While the orcs were still assembling their siege engines, Gondor had already launched a preemptive attack. The defenders operated their catapults, hurling stones continuously into the orc ranks, aiming especially at the siege engines under construction or already completed, successfully destroying many of them. But it was like a drop in the ocean. The enemy's numbers were overwhelming, and their preparations were thorough. Destroy one, and another took its place, an endless tide.
During this brief phase when Gondor held the advantage, the orcs swiftly assembled their catapults and siege engines, though curiously, they placed them very far from the city walls, well beyond the defenders' range. The defenders could only hurl stones at nearby orcs and siege towers, unable to strike the distant enemy catapults.
At first, it seemed those distant siege engines were useless, out of range of the walls. That illusion vanished once the massive catapults began firing. They could indeed reach the city walls.
"Not right," Denethor muttered, face dark.
Even if those catapults could fire that far, he hadn't taken them seriously. After all, the walls of Minas Tirith beneath his feet were no ordinary fortifications. Like the tower of Isengard, they were immensely strong. Ordinary projectiles couldn't harm them. Not even the Ents of Fangorn Forest could have done much against these walls. But when the enemy's shots landed, the defenders realized the truth.
They weren't throwing stones at all, but black bombs infused with Sauron's dark magic, exploding violently on impact. Even the inner walls couldn't withstand the blasts. Large sections cracked and collapsed. After enduring constant bombardment, the orcs finally launched their counterattack and bared their fangs.
As the catapults roared, the Nazgûl entered the battle. The cries of their monstrous beasts echoed above the city. This was the final confrontation. All nine Ringwraiths took the field together. Their terrifying presence spread over the city, swooping down to strike the defenders, focusing especially on the catapults atop the walls. The defenders shot back with scattered arrows, but few could pierce the beasts' thick hides.
With no strong aerial units, the flying Nazgûl were nearly invincible.
"Hold your posts! Fight!"
Seeing the worsening situation, Denethor led a counterattack. He instinctively reached for his sword to challenge a Nazgûl himself, but after a few steps, he felt the weight of his age. He was not as strong as before. But someone stronger remained, though he looked even older.
"Back!"
Gandalf raised his staff, casting a burst of white light that drove back a nearby Nazgûl. But it made little difference. There were nine of them, and only one of him. He could not fly, and could only defend from fixed points along the wall. Losses mounted among the defenders. Then the orcs brought forth a battering ram and struck at the gates of Minas Tirith.
It was useless. The city's white gates, like its walls, were unyielding. The ram smashed again and again, leaving not even a chip or scratch. Instead, countless orcs gathered before the gate were cut down by arrows. It was as if the empty-handed orcs were trying to fight Garrett himself. Their blows less than a tickle, their deaths self-inflicted.
The assault continued until midnight.
They still couldn't breach the city's defenses. Even the Nazgûl were weary, drained by Gandalf the White's resistance. He alone held off all nine Ringwraiths.
"We can't break that gate. It's too strong."
At midnight, the orc vanguard commander reported from below the walls.
"Bring up Grond!"
The horns of Mordor sounded from the rear ranks. The orcs cleared a wide path. Four thick-skinned beasts, chained and straining, dragged forward an enormous siege weapon, vast enough to rival the city walls in height, aided by dozens of trolls.
"Grond! Grond! Grond!"
The orcs roared in unison, and the morale of Mordor's army surged. From the walls, the defenders watched in terror. The weapon called Grond loomed higher than the city gates themselves. Even to swing it forward for a strike required the strength of seven monstrous beasts. Facing such a colossal engine, everyone felt dread. They fired volleys at the beasts and the crew, but to no effect.
A shrill laugh split the sky. The Witch-king's power enveloped Grond, enchanting it with dark magic.
Three strikes.
Under the force of the spell, only three strikes were needed to shatter the gates, once thought impregnable.
