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A company of horsemen cantered up the hill, a black and silver banner fluttering in the wind. Troops along the way fell to the side and raised their fists or weapons in a silent, weary cheer. They had been fighting for almost two weeks against the men of Rhudaur. They were exhausted and frightened and had a strange sense of doom on them, but the arrival of the horsemen renewed the embers of hope in their hearts that had almost gone out. The King had arrived.
At the tower the company halted and dismounted. A wondrous tall and fair tower, it was built by Elendil and his sons when they came to Middle-earth, over the Sea from the breaking of Numenor. Here Elendil had stood and waited for the coming of Gil-galad from the West, when the Last Alliance was forged and Sauron was overthrown, and here generations of the Men of the West had kept watch, keeping the darkness at bay. But now in these troubled times it seemed to many that the darkness had fallen on the watchtower of Amon Sul at last, and that not even the craftsmanship of yore could break the waves of their enemies that were sure to fall on them.
With a heavy groaning the massive wooden doors of the tower swung open. King Arveleg of Arthedain and Cardolan entered the tower with his retinue while their horses were led to the small court where the stables were held, and then the doors were shut and an intense silence fell again on the fortifications.
Once inside, the King was greeted and led to a small antechamber, where one of his lords was waiting for him beside a small table holding several maps and a piece of charcoal, as well as a candle guttering in the drafty air that was flowing from a high, thin window.
“Your Majesty,” said Lord Malkin, bowing stiffly. He was a man in his forties, nearing the end of his fighting career, but still a bear of a man and one of the King’s most trusted commanders.
“Lord Malkin, I trust all is well?” inquired Arveleg, removing his helmet and placing it into the hands of one of the two retainers who had followed him into the room.
“As well as it can be, Sire,” said Lord Malkin grimly. “Rhudaur grows more bold, even from the last reports we sent to you. In fact, we are bordering on outright war, Your Majesty, and it will be difficult to hold the hills, the road, and the embankments along the river all at once.”
“And yet we must hold,” said the King firmly. “These are the best fortifications we are able to defend.”
“Aye,” said Malkin. “You brought reinforcements as you said, Your Majesty?”
The King inclined his head. “A thousand in number, all the able bodied men I could spare from the cities and villages of both Arthedain and Cardolan. Two hundred I sent to fortify the hill forts further north. Two hundred I sent to guard the river embankments and the road. Six hundred join your men here.”
“That is good,” said Malkin, “But not enough, I fear, for the storm that is coming.”
“What mean you?”
Malkin hesitated. “Sire, no reports are completely trustworthy, for the few scouts we send only go so far and only see so much. I trust each of them completely, but when one only sees a small part of a bigger hole, affairs can be misconstrued. Nevertheless. My scouts report long supply trains bringing much food and such things to the enemy, much more than the enemy could need. Perhaps they are just stockpiling. But, I do not think it unwise to prepare for an offensive against us, with many more men than they presently have.”
“How soon?” asked Arveleg, afraid that he already knew the answer, but wanting to hear it from an experienced commander.
“Based on when the supply trains were first reported, the attack could be anywhere from now to a few weeks from now,” said Malkin. “You came at a good time, Your Majesty.”
“But not with enough men, evidently,” said Arveleg tiredly.
Malkin inclined his head. “We all can only do our best, Your Majesty.”
Although this was true, the troops of Arthedain and Cardolan were not the only ones who were doing the best they could. The Witch-king of Angmar also had been preparing his men, and, unbeknownst to the Arnorian soldiers, the storm was gathering against them.
Literally and figuratively, that is. Dark clouds swirled in the leaden sky that evening and cold, unforgiving droplets fell from them. A darkness crept over the earth, and it seemed almost unnatural. The soldiers of Arthedain and Cardolan stood at their posts, wiping the rain from their eyes and peering into the wastes of Rhudaur, trying to make out approaching enemy soldiers. They shifted and mumbled complaints to each other, but all of them felt a strange feeling of despair in their bones. Something was not right.
The clouds converged in the night and sent torrents of water to the ground. The rain drops spattered on the Amon Sul and the surrounding defences, soaking the men and bringing a chill into their marrow. The darkness seeped deeper into the ground and the walls and the hearts and minds of the men. The sense of doom settled even deeper on the men of Arnor, their minds twisting into something unrecognizable, something scared and fearful and downtrodden.
