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LOTR: TMCP Ch. 394
🕑 Added 2025-12-25 02:17:46 +0000 UTCThe banner of Rohan fluttered in the wind, upon it a white horse galloped across a green field, but Théoden rode even faster. He spurred his horse forward, and none could overtake him. The marshals followed close behind, the white plumes on their helmets streaming in the wind. The great host thundered forth like a white-crested wave surging toward a black shore, and at last, they crashed upon it. Hooves shattered spears. Countless orcs met their destruction beneath the overwhelming charge, unable to offer the slightest resistance.
Like a red-hot blade cutting through butter, the Riders' charge was unstoppable. They pierced straight through Mordor's army until they reached the city walls. The king led the attack himself, followed by his marshals and the royal guard. They broke through the enemy's front line, opening a path through the chaos.
For a moment, Mordor's vanguard fell into disarray, scattered and disorganized, almost slaughtered one-sidedly by the Rohirrim. Yes, the gates of Minas Tirith had been broken, but now a new bulwark stood in their place, formed by the riders of Rohan.
Every man fought with fearless valor, even two riders sharing one horse, an odd sight among the charging cavalry, yet they fought fiercely, cutting down many orcs along their path. Yet, when Théoden caught a glimpse of them, something in his heart gave a jolt. But the situation was dire. There was no time to think. The battle came first.
"Protect the city!" he shouted, urging his steed onward once more.
Watching the riders defending the walls, Denethor could not help but murmur from within the city, "The men of Rohan have never lacked for spirit."
But soon, the tide of battle shifted again.
Boom!
The earth trembled. Gigantic, unfamiliar shapes appeared at the rear of the battlefield.
The war-mûmakil of Harad.
They were the terrifying super-heavy units unique to Harad, and to Garrett, familiar old foes. Every time Garrett had faced them head-on, even he had taken some damage from being trampled. Of course, if anyone else had heard that, they would have been horrified.
Face a mûmak head-on in combat...? You must be joking.
That was what the Riders of Rohan thought too. But they could not retreat, for behind them stood the walls of Gondor and its breached gate. If they faltered now, before this new wave of reinforcements, Gondor would fall in an instant. Knowing this, they gritted their teeth and charged once more. But this time, it was they who broke first.
The mûmakil, and the great towers upon their backs, were the natural nemesis of cavalry. Wherever the mûmakil passed, horses panicked and refused to move forward, overcome with terror. Their thick hides and massive frames made them nearly invulnerable to ordinary weapons. On the battlefield, they were living fortresses, unmoved no matter how fiercely the enemy struck.
Seeing the sudden turn of events, Denethor immediately summoned his aides and Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth.
"Go and aid our friends!" he ordered.
The soldiers of Gondor charged bravely, seeking to support their allies.
But their effort failed.
The Witch-king's lieutenant swiftly dispatched another army, a host of Haradrim clad in crimson armor, joined by a vast force from the East. They intercepted the Gondorian reinforcements, cutting them off from the Rohirrim, though not without difficulty.
The Witch-king's lieutenant was displeased. "Where are the Khandish riders? Why have they not come? They will pay for their disloyalty, sooner or later!"
---
"Attack!"
Elsewhere, Théoden rode forth in fury. As Lord of the Mark, King of Rohan, he would show his men what courage meant. Not once did he show fear. But his horse betrayed him, for it quailed first. His steed, Snowmane, pure white of mane and hide, was brave, but not Shadowfax, not the lord of horses. Its courage faltered before an enemy more than ten times its size.
In that moment, as his mount reared and faltered in fear, another foe appeared.
The Witch-king.
He descended upon a monstrous beast, crashing into Théoden with man and horse alike.
"Hahahahahaha!"
A shrill, piercing laughter rang out, freezing nearby riders in terror. Those who had tried to rush to their king's aid were paralyzed, unable to move.
