Chapter 393: The Battle Begins
Boom!
The ground shuddered underfoot. Faramir whipped his gaze toward the gate and saw a column of massive beasts lumbering forward, bearing between them a colossal battering ram. Its head was fashioned in the likeness of a ravening wolf, with fires burning within its iron jaws.
The moment it struck, the great doors buckled inward as though they were made of tin. It had scarcely needed any force at all.
The doors were naught to such power. By the sheer mass of that engine, it seemed even the stone of the walls might shatter under its blow.
Faramir felt the blood drain from his face.
"To the gate! Prepare to counter-attack!"
He led a squad of the bravest fighters straight to the entrance, hoping to bring down the beasts and relieve the pressure.
But even a single one of those creatures was lethally dangerous and near impossible to fell. There was an entire herd of them.
And their sally was met with swift and terrible resistance.
High above, the Nazgûl spotted their movement. While Faramir's attention was fixed ahead, it let out a shrill cry of triumph and plummeted like a shadow from the sky, dropping from its fell beast. The Morgul blade flashed cold in the dim light as it drove forward in a single thrust.
The black blade found its mark with a sickening hiss of cold steel. Faramir had sensed the danger closing in, but all he managed was a desperate twist away from the killing stroke.
The sword still punched into his shoulder.
"Aaargh!"
Faramir roared, surged forward with his own blade, and threw himself at the Nazgûl despite the wound, despite the agony tearing through his chest from the Morgul blade's curse. He fought as if death meant nothing.
The sudden blaze of courage stung the Nazgûl's senses, and for one fierce moment it was forced back.
Soldiers saw their captain struck and turned their fear into fury, charging the wraith alongside him. For a frantic stretch of heartbeats, the Nazgûl found itself pressed on all sides.
It had no choice but to mount its fell beast and withdraw.
The Nazgûl had been driven off.
But the damage was done. The defenders' position was crumbling.
Lightning cracked above Barad-dûr. From Minas Morgul, a pillar of sickly green light erupted skyward. The Witch-king answered Sauron's command. His full host poured forth, flooding toward Osgiliath in an endless black tide.
"Fall back! Fall back!"
Seeing the tide turn, seeing still more enemy reinforcements, seeing the Witch-king himself take the field, the lieutenant seized Faramir, whose mind was already dimming under the Morgul blade's curse, and led the garrison in retreat.
Osgiliath had fallen at last.
When they crossed the bridge to the western bank, the lieutenant looked back at the high wall Levi had built with his own hands, and a dull ache passed through him.
That wall was much like the white walls of Minas Tirith. Both were strengthened with enchantment. Both were said to be unbreakable.
But the world had changed.
Everything once proved indestructible was now falling with ease.
The wall did carry enchantment. Ordinary engines could not dent it. But the enemy's weapons were now laced with terrible dark sorcery of their own.
Nothing was certain any longer.
...
The topmost level of Minas Tirith. Inside the palace.
Denethor sat in silence, watching Faramir's unconscious form. His son's face was dark and twisted with pain.
Mordor's shadow had swallowed Osgiliath whole.
Even from the Steward's seat in the throne room, one only had to lift one's head to see the black clouds beyond the doors, and the lightning churning inside them.
Gondor's view had always been this way.
Standing at the summit and looking east, one could see Mordor's pall directly.
Denethor's wife had died of the grief that came from seeing that sight year after year, leaving him far too early. It had dealt him a wound that never fully closed.
And it had deepened his hatred of Mordor beyond measure.
Now the shadow was drawing nearer.
And no one stood at the front to hold it.
Looking at Faramir, eyes clenched shut, seemingly struggling inside some nightmare, Denethor closed his own eyes. Something shifted, quietly, in the depths of his mind.
The lieutenant who had carried Faramir back stepped forward to report.
"My lord, the Captain fought with extraordinary courage. He led us in driving the Nazgûl back. But the enemy simply outnumbered us, five to one at least, and they brought forth strange engines of ruin, cursed by the Dark Tower, against which no stone could stand..."
"I have no breath for the excuses of defeated men."
Denethor's voice cut like iron. The lieutenant fell silent, unable to find another word, and stood there frozen.
"Go find Mithrandir. Faramir is his devoted student, is he not? Then let him find a way to wake his precious pupil."
"Yes, my lord."
The lieutenant took his orders, lifted Faramir onto his back, and left.
Denethor sat on that cold seat and watched them go, staring blankly at nothing.
Slowly, he lowered his head and pressed both hands against his face. He looked as though he were in agony.
"Boromir. My son. Where are you?"
"Gondor needs you. Your brother needs you..."
Boom!
War drums thundered in the distance. Denethor jolted upright, strode out of the palace, and onto the broad terrace beyond.
Boom!
The shadow pressed closer.
Mordor's host had arrived.
After taking Osgiliath, they had not paused for a single breath. They marched straight for Minas Tirith.
Denethor looked down at the enemy below, and for a moment, he seemed lost.
"Five to one?"
"No. This is far more than five to one."
Perhaps, this time, it truly was not Faramir's fault...
Screeee!
Fell beasts shrieked and wheeled above the city, working in concert with the army and the crushing dark overhead. Panic rippled through the streets at once.
Denethor drew a long breath. He cast off his robes, revealing the armour beneath, and drew the same standard-issue longsword that every soldier of Gondor carried. He filled his lungs and bellowed:
"Prepare for battle! To the walls!"
"Do not be afraid! Hold your posts!"
Then he added, teeth bared, voice savage:
"Let the filthy beasts come. The House of Húrin is not yet spent..."
Above and below the walls, two armies faced each other.
Denethor rode back and forth through the city on his warhorse, shouting orders, rallying courage wherever he passed.
Before long, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, who had arrived at the White City just days earlier with a company of elite knights, joined him on the battlements.
"Your foresight is as sharp as ever," the Prince said.
Looking at the host spread below the walls, even he could not help but admire Denethor's judgment. The Steward had foreseen this and sent for aid from Dol Amroth many days in advance.
As the two conferred atop the wall, a third voice entered.
"The stone gave you far sight and a wide view, but it has also worn you thin."
"Mithrandir."
Denethor turned. Gandalf was riding up on horseback, joining the defence.
Indeed, unless the ruling lord had explicitly barred him, Gandalf held command authority by default. Partly because he was a Wizard, and the rank came with his nature. Partly because his standing in Gondor was considerable. When Denethor's father had still ruled, the people of Gondor had lined the streets to welcome Gandalf whenever he appeared.
Denethor glanced around, then asked, "Where is Faramir? Why has he not come?"
Gandalf sighed. "You need not hide your concern behind harsh words, Lord Steward. Your son's condition is still grave. Even I can do no more than slow the Morgul blade's spread, keep it from advancing further. To root it out entirely..."
"Someone else will have a better chance than I."
"And where is this someone now?"
"I do not know," Gandalf said, shaking his head.
"Perhaps with the Boromir you have been so desperate to see."
(End of Chapter)