. Finally, as the day drew to an end, the Haradrim were utterly defeated.   The fleet was taken and the battle over. Some of the ships were ablaze but most of the enemy fleet was now in the hands of Aragorn and his men.

   Yet as their enemies fled, screams of terror could be heard coming from the holds of the ships.

   “Slaves!”

   Aragorn turned to his men. “All of you, go now, one to each of these ships, and comfort the poor wretches shackled within. Bid them have no fear, but persuade them, if you can, to continue to do their work willingly for a while longer. We have need of them now if we are to reach Minas Tirith before all is lost.” He would not compel the slaves to remain at the oars but handling the Black Ships would be far from easy without them.

   Aragorn looked about the quay. Few but the dead and the injured remained. Most of the people of Pelargir had fled when the terrible army had arrived. Aragorn jumped down from Roheryn, a blast of agony shooting through his sore limbs as his feet landed heavily on the hard cobbles. He quickly realised he would need the assistance of the townsfolk to deal with the carnage of the battle but he knew he would receive little aid from the living while the dead remained in their midst.

   And he had a vow to honour.

   The fleeing Haradrim had departed in such haste they had even abandoned their trumpets and their bugles. Some of his men had returned from their task of freeing the slaves and Aragorn instructed them to sound as many trumpets as could be found. The clear notes soared above all other noise and a hush quickly descended on the harbour. Not a sound was heard from the ships or the shore as the Shadow Host began assembling on the quay. The few living that remained swiftly retreated to the safety of nearby buildings as the grey mist swelled along the waterfront. The Dead men were barely visible though their eyes gleamed red in the light of the burning ships ablaze in the harbour. Only their shadowy swords could still be clearly seen as they held them aloft. They were waiting for Isildur’s Heir. They had played their part and now were owed their due.

   Aragorn climbed up into the largest of the ships and there he stood on the deck, Andúril in his hand, his hair flying in the wind, as tall and mighty as any great King that had sailed across the sea in an earlier Age of the world.

    He looked down upon the Army of the Dead and addressed them in a great voice.

  “Hear now the words of the Heir of Isildur! Your oath is fulfilled. Go back and trouble not the valleys ever again! Depart and be at rest!” [4]

   He was greeted by silence, but then the King of the Dead stepped forward and broke his spear and bowed. Almost immediately, the grey mist faded to nothing and was gone. And the harbour was empty, save for the horses of the Dúnedain and Legolas and Gimli who had remained with them.

     Aragorn closed his eyes for a moment and said a silent prayer of thanks that they had arrived in time to avert this threat to Gondor’s border. Achieving this goal had so consumed his thoughts for days now he could scarcely believe the task had actually been accomplished. But as the fervour of battle slowly drained out of him, he suddenly felt the mounting weariness which threaten to finally overwhelm him. He had given his all to arrive in Pelargir and he could have dropped to the deck of the ship and slept for a week there and then.

   ‘We have to rest tonight,’ he thought.

~oo0oo~

   Slowly, people started arriving on the quay, cautiously at first, creeping forward; their eyes scanning the harbour fearfully as they searched for signs of the ghosts. Aragorn was glad to see them. He now had a great fleet at his command yet he needed fighting men to fill the vessels if he was to succour Minas Tirith in her hour of need. Once it was clear that the ghostly mist had departed for good, the harbour quickly became a riot of activity. Many of the slaves began disembarking from the ships, wandered aimlessly about the harbour as if in a daze.  Some were men of Gondor captured by the Haradrim near their homes along the coast; others were foreigners from farther south, now far from their native lands.

   Then, amid the mounting confusion, Angbor arrived with a great company from Lamedon. Their numbers had been swelled further on their journey by those eager to hear more of the Heir of Isildur. Rumour of that name had spread like wildfire through the lowlands and, behind them, many others followed, their curiosity overcoming their fear.

    Aragorn looked at the men arriving at the harbour and felt his strength surging again. There must be hundreds, thousands even, converging on the port. Now that the Black fleet has been defeated, even more would come. All the forces from the Southern fiefs had nothing to hinder their coming to the aid of Minas Tirith. Not all the men could be described as soldiers, yet they were hale and hearty and carried with them weapons of sorts.

   The ships of the enemy would arrive in Minas Tirith carrying men of Gondor after all.

   Suddenly there was much to do yet many hands to do it. Angbor immediately came seeking the Heir of Isildur and climbed up into the great ship to speak with him. He bowed his knee as he stood before him.

   “My lord, I am yours to command,” he said.

   “Angbor, my good man, whom I shall name the fearless,” said Aragorn, “it gladdens my heart to see you. First, the injured need to be cared for and the dead removed. But there are others who can do that. Rather I would bid you assemble all those able to fight, here, in this harbour. Scour the port and the ships for weapons and supplies. The ships must be made ready to carry an army by tomorrow morning at the very latest. Then, I shall set sail for Minas Tirith with as many men as these vessels can hold. But I think perhaps there are already far more men gathering here than that.”

   “There are indeed my lord,” said Angbor, obviously rather pleased with his success in this matter. “I gathered behind me all that I could on our march here, just as my lord requested. Most are on foot but there are many horsemen as well.”

   “You have done well, Angbor,” said Aragorn, smiling at him. “This then I ask of you. Once the fleet has sailed, come after us with all the men that remain. Those that can find craft should make their way up river with all speed. And of the rest, I ask you to take the road through Lossarnach and follow with all the haste you can.”

   Angbor bowed. “It will be my pleasure, my lord,” he said as he left.

