Into Darkness
by Avondster
Part 28
The Grey Company rode without rest all through the long, lightless day.
Rivers and plains were crossed without much difficulty, and no living
thing could be found anywhere. Merry had briefly wondered why before
realising that the Host of the Dead, looking even more sinister and
menacing in the deepening gloom, was probably the main reason for
anyone in the vicinity to take flight. He himself had become rather
accustomed to their presence, though he was not at all happy when the
ghostly riders mingled with the Rangers as they passed into Lamedon.
Riding in the gloom of Mordor, surrounded by eerily glowing, skeletal
horses ridden by green-grey ghosts without skin was rather
disconcerting, to say the least. But Merry knew that they were under
Aragorn’s command and would do his bidding, and therefore he did not
fear them.
In the early morning of the second dawnless day, Aragorn summoned
Legolas, Gimli, Halbarad, and the sons of Elrond to his side and
pointed into the distance, where a large amount of small, dark shapes
indicated a village or city – Merry could not see exactly how large it
was from that distance. He did see a long, black ribbon beside it,
trailing away out of sight in two directions: a river.
“Linhir,” said Aragorn. “The City of the Lords of Lamedon, at the
shores of the fair river Gilrain. What do you see?” he asked Legolas
and the sons of Elrond, who stood on either side of him. The Elves
gazed into the direction of Linhir.
“There are ships on the river,” said Legolas at last. “Two great ones, and one smaller. They have black sails.”
“Many Men are fighting on the shores,” added Elrohir. “The banks
are dark with their blood, and there are cries of death and despair
ringing in the darkness.”
“Who are fighting?” asked Aragorn sharply, squinting into the distance.
“I see broad-shouldered men with cruel, white faces,” said Elrohir.
“Black are their eyes, black is their armour. They carry long axes and
crooked swords.”
“And there are others as well,” continued Elladan as if the
brothers shared one voice. “They are tall and lean, and their faces are
covered. Their armour is strange, and they fight with knives and
longbows.”
“Corsairs of Umbar and assassins from Harad,” said Aragorn through
clenched teeth. “No doubt these have tarried on their way to Mordor to
satisfy their lust for killing and plundering.”
“Do they perhaps fight each other over the riches of the City?” asked Merry hopefully.
“Nay, they stand together,” said Legolas with a grim voice, “and I can
see the brave Men of Lamdon fighting, but they are outnumbered and
falling back.”
“Come then!” cried Aragorn. “Let no more blood stain this land.
Follow me!” He raised his sword and rode down the hill, followed by his
company.
All sounds of battle fell still for a moment as the company came
into sight of the battle-field. Then chaos erupted. Attackers and
defenders alike uttered shrieks of terror, and dropping their weapons
fled in all directions, trampling each other in their haste.
Most of the attackers retreated to their ships and some were attempting
to set sail, but at a signal from Aragorn a sudden storm of grey arrows
set the ships ablaze with emerald flames. Cries of terror pierced the
gloom as the Southerlings threw themselves off the burning ships into
the merciless waters. Many drowned in their heavy armour.
Aragorn brought his company to the City, but as they came to the gates he suddenly held up his hand to halt them.
Before the battlements stood the lone figure of a man.
Merry, from behind Aragorn, could see immediately that he must be
the Lord of the City, for his rough-featured, tanned face was proud and
commanding. His feet were planted firmly apart and his thick, muscled
arms were crossed in front of his chest, clutching a broad sword in his
right hand. He was taller even than Aragorn and twice as broad in the
shoulder, but even from this distance the Hobbit could clearly see that
it was taking him every bit of his courage to stay where he was. When
the man saw the ghostly host obey Aragorn’s order, however, wonder
flickered in his dark eyes.
“Who are you, stranger?” he asked when Aragorn had dismounted,
sheathed Andúril and came towards him with his palms outstretched. “And
what unknown powers do you have, to command the King of the Dead and
his terrible host? For, as the tales go, they believe in nothing and
answer to no one, and only the King of Gondor may command them.”
At this, Aragorn took out Andúril and showed the mighty blade to
the astounded Man. “The old tales come to life again at the beginning
of this new Age, Angbor son of Angrod, Lord of Lamedon,” he said. “For
I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, descended by many fathers from Elendil of
Gondor, and this is the Sword That was Broken and is Reforged Again!”
Angbor stared at the Ranger before him for a few moments, then
knelt and laid his sword at Aragorn’s feet. “An hour long awaited
approaches at last!” he cried. “Hope is kindled for the Free Peoples!
Command me, my Lord!”
“Gather your people,” said Aragorn, raising Angbor to his feet. “At Pelargir the Heir of Isildur will have need of you.”
“I will ride with you, if you ask it of me,” said Angbor, “but what
of my Men? For they will not ride among the Dead, their terror is too
great.”
“Then come behind, if you dare, once they have passed,” said Aragorn.