Then came the thing that left the men of Arnor, once proud warriors, trembling. A low note rose in the air and trembled, the mighty bass tone seeming to shake the earth. A great horn had been winded, and thousands of torches flickered into life in front of the walls. A coarse shout arose, and the sudden and deafening clang of weapons clashed on shields filled the air.
Angmar had come to the doorstep of Arnor.
Arveleg heard the noise from inside the mighty tower of Amon Sul. His face fell, but he pulled himself together and stood, buckling his sword to his hip and picking up his helmet, which lay nearby. He strode from the chamber he had been sitting in.
“Marklin!” he yelled, and his voice echoed through the stone arches of Amon Sul. “The enemy is upon us!”
Arveleg stood on the ramparts of Amon Sul, watching waves of troops under Angmar’s control crash and break against the walls. He knew, however, that this would not last long. Soon the enemy would gain a foothold and then all would be lost. He prayed that the Witch-king of Angmar was not present, but somehow, deep in his heart, he knew that the dreaded thing was here, lurking. It was only a matter of time before he showed himself.
A flash of lighting cut the sky in twain. A deafening shout rose to greet it, and with a sudden sinking in his heart, Arveleg knew. The Witch-king of Angmar was present.
An unearthly shrill scream split the air. Arveleg winced and he saw several of his men fall to their knees, dropping their weapons and clutching their ears. A sudden deathly silence filled the scream, and Arveleg drew himself up and hefted his sword. Another bolt of lightning came down, and in the flash of light Arveleg could see a tall figure striding through the ranks of the enemy, making directly for Amon Sul. Arveleg turned to his royal guard, who stood in a loose semi circle behind him, white faced but solid. He caught the eye of one.
“Arling,” he said. “As a command from your king, go to the inner room of Amon Sul, with this in your hand.” He removed a ring from his finger and pressed it into Arling’s hand. “Inside will you find a sphere of black color. Remove it from its stand, wrap it in a cloth, and do not look in it. Take a horse and ride away from this place with it.” Arling made to entreat Arveleg, but Arveleg shook his head. “I command this. This is an heirloom of Elendil. I care not where you take it, as long as the place is safe. Go to Rivendell, or the Gray Havens, to Cirdan the Ship-wright.” He looked Arling in the eye again. “Go, and quickly.”
Anguished, Arling gave a short bow and then turned and went down the stairs.
Arveleg nodded to the rest of his guard. “Come, men. Let us meet our deaths like men.”
The battle raged fierce and hard. The men of Cardolan and Arthedain fought bravely, but in the end the numbers of Angmar simply overpowered them. Troops liveried in black stormed the walls and killed all of the men, leaving no blood unshed. Blood stained the ground and cried out to the Valar, but the Valar were not there to answer.
The only defenders left alive were the King and his guard. They stood atop Amon Sul in the rain, waiting for their fate. The troops of Angmar formed a great circle around the tower and halted, standing in their perfect, unbroken ranks. In front of them stood the Witch-king of Angmar, dressed all in black armor, a crown of flickering blue fire sputtering above his shoulders, with no face. There was simply a blank space, but as Arveleg looked at him, he could still feel the piercing gaze of the Witch-king, the evil notice of his deathless eye.
“Come down, son of Elendil.” The Witch-king finally spoke, his voice rough and grating, and yet somehow musical. “Come down from your tower of stone.”
“I will not,” said Arveleg. “I will not abandon my country’s line of defence in its time of need. I will not bow down to you.”
The Witch-king inclined his empty head, the fiery crown tipping forward. “Very well, then. So you have chosen.”
With piercing screams Arveleg’s guard dropped to their knees as one, blood pouring and frothing from their mouths and throat, large gashes appearing in those spots. They gave last gurgles and toppled on their faces, their weapons falling and shattering beneath them.
“See what you have chosen,” said the Witch-king of Angmar, his voice flickering with cruel laughter. “See the path you have put your people on.”
Arveleg felt his bones snap and his mind go black with pain, before the black encircled him.
Amon Sul burned.
The smoke rose to the heavens and the flames raged as the armies of Angmar sifted the bodies for weapons and souvenirs. The Witch-king sat on a massive black horse and watched the once-mighty watchtower go up in smoke, along with it the memory of Arveleg, king of Arthedain and Cardolan.
Amon Sul burned.