It was his hour. He knew it; the time had at last come. As the Witch-King of Angmar circled the battle around the burning city of Minas Tirith, he could see his army was prevailing. His Orc army had battered the city for hours before finally breaking through the pitiful Gondorian defenses. The once-proud race of Men had broken and fled in terror before his armies, and the few survivors continued to run in terror through the city that once housed their king.

Men had once been powerful, the Witch-King knew. Once, he had been a great King of Man, before Sauron, Lord of Darkness, had called him to his side. Now, the Witch-King led the army of darkness into the broken kingdom of Gondor and laid waste to its former glory. The White City burned, and the army of Men was shattered. The broken line of kings, long since failed, would never again sit on the throne.

And yet, victory had almost slipped from the grasp of the armies of Mordor. Sauron’s puppet, the pathetic White Wizard Sauruman, had failed to wipe out the horsemen of the North, the dogs of Rohan. Even now, the knights had ridden to the aid of the Men of the South. Six thousand Riders had come to Minas Tirith, and had broken through the flank of the Army of Mordor. The Orcs had withdrawn, either running back to the captured city of Osgiliath or falling beneath the trampling hooves of the knights.

And yet the Witch-King knew that nothing could stop the ultimate victory of Mordor. Corrupt men, traitors seeking only riches and blood, had marched from the South and arrived on the battlefield. Towering Mumakil, giant war-elephants, now trampled the knights of Rohan as the Knights themselves had done to the Orcs mere moments before. With an army of Orcs still fighting in Minas Tirith and the Riders being slaughtered on the fields, the Witch-King knew victory was at hand.

Atop his mighty fell beast, the Witch-King saw the Riders attempting to rally. A single Knight had raised his sword and was calling the Riders to him. The Witch-King circled lower and saw the golden armor on the Knight and the green banners around him. If it were possible, the Witch-King’s face would have twisted into an evil smile. The Knight was the King of Rohan himself, Theoden. Here, on the battlefield, was the last of the Kings of Men. Without Theoden, the Knights of Rohan would be shattered and Minas Tirith would fall. This would forever break the spirit of Men and end this thorn in the Dark Lord Sauron’s side. The Witch-King rose and circled again, preparing to strike. As he did, he saw the final piece to play in this game of war. The black sails of the Corsairs of Umbar could be seen in the river moving towards Osgiliath. These corrupt Men had broken from Gondor when the ancient Line of Kings had failed, and now commanded the invincible navy of Men. With this last army, the final nail was driven into the coffin of Gondor.