Unlike the White City of the realm of Men, Gondor, the Grey Havens lay at the mouth of the River Lhûn, a coastal city embraced by water on two sides, with high walls raised only upon its eastern and southern flanks.
Its northern and western faces bordered the Gulf of Lhûn, protected by white stone embankments.
Here the Falathrim, Elves who loved song and the shore, once wandered and gazed westward across the sea toward the Blessed Realm.
And in times of war the northern Elves, led by Círdan, assembled great ships here and sailed north to assail the dark hosts of the Witch-king of Angmar, mightiest and most evil of the servants of the Shadow of the East.
Thus any who wished to assail the Grey Havens would need, besides striking from east and south, to ready a fleet: ships sailing from the west, out of the Belegaer, into the Gulf of Lhûn to blockade and fall upon the quays.
In this the Grey Havens, greatest city of the Elves in the North, was far less defensible than Gondor’s royal seat, the White City that we name Minas Tirith.
Moreover, the Grey Havens was a city of the plain.
No harsh terrain could be turned to its defence.
Save for walls that were not lofty when measured against those of Minas Tirith, the last great bastion of the northern Elves relied above all upon the elven war-engines mounted upon those modest white ramparts: the elven ballistae.
A fearsome weapon it was.
Four turning wheels allowed it to shift and aim; the whole frame was forged of some rare and precious metal, its chassis broad and steadfast.
Cables of steel and pulleys drew it taut, while two sharp, inverted-triangle metal vanes drove its power and steadied its course.
What it loosed were not bolts, but spinning blades of razor metal, hurled forth by the torsion of cable and wheel, given force and stability by those triangular vanes.
Though Dragonborn had never witnessed such an engine in action, even the shallowest mind could grasp the horror: when that deadly metal storm was truly unleashed upon favourable ground, the terror of it would freeze the marrow.
It is no exaggeration to say that, if one set aside the wear of cables and pulleys and the need for suitable terrain, and if the Elves possessed a hundred of these engines so plainly forged for war, he would not fear any foe breaking a fortress held by the Elves.
Of course, such weapons were not without their flaws, but those need not be recited here.
“Can you reckon the number of the Orcs?” Círdan, lord in that place, wished to be gentle with the scouts who had just fled the evil Orc-host, yet some questions had to be answered face to face.
The tidings spoke only of a host vast beyond measure, but the scout-captain, the Elf Galdor, had given no count, rough or otherwise.
So, after the returning heroes had taken brief rest, Círdan summoned the captain before him.
“Many!” answered the elven scout-captain, who had ridden out gallant and now stood travel-worn.
His golden harness was stained with foul blood, his hair a little disarrayed, marks of the bitter, desperate struggle this hero had endured to bring back precious knowledge.
“On the third day we met their wolf-riders.
They numbered a hundred, all Black Uruks of Mordor, far hardier than common Orcs.” Círdan nodded, bidding him continue.
“After we destroyed that band, likely their forward scouts, the evil host out of Carn Dûm became aware of us.
“Their chieftain, a Pale Orc, loosed fell bats and more wolf-riders to hunt us, and we had no choice but to turn and flee.” Galdor’s face grew grave, as though he relived that harrowing chase.
“Yet we contrived to make some reckoning of their numbers.” He gestured, seeking to lend weight to his words.
“Their vanguard was a great mass of wargs and Black Uruk wolf-riders, numbers so vast that as they ran and howled, even the dark clouds overhead were rent asunder.… “Behind them came Orcs from the Misty Mountains and Mount Gundabad, together with Forodwaith men from the far North, more than half the host!
There flew the banner of the Pale Orc.
With the sound of a heavy horn he commanded those brutish lesser Orcs who would tear each other apart if left unruled.… “I also saw no fewer than a dozen trolls, marching even in daylight beneath the cover of the black clouds.…” At this, Galdor’s expression passed from gravity into pallor, as if recalling some dreadful sight.
Seeing him thus, Círdan considerately took a cup of mead from the table and pressed it into his hands.
