A/N: I am so sorry it has taken so long to get the next chapter going. The last few months haven't been easy on me. But at last, here it is, Chapter 9. Enjoy and please review.

Disclaimer: I am not Tolkien, and I do not own anything of his.

The Hammer Falls

Winter after winter passed, each one colder than the last. The northern lands covered in snow, the passes blocked up, the roads closed off. And in the shadows of the mountains of Angmar, the Witch King's empire silently grew. Massive and now deadly Snow Trolls now guarded the entrance to the ravine around the settlement, wielding iron maces and broadswords. Highly experienced and well equipped Black Numenorian warriors trained in sheltered caverns around the ravine. And in the centre, standing tall and impenetrable, stood the massive figure of the rebuilt stronghold, Carn Dum.

In the high, cold towers of iron, the Witch King sat on his black throne, plotting and scheming. On his left, the massive figure of Rogash, a constant bodyguard to the Dread-Lord, towering over all his other subjects. On his right, the ever present shadow of Morgomir, lending advice, commanding the forces, and quietly dealing with anyone foolish enough to question the revered Witch King. And in the dark chambers deep within the stronghold, he disappeared for hours, working tirelessly on a project known only to himself, his Captain, and a few very select Black Numenorian subjects.

Growing in strength and numbers, Angmar lay low, watching their enemy crumble from within, waiting for the moment to strike. Every year, the Witch King sent spies into Arnor, spreading fear, uncertainty and discord through the land, spreading a mistrust of their leaders, corrupting the barons and lords that ruled, sowing the seeds of rebellion. In Rhuadur the arm of the Witch King was longest, and as he watched, he deemed that soon, the time would be right to strike.

*******

Argeleb, Prince of Arthedian, hurried to the bedchambers of his father, wringing his hands as he went. The King had come up with a dreadful fever, and his health had deteriorated rapidly in the week that followed. He was now in a critical condition, and Argeleb feared for his father's life.

He reached the entrance and knocked once. The door was opened by the head surgeon. Inzor was one of the best healers of the kingdom, but this had strangely been beyond him.

"My Prince," he murmured, bowing low.

"How is he?" queried Argeleb, his voice wobbling slightly as he glanced over to his father. The King was deathly pale. His eyes were closed.

"I'm afraid, Milord, that he won't make it. I've given him something to ease the pain and discomfort but…" the surgeon trailed of, looking up at the stricken man.

"I'm sorry Milord," Inzor said, bowing his head. "I have failed you."

Argeleb shook his head.

"You have done all you could Inzor. For this I thank you."

He bowed low, and then strode quickly to his father.

"Ada?" he whispered, using the old elvish term that was still used among the Dunedain royalty. "Ada? It's me."

The old King's eyes fluttered open.

"Ah yes," he muttered. "I'm glad you have come."

He looked at his son, staring him directly in the eye like he did when he was a child.

"My time is up Argeleb."

There was a grim finality in the way the King said this, announcing his doom with weary acceptance.

Argeleb held back his tears. He was Argeleb, Prince, soon to be King of Arthedain, and he would not cry.

"Yes Ada," he said quietly, grasping his father's hand in his own.

"Then we have little time," said Mavegil, his voice growing stronger for a moment. "You must listen carefully, for what I am about to tell you is of extreme importance, greater perhaps, than you will initially realise."

Argeleb looked at his father. Through the dying eyes, he could see a small light of determination, the last remnant of the old flair of wisdom and drive that King Mavegil was famous for. He nodded solemly, every ounce of his attention now devoted to the man lying before him.

"The kingdom," he began, pausing for a moment as his body was shaken by a feverish shiver, "…is unstable."

