And Aragorn gave to Faramir Ithilien to be his princedom, and bade him dwell in the hills of Emyn Arnen within sight of the City.

‘For,’ said he, ‘Minas Ithil in Morgul Vale shall be utterly destroyed, and though it may in time to come be made clean, no man may dwell there for many long years.’

The Return of the Kings; The Steward and the King

i

Faramir took five men with him into the City, but others from the army of Gondor waited on the bridge leading up to the great gates. In daylight, the place had lost some of its potency but none of its eerie character. Faramir and his men rode over the bridge, their gaze upon the lofty towers of grey and black stone. Now that the skies had cleared a little over Mordor and the Morgul Vale, they could make out scrawling inscriptions daubed on the walls, orkish curses, slurs upon the kings and stewards of Gondor, and other fouler obscenities. Faramir shook his head in disapproval, then spurred his horse on, as if the enemy could still see him and know that their crude scribblings and threats did not frighten him.

Past the gates, they came to a thoroughfare that had once been grand and airy, but the orcs had covered the deserted houses in more graffiti, and had ravished the interiors, leaving nothing but blackened shells with no glass in the windows. As he rode past the open doorways, Faramir saw piles of straw and discarded joints of meat inside, so this had once been the orcs’ dwelling place.

The Lord of Morgul, he imagined, had inhabited the grander towers at the far end of the street. Though the orc houses were revolting, the idea of entering those depraved halls turned Faramir’s stomach. Still, it had to be done.

The air felt strangely still and was laden with filthy odours, unwashed flesh and carrion most prominent amongst them. A faint breeze snaked through the narrow alleys and the cobbled streets that, in forgotten days, would have bustled with market traders and borne colourful bunting, gleaming in the unhindered sun. With a faint moan, that wind now kicked up dirt and scraps of torn cloth, and sent a chill down Faramir’s spine.

‘Nothing lives in this place,’ remarked his lieutenant. ‘What need is there to check the towers? Can you not feel that all is dead here?’

‘I will not see this city razed until I can be sure there are no prisoners remaining in the dungeons,’ replied Faramir, resisting the nauseating sights and smells with dignity. ‘Who knows how many souls the Witch King and his minions snatched while the war still raged? We carry on, until we are certain.’

Hooves clacked loudly against the broken paving as the company proceeded, and the echoes surrounded Faramir like a murder of crows. Still the Witch King’s tower loomed over them, its windows as black as ink, though still full of illusions that made it seem like there were watchers posted at each one. Once or twice Faramir even imagined he saw eyes gleaming in the darkness.

The nearer they came to the heart of the Nazgûl’s lair, the more rotten their surroundings became. Alongside the graffiti, there were now effigies; bones of dogs and pigs lashed to broken spears or wooden poles, bound up with rags and daubed in blood. Faramir also spotted the odd Human, or perhaps Elvish bone amongst the hideous constructions.

The horsemen of Gondor made their way to the steps of the fortress and there dismounted before climbing towards the sealed doors. Piles of armour and broken weapons lay at their feet. Some Faramir recognised from his studies; slender Elven swords and heavy, bejewelled shields. Others came from Gondor, though the White Tree emblazoned upon them had been scratched off.

‘Not even the Valar could wipe the filth from this land, even once this faithless place is gone,’ muttered one of the soldiers. Faramir said nothing, as he found himself agreeing.

‘Let us tarry no longer,’ he said at length, looking up at the doors. He stepped forward and gave a hearty kick. ‘Break it down. But have your swords ready, for there may be foul things still within these halls.’

By their combined efforts, they battered down the doors. When the dust and splinters had settled, they could look into what had once been the entrance hall of a great house. Tiled floors in black and white marble stretched off into the shadows, though their crisp pattern had long since disappeared beneath a film of dirt. Foreboding doorways led off in many directions around the circular chamber, and a twisting stair rose upwards directly ahead of them. All around were the abandoned carcasses of carts and machinery of war, catapults in pieces, heaps of weaponry, and braziers fully of grey ash. Beside the stairwell, colossal statues of Isildur and Anárion stood guard, though both were missing their heads, hands and feet.

‘We shall search in pairs,’ Faramir instructed. ‘No man should walk in these halls at all, let alone in solitude. We shall all meet here again when it is done.’

As his men spread out, Faramir and his lieutenant headed towards the stairs, swords unsheathed. Strange sounds came from the far off chambers of the tower, echoes and clatters that might have been natural, made by rats or birds, but which set Faramir’s nerves on edge all the same. That, added to the feeling of being constantly under scrutiny from some unseen force, kept the hairs prickling on the back of his neck.

