Malphegor
patreon
LOTR: TMCP Ch. 372
🕑 Added 2025-12-03 03:08:37 +0000 UTCRoar!
A tremendous roar echoed across the sky, tearing through the dark clouds above the Vales of Anduin. Sunlight burst through the rift, cascading down upon the crimson-scaled dragon, bathing it in a holy glow.
"What is that?"
At the sight of the fire dragon in the sky, many who had never been to Wayfort fell into panic.
This creature was nothing like the Nazgûl. The greatest threat of a Nazgûl lay in the fear it inspired. Once that fear was broken, even a whole host of them could not match the power of an army.
But a dragon was different. Such a being needed no tricks nor sorcery. By sheer strength alone, it could bring a kingdom to ruin.
Until now, the soldiers in the territory had been burning with fury after the news of Garrett's departure spread. That anger had outweighed the fear the Nazgûl brought, rendering much of their dark influence useless.
Just as the front line was turning in their favor and the army was about to launch a cleansing counterattack, suddenly, a dragon appeared. And not just any dragon, but a fire-breathing one, the most powerful kind of all. It caught everyone completely off guard.
On the other side, even the orcs froze in confusion at the sight of the dragon joining the fray, unsure which side it belonged to.
Only the three Nazgûl leading the orcs were truly panicked.
A Dwarf turned his heavy crossbow toward the dragon, ready to fire, but was quickly stopped by a more knowledgeable guard beside him.
"I've heard of it," the guard said. "That mighty dragon is the Guardian of Wayfort. Its name is Weymir. It's an ally."
As if to confirm his words, in the very next moment Weymir unleashed a torrent of fire upon the three Nazgûl flying in the air. In a single breath, two of them were consumed and fell as ashes.
The third, who narrowly avoided the blaze, dove down in panic, but it was already too late.
After erasing the Nazgûl, the dragon's flames swept downward, scorching through the ranks of orcs and great beasts outside the walls.
It was destruction incarnate, swift and absolute.
The orcs who had fled from Dol Guldur and Khazad-dûm were driven back in chaos. Then Weymir turned her gaze northward.
There, several wingless drakes, driven south from the Northern Waste by someone's wrath, had joined the orcs' assault. Born of evil, they fought ferociously, wreaking havoc among the defenders, almost breaking through the walls.
The great ballistae on the battlements loosed bolt after bolt, wounding but never killing them. The creatures were too cunning, always shielding their weak points.
Three legion champions had been stationed to leap into battle should the drakes breach the walls.
But now, it seemed, their service would not be needed.
Another power had come to deal with the monsters.
Weymir dove from the sky, exhaling a blazing inferno that engulfed the drakes below. Screaming in agony, they rolled and scrambled to flee into the distance.
Both sides bore scales strong as steel, and their size was evenly matched. On the ground, numbers would have favored the drakes, but Weymir could fly, and her fire could melt metal. That alone made all the difference.
The moment Weymir entered the battlefield, the outcome was sealed.
There would be no escape.
Meanwhile, the defenders surged forward, launching a counterattack against the now-shattered orc formations.
The tide of battle had turned completely.
From Dol Guldur, the fourth Nazgûl who had just arrived shook his head, abandoned the remnants of his army, and began to retreat, intent on carrying news of this disaster to his comrades fighting along the North and South Undeeps.
But fate had other plans.
As he passed over a forest of golden leaves, something within seemed to call to him.
Before he could descend to investigate, an arrow struck him from below, followed by three figures leaping out of ambush, who promptly smashed him and his mount into the ground with a resounding crash.
The Nazgûl, whose form had already faded into shadow, thought for a long time before finally finding that one word to describe them.
Thugs.
Among the three attackers, the Dwarf's weapon looked the heaviest, yet in truth, it did the least damage.
The ones who hurt the most were the two Men. One wielded the Sword of Kings, a blade naturally blessed against all things evil. The other used a strange iron sword, and that strike... had been the most painful of all.
Truly, he had suffered the worst luck to run into those three.
The Nazgûl said nothing. He silently drifted back toward Mordor, to await his master's forging of a new enchanted armor, one to which his spirit could once again be bound.
At the same time, a resounding horn echoed through the forest, answered by the defenders of the North Undeep.
---
Gandalf, carried by the Eagle King, arrived at the Golden Wood and was received by Galadriel. She presented him with a new, pristine white staff.
Gandalf swung it twice experimentally. For some reason, it didn't feel quite sharp enough.
Still, as a staff for channeling magic, it was far superior to the old one. It would do.
At worst, he thought, I could always ask Garrett to enchant it later.
Speaking of which, has Garrett returned yet?
He frowned, puzzled, but soon had no time to dwell on it.
For in Lothlórien, he saw someone unexpected.
Saruman.
"He has lain unconscious for many days," Galadriel explained. "He was already in this state when we rescued him."
"He was first weakened to the brink of death by the Nazgûl's torment, and then the Enemy seized the chance to drag him into the Shadow, to twist him to its will. His condition is dire. Moreover, he has broken the ancient taboo. He has lost the right to lead as the White Wizard. And thus..."
She held out a white robe.
Gandalf received it solemnly.
"I understand my new purpose."
He donned the robe and stepped before the dust-covered Saruman. Raising his staff high, he called down light from the heavens.
Saruman writhed in agony, his face contorted in torment.
At last, under the fierce radiance, he broke free from the shadow and opened his eyes.
"Gandalf... you..."
Sweat poured from Saruman's brow as he stared in shock at his old friend.
He knew then. His mission had failed.
He was bitter. Angry.
But he could only accept it.
For it was the will of Ilúvatar, and he must submit.
"There is still one who has not returned," Galadriel said softly, turning her gaze to Gandalf.
Gandalf frowned again.
"It's complicated," he murmured. "I can't be certain... and there are things even I can't quite see."
"Not just me. You would never imagine it either. But in this case... if he doesn't speak of it himself, I shouldn't speculate."
"Still, I'd wager he's about to..."
Speaking in riddles that even the Elves could not fully grasp, Gandalf suddenly turned his head, looking northwest, toward some faraway place beyond the Misty Mountains.
"Oh," he said with a faint smile, "he's back."
---
Wayfort.
That day, the people looked up together toward the sky.
A soft beam of light appeared above the fortress, spiraling down along the column of the signal beacon until it reached a certain bed within the castle.
[Achievement Unlocked: Return from Hell]
Garrett opened his eyes.
