Narn e-Dant Gondolin
by Elvellon Ringsbane
Chapter II:
Conquer or Die
Magor watched attentively as one of Turgon’s captains hastily delivered
the king’s message to the lords Galdor and Rog. He anticipated that he
would soon have orders to carry out, and the thought comforted him; he
disliked uncertainty, but when it was mixed with inaction he could not
bear it. When Rog bid farewell to Galdor and turned to look for his
second in command, Magor was at his lord’s side even before Rog could
summon him.
The Lord of the Hammer was not one for words when action would serve,
but now he spoke, a grim half-smile on his face. “Well,
Turnwálmë, we
come to it at last. Our veil of secrecy has been torn, and woe to him
that rent it. Yet if it were but my own life in the balance, I would
count this a glad hour!” He clenched his hands, strong and hard as iron
from centuries of labour at the forge, as if he already felt an
orc-neck beneath his fingers. “The king has called a counsel, and I
must go. Muster the Hammers in the Square of the Folkwell. Khelek and
Gorwath have commands to gather the maidens and children to a place of
safety ere they join. I will come with Turgon’s orders, and may the
Valar grant quick words and a bold decision!”
Magor saluted and replied, “All shall be done as you have
commanded.” Rog nodded his approval and with a last frowning glance
toward the north, strode off to prepare for the council. Leaping down
from the Eastern Wall, Magor followed, making his own way with long
swift strides toward his house in the north part of the city.
Everywhere he was greeted with the sight of fear and preparation
for war. Grim faced men in mail hastened through the streets bearing
orders and answering summons, and mingled with their shouts and the
ring of arms was the sound of women and children weeping. As he went,
Magor hailed any he saw who were of his house, bidding the men muster
and the women seek the Southern City if Khelek or Gorwath came not. He
did not doubt those two, yet orders were apt to go astray in the
confusion.
When Magor entered his dwelling, he found Aearlinn standing before the
fire, her green gown cast aside, robed now in black like a sky without
moon or stars. Her girdle of silver shimmered red in the wavering
light, and beautiful she looked though her eyes were full of grief, but
fear there was no longer in that grey-green gaze. As he looked on her,
Magor remembered when he had first seen her, standing beside a fountain
in the dawn, with the rays of the new sun in her long dark hair. And
all the memories of his years of joy in Gondolin came suddenly into his
heart and he could not speak. Then their eyes met, and each understood
what was unsaid. Swiftly Magor sought the room where he kept his battle
gear, and Aearlinn followed him to aid him as he armed for war.
Casting aside his cloak of festival, Magor hastily stripped to the
waist revealing the one great scar bestowed by Morgoth that all the
skills of the Eldar could not erase. From his left shoulder it ran,
snaking across his chest and winding round his strong body like a
whiplash to end upon the left side of his lower back. “Now,” he
muttered, as he drew on a black undertunic and gambeson, “now shall I
avenge that mark.”
Over the gambeson of leather he pulled on a great hauberk of black
mail, its closely woven rings etched with red-gold so that when he
moved it seemed as if a living fire flickered half-concealed beneath
the shadow of the armour. His surcoat was of sable, bordered with an
intertwining pattern in thread of the same dark colour, and fastened
with a belt of black leather clasped with a buckle of iron. Aearlinn
brought his vambraces and laced them to his forearms, then clasped the
star which fastened his war cloak of scarlet and gold. Quickly then she
bade him kneel, and with deft fingers wove a portion of his long sable
hair into a warrior’s braid.
When he rose, she drew forth a long knife of silver sheathed in black
from beneath her robes, and held it out to him. In the hilt was set a
single green gem that flashed like an emerald star. “Bear this, the
weapon thou madest for me, into battle, for I cannot go though I wish
now that I could, for I would not be parted from thee.”
Magor shook his head. “Nay! For if the enemy wins into the city, thou
shalt need something wherewith to defend thyself.”
Aearlinn looked upon her husband and did not withdraw her hand. “If the
Enemy wins past thy valor, who will live to defend themselves? Yet even
so, there are weapons enough for that purpose elsewhere. Take thou what
I offer.”
Then Magor took the dirk and placed it in his belt, saying, “When I
have gone, seek refuge in the southern part of the city, nigh to the
house of Tuor. If any have prepared a way of escape, it is he and the
Lady Idril, for her foresight is great.” His dark eyes looked deep into
Aearlinn’s. "There is always hope. Swear to me that you will not
despair.”
“Even unto death I will not despair. So say I before the Valar.”
