Chapter 17 ~ Confrontation and Conspiracy

King Elessar gathered his army on the southern bank of the Anduin in good order and marched from Pelargir after three days.  They were well provisioned out of the city, and some of Dol Amroth’s ships were deployed to the north and south of the river to be certain they continued to be supplied.  They were not in a great hurry, biding their time to give the rest of the army a chance to reach them in a timely fashion.  The official couriers were so efficient that the hundred Rohirrim from Cormallen with another thirty mounted Elves reached Pelargir in time to march with them.  They reported that the beacons had indeed been lit, and that Lord Gimli and a party of Dwarves had begun marching south.

Marshall Heledir was left to govern Pelargir in the King’s absence.  With the ruling house dispossessed, there was no clear heir to Erellont’s seat.  The King had been too harried to make any decision on that score.  

It was a march of roughly twenty-seven leagues along the southern road to the Crossings of Poros beside Haudh in Gwanûr.  Traveling at a steady pace, they arrived within sight of the river late on the morning of the third day.  The Variag encampment was plain to see on the opposite bank, an assortment of pavilions flying war flags and looking as if it was intended to give the impression of a permanent settlement.  King Elessar did not deign to hail them at once, but spent the rest of the day establishing his own camp, taking care that it appeared at least as grand as his opponent’s. 

Karzik seemed to appreciate the show of bravado and allowed them time to complete their arrangements.  It was not until that evening that he sent a delegation to invite Elessar across the river.  Elessar resented being invited to enter his own territory and went with a large armed escort in company with Imrahil, Éomer and Thranduil.

The Lord of Khand was still surprisingly young.  Imrahil guessed that it was unlikely he had seen as many as thirty summers.  He awaited them outside his pavilion wearing a fine tunic of scarlet silk and a large gold medallion in the shape of the sun, reclined on a stuffed throne adorned with animal hides, surrounded by spearmen.  Silent children attended him, a boy holding a jeweled cup on a tray and a girl holding a smoking brasier of incense, both of whom looked suspiciously Gondorian.  “Well met at last, Elessar Telcontar!” he said with a wide smile, though he made no move to stand.  “Your fame does not do you justice.”

“I might say the same of you, my lord,” Elessar said, although his frosty tone implied a distinctly negative impression.

Karzik took no offense, but rather seemed to enjoy the witty turn of the conversation.  “Very well,” he said, “I shall not waste our time with further pleasantries.  My messenger informs me that you are disinclined to recognize my conquest of this land.  Even now I would advise you to reconsider.  Harondor cannot be of much consequence to you, and despite your impressive allies,” he said, eyeing Éomer and Thranduil, “Gondor’s army has not yet recovered its strength and would be wasted here.  May we not still avoid unnecessary bloodshed and come to some equitable arrangement?”

He was certainly more charming than Imrahil had anticipated, but his manner was spoiled by a lurking boyish insolence, something cunning and ruthless beneath the surface.  

“Perhaps my years have made me suspicious,” Elessar replied, “but I could imagine that your solicitude for the welfare of Gondor’s army may be only a pretense to mask the indisposition of your own forces.”

Karzik shrugged, either not noticing or dismissing the subtle criticism of his youth.  “You may believe that,” he said, “at your peril.  My forces are strong.  The conquest of Harad cost us little since the best of their soldiers were slaughtered before your gates.  The warriors of Khand fared better than they during the war, despite your Swan Knights trampling my father to death.  No matter; one man’s misfortune is another’s opportunity.  We chose to abandon Mordor to its fate rather than be killed to no purpose, and here we are now.”

“Yes, here you are,” Elessar agreed sharply, “in a land of mine which you claim without right, encroaching upon the most intimate borders of my dominions, conspiring with traitors among my own governors who would sacrifice the integrity of those borders for profit.  Nothing could induce me to leave you here unchallenged.”

