Chapter 1

THE BARROW DOWNS, Urui 31st, Summer 1409 of the Third Age of Middle Earth

Smoke swirled across the fiery spring sky as the King's Men made their last stand upon a hill. Cries of dying orcs resounded like some hideous chorus, magnifying the terror that gripped the Barrow‑downs. A savage and merciless battle had been fought all night. Bodies and fires dotted the hill and the clash of steel could be heard ringing. Some of the surviving men fled into the woods, casting down weapons. Cardolan's end was at hand.

His back to a Standing‑stone, King Ostoher surveyed the battlefield, all the while praying to Varda for salvation. Down to under a hundred, his loyal warriors seemed hopelessly outnumbered, despite the fact that they had slaughtered a hundred score of the Witch‑King's minions. Daylight was still too far away. His breath steamed out in the cool night air, large gulps as he tried to catch his breath. This far north even the summer nights were chill. And this had been a particularly cold year.

The troll warlord, Rogrog, had struck at midnight, allowing the Cardolani no time to dress, much less prepare an adequate line of defense. King Ostoher fought without pants, shirt, or even padding beneath his enchanted breastplate. He cursed himself for his lack of foresight, for he had never expected the Witch King's Warlord to force march in the early evening. He wiped sweat and dirt from his face, pushing back his black hair. As he turned toward a noise, he uttered, "Why must these noble souls pay for my confusion?"

A group of orcs rushed him, snarling and hissing, brandishing cruel jagged and notched weapons, all coated with poison. Ostoher brought his great‑sword down, sweeping through the first pair of attacking Orcs. He moved left and felled another with a mighty blow that cleaved the beast's iron helmet. He then realized that he had been separated from his personal guard. Then, through the black smoke, he spotted the huge shadow of his enemy. "Rogrog!" he shouted in defiance. The beast carried a knight of Cardolan in his grasp. The man struggled weakly until the troll smashed his head in with a punch of his fist. He then tore the head off of the man and put it in a sack at his waist. Ostoher noticed a mosaic of skulls that dangled over the troll's loincloth. Rogrog raised his massive spiked club.

The King turned again, pressing against the cold stone that guarded his ancestors. As the Troll closed with him, he uttered his last oath, "My blood may color this grassy hill tonight, but the Spirits of the Edain shall sleep undisturbed."

THE TOWER OF AMON SÛL

The tower of Amon Sûl was a marvel of ancient Númenorean architecture. A monumental spire designed to hold the Master Seeing stone of the North, the fabled Palantír. Constructed of grey‑blue granite and rising 280 feet above the moat, its spire could be seen many miles away. The Dunedain felt the tower to be impregnable. The tower itself was surrounded by a patchwork quilt of outer defenses: ditches, walls, and moats. The Garrison of the tower was split between the two remaining kingdoms of Arnor: Arthedain and Cardolan, both of whom shared a border at the tower. A garrison of several hundred elite knights and men at arms from both kingdoms protected the tower and a dozen veteran Stone Wardens rounded out the force assigned to protect both King and Palantír. In the past, the two forces had suffered strife when tensions rose between the Kingdoms, but today they would all be either victorious or dead.

At the very top of the tower, an old man with a long white beard peered into a pulsating sphere. He wore the long royal blue robes of a member of the Stone Seers, those who had years of training and experience to do what he was doing. His eyes were focused and his mouth fell open in grief. "By the Valar...we are destroyed.…" the Warden of the great seeing stone, the Palantír, turned slowly away from the glowing crystal sphere. His elderly face was drawn and tired looking, the weight of impending doom weighed heavily upon him. From the massive tower of Amon Sûl, he had viewed the invasion of his homeland by the armies of the Witch-King of Angmar. Gwedhron, the Warden was native son of Cardolan, having been born and raised just outside of the capital of Tharbad. Due to his skill and learning as a seer, he was selected to train with the Stone Seers in Annúminas in Arthedain.

The sun was just rising, illuminating the battlefield for the seer. Twenty miles northeast of the tower it became apparent that the army of his homeland had been annihilated. He could see the bodies of orcs mixed in with men along with spears, swords and arrows sticking out of the grass. The troll warlord, Rogrog, had force marched his orcs through the night and attacked with surprise. Completely unprepared, King Ostoher and his sons were slaughtered with well nigh 80% of the Army of Cardolan. Gwedhron could just make out the king's body, now decapitated, his head a trophy for the troll. Barely stopping to rest, Rogrog continued his onslaught and would be at Amon Sûl by nightfall.

The Warden rushed from the chamber of the seeing stone, his boots clattering over the stone floor. Down the steps he ran and into the chamber of the King of Arthedain. He could barely stop the tears and sputtered to speak. "Arveleg! Cardolan is gone. Ostoher fell on the Barrow Downs and his army is scattered. The troll will be here by nightfall with eight thousand orcs," the Warden said, his face full of horror.

Arveleg's eyes glowed with rage, a snarl on his lips. "Those weaklings...I knew they could not be trusted hold our flank!" He pounded his mailed fist on the oak table before him, splintering it. His legendary anger struck fear into even his elite Stone Wardens, hand picked guardians of the Palantír.

