Night had fully fallen when Aragorn, Denethor, Legolas, and Théoden spurred their horses into the dark, leading the young blood of all the Free Peoples at a full gallop.
Under the guidance of the Rangers, they pressed on relentlessly, stopping only to water the horses and let them catch their breath. Aside from brief halts, it was nothing but hooves and wind—an eager pack of young hunters who had caught the scent of prey.
They crossed the White Downs, rode over the Far Downs, and at last cut across a stretch of empty wilderness.
Just as the first ray of sunlight climbed over the distant ridge, they drew rein together.
On the far side of a wide plain, another line of rolling hills rose into view. Upon the crown of those hills stood three tall white towers, their shafts half-veiled in the pale morning mist, their tips piercing the clouds with a chill, inviolable majesty.
"We've reached the Tower Hills," Denethor said, and could not hide the tremor in his voice. He pointed toward the three towers. "The last watch-eyes of the North-kingdom."
At the heart of the Tower Hills were those three white towers, raised by Gil-galad of the Noldor for his friend Elendil.
They were completed around the year 3320 of the Second Age, among the very last great works the Noldor wrought in Middle-earth.
The tallest was Elostirion, the Star-watcher, and within its upper chamber rested the unique palantír known as the Elendil-stone.
This stone was unlike its six kindred:
It could not speak with the other seeing-stones at all.
Its gift was different—
it gazed ever westward, beyond the great Sea, and could faintly glimpse Aman and the white tower of Avallónë in Tol Eressëa. Now it was the last remaining bridge by which Middle-earth might look upon the Blessed Realm.
The Rangers had told them that long ago, a stout Elven garrison had always kept watch here, sworn to guard the stone.
But Lindon's strength had dwindled over the centuries as more and more Elves sailed West. Now, so the Rangers said, only a single company of fifteen Elven warriors remained to stand watch over the crystal.
At those words Aragorn's brows had drawn together. A cold foreboding had lodged in his heart.
"This is bad," he breathed.
The sudden sharpness in his voice made several riders jump. Then, without another word, he dug in his heels; his horse leapt forward like an arrow loosed from the string, racing toward the white towers.
The others stared for half a heartbeat—then understood, all at once.
They lashed their reins and followed.
Hooves hammered through the thinning mist. Aragorn's dark figure flew ahead, cloak snapping in the wind.
Legolas was not far behind. His silver bow was already in his hand, an arrow nocked by long habit. Elven eyes pierced the last wisps of fog as he looked up and suddenly he pointed toward the left-hand tower.
"Look!" he cried. "An Elven distress signal!"
All eyes lifted as they rode.
At the pinnacle of Elostirion, a tongue of blue flame leapt suddenly into being. It was no common fire, but elemental light, a beacon wrought by Elven craft and cast up in desperate plea. In the dim of morning it split the pale sky like a shard of lightning.
But the flame lasted scarcely three heartbeats before it was snuffed out, as if crushed in an unseen fist.
"They're still fighting!" shouted Théoden, his golden braids whipping in the air as he raised his sword. "Faster!"
The horses thundered on. In every rider's heart the same silent cry beat with the rhythm of their gallop:
Hold on. Just a little longer. We're coming.
By the time they reached the broad stair at the base of the tower, the smell hit them—
a stench of blood and rot mingled together.
Elven helms of silver lay scattered on the steps. One had been smashed inward by a brutal blow. Nearby, a broken Elven spear was pinned beneath a lump of foul, matted hide, part of an Orc's leather jerkin, torn clean off with the flesh beneath.
"The doors of Elostirion have been forced," Denethor whispered.
He slid from the saddle too quickly and nearly stumbled, catching himself on the stone. The heir to the Steward of Gondor was pale as chalk, fingers clenched so hard around his signet ring that his knuckles had blanched.
Aragorn was first up the steps.
Andúril sang from its sheath with a clear, ringing note that drove the shadows back from the doorway; the holy blade's light poured into the gloom beyond.
