nd the king….Mardil sighed heavily. Though the faithful Steward would never voice such disloyal thoughts out loud, within the privacy of his own mind, he couldn’t help but dwell on them. Earnur, sadly, was not his father. He was brash and arrogant, given to games of sport rather than the rulership of his country. Mardil had often seen him practicing with weapons for hours on end in the courtyard while urgent affairs of state piled up and his subject; frightened, dispirited, and in need of guidance, clamored for attention in vain. It was ridiculous. Mardil had hoped that with the passing of time, Earnur would learn some of Earnil’s wisdom, but seven years had passed since he had inherited the crown, and Mardil had seen little improvement in him. The darkness grew in the east, and the only one who seemed not to care about it was the king himself, though thousands of his subjects had suffered the ill consequences of the Enemy being so close and so strong. The Steward squared his shoulders. Well, today, he would talk to King Earnur; try to, at least, reason with him, make him realize that there were more important things than great prowess in the arts of weaponry.

y Lord,” the older one spoke, a seasoned warrior, who by the look in his eyes had seen many battles, “there is someone at the gates, demanding the king’s attention.” “Really.” Mardil arched an eyebrow. “So is that how it’s done now? Anyone who wants to see the king just has to come up to the gate and demand to see him, and His Majesty is supposed to present himself? I think you have that backwards.” The guards exchanged fearful glances. Now Mardil did detect slight trembling in their hands. “My Lord, I do not think you would find it wise to let this….fiend into the city,” the guard answered, his voice lowering to a whisper, as if he were afraid of someone hearing him. “He is not a man. He rides upon a black horse and wears black armor. But he is not of flesh and blood, and his eyes are nothing more than crimson orbs. He is one of those that inhabit Minas Morgul, the leader of them. He stands before our gate in plain sight of our archers, without fear, and raises a challenge to our king.” The Witchking of Angmar, Mardil thought in dismay. Now he understood the guards’ fear. He strove to let none of his inward feelings show as he nodded and said mildly, “And what is his challenge?” “Single combat,” the second guard answered.

ardil’s dismay heightened. He remembered a time seven years ago when that foul creature, the greatest of the Enemy’s servants, had issued the same challenge to the king. It had taken all of the Steward’s persuasive skills to stop the hot-headed Earnur from rushing after the Witchking and taking up the challenge. It had been a near thing then. Mardil didn’t know what would happen now. But, perhaps, if he could grab the king’s ear before anyone else did. If the news came from him, then the Steward would have the chance to reason with him, temper the words of the Witchking with wisdom and insight. It was a trap. Of that, Mardil had no doubt. Now, he just must convince Earnur not to fall into it.

ismissing the two guards with a wave of his hand, he hurried toward the King’s House, still intent on having a talk with the erstwhile monarch, but now for different reasons. However, once he reached the king’s inner chambers, Earnur was nowhere to be found. Mardil was about to head out to the courtyard to see if the king was engaged in the activity he loved best; practicing with weapons, when the large, double doors were suddenly flung open and Earnur came in, his face a black mask of rage and the hand clenching his sword hilt so fiercely that the knuckles were white. “Your Majesty, I’ve been looking for you.” Mardil bowed. Earnur flung his cape down and whirled around. “Son of a demon! That black fiend will learn I am not one to be underestimated! It will be the last mistake he ever makes!”

ardil knew immediately what had happened. The king had heard the Witchking’s challenge. He put his hands up to try to pacify his monarch’s rage. “My lord, whatever he said, it was merely bait. He is not interested in just single combat.” “How would you know what he’s interested in?” Earnur’s reply was a roar. “Can you see into his black mind? He says that now, not only am I inflicted with the faint heart of my youth, but also the weakness of age.” The King clenched his fist, pride and arrogance shining on his face and mindless wrath leaping in his eyes. “I’ll make him eat his words. None can best me, least of all, a shapeless shadow!” He ordered the servants to help him don his armor. With deliberate, angry movements he put on his gauntlets and took up his newly sharpened sword. A bow was strapped to his back and he called for an escort of knights to be ready to march out from the gates within the hour. All the while, Mardil tried to talk with him, telling him it must be a trap, that he was foolish to do this, pleading with him to put his pride aside and think of his people who depended upon him. It all fell on deaf ears. There was nothing he could say that would sway the king’s will.

o, it was with heavy heart and great foreboding that the Steward of the city stood at the Great Gate where a large crowd had gathered, watching as King Earnur rode off toward the dreaded tower that had once belonged to Gondor, a small company of knights as his only escort and protection. Mardil doubted he would ever see him again. It was a few days later, that the company of knights along with their monarch, made their slow, torturous way up the rocky, barren path from the ruins of Osgiliath to the Tower of the Ringwraiths. Here within this dreaded valley, doom lay thick upon the land. It felt as if a thousand eyes, all of them hostile, were watching them with malice and open hatred. Before that invisible onslaught, more than one brave man among them had quailed and would have turned and fled if not for their lord sitting straight and tall upon his horse. He never seemed to waver, and if truth be told, Earnur was barely affected by the terror. It was little more than a shadow of gloominess butting up against his conscious mind. Too hot ran his blood over the Witchking’s words to allow room for anything else within his taut body. He gripped his sword and thought of how good it would feel to run it through that invisible flesh, to hear the rending scream that would be his opponent’s final call. It would be like music to his ears.

he gates of Minas Morgul rose to meet them. Earnur’s teeth flashed in a feral gleam. At last, victory would be his. Behind him, he suddenly heard a horse neigh with terror, and then the sound of galloping hooves. He turned to see two of his knights bolt away down the path, but whether it was the horses, fear or their own terror that drove them, he did not know. It mattered little. The fight was between him and the Witchking. He would suffer no one else to take part.
As he drew nearer, his herald raised a horn to issue the call of challenge. But it was not needed, for the great gates opened of their own accord, though Earnur saw no gatekeepers. Clothed with dignity, and in full battle armor, he rode through the gates, and his knights stalwartly followed him. The gates clanged shut, sounding like a death toll. For several moments there was heavy silence, but those that still lived within Ithilien would swear ever afterwards that suddenly screams echoed from Minas Morgul, bouncing off the walls of the canyon; the horrendous sounds of creatures in immense pain, as if they were being torn asunder, their flesh stripped from their bodies while they still lived and their bones ground into dust while their blood pooled upon the stone pavement before the entrance to the tower. And Mardil stood each evening upon the Citadel throughout the king’s absence, staring ever eastward, hoping in vain that Earnur would return. Thus, the crown of the king of Gondor rested within the arms of Earnil. Many long years would pass before the heir of Isildur would come to claim it.