Whether this journey will end in a safe return, no one yet knows.
From Garrett's words, Théoden learned of the enemy's composition.
Nearly twenty thousand Haradrim and their mighty war elephants, more than ten thousand Easterlings, over seven thousand Far Harad soldiers, and tens of thousands of orcs and Uruk-hai. Altogether, perhaps a hundred thousand.
And leading them were several Nazgûl.
And that wasn't even all. Far away, a vast fleet of black-sailed corsair ships was sailing toward the battlefield.
How many men did they have on their own side?
Ten thousand riders hastily gathered by Rohan, the garrison of Minas Tirith, and the reinforcements from Gondor's fiefs rushing to the White City.
Would all that even make thirty thousand?
No one knew.
For now, the only thing they could do was gather as many soldiers as possible.
"Twelve thousand."
Standing upon a rise, Théoden counted his men.
After several days of preparation, twelve thousand riders had assembled in Edoras, the capital of Rohan.
Among them were seasoned veterans and newly conscripted men, some still bearing the youthfulness of boys. Not all were clad in fine armor. Some wore only light gear.
Only their horses were uniformly equipped.
Most of these soldiers had been called from the western regions of Rohan and the garrisons near the capital.
"There could still be more, from Eastfold, from the northern highlands, we can summon a few more..."
"But I fear there is no more time," Aragorn said, shaking his head beside him.
"By the time more troops arrive, Minas Tirith may already be aflame. It will be too late then. And the Eastfold must also be guarded."
"Then we ride," Théoden declared.
"We ride today. Gondor will not stand alone."
Indeed, it would not.
After Rohan, Gondor's messenger rode swiftly westward. His destination, the City of Waters.
But before he reached it, he encountered the fleet of the City of Waters already sailing toward the sea.
"Friend of Gondor, what brings you here?" a soldier asked him.
Not long after, Garrett received what the messenger had brought, a letter of appeal from Denethor.
"Do not worry," Garrett said aboard the ship. "I will go to Gondor."
"Though... I will take a slightly different route."
The ships sailed down the river toward the sea. At a temporary harbor established in the Enedwaith region, Garrett transferred to the Apprentice-class flagship, taking Pippin with him.
And also an item he had retrieved from Wayfort through the Nether portal of the City of Waters.
The palantír of Orthanc.
Inside the flagship, in a wide, brightly lit chamber, Garrett and Pippin stood side by side, gazing at the crystal sphere on the table, shrouded beneath a black cloth.
"Are you ready?" Garrett asked. "You can still turn back now. No one will blame you. Your courage is proven by simply standing here. What comes next... few in all of Middle-earth could withstand."
"I'm ready," Pippin said firmly. "For Frodo, for my friends, for the Shire and the Free Cities, I won't back down."
"Good." Garrett nodded. "Remember what I told you. Do not answer his questions. Do not reveal anything about Frodo or Sam. You need only prove that you are the Hobbit captured by the armies under the Nazgûl of Isengard. Nothing more."
"I remember."
"Good. Then let's begin."
Garrett lifted the black cloth from the seeing-stone and placed his hand upon it, letting his fingers touch the cold surface.
In the next instant, his will was drawn in, linked to the stone.
Garrett joined the connection, and at once, the evil fire within the crystal was extinguished, even faintly suppressed beneath his presence.
Boom!
High upon the tower of Barad-dûr, the flaming Eye immediately turned its gaze toward him, locking onto Garrett in confrontation.
It saw Garrett, and beside him, Pippin.
Feeling that scorching gaze, burning both mind and flesh, Pippin couldn't help but hold his breath. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead.
"Long time no see, failure. Still using your little tricks to weave false illusions for others?"
Garrett had not forgotten. Through the decades, every time Denethor had used the palantír, Sauron had tried to interfere from the other side. Unable to break through Denethor's iron will, he would instead fill the Steward's vision with false images of Gondor's ruin, hoping to shake his resolve.
It had, admittedly, some effect.
But only some.
For alongside those visions of destruction, there had always been the presence of a steadfast ally.
Over the years, Denethor might have been anxious, might have lived under crushing pressure, but he had never despaired.
"Hahahahahaha... That was no illusion," came a cruel, evil laugh from within the crystal.
Pippin clutched his chest, feeling as though a blade had pierced through it.
"Wait... a Hobbit?"
Sauron's will reached past Garrett and fell upon Pippin.
"Tell me, do you carry the precious thing?"
Pippin's eyes widened, cold sweat streaming down his face. His mouth opened, a terrible urge rising within him to speak, to confess everything.
Tap.
A hand fell on his shoulder. The warmth of it calmed him instantly.
"Take a guess," Garrett said.
His will surged forward, taking the brunt of the pressure off Pippin.
He raised an eyebrow toward the fiery Eye within the crystal, a faint, knowing smile tugging at his lips, then abruptly severed the connection.
From that moment onward, Sauron knew no peace. His gaze turned northward, his attention even slipping away from the siege of Gondor before him.
Whoosh.
In the room, Pippin staggered backward, nearly falling.
Garrett caught him and said, "Our goal is accomplished. Well done, Pippin."
"That's... it?"
Pippin clutched his chest, gasping for breath, still shaken.
A shadow clung to his heart. His vision dimmed, as if countless fiery eyes now watched him from all sides, unblinking, suffocating.
Even though the Dark Eye no longer looked their way.
As Pippin felt the creeping weight of fear, a cool bottle was pressed against his face.
"Drink this, then rest for a while," Garrett said. "We'll be departing soon."
Hoooonk!
A bright, vigorous horn sounded.
Pippin swayed, feeling as if the ground beneath him were moving.
No.
It wasn't the ground.
It was the ship beneath his feet.
He looked up at Garrett and asked, "Where are we going?"
"Pelargir, a battlefield crawling with enemies."
"What's the matter, afraid?"
Pippin swallowed hard, tightened his grip on his short sword, and said firmly, "No."
"I'm ready to fight."
"Good."
Garrett looked at the Hobbit, no longer the mischievous, carefree soul he once was, but a stern-faced warrior now, and said, "There's just one more thing. Sailing at sea isn't quite the same as paddling on the Brandywine."
"I hope you don't get seasick."