Chapter 15 ~ Capture and Escape

Messengers were dispatched from Caras Ernil immediately, some to Minas Anor, some to Cormallen, some to Emyn Lasgalen, and some to Dol Amroth.  The Swan Knights were to be called, and Imrahil’s ships in the Bay of Belfalas were to set sail and blockade Pelargir.  The first reserves of the Gondorian army were to be called out of the towns and countryside to muster along the south road in order to join the King as he marched south.  Thranduil’s Elves, able to go sleepless especially now that spring was in full bloom, were to return to the forests of Ithilien in a relentless search for Radhruin the corsair. The kings remaining at Cormallen ― Éomer, Thorin, and Bard ― were to be thoroughly informed of the situation so as to best decide their own course of action.

Imrahil felt pulled in many directions at once, but he was commanded to remain with the King and so accompanied Elessar back to Minas Anor that day.  A blast of trumpets and a few words to the right people had all the available soldiery in the city assembled outside the Rammas Echor to the south by noon.  Faramir, alert and well enough, although still unfit for soldiering, would remain in the city as the Steward during the campaign.  Elphir, as the heir to Dol Amroth, would remain with him.  Erchirion would accompany his father and the King to assist in commanding the Swan Knights when they met the army at Pelargir, and Amrothos would remain in Cormallen keeping his mother and Lady Ivriniel.  As predicted, both Lords Falathar and Erellont had disappeared, slipping the net which had been drawn too late.  Royal warrants were issued against them and their possessions were declared forfeit to the King until their guilt or innocence could be determined.

Faramir, inspired by his lively sense of duty and characteristic sense of humor, insisted upon seating himself in the Steward’s Chair during the appropriate hours despite his lingering pain, adding a cushioned footstool to accommodate his injured leg.  “Am I not an inspiring sight?” he asked Imrahil as the evening waned to a close.

“In many ways, you are,” Imrahil admitted.  “Gondor would have been a poorer place without you, and your recovery is the only good news to be had at present.”

“Do you think Pelargir will dare to deny Elessar entry?”

“Unlikely,” Imrahil speculated.  “If the population knows what is good for them, they will rush to open the gates, denounce the worst of the lot, and throw themselves upon his mercy.  The show of force will be more ceremonial than practical.”

“I will not pretend that I would not rather be riding with him,” Faramir sighed, “but we each have our duty.  How was Legolas when you left Ithilien?  I have not yet had an opportunity to thank him.”

“He was well enough, although his arm is still mending.  It must be an especially frustrating injury for an archer.”

Faramir laughed ruefully.  “He and I can commiserate when this is over, both of us forced to stand down and allow the elder generation to take the field.  Will Thranduil be joining the march?”

“That remains to be seen.  He and almost all the Elves in Ithilien are combing the forest for the corsair.  Elessar cannot wait for success, although having the man in hand would greatly assist him in laying charges against Falathar and Erellont.”

“It grieves me that such a scandal has been allowed to fester,” Faramir frowned, “and right under our noses.  Like any boil, I suppose, it is best to lance it and have it out than to ignore it.”

“It is unfortunate that all the crowned heads of Middle-earth should be present to witness it,” Imrahil agreed.  “I am certain none of them think any less of Elessar despite this debacle, but I cannot help feeling that we have failed him on this score.”

Faramir frowned and nodded.  It was all very embarrassing.  “If anyone can set it right,” he said, “Elessar can.  It may not be as unfortunate as it seems, considering how many allies he has gathered at Cormallen.  Your ceremonial show of force may look especially impressive despite such short notice.”

“You were always very pragmatic in a crisis,” Imrahil smiled. 

The King bivouacked outside the Pelannor with his army that night both in a show of solidarity and in an effort to be gone in as efficient a manner as possible the following morning.  Imrahil did not often sleep under the stars anymore, but it was strangely refreshing to be back on campaign, and the weather held in their favor.  

An hour after dark, a commotion arose outside the camp as King Éomer arrived with a hundred horsemen, half of those who had accompanied him to the festival, as well as the entire party of Dúnedain and the Queen's brothers.  “We will not stand idle in your hour of need,” he told Elessar.  “Half of our number remains at Cormallen to hold it as you requested, but I will ride with you.”

“I thank you, brother Éomer,” Elessar said, clasping his hand.  “You are most welcome.”

