The Nazgûl ride forth concealed as riders in black
The road before the gate of Minas Morgul lay silent, the bridge over its fetid waters was empty and waiting.
A feeling of expectancy lay over the dead city.
Within the inner court of Morgul, nine black horses stood waiting, their breath misty as night descended. They snorted and stamped their impatience, then as if with a silent command, they stood still as stone.
From the shadows, Nine figures emerged, seeming almost to float down the steps from the citadel of the watch tower. They were cloaked and hooded in black robes of concealment, but as they mounted their black steeds, the glint of dark steel could be seen. Etched with the evil intaglio of Morgul Spells, their armor gleamed in the darkness. Each of the Nine Riders carried a long sword and one kept a pale bade at his side.
They were the Nazgûl… the Ringwraiths… the Dark Lords most deadly servants.
Sauron had summoned them to the Chamber of Fire in the heights of Barad-dûr, he had sent them forth to Minas Morgul to prepare for a long journey to the North, on an errand of complete secrecy. The last of the Dark Lords spies had return to Mordor with news of the land of the haflings in the far Northwest corner of Middle-earth. These lands were watched by men, prehaps the tattered remnants of the men of the North Kingdom crushed long ago. The Dark Lord did not think they knew what they guarded, he believed that only the Grey Wizard knew what this Baggins clutched in his hands, and Gandalf Greyhame was even now held captive in the Tower of Orthanc.
The Nazgûl waited silently in the darkness, they waited for the Masters call. Night deepened and all was silent and watchful behind the great gate in the dead city. It’s tower loomed up like a colossal tooth etched with pain and decay.
Suddenly the air was filled with a crackling intensity. The Lord of the Nazgûl motioned his steed forward and the large black gelding neighed wildly, throwing back it’s head as it’s eyes rolled over white. The ground trembled and then shook, the fires of Orodruin leapt up within the inner wall of Mordor, painting red across the sky and outlining the jagged peaks of the Mountains of Shadow. Lightening streaked across the black clouds above, snaking outward over Minas Morgul like the fingers of a vast hand in the sky.
A shrieking chorus of cries shattered the stillness and nine swords rose in the air as one!
The signal to go forth had been sent. The great iron doors of Minas Morgul began to swing open, the bridge lay before them silent and empty. The Nine Nazgûl rode forth like a gale, their black cloaks whipping wildly in the wrath of their passage. All who stood near cast down their eyes as the Dark Lords most deadly servants galloped out from the city, across it’s dead still waters and into the night.
Through the Morgul Vale they road and the rumor of their coming was like a storm. When they reached the crossroads they paused and sat silent, swaying slightly upon their steeds. Here at the very borders of The Land of Shadow, they felt the power of their Masters will, driving them forth to find the Ring… the Ring…. the One Ring of power!