A cold smile had begun spreading across Karzik’s face.  “Yes, I believe some in my following are known to you.  They did not in fact succeed in reaching Umbar.”  He snapped his fingers at the dark interior of the pavilion and Falathar and Erellont emerged stiffly, reluctantly, paraded like trophies with spearmen at their backs.  

A quiet hiss and rumble passed briefly through the Gondorian party at the sight of them.  Elessar would not acknowledge their presence, denying Karzik the satisfaction of a reaction.  

“If, then, we cannot part as allies,” Karzik said, standing, “at least let us part as honored foes.”  He took the ornate cup from the boy.  “Let us drink to our good health until tomorrow.” 

Elessar looked wary, which Karzik seemed to expect.  With a significant look at the king of Gondor he drank first as if to prove the cup was not poisoned, then passed it to him.  Elessar hesitated for a moment, then drank as well.

Imrahil partook in turn, and immediately understood the ritual to be more a boyish prank than anything else, a cheap measure of their manhood.  He struggled not to grimace, to keep his features as stony as the King’s.  It tasted like sour milk, fermented and bubbling like ale.  Éomer and Thranduil likewise endured the test, though Éomer could not help arching his brow severely.

Karzik drained the cup when it was returned to him, nodding in appreciation of their mettle.  “Until tomorrow,” he said again, then turned his back and disappeared into the shadowed interior of his pavilion.  

Curling his lip in disgust, Elessar turned and swung astride his horse, the others with him.  “We may yet hope that his insolence will lead him to folly on the battlefield,” he said to Imrahil as they returned across the river.

“Perhaps,” Imrahil replied.  Karzik was indeed immature and insolent, but he was also devious, and that worried him.  “My lord, you have been very quiet,” he said to the Elvenking as he rode beside him.  “Have you no opinion?”

Thranduil held up a hand, bidding him wait a moment, then spat his mouthful into the river.  “Ai, that is vile,” he complained, spitting a few more times for good measure.  “My opinion is that we must proceed with caution.  Let us not underestimate the young warlord.  If there is one lesson I learned very well in these lands, it is the folly of a premature assault.”

As night fell, Elessar took counsel with his allies.  Maps were consulted, the strategy for the following day was decided, and each was left to organize his own men before dawn.  A strong guard was posted during the night, but the majority of the army was allowed to sleep while they may.

As usual, the Elves were more productive than most.  Their tenacious strength and ability to go without sleep was truly an asset to any army.  They comprised a disproportionate number of the night guard while others of them were stealthily diving in the shallow river, searching the bed for whatever wicked surprises Thranduil suspected Karzik had planted for them there.  Those with no other specific duties were singing as preparations were made, a low and steady melody with a slightly mournful sound.  After listening closely for a moment, Imrahil realized it was a lament for those who would die in the morning.  Despite this, he found that it was not at all disheartening, but that it calmed the Men and grimly confirmed them in their courage.  He left Erchirion to sleep and went to walk through the camp.

Thranduil was seated on a large rock in the moonlight, facing the gentle wind, simply listening.  Emboldened by their friendship, Imrahil dared to approach him and broach a potentially indelicate subject.  There in the shadow of the Ephel Dúath it could not be far out of mind.  “I wonder,” he said, standing at the Elvenking’s elbow, “if after tomorrow it will be entirely proper to call it the ‘Last Alliance.’”

Thranduil scoffed, but not unkindly.  “I doubt the deeds of our little band, however gallant, will merit any change to the histories.  There are too few of us left.”  He glanced at the device on Imrahil’s tabard with a melancholy smile.  “This is but a swan song, a tribute to the great alliances past.”

It took Imrahil a moment to work up the courage to speak again, not wishing to be impertinent but also driven to satisfy a burning curiosity knowing he may never again have the opportunity.  After all, as the song on the air reminded him, it was possible that one or both of them may die in the morning.  “Do you remember it well?” he finally asked.

Thranduil sighed slowly.  He clearly did not enjoy dwelling upon the memory, but he did not resent the question and seemed to have been expecting it.  “I remember more than I wish to,” he said simply.