What they saw made them all draw breath through their teeth.
The white marble floor of the entrance hall had been drowned in red.
Seven Elven bodies lay near the base of the spiralling staircase that climbed to the upper levels. Their silver mail was shredded by deep claw-marks that scored the flesh beneath; each throat bore a single ghastly bite.
It was a kill-sign all too familiar: the mark of Orcs.
In every dead Elf's eyes a last frozen look of disbelief remained—as if, even as they fell, they could not fathom that such an attack had come upon them here.
"Watch it!"
Legolas' shout cracked across the hall. In the same breath his bow was bent and loosed.
An arrow hissed through the dim and struck a shadow just as it leaned round the stair's first curve; the creature's head snapped back as the arrow-head punched through its throat and burst from the nape in a spray of black blood.
It was a crooked Orc, stooped but thickly muscled.
Its eyes were not the usual muddy yellow of cave-breed scum, but twin coals of red fire. As the shaft tore through its neck, that crimson glow guttered and went out.
"Red-eyed Orcs of Mordor," Aragorn growled.
He stepped in under another lurching shape, Andúril cutting a clean silver arc that sheared it in half at the waist.
"These answer to Sauron himself. Their goal can only be the seeing-stone at the summit!"
The stairway was narrow and steep. Orcs came spilling down it like a black tide.
A young Dwarf swung his war-hammer in a brutal sideways sweep. Two Orcs met it at once; there was a crack like splitting oak, and their skulls burst apart in a dirty mist.
"For our allies!" the Dwarves bellowed, pushing up into the teeth of the descent.
At first Denethor's feet faltered on the blood-slick steps, sword wavering in his grip.
But then his gaze snagged on the hand of one fallen Elf.
In those stiffening fingers was clutched a metal token,a small badge stamped with the device of Gondor. It was an ancient sign of alliance, carried north long ago when Arnor and Gondor stood as twin kingdoms.
Seeing it, something snapped taut inside him.
He snarled aloud, drew himself up, and lunged forward. His blade-work lacked Aragorn's smooth grace, but it had the ruthless precision of Gondorian drill behind it. The next Orc that came at him took steel full in its eye-socket; the red in that socket popped like a burst ember.
Legolas moved like a cat along the outer curve of the stair, half-running upon the wall itself. In his hands the silver bow seemed alive. Every thrumming note of the string was followed by a collapsing body, an Orc tumbling backward, an arrow jutting from its eye or throat.
These young nobles from Men, Elves, and Dwarves alike had not been forged in comfort.
At the sight of the fallen warriors of Lindon, the guardians of the Palantir their blood ran hot. Rage burned away what little fear remained.
Weapons came free of their scabbards with a desperate eagerness. Shoulder to shoulder they drove up the spiralling steps toward the summit, cutting down every red-eyed creature that barred the way.
Foremost among them were Aragorn, Denethor, Théoden, and Legolas.
They broke through at last onto the topmost chamber.
Here the battle had reached its fiercest pitch.
This was the heart of Elostirion—the crystal room. The domed ceiling above was set with blue gems like a midnight sky of frozen stars. In the centre stood a round stone pedestal, and on it rested the palantír of Elendil, pouring out a cool, unblinking silver light.
Three of the largest red-eyed Orcs ringed the pedestal. Thick chains of black iron were wrapped around the stone stand; the Orcs heaved on them with their full weight, claws screeching against the white marble as they tried to drag both pedestal and crystal from its place.
Aragorn was first through the archway.
"Filth!" he shouted. "Keep your claws from hallowed things!"
He took the last three steps in a single bound and brought Andúril down in a splitting stroke aimed at the leader's neck.
To his surprise the creature did not dodge.
With a guttural snarl it flung up its arm; the blow fell on a bracer of darkened steel plate strapped there. Sparks flew in a shower; the chamber rang with the clang like a struck bell ....and the monster braced itself, muscles bulging, trying to catch and stop the legendary reforged blade of the West with brute strength alone.