The smooth, warming draught seemed to steady the Elf.
He drank deep, and colour returned to his cheeks.
“Last of all, at the very rear of the host…” Galdor hesitated, and a look of fear, a rare thing among proud Elves, flickered in his eyes.
“…there was a darkness deeper than darkness, a lightless shadow that filled us with dread beyond all the evil minions we had seen before.” He trembled, and then delivered one of the most valuable tidings of the night.
“We dared not gaze long, for it seemed that shadow would swallow our very souls!
Yet to glean more we forced ourselves to master our terror and the urge to flee, and looked once more.
“Amid rolling thunder we glimpsed a fiery red shape, some entity of the deepest, blackest evil from beneath the earth.
We know not what it was, but what little reason remained in us cried: Fly, put as many leagues as you can between yourself and that monster!” Galdor shivered like a small beast in the depths of winter.
Círdan reached out his warm right hand and laid it gently upon the faithful Elf’s brow, murmuring a few words in Quenya.
Slowly, Galdor grew calm.
No dazzling light or sound accompanied the gesture; that was the “magic” of the Lord of the Grey Havens.
Galdor bowed in gratitude.
“I have heard all I need,” Círdan said gently.
“You have laboured hard.
Go now and drink warm mead; the coming battle will have need of you yet.” Galdor dared not linger, bowed once more, and departed.
Círdan was left alone in the hall.
The dim glow of fluor-spar scarcely lit the great chamber.
The Lord of the Grey Havens sat alone upon the high seat in the Hall of Fallen Blossoms, his face clouded, pondering in deep unease.
First, the enemy’s numbers exceeded his reckoning.
He had thought this would be a grim but ordinary battle between Light and Darkness, yet now it seemed the Grey Havens might well be caught, as Gandalf the Grey had forewarned, in some dire snare.
“Wargs, Men, and some unknown horror,” Círdan counted upon his fingers.
“The Shadow of the East should not be able to muster so vast a force.
“Or is there some other Dark Lord, lurking unseen in lightless caverns beyond the sight of Elves and Wizards, weaving some cunning and terrible design?” The great Elven-lord was deeply troubled, a profound weariness in his ancient grey eyes.
He rose, walked out of the white hall, and climbed to the high terrace.
Lifting his gaze to the star-strewn firmament of Middle-earth, he murmured: “Elbereth Gilthoniel, may thy radiance ever shine upon the land.
For the fate of the Elves in the days to come, can the Queen of the Stars, lofty and wise, grant a clearer sign to her faithful?” But beneath the silent sky the stars only glittered, and all the world was still.
Círdan sighed, his heart heavier than before.
Then, faintly, he heard a voice.
“Círdan, Círdan, thy keen sight is too much scattered by the evil tidings out of the North.
“The South, the South, Círdan, look well to the darkness in the South, where ravenous beasts gaze hungrily upon Mithlond!” The voice was as melodious as the wind, and as fleeting.
Círdan had to strain his utmost attention to catch even that whisper.
For a moment he thought he had misheard.
Then he suddenly knew whose voice it was.
Faithful and wise Círdan understood that Manwë Súlimo, Lord of Taniquetil, High King of Arda, spouse of Varda, the King of the air, the winds, and all birds, had come to warn him.
“Ah, is this not the greatest praise for my unceasing labours through the years?” Círdan cried out in praise of the great being whom all the peoples of Middle-earth called the Lord of the Breath of Arda, extolling the Valar for not forsaking the hapless, desperate Firstborn in their hour of need.
In his heart he thought: “The great and wise Lord of the World has seen all with his piercing gaze!
He knows that poor, aged Círdan is no longer as clear-sighted as of old, and thus he sends this warning!” “The South!
What lies in the South?… Yes, how could I forget?
Galdor spoke of wargs!
The Pale Orc commands a great pack of wargs.
“Yet our poor riders have all returned safely to the Grey Havens, why have the wargs that pursued them not appeared?