“I regret to say that our histories recall very few details of the Elves of Greenwood and their part in the battle,” Imrahil continued gently, “but I believe I have read enough to appreciate your allusion this evening to the hard lessons of war.”

“One accident or misjudgment—I still know not which—was the death of my father and the ruin of our army,” Thranduil said flatly, “and we endured the hopeless grief and the shame of defeat for seven interminable years.  I could not forget it, ever reminded by Sauron as he tormented us from Dol Guldur, as he also took my home, my wife, and my peace.”

“I wonder then that you allowed your son to walk into such peril with Mithrandir’s Fellowship,” Imrahil remarked.

“I would have forbidden it had I been consulted,” Thranduil admitted.  “But, as he often did, Mithrandir saw farther than I, and indeed I am deeply gratified that it was a prince of Oropher’s blood who stood again before Morannon and witnessed the final fall of Barad-dûr.  It has been both a trial and a consolation to see these mountains again.”

“I imagine it must set a great many griefs to rest, if indeed anything could,” Imrahil said.  “Forgive me, my lord, but I wonder if you would indulge me further.  As a boy I loved the tales of Elendil.  The balladeers would have us believe Elessar is made in his image.  What say you?”

Thranduil smiled then as a tolerant father might.  “Elessar is very like him,” he confirmed.  “I did not spend a great deal of time in Elendil’s company, but I saw him often enough in council with Gil-Galad.”

They were approached then by three Elves dripping wet from head to toe.  They bowed and reported to their king in their own tongue that they had found a great many injurious objects in the river intended to cripple the first assault.  They had removed and bagged as many as they could find.  As evidence, they gave Thranduil an iron caltrop which would surely have crippled whatever man or horse might have trodden upon it.  Thranduil gave it to Imrahil.

“As I suspected,” he said, “Karzik has not been idle.  It is unfortunate that we are obliged to meet him on his terms.  It will be difficult to surprise him.”

The Elvish sentries sounded a soft alarm which arrested the Elvenking’s attention.  He stood upon the rock and looked searchingly into the gloom on the southern bank of the river.  After a moment he seemed to relax.  “It seems the battle is already joined,” he said.  “We, anticipating our enemy’s preparations, have removed them.  He, observing my divers in spite of their stealth, now quits the field in search of a more defensible position.”

Imrahil strained his eyes and could just make out movement in the darkness as the Variags broke camp.  “Elessar must be told at once!” he said.

“Told, yes,” Thranduil agreed, “but any attack would be unwise.  As you say, experience has made me cautious.  Our army is unready, and it would be a grave disservice to them to strike out across a river against a foe of unknown strength in the dark.”

“Agreed,” Imrahil said, “though it is irksome to do nothing.  I imagine the King will wish to march by first light.”

The King did wish to be gone as early as possible.  By the time the first rays of dawn crested the mountains the army had been fed, organized, and had crossed the river without incident.  Elessar led the main host, resplendent in his mithril plate armor, the gleaming Swan Knights riding on his immediate flanks commanded by Imrahil and Erchirion, the Rohirrim to the west, the Elves to the east.  The Variags had disappeared, but the evidence of their passage was plain to see in the trodden earth and trampled scrub grass.  They followed the trail cautiously, suspecting a trap.

After they had marched several miles to the southeast, the enemy vanguard at last came boiling out of the rolling foothills in parties of swift mounted archers attempting to compromise the Elvish flank.  Thranduil’s entire formation immediately twisted itself into a bristling defensive position and answered with volleys of arrows, protecting the rearguard.  At the same time, another wave of horse archers charged against the Rohirrim who were obliged to defend their flank as well.  The Gondorians planted themselves at Elessar’s command and raised their shields.  A third attack was then made against the center.  Elessar himself removed to the rear as the foot soldiers lowered their spears and began to press forward against the nettling hail of arrows.

