Honour and Honesty
The fall of Ithilien was a severe blow to Gondor's pride and prestige, one that shook the morale of the people and left the kingdom appearing weak and vulnerable. Despite the best hopes of King Earnil and his son, the Mordor Orcs were not driven from the eastern shores of Anduin, but instead reinforced and entrenched their position. The supply of Orcs seemed inexhaustible, for no matter how many thousands were slain in battle, thousands more were always ready to take their place. But the Gondor-men lost many brave warriors in their drive to reclaim Ithilien for their own realm, just as Gandalf had feared they might. Gandalf himself had tried to do what he could to counsel and succor the people of Gondor; but new perils and dangers were rising across the whole of Middle Earth, and in time the Grey Pilgrim, with great reluctance, was forced to leave Gondor to its own devices while he returned to the troubled lands of the North.
The years rolled past into decades, until at length the aging King Earnil II gave up the ghost in his sleep. His son Earnur then succeded him, forty-one years after the fall of Ithilien. Earnur was now old himself by the measure of ordinary Men, though he was remained a hardened and fearsome warrior, and enough of the blood of Numenor flowed in his veins to ensure that a long span of years still lay before him. Yet he had grown sullen and embittered, not only at the failure of his armies to reclaim Ithilien, but at his personal failure to defeat his hated nemesis the Witch King of Angmar. Often Earnur would stride to the highest battlements of Minas Tirith, and stare across the broad Vale of Anduin and over the ruins of Osgiliath toward the glowering Mountains of Shadow. There, he knew, the Witch King lurked within the walls of Minas Morgul, his very presence on Gondorian soil an unendurable humiliation to the proud Heir of Anarion.
King Earnur dwelled on these dark thoughts as he sat in his throne amid the Citadel of Minas Tirith one cool autumn day, some seven years after his coronation. He was conducting his weekly council with the Steward of Gondor, the chief of his civil administration and one of his foremost military counselors.
"Report, Steward Mardil," said the King, though his grey eyes stared somberly toward the East, rather than down at the man who stood before him. "How goes it on the front lines?"
"The situation on the front has not changed substantially in recent months, my liege," replied Mardil, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a long, prominent nose and dark hair streaked with grey. "Our raids into Ithilien are successful for the most part," he continued, "though we have suffered losses. The enemy's Orc-raids west of the river into Anorien have been foiled so far, though not without further losses of our own men. There is less skirmishing with Easterlings and Southrons at present, for they will not cross west of the Anduin. The Corsairs of Umbar began to raid our coasts again earlier this year, as you know, but our navy has driven them off in recent weeks, and returned their favours to us by burning fortresses and granaries in their own southern land. Winter will arrive soon, bringing our campaigns to an end for this year."
"You make it sound as if things are going well," replied Earnur grimly. He ran his thumb over his graying, short-trimmed beard. "Do not forget that in our youth, we would never have imagined that proud Gondor could sink to its current state – half its lands abandoned, the Anduin a frontier rather than the heart of our realm, and Mordor once again full of enemies who seek to destroy us."
"Well I know our plight, my liege," sighed Mardil, his pale blue eyes sombre and weary. "Has it not affected me as much as any man? The founder of my family line, Earakhor of Eldalonde in Numenor, was granted a hereditary estate in the Emyn Arnen of Ithilien by King Meneldil, the son of King Anarion himself. For over two-thousand years, my family dwelt in that fair place. Yet it has lain empty and desolate these past fifty years, and I despair of ever reclaiming it."
"We shall see," replied Earnur. "When I was younger, I had indeed hoped to reclaim Ithilien for Gondor. Yet this war has lasted near five decades, and it is no closer to being won now than when it began."
"Perhaps we require the counsel of the Wizards again," suggested Mardil cautiously. "Curunir the White has not been seen in ages, of course. But surely we can call on Mithrandir?"
"Mithrandir returned to the northlands many years ago," scoffed Earnur. "And in any case, what counsel could he offer us beyond what he that which he has already? He'll tell us to be prudent, and vigiliant, and to strengthen our defenses, and the like. He has no more idea than us how to attain victory over Mordor."