The two separated for a moment to circle the stairs and check the dark shadows at the very back of the chamber, but Faramir paused before he had made a full circuit.

‘Bring light here!’ he called.

A soldier came quickly to his side, a lighted torch held aloft. Faramir grabbed the shaft of the light and hauled it down towards a squat stone box beneath the stairs. Atop it, beneath centuries of dust and cobwebs thick as lambs’ wool, lay a helm and breastplate marked with the ancient arms of Númenor. They sat upon a mail shirt, that had been flattened against the stone to give the impression of a body lain out, the helm and armour set at their proper places. Faramir brushed away the layer of dust below the hem of the shirt and traced the line of a crude inscription there.

‘Ai!’ he hissed, then read aloud, ‘Here rot, Eärnur.’

‘Then are his bones within that casket?’ asked one of the soldiers.

Faramir shook his head. ‘We know not what befell the last of the kings before Elessar, yet I doubt if he was so honoured as to be entombed.’ He cast one final, disdainful glower around the chamber before resuming his search, adding, ‘Not in this honourless place.’

ii

Eärnur rode a little proud of his escort and scowled beneath his helm at the iron gates rising up ahead of him on the other side of the bridge. Were it not for the oppressive quiet lingering around the vale, he might have believed nothing was wrong in Minas Ithil. The grey towers reached towards the overcast sky, the other houses clustered around like frightened children at their mother’s feet, but the banners of Gondor were gone and in their place hung tattered black cloths with no heraldry upon them.

Looking upwards towards those towers, Eärnur saw no sign of the enemy or his servants and that caused the king to wonder. Had the Witch King already decided there was no battle to fight, that Mardil would have again persuaded his king to stay in his halls and shun the challenge of combat? Or was he planning some assault, laden with cunning and trickery in place of honour? That would be like the Lord of Angmar, to call out for a fair contest then set up some trap. But Eärnur did not fear this as he crossed the bridge and approached the closed gates of Minas Ithil that was now to be named Morgul. If there was an ambush, he would fight. If Angmar thought to trick him, the Witch King would be slain, despite all rumour and proclamation. But the apprehension of battle annoyed Eärnur. He was ready for the fray and wished it would stop this dance and come to him.

He raised his hand and called his escort to a halt, then he looked up at the gates that rightfully belonged to his folk. The thought of the despot of Angmar residing within fuelled the searing fires in Eärnur’s belly and made his blood course even faster. No longer would this vulture and his brood usurp the city of Isildur.

‘Come forth, Witch King of Angmar!’ yelled the king, his voice echoing hollowly against the high city walls. Eärnur then waited, watching for signs of movement, but nothing happened. ‘You call me coward, yet it is not I who now hide! Come forth and answer for your deeds against Men! For I am here to vanquish you thoroughly, and this time shall you have nowhere to flee, no city to steal! This time shall you meet your end! Come forth and face the challenge you set down! Or is it you, Angmar-without-kingdom, who finds his heart growing faint!’

The wind picked up for a moment and swirled around the bridge. One of the horses whinnied nervously while several of the others fidgeted and struggled against their rider’s control to turn back. Eärnur narrowed his eyes, mindful that something was now watching him, but smiling wryly at the thought of this contest. Even if this was his downfall, he would put every morsel of strength into defeating this foul creature, who had ravaged the ancient kingdoms of the north and turned the noble Dúnedain into homeless wanderers. Arthedain would be avenged, he vowed, even if his blood were given in payment for that vengeance.

‘What say you, tyrant?’ called Eärnur. ‘If you wish to surrender Minas Ithil, rest assured you will be shown mercy!’

At this Eärnur threw a hearty laugh over his shoulder, and though his knights looked far too wary to echo the sentiment, a few forced a chuckle all the same.

‘The Witch King fears us,’ said Eärnur loudly. ‘Perhaps his sorcery has faded with age!’

There came a deafening groan as the gates opened. Eärnur’s laughter dissipated and he turned to watch as the thoroughfare of Minas Morgul was slowly revealed. He saw no servants or men at arms, and could not fathom what trickery had opened the gates, but he cared little for these things. The game had begun.

With a grin of exhilaration, Eärnur urged his horse to walk on.

The main road led from the gates directly to the largest tower, with grand edifices swooping upwards on either side of the street. Though the walls and gates had shown little sign of damage, save a few gouges and scrapes, the houses bore the scars of the long siege that Angmar had laid upon Ithil. Black soot stains crept like ivy up the walls and many of the colonnades were smashed. Yet there was no evidence of the human cost. As the men of Gondor rode up towards the tower, they saw no living thing, not even a rat, in any of the alleys and stairwells nor were there any corpses.

