A/N: Well it has been a few days, but I've managed to get the next chapter up and running. This one is quite a bit longer than the last few have been, and there's the first major battle scene a well. Anyway hope you enjoy it, and please review.

Disclaimer: I don't own Tolkien's writings, and I don't intend to make a profit from these stories.

Blood on Ice

A lone figure on a tall, dark horse rode slowly through the mass of snow and ice which covered the outskirts of the Northern Wastes. It pushed relentlessly through the harsh, cold blizzard that blew over the snow-covered plains. Whoever it was, was somehow managing to survive the cold wearing nothing more than a simple tattered hooded cloak. Any normal person should have died from the chill.

But Morgomir did not feel the cold.

He continued, pushing his horse up the steep snowy slope of a hill. The hill continued for several minutes, until suddenly, the horrendous noise of the blizzard stopped, and Morgomir found himself in a narrow, twisting valley, sheltered from the freezing wind by the tall hills that ran parallel on each side. Morgomir urged his horse along the twisted path at a slow canter. Morgomir's eyes swept the surroundings, searching for any threats. In a deserted lost valley like this, there were sure to be many dark creatures lurking in dark places. But so far, he had come through unopposed.

Morgomir let his horse carry him up the winding path for nearly an hour. The path twisted and turned, with many forks and turnoffs. Morgomir was no fool. He knew precisely where he was going.

It was beginning to grow dark when the path opened into a clearing. A majestic, yet tragic sight, met his eyes. An enormous site of ruins came into view. Morgomir could see, through the toppled battlements and smashed gates, the former majesty of the structure. Great towers had once stood, tall and strong, forged from iron and stone. The great oak door was broken and disintegrated, hanging hopelessly off its hinges. The walls were weathered and unstable, crumbling where they stood. Much of the structure was frozen over, covered in ice. Morgomir, an experienced war captain and strategist, knew that in its prime, this fortress would have been almost completely impervious to attack, its structure built for the certainty of attack. If it was rebuilt, Morgomir knew, it would be ideal for what the Black Captain had in mind. It was, after all, his fortress.

Another rider had entered the clearing. Morgomir had noticed, and did not move, for he knew who had joined him. This meeting had been arranged.

When the rider had approached, Morgomir dismounted and knelt before his superior.

"Captain," he murmured.

"Rise, Morgomir," replied the Black Captain.

Morgomir stood, watching his captain intently.

"Well?" enquired Er-Murazor.

"It will do very well Captain, once it is reforged," affirmed Morgomir.

"It is as I expected," said Er-Murazor with a nod. He looked around, as if sniffing the air.

"The Black Numenorians are aware of our presence," he said with a glance behind him.

"Do you intend to recruit them?" asked Morgomir.

The Black Captain nodded, and veered his reins to his left. Craning his neck back to look at his fellow, he said, "I have acquired us a new ally. Rogash, a warrior troll of the North has agreed to aid us in return for gold and meat. His troll brethren will give us much of the brute force needed to break the Northern Kingdom. The Black Numenorians will not so easily succumb to rule. They live by code. They have been challenged, and now they answer that challenge. We must first defeat them to gain their trust and their loyalty."

Morgomir nodded. He understood. Wasting no more time, the two riders reined their horses and rode to meet the challenge.

********

Riding full pelt against the wind, his robes flying about him, the Black Captain urged his steed to draw him closer to the lure of battle. Victory here was essential, and the Black Numenorians were many. They were fearsome and deadly warriors, and would make powerful allies.

And enemies.

Up ahead the Black Captain could see Rogash ordering his Hill-troll army into a march, urging them to the lust of battle. The two riders caught up with them quickly, and together, the three of them led the charge towards the first battle of Angmar.

As the path widened, up ahead, the Numenorians appeared from around the bend. Isilmo guessed there were probably hundreds, perhaps thousands of warriors swarming towards them, waving their weapons and screaming their war cries. Letting out his own blood-chilling scream, the Black Captain drew his sword and charged into the oncoming rush of men. In the few moments before the collision, he glimpsed one or two of the faces. Some of them looked absurdly young.