Mardil was about to reply, when a messenger approach from the far end of the Throne Room, bearing in his hand a black-feathered arrow that pierced a scroll. "A missive from the enemy has been sent to you, my liege!" cried the messenger.
"I have seen the like of that before!" cried Earnur, bounding up from his throne and striding across the marbled floor to meet the man. He swept back his azure cape, and sized the arrow from the messenger's grip.
"Leave us!" ordered the King, and the messenger bowed deeply before swiftly departing. As Mardil watched intently, Earnur pulled out the arrow, tossed it into a brazier, broke open the seal, and unfurled the letter. He spent some minutes reading it before crumping it in his fist, hurling it to the floor, and shouting a terrible curse that echoed across the room.
Mardil drew back, pulling his sable robes closer about himself while he waited for his liege's temper to improve. At length, he ventured, "Pray tell, Your Majesty, what does the missive say?"
"Read it for yourself!" spat Earnur, who began to pace back and forth across the Throne Room, glowering and cursing as he did so. Mardil bent over, picked up the scroll, smoothed it out, and read its message, written in ancient script of the bygone mode of Numenor:
"To Earnur of the House of Anarion, King of Gondor: Greetings. It is near five decades since last I challenged thee, to meet me in a duel of skill and test our blades against each other. My challenge to thee was honourable, yet thou didst not deign to reply. Mayhap thy father, the late and lamented King Earnil II, prevented thee from answering me, for a doddering sire on whom the years lie heavily oft fears to risk harm to the heir of his estate. But be that as it may, thou art now King these past seven years, and no Man may stay thee from following the desire of thy heart. Wherefore I reknew my challenge to thee, on the same terms as before, save the date. Thou shalt meet with me, alone, in the Morgul Vale, after sunset on the eve of the first of November. I shall not employ any sorcery or trickery against thee, but we shall each set our blades against the other. And if thou have the mastery, I shall abandon Ithilien to thee entirely; but if I have the mastery, Gondor shall submit to my yoke, and pay tribute into my hand until the breaking of the world. In either case no more of thy folk, nor any more of mine need fall by sword and spear, slain in a war that otherwise might endure without limit. This then is my offer, and I trust that as a brave and honourable Man of Gondor, in whom the blood of Kings flows as surely as it does in mine own veins, thou shalt accept it. For should thou refuse my offer a second time, without excuse, then the whole world shall know this: that Earnur son of Earnil is a low, baseborn cur, a simpering, wretched coward less worthy than any child or woman of bearing a sword in arms, and a disgrace to the pride and dignity of his ancestors and his realm. Therefore consider thou mine offer with care – for in what lies the immortality of mortal Man, if not in his reputation and his honour? Signed and sealed this day etc., The Witch King of Angmar and Lord of Minas Morgul."
Mardil rolled up the scroll and frowned – for the eve of November was the very next day.
"You cannot mean to answer this challenge, my liege," declared the Steward. "I shall burn it forthwith, and we will never speak of it again. No Man shall know of it."
"But he will know of it!" exclaimed King Earnur. "And his slurs against my pride and dignity, against my honour as a warrior shall be vindicated."
"You are not a warrior, my liege," replied Mardil somberly. "And you have not been these past seven years. You are our King, and your first thought must be to the welfare of your realm and your people, not to your own pride. Your first duty is to look to Gondor…"
"Do not speak to me of my duty, Steward!" cried Earnur, his deep blue eyes flashing dangerously as he stood to his full height. Though past a hundred, and with the first traces of grey showing in his dark locks, he was still a giant of a Man - no citizen of Gondor would have dared risk his wrath even had he not been King. "I am soverign and master of these lands, and judge in my own case," he continued. "I shall decide where my duty lies."
"It is my own duty to offer you counsel according to my measure of wisdom and my conscience, my liege…" began Mardil. But Earnur again cut him off.
"It is your duty to do as I command!" declared the King. "And my command is this; you will ready my armour, shield, sword and horse, and a barge to ferry me across the Anduin. I shall meet this dog in combat, just as he wishes, and I shall return on the first of November with his head as a trophy. And mark you, it is not merely my own pride and honour that are at stake, Steward – though those are reasons enough. Gondor shall have the benefit of my deeds; for upon the defeat of their lord the denizens of Mordor will be forced to withdraw east of the Mountains of Shadow, as the Witch King has proclaimed they must should I defeat him."
