“Legolas, Gimli, come help! We have to hide the boats quickly and move out at once.”

After shooting down the passing Nazgûl, Aragorn and Boromir immediately realized how serious the situation was.

Before the One Ring and Sauron are destroyed, the Nazgûl can never truly die. They can only be defeated temporarily. Soon enough, they’ll take on new armor and return again.

The danger brought by the Nazgûl had been lifted for now, but a new danger had arisen.

A Nazgûl doesn’t forget. It will remember exactly where it was defeated. If they stayed here any longer, the enemy would eventually come looking. So they quickly hid their boats, didn’t even stop to rest, and set out at once.

They marched until dawn. When the Hobbits, the weakest in the group, could barely keep going, Boromir suggested they stop for a short rest.

By now, they had reached the northern highlands at Rohan’s border, still relatively safe for the moment, untouched by the flames of war.

But it was far from peaceful. There were still many threats nearby, like the Uruk-hai bands patrolling along the edge of Fangorn Forest, and the battle zones along the North Undeep.

Near a patch of woods, Aragorn was the first to speak. “Let’s make a fire. We need to warm up and rest a bit, to save our strength for what’s ahead.”

With Gandalf gone, Aragorn had naturally become the leader of the Fellowship, taking on the wizard’s role.

“Rest and walk… Do you even know what kind of road lies ahead of us?” Gimli muttered gloomily, recalling the southern terrain. “Twisting hills like a maze, rotting, stinking marshes. I’ve heard there are ghosts in those swamps. Are we really going that way?”

“Yes,” Aragorn nodded. “That’s the road we must take.”

“Less complaining. Save your strength for the march,” Aragorn added.

That didn’t sit well with Gimli. “Oh, less complaining, right, right.” He shook his head just as Pippin came back, dropping an armful of firewood.

“Where’s Frodo?” Pippin asked, looking around.

Legolas, who had been sitting quietly, suddenly stood up. “Something’s wrong, Aragorn,” he said. “I can feel an evil presence drawing near.”

Aragorn’s face grew grave.

Elves were born with a keen sense for evil. His words could not be ignored.

“Find Frodo,” Aragorn ordered.

—

“Come… come…”

Deep in the woods, Frodo wandered through the ruins of some ancient building, looking lonely and desolate.

But the Ring hanging from his neck was anything but still. It pulsed with restless power, reaching outward, trying to corrupt his companions.

It did not tempt blindly. The Ring was selective in its whispers.

It dismissed the other three Hobbits first.

Then the Dwarf. No, Dwarves were too stubborn, too difficult to sway.

The Elf? Also no. His resistance was second only to the Hobbits’.

Then Aragorn, the heir of Isildur. But he was far stronger than his ancestor. He had already been tested once. Frodo had offered him the Ring, and Aragorn had refused, urging Frodo to guard it well.

That left only one Man.

Boromir.

Among them, he was the only true Man, not as pure-hearted as the Hobbits, not as steadfast as the Dwarf, not as otherworldly as the Elf, nor blessed with the noble Dúnedain blood and ethereal calm of Aragorn.

He was just a Man, an ordinary Man, burdened with duty, torn by heavy thoughts and great pressure.

From the very beginning, the Ring had marked him as its target. Yet even for the Ring, it wasn’t easy to corrupt him, not while others were around.

But now, the chance had come.

“We shouldn’t be alone, Frodo,” Boromir said, gathering fallen branches for the fire. “I know what you’re thinking. I understand why you want to be apart… But is it really necessary?”

In Frodo’s frightened eyes, Boromir’s expression darkened, his tone grew unsteady.

At last, overcome by the Ring’s lure, he made his fatal mistake. He lashed out at his companion, trying to seize the One Ring and use it to defeat Mordor.

“Just lend it to me! I’ll give it back, I swear, after I’ve used it!”

But it was futile.

“No! Frodo, wait!”

The forest erupted in noise, then fell silent. Boromir collapsed to his knees, staring at the spot where Frodo had vanished after putting on the Ring. His heart filled with remorse.

“What have I done…?”

Covering his face, he wept bitterly. He realized he had become the last straw that broke Frodo’s resolve.

“Frodo, I’m sorry!”

“Frodo?”

But Frodo didn’t look back. He ran.

Yes, the Ring hadn’t fallen into Boromir’s hands. Its attempt to corrupt him had failed. Yet it had still achieved its goal.

It hadn’t won, but neither had it lost.

—

Following the river southward, at the western side of the North Bridge, the link between the northern riverlands and the high plains, a squad of Uruk-hai who had just circled around from the hills near the falls were preparing to cross the river and join the siege to the north.

Suddenly, their captain raised his hand, signaling his troops to stop.

“I feel it,” he growled under his breath, then roared, “Turn around! Quickly, follow me! Full speed ahead!”

—

“Frodo!”

Aragorn was the first to find Frodo and called out to him, but the look Frodo gave him was filled with fear.

At once, he understood what had happened.

