Rukil and his men were met with eery silence as they descended into the valley. Thick smoke obscured their view of the mountain itself, but Rukil knew that the enemy had already entered it. His men traversed the barren landscape carefully, making sure to avoid the bodies that were already beginning to bloat with rot. Many of them had partially sunk into the mucky ground, their limbs sticking out as if reaching out for help. Rukil pulled his scarf over his face in a vain attempt to block out the foul odors that permeated the smoky air. Several of the weaker-stomached soldiers bent over and heaved, the smell of death overwhelming. Taryi, one of Rukil's Khandish companions from his first journey and a stalwart friend, approached him from behind, her face scrunched up in disgust. 

"What a foul place," she muttered, her dark eyes darting across the battlefield. Rukil nodded slowly. It was indeed foul. But it also filled him with sorrow, to see so many of his people dead. Even though they fought under the banner of Sauron, many of them likely had families to care for, and were not evil themselves. 

"War is hell," Rukil replied darkly. "And we shall see much more like this if we fail." 

"Which is why we cannot fail," Taryi replied with determination. 

Navigating the battlefield proved to be a difficult task. Defenders and attackers alike had evidently dug trenches, and these were now filled with the dead and the rats that feasted upon them. Putrid water had gathered at the bottom, nearly knee deep in several places. Rukil couldn't help but feel queasy at the sight of the decaying bodies that lay in their final throes of agony throughout the trenches. 

"The spirits of the dead linger here," a nearby soldier said apprehensively, gazing at the corpse of an Easterling whose face had partially rotted away. It had been days since the battle had been fought in these trenches, Rukil surmised. That, or some foul sorcery had quickened the decomposition process. Either way, it was a grisly sight. 

"The dead rarely rest after a battle," a Haradrim warrior said. "Their spirits cannot be at peace." 

Rukil shook his head. The Dorgeshi did not believe such superstition, but he knew that such beliefs were common in Harad and the rest of Rhun. Though a battlefield after a battle was eery and oftentimes unsettling, he knew that it was nothing supernatural. 

Pressing onward through the trenches and toward the main gate, Rukil's company soon came upon a wrecked wain. A massive troll lay next to it and it appeared as if the wain had crashed rather violently. 

"My prince, here!" One of the men exclaimed, waving Rukil over. He pointed down at one of the corpses, a middle-aged man dressed in ornate bronze armor. He lay with his sword in hand, bloodied with the life-force of his enemies. 

"The king of Dale," Rukil murmured, his face downcast. He had met Brand once before, when the king had met with Rukil to forge a truce between their people. He seemed a just man, and even in death he appeared noble. "Bring a horse. We shall have him put to rest properly once this is over." 

Before he finished speaking, the thunder of hooves alerted him to the arrival of Hadar and his men. They rode out of the smoke from the west, Hadar shaking his head as he reined in his steed beside Rukil. 

"The tarsht have pushed the dwarves back into the mountain. We were able to navigate the main halls but most of the fighting there has subsided. It seems as if our allies are holed up in one of the armories. My men and I could not reach it mounted," he said breathlessly. From the sweat that covered his muscled arms and the blood that stained his scimitar, it was clear that they had already done some heavy fighting. 

"Do we have a clear path there? And do they know we're here?" Rukil pressed. 

Hadar nodded. "Yes to both. Their rearguard spotted us as we entered the valley, and several of them retreated to the main force before we were able to hunt them down."

Rukil's eyes narrowed. "Then we have no choice but to fight in the corridors. No chance of drawing them out. Prepare the men to-" 

An unearthly screech suddenly filled the valley, drowning out his words and causing many of his men to cover their ears in pain. He turned to see a great winged shape emerging from the smoke, batlike and massive. Upon its back was a rider clad all in black robes, save an elegant helm of silver that covered the void where its face would be. A chill went down Rukil's spine at the sight, and even he could not stay the fear that filled his heart.