"My liege, this is madness!" exclaimed Mardil angrily. "Have my head for my insolence if you wish, but I will not be silenced on this matter! Your father forbade you to answer the first of the Witch King's challenges; yet Earnil confided to my own late father, the Steward Vorondil, that he feared what you might do when his own time had come, and you assumed the Throne. He commanded Vorondil to do whatever was in his power to dissuade you from falling into the Witch King's trap, and on his deathbed my father commanded me to do the same. By the command of both late King and Steward, then, I am bound to implore you; cast this accursed letter into the fire, and think no more of it!"
"Think you I shall be bound by the wishes of dead Men?" scowled Earnur. "They are dust; they will never walk again beneath the Sun. The living decide their own fate, and I have decided mine. I shall meet this Witch King on the field of combat and slay him, just as I vowed by the sacred name of Eru Illuvatar in my youth. And if you gainsay me again, Steward, then I shall indeed have your head. Do as you are bid!"
"My liege, you are not yet married for all your years," exclaimed Mardil stubbornly, heedless of his peril. "You have not yet sired any heirs. It is this above all that makes what you propose a rash, nay a criminal act…"
"Criminal?" cried Earnur, drawing a dagger from his belt and thrusing it at Mardil's throat, the keen point resting on his skin. "I tire of bandying words with you, Steward!" fumed the King. "If I have not married, it is because the perils of our time have placed too many demands on me to waste my days frolicking with maidens, searching for a suitable mate, when I am needed as commander in the field. I am a warrior, not a lover. But as for you; you shall obey my orders without question, or else I shall name you traitor and slay you here and now by my own hand!"
For a moment Mardil struggled with himself, torn between suppressing his anger at the King's selfish folly and his threats, and openly denouncing the King even at the cost of his own life. But then at last he turned his eyes from Earnur's fierce gaze, and stared toward the floor.
"As Your Majesty has spoken," he replied dejectedly, reciting the ancient formula, "so shall it be done."
The next day, after the noon-hour feast, Earnur's squires clad him in his magnificent armour of gilded steel, and equipped him with a sword and shield he had long ago prepared for his next confrontation with the Witch King. The shield was an especial treasure, for not long after his return from the Battle of Fornost he had commissioned it from the Dwarves of Khazad-Dum, which was then still a few years shy of its fall and ruin. The Dwarves had forged it of pure Mithril, worked with runes of protection against the sorcery of the Witch King. The sword, though forged from steel and not mithril, was likewise of Dwarven-work, and also had Runes of Power carved along its blade. Thus he planned to defend himself against the Witch King's sorcery, should the fiend again resort to it in place of honest sword-play. Thus also did he scheme to thwart Glorfindel's prophecy that the Witch King would not fall by the hand of Man – for he might at least fall to an enchanted Dwarven blade.
Earnur had justified both treasures to his father simply as vanities, and King Earnil had never learned the meaning of the runes carven upon them, or the reason why Earnur had never used them in battle. Now, at last, both enchanted sword and shield would be put to the test.
As he strode out of his chambers and out the main doors of the Citadel, he found Steward
Mardil and a host of officials standing in the Fountain Court by the White Tree. They were all garbed entirely in robes of sable, and all stared at him somberly, as if silently imploring him to repent of his folly while there was still time.
But Earnur was a Man obsessed, and but one thought consumed his mind; to confront the Witch King and slay him, for the glory of Gondor and the honour of his own name. He strode past his courtiers without acknowledging them, and down the grassy sward of the seventh level of Minas Tirith, taking in the vista eastward across the Vale of Anduin and the ruins of Osgiliath to the distant pinewoods of Ithilien, and the Mountains of Shadow. Amid those grim crags lay Imlad Ithil, now known to Men as the Morgul Vale, the Vale of Dark Sorcery, where he was fated to duel to the death with the Witch King that very evening.