There was an almighty crunch as the forces collided. Screams and roars pierced the air as men and trolls were hacked and stabbed. The Black Captain slashed at an oncoming warrior, piercing his helm. Isilmo watched blood pour down the man's face before he moved on to his next victim. He sensed Morgomir behind him, uttering screams of bloodlust and hewing down the enemy with ease. He saw the massive figure of Rogash ahead of him, mowing down men as he sprinted through the masses, slashing left and right with his enormous broadsword. Finding that he was for the moment, unopposed, he stopped for a moment to examine the scene. Now that he looked closely, he realised how ill equipped both sides actually were. Many of the Numenorians carried pitchforks and rusty short swords, while the trolls mostly carried picks, and some simply fought with their bare hands, swinging left and right and knocking men into the air. The blade of the Black Nunenorians was broken, but when he had gained their allegiance, the blade would be reforged.

If he gained their allegiance.

********

Morgomir, like his Captain, had stopped to take a breather as the trolls forced there way through the sea of men. Now he surveyed the scene with a critical eye. Despite the sheer strength of the trolls, they actually were very crude and inexperienced fighters. The Black Numenorians were becoming used to their predictable ways, and being more nimble and agile, were able to dodge their attacks and often then deliver a killer blow of their own. Despite their lack of equipment, they were a far more efficient fighting force than the trolls, and as Morgomir now realised, this was becoming a telling factor in this battle, so telling that it could, in fact be the deciding factor if the situation was not addressed.

Making his decision, he rode in haste towards his superior.

"Sound the retreat," he screamed over the din.

The Black Captain stared at him coldly.

"We can't do that," he replied forcefully. "We need these troops. We can't surrender."

"I'm not suggesting surrender," said Morgomir, shaking his head. "We need to reorganise. Our ranks are a mess. They're picking us to pieces!"

Morgomir's superior turned to the scene of battle. After a few seconds, Morgomir saw him acknowledge the point. With a swift glance back at Morgomir, the Black Captain cantered full pelt towards the line of trolls.

Morgomir, left alone, was thinking fast. The Black Numenorians were not going to be defeated so easily by a small rabble of disorganised trolls. They needed something that would crush their morale. Something that would destroy their will to fight, to hold out. There was only one answer. Both he and his Captain would enter the field of battle.

Alone.

Unassisted.

Morgomir knew that they had both the ability, and the weapons to carry out the task at hand. Morgomir allowed himself a twisted smile. The mortals had no idea what they were about to walk into.

********

Nurath wiped the blood from his sword, staring around at the scene before him. Despite the brute force of the trolls, their casualties had been less than expected. The had been able to take a break as the trolls retreated to reorganise under the orders of their anonyms commander.

Nurath called his men back into action as two mounted figures slowly approached. They were garbed entirely in black, and carried long, thin swords, which were held loosely at their sides with an air of knowing how to use them. Nurath frowned. Something was terribly wrong. There was a air of tension and foreboding as the two warriors approached. Did they wish to make a truce? Nurath doubted it. Suddenly, for the first time in his life, he felt truly afraid.

Desperately afraid. The sight of the two figures riding ever so slowly towards them, death surely written behind the eyes he could not see, chilled him to his very bones. He vaguely noticed that his men, who had moments ago been jeering at the two warriors for emerging alone, were now similarly affected. All was silent except for the soft slow hoof beats of the beasts bearing the cloaked riders. And then, barely metres away from the lines of men, the horses stopped.

Fear clutched the army. The riders had not spoken a word, and nor had they touched the reins. Could these strange warriors somehow control animals?

Seconds past. Then minutes. Nurath could hear his own heartbeat in the silence.

Then, seemingly from nowhere, a blood curdling scream filled the air. The men yelled in fear and dropped their weapons, Nurath doing the same. Then as he looked up, he realised his mistake. The two rides were charging full pelt at the lines of currently unarmed men, drawing long daggers as they did. Nurath saw the riders reach his men and stab at the frontline with their daggers.