The unnaturalness of it all gnawed at Eärnur’s mind, but rather than perturbing him, it only made him ever more anxious to see this battle won.

At the foot of the tower, again they halted. Eärnur looked to the black doors and glanced at the windows for any movement, but saw none. Minutes passed and the thick silence continued, broken only by the occasional huff from one of the horses as again they tried to retreat, but were hauled back by their riders. The group waited, all the while expecting something to appear from one of the side streets, or to be thrown from the high windows, but nothing happened. Eärnur glowered, then without a word he dismounted and climbed the steps to the door.

He hammered his fist into the woodwork and cried out towards the silent tower, ‘Thus we are here, Angmar! Show yourself, before you name any of us cowards! I am Eärnur, son of Eärnil, and well should you remember me! Remember how your realm was broken, and how my hand was in it! You called me faint hearted, now let us see you!’

Still there came no reply, though Eärnur looked to the tower and sensed not fear, or awe at these soldiers of Men who came to free the city, but mockery. He could feel tormenting laughter seep from the stones, and imagined a dozen pairs of sneering eyes hidden within the ruins around him. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see orcs there, but the city was as lifeless as ever.

Though while his head was turned, Eärnur heard the whine of old hinges and the scrape of wood against stone. He looked back to the doors and saw them open, again by some unseen hand. He stepped back off the stairs and onto the street, drawing his sword as he went, then waited to face whatever would come out.

At first it seemed as though a part of the shadows inside the building has teased itself free and now approached, but as the Witch King stepped into daylight his form became discernible. He stood a few inches taller than Eärnur, and atop the steps he seemed doubly huge, looming over the men of Gondor, though his hands were by his sides and any weapons he carried were hidden in the folds of his black robes. He wore no armour that they could see; his hands were sheathed only in gloves of dark velvet, but around his head he wore a black hood held tight to his scalp by a jagged silver crown. His gait and posture emanated disdain and subtle superiority, and though his face was covered by a tight fitting mask of blackened metal, the features managed to convey the same mockery that Eärnur had sensed earlier.

The king might not have been so book-learned as his Steward, yet he knew how to read a man, especially an enemy. This creature showed far too much confidence, which meant there was a trap afoot, or else he knew his was the superior strength.

‘Will you say naught?’ asked Eärnur, remaining steadfastly in the Witch King’s path.

For a while the dark figure contemplated him. Eärnur wished he could have seen the enemy’s eyes, for his face was like the entrance to a dark cave: any sort of evil might emerge without warning.

‘Coward,’ said the Witch King. ‘That you cannot face me without your escort. I am one man, King of Gondor, and yet you bring ten to fight me?’

‘They will not fight, if combat is what you seek,’ replied Eärnur. ‘Yet when I vanquish you, they shall clear this place of your servants and reclaim this city for its rightful folk…’

The Witch King laughed, the sound filling the empty streets.

‘If I fall, they shall avenge me,’ Eärnur went on, but this only inflamed the Witch King’s mirth.

‘I bade you come to face me alone,’ he proclaimed. ‘And you have not honoured that condition. Had you listened to me, only your life need be forfeit, for above all it is with you that my grievance lies. But you have condemned them to share your fate.’

The Witch King gave no discernible order, yet as he spoke those last words, the air near Eärnur was suddenly disturbed. He heard the whoosh of something flying past, and then the thud as whatever it was hit home, but only when his lieutenant let out a gurgling cry did he turn and look.

The lieutenant fell from his horse, clutching at the arrow that had pierced his throat.

‘To the others I offer a choice,’ said the Witch King, still with a hint of amusement in his voice. ‘My challenge is to Eärnur alone. Your lives mean nothing to me, for it gives me no sport to end them. Therefore leave now. Return to your city and watch the stars for answers, cower with your fellows, but leave this place and this matter. My servants shall offer no hindrance to you on the journey home.’

Eärnur turned and regarded the soldiers, but said nothing.

‘Your word,’ replied one of the knights, ‘is less trustworthy than that of a worm. Even were we to abandon our king, which we, as noblemen, shall never do, you would have us dead before we were a mile from this vale.’

The Witch King’s implacable mask observed each of the horsemen in turn, his head cocked slightly to one side. He nodded. ‘Very well.’

He raised his hand, and Eärnur heard the air disturbed again, but had no time to call out. His men fell, each smitten by an arrow in the eye or in the neck. They tumbled from their horses and lay about their king, while their steeds turned and fled. Eärnur stood alone, glancing about him for the archers, though he saw none. The city fell silent once more, Eärnur and the Witch King seemingly the only inhabitants.