The Witch-king led the charge into the city. The defenders at the gate froze, none willing to advance. This was no ordinary Ringwraith. He was their lord, the Witch-king of Angmar, strongest of them all. Everyone knew his history. Long ago he had shrunk from the challenge of the northern legend and suffered great shame, but that did not mean anyone else could tread upon him. Only when facing him in person did people again feel the terror of the Witch-king, and marvel at the strength of that long-gone legend who had once defeated him. But aside from that legend, was there anyone in Gondor now who could face the Witch-king?
"Even your master cannot make me tremble, and a mere servant will not strut before me."
Denethor rode forward on horseback, sword in hand, confronting him. His voice rekindled hope among the defenders.
Gandalf followed close behind, standing beside him against the Witch-king.
"Back to the shadows!"
Their powers clashed.
Once, as Gandalf the Grey, he might have been slightly outmatched in such a contest. But things were different now. He was Gandalf the White.
"Hah!"
Gandalf unleashed a burst of pure, holy power. The Witch-king staggered back, driven several steps away. The blast also hurled back a mass of orcs crowding the gate, sending them flying. Even the three armored Olog-hai standing behind the Witch-king were knocked down, unable to rise for a moment.
"You cannot change fate alone, wizard. And you," he sneered at Denethor, "will meet your ruin soon enough. Cease your struggle, hahaha..."
After his taunts, the Witch-king prudently withdrew behind the Olog-hai, letting those great beasts take the lead. Denethor and Gandalf, though angered, were not fools. They knew the Witch-king spoke some truth.
"No matter what, stop those filthy orcs! They must not reach the inner city!"
Denethor entered the fray himself, cutting down several orcs. Beside him, Gandalf wielded both staff and sword, striking with force and precision, even felling one of the Olog-hai. Sweat dripped down his face as he fought, stealing a quick glance at Gandalf. He had to admit, the city had held this long largely thanks to the wizard.
Something in his heart began to shift.
"Watch out!"
Suddenly, Gandalf hurled Glamdring, killing an orc that had crept up behind Denethor. Denethor reacted instantly, finishing the creature off.
Outside the gate, more Olog-hai charged forward. Denethor clenched his jaw.
"No, we can't hold the gate. We must..."
Then a horn sounded, clear and high, from the distant hillside.
"It's Rohan... Rohan's reinforcements!"
After days of hard riding, the Riders of Rohan had arrived.
But atop the northern ridge of Minas Tirith, King Théoden gazed down at the dark sea of enemies below, tens of thousands, stretching endlessly. Even with over ten thousand riders behind him, he felt a chill run through his scalp. The enemy was not fifty or sixty thousand, far more. But he did not retreat. His decision was immediate. The city gates had been breached. They must cut through the enemy and save Minas Tirith.
Twelve thousand riders, against over fifty thousand orcs and trolls.
Could they break through?
They could. They must.
Hope blazed in Théoden's heart. Facing the tide of darkness, he felt no fear.
Even if he had only half the men he had now, he would still lead the charge.
"This is the doom of Gondor, and of us all..."
Dark clouds loomed overhead, heavy and fearful.
In the front row, two soldiers shared one horse, one tall, one small. The taller whispered over and over, "Be brave, Merry. For our friends, be brave."
The smaller one only gritted his teeth, staring hard at the horde below.
The orc commander saw the massed riders and shouted, "Form ranks! Pikemen forward! Archers fall back!"
Across the field, Théoden gave his own orders. He appointed three marshals of the Mark to lead the left, center, and right wings. He himself rode at the very front, beside his banner-bearer.
"Arise! Riders of Théoden! Spears shall be shaken! Shields shall be splintered! A sword day! A red day! Ere the sun rises anew! Ride now, ride to ruin and the world's ending!"
After this war, flowers of remembrance may bloom upon my tomb.
But even in death, my life will not be in vain.
For mankind. For hope. This ride is just and true.
With his fate in mind, he stood foremost, his banner flying behind him. He drew a deep breath and cried in the tongue of Rohan:
"Sons of Eorl, ride forth! Ride!"
And thus, they charged headlong toward doom and the world's end.