"Take cover!" Hadar shouted, taking off at a gallop toward the gate. Rukil saw and, after overcoming the fear that had momentarily rooted him in place, followed, making sure his men made it first. The winged beast made a wretched sound that was a cross between a roar and a hiss, and a foul wind passed over Rukil and his men as its leathery wings beat the air. 

"Your bow!" Rukil cried to a nearby Haradrim. The warrior threw it to the prince, pulling out a long spear of his own and aiming it at the beast. 

Rukil let an arrow loose, the black-feathered shaft lodging itself deep into the monster's ribcage. It hissed but continued its approach, its clawlike talons spread out in front of it like a gargantuan bird of prey. 

The Haradrim warrior threw his spear, it too making contact with the beast's leathery belly. This caused it to recoil back for a moment, and its rider screeched in frustration. The beast recovered surprisingly quickly however, and dove onto the Haradrim warrior. Rukil knew there was nothing he could do to save him but he fired another arrow, hoping beyond hope that it would distract the beast. But it was already too late. The frantic screams of the Haradrim lasted only a moment, then he went silent as the beast lifted its bloodied head. Its beady eyes darted about ravenously, searching for more prey. It saw Rukil and hissed, crawling forward on the claws that protruded from the jointed part of its wings. 

Rukil fired another arrow, this one piercing the beast's neck. It growled and rushed forward, intent on killing the one who had inflicted the wound. 

Drawing his scimitar, Rukil deftly leapt out of the way, executing a powerful downward strike on the creature's neck. His weapon bit into its skin, cutting deep through sinew and muscle. But not deep enough. 

The beast roared and lifted its head high, jerking the scimitar from Rukil's grip. He desperately tried to grab it but to no avail. Defenseless now, Rukil scrambled out of reach of the beast's talons, barely evading a retaliatory attack. His heart thumped within his chest and the sound of it thundered in his ears as he looked around for a weapon. The beast attacked again and Rukil dove to the ground, the creature's open fangs passing inches overhead. 

The gleam of a halberd caught the prince's eye and he rolled to it, keeping low to the ground as he leapt to his feet. His hand closing around the solid metal handle of the weapon, he allowed himself a sigh of relief and brandished it in front of him. He was ready now. 

The beast lunged once more, its jaws wide open. Rukil drew back, then thrust the halberd forward with all his might, letting out a primal cry as he put all his strength into the attack. 

The creature made a choking sound as the halberd pierced deep down into its throat, and blood spurted from its mouth. Drawing back in pain, its serpentine neck writhing uncontrollably. With one last hiss it collapsed to the ground, a cloud of dust rising from its body. 

Rukil watched, knowing that the rider would not be so easily defeated. Indeed, even as the dust settled he rose from the corpse of his dead steed, a cruel sword in his hand. His head tilted sideways as he studied Rukil, a moment of deadly silence pervading the atmosphere. 

"You are the one," the wraith said after a moment. "The one who has caused such trouble in my realm." His voice was quiet, but its mortiferous tone combined with a thick Rhunic accent caused Rukil to shudder involuntarily. 

"Who are you?" Rukil asked, his voice quavering. Though a prince and not easily intimidated, he found it difficult to maintain an unphased composure in the presence of this demon. 

"I am the true King of your land," the rider hissed, each word as sharply enunciated as a knife's blade. "My name is Khamul."

Dread filled Rukil's heart. Khamul was believed to be long-dead, and was revered by some almost to the level of worship. How could he be here now?

"A can see your fear and disbelief," Khamul said quietly. "I relish it as mortals relish food and wine. For fear is all I can feel in this form. Fear and loathing." 

Rukil took a step forward, holding the halberd out in front of him defensively. "I will not deny that I fear you. It would take a sorcery both dark and terrible to bring you back after centuries of slumber. But if we must fight, I will not back down."

