Chapter 390: The Contest
Hearing Aragorn's words, the King of the Dead, who had been about to attack, suddenly stopped.
"Kael? You were sent by Kael?"
As he spoke, he appeared in front of Aragorn in an instant. The hollow sockets of his skull fixed on Aragorn, and the green witchfire in his eyes flickered with an eerie glow.
"You say you are the heir of Isildur?!"
The sudden movement startled Aragorn into raising his sword and wand defensively, his whole body tensing with caution.
The King of the Dead paid that wariness no heed. He studied Aragorn closely, and a trace of excitement crept into his hoarse, icy voice. "Good. You truly are of Isildur's line. You have some of his look and bearing."
Then his gaze dropped to the sword. The green flames in his eyes brightened. "Is that Narsil, the holy sword? Was it not shattered long ago?"
"Narsil has been reforged," Aragorn answered firmly. "It is now named Andúril, Flame of the West."
At that, the King of the Dead was openly elated. Narsil was the rightful symbol of Gondor's kingship. If Aragorn bore it, then he was without doubt Isildur's direct heir.
At last, the dead had a chance to be freed.
So Kael the wizard had not broken his word. He had truly found them a path to release.
The King of the Dead's eagerness burned hot within, yet his expression scarcely changed. His voice remained cold and rasping. "Aragorn, heir of Isildur. Kael must already have told you."
"Speak. State your demand. As long as you swear before the Black Stone of Erech that you will grant us release once the deed is done, we will serve you once."
Aragorn did not hesitate. He nodded. "I swear. Gondor is under attack by Mordor's host. If you march to our aid, lift Gondor out of this crisis, and fulfil the oath you once swore to my ancestor Isildur, then you will be free and may sleep at last."
"Agreed!"
In the White City of Gondor, not long after Aragorn left, Mordor's army launched another assault.
Outside the walls, trolls of immense strength dragged massive siege engines up to the ramparts. Countless catapults hurled boulders into the city, smashing holes in walls and towers. Some unfortunate Gondorian soldiers were crushed outright.
But more soldiers held the walls, returning fire with their own engines, smashing Mordor's siege machines and catapults. Archers loosed without pause, cutting down Mordor's troops as they tried to close.
For a time, roars and screams never ceased.
Denethor II remained in the palace, steadying the army and the people within the city. Though he had little hope of victory and though he doubted Aragorn's quest to seek aid in the realm of the dead, perhaps because both his sons still lived, Denethor did not fall into the same madness and despair he once would have.
Instead, he chose to fight until the very last moment, swearing to live and die with Gondor.
Faramir, now recovered, once again led the wizard strike team and other Gondorian soldiers out of the gates to fight Mordor's host.
Legolas and Gimli chose to join Faramir's force as well.
So the two armies clashed again on the open fields before the gate.
"Come on then, pointy-ears! Let's see which of us cuts down more of these Orcs!" Gimli shouted, swinging his axe and hacking an Uruk-hai's legs out from under it before bellowing to Legolas.
Legolas's competitive streak flared. "Fine."
Gimli grinned as if he had been waiting for that. He swung again and took the struggling Uruk-hai's head clean off.
"One!"
Legolas refused to be outdone. He dodged an incoming arrow with effortless speed, then drew a dagger and threw it toward where the shot had come from.
A cry rang out. An Uruk-hai toppled, the dagger sunk into its eye socket.
"One for me as well."
Gimli immediately charged a cluster of Uruk-hai, axe raised high. "Come on then, you filthy Orcs! Let Gimli son of Glóin teach you some manners!"
Gimli stood barely half an Uruk-hai's height, yet his might on the battlefield was anything but small. Quick of reflex and ruthless in precision, he fought low and fast—chopping through legs, dropping his foes, and taking their heads the instant they hit the ground.
"Two! Three! Four!" he bellowed as he killed, counting loudly with each blow.
Legolas was no slower. Two short blades spun in his hands, carrying a lethal elegance as he harvested enemy lives with clean, precise strikes.
Just then, Legolas spotted a drake charging straight toward their own army, crashing through the field like a battering ram.
If it reached Gondor's lines, it would throw the army into chaos and get countless soldiers killed.
Legolas stopped caring about his contest with Gimli. He drew the longbow on his back and aimed at the drake thundering toward them.
Magic surged through the bow and condensed into a single arrow of light that shot forth at once.
The arrow's speed was like a flash, and it struck one of the drake's eyes instantly. With a violent explosion, that eye and half the drake's head were blasted into mangled flesh.
The drake did not die, but the agony drove it into a deafening, tortured roar. Its charge stopped, and it began thrashing and rolling in a frenzy.
Mordor's soldiers near it were caught in the rampage. Some were crushed into pulp. Others were flung away by its tail.
Before it could rage for long, Legolas slipped past another sweep, leapt onto the drake's body, and drew his Elven longknife, driving it deep into the beast's skull.
The drake's body stiffened.
Then it died.
Seeing Legolas kill a drake, Gimli, who had just finished off his thirty-fourth enemy, stared in shock and immediately shouted, "Hey, pointy-ears. That one's bigger, sure, but it still only counts as one!"
Legolas did not argue. Standing atop the drake's head, he drew his bow and began firing at the Mordor soldiers around him.
His speed was terrifying. Arrow after arrow of light shot out in rapid succession, cutting down enemies in bursts of explosive brilliance.
"Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three… thirty-four, thirty-five!"
Then he drew again. Three arrows of light formed on the string at once, and when he released, all three struck three Uruk-hai at the same time.
Gimli gaped, his face full of disbelief. He hacked at a Uruk-hai in anger as he shouted, "Pointy-ears, this is unfair! You've got an enchanted bow, crafted by Kael himself! How's anyone supposed to compete with that?!"
But Legolas was no longer listening. His gaze locked on a Nazgûl approaching in the distance, riding upon a drake. Legolas's expression turned grave.
The next moment, he drew again, aiming at the Ringwraith, and fired an arrow of light infused with his strongest magic.
The arrow blazed brilliantly, tearing through the air toward the Nazgûl.
It reached the target in a blink, but just before it struck, the Nazgûl blocked it with its Morgul war-hammer.
The explosion was savage. The drake beneath the Ringwraith was wounded by the blast, but the Nazgûl itself was completely unharmed.
Legolas did not stop. He kept firing, detonations thundering one after another.
Still, he could not injure the Nazgûl.
The Ringwraith's eyes burned with red fire as it stared at Legolas and sneered in the Black Speech, "Elf, your magic is useless against me."
Then it drove the already enraged drake forward, charging straight at Legolas.
Suddenly, a sharp crack split the air. Apparition.
A figure appeared on the drake's back. Aragorn raised his sword and cleaved at the Nazgûl.
The Nazgûl whirled and blocked with its war-hammer, about to strike back, but the instant it saw Aragorn's blade, its red eyes contracted.
"Narsil!"
With a shrill, disbelieving scream, the Ringwraith recoiled in terror, turning into black mist as it fled backward.