Chapter 1: Opening Moves

Pippin was tempted, but he knew that he mustn't. Gandalf had warned him and he mustn't disobey. He resisted temptation. The Palantíri called to him and he tossed and turned in his sleep, but he resisted. Before long, it gave up and the temptation subsided. Pippin smiled as the inner need faded and he drifted off to sleep. Fool. He had just doomed the world.

The Gondorian infantry and Dunedain rangers fought valiantly, but it was a losing battle and they knew it. Orcs were streaming across the Anduin River and pouring into West Osgiliath. For every Orc they killed, there were many more to take its place. The rising sun was shining down onto the ruins of the city as the Gondorian defenders were slaughtered. They knew the battle was truly lost as an ear-splitting scream filled the air and men dropped to their knees in pain.

"Nazgul…" One ranger whispered in fear as a large shadow flew over him.

Above, Nazgul flying Fell Beasts circled in the sky, swooping down and sweeping men from the ruined buildings or biting them in half. Faramir fired several arrows in quick succession at one such Fell Beast, driving it away from one of his stricken men. Madril strode over to where Faramir stood fighting valiantly, firing arrow after arrow at the enemy.

"My lord." He said. "We must retreat to the White City. We cannot hold here any longer. The city is lost."

Exasperated, Faramir turned to his lieutenant and said, "Sound the retreat. We ride for Minas Tirith."

With that, horns blew and every Gondorian soldier charged for the western edge of the once-great city. Once there, many men mounted horses and rode away from the lost city, but many men could not find a horse to ride or could not mount them in time. They would cut down without mercy. Faramir was fortunate enough to find himself a horse and jump into the saddle. As he rode the horse desperately towards the towering citadel across the Pelennor fields, he found himself somewhere in the middle of the group of retreating soldiers. Then the Fell Beasts began swooping down again. They would dive and pick up men and horses before tossing them violently to the ground, killing them on impact. Some soldiers were simply plucked from the saddle as the Nazgul circled above them. Faramir ducked as low as he could in the saddle as he felt the talons of the Fell Beasts carve a vicious arc above him, only just skimming over his back as he ducked. One Nazgul flew his Fell Beast ahead of the retreating pack of Gondorians and circled back around, flying low and taking out half of the retreating men in the process. Faramir only just managed to circle himself out of the beast's path at the last moment, before tucking in low in the saddle again. He and he remainder of his men were half way to the safety of Minas Tirith now, but very few remained. The trebuchets mounted on the walls of the city fired and rocks exploded all around the retreating men. One lucky shot hit a Fell beast and drove it back, but the beast and rider were practically unharmed. One such boulder slammed into the ground directly in front of Faramir, missing him by mere inches. His horse reared in fear and he fell from the saddle. He stood quickly up and readied his weapons. He reached for his bow but found that the Fell Beast that had sliced his back had sliced his bow in two. His quiver was also empty of arrows too, so it mattered little. Faramir drew his sword and made ready to defend himself. Several feet away, the black, lithe form of a Fell Beast landed and its rider leapt down. Before him, its Morgul blade drawn stood a dreaded Nazgul. But this was no ordinary Nazgul. He wore a mask of metal, framing the blackness where a face should have been. This was no ordinary Nazgul. This was the Witch-King of Angmar. Faramir roared as he charged him but the Witch-King parried his blow with a sweep of his sword and he struck back with equal fervour. With a hiss, the Witch-King sliced at Faramir and as he parried, his sword snapped in half, no match for the Morgul blade. The Witch-King hissed triumphantly as he drove his blade through Faramirs chest. Faramir's eyes went wide with fear and the blackness in the hood stared into his soul. He dropped unceremoniously to the ground, dead.

That day was a true disaster for Gondor. Osgiliath fell, and not a single man survived the battle or the retreat. They were slaughtered in droves. The eye was satisfied.

"How soon before we leave for Gondor?" Aragorn asked Gandalf as they strode through the city of Edoras.

"Soon, I promise you." Gandalf replied. "First we must aid King Theoden restore order to his country. Saruman brought much ruin to this place and many of his Uruk-hai still prowl the countryside, terrorising civilians and unsuspecting travellers. But I promise you we will leave for Gondor soon. I myself am eager to see the White City of Minas Tirith once more in all its glory."

"What if Gondor is in need of aid? We won't be there to help them."

"The Beacons of Gondor have not been lit. I'm sure everything is fine. Corsairs no doubt skulk around the coast and Mordor is doubtlessly still launching small skirmishes across the Anduin in Osgiliath, but I'm sure nothing major had occurred. Mordor has been quiet for centuries. I'm sure nothing would have changed."

