The Witch King's Command
As the pale Sun rose above the peaks of the Misty Mountains, the dull leaden skies brought a glimmer of light to the valley of Carn Dum, the stronghold of the Witch King of Angmar. The dull red walls of the valley, over a thousand feet high, encompassed a sea of hundreds upon hundreds of tents of hide and huts of stone more than a mile across. Trails of smoke issued forth from many of the tents, from fires to warm the Hill-men of Hithaeglir and Rhudaur amid the chill of winter. No smoke issued from the huts, for the black blood of Orcs defies extremes of cold and heat, and they need no fires for their foul meats. Here and there, fur-covered Hill-men, bearing clubs of wood, and iron-clad Orcs bearing wicked-looking spears stood guard along the margins of the camp. Above their huts rose many black standards, bearing the ghastly design of the Witch King; a grinning skull, its fangs long and sharp.
Some distance beyond the encampment rose the sheer black Tower of Carn Dum, which had been carved from solid blocks of basalt dragged from many miles distant by hapless slaves. Soaring some hundreds of feet into the sky, the narrow, peaked gate of the tower was guarded by two-dozen monstrous Trolls, their stony hides protected from the Sun by dark enchantments. The sheer, glossy walls of the tower, glimmering with a pale, sickly light, rose to its pinnacled turret, from which rose many jagged spires, forming as it were a crown upon the head of the sinister tower. A single arched window above a balcony was carved in the turret – the lair of the Witch King himself.
Urthel and Ivrin, their beige tunics and pantaloons concealed by cloaks of light grey, crouched in the snows of the barren hillside, peering over the crest at the horrors of the valley below. Rangers of Arnor, they had journeyed a long and weary way from Fornost across the frozen wastes of the North, braving the snows of late winter and early spring to bring news of the Witch King and his deeds. Ever since rumours of a massing army had reached King Arvedui on the New Year's day, he had known that the Witch King surely planned to unleash his final assault upon the beleaguered land of Arnor that very spring, and sent spies to report on the doings of his enemies. Sometimes the spies had returned, though more often they had not.
Uthel and Ivrin were the latest brave Rangers who had volunteered to make the perilous journey to Angmar, traveling on foot so as to avoid the weight of pottage for horses, seeking for a sign that the Witch King was at last ready to unleash his army. That day could not be far distant, for it was now mid-February, and even in this far northern land the thaw of spring was but a few weeks distant. Once the snows had melted sufficiently, the way would be clear for the Witch King and his minions to march on Fornost, and deal with the Dunedain of the North once and for all.
"Hark ye, Uthel," said Ivrin, gesturing with a gloved hand as his grey eyes focused on the Tower. "Carakel the Silver has departed! You had the night watch; how could you have missed his going?"
"Bah," spat Uthel, wiping his fist across his black beard. "That beast might be large in bulk, but he is stealthy, and the night was black as pitch."
"A great Dragon such as Carakel surely could not be utterly silent," frowned Ivrin, shaking his head. "But what's done is done. I wonder, why would the Witch King dispatch the mightiest guardian of his front door?"
"Who knows the thoughts of that black sorcerer?" asked Uthel, who failed to hide a shiver; whether from the cold, or the thought of the Witch King, Ivrin could not tell.
"Aye, that's true enough," acknowledged Ivrin. He knew the mysterious being who called himself the Witch King had plagued the North for seven-hundred years, ever since his arrival from the unknown East. A sworn enemy of the Dunedain – though no Man knew the reasons for his enmity – he had harried the Men of Arnor for centuries, bit by bit carving into their domain until there was but little left. The Kings of the North had lost their own landholdings beyond a day's ride of Fornost even before the Witch King's arrival, but had still retained their nominal sovereignty over all the wide lands of Arthedain and Cardolan in the west of Arnor. In recent years, though, the northlands been all but abandoned by the Dunedain, who had been slain by plague and famine, or fled for the warmer and safer climes of the South. Now the Witch King's rule stretched from Angmar and Hithaeglir through Rhudaur, and as far west as the Icebay of Forochel. Beyond the lands about Fornost, only the simple Men of Bree and the Hobbits of the Shire still swore fealty to King Arvedui – and those kindly folk were of little use in war.
