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Lotr: Playing Minecraft in Middle-earth - 325
🕑 Added 2025-11-15 23:42:59 +0000 UTCChapter 325: White Light Through Black Clouds
The host gathered at Roadside Keep and rolled north like a great tide, crossing the Long Wall and, under the eyes of the watchers, continuing into the wilds.
They marched into the black hills and set their feet upon sickly, brown earth.
Angmar.
With a hiss of steel, Levi thrust the Dragonflame Steel greatsword into the ground. The dead grass caught at once and burned outwards in a ring of ash.
Thunder cracked overhead.
It glimmered a sickly green, as though some evil power still clung to the clouds.
Any soul who had spent life in peaceful lands, seeing this corrupted sky and those glints of red and green eyes in the dark, would have struggled not to fall to their knees.
Even clad in armour and with a keen blade in hand.
Yet in that moment, among the eleven thousand of the six legions, not a single face showed fear. They merely followed the man at the very front, advancing in ordered ranks.
A roar rolled out of the distant hills and woods, long and deep. It was hard to tell whether it came from Trolls or packs of Wargs, or both.
The ground shuddered as a stone the size of a man’s torso tore the air and hurtled towards Levi at the head of the line.
The three legion champions nearest to him drew their Dragonsteel blades and leapt to intercept.
They need not have bothered.
Levi sprang high, brought the greatsword down with all his weight, and with a ringing clang shattered the boulder in midair. It burst into shards, only small pieces pattering to the earth behind him.
“Mountain Troll.”
Landing light on his feet, Levi lifted his head and looked toward the source of the throw.
Trolls might be mockeries of Ents, but they were still born in that image, and not to be taken lightly.
After that first strike, the Troll that had thrown the stone fell silent, as if startled.
Levi had no intention of giving it time to recover.
He raised his head and, with one hand, lifted the greatsword, pointing it at the sky ahead.
The expedition began in truth.
The great cleansing had started.
The shining silver-white host drove into Angmar’s darkness like a blade, plunging straight into its heart. The evil things hiding in the shadows could no longer restrain themselves; they bared their fangs.
Dragonflame Steel carved into the Trolls that charged out, splitting skin harder than stone, setting flesh ablaze. Two or three strokes were enough to bring down a Troll on the spot, bone and all.
Behind Levi, the legion champions followed, wielding their own heavy Dragonsteel swords with crisp efficiency, dropping one hard target after another and tearing open gaps for the army.
From time to time, a soldier was smashed into the air by a massive blow from some great foe and tumbled across the ground for dozens of feet. It looked as though he were gravely wounded, yet after a few coughs, he sprang up, adjusted himself, then either fell back for treatment or plunged forward again.
Faint light glimmered over his armour as the protective enchantments flared to life.
Every one of the ten thousand, in truth, wore armour and bore weapons with first-rate enchantments.
Through all these years, Levi had never stopped building up such stores.
Now that the stockpile would show its terror on the field.
Thunder rumbled. Rain crashed down, turning the path ahead to a muddy mess.
Steam rose in wisps from Levi’s armour. The air around him grew suddenly hot, and his outline blurred, a frightful sight from any enemy’s eye.
This great and roaring campaign was fated to last.
Angmar might hold only remnants now, but it had once been a powerful sorcerous realm. Its expanse was not small. Its widest span from east to west stretched for hundreds of miles.
It would take time to scour it clean.
Perhaps some lingering, strange power rooted in that land would try to hinder the reckoning, but at most it would slow them slightly.
The legions advanced at a steady pace, their tread as iron, their momentum unstoppable and crushing all hope in the enemy.
Still, though the ground held firm under them, no one dared relax.
They all knew that when a creature was cornered in true, inescapable despair, even the most chaotic bully that only preyed on the weak could flare into dreadful strength and hurl itself into a last, ferocious counterattack.
The war was raging.
Outside of it, most reactions to the outbreak were stunned.
To many, the mobilisation of Roadside Keep’s armies had been sudden. Only the nearby wanderers had known anything beforehand.
Even many allies had not been informed.
There had been no announcements, no trumpeted proclamations. A target was set, preparations made in quiet, and once all was ready, they simply marched.
Efficient and resolute.
Enough to stir envy.
“It is as if they regard this as only routine work, hardly worth making a fuss over.”
In Minas Tirith, atop a white tower, Denethor spoke in a level tone.
“Though it seems some do not wish my uncle’s campaign to proceed too smoothly.”
Seeing the sudden downpour on the scene within the Palantír, Denethor frowned and looked towards Minas Morgul.
No one would believe the Witch-king had not had a hand in it. Like Minas Morgul, the lands of Angmar had been steeped in eerie, baleful power during his rule. Under that influence, even now the sun was rare over Angmar and the Ettenmoors both.
“Boromir.”
Denethor called.
“I am here, Father.”
The reply came from outside the door, young and vigorous, carrying a straightforward confidence.
A young man, tall and strong, with black hair to his shoulders and a handsome face, stepped in.
Boromir.
He was twenty this year.
Perhaps learning from his father, even in Minas Tirith, the safest place in Gondor, Boromir wore mail beneath his surcoat and carried weapons at his side.
“Good.”
Denethor clapped a hand to his eldest son’s shoulder, smiling in a rare moment of warmth.
Despite his youth and the sparse stubble on his chin, Boromir had already won merit at the front. He truly could be called a capable warrior.
After that small praise, Denethor’s features settled back into stern lines.
“Boromir, take men and watch Minas Morgul. Keep your eyes on the Witch-king. Report his every move to me.”
“If he dares do anything…”
“Then I shall cut him down,” Boromir finished for him without hesitation.
Denethor could not help but laugh.
The boy was still young. A few victories had made him too bold.
He had never yet seen the poisoned mists of Minas Morgul, nor the horrors that stalked that valley.
So like himself once.
“You have never faced the Nazgûl. You do not know their terror… though perhaps that is not entirely a bad thing.”
He thought a moment, then unbuckled the iron sword he had worn constantly at his side for decades and held it out to Boromir.
“Take it. This is the iron sword Uncle Levi gave me. It looks ordinary, but it is tough and hard to break.”
“Now I pass it to you.”
“Yes, Father.”
Boromir bowed his head slightly and took the blade with both hands. Its edge was as sharp as the day it was forged.
And so the Steward’s young, valiant son went to the front, marching to Minas Morgul, the Sorcerer’s tower of the Witch-king, in that valley of poison fumes.
The dreadful sight of that place would stay with him for many years, seared deep into his mind.
He would remember it for the rest of his life.