Argeleb eyes widened in surprise. "Surely father-"

"Do not argue, I have not the time," his father reprimanded. "The nation of the Dunedian has been split, and as a result is fragile enough to burst apart at the slightest gust. You must do what I could not. Unite Arnor under the sceptre once again. You have always stirred the people. You have there trust. You have their loyalty. Bring them under a single banner while there is time. I fear a storm is coming, and this broken nation as it is cannot survive the impact. Make it strong again. Bring the Dunedain tribes together, or our people will surely come to an end. Save our nation. Save our land. Save our people. Save yourself."

Argeleb stared at his father. Despite his weakness, and intensity was in him of the like Argeleb had never seen before. He bowed his head and nodded.

"I will father," he said. "And I vow that all my descendents will do the same."

The King smiled. "Thankyou my son. And now I must linger no longer. Goodbye Argeleb."

The Prince rested his head on his father's chest. But he did not cry. He was the new King of Arthedain, and he would not cry.

*******

The news of the death of King Mavegil of Arthedian reached Angmar within the week. Less than half a year later later, the Witch King's spies announced that the new King of Arthedian had claimed all the Kingdoms of the Dunedian under the sceptre of Annuminas after many months of debate in the courts of Fornost.

"The time is right," hissed Morgomir, standing beside the Witch King, gazing over the masses of warriors and war machines under their command.

"Yes," said the Witch King, turning from the balcony towards his chamber.

"Send a message to Rhuadar. Have Rogash prepare the troops. We march at dawn."

*******

The noble district of Rhuadar lay quiet and peaceful as evening descended. Old fat barons put aside scrolls and staggered off to bed, mumbling and rubbing their eyes. Overpaid sentries sat slumbering at their posts, unfit and unprepared from years of inaction. They failed to see the dark swarms approaching the buildings, surrounding the expanse of the small district in a dark circle.

Suddenly the air was alive with screams. Flaming torches were lit, blades drawn, and rioting villagers swarmed the area, overwhelming in sheer numbers. Sentries and guards put up a feeble fight and were slaughtered where they stood before even drawing their weapons. Nobles and barons were stabbed to death in their beds, or cut down mercilessly as they stood in their halls begging for mercy. The villagers tore through the streets, burning as they went, slaying all that stood in their path. Noblewomen were raped and beaten to death, dragged screaming from their houses and shamed openly in the streets. The district was ablaze, crumbling to ashes as the peasants charged through, hacking and burning without remorse.

When the morning light peaked over the Misty Mountians, the city was nothing but dust and smoke. The entire peasant population of Rhuadar stood or sat in the city, blood-drunk after the massacre. Standing apon a fallen tower stood Hwaldar, the newly appointed chieftain of Rhuadar and the peasant folk. He was a tall, thickset man, clad in fur skin with wild hair and beard that showed the beginnings of grey streaks. In his right hand he held a massive broadaxe with an air of cool confidence. His keen dark eyes scanned the horizon.

A young man approached him.

"Hey Chief," he drawled. "The new King's got word. He's com'm for us."

"Good," said Hwaldar quietly. "Send a message to Angmar. Tell them to move in."

******

Morgomir sensed them before he saw them. He could feel their minds, their consciousnesses amassed together. A large bulk of them felt dimmer, less intelligent than the rest, from which Morgomir inferred that the force was headed with cavalry. Taking this into account, he guessed that the force was nearly six thousand strong, quite a gathering for a nation still in the early days of its unity. Morgomir pictured the force in his shadowy minds eye. Tall, strong and proud warriors, banners flowing in the light morning breeze, tall men with glittering helms on horseback, armour glinting in the sun, shining like the jewelled armour of Numenor of old….

Morgomir shook his head, clearing his mind of the picture. It did not do to think of such things. Instead the wraith focused his mind on the King. He would be at the head of the force, Morgomir was sure of it. He quickly gathered his knowledge of the man. He was young, he knew, an excellent swordsman and a much loved monarch. But as a battle commander, Morgomir knew, the youth King was woefully inexperienced. It was this fact that the cunning Nazgul would use to his advantage.

