Minas Tirith, the royal city of Gondor, was built into the mountainside, tier upon tier, its seven levels rising like a crown from the foothills of the White Mountains behind it.
Each level was enclosed by towering walls, each gate offset from the one below so that the approach wound back and forth, a masterwork of defensive design meant to delay any invading force.
For centuries, Minas Tirith had stood unconquered. It was the fortress that even time had failed to bring low, the last bulwark of Men.
But now, the armies of Mordor darkened its gates.
Before its shining walls crawled a host of horrors: Orcs, Trolls, and, most terrifying of all, more than a dozen cold-born Dragons, enormous wyrms of pale scale and glacial breath. Their sheer presence filled the soldiers and citizens with despair.
And then, from behind the black ranks of Mordor's army, came a flash of white, like lightning cutting through a storm.
Gandalf the Grey, mounted on his steed Shadowfax, raced forward faster than the eye could follow. The wind itself seemed to chase him; his passage left only a streak of light and dust in his wake.
The Orcs roared and raised their spears, too slow. Shadowfax darted through them like a phantom.
Gandalf raised his staff high.
A wave of radiant light burst forth, pure and blinding.
The Orcs shrieked, stumbling back as if struck by invisible fire. Even the Uruk-hai bred by Saruman and the massive Olog-hai Trolls of Mordor, creatures made to endure daylight, quailed before that brilliance.
Behind Gandalf thundered a host of several thousand Gondorian soldiers, those whom he had rallied and reorganized along his journey north.
Their fear was gone, burned away by the wizard's courage.
"For Gondor! For the White City!" they cried, surging forward, steel flashing against the sea of darkness.
Though outnumbered, not a single man faltered.
Gandalf led the charge himself.
His staff blazed in one hand; in the other, he held his shining sword. Wherever the light fell, shadows fled, Orcs and Trolls blinded, flailing helplessly before the storm of steel.
He broke through the first ranks and rode straight for one of the monstrous cold Dragons towering above the battlefield.
Leaping from Shadowfax, he landed upon the creature's back, his robes whipping in the wind.
He thrust out his staff, unleashing another surge of radiance. The holy light erupted from his hand, blinding the beast.
In that instant, he drove his sword upward, deep into the Dragon's maw, through bone and sinew.
The creature gave a thunderous roar, trembled violently, and crashed headlong to the earth.
Dust and snow exploded from the impact as Gandalf withdrew his sword, breath steady, cloak swirling like storm clouds.
He turned his gaze toward the other cold Dragons besieging the city. Without pause, he drew from his enchanted satchel a long, slender broom.
The broom lifted him into the air with a burst of wind, and Gandalf shot forward.
Below, Shadowfax, untethered, galloped through the enemy host with uncanny grace, untouchable as a spirit of the wild.
High upon the Citadel, Steward Turgon watched the battlefield from the White Tower. His heart leapt when he saw Gandalf fell one of the cold Dragons single-handedly.
"Open the gates!" he ordered, his voice ringing out. "Ride forth, aid the wizard! Stand with him!"
The gates of Minas Tirith groaned open. The city garrison charged out in disciplined ranks, joining the fray with renewed vigor.
From the battlements above, archers loosed volleys of arrows, and trebuchets hurled stones down upon the advancing enemy.
Gandalf darted through the air on his broom, his robes billowing behind him, weaving between the Dragons' snapping jaws and sweeping tails.
The cold Dragons roared in fury.
When the moment came, Gandalf raised his staff once more and cast a blinding burst of holy light.
The brilliance struck several Dragons at once. Their eyes, used to shadow and frost, were seared by the radiance.
Blinded and enraged, the beasts thrashed wildly, swinging their tails and smashing through their own ranks.
The Mordor army was thrown into chaos. Orcs and Trolls screamed as their allies crushed them underfoot.
Facing more than a dozen cold dragons, Gandalf quickly realized he could not destroy them all at once.
Without delay, he turned his broom skyward and soared toward Minas Tirith, landing upon the highest terrace, the seventh level, where the Royal Palace stood.
There, before the Steward Turgon, Gandalf dismounted, cloak still blazing with the embers of battle.
"Your Highness," Gandalf said, voice firm but calm, "order every barrel of oil in the city to be brought to the walls. Hurl them down upon the dragons, we'll test them by fire."
The Steward did not hesitate. He immediately commanded his men to gather all the flammable oil from the city stores.
Moments later, great barrels were rolled to the battlements. At the sound of the war-horns, they were tipped over the parapets.
The barrels shattered upon impact, splashing torrents of oil across the dragons' backs and scales.
Seeing the creatures slick with oil, Gandalf lifted his staff toward the sky.
The crimson gem upon his hand, Narya, the Ring of Fire, flared to life.
A surge of heat rippled through the air; the blades and arrows of the Gondorian soldiers burst into flame.
"Loose!" Gandalf commanded.
A storm of flaming arrows streaked through the dark, raining down upon the cold dragons.
The arrows could not pierce their scales, but they did not need to. The oil ignited at once, flames racing along the beasts' bodies.
In an instant, the dragons became living infernos, their roars shaking the very stones of the White City.
Maddened by agony, they rampaged through the ranks of Mordor's army, crushing Trolls and Orcs beneath their blazing limbs. Wherever they passed, tents and siege engines erupted into flame.
A wall of fire spread through the enemy host.
From the battlements, Steward Turgon watched in awe as the battlefield below transformed into chaos and light.
"Sound the horns!" he cried. "Ride forth! For Gondor!"
