Gondor and Mordor were divided by the Ephel Dúath, the Mountains of Shadow. West of those dark ridges lay Ithilien, Gondor's easternmost fief, a land once famed as the Garden of Gondor. Its borders stretched from the Anduin River in the west to the Mountains of Shadow in the east, from the Dead Marshes in the north to the Poros in the south.
In elder days, it had been a paradise of green woods, swift streams, and fragrant flowers. Minas Ithil, the Tower of the Moon, had once guarded Ithilien's heart and the road into Mordor. But in the long decline of Gondor, the land grew desolate under constant raids, and Minas Ithil fell into the hands of the Enemy. Twisted into Minas Morgul, the tower became a beacon of terror.
For many years, Gondor endured only scattered Orc raids from Morgul. But on this day, the fortress vomited forth its strength at last.
From the Pass of Cirith Ungol and the black gates of Morgul Vale poured a ceaseless tide of Orcs, streaming westward through the Mountains of Shadow into Ithilien.
Among them marched the same watchtower band that Sylas, disguised as an Orc, had once infiltrated on his quest for Shelob's silk. Believing their captain long since devoured by the Spider, the Orcs had squabbled until a new leader was chosen. Yet his reign lasted scarcely a fortnight before the command came to join the muster. Like countless others, their fate was to vanish nameless into Mordor's war.
To strike Gondor, Sauron's legions first had to cross the Anduin. The only true passage lay at Osgiliath, once the proud capital of Gondor, where a mighty bridge spanned the river. The city straddled both banks, the East District abandoned to ruin, the West District still held by Gondor.
Since Gandalf's counsel had stirred Denethor to caution, Gondor had reinforced Osgiliath's western bastion. But decades of uneasy peace had dulled vigilance. Few believed a storm was truly coming, until black banners rose across the river and the East District swarmed with tens of thousands of Orcs.
They surged across the bridge in a tide of iron and fury. Horns rang, gates slammed shut, and the defenders of Gondor rained arrows and stones from the battlements. Scaling ladders went crashing into the river; countless Orcs were slain before they could even reach the walls. The bridge became slick with blood, and the Anduin carried bodies downstream.
For a time, Gondor held. Their courage and the height of their walls broke charge after charge. The defenders shouted in grim triumph as the Orcs pulled back. But their cheers died quickly.
From the dark horde advanced monstrous Trolls, towering brutes with hides thick as iron. Each bore on its back a black iron sphere, glimmering with runes of fire. At their base hissed smoking fuses, spitting sparks like serpents' tongues.
The captains on the wall cried out in alarm. None among Gondor had ever seen such weapons, but dread clutched every heart. The Trolls heaved the iron spheres against the city gates, sparks crawling ever closer to the powder within.
Had Sylas been present, he would have known the truth instantly: Saruman had betrayed Middle-earth with fire and craft, teaching the Enemy the art of black powder.
Arrows clattered harmlessly from the Trolls' hides.
A deafening roar split the air. The Gondorian defenders on the battlements staggered as the earth itself seemed to shudder beneath them.
The iron-bound gates of Osgiliath's West District, proud and sturdy though they were, had been blasted apart in a single cataclysmic strike. Shards of stone and timber flew like arrows, cutting down the men who had stood valiantly behind. Smoke and fire rose together, choking the air.
From the eastern span of the bridge came the answering roar of the Orcs, a tide of jeers and savage cheers. With renewed fury they surged forward, brandishing crude blades, spears, and hooked axes, pouring into the gaping wound of the city's gate.
Steel clashed upon steel within the streets of the West District. Gondor's men fought with grim resolve, their white tree banners stained with ash and blood. Again and again they rallied, but the endless flood of Orcs pressed harder, forcing them back through the narrow streets.
The city stood on the edge of ruin. Seeing this, the captain of the garrison, his armor dented, his helm torn, made a fateful choice.
"Drive them back! Break the bridge, lest all Gondor fall!" he cried, raising his sword high. His voice rang across the chaos, and for a moment, the men of Gondor felt the fire of Númenor blaze anew in their hearts.
With a desperate charge they cut through the ranks of Orcs, spilling out onto the bridge itself. The Anduin foamed and frothed beneath, swallowing Orc and man alike as bodies tumbled into its torrent. The cries of the dying mingled with the thunder of the river.
But fate turned cruel. In the thick of the struggle, a black-fletched arrow found its mark. The captain reeled, struck through, and both he and his steed toppled from the bridge into the river's cold embrace.
Leaderless, the men faltered. They tried to set fire to the bridge supports, to tear down its stonework, but their efforts were broken beneath the relentless counter-surge of Mordor. The Orcs swarmed, cutting down all who lingered.