“And what of you, Lord? With whom will you ride?”
“With my company, as I have done for many days,” said Aragorn simply.
Angbor’s gaze now fell upon the Grey Company, who had taken off
their hoods and were watching the exchange silently, and his eyes
widened with astonishment. “Did your company ride with the Army of the
Dead all the way from their haunted mountains? They must be great Men,
and strong of heart.”
Aragorn smiled as he looked upon the grave faces of his friends.
“Some of them are perhaps not so great in size, and some are not Men,
but all are strong of heart, indeed. None other could take such a
Journey, save those whom you see here before you.”
The eyes of the Lord of Lamedon traveled over the faces of the
company, and it was clear that they were not the mighty warriors one
would expect, save perhaps Legolas and the sons of Elrond. The Rangers
had hardly had any rest at all on the journey and though they needed it
little, their features were pale and worn with weariness. Their faces
and clothes were dirty and their hair unkempt, and their steeds did not
look any better. The white fur and mane of Stybba and Arod had turned
grey with dust, and only the Elven steeds Rána and Narothal were still
a shining white.
Angbor’s eyes fell last on Merry, and the Hobbit briefly wondered
what the Man was seeing. Merry had no idea what he looked like with his
grimy face and long hair (like a small and fair-haired version of the
Dúnedain around him), but he feared he must look like a ruffian.
Aragorn now mounted his horse once more. “Come, my friends!” he
cried. “I ride for Minas Tirith, and hope that I may reach it before it
falls. The Road is long and dangerous, but it is my fate to go. Who
will come with me?”
The Grey Company nor the Dead Host spoke, but all turned their
horses and followed Aragorn in silence as he crossed the river, driving
the terrified allies of Mordor before them as they went. Far behind
them came the grim and sturdy Men of Lamedon, and more joined every
hour along the way, seeing the strange power that this Ranger seemed to
have over the Army of the Dead. Hope was kindled in many hearts, and
with it Aragorn’s host grew.
While Boromir on the other side of the Mountains had crossed
Fenmarch and Halfirien, and reached Min-rimmon, his friends made their
camp by the shores of Serni.
Merry could not get to sleep, even though he had hardly closed his eyes
since they had set out from Erech. He was afraid to go to sleep, of
dreams of black stones and scared voices. Also his worries for those he
loved kept him awake more than anything else. Finally he got up from
his bedroll and was not at all surprised to see Aragorn standing by the
edge of the camp, his proud and erect figure blurred by the shadowy
gloom. Legolas was beside him and both were gazing into the East, and
their faces were troubled. Merry followed their gaze, and saw a
strange, red light glowing behind the hills.
“What is it?” he asked, staring at the light. “What’s happening, Aragorn? Legolas?”
“The stars are veiled,” whispered Legolas sadly. “Something stirs in the East, a sleepless malice.”
“It has begun,” said Aragorn grimly. “Alas! Our Enemy does not
sleep and therefore we cannot afford it either. We must ride on. Lo!
already Minas Tirith is assailed. I fear that it will fall ere we come
to its aid. Rouse the men, Legolas.”
The gloom deepened as night fell, and the plains around them
disappeared completely in blackness while the Company moved on, and
passed into Lebennin.
Merry, who was riding beside Legolas and Gimli, noticed that the
Elf’s deep eyes were full of sadness as they tried, in vain, to see
beyond the darkness around them.
“What’s the matter, Legolas?” said Merry, looking sideways at his companion.
The Elf turned to him and smiled sadly. “I have heard much of these
lands in the songs and tales of my people. They sing of its green
fields and praise its fair flowers. It grieves my heart that I cannot
look myself upon the white lilies of Lebennin, and even trample them in
my haste.”
“Lilies?” said Merry slowly, his memory stirring.
He had loved those flowers when he was younger, and always when he
thought of them, he remembered a memorable afternoon in Hobbiton, when
he and Pippin were staying at Bag End for the summer with Fatty Bolger
and his sister Stell, and Frodo of course. Stell had taken ill one day
and, feeling sorry for her, Merry and Pippin had decided to bring her
some flowers. It was Pippin who had finally picked the lovely large
white ones, and they presented them to Stell with pride. How Frodo had
laughed when he told them that one usually gives white lilies to a
deceased at their funeral! But Stell said they were lovely, and she
beamed at them, causing Merry to turn beet red and be teased with that
for the remainder of the holiday.
The memory had always made Merry smile, but now it seemed like a
story from another world, vague as if it was merely something someone
had once told him. No matter how hard he tried, he could not recall the
warmth of that day, or the sound of Frodo’s laughter, or even the smile
that had made him blush so violently as Stell thanked him.
“Will I ever see you again?” he whispered as he looked across the
grey field where the invisible flowers swayed in the wind. If only he
could touch one, or smell their scent, perhaps that would bring back
the memory of Pippin’s face as he realised just what the meaning of
these flowers was.
