The great army assembled by Wayfort, an immense army marching northward. They crossed the fortification line, and under the watchful gaze of the sentinels, continued deeper into the north, toward those shadowed mountains, stepping upon that sickly brown earth.
Angmar.
Whoosh.
Garrett drove his greatsword into the ground. The withered grass instantly ignited, burning into a ring of gray ash.
Boom!
Thunder rumbled in the sky. The lightning flashed a ghastly green, as though some lingering evil power still festered within the clouds.
Anyone born and raised in peaceful lands, seeing this unhealthy sky and the glimmer of crimson or sickly green eyes in the darkness, would likely struggle to even stand firm.
Even if clad in armor, sword in hand.
But at this very moment, among the eleven thousand soldiers of the six legions of the expeditionary army, not one showed a hint of fear. They simply followed the man at the forefront, moving in disciplined formation.
ROAR!
A series of roars erupted from the distant mountains and forests, whether from trolls, warg packs, or both, no one could tell.
Thud!
The earth trembled. A boulder, nearly as large as a Man, came hurtling through the air, slicing the wind as it flew straight toward Garrett at the head of the army.
The three legion champions closest to him drew their dragonsteel swords and stepped forward, ready to intercept it.
But clearly, their actions were unnecessary.
Garrett leapt high into the air and struck downward with all his might. With a CLANG!, the boulder shattered midair into dust and shards, the fragments scattering harmlessly behind him.
"Mountain trolls," he muttered, landing lightly. He looked toward the direction the boulder had come from.
Trolls, though twisted mockeries of the ents, were still not to be underestimated, for they were modeled after beings of immense might.
After that single attack, the troll that had thrown the stone fell silent, seemingly terrified.
But he had no intention of letting it recover.
He raised his head and lifted his greatsword, pointing it toward the sky ahead.
Thus, the expedition officially began.
The Great Purge had commenced.
The glorious silver-white army pierced through Angmar's black clouds like a blade, driving straight into its heart. And the vile creatures lurking in the shadows could no longer restrain themselves. They bared their fangs at last.
The greatsword cleaved into a charging troll, slicing open skin tougher than stone and setting its flesh ablaze. Within a few swift strikes, the massive creature fell dead on the spot, its bones split apart.
Following close behind Garrett, the legion champions, each wielding equally sharp and heavy dragonsteel blades, cut down one hardened monster after another with clean, efficient movements, carving a path through for the advancing army.
Thud!
Occasionally, a soldier was struck by a massive blow from a large enemy and sent flying, rolling several times upon the muddy ground. Though badly shaken, he would merely cough a few times, rise quickly, and either retreat for treatment or rejoin the fight without hesitation.
Faint light shimmered from their armor. The protective enchantments inscribed upon it were now taking effect.
Yes, over ten thousand soldiers, and every piece of armor and every weapon bore powerful enchantments.
All those years, he had never ceased his preparations. And now, on this battlefield, those accumulated powers would finally reveal their terrifying might.
Rumble...
Thunder rolled again, and torrential rain poured down, turning the advancing road to mud.
Steam rose in wisps from his body; the air around him grew hot, the temperature spiking abruptly. His figure blurred, becoming indistinct, and to his enemies, utterly terrifying.
This grand campaign, with all its thunder and fury, was destined to last for a considerable time.
Even if only scattered remnants remained, Angmar had once been a powerful realm of sorcery. Its territory was not small. From east to west its longest diameter spanned at least several hundred miles.
It wouldn't be cleansed in any short stretch of time.
Perhaps the purge of this region would be impeded somewhat by the lingering presence of mysterious powers, but those obstructions would be only minor.
Each legion advanced with steady efficiency; their steps were iron-sure, unstoppable, and left the enemy despairing.
Still, although the situation was stable, no one permitted their guard to slip.
Everyone knew that when true, inescapable despair closed in, even creatures normally cowardly and vicious, the sort who prey on the weak and avoid the strong, could erupt with terrible power and launch a fierce counterattack in their final moments.
A great war was underway.
The outbreak of this campaign, however, had left most outsiders astonished.
To many people it had all happened too suddenly: the army at Wayfort gathered and then departed so abruptly that, apart from nearby Rangers, almost nobody knew it was happening.
Many allies hadn't even been informed.
There were no announcements, no grand proclamations. Only an objective was set, preparations were made in silence, and when ready they simply executed.
Efficient. And enviable.
"It's as if it were just a routine task done without fanfare, not worth any grandstanding," Denethor remarked from atop the White Tower in Gondor.
"But it seems some forces don't want my uncle's expedition to go too smoothly." He frowned at the sudden downpour appearing in the palantír's vision and turned his gaze toward the direction of Minas Morgul.
If anyone were to claim the Witch-king had nothing to do with this, no one would believe it. Like the cursed valley of Minas Morgul, the land of Angmar during the Witch-king's rule was filled with an eerie, ominous power. Under that influence, even now Angmar and the Ettenmoors rarely saw sunlight.
"Boromir." Denethor called out suddenly.
"I'm here, Father." A voice replied from outside, young, vigorous, and carrying an unshakable confidence.
A handsome, tall young Man with shoulder-length dark hair entered the chamber. It was Boromir.
He was twenty this year.
Perhaps from lessons learned from his father, even in the safest part of Minas Tirith, the very heart of Gondor, Boromir wore armor beneath his robe and carried weapons.
"Good," Denethor said, clasping his eldest son on the shoulder and, rare for him, smiling.
Though still young and barely sporting a beard, Boromir had already distinguished himself at the front and could rightly be called a capable warrior.
After praising his son, Denethor resumed his usual stern manner.
"Boromir, you will take men to watch Minas Morgul. Shadow the Witch-king's movements and report every one of his actions to me."
"If he attempts to make a move..." Boromir took up the sentence boldly. "I will cut him down."
Denethor smiled at that.
The boy was still too young, proud because of a few victories. He had never seen the poisonous mists of Minas Morgul nor the myriad horrors that scoured that land.
It was so like him... just as I was in my day.
"You've never faced the Nazgûl; you don't know their terror... Well, perhaps that's not entirely ill-advised," Denethor reflected. He removed the iron sword that had hung at his side for decades and solemnly handed it to Boromir.
"Take this. It was given to me by Garrett. The blade looks ordinary, but it is tenacious and hard to destroy."
"I now pass it to you."
"Yes, Father." Boromir bowed his head slightly and took the still-keen blade into both hands.
Thus the young, brave son of the Steward set out for the front, to face Minas Morgul itself: the Witch-king's tower of sorcery and the toxin-filled, dreadful valleys beyond.
That terrifying tableau would follow him for many years, searing itself into his mind...
A memory he would never forget.