“Frodo,” he said quietly, “I swore an oath to protect you.”

He was the only one in the Fellowship who had made such a vow, even though no one had asked him to.

Frodo once again removed the Ring, holding it open in his palm, showing it plainly before Aragorn.

Thus came Aragorn’s second trial.

A chorus of dark whispers flooded his mind. His eyes went distant, and something dangerous flickered in them. He stared straight at the One Ring, slowly stepping closer, his hand reaching out.

At that moment, if he wanted it, the Ring would have been his.

Frodo closed his eyes.

But the hand did not seize the Ring. Instead, it closed around Frodo’s, gently urging him to put it away.

Aragorn had passed the test, again.

Frodo felt a warmth rise in his chest, about to speak. But suddenly, Aragorn drew his sword.

“Go, Frodo! Run!”

Frodo froze, then drew Sting.

It was glowing.

“The Halfling is there! Get him!”

The Uruk-hai squad that had been drawn by the Ring’s call burst through the trees.

The captain barked his orders. “Kill everyone except the Halfling!”

“There! The Halfling, after him!”

According to the captain’s command, a dozen elite Uruk-hai rushed toward Aragorn to pin him down, while nearly a hundred more charged after Frodo.

Clang!

Aragorn struck down several well-armored Uruk-hai and quickly turned to defend again.

A hundred elite soldiers…

He glanced toward the fleeing Frodo, then gritted his teeth, raising his sword high and shouting with all his strength, a battle cry so fierce it made even the Uruk-hai shudder.

“For the King!”

Then he leapt down from the rocks, swinging the Sword of the King in a wide arc that cut through a swath of startled, panicking Uruk-hai.

The effect was immediate.

“You useless scum! It’s just a name, he’s not even here!”

The captain cursed furiously, though he didn’t mention that he himself had flinched and looked around at the cry.

By then, Legolas and Gimli had arrived, hacking through the enemy ranks alongside Aragorn, carving out a path of blood.

“Where’d the little Hobbit go?” Gimli shouted as he swung his axe.

That was the question on Aragorn’s mind too.

No matter how fierce they were, there were only three of them. Holding back a hundred Uruk-hai was already a miracle.

Meanwhile, another group of elite Uruk-hai had broken off to chase the trail of the four Hobbits.

—

On the other side…

Hearing the clash of battle nearby, Boromir could no longer dwell in regret. He leapt to his feet and charged straight into a band of Uruk-hai trying to seize Pippin and Merry, drawing his sword and cutting one of them down on the spot.

But there were many more behind him.

“Run!” Boromir shouted, pushing the two Hobbits away as he turned to face the oncoming horde alone.

The Uruk-hai surrounded him in a circle, raising their heavy blades, their faces twisted in cruel grins.

“Out of my way!”

He fought with desperate fury, parrying strike after strike with his plain iron sword, cutting down the foes before him one by one.

Alone, utterly alone, he stood against them all.

His clothes were drenched in his own blood, while his sword dripped with the thick, black blood of the enemy. Still fighting, he reached for the silver horn at his waist and blew it.

Braaaam!

The sound of the ancient horn, etched with old runes, rang out loud and clear, so powerful that even across the northern riverlands, within Gondor’s borders, its echo faintly resounded.

It was said that anywhere in Gondor, if the Horn of Gondor was blown, aid would always come, unless every soul had already fallen.

Even beyond Gondor’s borders, in the far northern highlands, the people of Gondor could feel its call, including Faramir, leading his strike force in Ithilien, and their father, listening from afar.

—

In Minas Tirith, Denethor suddenly stood up, eyes wide, staring northward.

“That horn… Boromir!”

“I hear the horn of Gondor sounding in the north. Boromir is in danger… Who? Which army can go and aid him?”

No one.

Mordor’s power was at its peak. Even while one front was attacking the Free Cities, Mordor still had tens of thousands of orcs, thousands of Haradrim, and a massive Corsair fleet attacking from two other directions.

The front lines were burning everywhere. There was not a single spare soldier to send. Even Faramir’s command in Ithilien was stretched thin.

Denethor’s heart trembled.

“No… no matter what, we must send reinforcements. Someone has to go!”

But the distance between Gondor and northern Rohan was vast.

By the time help arrived, would Boromir still be alive?

…Would he?

—

“What’s that sound?”

Inside the fortress city of the North Undeep, the defending commander looked up from his planning table.

He didn’t recognize the horn call, but among the Free Cities, there were always some well-traveled Rangers who knew things others didn’t.

“I know that sound,” one Ranger said. “That’s the horn of Gondor. The captains of the White City blow it whenever they march to war, to rally the troops.”

He was a Ranger who had recently returned from the Crossroads outpost.

“The sound came from the north plains, near the river.”

“And, it may be connected to that Uruk-hai company that suddenly turned back earlier.”

“How do you mean?”

“Not good. We don’t have many troops stationed here to spare… huh?”

