When dawn finally pierced through the heavy shadows creeping from eastern Mordor, Minas Tirith stood like a beacon of hope against the encroaching darkness. Gondor's White City rose majestically upon the mountainside, carved from gleaming white marble and solid stone that seemed to glow with inner light.
Seven towering walls wound around the mountain in ascending spirals, each layer stacked upon the next like frozen waves of pristine marble pushed skyward by the hands of ancient gods. The sight never failed to inspire awe in those who beheld it for the first time.
Each wall stretched breathtakingly high, its surface polished to mirror smoothness by generations of careful tending. Under the rising sun's gentle caress, they reflected a lustrous sheen like mother-of-pearl, appearing covered by sacred snow that had remained untouched since the city's founding.
Broad stone roads spiraled upward between the gates like great serpents carved in stone, their surfaces worn smooth as glass by countless footsteps over the centuries. The pathways reflected the towering spires and solid ramparts rising on either side, creating an almost dreamlike quality to the ascent.
From Minas Tirith's highest point, the view stretched across the vast Pelennor Fields below, where the great River Anduin wound like a silver ribbon through fertile green lands. Yet this magnificent vista was cruelly bisected by the dark, roiling shadows spreading from the east like a festering wound upon Middle-earth's flesh.
Three riders approached from Mordor's direction, racing hard toward the White City's gates.
"Halt! Who goes there!"
The guards atop the first wall had spotted Tarnes's group long before they reached speaking distance. A newly rotated officer personally rode out with a full squad of Gondorian soldiers, taking defensive positions against the three approaching riders while calling out with stern authority.
Simultaneously, the soldiers behind the officer spread out in protective formation, shielding the morning travelers entering and leaving Minas Tirith from potential danger.
Before Tarnes could respond, Dirhael raised high the token his father, Talion, had entrusted to him, his voice carrying clearly across the distance. "I am Dirhael, ranger of the Black Gate and son of Talion! The two beside me are the Lord of the Golden Tree and his companion. We bear urgent intelligence that must reach the Steward of Gondor immediately!"
As Dirhael answered the guard officer's challenge, Tarnes glanced back at Melina with silent understanding passing between them.
Melina immediately grasped his meaning, clasping her hands in prayer before her chest. The golden phantom of a majestic tree materialized behind her, and when its radiant light washed over the officer and nearby travelers, all physical fatigue from their early morning ride simply melted away.
Witnessing this display of divine power, the responsible Gondorian officer made no further obstacles. He immediately mounted his horse, arranging for his deputy to assume temporary command before riding alongside Tarnes's group as they passed through the gates.
"You must be the wizard Lord Gandalf mentioned in his reports," the officer said, his tone respectful but curious. "I've heard your name spoken with great regard. I never expected to meet you in person today. I'll escort you through the city, which should save considerable time and questioning along the way."
Tarnes looked with interest at the Gondorian officer riding beside him. "You trust our identity so readily?"
The officer's weathered face broke into a genuine smile. "My family once sent attendants to Golden Tree territory on trading business. After they returned, they spoke constantly of the Golden Tree's miraculous properties. Therefore, the blessing your lady companion just demonstrated provides sufficient proof of your identities. Even if you're not the Lord of the Golden Tree himself, you must be closely connected to his power. Moreover..." His expression grew earnest. "Thanks to your territory's gifts, those miraculous fruits my attendants brought back saved my son's life."
The officer's voice took on a more personal tone as he continued. "My son was born as strong and healthy as any child could be, even declaring he'd serve Gondor alongside me when he came of age. But a few months ago, for reasons no physician could explain, he contracted a strange wasting illness. Day by day he grew weaker, confined to his bed while I sought every healer in the city. I'd given up hope, thinking this was simply his fate written by the stars." His voice brightened considerably. "But after eating just one fruit from your territory, his condition improved dramatically."
Tarnes nodded thoughtfully. "Those fruits contain traces of Golden Tree blessing within them. Consuming them can indeed cure various simple ailments. However, from your description, I suspect your son's condition wasn't merely some incurable disease. It sounds more like the effects of a curse."
The Gondorian officer scratched his head in obvious confusion. "Well, the White Wizard Saruman somehow learned of my son's condition and visited our family personally. He examined the boy thoroughly and declared it was an extremely rare disease, not any form of curse or dark magic."
Saruman? Gandalf had spoken of him with considerable respect, calling him a fellow wizard of great skill and wisdom. Perhaps Tarnes was simply overthinking the situation. Just a rare disease after all, not some malevolent curse.
Tarnes gave an understanding nod. "In that case, to thank you for your guidance through the city, I'll provide a protective jade pendant for your son to wear once we reach the Steward's hall."
Joy flooded the officer's features as he quickly expressed his gratitude, though he collected himself and ended the casual conversation with professional dignity.
He'd only intended to exchange pleasantries with this increasingly prominent wizard, hoping to make a favorable impression. Receiving an actual gift was an unexpected and welcome bonus.
However, duty called, and he turned his attention to Dirhael. "Ranger from the Black Gate, why didn't your father, Talion, come personally this time? What exactly transpired that requires such urgent reporting?"
Dirhael opened his mouth to mention Sauron's terrifying reappearance in Mordor, but just as the words reached his lips, he realized such momentous news couldn't be spoken casually in public. He began stammering uncertainly, clearly struggling with the weight of his secret knowledge.
The officer's brow furrowed with concern. Seeing Dirhael's obvious predicament, Tarnes sighed and intervened to help the young ranger. "During my recent expedition into Mordor's borderlands, I encountered unusually aggressive Orc forces in open rebellion. More troubling still, there were Nazgûl actively leading these creatures in coordinated attacks against the Black Gate. I believe this uprising may be connected to the Dwarves' recent success in reclaiming the Lonely Mountain, disrupting whatever balance existed in that region. Lord Talion requested that we report these developments to the Steward, hoping to ensure Gondor remains properly informed of potential threats."
Sure enough, once Tarnes provided this explanation, the officer's concerned frown relaxed into something more manageable.
"Orc uprisings occur several times each year," the Gondorian officer acknowledged. "Those filthy creatures breed like vermin in the deep places, making complete elimination impossible. However, hearing of Nazgûl actively coordinating attacks on the Black Gate is unprecedented in recent memory. This development is indeed significant enough to warrant immediate attention." His expression grew determined. "Once we arrive at the Citadel, I'll report this intelligence immediately and request that the Steward receive you without delay."
Tarnes nodded his appreciation and said nothing more, guiding Torrent behind the officer as their small procession galloped through Minas Tirith's winding streets.
Their passage drew considerable attention from citizens going about their morning business, who paused in their activities to watch the urgent riders race past. Animated discussions began in their wake, speculation flowing like water through the city's seven levels about what urgent business might bring such distinguished visitors at such speed.