Yet under Aragorn's furious stroke, sparks burst from the Orc's black bracer as the keen edge of Andúril split it clean in two—steel and arm alike.
The creature screamed, half its forearm spinning away through the air.
Denethor was right behind him. His sword came down across the back of the Orc that still hauled at the chains. There was a sharp crack—its spine snapped like dry wood. The beast gave one ragged howl and collapsed on the marble floor.
The last red-eyed Orc, seeing the tide turned, dropped the chains in panic. It snatched up a broken block of stone from the edge of the pedestal, raising it high, meaning to smash the crystal itself.
But Legolas' arrow was swifter than its desperate lunge.
The shaft did not seek its heart or throat, but pinned its wrist to the very stone it had seized, punching through tendon and bone with merciless precision.
The Orc shrieked. Denethor was on it in two strides. His sword drove in between its ribs, and with a hard twist of the hilt he shredded its heart.
The last red eye flickered and went out.
When the final howl of the red-eyed Orcs faded from the tower's crown, a heavy silence fell.
The four young leaders stood there, braced on their weapons, chests heaving. Sweat and black blood mingled on their faces and ran down their cheeks. A moment later the rest of their company came pounding up the stair….judging by their expressions, the fighting below had ended as well.
They began to clear the field.
Legolas knelt beside the last fallen Elf. In the dead warden's hand he found a signal arrow that had never been loosed; along the fletching was carved a line of Sindarin:
They came without warning, bearing a darkness we have never felt before.
Aragorn walked to the pedestal and took out a cloth, wiping the spattered black gore from the stone.
The silver radiance of the Elendil-stone flowed under his fingertips, catching in the grim lines between his brows.
"They came for the crystal," he said quietly. "Nothing else would draw such strength so far north. These are no rabble, someone sent elites."
Denethor stood staring at the stone dais where three Noldorin Elves had fallen not long before.
They had died back to back, blades still clutched in stiffening hands, bodies torn and gashed from head to heel. Everything about their posture told the same story: they had fought until the last of them dropped.
Legolas sank to one knee before them, eyes lowered, guilt shadowing his fair face.
"We were late," he whispered.
No one contradicted him.
For a while they were simply silent together.
Then Aragorn drew a long breath, stepped forward, and laid a hand on Legolas' shoulder.
"We did all that could be done," he said softly. "The crystal is safe. Their deaths were not wasted."
A young Dúnedain ranger came over then, a folded scrap of parchment trembling slightly in his fingers. His face was drawn and grey.
"My lord," he said to Denethor, "I think you should see this."
Denethor took it and opened it carefully. Aragorn and the others leaned close.
The writing on the hide was twisted like coiling snakes. The ink had dried to a dark, clotted red, as though it had been written in old blood.
"This is the language of Mordor," Aragorn murmured, his voice dropping low. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Only Sauron's higher servants are taught to use it."
He began to translate, word by ugly word, his voice echoing off the stone walls of the crystal chamber.
"Seize the seeing-stone. Sever the Elves from the Powers. March north to Fornost and establish a stronghold…"
When his voice fell silent, the chamber seemed to grow colder.
For a moment nobody spoke. Their eyes moved from one face to another, all bearing the same stunned disbelief.
Rage kindled in Legolas' pale green eyes.
"How dare they?" he hissed. "The Elendil-stone is a bridge to Aman itself. If it falls into shadow, our last link to the West will be cut—utterly!"
Denethor's fingers dug so hard into the edges of the parchment that his knuckles went white.
"Fornost…" he muttered, almost to himself. "After Arnor was broken, that was Arthedain's capital. The Witch-king ruined it, war after war. Countless Dúnedain died there. Evil has festered in those ruins for centuries. They say spirits wander among the fallen walls—hence the name… Dead-men's Dike."
Aragorn's face was grave.
"So it seems Sauron's purpose is not only to reclaim the Ring," he said. "He is weaving a wider web. Fornost lies on the western fringe of West Eowenría, almost at our own doorstep."
Théoden drew in a sharp breath.
"Then we must carry this to King Kaen at once," he said. "Before the enemy can react or dig in, we must break this scheme to pieces."
Aragorn reached out, took the parchment from Denethor's hand, and rolled it with care.
"This has to reach His Majesty," he agreed. "Sauron's ambition is greater than we imagined. He means not only to conquer Middle-earth, but to sever us from the West entirely."
They fell quiet again.
Only their breathing, and the keen whistle of the wind around the tower's high windows, disturbed the stillness.
Overhead, the blue gems of the dome caught and scattered the silver of the Elendil-stone, so that shadow and pale light chased one another over their faces—like an omen of the mingled brightness and darkness yet to come.
"Let us bury these Elves first," Legolas said at last, his voice roughened.
He lifted from one still breast a silver leaf-brooch, wiping away the dark, half-dried blood that stained it.
On the western slope of the hill below the tower, they dug graves.
The Dúnedain brought clean white linen, and with careful hands they washed the blood from Elven mail and skin. Broken spears and dented helms were laid beside each body.
Legolas gently smoothed the hair from each cold brow, murmuring laments in the Elven tongue. His song drifted out into the morning mist, like a fragment of the farewell hymns sung when ships leave for the West.
Denethor unclasped his own cloak and spread it over the fallen Elf who still gripped the alliance badge of Gondor in his hand.
"Gondor and Arnor," he said quietly, "and the Elves of Lindon, once we were the staunchest of allies. Our forefathers fought side by side. Today we came too late to save our friends. We can only send them on with shame and with honour."
When the last shovelful of earth fell, they set white stones as markers and carved upon them:
Here lie the Wardens of the Towers of Friendship, who held fast against the dark.
They stood a long time before those new-raised mounds, heads bowed, each lost in his own thoughts.
So the Tower Hills passed into a hush of watchful silence.
That night they gathered around the campfire on the wind-swept slope.
They traded old tales they had learned at their fathers' knees—of lost kingdoms, of battles won and lost, of heroes whose names lingered now only in song.
There were bursts of laughter, but behind the smiles there was sorrow in every gaze.
For the first time, these young nobles of Men, Dwarves, and Elves felt the true weight of the shadow pressing on the world.
A sentence of Kaen's, spoken in some earlier council, rose in their hearts together:
Do not sit and wait for darkness to knock upon your door. To die bravely then is still to die in humiliation.
Away from the shelter of greater powers, they had, in that night, truly taken their first step into adulthood.
…
The next day, before Kaen's embassy had yet come in sight, dust rose on the western horizon. A line of riders in silver mail flowed over the land like a bright river, racing toward the white towers.
Legolas, whose eyes were keenest, saw the device on their banners first.
He sprang to his feet and called out:
"Riders of Lindon!"
At once they hurried out from beneath the tower to meet them.
The silver-clad host drew rein before Elostirion. Dust had not yet settled from their horses' hooves when more than a hundred riders had already wheeled and fallen into a sharp, spear-shaped formation.
The captain at their head removed his helm.
He looked young, yet his face bore the fine lines of long years in wind and weather. Silver hair spilled over his pauldrons; the long ash spear in his hand dipped point-down to the earth in a gesture both wary and courteous.
Plainly, he did not know these strangers who had taken up position at his tower.
"Who are you?" the Elf-captain asked, voice clear as cold water, weighted with a soldier's gravity. "We saw Elostirion's cry for aid and rode from the border posts of Lindon at full speed. What has happened here?"
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