The Gondorian army, emboldened by the sight, surged from the gates in full charge. Their swords, still alight with Narya's flame, carved blazing arcs through the night.
Though vastly outnumbered, their morale soared, while that of Mordor's host collapsed.
Panicked Orcs and Trolls fled the burning Dragons, trampling one another as they tried to escape the spreading fire.
The White City's defenders pressed forward from the walls.
High in the air, Gandalf scanned the battlefield until his sharp eyes found the Orc general shouting orders from behind the lines.
He leaned forward on his broom and shot toward him like a falling star.
The Orc leader, seeing the blazing figure approach, screamed for his archers to fire.
A hail of black arrows filled the sky.
But Gandalf's sword moved faster, a blur of silver light. Each arrow that came near was deflected, broken, or burned to ash before it reached him.
Within seconds, he landed among the commander's guard.
One sweeping motion, and the Orc leader's head fell, his command ending in silence.
With another stroke, Gandalf struck down the banners of Mordor, the black insignia falling into the flames.
Leaderless, the remaining Orcs broke ranks entirely, casting down their weapons and fleeing toward the east.
The Gondorian army gave pursuit, their war-cries echoing through the night.
Yet Gandalf did not celebrate. His sharp gaze turned once more to the battlefield.
The dragons, though engulfed in flame, still lived.
The dragons' hides were too thick for fire alone to kill them. The flames scorched their flesh, but could not pierce their cores.
Perhaps it was instinct, or the chaos of the Mordorian rout, that turned their minds eastward.
They remembered the Anduin River.
With agonized bellows, the burning monsters began to stampede across the Pelennor, tearing through friend and foe alike as they charged toward the distant water, desperate to quench their flames.
Gandalf would not allow them to escape.
He urged his broom forward, chasing the fiery behemoths. His sword flashed again and again, and two of the dragons fell beneath his blows, crashing into the scorched fields.
Before he could press the attack, however, new horns sounded from the east.
From the ruined city of Osgiliath, which straddled the Anduin, the armies of Mordor surged forth once more.
These were not mere Orcs and Trolls, among them marched Easterlings from Rhûn, Haradrim horsemen from the deserts of the south, and the black-armored Men of Númenor's fallen line.
Several dragons crouched across the broken spans of Osgiliath's bridge, using their immense bodies as living causeways to carry the Mordorian host across the river.
The Gondorian soldiers who pursued from Minas Tirith faltered at the sight. Unable to seize Osgiliath, their morale plummeted.
If Osgiliath could not be retaken, Mordor would once again have a path to Gondor's heart, and nothing would stand between them and Minas Tirith.
Gandalf, unwilling to let despair take root, flew down among the soldiers. His presence alone rekindled their courage.
And then, from the northern sky, came the beating of vast wings.
A silver-plumed Hippogriff swooped down through the clouds, bearing a rider clad in royal armor.
"Your Majesty Fengel, what a welcome sight!" Gandalf called as he approached on his broomstick.
"So, Rohan's crisis has passed?"
King Fengel smiled, weary but proud. "It is thanks to the wizard Sylas and his Dunlending warriors that we survived. They crushed Saruman's army and came to Isengard's aid, now, at last, we ride to repay Gondor's debt."
"Saruman attacked Isengard?" Gandalf's brows furrowed.
Fengel nodded grimly. "And not alone. He brought with him a Frost Dragon ten times the size of Smaug, dozens of lesser wyrms, and even eight of the Ringwraiths themselves."
At this, Gandalf's eyes widened, but his heart eased when he saw Fengel alive and well.
"Then Sylas prevailed?"
Fengel's expression turned reverent. "He did more than that. He slew the Frost Dragon and all its kin, only Saruman escaped with his life. And afterward… he shared their flesh with us as a feast. We are still strong from it."
Gandalf chuckled softly.
There was no more time for talk. The two old allies exchanged a glance.
King Fengel leapt from his Hippogriff, landing beside a great Mithril chest strapped to its flank. At his touch, the chest expanded, its lid opening wide, and from within poured the Rohan cavalry, rider after rider, as though the chest itself were birthing an army.
Fengel mounted his steed, saluted the Dunlending escorts, and raised his sword high.
"Rohan! Ride with me, for Gondor!"
The thunder of hooves rolled across the plain as ten thousand riders burst forth, their lances lowered, banners streaming in the wind.
Their arrival transformed the battlefield. Gondor's weary soldiers lifted their swords anew, their voices joining the roar of Rohan's charge.
While the cavalry clashed with Mordor's host, Gandalf soared to the Osgiliath Bridge, where the dragons sprawled across the stone spans like bridges of living ice.
He lifted both staff and sword.
"Begone!"
A surge of light erupted from his staff, striking the bridge. The vast structure shuddered, then shattered with a sound like thunder.
Mordor's soldiers screamed as they plunged into the rushing river below.
Gandalf hovered above the flood, cloak snapping in the wind, eyes fixed upon the dragons now thrashing in the water.
He turned his staff toward the Anduin and began to chant.
The surface turned glass-smooth, and a deathly silence fell.
The dragons, sensing danger, tried to haul themselves toward the shore, but it was too late.
From upstream came a roar like a collapsing mountain.
A wall of water surged forward, a flood, vast and terrible, conjured by Gandalf's spell.
It struck with unstoppable force.
Even the mighty cold dragons were swept away, tumbling helplessly in the torrent.
The flood carried them downstream, dragging them through the ruined fields, through the delta, and finally into the open sea.
There, the black waters closed over them, and they were gone, lost to the abyss.
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