By nightfall, Gondor's banners had been torn down, its walls overrun. The West District of Osgiliath had fallen.
The Anduin, once Gondor's shield, now lay breached. Mordor's armies, entrenched in Osgiliath, had gained a road straight to the Pelennor Fields and the White City beyond. Minas Tirith itself now lay within the Enemy's reach.
Word sped swiftly upriver. Messengers, bloodied but unbroken, carried the dreadful tidings to the Steward's hall. Ecthelion II ordered the defenses of Minas Tirith to full muster, and at once the beacon-hills of Gondor were set ablaze.
One by one the fires leapt skyward, seven great pyres crowning the ridges of the White Mountains, their yellow smoke curling against the wind. Far away, the call for aid reached Edoras, where the horse-lords watched with troubled eyes.
King Fengel stood grim upon the steps of Meduseld. The duty of Rohan was clear: Gondor called, and by oath they must answer. Yet the Riddermark itself burned. From the north, Orcs out of the Black Gate had joined with Easterling raiders, sweeping down upon Rohan's borders with fire and blood.
Torn between oath and survival, Fengel chose the path of both duty and necessity. "Send a thousand riders to Gondor," he commanded. "Let them bear both sword and word, that Gondor may know our plight."
The horns of the Mark were sounded, and messengers rode swiftly to summon every éored to war.
But the king's new counsellor, grave and cautious, spoke further: "My lord, westward stands the Wizard of Isengard. He has the Dunlendings at his call, and his power has grown. Will you not send to him also?"
Fengel's thoughts turned to the strange omens of the sky, the months of blazing stars, and the tale of Saruman's spy unmasked by the dark-robed wizard, Sylas, the Lord of Dragons. The king's gaze hardened.
"Yes," he said at last. "I will write with my own hand. Ride with all speed to Isengard. If the Dragon-Lord will lend us his might, Rohan may yet endure this storm."
With swift urgency, the Steward of Gondor seized his quill and penned a letter heavy with sincerity. The parchment was sealed in haste, and a rider, mounted on the fleetest horse in the stables, galloped westward toward Isengard.
Orthanc, Isengard
Within the black tower, Sylas and Gandalf had already learned of Gondor's peril, even before King Fengel of Rohan received word.
This knowledge came not by messenger, but by stone. For the Steward of Gondor, Ecthelion II, still held the palantír of Minas Tirith, while Gandalf kept the recovered palantír that once belonged to Saruman. Through its dark lens, the Steward had reached across the leagues and spoken directly with Gandalf, revealing the fall of Osgiliath and the dire threat now looming over Minas Tirith.
At the news, both Sylas and Gandalf frowned.
Sylas's mind churned uneasily. This was never meant to happen, he thought. In the story as he remembered it, Mordor's great assault upon Gondor belonged to the War of the Ring, long years away. Why then had Sauron struck so soon? What had shifted the course of fate?
Gandalf, meanwhile, sat grave and silent, smoke curling from his pipe. His brows knit in worry.
"Sauron's strength should not yet be whole. Why, then, is he so desperate to press his hand against Gondor now?"
He drew one final puff, exhaled slowly, and then rose to his feet.
"I must beg your pardon, Sylas," he said gravely. "I cannot stand as your proxy now to seek Arwen's hand in Rivendell. I must go at once to Minas Tirith. If that city falls, the fate of all Middle-earth will hang by a thread."
Sylas was not surprised. He shook his head with calm resolve.
"There is no need to apologize. A betrothal can wait, this crisis cannot. Lord Elrond himself will surely be preoccupied with Gondor's plight. It is wiser to leave such matters until you return safely."
Gandalf's eyes softened, and a fleeting smile touched his lips. "Very well. Once Gondor is steadied, I shall go to Rivendell with you and see you win your beloved's hand."
"Can you face this alone, Gandalf?" Sylas asked, his tone edged with concern. "If Gondor stands on the brink, do you not need aid?"
But Gandalf only shook his head. "My charge is not to strike down armies, but to kindle courage in the hearts of men. Gondor needs a steward of hope, not a weapon. That I can give them."
His eyes hardened as he added, "And there is another reason. While Mordor presses Gondor, Saruman may seize his chance to creep back and claim Isengard. Someone must remain here to guard against him. That task falls to you, Sylas."
Sylas's lips pressed into a thin line, but he did not argue. Gandalf was right. When last they had chased Saruman, the fallen wizard had been dragged back into Mordor like a broken cur. Such a creature would not sit idle while his dark master moved against Gondor.