LOTR: TMCP Ch. 401

"Don't think Hobbits are easy to kill!"

In a hidden chamber, Sam stood tensely, shielding Frodo behind him, glaring at the limping orc leader before them.

"Hahaha..."

The lame leader laughed twice, approaching them slowly as he chuckled. Just as Sam was about to throw himself forward in a desperate attack, the tall Uruk, tall compared to Hobbits at least, suddenly dropped to one knee, holding out Sam's sword and Sting, and offered them back with both hands.

Sam and Frodo were both stunned. They could hardly believe it.

"I saw it."

The limping orc raised his head and said, "I saw the name of that lord engraved on this sword. I once swore allegiance to him."

Sam froze for a moment and said, "You mean Garrett?"

"Yes, that lord."

Hearing that confirmation, the two Hobbits exchanged incredulous glances, a faint light of hope dawning in their hearts. Only after both Sam and Frodo had retrieved their weapons did they finally accept that this wasn't a dream or an illusion. Even in such dire circumstances, there was still hope, and it came from an orc.

"All right, I believe you," Sam said, sheathing his sword. "This sword was indeed forged by Garrett himself and gifted to me for my journey. When I return, I'll make sure to tell him about what you've done. I must say, you've done a great deed. And, what should I call you?"

"Call me Freak. Or Crippled Freak, if you like."

"That's... certainly fitting."

"Can you get us out of here?" Frodo asked quickly, once he was sure it was safe.

"I'm afraid it won't be easy."

Freak shook his head. "I'm not the only leader here. There's another, his name's Shagrat. He's also an Uruk, and no weaker than I am. But unlike me, he serves directly under the Dark Lord himself. I serve the Witch-king of Minas Morgul, the one who gives everyone goosebumps. He and I... don't get along. And he's very loyal."

"Come out, Freak!"

Just as Freak was sharing information with the two Hobbits, a loud shout erupted outside, followed by violent pounding on the door.

"What's all the racket?"

Freak barked irritably, shooting a quick look to the Hobbits, motioning for them to hide.

Speak of the devil. Shagrat had arrived.

Bang!

Freak kicked the door open and glared furiously at Shagrat. "You'd better have a reason for disturbing me, or I'll carve you up."

"I got word there are spies spotted near the stairs of Cirith Ungol. You seen anything?"

"No. I haven't heard a thing."

"Really?"

Shagrat looked around suspiciously, scanning the small chamber from left to right. Nothing seemed out of place.

Still, he wasn't satisfied. "I think someone's trying to hog the credit."

"You picking a fight?"

Freak's face darkened.

The two Uruk leaders stood there, locked in a tense standoff.

"Don't let me catch you slipping."

With no evidence to back his suspicions, Shagrat finally left, though a few orc scouts lingered nearby, keeping watch.

---

The petty power struggles among the orcs continued both openly and in secret.

Meanwhile, elsewhere, their superiors were locked in a far more ferocious battle.

"Form ranks!"

Whoosh.

The armies of the Free Cities lined up at the front, shields raised in perfect unison, smooth, disciplined, and almost beautiful to watch. But no one cared about that anymore. Because across the field, the enemy's evil legions were charging once again.

"Hold the line!"

Each battalion commander shouted the order down the ranks.

"Loose arrows!"

At Garrett's signal, a storm of arrows rained down in an instant, blotting out the sky and cutting down scores of orcs. The onrushing tide faltered, their momentum broken. A single volley wiped out nearly an entire regiment. But the enemy was endless.

As the fallen were trampled underfoot, new orcs immediately took their place, surging forward over the corpses of their comrades.

In the grip of war and fate, Men often forget fear. They forget everything, even their names. Their minds go blank, and only the echo of commands remains. Advance, retreat, or die.

In such a vast and terrible scene, individual will always seems so small. Even Garrett and Sauron were swallowed up by the tide of war. Mankind had their own faith and determination. They no longer feared Sauron. One by one, they charged forward.

Meanwhile, the armies of Mordor, driven by a wicked will, also forgot fear, surging ahead in a black tide that swept toward the shining ranks of the human host. The dark, rugged ground was crawling with enemies from the deepest pits of Mordor. The slopes, the cliffs, every bit of space was crammed full. Monstrous beasts charged together, shrieking in the sky above. No one could tell which ones carried Nazgûl and which were simply wild creatures.

ROAR!

Dragonfire rained down from the heavens. Each burst wiped out hundreds of orcs at a time. Yes, Mordor's armies seemed endless, but even so, they could not halt the advance of the allied host of Men. Because this army was strong.

Immovably strong.

The battle lines kept pushing forward, the clash growing fiercer by the moment. At the very front, as the two armies met once more, Garrett faced Sauron again. He swung his sword relentlessly. He had long since lost count of how many rounds they'd fought.

Dust streaked his face. He had eaten several rations.

The elemental energy stored in his staff was completely spent. He could only replenish it slightly when passing over the bodies of freshly slain orcs. But the runic shields that protected him flickered from the constant strain. Once, Sauron even caught an opening and managed to wound Garrett's true body. But Sauron had not come away unscathed either. His armor was dented in several places, even cracked at one point, revealing the dark, unknown substance beneath.

This duel was of such intensity that even the smallest lapse meant death.

Sauron's will and focus were indeed formidable. Though he seemed to be driven back again and again, he never fell, only retreated, never defeated. But no matter how powerful, his spirit was not infinite. His strength was being steadily drained.

Perhaps on ordinary days, he could rely on his natural recovery, managing his dark dominion and pursuing his research without the slightest fatigue. But now, he faced a dire threat. His mind burned at full intensity, his energy unable to replenish as fast as it was consumed.

Maybe it was because the battle had raged too long, but at this moment, even Sauron felt a trace of weariness.

Or perhaps, boredom.

For an instant, he lifted his head, gazing over the grand battlefield. His eyes swept across the sky, over the endless carnage before and behind him. For a fleeting second, his thoughts drifted.

And Garrett seized that moment.

He lunged forward, unleashing a sword technique he had rarely used in this battle, crashing into Sauron and knocking him off balance.

Boom!

The greatsword came down hard, driving Sauron backward, his massive frame tilting under the impact.

Boom!

A second strike. Sauron staggered again, his armor buckling.

Clang!

The third blow sent the spiked mace flying, clattering to the ground.

At that point, Sauron no longer wished to fight. He roared for his subordinates, hoping to retreat under the cover of his legions. But he was not the only one calling for aid.

"Rally to me!"

Garrett's voice rang out, and the elite soldiers, along with two legion champions who had been waiting nearby, charged in from the flanks. Before Sauron's forces could reach him, they threw their full strength behind Garrett, tackling Sauron to the ground.

"Die!"

The cry rang out.

He reversed his grip and drove the greatsword downward. Time seemed to slow in Sauron's eyes. The human legend before him, the descending sword, the ashen armor, the tangled hair streaked with dust from battle... That face, dirtied but resolute, filled his vision.

Was this... death? The end? Was this truly my fate...?

No!

"AAAAAAHHHHH!"

An earsplitting roar burst forth, followed by a violent storm of wind.

BOOM!

At that instant, everyone's minds went blank. A deafening hum filled their ears.