Gwedhron, though offended by the insult to his homeland, withheld his feelings. This was no time to lose control of his senses, he reasoned. Right now, his sole purpose was to save the remnants of shattered Cardolan. "King Arveleg, you must make preparations to depart. I beg you, the Palantír must be saved!"

Arveleg bit down on his teeth hard, tension rippling along his jaw. "We will not abandon the tower!" he shouted back. "This is the birthright of our people, left to us by Elendil. We will not yield to those savages. Arnor split because of politics. Rhudaur was lost because of politics. Today, we will fight!"

Throughout the day, the men of Arthedain and Cardolan worked furiously, gathering stones, winding catapults, fletching arrows and boiling oil. All Gwedhron could do was watch as their doom unfolded. Throughout the day, several dozen Cardolani stragglers had bolstered their ranks. Now close to five hundred, perhaps there might be hope. But at dusk, the army of Rogrog could be seen. A line of spears, torches and horses spread across the horizon. On the battlements of the outer defenses, the grim defenders stood silently, ready to fight. These were veteran warriors, chosen to guard king and Palantír. Beyond the walls, the cold wind howled through the crenellations, nearly drowning out the pounding of boots from the enemy. By nightfall, the Army of Angmar had deployed and the tower was surrounded.

From the pinnacle of the mighty tower, King Arveleg gazed into the Palantír, focusing his concentration. He had donned his silver full plate armor with a blue tabard bearing the symbol of Arnor, a white tree surrounded by stars. Gwedhron stood nearby to assist the king if needed. Unbeknownst to most, the Stone could be used to communicate with another who had a similar stone. Within the crystal sphere the face of a young man with black hair began to form. The adolescent was also clad in silver plate armor adorned with seven stars.

Arveleg commanded, "Araphor, my son. My force is surrounded...we can hold siege for a week at most...send reinforcements immediately!" The force of Arveleg's will could be felt through the Palantir and it sent Araphor a step back.

The young Prince responded timidly, "Father, our city of Annuminas is now under siege also. We are being attacked by none other than the right-hand man of the Witch King himself...the Angûlion. We count nearly fifteen thousand orcs in the field."

The King fumed. "I did not ask for an excuse! I asked for more men...You have eight thousand in Annuminas and another two thousand in Fornost. I command you to send any not directly engaged in the defense of the city. You will be here in three days!"

Araphor bowed. "As you command, Father."

The King turned away as the stone grew dark. Gwedhron covered the stone gently with a velvet cloth. "King Arveleg, I beg you to reconsider. We cannot lose the seeing stone."

Arveleg waved dismissively as he walked out of the chamber, his boots clacking on the floor. Gwedhron, looked around frantically. Then, his eyes focused on a wooden chest. It would be about the right size. The Warden had great respect for the King, but his heart would always be with Cardolan. Not that there would be a kingdom to return to. King Arveleg had reigned for 53 years, ever since the death of his father, Argeleb at the hands of the Rhudarans. He brought the Kingdom back from the brink of destruction and crushed the enemies of Arthedain. He was truly a Warrior King and a hero even amongst the great. This night, his armor shone like a star and his legendary White Bow would sing in the wind.

The proud forces of the Arthedan Dagarim Aran, or Royal Army, stood on the battlements with their black armor covered with black surcoats. Seven white stars were arrayed on each warrior's chest and black-faced shield. The Cúrim, or company, from Cardolan wore silver-colored chainmail, and carried purple shields and surcoats trimmed in silver. They each bore the symbol of their homeland: a hill surrounded by seven stars. This was the tower of Elendil. This, they would defend.

For three long days the defenders held a desperate defense of the fortress. They fell, one by one, thinning out the force along the wall. Part of the outer wall had crumbled from the fire of catapults and fires smoldered throughout the compound. Finally, the forces of Angmar were ready to deliver the coup de grace. Three hours before sunrise, the mighty horns of Angmar tore the night silence. Waves of orcs broke upon the outer wall. Arrows poured thick upon attacker and defender alike. Stones and boiling oil fell upon screaming orcs, but still they came. Arveleg's bow rang out in the night until his arrows were spent. One by one the Stone Wardens fell before him. Soon, only the King was left, flailing about with his mighty enchanted sword. Piles of orcs grew around him, but it was only a matter of time.

The old Warden bowed his head before the Palantír. "Arveleg is gone. We are lost." After a minute of silence, he rose and with renewed strength lifted the great stone out of its intricate mithril receptacle, put it in the chest and gave it to an Arthadan knight standing nearby. He grabbed the man by his breastplate and said, "Take this and go...escape by any means.…" Surprised, the knight took the chest, opened it and stared at the sphere for a second. The Seer pushed him violently. "I said go now!" With that the knight took three squires and passed though the West Door. The Gwedhron hurriedly put a hex on the door to seal it. He rushed to seal the East Door, but it was too late.

