Hinder

XI. The Witch-King

The Fellbeast was terrifying up close. Like the movies, it was huge, completely black, with a long, sinewy neck, and leathery wings between its fingers—like a bat. The putrid stench emanating from it was horrible.

Death. Rotten death.

More terrifying, though, was the tall figure—dressed entirely in black robes—astride it. A spiked helm, doubling as a crown, encased his head. A familiar cold dread seeped into Rowan's heart, being near the Lord of the Nazgûl.

The Ringwraith nor the Fellbeast were looking her way; focused instead on a white horse, and the king trapped underneath.

"Feast on his flesh," the Witch-King hissed.

Out of nowhere, Dernhelm—or Éowyn—got between her trapped-uncle and the Lord of the Nazgûl astride a Fellbeast. "I will kill you if you touch him!"

"Come not between a Nazgûl and its prey."

Rowan remained lying flat on her stomach, watching the famous scene from afar. She wanted to stay unknown to the Witch-King so she could jump in and help Éowyn if needed. Merry—unseen too—was frozen to where he crouched, immobilized by the fear Nazgûl inflicted.

Without warning, the Fellbeast lunged. Éowyn dodged the attack by leaping to the side; its neck fully extended before her, she chopped off the creature's neck in one, then two slices of her sword.

Its body recoiled, then sloppily flailed around as death took it. Once the wings ceased spasming and fell down, the Witch-King was revealed. The Lord of the Nazgûl rose to his full height—seven feet tall—lifting his massive spiked ball on a chain. Éowyn grabbed a shield from a nearby Rohirrim corpse.

A high-pitched, inhuman scream announced the start of the fight as the Witch-King swung the giant ball at Éowyn. She jumped out of the way, and went to cut his waist when the Nazgûl moved back, pulling the ball out of the ground, and swinging it around. The White Lady of Rohan had to abandon offense by ducking.

Other than a few instances where either got a near-hit in—Éowyn cutting off a strip of black fabric or the Witch-King's ball glancing off her sword—the fight was mainly defensive. They tried to strike the other, but kept missing.

As it wore on, she began to stumble, wearing down. She barely avoided being hit once before crawling away.

Rowan looked toward Merry and found the hobbit still paralyzed—he didn't look to be recovering anytime soon.

She thought quick. If she jumped in and killed the Witch-King when Éowyn's arm broke, how would it change the story? She was killing someone who was meant to die here anyway, not saving someone, so another didn't have to take their place.

The spiked ball connected with the dead-center of Éowyn's shield, shattering it, and throwing her to the ground with a broken forearm.

Rowan began to push off the ground—the risk would be worth the brave woman's life.

She took off for the Witch-King, whose back was toward her as he advanced on the downed-Rohirrim. Almost reaching him, she pulled out one of her short swords—it made no noise because of the fabric-like sheath. Rowan jumped, aiming to slice the back of his neck.

When the Nazgûl abruptly turned, backhanding her face in midair.

It knocked her to the side effortlessly, like swatting away a fly. Forcing her body to go limp to absorb the tumbling, Rowan rolled like a rag doll until she stopped. During the bowling of her form, though, her short sword slipped out of her hand. Already swelling-bruises throbbed and her body ached. She pushed herself up to a seated position, anyway.