   Aragorn watched for a moment as Angbor immediately began to bring order to the harbour and was encouraged by what he saw. ‘With men like that commanding the fiefs, there is good reason to have hope for Gondor,’ he thought.

   He looked about him at the frantic activity in the quay. and the many men already busily rolling out supplies from the harbour stores. Everything appeared to be well in hand and it was clear he was not really needed. Suddenly he felt very hungry and he was quite sure his men would be as glad of a rest and a cooked meal as he. He was about to return to the quay to find Halbarad and see what they could organise, when he suddenly spotted his brothers crossing the gang plank and boarding his ship. As they came before him, Aragorn did not think he had ever seen them looking so weary. Without thought, he opened his arms to them, as glad to receive comfort as to offer it. They embraced him together but, as they pulled back, neither of them spoke for many moments but looked at Aragorn almost as if they were seeing him properly for the very first time. There was a solemnity in their baring, a reverence even, that Aragorn had, in the past, detected in their demeanour to others but never before to him. Elladan was the first to speak.

   “I no longer see the Chieftain of the Dúnedain standing before me, but a man worthy of the title of Isildur’s Heir. You have achieved much, Estel. Your hour has come at last. Just look at all these men awaiting your command. As we walked among them we could almost feel their excitement that the Heir of Isildur has come to them now in their most dire need. Already there is talk of the return of the king and as a king you must be to them. They will expect no less.” He smiled warmly and added: “Adar would be so proud of you. You have come a long way for a man who even a fortnight ago, had only Legolas and Gimli as comrades.”

   Aragorn laughed. “Yes, much has happened very quickly, but I do not desire any to call me a king yet. There is still much to be accomplished before any may truly do that.”

   “This is true, Estel,” said Elrohir. “But as a king you may appear, nonetheless, whether you will it or not.” He paused for a moment to pull a pouch from his tunic. He opened it and inside was a small roll of velvet. “I have something for you that we brought from Rivendell. This was placed in our care by our father who thought you might have need of it when you at last arrive at Minas Tirith.”  He carefully unfolded the velvet cloth and inside was a filet of mithril, in the centre of which was a great white crystal that blazed brightly as the light touched its perfect surfaces.

   “The Elendilmir!”

   Aragorn gasped in wonder as he tentatively reached out his hand to take it from his brother. He had not laid eyes upon it for many a year. It was his by right, but Elrond had long kept in safe at Rivendell and the occasions for its use were rare. Arathorn, so he had been told, had worn it at his wedding and at the short, bitter ceremony that hailed him as chieftain on Arador’s death. But Aragorn had never yet had occasion to wear it himself. He marvelled at the beauty of it, though he knew it did not have the potency of the original that had been lost with Isildur. At Elrond’s behest, this one had been made nearly three thousand years ago as a replacement, yet it was an ancient relic of the lost kingdom in its own right.

   “But I wonder that Elrond sent it now,” he said. “I would not have expected it to come to me without the Sceptre and I know I shall not receive that unless we have the victory against Sauron.”

   “Adar told us he sent it as a gesture of his belief in you and as proof, should any be needed, of your right to your claim on the throne. It is the token of the King of Arnor, Estel. We thought you might wish to wear it when we arrive in battle at Minas Tirith.”

   Aragorn was unsure of what to say. This same fillet had been worn by all his ancestors as far back as Valandil. It had sat on the noblest of brows and soon it would rest on his. In the last few weeks, as each day had passed, he had slowly become ever more aware of the mantle of kingship settling about his shoulders. He had felt it only moments ago when he had stood and surveyed the scene in the harbour, watching his own men working along side the men of Gondor. He had suddenly realised these where all his people now. Whether he commanded them or not, it made no difference; they were already following his lead. Now that he had openly proclaimed himself as Isildur’s Heir to Gondor’s living, as well as her dead, there could be no return to the anonymity of before. There was no way back. All would look to him now to fulfil the role of the monarch and he knew he must deliver.

   And yet he felt more than ready to follow in the footsteps of his forbearers. As Elladan had said, even a fortnight ago, it would have taken a leap of faith for most to picture him as a king. But not any more. He had passed tests more severe and more rigorous than he could ever have imagined in coming even thus far. He had risen to all the challenges asked of him, as he hoped he would rise to those that must surely yet be demanded of him in the days ahead. A battle may have been won that day but the war most certainly was not.

   “Estel? Will you wear it?” Elrohir was looking at him.

   Aragorn stared at the beautiful jewel in his hand; the prospect of wearing it both thrilling and humbling. Finally he said: “I would be honoured to wear the Star of Elendil when I come before the City of Kings.”

   His gaze turned to the North, as it so often had when he lived in Gondor in his youth. But now he was not dreaming wistfully of Eriador or Rivendell. His thoughts were of Minas Tirith and how she fared. Was there any hope that they would arrive in time, he wondered. He thought of Gandalf and Pippin, trapped within her walls as the city burned all about them, waiting for the ramparts to be breeched and the butchers of Mordor to come pouring through them. He shuddered as his imagination got the better of him. They must arrive in time, they simply must. But he knew he could do nothing more until the fleet was ready to sail.

  “Come, my brothers,” he said, clasping them both on their shoulders. “Tonight, we must eat and find what rest we can while the ships are made ready and in the morning we shall depart. At last we sail for Minas Tirith and if the city is not already lost, may it be our swords that drive the Dark Lord’s vile hordes from Gondor’s soil for good.”

~oo0oo~

  Mighty indeed was Aragorn that day. All the black fleet was in his hands; and he chose the greatest ship to be his own.

The Last debate                                                                                       Return of the King