Chapter 394: Charging Toward Doom and Ruin
While the Orcs were still assembling their siege engines, Gondor struck first.
The defenders worked their catapults without rest, hurling stone after stone into the Orc ranks, targeting the engines being built or already standing. Many were smashed to pieces before they could fire a single shot.
But it was a drop in the ocean.
There were simply too many enemies, and their preparations ran deep. Destroy one engine, and another took its place. There was no end to them.
During the brief window of Gondor's advantage, the Orcs assembled their catapults and siege equipment at speed. Their placement, though, was strange: far from the walls, well beyond the range of the city's own defences.
The garrison could only strike at the closer Orcs and siege towers. The enemy catapults sat untouchable.
Yet the walls also seemed beyond those catapults' reach. Were they just sitting there uselessly?
The answer came quickly enough, once those massive engines began to fire.
They could reach the walls after all.
"No," Denethor said, his face grim.
Even knowing the enemy catapults had that kind of range, he had not been worried at first. The walls of Minas Tirith were no common work. Like the tower of Isengard, they were extraordinarily strong. Ordinary attacks could not touch them.
Forget a few stones lobbed from catapults. Even the Ents of Fangorn could not have broken them.
But when the enemy's projectiles landed, everyone saw what they truly were.
They were not stones. They were pitch-black shells, infused with Sauron's dark sorcery. The moment they struck ground or wall, they detonated with terrible force.
Even the inner ring of walls cracked and partially collapsed.
After enduring sustained bombardment, the Orcs had finally fired back. And they were baring their fangs.
Screeee!
As the catapults opened up, the Nazgûl joined the fray. Fell beasts screamed and circled above the city, their cries echoing off every tower. This was the final battle, and all nine Nazgûl had taken to the sky. They held nothing back.
Together they radiated waves of dread, swooping down to attack the defenders, singling out the catapults on the walls.
The garrison could only loose scattered arrows in return, and most failed to pierce the fell beasts' hides.
Without any real means of fighting back against airborne enemies, the Nazgûl were all but untouchable.
"Hold your posts! Fight!"
Seeing the situation worsen, Denethor rushed forward to lead a counter. His hand went to his sword instinctively, ready to charge out and meet a Nazgûl blade to blade, but after a few steps, the truth of his own age caught up with him.
He was old. Not as strong as he once was.
But someone was stronger, even if he looked far older.
"Back off!"
Gandalf raised his staff high and sent a burst of white light blazing outward, forcing the nearest Nazgûl to pull away.
But the effect was limited. There were nine of them and only one of him, and he could not fly. He could only hold one section of the wall at a time. It was painfully reactive.
Losses kept climbing.
Then the Orcs brought up a battering ram and drove it at the great gate of Minas Tirith.
It did nothing. The White City's gate was as unyielding as its walls. The ram struck again and again without leaving so much as a scratch. Not a single chip of stone fell.
The Orcs massing at the gate, on the other hand, were cut down in droves by arrows from above.
The whole exercise was about as effective as bare-handed Orcs trying to punch Levi. They could not even tickle the door, and they were killing themselves in the attempt.
The assault dragged on past midnight.
They never broke through Minas Tirith's defences. Even the Nazgûl were starting to flag, worn down by the White Wizard's relentless resistance.
One man had held all nine at bay.
"We cannot breach that gate. It is too strong."
At the stroke of midnight, below the walls, an Orc commander returned with his report.
"Bring up Grond!"
At the commander's order, horns sounded from deep within the Orc ranks.
The host parted, clearing a wide road.
Four massive, thick-skinned beasts hauled on iron chains, and dozens of Trolls strained alongside them, dragging forward a siege engine so enormous it nearly matched the wall in height. Its head was fashioned in the likeness of a ravening wolf, with fires burning within its iron jaws.
"Grond! Grond! Grond!"
Orcs on either side chanted in unison, and Mordor's morale surged.
From the walls, the defenders stared in horror. Standing upright, the thing called Grond was taller than the gate itself.
It took seven of those colossal beasts just to swing it.
Every man on the wall felt a chill at the sight. They poured arrows and stones down on the beasts and the crews working the ram, but nothing slowed it.
"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"
A piercing laugh rang from above. The Witch-king's power settled over Grond, wrapping it in a terrible curse.
Three strikes.
Under that dark enchantment, it took only three strikes. The gate that was said to be unbreakable burst open.
The Witch-king himself led the charge through the shattered entrance. Every defender rushing to hold the gate froze in their tracks. Not one dared step forward.
This was no ordinary Nazgûl. He was the Lord of the Nazgûl, the mightiest of the Nine.