The skirmishing archers continued to ride at the army in waves and suffered several casualties before they gave way before the inexorable approach of the armored mass of soldiers and retreated into the hills.  As if by design, the attackers on the flanks began to fall back at the same time.  Rather than press his advantage and advance, Elessar ordered the horns to call a retreat of their own.  He also summoned the commanders.

“I suspect this retreat is a pretense,” he warned when Imrahil, Éomer, and Thranduil had ridden to join him.  “They would pull us apart and take us piecemeal in the hills.  At present our greatest strength is our unity.  On no account allow them to separate us.”

The others agreed and returned to their places, but the battlefield had become eerily quiet.  After an hour it seemed they had reached an impasse; Karzik’s only concern was to outlast Elessar in that land, and it was Elessar who was obliged to remove him, yet Elessar was understandably reluctant to march into a trap.  The soldiers secured their dead, ate their rations, and waited while the crowned heads considered the situation.

At last Thranduil rode back to the center and approached Elessar.  The scores and scars on his armor made him appear less brilliant than the King of Gondor, but also more dangerous.  “The knave certainly seems to appreciate the advantages of his position,” he said.  “By your leave, I would send my own horse archers against his camp, force him to engage Gondor on ground of Gondor’s choosing.”

“That may shake them out of hiding,” Elessar agreed.  “If you are willing to risk your archers, my lord, you may send them into the hills.”

Thranduil nodded and turned his horse to gallop back to his place.  At his command the mounted Elves formed themselves into several raiding parties, roughly one hundred individuals in all.  They spread out along the line of foothills, entering at different points.

Imrahil grew restless waiting for any sign or sound of their progress.  He was ready to fight, and to simply wait in full armor was unbelievably tedious.  The Rohirrim were growing impatient as well, yet their discipline was admirable.  Across the expanse, he could see Erchirion’s horse stamping irritably.  Imrahil leaned forward with a gauntleted hand to stroke his own gray charger, Tulkas.  The beast was docile enough to stand like a statue, but so reliable in battle that he had been Imrahil’s favorite for many years.

After another hour they began to notice something on the horizon, a plume of smoke rising in the distance.  The army began readying itself again, certain that whatever mischief was afoot would soon find them as well.  

At last the Variags returned, and in greater numbers.  The horse archers now accompanied a large force of heavier lance-bearing horsemen who immediately charged at the Gondorian center.  At a signal from Elessar, both Imrahil and Erchirion rode out to meet them.  Amid the rumbling din of galloping horses and howling men Imrahil lowered his lance and braced himself.  The wall of Swan Knights crashed into the Variags at full tilt.  A spear glanced off Imrahil’s helm just as his own slammed into an enemy rider.  After a brief moment of disorientation, he drew up his horse and saw that the Variag charge had been completely broken and that the survivors were fleeing once more into the hills.  His first instinct was to pursue them, but then he heard the horns call a retreat.  No doubt Elessar still suspected a ruse and wanted them to immediately rejoin the main host.

Before the Swan Knights could organize themselves another great wave of Variag horsemen descended, encircling them with a horde of spearmen in their wake.  Deprived of their speed, the heavy knights were forced to give battle at a disadvantage.  Imrahil threw down his lance and drew his sword, knowing he would have to smash his way out.  Tulkas began to panic, bucking and kicking as they were surrounded by foes kept at bay only by his hooves and Imrahil’s blade.  Other knights were dragged from their saddles and killed by mobs of foot soldiers.  As the noose was tightened, Imrahil began to fear that escape may be not possible, but a volley of preternaturally accurate arrows announced the timely return of Thranduil’s horse archers.  The Elves, joined on the field by a contingent of Rohirrim, surrounded and harried the Variags so savagely that Karzik’s men were forced to give up their prize and retreat yet again.  The surviving Swan Knights were content to flee the field for the moment and leave the job to those who could do it best.

Elessar welcomed them back, looking grave.  “I feared we had lost you all,” he said, as Imrahil regained the safety of the ranks.  

“As did I for a moment,” Imrahil agreed.  A quick glance reassured him that Erchirion had survived the attack as well.  “They do seem determined to separate us.”