Morgomir looked up as Argeleb's forces appeared over the hill. They were indeed, a magnificent sight. Their green and white banners blowing in the wind, they marched proudly, their weapons held aloft in confidence.

And many are the mighty fallen, thought Morgomir, and then grimaced ruefully as he realised the irony.

The army approached the outskirts of the smoking city. Morgomir could see men emerging on the walls, clutching their weapons in the event of combat. The hill chieftain Hwaldar was among them, gazing out at the oncoming force.

The King called a halt as his men neared the city. Looking up to the walls, he called out to the rebel villagers. Morgomir attuned his hearing outward to catch Argeleb's voice.

"People of Rhuadar," called the King of Arnor. "You have been charged with treason against your lord's and country. You are to be taken back to the capital to await your sentence."

Morgomir saw Hwaldar rise from the walls.

"You call us traitors youth? These fat nobles were no better than yourself, claiming what they want and stealing from the so-called lower class. You may have a sceptre in your hand and a star on your forehead, will never have all of Arnor boy."

Morgomir saw the young king stiffen. Morgomir smiled. Hwaldar was quite a character. He would be very useful over the next few years.

"Very well. If you choose to split our nation and descend to the evil that threatens to tear us apart then so be it."

Hwaldar snarled. "Evil? You know nothing of evil Argeleb. But you soon will. Very soon."

"Enough!" the King roared. "Knights of Arnor, FORWARD!"

The frontline of cavalry charged towards the burnt city, raising their swords and spears and shouting war cries.

Morgomir looked back at his superior. The Witch King stood silently watching the scene.

"Move in," he whispered, still staring ahead of him.

Morgomir nodded, making a silent sign, and his troops began to move out from their hidden position in the trees.

"And Morgomir," called the Witch King. "Deal with the King personally".

*******

Argeleb lead his battalion of cavalry towards the city to meet the peasants that were swarming out to meet them. His pride had been stung by the hill chieftain, and for that he wanted to crush the man, but he would not have acted on the rash impulse if he hadn't already known how important it was to crush this rebellion, even if it meant eradicating Rhuadar completely. The words of his father rang in his ears: "Unite Arnor under the sceptre once again." Argeleb felt an urgency as he rode towards the oncoming peasants, an importance to this battle. But even then, he hesitated. How many of these men were simple farmers that had been bribed or threatened into this mad revolt? How many of them had families waiting for them at home?

Argeleb shook his head. There could be no such thoughts going into a battle. This was the only way, he told himself. Crush these few and save so many others.

Suddenly Argeleb could hear screams. He was so surprised he reined his horse. He had not yet reached the enemy lines. Dimly he realised he had just crippled the effectiveness of the charge, but he was too distracted to care. Instead he turned to the rear of his army, and was paralysed with horror from what he saw.

Both his rear and his flanks were being assaulted by an army of thousands, seemingly materializing out of nowhere. Thousands of men in black helmets and armour were hacking at his lines, and charging in behind them were… were those trolls?

Then Argeleb heard the clash of weapons again, this time closer, and realised the rebels were now attacking from the front. His heart fell as he realised he was almost surrounded. But how had it happened? There could only be one explanation. The hill chieftain must have made secret league with this mysterious army. The King could see him now, standing just outside the field of battle, coordinating attacks. A rage filled Argeleb of the likes he had never encountered before. He didn't understand it, but he didn't care. All he knew was that every fibre in his being wanted to crush the stout, unkempt middle-aged piece of scum until he was ground into the dust. Screaming a cry of bloodlust, Argeleb rode full pelt towards the city gates, heedless of everything around him, crushing mercilessly the men he had only minutes ago pitied as peasants and farmers with families. He uged his horse faster, his eyes fixed on the figure standing arrogantly outside the field.

Then suddenly, Argeleb's world turned upside down. He felt his horse stumble, felt himself flying through the air, his helm flying from his head, felt the dull hard impact as he crashed on the ground, denting his armour and knocking the wind out of him. For a few seconds he blacked out, consciousness threatening to leave him, but he steadied himself and tried to glean a picture of his surroundings. The first thing he discovered was that a figure stood over him.