People knew his embarrassments, yes. Years ago, he had not dared answer the challenge of that northern legend, and he had been thoroughly humiliated for it. But that did not mean just anyone could stand against him.
Face to face, the people of Gondor felt the Witch-king's terror wash over them anew, and they marvelled once more at how powerful that legend truly must have been.
But aside from him, did Gondor have anyone willing to face the Witch-king?
"Even your master cannot make me feel a shred of fear. You are but a servant. How dare you strut before me?"
Denethor rode up on horseback, sword in hand, and stood his ground.
His voice lit a spark of hope in the defenders.
Gandalf was right behind him, standing beside Denethor to face the Witch-king together.
"Go back to the shadows!"
The contest of power began.
In the old days, Gandalf the Grey might have been pushed back in such a clash.
But everything was different now.
He was Gandalf the White.
"Hah!"
Gandalf unleashed a surge of radiant force. The Witch-king staggered as though he had been struck by a hammer, reeling backward. The blast sent the Orcs crowding the gate flying in heaps, hurled far back into their own ranks.
Even three steel-clad Olog-hai standing behind the Witch-king were knocked flat and could not rise for a long moment.
"You cannot change everything alone, Wizard."
"And you," the Witch-king hissed at Denethor, "your ruin will come in time. Give up your struggle. Ha, ha, ha..."
He left them with those parting words, but very honestly retreated behind his Olog-hai, letting the heavy shock troops lead the way in.
It stung, but neither Denethor nor Gandalf was the kind to let pride cloud their judgment. They knew the Witch-king was not wrong.
"Whatever it takes, hold these wretched Orcs here! Do not let a single one reach the inner city!"
Denethor threw himself into the melee, cutting down several Orcs with his own blade.
At his side, Gandalf fought with staff in one hand and Glamdring in the other, both swinging with ferocious precision. He even brought down an Olog-hai.
Denethor wiped sweat from his brow and stole a glance at the wizard mid-fight.
He had to admit it. The fact that the White City had held this long owed a great deal to this man.
Something inside him began, quietly, to shift.
"Watch out!"
Without warning, Gandalf hurled Glamdring across the gap. The blade spun true and buried itself in an Orc that had been creeping up behind Denethor. He reacted instantly and finished the creature with a follow-up strike of his own.
But more Olog-hai were stampeding through the gate. Denethor clenched his jaw.
"No good. The gate is lost. We need to..."
Hmmm...
Just as Denethor was about to order a retreat to the inner city, a clear horn-call rang out from the high ridge in the distance.
"Rohan... Rohan's reinforcements!"
After days of hard riding, the Riders of Rohan had reached the field at last.
Yet from the northern heights above Minas Tirith, looking down at the black flood of enemies below, even with more than ten thousand Riders at his back, Théoden felt his scalp prickle.
The enemy numbered far more than fifty or sixty thousand. Far, far more.
But he did not flinch. He made his decision at once.
The gate of Minas Tirith had already fallen. They had to cut the enemy off and save the city.
Twelve thousand Riders against fifty thousand Orcs and Trolls, at least.
Could they break through?
Yes. They would.
Hope kindled in Théoden's heart. Facing that ocean of enemies, he felt no fear.
Even if he had only half the Riders behind him, he would still lead the charge.
"So this is the doom of Gondor, and ours as well..."
Dark clouds hung over everything, pressing down on every heart.
In the front rank, two soldiers of very different heights shared a single horse. Both were trembling. The taller one kept murmuring under her breath:
"Courage, Merry. For our friends. Courage."
The shorter one only clenched his teeth, eyes locked on the host below.
The Orc commander spotted the mass of cavalry on the ridge and roared, "Formation! Formation! Spears to the front, archers fall back!"
On the other side, Théoden gave his own orders. He sent the three Marshals of the Mark to lead the left, right, and centre columns, while he himself rode out ahead of them all, a single standard-bearer at his side, flying the royal banner.
He stood at the very tip of the charge.
"Arise! Arise, Riders of Théoden!"
"Spears shall be shaken! Shields shall be splintered!"
"A sword-day! A red day!"
"Ere the sun rises!"
"Ride to ruin! Ride to the world's ending!"
When this battle is over, perhaps the simbelmynë will cover my barrow.
But even in death, this life will have been well spent.
For Men. For hope. This ride is worthy.
Holding that thought close, Théoden stood at the very front, the standard-bearer of Rohan behind him. He drew one last deep breath and cried out in the tongue of the Mark:
"Forth Eorlingas!"
"Charge!"
And so they rode, willingly, toward doom and ruin.
(End of Chapter)