Earnur descended down the stairs that led from the seventh to the sixth level, where at the Royal Stables he found his steed waiting for him; a magnificent gleaming white stallion, proud and brave. He mounted the steed, adjusting the stirrups before spurring it down the long, twisting road that led from Minas Tirith to the Pelennor Fields. He passed rapidly through the city, whose graceful mansions and houses of marble and limestone had long since filled-in the once grassy swards between the walls. Past the sixth level, and down through the fifth, the fourth, the third; each broader and more heavily populated than the last, their narrow streets full of citizens who stared in astonishment at the prospect of the King armed and armoured for battle, yet riding alone. Past the second level, and then down from the hillside to the valley floor and the broad swathe of the first level. By now rumour of the Ride of Earnur had spread across the city like wildfire, and hundreds of citizens of the lower tiers clusted by the Outer Gate, wondering at their King and his purposes – for never before in the history of Gondor had a King ridden into battle alone.
Earnur ignored them all, and spurred his steed across the broad square that lay before the Gate, whose high iron doors lay open from sunrise to sunset. He spared not a glance for the bronze statute of his forefather Anarion, who sat in the centre of the square, mounted on a charger and facing eastward. His eye was fixed only on the horizon, on the Mountains of Shadow, and without a word to the guards by the Gate he dashed under its broad archway, and into the broad, bare meadows of the Pelennor Fields. The Sun was warm on his helm, although a stiff, chill breeze blew from the north, signaling that Gondor's brief winter was on its way. He tarried not, but turned south and east to the landing of the Harlond, some miles south of the ruins of Osgiliath, from where he would ferry across the Anduin to the land of Ithilien – and the territory under occupation by his hated foe.
It was the second hour past noon when Earnur reached the landing, a simple wooden pier by which stood a fortified stone guardhouse. A barge sat waiting for him by the pier, along with an escort of guards who were assigned to protect the ferrymen from ambushes by Orcs on their journeys to the farther shore. Earnur spurring his horse on board the waiting vessel, and with a gesture commanded them to depart. Frowning at their King, the Men never the less complied, and set to work with the long barge-poles. The current of the Anduin was swift, and the river was broad and deep, so fully another half-hour was spent in the journey to the shore of Ithilien, which was choked by vines and bushes that had grown up during the decades that the fields of that land had lain fallow.
"My liege," offered one of the guards on the ferry, "surely you do not mean to cross into enemy territory alone? At least let us accompany you, even on foot. An ambush could be lying in wait for you just beyond the bushes of the shoreline!"
"I cross from one part of my own sovereign lands, to another," replied Earnur fiercely. "I shall return by dawn tomorrow. Instruct those Men on the morning shift that when they see me standing on the eastern shore, holding aloft my sword, they are to cross the river and bear me back forthwith."
"It shall be so, my liege," nodded the Man grimly. Earnur turned his gaze from him, and without another word spurred his horse off the ferry and onto the shores of Ithilien. He plunged into the bushes, and in a moment was gone from sight.
All throughout the day, Earnur rode across the flat expanse of the Vale of Anduin that marked the western reaches of Ithilien. The land was empty, full of ruined houses choked with creeping vines, and once fertile fields from which grew thickets of bushes and saplings of trees. He had been watchful for an ambush, yet of the Orcs who occupied the land he had not seen a sign. So far, it appeared, the Witch King had kept to his word, and not sought to employ trickery against the King of Gondor.
Earnur smiled to himself at the timidity of Mardil, who had held up the prospect of treachery by the Morgul Lord simply to disguise his own fears concerning the prowess of his King in battle. But Earnur knew that for all his own long years he was still the mightiest warrior of his age, and with the aid of the enchanted Dwarven sword and shield he had no doubt that the Witch King would soon meet his much-deserved fate.
Earnur continued his ride from the flatlands into the sloping, pine-clad foothills of Ithilien, in which the shadows of late afternoon already lay ominously on the ground. He continued urging his steed up the hills and through the forests, heading north and east, until at sunset he at last came to the Crossroads of Ithilien.
There, amid a giant grove of ancient pines, Earnur paused, allowing his steed to catch its breath while he steeled himself for the duel ahead. Looking to the West, he could seen the Sun dipping beneath the peaks of the White Mountains, whose snows now glowed pink and violet under its rays. Minas Tirith stood tall and proud upon the shoulder of Mount Mindoluin, a bulwark and a bastion against those forces of evil who sought to thwart the destiny of Men.
