Daylight gradually faded from the west, but the night was not as clear as the one before. The moon had only just risen, while the stars hid behind bank after bank of dark clouds.
On a low hill outside the city, the Witch-king of Angmar sat astride a tall black horse that radiated evil, a steel sword in one hand and a flail in the other. His dreadful gaze remained fixed on nearby Pelargir.
Anger seethed in his cruel, foul heart, for the Fell Beast Angalimir had wounded could not recover fully in a single day.
At the very least, he would not be commanding tonight's battle from the sky.
Beyond that, something else displeased the Witch-king even more: the banner of the house of Dol Amroth had been raised over Pelargir's walls that afternoon.
That meant the human prince he had struck was not dead. At dusk, the Witch-king had even seen the old man patrolling the walls himself, encouraging the human soldiers around him.
That had brought his fury to its peak.
Yet Angalimir was not as healthy as he appeared, for he was already close to death.
Despite his finely crafted armor and the blood of the Silvan Elves in his veins, the Witch-king's heavy blow had inflicted a mortal wound on the old man.
His appearance on the walls that afternoon to encourage the soldiers had been nothing more than a final rally before death.
After returning to Pelargir's inner city, Angalimir had fallen unconscious again. Before losing consciousness, he had entrusted all affairs within the city to Berelach, commander of the royal navy.
Berelach was a wiry, formidable man past fifty, with jet-black skin and weathered eyes.
His family had not once been particularly prominent in Gondor. For generations, they had lived in Lossarnach, where