“They have been conserving their strength,” Elessar observed with a frown.  “We have not yet had an opportunity to scout their position properly.  I have no way of knowing what sort of army he has concealed in those hills.  Perhaps the Lasgalennath can tell us.”

As though he had anticipated Elessar’s need, a messenger from Thranduil rode in from the flank to give his report.  “My lord,” he said, “our enemy has yet a great host in reserve, but we estimate their numbers do not exceed three thousand men and several beasts of war.  We succeeded in setting fire to their camp and causing a great deal of confusion.  As we fell back we observed them forming into ranks.”

Elessar thanked and dismissed him.  “So, we are perhaps evenly matched for the moment,” he said.  “Would they be foolish enough to sacrifice the safety of the hills to bring a full attack against us?”

A deep and ominous drumming answered him as rank upon rank of Haradrim appeared on the field.  They stopped in formation just out of range of the archers as their numbers grew.  A shout went up from the center and all of them began a threatening war chant.  More and more of them appeared, now with a line of young mûmakil.  The shouting and the stomping and the drumming began to send up a large cloud of dust.

It was an effectively intimidating display.  It seemed to Imrahil that the noise and suspense were unnerving the Gondorian soldiers who were already restless and frustrated with being held back, but they silently stood their ground.  The Elves, however, resentful of the provocation, began to give an equally aggressive answer.  Their angry chant swelled to the accompaniment of their fists beating against their breastplates, several hundred of the strongest and clearest voices that plain had ever heard.  Imrahil smiled grimly as the Rohirrim enthusiastically took up the rhythm, though none of them knew the words.

The Variag horse archers and mounted spearmen charged first to protect the foot soldiers behind them.  Again the Swan Knights rode out to break them, but this time Elessar’s formations followed to support and defend them.  

A vicious battle followed.  Once again, the Variag riders fell back under the initial onslaught, drawing the Swan Knights and Elessar’s army closer to the hills.  Mindful of the danger, both Thranduil and Éomer advanced with them.  The mûmakil charged against the Elves, scattering their ranks in every direction and almost breaking their defense, but their lines bent and reformed fluidly like a flock of starlings.  The Swan Knights fell back and reformed their line to charge again as Elessar’s bristling shield wall advanced behind them.  They broke the line of Variag riders again, but were obliged to retreat rather than be gored by spearmen.  Just as the Gondorians were bringing their own spears to bear three panicked mûmakil stampeded through all the ranks on the field indiscriminately, throwing everyone into confusion.  The Swan Knights were then obliged to hunt down the terrified creatures while the Rohirrim held and defended the line to the west.  Though all the mounted Elves were very much occupied taking down the remaining mûmakil and preventing any more of them from running riot, Thranduil threw his archers and pikemen against Elessar’s eastern flank to defend it against a sudden rush of heavy Variag horsemen attempting to break them from behind.  The pitched battle between the Gondorian and Southron spearmen had begun ferociously, but before long it became apparent that Karzik’s army was gradually giving ground, drawing the Gondorians ever nearer the hills.  Recognizing the ultimate stratagem yet again, Elessar ordered an all out charge against the Southron lines on all fronts, pushing them back and inflicting as much damage as possible before halting sharply at the hills and allowing the enemy to retreat.  

The afternoon was wearing on to evening when the noise of the battle finally faded, giving way to the miserable cries of the wounded.  The field was littered with the bodies of horses, mûmakil, Men and Elves.

“We will retreat half a league to the northwest,” Elessar told Imrahil when they found each other.  “I will not wait here to be ambushed during the night.”

The army retreated slowly as the sun set, gathering their wounded and the dead along the way.  They made camp a cautious distance from the hills, but near enough to keep a watch on them.  A heavy guard was posted, fires were lit, rations were served, and the wounded were attended.  The Elves, still tireless, began digging a barrow for their dead, singing the same martial lament they had begun the night before.

Their losses all together were not insignificant.  It had been a very bloody day.  Imrahil found Erchirion when the army had settled for the night.  “How many?” he asked.

