The Grey Pilgrim's Trial
Chapter One: The Mists of Gondor
The sun was setting on the horizon as Gandalf the Grey rode across the vast plains that stretched between Gondor and Rohan. Three days had passed since he had received word of the need of his aid at Minas Tirith. From the moment he had received the news, he had wondered what exactly what his help was needed for, and why it had been so urgent that he arrive before the sun set on the end of the week. As it was, he had made very little progress, for since the shadow had begun to reform, his steed had become slow and reluctant to travel long distances.
Directly ahead of him, he saw the towers of Minas Tirith jutting out of the ground like giant fingers, reaching for the blood red sun. Farther off in the distance, he saw the ever burning fires of Mordor, and felt something he had not felt in a long while: anger.
Since the rise of Sauron and the creation of the One Ring, the lands surrounding Mordor had suffered great losses, especially during the great and vicious battles that had been fought between Sauron's armies and the armies of the western folk. The greatest victory was perhaps the loss of the One Ring to Isildur, though where it was, Gandalf could only guess. What he could be sure of, though, was that Sauron's foul armies of orcs were searching for the Ring, in hopes that they would gain favor with Sauron, which was hardly likely. All that mattered to him was complete control, and no one was going to stand in his way on his quest for it.
As Gandalf approached Minas Tirith, he noticed the beacons were not lit; which told him that the need was not great enough for armies from the neighboring regions to be summoned. The gates of the city slowly opened, and Gandalf swiftly dismounted his horse, letting him run free for the time until he would be needed again. He walked into the city and found that the streets were deadly quiet, and also that no one was on the streets at all.
He came to the throne room, where the steward, Denethor, was awaiting Gandalf. The doors opened, and Denethor stepped out, a grim look upon his weathered face.
'Why have you called me here, Denethor?' Gandalf simply asked.
'Gandalf, my old friend, the mists have begun to tell me what is to come, and I am afraid there is nothing to be done about it.'
'Recently, the armies of Sauron have been increasing, and armies of strange half-breeds have been coming from the fords of Isen, though I have not been able to ell where the have been breeding, but I have my suspicions, each a bit more unlikely than the last.'
'This comes as no surprise to me, for I have seen the armies too; they have come from Isengard, which troubles me, for Saruman is the one whom I believe to be manufacturing these filthy new orcs, which I believe call themselves 'uruk-hai' Denethor frowned.
'Uruk-hai? That is of no language which I can recall, do you recognize it?'
'Nay,' said Gandalf, for he had been puzzling over the origin of the name for quite a time, for he knew of all of the languages of Middle-Earth, even the orc language, which was entirely foul and not very pleasant to speak. 'I do not recoghnize it, though I have a slight idea of what it might mean. Hai is of the Black Speak, meaning 'folk', and 'uruk' could mean 'orc', or something along those lines.'
'Then do you think that you could summon the armies of the surrounding areas, for we are to soon be under fire from these uruk-hai.' Gandalf frowned.
'Why do you not ignite the beacons, that is the purpose they were erected for, is it not?' Denethor smiled grimly.
'Yea, dear friend, but the fuel is hard to come by re4cently, and we do not wish to use it 'til an hour of great need.'
'In that case,' Gandalf said. 'I will do as you request, for I understand your thoughts on this matter.'
With that, Gandalf left Minas Tirith, and set off to find the armies of the lands west of Gondor.