Chapter 68
Deep within the dark towers of Mordor, Sauron's invisible rage boiled like a furnace. His most hated traitors—those loyalists who had escaped Númenor's annihilation—had not perished in despair, but had established kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor on the very threshold of his fortress of Mordor. This was not merely a provocation but a direct threat to his dark reign. Like two tenacious young shoots, they took root in the darkness-soaked earth, absorbing the nourishment of light. Sauron would not allow them to truly grow.
Furious, Sauron decided to strike first. In the year 3429 of the Second Age, when the Dúnedain were still struggling and their alliances were still unsettled, he launched the war. The gates of Mordor flew open, and a long-simmering torrent of darkness surged out, aiming for Minas Ithil, the heart of Gondor, which held sway over the mouths of the Anduin.
Sauron's deployment was cunning and deadly. A vast host of Orcs, led by elite Uruk-ites, stormed the newly built walls of Minas Ithil like a black tide, fearlessly assaulting them. They set up crude yet effective scaling ladders and battering rams, using their flesh and blood to sap the defenders' arrows and strength. A fleet of Black Númenóreans from Umbar, commanded by Fuinur and Hrumur, sailed up the Anduin, skirting Minas Ithil's less-defended riverside flank. Equipped with sophisticated Númenórean siege ballistae and daggers, they launched a fierce long-range assault on the city walls and harbor facilities, and attempted a landing. Although Sauron himself was absent, two corrupted blue wizards, Alatar and Palandur, appeared on the high ground behind the battlefield. They unleashed foul dark magic: summoning a dense, toxic fog that obscured sunlight and enveloped the city walls, weakening the defenders' vision and morale; unleashing psychic shocks to disrupt command; even attempting to distort the runic defenses of the walls. Protected by siege towers and massive shields, the troll troops were concentrated on assaulting the gates and weak points of the walls. Every blow from their mighty hammers shook the solid stone walls.
Defending Minas Ithil was the young Isildur. He fought bravely and commanded the city with masterful skill, leveraging the city's defenses and the aid of elven archers to inflict heavy casualties on the enemy. However, the enemy's superior numbers, the sophisticated siege engines of the Black Númenóreans, and the persistent magical harassment of the corrupted sorcerers, inflicted heavy casualties on the defenders, exhausting them. Repeated assaults finally created a fatal breach in the city walls.
In the final moments before the city fell, Isildur made a painful yet wise decision. He ordered his loyal guards to escort his wife and children, along with the remaining women and children in the city, out through a secret passage. He himself rushed into the royal gardens and, before the White Tree, a symbol of Númenor's last hope and the grace of the Valar, painstakingly removed a still-living sapling from the battle-stricken, withered mother tree. With this last hope, and with the desperate protection of his personal guards, he fought his way down the city walls and boarded a fast ship that had been prepared at the river bend.
As Isildur's ships sailed down the Anduin, fleeing Minas Ithil, a sea of fire and slaughter, he looked back and saw Sauron's black banner hoisted atop the city walls. Under a foul spell cast by a corrupted wizard, the sacred White Tree, ignited by unholy fire, crumbled into ashes amidst billowing smoke. His heart was torn asunder, but the young sapling in his arms was his only remaining spark of fire and responsibility.
Isildur did not stop. He sailed out to sea from the river's mouth, braving the wind and waves as quickly as possible as he journeyed north to Arnor to seek aid from his father, Elendil. Meanwhile, his brother Anarion, further upstream in Osgiliath, the ancient capital of Gondor, was under a fierce attack from another branch of Sauron's army. Leveraging Osgiliath's complex waterways and fortified fortresses, Anarion stubbornly resisted the overwhelming enemy force, buying precious time for the north to summon aid.
The tidings of Isildur's doom were like thunder, shaking Arnor and carried by messengers to Lindon and Rivendell. Elendil, a king who had witnessed the fall of Númenor and knew Sauron's evil nature well, felt an unprecedented sense of crisis. He clearly understood that Sauron's power had far exceeded all expectations and had fully recovered. If Men and Elves continued to fight independently, or in only a loose alliance, they would sooner or later be crushed one by one by Sauron's iron torrent and dark magic, and suffer the same fate as Númenor.
"We must unite, united as never before," Elendil declared to all the messengers of Elves and Men at the court of Annúminas, his voice trembling with emotion and determination.
Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor, was the first to respond, his voice ringing out through Lindon like a horn: "The shadow of Sauron falls upon the land. Any hesitation will bring destruction. Elves of Lindon, answer the call of the Alliance."
Meereen, emissary of the Valar and staunch ally of the human kingdoms, unhesitatingly joined Elendil's northern expedition. Glorfindel followed Gil-galad. These two host, bearing the hopes of Middle-earth, set out from Arnor and Lindon, advancing eastward. Along the way, they issued a call for help, and many responded: Elrond of Rivendell led his forces; Amdil, King of Lothlórien, led the Silver Bows; even more heartening, the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm, under threat from Sauron, also sent a force of elite heavy-armored warriors and skilled engineers. And King Oropher of Greenwood the Great, fulfilling his promise to Gil-galad and Meereen, personally led a host of Silvan Elves, equipped with fine weapons forged by the art of Celebrimbor. At the edge of Rhún, Maglor also gathered a force composed of the remnants of Fëanorion and his followers, and with a tragic and atoning resolve, they joined the alliance.
In the year 3430 of the Second Age, the armies of Elendil and Gil-galad met at Amon Sul. Banners fluttered, swords and spears clashed like a forest, and warriors of different races and bloodlines gathered together in a magnificent display of might and power. For the first time since the War of Wrath, such a powerful coalition had appeared in Middle-earth.
To formulate a comprehensive offensive plan, forge sufficient armor and weapons, and provide a resting place for the vast army, the Alliance chose Rivendell, a hard-to-defend and well-stocked region, as their base camp. For three years, they camped there. Dwarven craftsmen's forges toiled day and night, forging sturdy armor and sharp swords. Elven archers honed their precision in the valley. Human cavalry practiced charges and coordinated attacks. In Elrond's Council Chamber, the commanders repeatedly rehearsed the routes and tactics for the assault on Mordor, their maps densely marked. Rivendell was filled with the tense and determined atmosphere of preparation.
The time had finally arrived. In the year 3434 of the Second Age, the armies of the Last Alliance, like unsheathed swords, divided into several groups. With the elves' familiarity with the mountain paths and the dwarves' mastery of the ley lines, they arduously yet successfully crossed the numerous obstacles of the Misty Mountains, like sharp arrows piercing the throat of Mordor.
Their target was the vast land in front of the gate of Mordor. The terrain here was relatively open, and it was the only way to enter the Black Gate of Mordor, and it was also an ideal place for large-scale battles.
During the final march to Dagorlad, a long-lost, heavy feeling of unease gripped Meereen's heart. It wasn't fear, but a deep, acute sense of the fleeting nature of life. He felt as if he stood on the line between life and death—just as he had felt when he had sensed the imminent fall of Finrod Felagund while helping Beren to seize the Silmarils from Angband. Meereen sensed that someone important, or many, would pay the price of this battle.
In silence, Meereen drew the gleaming dagger Maglor had forged for him. Without hesitation, he used the sharp edge to carve a deep gash into his palm. Hot blood, gleaming with a faint golden light, gushed out. He took out three small crystal vials he carried and poured the blood into each.
He gave the three bottles of blood to Gil-galad, Elendil, and Maglor respectively. Maglor looked at his hand, which had long since healed, with a frown in his eyes, full of pain and disapproval: "I forged you a dagger, not to let you hurt yourself."
Meereen gave a tired but resolute smile. "This is a prayer, Maglor, and also a precaution. May it play an unexpected role at the critical moment. Not to harm, but to protect."
Maglor took the bottle of warm blood, held it tightly in his hand, sighed deeply, and said in a low and complex voice: "I understand your intentions. But I hope that in the future you will no longer need to hurt yourself to protect us or anyone else." He stared into Meereen's eyes.
The two men stared at each other, their words unspoken. A solemn and tragic atmosphere enveloped them. As the army drew closer to the Dagorlad Plain, the air thickened with the scent of sulfur and death. On the distant horizon, the everlasting shadow of Mordor loomed like a vast black curtain. Every warrior, elf, human, and dwarf alike, unconsciously tensed their nerves and tightened their grip on their weapons. The horses' breathing grew heavier, and the clatter of armor rang out distinctly in the deadly silence of the marching column.
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