‘You know nothing of loyalty,’ stated the Witch King quietly. ‘You believe you do. You believe you are noble. Yet you know nothing. You are merely shadows of what you cling to, that heritage you cherish. None of the might of Númenor remains in you; you are no more than the ragged men of the North. Your very existence is a mockery of that which you would hold aloft.’

‘What know you of Númenor, wretch?’ demanded Eärnur.

‘More than you could ever dream to know, dotard,’ returned the Witch King biliously. With a sudden flash of movement he reached beneath his robes and drew his broadsword, which he swept towards Eärnur without hesitation. Eärnur dived aside and fell on his back on the ground, raising his own blade to block the Witch King’s sword as it swiped towards his throat. The Witch King let the steel clash for an instant then withdrew, holding his sword casually in one hand, and sauntered around the fallen king.

‘You show no fear,’ he remarked. ‘Wariness, but no fear. You do not wish to run away again?’

Eärnur shuffled backwards and scrambled to his feet, never taking his eyes off his adversary. He poised himself ready to fight on, but the Witch King merely laughed and walked away.

‘What is this?’ growled Eärnur. ‘If you wish to fight me, come and meet me here. If you wish to kill me come and try. But I will have none of these games. I am no politician, ready to dance around the hall full of loaded words and sly glances. If you would fight, fight!’

The Witch King paused at the foot of the steps and stood ponderously for a moment, before he turned and raised his sword again. He breathed deeply, a thoughtful air about him as he considered Eärnur.

‘You have no Elven army to save you here,’ he rasped. ‘Here there is only my word and my will.’

‘I need no army,’ shouted Eärnur, then with a growl he flung himself at the Witch King.

Swords met again, and Eärnur slashed and hacked, getting as close as he could to his enemy. The Witch King fended him off ably, showing no effort at all. Eärnur heard his laughter yet again, and then suddenly the Witch King launched at him, summoning his full strength for the first time. Eärnur defended himself as best he could, but saw nothing but steel lashing nearer to him. Finally he lost his footing and crashed to the ground again with a painful thud. He saw the Witch King’s sword bearing down on him and with a shout he rolled aside, letting the blade clatter harmlessly against the paving slabs.

Getting to his feet, Eärnur quickly set his helm back into the proper position so that he could see clearly, then waited for the next attack.

‘I will not run,’ Eärnur warned. ‘Whatever hold you have over the peasants of the North, it will not frighten me. Whatever sorcery you might possess, you are but flesh and flesh can be cut!’

‘You know nothing,’ hissed the Witch King, stalking towards him. The two circled each other slowly.

‘You speak of loyalty,’ Eärnur went on, smiling. ‘Yet what have you to say of grace and nobility? You are but a scavenger who built his realm with the blood of cowering peasants. You have no ties to the ancient lines, no birthright, no majesty. You are king of naught but shadows and cobwebs!’

Eärnur cried out and threw himself bodily towards his foe, putting every ounce of his strength behind his blows. If he could strike the Witch King but once! Their swords locked again and Eärnur fought to push his enemy’s blade aside, then punched out with his free hand, catching the Witch King across the jaw. His fist, however, struck the moulded metal of the mask and sharp pains exploded through his hand. As Eärnur recoiled, the Witch King lashed out and hit him hard across the temple, throwing him to the ground. Then he landed a sharp kick in Eärnur’s ribs and walked around him, the tip of his sword pointed towards Eärnur’s head.

‘You are a disgrace to your heritage,’ said the Witch King. ‘As are all your kin. Gone are the days of Númenor, forsaken for greed! Those wondrous shores lost for all time, thanks to the avarice of your forebears. Your very presence in this world disgusts me.’

‘Why should you care what befell Númenor? Or have you grander delusions than those of simple conquest?’ rasped Eärnur, watching for a chance to spring up and attack again.

‘I care,’ replied the Witch King darkly. ‘I care, for I alone recall those days. I alone remember the tower of Elros and the holy mountain. I alone, of all Men.’

‘You are no man. You relinquished that title when you slaughtered your fellows.’

‘Not my fellows!’ cried the Witch King, thrusting his sword towards Eärnur’s throat until the tip made contact with skin. ‘Not these wretches! The sword was too good a death for them! Grazing like sheep in the wilderness, bleating around their decadent kings, who would not know a policy from a pomegranate. Who claim to be descended from the great kings, from Telperien and Surion, yet who could barely manage to spell their names, let alone show any of the character that made those rulers great.’

The Witch King stepped back, seething, and drew his sword away. ‘You do not deserve to be called Dúnadan.’