The men were standing in ranks before dawn, ready to march at the King’s command.  Queen Arwen and Princess Éowyn had come with ceremonial stirrup cups of farewell for Elessar and Éomer.  Imrahil noticed that Peregrin Took had accompanied the ladies at last, no doubt with Faramir’s encouragement, much to the delight of Meriadoc Brandybuck who had ridden with the Rohirrim.  Both of them, no doubt remembering their difficulties during the war, had managed to become quite competent horsemen in the intervening years, determined never again to be left behind on account of their size or that of their mounts.

As the glow of first light appeared in the east, the trumpets sounded and King Elessar spurred his horse, moving his army along the south road toward Pelargir.

Both the men and the road were in admirable condition, so they made excellent time, marching nearly four leagues on the first day, almost as far as the Erui River crossing.  Elessar’s faith in his people was not misplaced, and they were joined along the way by reinforcements and provisions from the villages.  If they continued at that pace, they could arrive at Pelargir in as little as four days, possibly even on the morning of the fourth day if they pressed their advantage.

As the army bedded for the night, Imrahil wandered through the camp, his mind awhirl with apprehension, anticipation, impatience, and a certain morbid curiosity.  What would they find in Falathar’s secret lawless world?  He was offended simply by the necessity of their march and desperately eager to resolve this scandal, but all the while he could not help wondering how far this weakness in the fabric of Gondor extended.  Was Pelargir alone in its treachery?  How extensive was the damage? What was happening in Ithilien?  All his senses tingled with the strange excitement of the situation.

The Swan Knights would receive their summons as early as the following day, considering the speed and efficiency of the official messengers along the route between Minas Anor and Dol Amroth.  It would be at least another eight days before they could possibly arrive at Pelargir, six days after the King’s anticipated arrival.  It was fortunate that the Rohirrim were able to ride in their stead until then. 

There was lively noise in the camp that night as the men enjoyed their rations and well-earned rest beside the fires.  Bloodshed was not expected, and the average soldier need not be concerned by the larger difficulties.  For most it was simply an excuse to march again with King Elessar.  Imrahil almost envied their ignorance, but he was also too accustomed to his duties to be comfortable standing down.  As Faramir had said, each had his duty. 

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply as a fresh night breeze broke across his face, but his reverie was interrupted when he realized that there were sounds borne on that breeze that could be heard even over the noise of the camp.  It was the sound of many horses coming at a thunderous gallop from the north.

He was not the only one to have noticed it.  As he arrived at the sentry’s post beside the road, Imrahil saw that several others had drifted in that direction.  The melancholy in his heart lifted as he recognized the riders at a distance and guessed what their arrival must mean.

King Thranduil slowed and halted his column of mounted soldiers before the sentries, their horses panting and frothed.  Behind him, in the care of his guards, a sullen prisoner sat mounted as well, bound hand and foot and wearing several fresh bandages.  His features were difficult to make out in the firelight.

“Imrahil,” Thranduil said immediately, eschewing all formalities, “take us to Elessar.  We have him.”

The bile in Falathar’s throat threatened to choke him as the skyline of Pelargir grew larger ahead of them, gleaming in the sunset.  Traveling day and night on the river had brought them there in the swiftest and most inconspicuous manner possible, but he could not wait to abandon the horrible little boat they had stolen.  It stank of fish and sweat and offered no comfort whatsoever.  The memory of life in the governor’s palace was a torture.

He had elected to flee preemptively rather than gamble on Elessar’s continued ignorance of his involvement.  His gambles had not profited him recently, and it was undoubtedly better to live elsewhere than to die by the King’s sword.  Erellont was already too compromised to safely refuse to accompany him, but once again he had insisted on bringing his tart with him.  Fortunately, she knew at least as much about sailing as either of them, and they had been able to alternate positions above and below deck, presenting a different combination of crew at each public port to better avoid suspicion.  By now they were all hungry, filthy, and in extremely poor spirits.

Falathar was momentarily heartened by the observation that there was no blockade around the city.  Elessar had not yet interdicted the place, and they may yet make good their escape.  Unfortunately, they could not dare enter the palace again. 

“What now?” Erellont hissed from beneath his cowl as they continued to drift on the current towards the city.  “Do you intend to sail all the way to Umbar like this?”

“Now we disappear,” Falathar said.  “I may have no friends, but I am not without assets.”  One ship among the many had caught his eye, sitting at anchor in the harbor.

They docked and abandoned the fishing boat on the riverbank in the growing darkness.  After a brisk walk along the shore, Falathar approached the familiar ship and boarded it, anxious to get out of sight.  When the captain met him below deck, Falathar greeted him at knifepoint. 

“I have need of your services one last time, Dolmed,” he said as the other struggled to regain his composure. 

“My lord,” Imrahil announced, approaching the royal pavilion, “King Thranduil has brought you a prize.  He was captured attempting to enter Mordor.”