"So many," frowned Uthel, his brown eyes squinting as he made his count. "Surely ten times ten-thousand, just as was reported. How can we hope to stand against them?"
"We have the Elves on our side, thank the Valar," replied Ivrin. "Two-thousand longbows, at the least."
"At the most, you mean," said Uthel grimly. "And not enough even were it three times as many. Unless Gondor comes to our aid, this will be a spring of little hope for we Dunedain."
"Then let us pray Gondor answers our plea, though goodness knows she has her own troubles," nodded Ivrin.
They fell silent for a time, as the Sun rose higher in the sky; a pale orb veiled by the heavy clouds of the northlands. Then, after perhaps an hour, a terrible beating of drums and braying of trumpets sounded from the Tower, and was echoed from the encampment. With astonishing speed, the Hill-men and Orcs streamed out of their huts and tents, like a swarm of ants, and mustered in the broad, muddied parade field that lay before the Tower.
"Hello," muttered Uthel. "Now perhaps we'll have something to report."
"Hush!" whispered Ivrin, pointing at the high window of the Tower. "Look! It is him!"
The Rangers' keen eyes discerned a small, dark form emerge on the balcony. The drumming and trumpeting came to an abrupt halt, and a deathly silence fell over the savage throng below. Then, at length, the figure spoke, and Uthel and Ivrin's blood ran cold at the sound of that hollow, sepulchral voice, which echoed across the length and breadth of Carn Dum.
"Warriors of Angmar!" cried the Witch King – for in truth it was he.
"Warriors of Angmar!" he repeated, "At last, the hour draws nigh! The Doom of Arnor is at hand!"
Horrid cries and screeches echoed from the mob, as the Orcs and Trolls and Hill-men cursed their their hated foes. The Witch King allowed their blood-lust to grow for some minutes, before he signaled that he wished to speak again. All at once they fell silent, as he prepared to stoke the fires of their hatred.
"How long have they mocked you?" droned the Witch King. "How long have the arrogant Dunedain of the North spat upon the brave Hill-men of Hithaeglir and Rhudaur, and slain out of hand the clever Orcs of the mountains?"
The mob cursed and screamed now, boiling with indignation at the false pride and haughtiness of their enemies. The Witch King again gestured for them to be silent.
"For long years have they done so," he hissed. "Yea, for centuries upon centuries. But no longer. Now you shall have your revenge!"
The savage warriors tramped their booted-feet and bit their spears and shields, barely able to contain their fury.
"March forth!" cried the Witch King. "March to Fornost, and turn that hated pile of the Dunedain into their tomb! DEATH TO THE MEN OF ARNOR!"
"Death! Death! Death!" screamed the mob, their frenzy unleashed in an awesome wave of fury as they clashed their spears and clubs, slavering for the blood of the Dunedain. Then the drums beat and the trumpets brayed again, and their wheeled about, picking up their standards as they marched through the encampment, the first steps on their long journey to the stronghold of their foes.
"Already doom is upon us!" cried Ivrin. "The Witch King has not even waited for the the snows to melt! He would willingly sacrifice many of the poorly-garbed Hill-men to frostbite and exposure, so terrible is his malice towards us."
"He cares not a scrap for their lives, the poor fools," replied Uthel, shaking his bearded head. "They are but his pawns. Come! We must flee this land at once, and make haste. We are but lightly burdened, and can cross the long leagues from here to Fornost faster than our foes. Let us fly!"
"Well spoken," grunted Ivrin, as they turned and slid down the snows of the hillside, their feet finding better traction as they reached the stony floor of the valley-bottom below. For some time they ran down the length of the valley, making for the broad swath of level ground that lay between the outliers of the Misty Mountains and the distant fells of the North Downs. They knew they would have to be stealthy indeed, if they were to avoid detection by the scouts of the Witch King's army on the barren wastes of the plain.
All of a sudden, a shadow fell across them, as if the Sun had suddenly been blotted out. They stopped and looked above, wondering if a mass of storm clouds had dulled the Sun's rays, heralding a snowstorm or frozen rain.
Then, they heard the beating of monstrous wings and wheeled about, only now seeing the doom that fell upon them from the leaden skies. Uthel and Ivrin screamed in horror, fumbling for their swords in a last, useless gesture of defiance against their terrible foe…