The Sign of the Prancing Pony by Uvatha the Horseman

Rangers vs Nazgul

Khamul wanted to kick himself. He should have been watching the door. That’s why he always sat with his back to wall. But he was tired, and he’d allowed his attention to wander.

The Ranger bore down on them, sword drawn. Khamul sprang to his feet. He drew his own weapon and stepped to one side, very slowly, to shield Adunaphel with his body. Both of the Nazgul wore broadswords, but the blades were made from ordinary steel, with no magic about them.

In a loud, ringing voice, the Ranger ordered, “Clear the room.”

Chairs were pushed aside and tables overturned. Plates and tankards struck the floor as people pushed and shoved to get closer. A throng of tradesmen and farmers, men and hobbits, formed a circle around them. Whatever happened, they weren’t about to miss it.

Khamul sang the words to unleash the Black Breath, one of his most powerful spells. Some of the onlookers threw themselves on the ground, weeping brokenly and whimpering in fear.

The Ranger withdrew something from a pouch. A grey-green powder sifted between his fingers. The stench of Kingsfoil filled the room, and Khamul’s arm sagged under the weight of his sword. Those in the crowd who lay sobbing on the floor got up and dusted themselves off.

The Ranger’s mouth curled in contempt. “I know what you are, and I know who you serve, though I won’t speak his name in this place. He served under the first Dark Lord as one of his less successful captains.”

Khamul’s hand clenched on the hilt of his weapon.

“From what I hear, your master was under the first Dark Lord on a fairly regular basis. That’s how he got promoted so fast.”

 “Enough!” Khamul raised his sword and prepared to strike.

The Nazgul and the Rangers circled around each other, their blades reflecting the firelight. It was difficult to move in a room crowded with furniture. Chairs were shoved aside when they got in the way. When Khamul got trapped against a table, he upended it, sending crockery and pewter to the floor.

The crowd must not have seen swordplay before. because they oooed and ahhed at every feint and repost.

The Ranger turned to his apprentice. “Pull a firebrand from the hearth. Keep those creatures away from the townspeople.”

Backed against the window, Khamul couldn’t see the fireplace, but he could see the orange light it cast on the opposite wall. The flames must be burning high. Adunaphel stiffened. “He’s use it on us.” For the first time, there was fear in her voice. A flaming branch could do more hurt to the undead than could a sword.

Khamul unsheathed a Morgul blade, the deadliest of all his weapons. Exposed to air, the blade burned with an icy blue-purple glow. The Rangers flinched and fell back. They were right to be afraid. A scratch from a Morgul blade was deadly poison. The smallest cut could kill you. And if you died from the wound, you might lose not only your life but your soul.

Khamul jerked his chin toward Adunaphel and spoke to her in their own language, the Black Speech. “He has what we seek. We kill him and take it.”

The Ranger whirled around. He raised his weapon, a broadsword edged on both sides. Words were engraved down the length of the blade.

It was as if the Ranger understood everything Khamul had just said. He cursed himself. He should have known that the ability to understand Black Speech was one of the powers it conveyed. Worse, speaking his intentions aloud had cost him the element of surprise.

The Ranger spoke, his voice deep and threatening. “Do you know who I am? I am the one who will erase your kind from the earth. You are a blight, a spreading fungus, strangling tentacles of slime, and I want you gone.”

The Ranger’s posture was relaxed, as if he’d already won. “I’ve been hunting you. Through the Chetwood from Archet, Combe, Staddle, and now Bree. Did you know that?”

Khamul’s mouth went dry. He hadn’t known.

“It’s over. Lay down your arms,” ordered the Ranger.

Khamul should have used the Morgul blade on the Ranger when he had a chance. There’d been maybe one moment, half a second long, to get inside that wicked sword and close in with the poisonous dagger. But he’d hesitated, and now it was too late. If The Ranger had what Khamul believed he did, he had the power to command the Nazgul.

Khamul knew what was coming next. The Morgul blade would slip from his fingers and clatter to the floor. His mind would grow foggy, and he would sink to his knees in subjugation.

He waited. It didn’t happen.

Beside him, Adunaphel held her sword in a fighting stance, her face hard. She was commanded by nobody’s will but her own. That meant only one thing. The Ranger didn’t have it.

Khamul spoke to Adunaphel using thought. “When I say ‘Rush the door,’ it means, ‘Break the window and jump out.’” She nodded, her eyes resolute.

Khamul picked up a heavy chair and held it with the legs facing the Rangers. He struggled not to drop it. The Kingsfoil was still affecting him, making him sick and draining his strength. Adunaphel picked up a three-legged stool. Her arms trembled under its weight. She was affected, too.

“On my mark, we rush the door.” He spoke in Black Speech, loudly enough to be heard across the room. The Rangers backed up to the doorway and raised the tips of their swords.

“Now!” The Rangers covered their ears, as if they’d never heard a Nazgul’s screech before.

Khamul wheeled to face the window and smashed the chair against the glass. The window beside his shattered at almost the same moment.

Through the splintered mullions and shards of broken glass encircling the hole, he held back for a few precious seconds to see Adunaphel safely out. She hit the ground and fell, but regained her feet in an instant and took off running.

Behind him came shouts and curses, the scrape of tables shoved aside, the thud of boots. The pursuers were almost close enough to clutch the folds of his clothing. He put a hand on each side of the window frame and a boot on the sill, and jumped.