Chapter 395: The Legend Returns
Rohan's royal banner streamed in the wind, a white horse galloping across a green field, but Théoden galloped faster still. He spurred his mount forward, and no one could keep pace. The Marshals rode close behind, the white horsehair crests on their helms whipping in the wind.
The host swept down the slope like a wave crested with white foam, crashing against a black shore.
And when it struck, it struck hard.
Hooves shattered spear shafts. Orcs were obliterated in that thundering charge, unable to offer even a shred of resistance.
Like a red-hot blade through butter, the Riders cut clean through Mordor's army, driving all the way to the city walls.
The King led the killing. Behind him came his Marshals and the royal guard, carving the first breach through the enemy line, opening the way.
Mordor's vanguard collapsed. They could not regroup, could not organise. It was less a battle than a slaughter.
Yes, the gate of Minas Tirith had been broken. But now it had a new wall: the Riders of Rohan.
Every one of them fought with extraordinary courage, including a pair of oddly mismatched cavalry sharing a single horse, one tall and one small, hacking their way through a respectable number of Orcs.
Théoden caught a glimpse of them, and his heart gave a sharp lurch.
But the situation was too dire to dwell on it. The battle came first.
"Protect the city!" he roared and charged on.
Watching those Riders hold the wall from within the city, even Denethor could not help himself.
"Rohan has never lacked for valour."
But the tide shifted again, almost at once.
Boom!
The earth trembled. Vast, unfamiliar shapes loomed into view behind the enemy lines.
The war mûmakil of Harad.
These were Harad's most fearsome assets, ultra-heavy war beasts, and old acquaintances of Levi's. Every time he had gone toe to toe with one, trading blows and getting stepped on, he would take a sliver of damage at most.
Of course, anyone else hearing that would have found it horrifying.
Going head-to-head with a mûmak in a contest of brute strength?
Madness.
That was exactly what the Riders of Rohan thought.
But they could not retreat. Behind them stood Gondor's walls and its shattered gate. If they faltered now, if they gave ground before this fresh enemy host, Gondor would fall in moments.
Knowing that, they gritted their teeth and charged again.
This time, it was the Riders who broke.
The mûmakil, and the war towers strapped to their backs, were a cavalry's worst nightmare. Wherever they passed, horses panicked beyond control and refused to advance.
The beasts' hides were impossibly thick. Ordinary weapons could not pierce them. On the field, they were all but invincible, shrugging off every blow without flinching.
Seeing the situation turn, Denethor immediately summoned his aides and Prince Imrahil. "Go support our allies!"
Gondor's forces surged out to aid their friends.
But the plan was cut short.
The Witch-king's lieutenant dispatched another army at once: Near Haradrim in scarlet armour and masses of Easterling warriors. They drove a wedge between the reinforcements, successfully splitting Rohan and Gondor apart, though it clearly cost them some effort.
The Witch-king's lieutenant seethed.
"Where are the Variags of Khand? Why have they not come?"
"They will pay for their disloyalty. Sooner or later!"
...
"Kill!"
On the other front, Théoden charged in fury. As Lord of Rohan, King of the Mark, he had to set the example for his soldiers. He showed not a trace of fear.
But his horse betrayed him. It flinched first.
Snowmane was a fine steed, white as winter, but he was no Shadowfax. He was no king among horses. His courage was not enough to face an enemy ten times his size.
And in that moment, while his mount froze with terror, another enemy arrived.
The Witch-king.
He descended on his fell beast and slammed into Théoden, sending horse and rider crashing to the ground.
"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"
That piercing laugh scattered the nearby Riders who tried to rush in. Their limbs locked. None could move.
"No one can save you, King of Rohan. A mere horse-lord..."
The Witch-king advanced slowly, savouring the moment, this glorious, triumphant instant when all eyes would watch him cut down a king.
But his triumph was stolen from him.
A Rider with a rough voice snatched up a fallen shield, screamed a war cry, and charged straight at the Witch-king. Before the wraith could react, the soldier was already on top of him, and a sharp blade slashed twice, three times, severing the fell beast at the softest part of its throat. The Witch-king lost his mount.