He stopped mid-sentence as the commander looked east, toward the great road stretching from Rhovanion.

“They’re here.”

The elite armies gathered from Rhovanion, Dale, and Lake-town had arrived.

The Free Cities had answered. And with that, the enemy’s doom had come.

“Mobilize the troops. Begin the counterattack.”

“Divide the army. No, five battalions. Cross the North Bridge and head toward the source of the horn!”

“Move out immediately!”

Braaaam!

The horns of the Free Cities sounded in reply, answering the distant call for aid, and at the same time, declaring the beginning of the great counteroffensive.

“Charge!”

The armies inside the city and the reinforcements outside joined forces, launching a ferocious assault on the orcs.

No, not an assault. A purge.

Boom!

Across the wide brown plains, tens of thousands of fully armored cavalry crashed into Dol Guldur’s forces, cutting straight through their ranks like a thunderbolt.

The orcs’ formations shattered instantly, unable to resist even for a heartbeat.

Even the massive spiders were torn apart beneath the tide of steel.

Only the trolls and Olog-hai had the strength to resist, but their numbers were too few, and the cavalry quickly pinned them down, preventing any counterattack.

The tide of battle turned in an instant.

The siege of the North Undeep would end today.

The city gates opened wide, and the defenders poured out to join the charge. Five full battalions, over a thousand soldiers, broke off from the main force, galloping across the North Bridge toward the place where the horn had sounded.

—

In the forest littered with dead leaves, the Uruk-hai prowled wildly among the trees.

“Stay behind me…”

Boromir was breathing heavily.

His condition was dire. His body was covered in sword wounds, an arrow lodged deep in his left shoulder. He could no longer use that arm.

Even so, with only one hand left, he had slain over a dozen Uruk-hai through sheer will and courage.

Until their captain arrived.

The Uruk captain was massive, even by their standards, a true elite, nearly the height of a Man. Strong and deadly accurate with a bow, he led another hundred Uruk-hai that quickly surrounded and overwhelmed Boromir, striking him down and leaving him barely alive.

He was indeed strong, but he was still only a Man. One of the greatest of Men, perhaps, but still bound by mortal limits.

He wore only light armor for ease of movement. His shield had been left behind when they came ashore.

The Uruk captain’s arrow was not fast. With a shield, he could have blocked it. Even without one, he might have dodged.

But he couldn’t.

Because behind him were two Hobbits.

He couldn’t move.

Fear is a human instinct, unavoidable. But courage is a choice, born of the strength within.

He chose to stand before his friends, to shield them from all harm. Every arrow that struck him came from the front.

The orcs’ arrows were poisoned.

Whizz!

The second arrow flew, piercing his abdomen. Gritting his teeth through the poison and agony, he swung his sword one final time, cutting down several Uruk-hai.

Then he fell to his knees, his vision blurring, his body no longer responding.

“Pippin… Merry…”

Boromir’s trembling voice called their names. He watched helplessly as the two Hobbits were seized and carried off.

As he looked up at the orc captain’s blade raised above his head, one thought flickered in his mind.

Is this… the end?

At the brink of death, there was no fear in him, only sorrow and regret for his failure, for having let his companions down.

“Boromir!”

Whizz!

An arrow shot toward the Uruk captain just as he raised his blade, but the orc twisted aside and slashed it down midair.

Legolas frowned.

He drew his twin knives, sprinting forward alongside Aragorn and Gimli, cutting through the horde.

Legolas and Gimli bought precious moments. Aragorn knelt beside Boromir, helping him up.

“Aragorn…”

“I have an apple, a golden apple. You know what it can do,” Boromir said weakly.

“Good. Then eat it, quickly!” Aragorn said, urgency in his voice.

“No… I failed everyone. I don’t deserve to live. I don’t deserve to use that. Take it with you. You’ll make better use of it…”

“Get up, Boromir!”

Seeing him trying to give up even now, Aragorn lost his temper. He didn’t bother looking for Boromir’s apple. He pulled out his own and shoved it into Boromir’s mouth.

While doing so, he yanked out both arrows from Boromir’s body with brutal efficiency, to clear the wounds for healing.

Then, after forcing Boromir to chew down the golden apple, he uncorked a bottle of healing draught and poured it into Boromir’s mouth.

The whole process nearly made Boromir choke to death.

“Stop, stop! I’m fine! I’m fine already!”

Revived by the potion and the apple, he sprang to his feet.

“Then fight!”

Aragorn handed him his fallen sword.

Boromir took a deep breath, gripped the weapon tight.

“Then… let’s go.”

Yes, Men can never be perfect. But they always choose to fight on, to the very end.

It was time to act, to make right the mistakes he had made.

Braaaam!

At that moment, a horn sounded behind them, an answer to Boromir’s call for aid.

Rumble… rumble…

The ground trembled under galloping hooves.

The reinforcements from the North Undeep had arrived.

—

—

Completed at Chapter 405!

Visit my profile page for more information.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep