The harbor was filled with the wreckage of ships, so dense one could almost walk across it. The fleet from the City of Waters had annihilated the sea of pirates and their proud black ships in an outrageously violent manner.
Not one remained.
The dark clouds dispersed. Flames and smoke slowly faded. Sunlight returned to the land.
A massive flagship pushed aside the drifting debris and slowly approached the shore. Following behind was a black ship, captured by Aragorn and his Grey Company companions, along with the Dead. It was the only pirate ship that hadn't been destroyed. The group disembarked, stepping onto solid ground.
A guard of Pelargir looked over the harbor and murmured, "Black armor, a greatsword on his shoulder... I've heard of him. That's the Lord of the North, the living legend who left tales across the world, Garrett."
"And beside him? A child?" another asked.
"No, that's a Hobbit. Their homeland lies far from Gondor."
"Oh, right. Hobbits, small folk. I once tasted some goods from the Shire. Quite unforgettable."
The guards spoke quietly, their hearts filled with relief.
Pelargir had been saved, by that ancient legend who inspired such confidence, and by the one named in recent prophecies, the heir of Isildur, son of Arathorn, Aragorn. Without them, Pelargir and even the neighboring fiefdoms could never have held the line. The pirates had come well-prepared.
"Looks like those dead souls won't be needed here after all," Gimli muttered.
From the realm of the dead, the Mountain King's faint silhouette appeared, looking displeased.
Whoosh.
A wave of pure heat approached, intolerable even to the dead. He flinched and turned. It was the man everyone had spoken of, the unknown legend, Garrett, approaching. He seemed able to see the spirits of another world. For some reason, the Dead feared him deeply. None would come near.
The Mountain King stopped sulking and stayed silent.
"Pippin?"
When Aragorn's company finally met Garrett's group, Aragorn looked slightly surprised.
Pippin stood there wearing a sailor's armor from the City of Waters, clearly several sizes too large, his sword in hand, hair disheveled, face dirty, and body bruised. He had clearly fought hard.
Gimli laughed. "I saw it. The little Hobbit's courage surpassed everyone's expectations."
"Don't underestimate him, Aragorn."
"I don't," Aragorn replied. "I just didn't expect this."
"You and Merry didn't stay together?"
"Merry had his own path to follow," Pippin answered solemnly.
Aragorn and the others exchanged knowing smiles. Then, a horn sounded. He turned toward the road. Reinforcements from the fiefs of Gondor had arrived.
Garrett said, "The fleet from the City of Waters can carry several thousand more. We can advance together."
Aragorn nodded. "Good."
Without another word, he turned to rally Pelargir's defenders and the newly arrived soldiers, then boarded the ships with them.
---
East Osgiliath.
"Hold the line! Stay at your posts!"
Faramir, having rushed back from northern Ithilien, commanded the defenders as they faced the vast army beneath the city walls. Days earlier, Osgiliath had sent for aid, claiming ten thousand enemies were marching their way. But when Faramir arrived with reinforcements, he found far more than that.
"Too many," he muttered.
The enemy stretched to the horizon, dense as an unbroken tide. Among them were massive Olog-hai, stronger than trolls and unafraid of sunlight, clad in steel armor nearly impossible to pierce. Even where the armor failed, their skin was like stone. Each blow sent shocks up the arm. A lesser sword would break.
"They're setting up catapults," his lieutenant warned.
"Catapults are useless against these walls," Faramir replied.
"It's said that there used to be no real walls here, only piles of brittle rubble. The wall beneath our feet now was rebuilt by Garrett himself. It's unshakably strong, nearly as solid as the White City's walls, which are protected by magic."
Boom!
Even as he spoke, a massive boulder slammed into the wall. The impact didn't even chip the surface, only a faint crack appeared on one of the stone blocks.
"See? Just like that. If the garrison hadn't been so small last time, and if there hadn't been more than five Nazgûl leading the enemy, we wouldn't have had to retreat. This time we have enough men. Even if the Nazgûl come, we can handle them. Remember the key, when facing a Nazgûl, do not fear, do not show terror. If you have courage, a Nazgûl is just another powerful foe. My father, the Steward, told me that when I was a child."
As he spoke, Faramir's eyes darkened. Back then, his father had not yet become the man he was now, obsessive, biased, and cold toward his two sons.
What had changed him?
"Captain, look!"
The lieutenant's sudden shout snapped him back.
Faramir looked up. A Nazgûl was flying overhead, accompanied by a new wave of orc reinforcements, Uruk-hai, hauling strange pitch-black objects and loading them onto catapults. Then they fired again.
"What is that?"
He felt a surge of dread.
As the dark projectile arced slowly through the air, he shouted, "Down! Take cover!"
BOOM!
The explosion drowned out his voice. The black projectile detonated the moment it struck, blasting deep into the wall and sending flames crawling upward. He staggered to his feet, covering his ears, disbelief on his face.
"That evil power... I know it. The same source as the Nazgûl, but greater. It's Sauron. That's Sauron's power."
The explosive must have been a new weapon devised by Sauron himself, and not a mere bomb. It was enchanted, the magic amplifying its destructive force and ensuring detonation at the perfect moment. Together, sorcery and fire wrought devastation even on this nearly indestructible wall.
Boom... boom...
More black shells flew from afar, each one tearing chunks from the battlements. Yet to everyone's astonishment, Faramir's, the Nazgûl's, and even the orcs', the wall, though shattered and scarred, refused to collapse.
It defied all reason.
Humm.
A horn sounded. Another army approached. More enemies. Faramir's expression hardened. The enemy's numbers now exceeded theirs by at least fivefold, and they had both Nazgûl and those terrible weapons.
BOOM!
Another explosion ripped a hole high in the wall. The Nazgûl laughed and ordered the orcs to focus all fire on that breach.
"Captain, there are too many of them. We can't hold much longer!" his lieutenant urged.
"No. Behind us lies Minas Tirith, our home, our people. We will not fall back. The wall is damaged, but it still stands. Hold the line."
This time, Faramir chose to stand and fight.
He would not retreat.