“Over two hundred of ours dead, seventy of whom were Knights,” his son confirmed.  He sighed.  “It seems like folly to be wasting so many lives over so desolate a land as this.”

“It would,” Imrahil agreed, “except that none of this is about the land.  It is about the integrity of Gondor, whether Elessar will be respected or despised, whether Karzik will be allowed to run roughshod wherever he pleases.  I suspect many more circumstances than we appreciate now will depend upon the outcome here.”

Erellont watched, taciturn, as Karzik’s army returned to the camp at dusk.  An acute dissatisfaction gnawed at his heart.  He despised his father and the wretched choices which had brought them here.  He despised himself for simply being swept along in his father’s ruinous wake, a captive guest of the same armies he had fought during the war, made to wait like a child as they marched against those he had considered his friends and kinsmen.  His sister may be able to tolerate life with Karzik, but Erellont was beginning to realize how intolerable the prospect seemed to him.  He felt Mereneth watching him, too loyal to leave him and yet grieved that he did not assert himself.  A desperate plan was growing in his mind.  He had no honor left to lose.

After a rough supper, he went in search of his father.  He found him in the modest pavilion Karzik had allowed for them, lying in his hammock and drinking heavily, perhaps attempting to drown his disappointment.  It was a loathsome scene, the nadir of a selfish and debauched life.  A jaded young woman entered in a state of undress which required no explanation, but Erellont brusquely dismissed her.  

“Father,” he said sternly, “I cannot endure this life you have chosen.  Every aspect is repugnant to me.  I intend to return to Elessar.”

“Still a fool,” Falathar quipped without bothering to rise.  “You always have been.  Elessar will flay you with a hot knife and fly your skin from the White Tower.”

“It is a risk I am prepared to take,” Erellont answered in kind.  “Better that than a death of a thousand humiliations.  I was not born to be a barbarian’s house pet.”

“You were born to be a lord of the house of Helegaer!” Falathar shouted, jumping to his feet at last.  “Master of the wealthiest city in all the realms of Men, a king in all but name.  But you have always proven a disappointment to me, weak, irresolute, indolent, witless!  Now you prove faithless as well.”

“Indolent?” Erellont protested.  “I rode to war in your place!  I was made to shoulder your burdens the moment you found them distasteful.  Irresolute I may have been, but no longer.  I have endured enough of your abuse.”

“Go, then!” Falathar dismissed him with a contemptuous wave, turning his back.  “Crawl back to your king empty-handed and see if your fortunes improve.”

“I will not be empty-handed,” Erellont growled, seizing an empty bottle.  “I intend to bring him a traitor!”  He struck his father a shattering blow to the back of his head, knocking him to the ground.

Erellont immediately set about binding his father with cords, but Falathar regained his senses in the next moment and began furiously grappling with him.  “Faithless!” he seethed, half mad with rage and panic.  “Faithless!  Faithless wretch!”  Erellont struck him again with his fist, again and again, pounding that hateful face into the dirt.  At first he barely noticed the cold and sharp pain beneath his ribs, but by the fourth blow he recognized it and the fight stilled.  He saw the blade, felt the warm blood staining his tunic, and he was stricken dumb for a moment unable to quite believe his own father had killed him.  Falathar also seemed taken aback by what had just happened, but then his face hardened and he struck a final malicious blow to secure his victory.

Erellont heard Mereneth screaming as he crumpled to the ground.  Falathar crawled away and regained his feet.  “Faithless,” he hissed again.  “Die like the impotent fool you are.  Consider it a mercy compared to what Elessar would have done with you.”

Mereneth appeared at his side, tears streaming down her face.  “I am sorry,” he managed to say, but she hushed him.

“No,” she said.  “No.  Do not apologize for him any longer.  He is dead to us.  Come with me.  We will return to Elessar yet.”

Elessar summoned their small council to his pavilion again to discuss the events of the day and their plans for the next.  Standing over a large map of the region, they considered their position.