"No one can save you, King of Rohan, stablemaster of horses..." the Witch-king sneered as he approached slowly, savoring the moment, the glorious moment when all eyes would witness the fall of the King of Rohan.
But his plan did not go as he expected.
A Rohan soldier with a hoarse voice picked up a fallen shield and charged forward with a shout. Caught off guard, the Witch-king could not react in time. In a few swift strokes, the soldier's sword cut through the vulnerable neck of the monstrous beast he rode, bringing it down and leaving the Witch-king without his mount. Enraged, the Witch-king swung his great flail. With two crushing blows, he shattered the soldier's round shield and broke her left arm, rendering her unable to fight.
"No..."
Théoden lifted his head with great effort, and finally saw her clearly. That figure... she was his niece, the jewel of Rohan, the golden-haired princess...
Just as the Witch-king raised his weapon for the final blow, a small, barefoot soldier suddenly rushed forward, mustering all his courage. He drove his short sword into the gap of the Witch-king's armor.
"Ahhh!"
A shrill, piercing scream burst from the Witch-king's throat. He glared down at the short sword embedded in him. There was something familiar about it. Ordinary blades could not harm him, could not even touch him. But this sword was different. Its make was that of the Dúnedain, forged long ago and blessed, a weapon capable of wounding wraiths and the undead.
And... that light radiating from it, it was unmistakably connected to him.
"Begone!"
Merry was flung backward violently, the sword shattering at the hilt, leaving only a broken blade lodged within the Witch-king's body. Yet the blow had dealt the Witch-king a grievous wound.
The Rohan soldier who had faced him, now standing once more, advanced to finish him.
But the Witch-king only laughed, recalling Glorfindel's prophecy. "No living man may kill me."
At this, Éowyn smiled.
She tore off her helmet, letting her shining golden hair cascade down. "But no living man am I."
"What?!"
Éowyn drove her sword straight into the Witch-king. And thus, the Witch-king met his destined end. This time, he would not return. From that moment forth, only eight Nazgûl remained.
"Merry!"
Éowyn quickly found Merry, who was struggling to his feet.
"I'm fine," he said weakly. "Save the king first!"
Théoden lay crushed beneath his fallen horse, grievously wounded and struggling for breath.
Merry took out a golden apple he had kept safe all along. "Give this to him, quickly!"
---
The Witch-king had perished, yet the defenders were still at a disadvantage.
"Not for long."
A black ship sailed up the river. The orcs cheered wildly and ran to meet it.
"You're late, you filthy pirates!" they shouted toward the deck.
"Pirates?" Aragorn laughed.
He leapt ashore with Boromir, his companions, and the Rangers of the Grey Company. The orcs froze, realizing these newcomers were no allies, but enemies.
"Pfft, just a handful of you?" the orcs jeered.
"Is that so?"
Aragorn and his men showed not a trace of fear. Behind them, the black ship pulled away, and a vast shadow spread across the riverbank, swallowing the orcs' laughter. They looked up, and beheld a massive vessel, glowing with light at its heart, slowly gliding toward the shore.
Garrett stepped down from it, dragging his massive greatsword along the ground. The sound it made was, to the orcs, like a voice from hell, from a place even more dreadful than Utumno itself.
"Ah, ahhh!"
They screamed and fell back, their hearts consumed by terror.
Behind Garrett, reinforcements from the City of Waters and the many fiefs of Gondor disembarked in waves, a host numbering well over ten thousand at a glance. It was a mighty army, most clad in the armor of the City of Waters, some in Gondorian plate.
"It's time," Aragorn said, raising his sword high, about to summon the Army of the Dead.
But Garrett stopped him.
"Wait."
He stood before the restless spirits, and at once, they fell still. Strictly speaking, they were bound to obey Aragorn, the heir of Isildur. They were not required to follow the commands of the man beside him, but that man could destroy them.
He had said "stop," and unless the blood of Isildur himself objected, they would comply out of respect, or fear. Not only the spirits, but even the countless orcs nearby would not move. None wanted to interrupt their conversation.