Then, turning to the East, where the Mountains of Shadow glowered dark and cold, Earnur stared up at the granite statue of Isildur, its sides chipped by axes and smeared with the crude graffiti of the Orcs. "Soon you will be avenged, my kinsman," cried Earnur, "and these lands shall once again lie under the flag of Gondor." Earnur could feel a deeper chill in the air as the last rays of the Sun faded and died, and the sky swiftly began to grow dark. Then he spurred his steed forward, up the long, straight road that led under the dark pines and into the depths of the Morgul Vale.
The steed had not taken more than a few steps east of the crossroads when in halted, suddenly, as if it had hit an invisible wall. Earnur cursed and spurred it again, but the beast, though neighing loudly and pawing and scraping desperately at the ground, would not take another step. His ire roused by the steed's stubborn refusal, Earnur cuffed it on the ears with a sweep of his mighty hand, seeking to break its will and force it to continue on its ride. But far from bending under Earnur's blow the steed reared up, neighing loudly as it threw him flat onto his back!
Earnur was on his feet in an instant, swearing even more loudly than before. He called after the errant beast, threatening a thousand curses upon its head; but, heedless of his words, the horse plunged into the stands of Pine trees on the farther side of the crossroads, galloping with all the speed it could muster as it fled toward the West. Earnur spat on the ground and stared after it with disgust, as he realized that he would have to complete the rest of his journey on foot – and that he faced and long a weary walk back to the ferry-crossing of the Harlond, was his victory over the Witch King was complete.
Resigning himself to this unwelcome twist of fate, Earnur turned back toward the East, striding briskly over the cobblestones of the Road that led under the Pine trees which lay before the distant Morgul Vale. It grew dark rapidly, and the Stars shone cheerily overhead, while the pale Moon rose delicately above the looming bulk of the Mountains of Shadow. It was black beneath the Pine trees – black as pitch – and not a sound of bird or beast was to be heard amid the watchful silence of the land. But the Road was broad, and the clean light of the Stars and Moon soothed Earnur's fevered spirit as he strode toward the long-awaited duel against his hated foe.
For some hours did he walk, the ground rising steadily before him all the while, until the massive walls of the Mountains of Shadow now loomed straight above him. He could only discern their peaks, for the mountains themselves seemed veiled in the darkest midnight, and he could no longer discern any trace of their contours. The Road plunged straight into a narrow crack or fissure in the mountains, turning sharply to the right as it followed the course of a narrow, swift-flowing stream. This was the entrance to the Morgul Vale. A pale glimmer shone against the rock walls of the valley, and though Earnur could not see its source, he felt his skin crawl, as if he had seen that same luminous glow long before. He glanced upward at the rising Moon, and from its position in the Sky he discerned that it was near midnight.
Drawing his sword, which gleamed even under the dim light from the Stars and the Moon, Earnur now strode into the valley with caution. He was alert for the presence of his foe, who he imagined might rise up before him out of the shadows at any moment. Yet the passage into the valley was quite empty, and without let or hindrance Earnur flowed the Road along its sharp turn through the narrow defile, where the broad Morgul Vale itself opened up before him.
Earnur then stopped and stared, his blood running cold as he witnessed the ruin of that place which had once been known as Imlad Ithil, the Valley of the Rising Moon. Earnur had visited that valley as a youth, and had see it then as it had always been; a broad, flowery meadow, through which gurgled a happy stream, and which was encompassed by tall, pine-clad mountains. At the feet of those mountains had sat the Tower of Minas Ithil, whose walls were infused with pale moonlight.
Yet Imlad Ithil was no more, and in its place now stood Imlad Morgul, the Vale of Dark Sorcery. Before Earnur's horrified gaze stretched a broad, foetid marsh, bisected by a foul-smelling drain, its sodden expanse filled with diseased, fungoid flowers and giant mushrooms that glowed with a sickly radiance, and seemed to sway stealthily back and forth in the stagnant air, as if animated by their own evil life. The pine forests of the valley had been destroyed, and the rocky walls of the mountains soared sheer and barren towards the sky. A noxious mist rose up from the bog, forming a heavy ceiling above the roof of the valley which blocked out the light of the Stars, and transformed the Moon into a hideous, yellowish, bloated orb that stared down on him mockingly.