“I would not like to endure another day like today,” Elessar said.  “Our losses were too heavy and very little was accomplished.  If Karzik remains hidden in the hills, it will be difficult to avoid a great deal of bloodshed.”

“I suspect my scouts could discover a great deal during the night if we would send them out,” Thranduil suggested.

“We may yet,” Elessar agreed, “but even they cannot discover the whole of Karzik’s plans.  He may have summoned reinforcements even as we have.  I must know what lies ahead of me.”

“It will be another six days before we may expect my riders to reach us,” Éomer said.

“I anticipate more soldiers from the western provinces before then,” Elessar assured him.  “We will be steadily increasing in strength each day we remain, but I wonder if our enemy will be as well.”

“We must harry him as best we can without committing ourselves totally until our numbers have grown,” Imrahil observed.  

“I wonder how much time we can afford,” Elessar continued.  “I must have more information.  Thranduil, are you willing to commit your scouts?  I would have them observe not only Karzik’s present encampment but also the regions to the south.  It may be a mission of several days.”

Thranduil nodded.  “I will commit them.”  

Imrahil began to speak, but a commotion had arisen outside among the guards, and he distinctly heard a woman sobbing.  A moment later one of the guards declared himself and entered.  

“Erellont of Pelargir has come!” he said.  “But he is gravely wounded and may soon die.”

“Bring him in!” Elessar commanded sharply.  He swept the maps and charts from the table.  “Summon the healers!”

The guards carried Erellont’s limp body inside the pavilion and lay him on the table accompanied by the distraught woman.  The ride from Karzik’s camp seemed not to have been a gentle one, and there appeared to be very little life left in him.  Elessar immediately set about cutting away the bloody tunic and examining the wounds.  They were grim.  

“Who are you, my lady?” Elessar asked the woman.  “And how did this happen?”

“I am Mereneth, my lord,” she told him, wiping the tears from her face and valiantly attempting to compose herself.  “I am his . . . companion.  He wanted to return and throw himself on your mercy, my lord.  He wanted to bring his father to you, but Falathar would sooner kill his own son than face you.”  She dissolved into sobs again as though her heart would break.

“He may yet prove an invaluable source of information if we can get any answers out of him,” Elessar said to Imrahil.  It did look as if they did not have much time.  “Erellont,” Elessar addressed him sternly, leaning over him, “if you wish to redeem yourself and be of service to Gondor, you would do well to tell me whatever you can of Karzik’s forces.  Is he to be reinforced?”

Erellont slowly nodded as if with the last of his strength.  “Gathering in the south,” he breathed.  

“Where?” Elessar demanded.  “How many?”

There was no answer.  Erellont seemed insensible to them, his face deathly pale.  Elessar attempted to find evidence of a heartbeat.  He sighed and frowned.  “He is dying,” he said, “beyond the skill of any healer.  Even now Falathar manages to betray us!”

“Even so, it seems a merciful end for a traitor,” Éomer said gruffly.

“Even a repentant one,” Imrahil agreed.

Thranduil was silent.  Imrahil could see a dark storm of thought behind his eyes as he observed Mereneth’s despair.  She lay on her lover’s chest and clutched at his hand as his life ebbed away, weeping inconsolably, her gown stained with his blood.  It was a distressing scene, but none had the heart to remove her.  The Elvenking seemed unexpectedly disturbed by it, and Imrahil suddenly recalled seeing that same haunted expression when he had spoken of Ivriniel being parted from Beleg, of being parted from his own queen.  Though he had little patience for traitors, Thranduil was keenly sympathetic to a lover’s grief.  

Finally he seemed to reach some decision.  He approached the table and gently lifted Mereneth by the shoulders.  She was surprised, but seemed to trust him instinctively.  Then, with what could be described as a grudging frown, Thranduil sternly planted his hand on the dying man’s chest for several intense moments.  Imrahil felt himself transfixed as he watched, not knowing whether by some other power or by his own fascination.  Ruddy color rushed back into Erellont’s face, and he began screaming with new strength.

