Chapter 392: Behind Us Is Home
Wreckage choked the harbour, so thick you could nearly walk across it.
The Water City fleet had destroyed the overwhelming pirate armada, along with the black ships they were so proud of, in the most absurd and violent fashion imaginable.
Every last one.
The dark clouds broke apart. Fire and smoke slowly died. Sunlight fell over the land once more.
The massive Practice-class flagship pushed through the floating debris and eased toward shore. Close behind it came a single black ship, the one Aragorn's company and the Grey Company had captured, the only pirate vessel to survive.
One by one, they stepped off the ships and onto solid ground.
A Pelargir defender stared at the harbour and murmured, "Black armour. A greatsword on his shoulder. I've heard of him. That's the Lord of the North, the living legend who left his mark across the world. Levi."
"And who's next to him?" another asked. "A child?"
"No. That's a Halfling. Their homeland is very far from Gondor."
"Oh, I remember now. Halflings. A race that doesn't grow tall, as a rule. I once had the good fortune to taste some Shire specialties. Truly unforgettable."
The defenders talked quietly among themselves, hearts brimming with relief.
Pelargir had held. And its saviours were that reassuring, ageless legend, and the man spoken of in the recent prophecy, the heir of Isildur, son of Arathorn: Aragorn.
Without reinforcements, even if every soldier from every surrounding fief had been counted in, Pelargir could not have survived. The corsairs had come in overwhelming force. They had clearly been preparing for some time.
"Looks like the Dead didn't get to show off after all," Gimli muttered.
The King of the Mountains let a faint outline shimmer into view from the world of the Dead, looking distinctly put out.
Whoompf.
A wave of pure, searing heat drew close; the kind spirits could not endure. The King flinched and turned at once.
The legendary figure the soldiers had been whispering about was walking toward them. He seemed able to see spirits in the other world.
And for reasons none of them could name, the Dead feared him deeply. None dared come near.
The King of the Mountains swallowed his sulking and stood very still.
"Pippin?"
When the Grey Company linked up with Levi, Aragorn looked faintly surprised.
Pippin was wearing a Water City standard-issue sailor's breastplate several sizes too small for an adult, gripping a short sword, his face and hair in disarray. He bore small wounds here and there. He had clearly thrown himself into the fighting.
Gimli chuckled. "I saw it myself. This little hobbit's bravery exceeded everyone's expectations."
"Don't underestimate him, Aragorn."
"I have no such intention," Aragorn said. "I'm only surprised." He studied Pippin for a moment. "You and Merry aren't together."
"Merry made his own choice," Pippin answered, his expression serious.
Aragorn and the others shared a knowing smile.
Just then, a horn-call sounded.
Aragorn turned toward the direction his company had come from.
The reinforcements had arrived, soldiers levied from Gondor's various fiefs along the road.
Levi spoke up. "The Water City fleet can still carry several thousand more. We can advance together."
Aragorn nodded.
"Good."
Without another word, he went at once to rally Pelargir's garrison and the fresh troops, then led them aboard the ships.
...
Osgiliath, east bank.
"Hold! Hold your positions!"
Faramir, who had rushed back from northern Ithilien, commanded the defenders atop the walls, facing down a vast host below.
Days earlier, Osgiliath had sent for aid, reporting that an army of more than ten thousand was marching this way. But when Faramir arrived with reinforcements, the attacking Orcs numbered far more than ten thousand.
"Too many," he said under his breath.
They filled the land in dense, endless ranks, stretching beyond sight. Among them lumbered a horde of Olog-hai, stronger even than Trolls and unafraid of sunlight. Their steel-plated armour was nearly impossible to pierce.
And even past the armour, their skin was hard as stone. Every blow sent shocks through the sword arm. Any blade less than excellent would chip or shatter.
"They're setting up siege engines," a lieutenant warned.
"Catapults are useless against this wall," Faramir said. "Before Levi came, there was nothing here but a few crumbling piles of old stone. The wall we stand on now was built by his own hand. It is immensely strong and will not collapse. It is nearly the equal of the White City's walls, which are guarded by enchantment."
Boom!
Even as he spoke, an enormous boulder sailed in and struck the wall hard. It failed to knock so much as a flake loose. Only a hairline crack appeared on the surface of one block.
"You see? Just like that."
"If the garrison hadn't been far too thin last time, and if there hadn't been five or more Nazgûl leading the assault, we would never have needed to withdraw."
"This time we have enough men. Even if a Nazgûl comes, we can hold."
"Remember the key: when you face a Nazgûl, do not be afraid. Do not show fear. If you can find your courage, then a Nazgûl is only a somewhat stronger enemy."
"My father, the Steward, told me that when I was young."
As he said it, Faramir's eyes dimmed.
Back then, his father had not yet become the obsessive, bitter man he was now. Back then, there had been no favouritism between his two sons.
What had changed him?
"Captain, look!"
His lieutenant's voice cut through, sharp with urgency.
Faramir snapped his gaze upward. A Nazgûl circled overhead. And with it came Orc reinforcements.
Uruk-hai.
They were transporting pitch-black objects of unknown make, loading them onto the siege engines.
Then they hurled one at the wall.
"What is that?" Faramir felt a cold twist of premonition.
The black projectile arced through the air, unhurried. Faramir's instincts screamed before his mind caught up.
"Get down! Find cover!"
Boom!
The blast swallowed his voice. The black shell detonated on impact, blowing through several layers of the wall's surface. Fire erupted from the crater and crawled upward, hungry and alive.
Faramir covered his ears and staggered to his feet, disbelief on his face.
"That dark power. I recognise it. It shares the same source as the Nazgûl, but it is far deeper. That is Sauron. Sauron's own power."
The exploding shells had to be some new weapon Sauron had devised. And they were more than mere munitions. He had laid sorcery upon them, amplifying the blast and ensuring each one detonated at precisely the right moment.
Together, even walls as formidable as these could not escape damage.
Boom, boom, boom...
The shells kept coming from extreme range, tearing into the fortifications.
Yet one thing surprised Faramir, the Nazgûl, and even the Orcs alike: the wall had been shattered across huge sections, yet it simply would not fall.
It defied all reason.
Hmmm...
A horn-call sounded. Another army had arrived.
More enemies.
Faramir's heart sank.
The enemy now outnumbered them more than five to one. And they had Nazgûl, and this terrible weapon besides.
Boom!
Another explosion tore through the top of the wall, opening a hollow breach.
The Nazgûl laughed and ordered the Orcs to press the attack, concentrating their fire on a single point.
"Captain," the lieutenant said, stepping close, "there are too many. We may not be able to hold."
"No," Faramir said. "We cannot fall back. Behind us is Minas Tirith. Behind us is home, and our people."
"We do not retreat."
"The wall is damaged, but it still serves."
"Hold the line."
This time, Faramir chose to stand.
He would not give one step.
(End of Chapter)