Enraged, the Witch-king swung his flail and smashed the shield to pieces in two brutal strikes, shattering the soldier's left arm with it. She could no longer fight back.
"No..."
Théoden raised his head with tremendous effort, and at last he saw. That figure. She was his niece. The jewel of Rohan. The golden-haired princess.
"Die!"
As the Witch-king moved in for the killing blow, a small, barefoot soldier found his courage and rushed forward. He drove his short sword into a gap in the Witch-king's armour.
"Aaaargh!"
A shriek tore from the Witch-king's throat. His burning gaze fell on the blade buried in his flesh, and something about it felt familiar.
Ordinary swords could not harm him. They could not even touch him. But this one was different. Its make was old, forged long ago by the Dúnedain. Their weapons carried a blessing that could wound Ringwraiths and Barrow-wights alike.
And that glow on the blade... it was connected to that man. Without question.
"Get away!"
Merry was blasted back, sent tumbling through the air. The section of his sword still lodged in the Witch-king's body shattered, leaving him with nothing but a broken hilt.
But the blow had done grievous damage.
The Rider who had fought the Witch-king rose to her feet, ready to finish what had begun.
The Witch-king was not afraid. Recalling Glorfindel's prophecy, he laughed.
"No man can kill me."
Hearing those words, Éowyn smiled too.
She tore off her helmet, and a cascade of golden hair spilled free, shining like a pale flame in the dim and heavy air. Her eyes, grey as the sea, were hard with a light the Nazgûl could not endure.
"But I am no man."
A cold doubt finally pierced the Witch-king's shadow. For the first time in an age, the Lord of the Nine felt the foundations of his power tremble. The prophecy of Glorfindel, which he had worn as a shield for a thousand years, had turned into his shroud.
"Die!"
With a cry that echoed the ancient defiance of her people, Éowyn drove her sword into the hollow space between crown and mantle.
The blade did not just cut; it broke the spell that held his spirit to the world of the living. The crown rolled away with a hollow clang, and the black robes collapsed into a heap of nothingness. A thin, tattered shriek rose into the sky—a sound of fading malice that grew faint and was swallowed by the wind, until it was gone forever.
The Witch-king had met his fated end.
This time, there would be no coming back.
The Nine were now Eight.
"Merry!"
Éowyn found him where he had landed. Merry dragged himself upright and said, "I'm fine. Save the King first!"
Théoden was badly hurt, his strength failing, pinned beneath Snowmane's weight. He was running out of air.
Merry pulled out a golden apple he had kept carefully all this time. "Make him eat this. Hurry!"
...
The Witch-king was gone. But the defenders were still losing.
"Not for long."
A black ship came gliding up the river. The Orcs were overjoyed and rushed to meet it.
They shouted at the deck, "You're late, stinking pirates!"
"Pirates?"
Aragorn smiled.
He leapt off the ship alongside Boromir, the others, and the Rangers of the Grey Company.
The Orcs could see now that these few dozen were not allies. They were enemies.
"Pfft. That's all of you?" The Orcs laughed.
"Is it?"
The company did not flinch.
Behind them, the black ship pulled away.
A vast shadow fell across the riverbank, swallowing the Orcs' laughter with it.
They looked up. A colossal vessel, a pillar of light blazing from its centre, eased into view and docked at the shore.
Levi stepped off, dragging the Dragonflame Steel greatsword behind him, its edge scraping along the ground.
To the Orcs, that sound was something from a hell worse than Utumno.
"Aah! Aaah!"
They stumbled backward, screaming, hearts drowning in terror.
Behind Levi, reinforcements from the Water City and the fiefs of Gondor began pouring ashore. A rough count put them at well over ten thousand.
It was a powerful host. Most wore the standard armour of the Water City. A smaller number wore the colours of Gondor.
"Now," Aragorn said, raising his sword, about to summon the army of the Dead.
"Wait."
Levi stopped him and, with a single gesture, halted the Dead in their tracks.
Strictly speaking, the Dead were bound to obey Aragorn, heir of Isildur.
They were under no obligation to listen to the man beside him. But that man had the power to destroy them.