But tears like grey rain now fell from her eyes, and ran down her
cheeks. Magor brushed them away gently, and ran his strong, scarred
hand one last time through her silken hair. “I will always hear your
voice, Song of the Sea, even in the Halls of Mandos.
Namárië.”
Then he kissed her and turning away, took up his great mace. In fashion
it was like a hammer with a long handle, and one edge was sharpened so
that the black steel shone with a perilous silver light. Gold filigree
entwined about the handle, and in the pommel was set a single stone of
gleaming onyx. At the door of his house he paused, and lifted his
mighty shield. From neck to ankles it covered him, and its weight was
very great, for he had strength to match it. Sable was its surface, and
upon it was emblazoned in red and gold the Stricken Anvil: the emblem
of the House of Rog.
Then Aearlinn brought unto him his helm, and her tears flowed no more,
but a light was in her eyes. "Courage, my brave one,” she whispered.
Magor’s glance met that of his wife as he took the helm from her and
set it upon his head, and a fierce determination was in both their
eyes. Then he turned from that which he loved and passed out into the
shadowy street.
The white walls and towers of Gondolin were bathed in a crimson light
as Magor strode through the streets on his way to the Folkwell. He did
not look up, yet he knew what made that glow: the forces of Morgoth,
streaming down the mountains like rivers of flame. A wind blew from the
North, and it bore upon it the heat of the approaching enemy. Magor
felt its hot breath upon his face, but he did not quail. He had fought
countless battles and slain both Orcs and Men, and that which he had
seen and endured in the pits of Angband left no room for terror in war.
Yet he had not the loud courage of some of his house, like the mighty
smiths Bornang and Drambor. Others had brought from their captivity a
fierce, unquenchable desire for revenge, and Magor too burned at the
thought of his brethren chained like dogs in the Hells of Iron. But the
Elf also bore with him the image of the might of Morgoth Bauglir, such
power as none but the Valar could ever hope to utterly destroy.
Magor thought now of the fountains that spilled down the sides of Amon
Gwareth - many and fair they were, and full of music. But would their
power be enough to quench the fires of Morgoth? It would be, it must
be. Either the hosts of Angband would drown in the clear waters of
Gondolin and the fires of that dark Ainu be quenched in defeat, or
Gondolin and all her treasures would go up in flames. Magor gripped his
mace more tightly and strode on.
When he reached the Folkwell, he noted with approval that a great host
had already mustered. The square was nearly filled with warriors in
gleaming mail, bearing the device of the Hammer of Wrath. Indeed, the
mighty shout raised by the men of the King at the stirring words of
Turgon had roused those soldiers of Gondolin who had not yet received
orders, and all had hastily donned their mail and made for the centre
of the city. Now Magor proceeded to issue orders in a strong voice for
the Folk of the Hammer of Wrath to fall into formation and make ready
for the coming of their lord Rog. Raising his voice he cried, “Warriors
of the Hammer of Wrath! Let us prepare now for the orders which shall
come soon, that we may show Rog our lord and Turgon our king that we
fear not the battle to come, nor all the hosts of Morgoth!”
Amid the deafening crash of hammers upon shields and the roars of
“Dammath Rûth! (The Hammers of Wrath!)” Rog returned form the
council
of the king to command the warriors of his house. Magor stood at
attention before the ranks of the Nost e-Dam Rûth (The House of
the
Hammer of Wrath) and offered the warrior’s fist to chest salute as his
lord entered the Square of the Folkwell, but a restless light was
burning in his eyes. All debating had been completed – now at last came
the time for action. Now came the hour for revenge.
Rog sprang onto the wide stone ledge of a fountain and raising a hand
for silence, swept the gathered host with his gaze.
“Warriors of Gondolin! It is the will of Turgon that we hold the city
against attack, rather than march forth to meet the foe.” There was a
murmur at this, and those that knew Rog well could see the shadow of
discontent in his eyes, but then he grinned. “Our recompense is this:
upon the North Gate the attack is like to fall soonest – and hardest.
There we shall stand, and Galdor and Tuor with us.”
A roar of approval greeted these words, but all fell silent as Rog
again raised his hand. His smile was gone, and there was a grim light
in his eyes.
“Remember your torment at the hands of Morgoth! Remember those that are
tormented still! If Gondolin falls, freedom falls with it. It is not
merely our own lives we fight for now, but the lives of all the Eldar.
Tonight my brothers, we conquer or die…”
With a shout that rose to the heights of the towers of Gondolin, and
was heard even by the enemy as they advanced across the plain, the
warriors of the Hammer of Wrath turned and followed their lord to the
North Gate and war…