There were screams of pain from the stabbed men. Nurath watched as their faces went blue, watched them gurgle and froth at the mouth, and then fall to the ground, twitching uncontrollably. After several moments, the warriors lay still.

But not for long.

Nurath watched, frozen in horror, as the corpses rose, dazed and demented, eyes blank and staring, and turned to their own ranks. Without a moments pause, they began hacking and stabbing at their own comrades. The screams of the men struck by there fellows were unheeded as the two warriors continued slashing blindly at their own army, headless to the wounds they received in return. Their form now was barely solid, almost ghostlike, and as they stabbed and hacked at their own ranks, the Black Numenorians utter horror broke them.

And they fled.

Like whipped dogs, they fled from the ghostly presence of the two warriors, screaming in fear, discarding their weapons. There was a mass trample as the men scrambled up the slope they had come from, desperate to escape the wraithlike beings that would not die…

It was then, that Nurath saw, out of the corner of his eye, the trolls charge for a second time. Roaring for more bloodshed, they threw themselves into the confused ranks of the Black Numenorians, crushing them under their immense strength. Nurath sighed as he realised the battle was lost. Blowing his war horn, he ordered his men to retreat. He himself remained where he was. He didn't want those mysterious black riders as his enemies. It was time to make an arrangement…

********

The Black Captain watched as the Black Numenorian line buckled under the brunt force of the trolls. The battle was won, and he needed the surviving warriors, which were still many, for a large part of his army. He turned to Rogash.

"Get your men out of there," he ordered.

The massive troll stared at the Chief of the Nazgul for a moment, then nodded stiffly, and began bellowing orders over the battlefield. Isilmo turned away. He would have to find some way to show Rogash his place.

He roused himself as he saw a lone figure standing at the head of his bloodied army. Their commander, he supposed. He turned to Morgomir.

"I will approach him alone," he said softly. Morgomir nodded, accepting his Captain's decision.

The Chief of the Nazgul gathered his reins, and then paused.

"Well done," he whispered. He paused, and then added, "Lieutenant."

With that, the Black Captain steered his horse to the left and rode towards the Black Numenorian commander.

He reached him within seconds. Isilmo stared the man up and down. He was obviously full of fear, but was doing well not to show it.

There was a moment of silence, before the man spoke.

"What are you, Dread-lord?"

The Black Captain knew his answer. He knew how to gain this man's allegiance, along with the allegiance of his followers.

"I am the future. I am your future. Your fate lies in my hands. I could slay you all in an instant with a wave of my hand. And yet, I have not done so."

The Black Captain's voice was cold, cold like the dead of winter.

"I am here, not to destroy you, but the kingdom that is rightfully yours and mine. The North Kingdom of the Dunadain is half broken, and I intent to remove the weak kings from their thrones, and give the land to the people who deserve it. I am willing to provide you this land if you will aid me in conquering it. If not, you will perish in this cold wasteland like many before you. Make your choice."

The man hesitated. The Black Captain could see him weighing the possibilities in his head. Isilmo knew there was only one option he could take. He would realise that to very soon.

After a brief moment, the man looked up at the mounted Nazgul.

"If you can promise us the land of the Dunadian, then I, and all my warriors, and all the Black Numenorians, pledge our fealty to you."

As one, the lines of men kneeled before the Black Captain, placing their weapons at their feet.

"We are yours to command," said the man, looking up again at the wraith.

"Witch King."

A/N: Well there it is. I hope you all enjoyed it. Please review, and I hope you enjoy the chapters to come.

NOTE ON THE NAMES OF THE WITCH KING: Many names are used for the Witch King in this story. The name "Isilmo" is the name he used when he was a prince of Numenor. When he went into exile, he took up the name "Er-Murazor". He was named the Black Captain of the Nazgul when he was insnared by the ring, and it was during the War in the North that he became known as the "Witch King of Angmar".