Worst of all was the Tower itself, the accursed and daemon-haunted Citadel of Minas Morgul. It still bore the shape it had in life, yet it was now quite dead, its walls luminous with a sickly, greenish corpse-light which fed off its rotten stone, and yet which illuminatinated nothing. Its dark windows grinned down on Earnur, and its iron gates stood like a giant maw waiting to consume those foolish enough to draw nearby.
For a moment Earnur was almost tempted to turn back, to flee into the West, to lands that were sane and clean. Mardil and the others would not chastise him for his cowardice, but rather would welcome him with open arms, overjoyed that he had at last come to his senses. No one need never know why he had ridden into the East, and the Challenge would fade away as if it had never existed. His reputation amongst his people would remain intact.
But then Earnur steeled himself, cursing such fears as the fruits of cowardice. For while his reputation might remain intact, the dark stain on his honour would be irrevocable, and to his dying day he would never forfive himself for surrendering to his fear, or for breaking his solemn Oath by Eru. It was his memory of that Oath and his dread of violating it which more than anything drove him to take one step forward, and then another. Before he knew it he found himself striding along the Road through the accursed marshes, and toward the looming walls of Minas Morgul.
The mists were thicker now that the marshes lay roundabout, and Earnur soon found himself encompassed by them, unable to see more than ten or twelve paces ahead. On the one hand he counted this a blessing, for at least he no longer had to gaze upon the festering evil of the Morgul Vale. But on the other hand he raised his guard all the higher, for he knew that with every step he grew ever more vulnerable to assault by an unseen foe.
Suddenly, Earnur came to a stop as a dark figure loomed up in the mists before him. Then he took several paces forward, sword ready, until he stopped again and took the measure of the towering form. Its ebon armour was now swathed in robes of black cloth, and an iron crown no longer sat upon its head. Yet staring under the cowl of its hood, at the midnight blackness that lay where a face should have been, Earnur had no doubt that he stood before the Witch King of Angmar, Lord of Minas Morgul.
The Witch King regarded Earnur silently for some moments. Then, in a hollow, sepulchral voice, he intoned, "Thou art late, King of Gondor. My challenge said for thee to meet me past sunset; yet it is now the midnight hour. I had thought mayhap thy courage had failed thee for a second time."
"Yet I am here none the less," replied Earnur proudly, falling into his battle stance. "The Heir of Anarion has come to claim his due, o spawn of the shadows."
"And indeed thou shalt claim thy due, mortal," replied the Witch King tonelessly.
"At least you have for once dealt honourably," observed Earnur, as he began to edge toward his foe. "You stand alone, just as you had vowed. Thus in death you shall not be entirely disgraced."
A series of harsh gurgles and wheezes issued from the Witch King, which Earnur recognized with disgust as the sound of his laughter. His eyes narrowed angrily, for the Witch King was now mocking him openly – why else had he not yet drawn his sword to defend himself?
Earnur saw shadows stir in the mists, and stood rooted to the ground as he whipped his head about, staring to the right and to the left. Then he felt his blood turn to icewater, as a figure indentical to the Witch King, though a handsbreath shorter in stature, stepped forth from the mist! Now two tall, dark figures, their faces veiled in shadow, stood silently amid the Road.
"What is this treachery?" cried Earnur, drawing back. Then he heard the scrape of a steel-shod boot on the Road behind him, and turned around in a flash, to find a third dark-robed figure loom up before him out of the mist!
"Three against one?" cried Earnur, turning back to the Witch King. "Is that your idea of an honourable duel, foul sorcerer?"
"Nay," replied the Witch King, shaking his cowled head. "There are yet more."
Earnur turned about this way and that, as black-robed figure after black-robed figure stepped forth out of the mists, surrounding him in a circle. Then no more figures emerged, and Earnur realized that he was surrounded by nine of the hideous, faceless beings, including the Witch King himself.
"Who are these devil-spawn, garbed in shadow just as yourself?" shouted Earnur, his body shaking violently – whether with rage, or fear, he could not tell.