Khamul hissed, a sound that may have been a laugh if it were not so wretched. "I admire your bravery, prince of the Dorgeshi. I too was like you in life... Courageous... And foolish to a fault. That is why I am in the state I am now." 

Rukil's eyes narrowed. Was this some sort of trap? He was beginning to pity the wraith slightly, but his gut instinct told him not to. 

"You're nothing like me," Rukil replied cautiously. 

Khamul shook his cowled head slowly. "No... I suppose not. I fell to temptation, and now darkness is all I see. But do you really think you could resist the call of a Ring of Power?" Suddenly he held out an outstretched hand, and dangling from a chain was an ornate ring. Elvish runes adorned its bronzed surface and a ruby was its centerpiece. 

Rukil's eyes widened, and he took a faltering step back. "Why...? Why are you showing this to me?"

Khamul stepped closer, his iron boots landing hard on the dusty ground. "To show you that perhaps we are more alike than you'd like to believe... Go on. Take it. I know you hear it calling to you. Beckoning you. You have only to reach out and take it." 

Rukil began to feel dizzy, and a fair voice spoke in his mind. Thou can save thine people, Rukil. That ring shall give thee power beyond that of any mortal. It can be thine heirloom, the symbol of thy rule. All shall see and know that it is just. 

He took a step forward, his hand rising almost involuntarily to reach for the ring. He felt as if he were in a trance, and his body was no longer his own. Khamul took another step closer. "I am sorry, mortal. My will is not my own." 

The words blurred together in Rukil's mind, incoherant and distant, as if at the other end of a tunnel. His heart skipped a beat when his fingers brushed against the metal of the ring, cold against his skin. 

Take it, Rukil... Take it. Just a little closer...

Suddenly another voice spoke out in his mind, one that he recognized well. Rukil, son of Rhun, resist his power! Fight!

He snapped from his trance, his mind cleared. The voice of Galadriel had filled him with resolve as it had in the past, his fear vanquished. He lifted his halberd and immediately brought it down upon Khamul's hand, shattering the armor that covered it. The wraith reeled backward with a screech, clutching the remains of his gauntlet. 

"Fool! You shall die, as all who do not serve the One will." He drew an ancient, intricately designed longsword and slowly advanced, testing Rukil with a few cautious strikes. Rukil danced backward, his nimble feet carrying him away from each strike. He knew that he had a longer reach than his opponent, but the wraith knew too and was quickly closing the distance each time Rukil retreated. 

Seeing an opening in Khamul's defense, Rukil thrust his weapon forward, barely missing the Nazgul's chest. Khamul countered with a lunging attack that Rukil hurried to avoid, but despite his best efforts the sword grazed his arm. The wound was shallow but it stung. Rukil tried to ignore the pain and pressed the attack, advancing with a whirling windmill of strikes. He was quick, but the Nazgul was quick too. He expertly blocked each strike, moving with the grace of a master swordsman. 

Rukil continued to push his advantage, knowing that he was better on the attack. He was so focused on his strikes, however, that he didn't notice the small impression in the ground beneath him. 

He stepped down into it hard, losing his balance and falling forward. Khamul immediately leapt forward, delivering a powerful slash to the prince's back. Rukil bit back a scream as the blade cut deep into his flesh, knocking him to the ground the rest of the way. 

Khamul kicked Rukil's halberd away and pointed his blade at his neck. 

"It is over," he hissed. "There is no hope for Rhun." He lifted his blade to deliver the killing blow, but suddenly stopped. His head snapped to the south and he let out a piercing screech. As if pulled away by a will other than his own, he turned and fled, disappearing into the smoke.

Rukil groaned and blinked rapidly, fighting to maintain consciousness. Despite his best efforts he could see the corners of his vision darkening, and after a moment he welcomed that blackness that claimed him. 

Well, the battle is nearly over! The enemy are surrounded in the mountain, and Hadar's men are moving in for the kill. Do you think Rukil survived?

Tarsht: Plural form of tarsh, meaning enemy (Haradic)