"Get up, young King," said the figure.

Argeleb would've once again boiled at another reference to his age, but the cold voice chilled him to the bone. It was the strangest voice he had ever heard, raspy yet soft and silky, whispery and weak and yet full of athourity. The king staggered to his feet, trying to see through blurred vision. A tall figure cloaked entirely in black stood before him, face invisible behind its hood. The figure moved towards him, and Argeleb was engulfed in only one emotion: fear.

There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. All around Argeleb was a blur except for the figure standing before him which was surely a demon wearing the face of doom. The King was frozen in fear, unable to move, barely able to think. He shivered, realising how ignorant he had been of death, the horror of losing the world he knew and loved. This monster was surely to take him and rip him apart, take him to a place of evil and death. He was about to collapse with the terror when the demon spoke.

"You are a disgrace young King."

Argeleb looked up, squinting up into surely the face of his death.

"You have failed your people and your country when they needed you most. You have failed them as a King and as a leader. You have always been less than your ancestors, and you showed on the battlefield today what you truly are. Instead of worrying about the fate of your army, you let your selfish rage take over. You abandoned your men to go after a man who scorned you, instead of reorganizing an army in need of leadership. Your indecision as you were surrounded has already cost you the battle. You are weak, young King, weak and childish. You show nothing of the noble blood of your father, who you also failed in your slow action to bring the kingdoms of Arnor together. Here, weak King, is the price of your failure."

For a moment Argeleb's vision blacked, and then he was staring at vast burnt plains, corpses strewn across the landscape. He saw the dome of Fornost broken and the Palantir's of Anuminas corrupted under some foreign power of evil. He saw women raped and burnt, children roasted on stakes and displayed in the courtyards of the King. He saw villages razed to ashes, cattle eaten alive, and the entire land covered in a shroud of darkness. Argeleb reeled in horror as he realised that he was seeing the future, the consequences of loosing this battle, the consequences of all his inadequacy.

If there was anything that could be worse than his fear, it was his shame. Shame for his non-success, for his selfishness and his dishonour. He had failed everyone. He had failed his father! That was the worst of it. The dying man had put his last faith in his son, and Argeleb had as good as betrayed it. He would go down as a disgrace to the race of men, and the King who had doomed his nation. He knelt before his doom, despair engulfing him and dimming his senses. And then he felt hot metal penetrate his breastplate and pierce his skin. Pain engulfed him, but the despair remained. King Argeleb I died trembling and weeping, reduced to a sobbing wreck. As Morgomir withdrew his sword, the man hit the ground with a thud of finality.

*******

The Witch King walked among the dead.

It was an intriguing feeling for him, understanding it but not quite being part of it. The dead, in truth, were not unlike the living now, beings in an apart world, something he could decipher but not quite touch. It was bittersweet in that way, he thought.

A being interrupted his musings. Definitely living, he thought after a moment.

"Witch King," said Nurath, bowing low. "We have rounded up the last of them. They are prisoners awaiting your judgement."

The Witch King spoke not a word, but walked slowly towards the kneeling men a few metres away.

Isilmo stared down at them, looking inside them for particular qualities and traits.

"You," he said quietly, pointing to one trembling man. He was hauled to his feet.

"Return to your capital soldier. Tell him the Witch King of Angmar has come forth. Tell them that your kingdom is finished. Fight or flee or cower, there is no hope. The North Kingdom of Arnor will fall."

He turned again to Nurath.

"Give this man a fresh steed and enough rations to get him to Fornost. He will not deter."

Nurath nodded.

"And the rest?"

"Kill them."

A/N: Well there it is. Much longer this time. More chapters will come soon, so keep checking! As I said before, sooo sorry it took so long. Please keep giving feedback! Cheers everyone!