He walked away, leaving Eärnur to stand and recover himself. The king of Gondor watched his foe intently, trying hard to fathom him.

‘You speak as though you were one of us,’ he said. ‘So are you a traitor as well as a murderer? Answer, who are you?’

‘My name would mean nothing to you, for you know nothing of the glory that once was. You care nothing for it, while there is still a chance for you to gain riches and power.’

‘You care not for riches then?’ laughed Eärnur dryly.

The Witch King hesitated and glanced, albeit subtly, towards his right hand. ‘Perhaps I do. But what separates us, mongrel, is that I recognise what I am. I have striven to make good of the sorry state I created. I have sought to lift myself from this mire, and you would have me cut down! You would try to hold me back, when I must carve my name across the lands of Cardolan and Arthedain else I will be forgotten! Else I will be nothing! I have no choice but to conquer while I still have will to conquer! I have acted alone, of my own accord and you would stand before me and dare to challenge me! You would dare to destroy all that I created, all that I accomplished…’

‘What you accomplished was the desecration of an ancient land…’

‘Which was mine by right! My armies marched upon this land before the name of Arnor or of Gondor were spoken, when there was naught but wild lands there, ripe for the taking. When there was no Imladris and no Annúminas! I came here, exiled and abandoned by my kin and all I had was this virgin land to tame! I merely seek to take back what is mine, to end that which I started and prove that I cannot fade and shall not lose my will to Him! That I shall remain Marillion and shall not fade! That I am forever prince of Númenor and not even He can rob me of it!’

‘You are insane,’ whispered Eärnur. ‘Were you a prince of Númenor, your years would be tenfold what a normal man may live.’

‘Now Eärnur shows fear,’ laughed the Witch King. ‘Now he finds wisdom at last, at the end of his days, and none of his kin shall ever see it! You know not what I am, imbecile, but may Angmar be the last cry to escape your lips, as you cry for mercy!’

They fought again, and this time there was no game and no dance. Eärnur struggled not against the Witch King’s strength but against his fervour. He did not understand, but soon he realised he could not try to fathom his opponent. Eärnur then battled on with his mind fully on the fight. However mad the Witch King might be, he was still a man.

Thoughts of those defiled lands rushed through his mind and each one fuelled a blow, as Eärnur began to match the Witch King’s speed and strength. The clang of steel on steel resounded through the empty streets, and high above the orcs finally emerged, poking their heads out of the windows to jeer and snigger, but Eärnur ignored them. There was but one hope for the Dúnedain, and that was to find victory here.

‘You are wrong,’ he shouted between blows. ‘We are not vagrants in our hearts and we will be strong again one day. But you will perish, and none will follow you. Your filth will be wiped clean.’

He gave one final shove and pressed his sword towards the Witch King, though the other fought back with equal vigour and they were locked together. The orcs slipped out of their hiding places and gathered around the street, watching. They all fell silent, waiting for the final strike.

‘Not by your hand,’ whispered the Witch King, then he pushed hard against Eärnur’s sword and sent him hurtling through the air. But Eärnur’s sword caught the edge of the Witch King’s mask and as Eärnur fell, so was the covering torn off. Eärnur landed on his back and lay winded for a second, then quickly rose to his knees as the Witch King approached, revealed for the first time.

Eärnur stared, unable to draw his gaze from the abyss of nothingness beneath the Witch King’s cowl. There was no face, no bones, no flesh. Only emptiness that made him sick to the stomach.

‘I shall endure,’ said the Witch King. ‘I must.’

He swept his sword in a smooth arc and the orcs let out a cheer as Eärnur’s body crumpled, the head some distance away.

The orcs crept towards their master, looking upon him imploringly.

‘Very well,’ muttered the Witch King. ‘Take him as you did the others. But have his armour set up as a monument, and may he not be the last. If any of that ragged bloodline lives, I shall destroy them, till Númenor can be but an unsullied memory.’

He stooped over and retrieved his mask from the ground, then stared down at Eärnur’s body, at the bloodstained armour and the emblems of Gondor, before he turned and stalked back towards his tower.

Eärnur had held the crown only seven years when the Lord of Morgul repeated his challenge, taunting the king that to the faint heart of his youth he had now added the weakness of age. Then Mardil could no longer restrain him, and he rode with a small escort of knights to the gate of Minas Morgul. None of that riding were ever heard of again. It was believed in Gondor that the faithless enemy had trapped the king, and that he had died in torment in Minas Morgul; but since there were no witnesses of his death, Mardil the Good Steward ruled Gondor in his name for many years.

Appendix A; (iv) Gondor and the Heirs of Anárion..