With a crash, the East Door fell open. A bloody knight stumbled through, wounded with a dozen arrows. His helmet smashed to the ground as he uttered his final words, "Flee...we are doomed.…" As he breathed his last, the Seer could see a huge, grotesque figure pass through the East Door. A massive, bloated creature it was, draped in heavy chainmail and wielding a spiked club. At the troll's belt dangled several human skulls including the heads of Ostoher and Arveleg.

The Seer collapsed in horror. "Rogrog.…" The club came down. Blood covered the walls.

THARBAD – Ivanneth 4th, Autumn 1409

The crystal goblet caught the firelight and dispersed it to the corners of the room as Ciramir, son of Eärendur, the Gondorian legate twirled it in his hand. It was finely made, a work of art like everything that came from the renowned glassworks at Fornost Erain in Arthedain. Goblets like this graced the tables of the Shipwrights of Mithlond, the Queen's board in Fornost, and the rough camp‑table of King Ostoher on the Downs, where the Cardolanian army camped this night, ever vigilant against further attacks by the terrible host of Angmar.

Such a simple pleasure, dining with finely crafted tableware. It was almost funny in a way, that when the King went north to meet the onslaught of the Witch‑King's realm on the borders of Cardolan, special provisions, placesettings, linen napkins, and his own crystal goblet went north with him. The king had assured the city that Angmar would be defeated and that he would return, victorious. He was still young for a Dúnadan, but he was well loved and respected by the people. They saw him as a bold, knight errant, riding out to quash the forces of evil.

Reports, such as actually reached the city of Tharbad; leagues to the south, indicated that there had already been desperate fighting in the devastated area of Bree‑land where the North Highway crossed the East‑West Road. Ciramir wondered to himself what the aftermath of this war would be. Cardolan and Arthedain had become accustomed to constant war, both with the Witch‑King's realm and each other. Would a victory just mean more internecine conflict among the Dúnadan? Would a defeat… Ciramir didn't even want to think of that outcome. Neither kingdom had yet succumbed to Angmar like their sister kingdom, Rhudaur, which was now no more than a puppet state. But when the dark realm attacked, they had always dropped their differences and marched together to oppose it. But in the absence of that threat, the two northern realms always fell to bickering, drawing swords on one another over some tiny stretch of land. Even during the reigns of the current kings, Ostoher and Arveleg, peacemakers both, the tension and threat of dissension was omnipresent. And Gondor was already spread thin and would be unlikely to send much aid.

Ciramir was no one's fool. He knew of the worm‑tongued dissemblers who came in fair guises to the courts of Arthedain and Cardolan, just as they had come to the King's House in Rhudaur. He knew who they served, and he knew how their efforts made the Witch-King ever more effective. They were in Minas Anor as well, perhaps hoping to turn brother against brother in far off Gondor. Yes, the best outcome would be a victory for the North and an alliance against Angmar. Perhaps even the return of the Kingdom of Arnor might be possible. Arveleg would be the logical choice to lead. Ostoher would be named a prince and rule with near autonomy in Cardolan. The Legate nodded at his own wisdom and looked back to his glass. The light burgundy color of the crystal tinted the legate's hand the color of blood, as he held it and gazed into its depths. A sudden chill breeze ruffled the curtains.

Ciramir stood, goblet in hand, and walked to the window to close it. He looked out across the sprawl of Tharbad and northward at the wide stone highway that stretched, dimly moonlit, into the distance. Somewhere, beyond the shadowy hill barely discernible near the horizon, the armies of Cardolan and Arthedain waited for another assault by the Witch‑King's army. Suddenly, he noticed a rider moving along the highway at great speed, the half shrouded moon dimly reflected in the horse's accoutrements and the mail of the rider, visible as his cloak swept back in the wind.

A rider? At this hour of the morning? Ciramir thought

The Legate forgot about the breeze that had chilled him and set the goblet on the window‑ledge. His attention was completely on the swift moving rider approaching the North Gate of the city. It was clear that the horseman was no ordinary traveler, for he passed quickly through the refugee settlements across the river. The gate was opened for him at once; without slowing, he spurred his steed along the avenue toward the Royal House.

The rumors flew thick and fast in the rider's wake. While Ciramir stood at the window, a clerk reported the news to him, even as it was being echoed in the street below: the army was destroyed, the King and his sons had perished and there were not even enough Cardolanian soldiers to bury them. Arthedanians and Lindon elves had placed what remained of Ostoher and his sons in his barrow. The Witch‑King had been defeated, but at a terrible cost: Tharbad, already crammed with refugees, would soon be flooded with thousands more. And if any part of the Witch‑King's army had survived intact, it would soon come to the gates of the city.

And if not? Then there would be war as well. Arthedain would try to capitalize, if it could, on the terrible destruction wrought on Cardolan, which now had no king. And, if rumors were to be trusted, had only a sixteen-year-old girl as an heir.

Odd, Ciramir thought to himself, for it to be so chill in autumn.

Though a watcher by nature, Ciramir knew that now was the time to act, and if there was any substance to what he had heard, he had to act quickly. Turning away from the window, he strode toward the door of his study. A corner of his robe caught the crystal goblet as he walked across the room, and pulled it along. It hung, teetering on the edge of the sill for a long moment, and then crashed to the stone floor, shattering beyond recognition or recovery.

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