"My brothers and I bid thee welcome to the Morgul Vale," mocked the Witch King in reply, as he drew his long sword. "Now thou shalt be our guest at Minas Morgul, and enjoy the hospitality of the Nine."
"I claim his eyes," moaned one of the nightmare beings, drawing its own sword and pointing it at Earnur.
"And I his ears," hissed a second, likewise drawing its blade.
"And I his tongue," rasped a third, as it and its other five kindred drew their blades and held them at the ready.
The Nine…where had Earnur heard that phrase before? Had not Sauron of Mordor in his service Nine Wraiths of Men, his chief henchmen in the days of his dark empire? Then surely these evil beings were the very same, and the Witch King's true age could be measured not in centuries, but in millennia!
"Slave of Sauron!" cried Earnur to the Witch King. "To think you summoned me here by appeals to honour! By the Valar, there is neither a scrap of honour nor any truth to be found in your accursed body, you cowardly spawn of a dunghill rat!"
The Nine hissed at the name of the Valar, and uttered vile curses and blasphemies. But then the Witch King gurgled and wheezed harshly in evil laughter at the charges hurled against him by his foe.
"Honour and honesty are the policies of fools," gloated the Witch King. "Shall it not be as I prophesied at the Battle of Fornost? Surely thou shalt suffer death by torment, and thy name shall indeed be a warning and a byword amongst Men."
With a ferocious cry, Earnur hurled himself at the Witch King, his blade crashing down on his foes with the clang of steel-on-steel and a shower of sparks. The Witch King at once parried his blade, and slashed at him with a vicious backhanded stroke that he only barely manged to block with his shield.
But then Earnur heard the scraping of many more steel-shod feet, and in an instant he found himself under a rain of blows, the Nine screeching horribly as they sought to cut him down where he stood, each striving to penetrate his guard and deliver the fatal blow.
Earnur bellowed like an enraged lion set upon by wolves, and in a frenzied burst of speed he slashed back at his foes, hacking and hewing at their blades, untill they began to draw back before him. It was no longer in Earnur's mind to slay the Witch King; nor was he honour bound to do so, for the time being, on account of the Witch King's treachery. To cut his way through the Nine black-robed Wraiths, and make a mad dash west for the Anduin and safety was all that Earnur sought. He would worry about his accursed Oath to Eru later.
The battle raged on for many minutes, as again and again the Nine rushed into to attack Earnur, and again and again he drove them off with a burst of speed and skill that would have amazed even the legendary warriors of the Elder Days. But at length the blood began to ring in Earnur's ears and his steps began to falter; for he was no longer young, and the assaults of the tireless Wraiths came ever more fast and furious.
Then the Witch King drew back from the skirmish, and holding up his black-gloved hand he spoke a Word of Power in a barbarous tongue. Earnur staggered back as both his sword and his shield exploded in flying shards of steel and mithril before his very eyes! It seemed that the enchanted runes of the Dwarves, for all their power, were not strong enough to dispel the Black Arts of the Witch King of Angmar.
Earnur reached desperately for his dagger, only to cry out in pain as a cold blade hewed at his ankles, cutting through his steel armour and severing his tendons, leaving him sprawled and helpless on the Road. He flailed about, only to scream again as two more blades cut into his shoulders, paralyzing his arms and rendering him helpless.
The Witch King unleashed a deafening screech of triumph, which faded into a long,dreadful wail. As the mists began to fade, a deep groaning issued forth from Minas Morgul, whose doors now swung open slowly on their pivots, revealing a host of gloating Orcs within.
"Bind him and take him," ordered the Witch King, as he sheathed his sword. "His torment awaits." The other Wraiths sheathed their own swords, and then swarmed over Earnur, who screamed and gibbered incoherently as they lifted him over their heads, carrying him swiftly along the Road toward their dead city.
The Witch King followed close on their heels, bringing up their rear as they passed under the grinning archway and into the mob of Orcish torturers, who were armed with curved blades, and whips, and other tools of their gruesome trade. Then there was another deep groan of rusty wheels and gears, and with a harsh metallic clang the iron gates of Minas Morgul closed about their prey.