Chapter 389: Fulfilling the Oath
Once Faramir's injuries had stabilised, everyone's attention returned to the army outside the walls.
Across the endless Pelennor, Mordor's host and the Haradrim spread as far as the eye could see, a dark mass without end. Trolls and mûmakil hauled massive siege engines to the front line, positioning them for the assault on Minas Tirith.
After Faramir killed its fell beast, the Nazgûl had climbed onto the back of a drake once more, glaring up at the White City as if it were already in its grasp.
Denethor II and Faramir stood on the highest level of the city, with Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli beside them. All of them watched the enemy with grim faces.
Denethor still mistrusted Aragorn, but Faramir did not share his father's suspicion.
He spoke plainly. "Though we have gathered our strength in good time, we have no advantage against such a host. At best, we can hold the walls for a week. Besides you, is any other aid coming to Minas Tirith?"
Denethor would not have called Aragorn a friend, yet he still looked to him with a reluctant hope.
Aragorn shook his head, his expression heavy. "Mordor has marched in full strength. The force attacking Gondor is only one part of it. Other hosts have been sent to invade Rohan, Lothlórien, the Woodland Realm, Dale, and the Lonely Mountain. War is everywhere, and no one can spare troops to come here."
Denethor's face dulled, despair creeping into his voice. "Is Gondor truly to meet its end?"
Faramir's expression darkened too, but then he remembered something and pressed on with a spark of hope. "Then Hogwarts. Can we not ask Headmaster Kael for help?"
To him, Hogwarts was far stronger than Gondor. Kael's power was mysterious and formidable, and the sheer number of wizards under him, along with the Ministry of Magic's elite Aurors, was a force that could overturn a battlefield.
Even a portion of those Aurors could change everything and save Minas Tirith from falling.
But Aragorn shook his head again and explained, "Hogwarts is facing war as well. In the north, the Witch-king of Angmar has gathered a vast Orc host in Angmar, and he has used dark sorcery to summon evil spirits and corpse-wights. They are marching south to invade Hogwarts and Rivendell, so Hogwarts is making full preparations."
He continued, "At the same time, Hogwarts must support Lindon and the Grey Havens against the Corsairs of Umbar. Still, Lord Kael and Lord Elrond know Gondor's situation. When they received your plea for aid, they sent us."
"Aid?" Denethor's laugh was raw and bitter, his contempt and hysteria spilling out without restraint. "You mean the three of you? Have you come to be buried with us?"
He looked like a dying man lashing out at the nearest target, and it did not help that the man before him was the one he hated most.
"Or what? Can you conjure an army out of thin air and slaughter the legions outside?"
Gimli bristled, swinging his newly made axe as he snapped, "You old fool, stop looking down on people. Even if it's only the three of us, I can still split the heads of those bastards with my axe!"
Legolas, calmer, caught Gimli by the arm before he could do something rash. Whatever Denethor's faults, he was still the Steward of Gondor, and they stood within his walls.
Even so, Legolas's hand went to the longbow upon his back, and his eyes measured the host beyond the ramparts. In that instant his bearing grew keen, like a blade drawn from its sheath.
That bow was a gift from Kael, a work of subtle craft. When Legolas drew it, it needed no quiver. Arrows of pale light kindled of their own accord, and each flew straight to its mark, bursting on impact.
In truth, it was a wand wrought in the likeness of a bow, bound with a fierce spell of blasting. So long as the wielder's strength endured, it could be loosed again and again, without count.
Legolas was a master of the bow, and with such a weapon in his hands, the ruin he could work surpassed what any wand could readily achieve.
"My lord Steward, it is true that Lord Kael and Lord Elrond have sent only the three of us."
Then his voice grew graver.
"Yet they knew also that three warriors cannot avail against such a host. Therefore, they bade me go to one place and there seek help. If that aid comes in time, Gondor's peril may yet be turned aside."
"Help?" Faramir's eyes kindled. "What help?"
Denethor stared as well, doubt and suspicion warring in his face. Every realm in Middle-earth was under assault. Who could come now, and who could be mighty enough to save Gondor?
Aragorn did not hide it.
"The Dark Door in the White Mountains. Before I departed, Lord Kael gave me counsel. He told me to go thither, and that there I should find aid."
The Dark Door.
Denethor and Faramir drew a sharp breath, stricken.
The White Mountains marked the border between Gondor and Rohan. Denethor knew them well, and the Dark Door was a name that carried dread even in the White City. Beyond it lay the Paths of the Dead, and in all memory, none who entered had returned alive.
Countless adventurers from Gondor and Rohan had tried to uncover the truth of that road, and it had cost so many lives that the place had become a forbidden land of death.
And now Aragorn was saying he would go there.
To Denethor, it sounded like a death wish.
As Steward, he had once tried to probe that place with the Palantír. What he saw was a mountain of bones and a sea of terrifying spirits, and he had nearly drawn the notice of the King of the Dead itself.
From that day on, he had never dared to look again.
Seeing Denethor's stare, cold as if he were looking at a dead man already, and catching the worry in Faramir's face, Aragorn offered no further explanation.
He refused Legolas and Gimli's demand to accompany him, ordering them to remain in Minas Tirith and help defend the city. Then he Apparated away.
Minas Tirith stood against the White Mountains, and the Dark Door was not far within that range.
After Apparating several times in swift succession, Aragorn came to the Morthond Vale.
The vale lay on the southern side of the White Mountains. Kael had entered by the northern approach to the Dark Door; Aragorn now took the southern way.
Forewarned, he went warily, yet without delay, along that dead road, until at last he reached the great cavern where the spirits gathered.
The scent of the living stirred the Dead from their long slumber.
Wraiths rose among the piled bones, drawing themselves up from heaps of skull and rib. A cold dread flooded the cave, so bitter that it seemed to creep into a man's very soul.
Then a harsh, whispering voice rang through the stone.
"Who now dares trespass in the land of death, and trouble the rest of the Dead? Since you have come, leave your corpse behind, and rot with us."
A spirit wearing a crown drifted forward, its whole form glowing with eerie light. In its skull-like face, green fire burned where eyes should be, fixed on Aragorn with pitiless contempt.
More spirits appeared, countless and dense, rising from every direction until Aragorn stood encircled.
Feeling their malice, Aragorn drew his sword at once and scanned the shadows, every muscle tense.
But he spoke quickly all the same. "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur. I have come at the request of Kael, Lord of Hogwarts, to fulfil the agreement we made long ago."