If he said stop, and the blood of Isildur did not object, then they would give him that respect.
And it was not only the Dead who froze. The massive crowd of Orcs in front of them did not dare move either. They certainly were not going to interrupt this conversation.
Every second these two kept talking was another second alive.
Ideally, they would chat until tomorrow.
"What is it?" Aragorn asked, puzzled.
This was the perfect moment to attack. If the Dead and the reinforcements charged together to relieve Gondor and Rohan's forces, even a hundred thousand enemies would collapse on the spot.
"Not yet," Levi said.
He glanced up at the sky, then cast his gaze far across the field to the Rohirrim lines.
"Don't parade the Dead in front of the Witch-king and the Nazgûl. And don't try to wrestle Sauron for control of spirits."
"Remember, they're all experts at commanding the dead. Think about where Barrow-wights come from."
"Give me just a moment."
With that, Levi swapped into the Blazewing Chestplate. A firework screamed upward, and he launched from the ground, rocketing straight at the Nazgûl circling overhead.
What the people below saw was a streak of orange-red flame soaring across the sky like a meteor, blazing through the dark clouds at impossible speed, chasing the fleeing Nazgûl.
That streak of fire slammed into one fell beast after another, smashing the wraiths from their mounts, dragging them earthward, and driving them into the ground hard enough to leave craters.
The surviving Nazgûl panicked and climbed desperately higher, scattering in every direction.
But the figure behind them was relentless, faster than all of them, hunting them down one by one.
"Since when can Nazgûl feel fear?" Denethor said, staring upward in disbelief.
"That depends on who is doing the chasing," Gandalf answered. "Surely you recognise him?"
"Who?"
Denethor had a guess, but he could not quite bring himself to believe it.
Gandalf looked at him and blinked twice.
"I'm not telling you."
...
Boom!
The last airborne Nazgûl crashed to earth, slamming into a clearing the Orcs had hurriedly vacated.
But there should have been one more.
"Aaaargh!"
A final shriek echoed from the direction of the Rohirrim lines. Levi turned and looked. Over there, the air twisted, warped, and something was annihilated for good.
Right. Now they were all dealt with.
Ignoring the terrified Orcs around him, Levi hauled the charred carcass of a fell beast out of the crater he had just made, stood on top of it, and raised his sword.
"Attack!"
As he shouted, he pulled out a crossbow and fired a signal rocket into the sky.
"Aragorn!" Legolas called out, his sharp eyes the first to see it.
"Right!"
Aragorn raised his sword. This time, there was nothing left on the battlefield that could counter the Dead.
The army of the Dead surged forward, swallowing the frozen Orcs in front of them, then swept toward the centre of the battlefield to join the encirclement.
"For the Free City-States! For all free peoples! Charge!"
The Water City reinforcements poured off the ships and onto the field. Their momentum was irresistible. Under the glow of the Beacon, they seemed wreathed in a holy radiance, a stark contrast to the spectral Dead.
The Dead were frightening enough on their own. Now this clearly extraordinary army had joined the fight as well. Even the Haradrim and the Easterlings hesitated, unsure what to do.
The Orcs, on the other hand, knew exactly what they were looking at. Unlike the Easterlings and Haradrim, who had no context, the Orcs had faced the Free City-States for years. They knew this army's absurd combat strength, and they knew who led it.
"For Gondor!"
Hard on the Water City's heels came Gondor's own.
This host was led by Boromir. He reached for the horn at his belt, the one that had been cracked in the brutal fighting before, then repaired by a Water City soldier who also happened to be a craftsman.
No, that was wrong. He was a craftsman who happened to also be a soldier.
Pushing aside the stray thought, Boromir drew a deep breath and blew.
The sound rang out, high and shattering, vast and proud. It swept from the riverbank across the entire battlefield in an instant, rolling all the way into the city of Gondor, and every heart that heard it leapt.
"Boromir! That is Boromir's horn! The Guardian of Gondor has returned!"
Every soul in Gondor knew that sound. Boromir blew it before every campaign to stir the blood of his soldiers.
And this time, he blew it for his homecoming.
(End of Chapter)