The prisoner was thrust roughly to the ground at Elessar’s feet.  Despite his obvious discomfort, the corsair had a confident air about him, as if he deemed his fetters no more than a temporary inconvenience.

The King seemed grimly pleased.  “Radhruin of Umbar, I presume?” he said.  “Or should I say, of Pelargir?  Does he have anything to say for himself?”

“Yes, he does,” Radhruin answered saucily, “if the King can bear the indignity of speaking to him.”

“He has been surprisingly forthcoming,” Thranduil observed.  “Loyalty is not chief among his virtues.”

Elessar beckoned them all inside the royal pavilion to escape the gathering crowd of curious onlookers.  Once inside, he turned to face the corsair again.  “I will not attempt to buy your allegiance,” he said, “nor am I disposed to offer you any reward for your cooperation.”

Radhruin spat.  “I would not accept your gold if you offered it, Thorongil,” he said.  “I may yet steal it, but that will be quite another matter.  As to reward, I would be insulted by false promises to spare my life.  I expect no such indulgence.”

“You are either very brave or very confident in your ability to escape us,” Elessar observed.

“I will escape,” Radhruin promised.  “I always do. I would advise that you begin asking questions while you may.”

A slight lift of the King’s brows was the only betrayal of his amazement.  Their prisoner’s audacity seemed to know no bounds. “Very well,” he said, “I will ask you plainly.  Were you present at Cormallen during the festival?”

“I was, secreted in the forest.”

“Did you disguise yourself as a farrier in order to deliberately lame the Elvenking’s mare?”

“I did.  The cursed beast gave me a swift kick in return.”  He lifted his hair with his bound hands to display the crusted wound.

“Did you place the fireworks which might have caused the death of both Prince Faramir and King Thranduil?”

“I did,” Radhruin admitted readily, darting a bitter look at Thranduil, “and indeed, that was the desired result.  But I am a mercenary, not a magician. Even the best laid plans may miscarry.”

“Were you, all that time, in the employ of the Lord of Pelargir?”

“It was from first to last Falathar’s own scheme.  I was simply his hand.”  As proof, Radhruin worked a signet ring off his finger and tossed it at Elessar, who caught it reflexively.   “You had best find him before he employs another.”

A dark and brooding anger had begun to show itself on the King’s face as he considered the ring and closed it in his fist.  “Take him away,” he said at last, and two guardsmen quickly removed the corsair.  “Leave me! Stay, Imrahil. And you, Thranduil, if you will.”

The pavilion was soon empty but for the three of them.  Imrahil knew the tale of the prisoner’s accusations was spreading through the camp.  Draughâsh the Orc was not yet commonly known, and the King’s sudden aggression against Pelargir now seemed justified. 

Without a word, Elessar passed the ring to Imrahil.  There was no doubt that it bore the seal of Pelargir.  For a moment he was tempted to believe that it must be a cleverly crafted forgery, but that seemed unlikely. 

“My objective remains unchanged,” Elessar said coldly.  “Pelargir will be seized for the crown, and all administrators who do not immediately surrender themselves will be considered fugitives.  I will excise this rot.  Thranduil, I thank you.  You have done me and all of Gondor a great service, but you and your people may return to Ithilien.  I cannot ask more of you in this matter.”

A subtle expression of indignation and disappointment disturbed the serenity of the Elvenking’s features.  “You can,” he countered pointedly.  “I will, of course, accept your decision, but I am inclined to accompany you, and it would grieve me to be dismissed out of some misplaced concern for my welfare.”

Elessar frowned.  “I will not have it said of Gondor that we spurn our allies, especially now when they are so precious to us.  You may ride with us if you wish, my lord, but I will not place any bond upon you to go farther than you will.  After all you have seen, I cannot risk your life in as ignoble an affair as this.”

“You do not risk my life,” Thranduil insisted again, quite firmly.  “I do.  I am not a relic, I am a warrior.  Fate has given me little opportunity to be anything else.  My purpose has been to spend my life in defense of the good of this world, yet I could do nothing but watch as Elendil was crushed before Barad-dûr.  Even if I am finally to meet my death in service to his heir and the restored Kingdom of Gondor, that hardly seems ignoble to me.”

Elessar could not hide that he was deeply touched.  He gratefully offered his hand to the Elvenking, who accepted it readily.  “All the same,” he said with a wan smile, “glorious death or no, I would have liked us all to have spent a few more years in well-deserved peace.”

“Peace never lasts, Aragorn,” Thranduil lamented, though he returned the smile.  “While we breathe, we fight.”