Aragorn grumbled in acknowledgement, clearly distressed by the lack of action to help his people.

The rangers sat around a fire in the middle of the cave, smoking pipes and chatting boredly amongst themselves. They had been chosen to not reinforce the garrison at Osgiliath, but instead defend their hideout, known as Henneth Annûn. It was a boring assignment. Nothing ever happened. It's not like the Orcs knew they were here. Or so the rangers thought…

"Erm… guys…?" One nervous ranger said, stepping into the opening in the cave.

"What do you want?" One of them asked with a gruff voice.

"We… have a small problem…"

"What?"

As if in answer to his question, a crude Orc horn was blown and the booming sound filled the air, punctuated by the yell of a troll, also known as an Olog Hai. All of the rangers went pale at the sound. The forces of Mordor had found them. Stepping to the entrance of the cave, the cautiously peered outside. Staring out, they saw a collective force of hundreds of Orcs arrayed against them, with several towering Olog-hai scattered among them. They had only 20 rangers as defence, but the cave ended inside the cliff, meaning they had no chance of escape, so they would all have to fight to the death. Already, several of their men were firing arrows into the force, driving one heavily armoured Olog-hai into the ground by aiming their arrows into the gaps in his armour with pinpoint accuracy that would make even Elves jealous of their aim. But it was a futile effort. They would die here, no matter how valiantly they fought.

"FRODO!" Sam yelled as his long-time friend stumbled towards the Dead City in a trance-like state before him, blocking the bridge that led to Minas Morgul, was a Nazgul riding a wicked Fell-beast. The beast reared up and growled a deep, guttural roar while its evil rider hissed at the approaching Halfling. Frodo stopped before the wicked thing and its malicious master and held out the ring to the hooded Nazgul.

"NO!" Gollum shrieked as he saw the ring being handed to the enemy. "NOT THE PRECIOUS!"

"FRODO!" Sam yelled again, running towards his friend.

The Ringwraith screeched its high-pitched whine and Sam and Gollum dropped down to their knees in pain, clutching their ears. The Nazgul extended its hand towards the ring and drew its Morgul blade in its other hand. Victory fell into the hands of the enemy as its cold, armoured fist closed around the object which had been sought for centuries. The object that had caused so much death. The one ring.

Frodo closed his eyes as the ring was taken away from him. The Nazgul held the ring close to its body and his Fell beast reared up and bit downwards, its razor sharp teeth sheering through the Halfling's fragile body. Frodo was separated at the waist. He had died in a blast of gore before he even realised he ceased to be. His remaining lower half dropped to its knees before falling sideways lifelessly. Blood splattered all over the jaw of the Fell Beast and it dripped from its many teeth, pooling in the gaps between the cobblestones of the bridge.

"NO!" Sam yelled in dismay.

The head of the Nazgul shot up and the blackness under the hold stared at the other Halfling, driving fear and sorrow straight into the heart of the poor Sam. The Fell Beast stalked menacingly forwards towards its next victim, as Sam's feet stood rooted to the ground, his own legs unwilling to move. Gollum stood crying on a rock behind Sam, next to the secret stairs. The Nazgul, known as Jí Indûr Dawndeath, dismounted its monstrous creature and made its way slowly over to the terrified Sam, who had begun to leak in fear. Dawndeath's Morgul blade was raised before it in the classic Ringwraith ready position, as it seemed to float lightly over the ground towards its prey. It shrieked as it raised its sword above its head, set to strike Samwise down. Sam didn't try to raise his sword in defense, he didn't so much as flinch away from the lethal blow. The Morgul blade came down and sliced diagonal across Sam's body, cutting cleanly through his heart along its path. He too dropped down dead. Then Dawndeath set his sights on the creature known as Gollum, but found the rock abandoned. Gollum had moved somewhere.

"GIVE ME MY PRECIOUS!" Gollum spat as he charged the Nazgul.

Dawndeath was caught off guard but he was an immortal warrior would would serve his master regardless of what was thrown at him, even death could not stop his eternal service. The creature had the advantage of surprise, but one shriek drove Gollum to his knees. He dropped to his knees in pain and the small stone in his hand that he had planned to use as a weapon slipped free of his hand and fell to the floor. Pathetic. One horizontal blow and his head was separated from his shoulders. Gore fountained from his stump of a neck as Dawndeath sheathed his sword. He returned to his mount and jumped back to the crude saddle. As the great wings of his Fell Beast beat against the air, driving the beast and its master upwards, the gate of the Dead City opened, and the army of Mordor poured forth. The untold numbers of Orcs, Uruks and trolls marched forth along the bridge, stepping on the three lifeless bodies that littered the cobblestone bridge. The fall of Minas Tirith would soon come…