The longer those two talked, the longer the orcs could keep their lives. If possible, they wished they would talk until morning.
"What's wrong?" Aragorn asked, puzzled.
Now was the perfect moment to strike. If the Dead and the reinforcements from the ships charged together, they could crush Mordor's host, even if the enemy numbered a hundred thousand.
"Not yet," Garrett said.
He looked up at the sky, then let his gaze travel across the distance toward the Rohirrim ranks.
"Do not wield the power of the Dead before the Witch-king and the Nazgûl," he said quietly. "And never try to wrest control of the dead from Sauron himself. Remember, they too are masters of necromancy. Think of how the wights came to be. Give me a moment."
With that, he donned the blazing cuirass. Then, whoosh!
A streak of fire shot into the sky, and he rose from the ground like a rocket, straight toward the Nazgûl circling above. People looked up to see a trail of orange-red flame streaking across the sky like a meteor. With thunderous speed, it tore through the dark clouds overhead, racing toward the fleeing Ringwraiths. One after another, that fiery figure slammed into the fell beasts they rode, smashing them to the ground and leaving deep craters in the earth.
The remaining Nazgûl screamed and climbed higher, scattering in all directions. But the burning figure behind them followed relentlessly, and faster still.
"When did Ringwraiths learn to feel fear?"
Denethor looked up, his face filled with disbelief.
"That depends on who they're facing," Gandalf replied, glancing at him. "Don't tell me you haven't realized?"
"Who...?" Denethor's voice faltered. He had a suspicion, but didn't wish to confirm it.
Gandalf blinked twice and said, "I'm not telling you."
---
Boom!
The last Nazgûl crashed to the ground, smashing into the open space the orcs had hurriedly cleared for him.
But it seemed there was still one left.
"Ahhh!"
A shriek echoed from afar. Garrett turned his head toward the Rohirrim lines. The air there shimmered and twisted, and then something vanished completely.
Good. Now they were all gone.
Ignoring the terrified orcs around him, he dragged the charred corpse of the fell beast from the crater he had made, stood atop it, and raised his sword high.
"Attack!"
Whoosh!
As he shouted, he fired a signal flare from his crossbow into the sky.
"Aragorn!" cried Legolas, his keen eyes spotting the flare.
"Right!"
Aragorn lifted his sword. Now, with no Nazgûl left to resist them, nothing remained to restrain the Dead. The Army of the Dead surged forward, sweeping over the frozen ranks of orcs and drowning them in an instant. Then they rushed straight toward the heart of the battlefield, joining the encirclement.
"For the Free Cities! For all free peoples, charge!"
The reinforcements from the City of Waters disembarked and joined the fight, their momentum overwhelming all before them. Under the glow of the signal flare, their armor seemed to shine with a holy radiance, a stark contrast to the spectral host fighting beside them. The undead alone were terrifying enough, but now another army, clearly extraordinary, had arrived. The Haradrim and Easterlings hesitated, uncertain what to do.
The orcs, however, knew better. Unlike their southern and eastern allies, they had faced the Free Cities for years. They knew their unmatched combat power, and they knew who led them.
"For Gondor!"
Behind the City of Waters' host came Gondor's own army, led by Boromir. At his side hung a horn, cracked in the brutal battle before, but repaired by a craftsman-soldier from the City of Waters. No, not quite, rather, a soldier who happened to be a remarkably skilled craftsman. Pushing aside such thoughts, Boromir took a deep breath and raised the horn to his lips.
He blew.
The sound was clear and thunderous, vast and majestic. It swept from the riverbank across the entire battlefield, echoing all the way into the heart of Minas Tirith.
"Boromir! It's Boromir's horn! The Guardian of Gondor has returned!"
Everyone in Gondor recognized that sound, for Boromir had always blown his horn before battle, to rouse courage in the hearts of Men.
And this time, he blew it again, to announce his return.