“The South!… The wolf-pack has bypassed the West-march and the Far Downs, meaning to go around the Tower Hills and strike at our weakest point from the south!
Cunning indeed… the foe lurks in darkness, biding its time until we drop our guard, and then they will bare their fangs and claws!” Understanding now, the Lord of the Grey Havens looked up to the heavens and sighed, his expression growing yet grimmer.
For he knew that even if matters were as he surmised, that the evil Orc-host had detached a force to assail the southern gate, the Grey Havens, with barely six thousand warriors, could not hold both fronts at once.
Though few Elves dwelt in the Havens compared to the cities of Men, the haven itself was not small.
Built from the first year of the Second Age, the city had seen millennia of careful planning.
The eastern wall alone stretched six miles in length, and there were the southern wall, the quays, the storehouses, all demanding garrisons, plus a reserve had to be kept.
Such a force would scarce suffice.
Thus, having received the warning from Manwë, chief of the Valar, Círdan’s face grew more stern still.
He listened again, and once certain that the Lord of the Breath of Arda had departed, he summoned Ilwen, who stood guard at the door.
“Take a company of guards to the southern quarter, join Aminas, and tell him: Beware the wargs in the dark!” Ilwen was greatly astonished, for her first duty had ever been to guard Círdan himself.
That he now sent her to the walls filled her with uneasy wonder at the hidden meaning.
Yet with the return of Galdor and the other scouts, the Elves’ understanding of what lay ahead had grown ever clearer.
Guessing it was for the coming battle, Ilwen asked no more.
She chose a picked band from the Lord’s own guard and made ready to go to the southern quarter.
“Wait,” Círdan stayed her, and said thoughtfully, “Take Okriam with you.” Ilwen looked up sharply, astonished, but the Lord’s face was as commanding as ever; plainly it was no request.
So Ilwen said nothing, gathered the guards, and departed.
Once the loyal guardswoman had left, the Lord of the Grey Havens, whose head had ached all night, allowed himself a faint smile.
To his mind, even if the enemy struck the southern gate, that would only be a diversion, better than facing the dark host directly upon the eastern wall.
Thus it was that when a messenger came running to say the Lord wished him to go to the southern quarter, Dragonborn turned in surprise.
He had been making halting conversation in Noldorin with the commander of a thousand fully armed Elves, a Noldo who named himself Gelmir.
“Why?” he asked, seeing that the messenger was one of Círdan’s own guards.
The messenger was a Noldo clad in light mail, a pair of jewel-hilted swords at his hips, like so many of the northern Elves, of pure lineage, descended from the high Noldor who had followed Fingolfin back to Middle-earth in the Elder Days, or the ancient Falathrim who had dwelt by the western shores since the dawn of the world.
With graceful politeness, the Noldo smiled at the dark-haired Dragonborn and said: “Such is the command of the great and wise Lord of the Grey Havens; how should we fully fathom it?
I am but charged to deliver the order.
“If you have doubts, might you not seek the Lord himself?
No doubt he would give you a satisfactory answer.…” “Stop!” Dragonborn near slapped himself.
He knew he had not yet mastered the Elven tongue, why had he opened his mouth?
And now came another flood of words that made his head spin.
“Fine, I’ll go.” The dark-haired Dragonborn grunted sullenly, and with a defiant heave he lifted the enormous, nerve-wracking warhammer one-handed.
With a clang, he settled it upon his shoulder.
“Well then!” He nodded to the Elf, who had been vexed but remained gracefully smiling all the while.
“May the light of Eärendil shine upon you, Gelmir.” Pausing, he added softly, “Do not die, my friend.” Gelmir, dark-haired and grey-eyed, was taken aback; the warmth in his gaze grew sincere.
But the dark-haired Dragonborn was already descending the wall.
His heavy footfalls seemed to strike the hearts of the Elves, and a strange look passed among them.
Yet they said nothing, only turned their calm and watchful eyes northward toward the lowering sky, where the dreadful shadow drew ever nearer.
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