Thranduil stepped back and began wiping the blood off his hand, leaving the wounded man to Mereneth’s care.  He appeared noticeably worn and drawn, though no less stern.  “Now, perhaps, he may live if you will close his wounds,” he said simply, and then he withdrew into the night.  

The healers arrived at that moment, and Elessar set them to their task.  

“What Elvish magic was that?” Éomer gaped in amazement.

“A very generous kind that is seldom seen,” Elessar said, his conflicted expression betraying his belief that Erellont had received better than he deserved.  “There are very few left in Middle-earth who can manage it.  Thranduil has no doubt gone to rest and recover his strength, but I will see that he has not spent himself in vain.  I have many questions in want of answers.”

True to his word, Elessar approached Erellont’s bedside the moment the healers’ work was done.   The disgraced lord of Pelargir was still trembling with pain, but the king was not moved to pity.  “Erellont,” he began severely, “you were telling me of Karzik’s reinforcements.  Please continue.”

It was only a few hours later in the last darkness before dawn when Imrahil was roused from his bed.  Thranduil was awake again, and Elessar wished them all to take counsel together immediately.

“Erellont has given me a great deal of important information,” Elessar began, spreading a map before them.  “Karzik is indeed massing reinforcements at the headwaters of the Harnen river, beneath the mountains of Mordor.  Erellont’s sister is there, Lady Fíriel, Karzik’s wife.  They are expected to march upon us in less than a fortnight.”

“Might we cut them off before they march?” Éomer asked.  “Separate them before they can be joined?”

“Perhaps,” Elessar allowed, “but I am reluctant to attempt it lest the same happen to us.  If we separate our forces now we will be too few for a decisive strike, and if we all march against them we risk being separated from our provisions in Pelargir.”

“What about catching them unawares with mounted raids?” Imrahil suggested.  

“Karzik will be a fool if he has not posted scouts along the southern road and at all points between.”

“I know where he has no scouts,” Thranduil said grimly, his eyes fixed on the map.  “Is there a mountain pass at Harnen?”

Elessar turned and looked at him incredulously.  “Not any worthy the name,” he said, seeming to guess what the Elvenking had in mind.  “It is no more than a goat path.”

“That will suffice,” Thranduil assured him, a sharp gleam in his eye.  He scanned the map silently for several moments, his excitement growing.  “And at Poros?”

“None whatsoever.”

Thranduil frowned, but seemed to quickly calculate an alternative strategy.  “Yes,” he said at last.  “I propose that the Lasgalennath return to Ithilien and enter Mordor through the Morgul Pass.  Thence we may turn south undetected and ambush the Variag camp below the mountains at Harnen.”

“But that is a journey of almost two hundred leagues!” Éomer protested.  “It is impossible to move an army of any size that distance within a fortnight, let alone cross the mountains twice.”

“It does seem very ambitious,” Imrahil cautioned.

“Ambitious, yes,” Thranduil agreed, “but by no means impossible.  Even on foot we can cover a great distance at speed, and when the need is dire we need not stop for rest.  One day and night to reach Emyn Arnen, another day to pass the mountains, perhaps three days to cross the plains, another to cross at Harnen, another to ride to your aid.  I estimate that it may be done within seven or eight days, depending upon the conditions we encounter.”

“It is utter madness,” Elessar said, shaking his head with a strange smile, “but I suppose none of us survived the last age without being a bit mad.  If you are confident in the endurance of your soldiers, Thranduil, I will trust your instincts.  But are you certain you are equal the task now?  I feel you have not quite recovered.”

Thranduil waved away his concern.  “A momentary inconvenience,” he said.  “They will not resent me if I choose to ride rather than run to Emyn Arnen.  I have time yet to collect myself.”

“Then go with all speed, my friend,” Elessar said, offering his hand.  “May the Belain guard your road.”

Thranduil accepted the king’s hand with a perilous smile.  “It seems they always do,” he assured him.