Malphegor
patreon
LOTR: TMCP Ch. 354
🕑 Added 2025-11-17 04:16:57 +0000 UTC"This is the City of Waters, Eriador's most prosperous city, and the core fleet-harbor of the Free Cities."
In the southern wastes, Boromir rode his horse and stopped at the entrance to the City of Waters. He gazed at one wonder after another and at the enormous statue at the river mouth. His heart was filled with an inexpressible awe.
"Not even the Pelargir shipyards, crafted carefully by the successive Ship-kings, were ever as bustling as this place."
This White Tower commander of Gondor, the High Warden, had never left his country since birth. It wasn't that he didn't want to travel or disliked going away.
There simply had been no spare time.
He had gone straight to the frontlines as soon as he came of age to face the fierce enemy and resist the invasions from Mordor and the southern barbarians.
From the moment he reached the front, all he had seen was the black earth thick with poisonous mists and dust, and the sickly, evil light that tainted the night sky.
Compared to that, this place was nothing short of a miracle. It was too beautiful, desirable.
The road from Gondor to here had been smooth, mainly because those once-ruined, nearly impassable highways had all been repaired by cities belonging to the Free Cities.
Take the North-South Avenue, for example: chronicles recorded it as once so damaged that only fragments and pits remained, with swamps and tidal flats in between, extremely difficult to traverse.
But now it had become a neat new boulevard paved with grey stone bricks, and the broken bridges that crossed rivers had been repaired for easy travel.
At that moment Boromir remembered his father's words.
Under the protection of the Lord of the North, the people here lived in peace and security. They never had to face the savage enemy directly.
Gondor, on the other hand, bled day after day...
But what could be done? Gondor was there, after all.
Whether out of duty, responsibility, or the pressure of survival, they all had to struggle to resist the evil and hold that line.
With complicated feelings, Boromir sighed and rode on northward until they reached Wayfort.
"Wayfort?"
Standing on the open ground and looking up at the breathtaking walls, Boromir was momentarily speechless.
From the name alone, he had assumed the so-called "Wayfort" was only a rather large castle, like a Gondorian lord's stronghold where supporting a few thousand people nearby would already be impressive.
Who would have thought Wayfort was actually a great city not inferior to the White City. Its scale left him gaping.
"Huh?"
As he marveled, he suddenly narrowed his eyes and looked toward the city gate.
One troop after another, well-equipped soldiers were marching out from the city, heading north.
Their formations seemed very regular. Each unit had a fixed number of men and its own command.
"Greetings to you, soldiers of Wayfort."
Riding up to a company that looked relatively less busy, Boromir picked out the company captain at a glance and walked over.
"I am Boromir, White Tower commander of Gondor. I have come specially to pay respects to the Lord of the North, Garrett."
"May I ask what has happened here?"
"So you're a friend of Gondor, then."
The company captain set aside his task for a moment and said, "Our leader is fighting the evil far to the north, but he cannot alone stop the vast army of monsters. We are going to the Wall to reinforce the garrison there."
"Wall, garrison, army of monsters?"
Boromir looked puzzled.
He understood each of those words and had heard them before, but how could they all come together like this?
He voiced his confusion at once, "I heard that eighteen years ago the remnant forces of Angmar were completely wiped out by Wayfort's army, and the former capital of Angmar, Carn Dûm, became a stronghold of the Free Cities. How could there still be monsters there?"
The company captain replied, "It's normal that you don't know: those monsters have only started appearing in recent years. They come from the far northern wastes. Their appearance is more ferocious than any enemy we've encountered before."
"May I go with you?"
After a moment's thought, Boromir requested to accompany them.
"If enemies appear, I will draw my sword for them too."
The company captain glanced at the iron sword hanging at Boromir's waist, hesitated briefly, then nodded after a moment's thought.
"All right, I have the authority to decide that. Welcome to the ranks. Go over there and collect your supplies."
The captain pointed toward the supply station.
Following the principle of adapting to local customs, Boromir went to receive his own set.
"This 'marching ration' is practically luxurious. It even comes with milk and honey. I must say, that's a rather healthy combination."
He remarked with some surprise, then picked up a small bottle of potion and asked, "By the way, what's this?"
"Healing potion," the captain replied. "It restores injuries. As long as you're not already dead, it'll work."
"Sounds somewhat similar to a golden apple," Boromir said.
"Golden apple? That's not something ordinary folk can obtain." The captain shook his head. "Those are usually given as rare gifts of high honor. You'd hardly ever see one."
"I see."
Boromir nodded. It seemed his father had quite a connection with Garrett.
With doubts and curiosity stirring in his heart, he marched northward with the assembled army, until they reached the foot of the Wall.
"Loose arrows!"
Whoosh!
A rain of arrows fell from the sky, striking down monsters one after another.
As the familiar sounds of battle echoed, he instinctively entered a combat stance, tension coursing through him.
"Move up!"
The company captain gave the order, and Boromir followed close behind, climbing up onto the wall.
"Fire!"
Naturally, he joined the defenders in shooting down at the enemy below.
A good commander is not only capable of leading. He can also fight as a disciplined, effective soldier when needed.
Boom!
A flash of white light erupted behind the scattered enemy horde. Moments later, several monsters were blasted into the air, their bodies still aflame.
Boromir squinted toward the source of the blast.
"It's Garrett!"
He recognized that figure, a man almost singlehandedly sweeping the battlefield.
The man wore armour of grey-black with faint dark-red tracery, a cloak of old yet well-kept linen fluttering behind him, and wielded a greatsword nearly as tall as himself. His presence alone was enough to halt the onrushing horde.
Behind Garrett moved a grey-clad figure, one he recognized as well: Gandalf.
He fought mostly in support, using the sword Glamdring to cut down stragglers. Only when overwhelmed did he lift his staff to cast a flash of light, though rarely. Mostly, he relied on his blade.
As Boromir observed, a group of towering figures came thundering forward.
"Those are... trolls?!"
"Watch out!"
Boromir shouted a warning. To his astonishment, even through the howling wind and snow, Garrett seemed to hear him. The man simply waved a hand, then charged straight into the troll pack.
For a moment, he thought he saw something like a star glint in Garrett's palm.
Thud!
Moments later, the trolls were falling one by one. Not a single one survived three strikes.
That kind of power was terrifying.
He thought to himself, Even for me, to handle such trolls safely, I'd need at least a five-man squad.
The strongest foe I've ever faced was a war-beast about seven or eight metres tall. Back then, I brought thirty men to bring it down.
"That's already quite impressive," the company captain replied. "I've seen those beasts too. They're hard to deal with. Ordinary weapons barely hurt them. If you managed to slay one in direct combat with just regular arms and a small team, that's remarkable, medal-worthy, in fact."
"So it seems your battles aren't easy either."
Boromir looked around at the rows of disciplined soldiers on the wall, their faces grim and focused, and something in his heart began, faintly, to change.
