A shriek was heard on the night air, chilling the small group to the bones. The one of the group with an air of authority about him turned to the other three, and yelled, obviously upset, "This way! We've got to get to the top!"
The four grabbed their crude weapons and ran to the top of the hill they camped on, surely hoping to find some measure of safety. They formed a circle, weapons held in front of them, searching for a shape in the darkness.
They were coming. The four felt it, and turned as one to see a darkly robed figure cresting the hill, revealing it's own weapon. So low was his hood that no face could be seen. Soon, four more like him followed, giving deference to their frightful leader.
"Back you devils!" screamed one of the four, gaining a sense of courage to trade blows with the dark king. He was thrown aside, as though nothing more than an inanimate obstacle. The two remaining grouped together in front of the nobleman, only to be grasped by the sneaking hands of two of the dark king's henchmen, thrown like pebbles to the side by unconcerned wraiths.
Frodo, seeing the power of the dark figures and feeling his strength drained, stumbled backwards, dropping his sword. He crawled backwards in a desperate attempt to gain some ground, but to no avail. The witch-king, advancing steadily, bore a wicked looking dagger in his armor-covered incorporeal hand.
Frodo, driven purely by fear, yanked his own doom from his breast pocket, and slipped it on, hoping against hope that it would bring an advantage.
If Frodo could have seen the king's face, he would have known otherwise, for as he put the Great Ring onto his finger, the Leader of the Nine allowed a wicked grin to replace his normally impassive features. Closing his eyes, he used only his sense of his Master's greatest creation to guide his dagger to the foolish halfling's heart.
Frodo screamed.
Sam cried out.
Merry and Pippin looked up.
One of the nine screeched in warning.
The Dark King screeched back, taking a slashing wound from an angry ranger.
Strider, sensing his advantage of surprise quickly fleeting, pressed his advantage. He parried the expert attacks of the four wraiths, setting each aflame with the torch he bore.
Watching the last of the beasts retreat in flames, Strider turned to Frodo. The one remaining wraith sensed the ranger's back was turned, and prepared to strike. It lunged forward, sword-tip leading.
Aragorn, feeling his hairs stand on end, ducked quickly, throwing his torch out behind him and letting it spin into the face of the Dark King, who promptly screamed and fell down the hill of Amon Sul.