As the very weapon that once felled Sauron, the Ringwraiths still remember narsil with dread.
The holy sword holds immense power to break and banish evil; even in shards it stripped Sauron of his might and grievously wounded him.
Otherwise, at the end of the Last Alliance, Sauron's body would not have dissolved simply because a finger was cut and the ring taken from him.
Thus the blade is not only a bane to Sauron but a mortal threat to the Ringwraiths themselves.
A single cut and the victim's spirit scatters forever, beyond even Sauron's power to recall.
The Ringwraith recoiled from narsil; Aragorn did not pursue, but raised the blade and drove it straight into the Drake's skull beneath his feet.
The monster's hard bone split like parchment as the sword sank deep into its brain.
The ferocious Drake had no time to scream; its body stiffened, its eyes went dark.
The evil spirit within burst out in a column of black mist that shot skyward and exploded.
The carcass rotted rapidly; the reeking black blood poisoned the grass, leaving only a gigantic skeleton.
Sauron had fed the beast on carrion and filth, corrupting it with dark power. Unlike the Drakes bred in Isengard, this was a fully demonized wyrm.
The soil where it dies is blighted for centuries, nothing will grow.
Before the corruption spread Aragorn pulled narsil free and leveled it at the Ringwraith.
"Who are you? Why do you bear narsil?" the wraith asked, eyeing him warily.
"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, direct heir of Isildur and rightful bearer of narsil!" he proclaimed.
The Ringwraith sneered. "Heir of Isildur, even with narsil you cannot stop Gondor's ruin."
Aragorn stood unmoved by the terror the wraith exuded. "Gondor will not fall. Today only you shall perish."
A cold wind swept the battlefield from the west, a wind that chilled the soul.
Combat faltered; every head turned westward, eyes widening.
Out of the rolling fog and wind came a ghost host—tens of thousands—gliding like storm-clouds, their death-reek darkening the sky.
They looked like death's envoys from hell, come to harvest souls.
Even Mordor's soldiers paled at the sight.
At their head rode the King of the Dead, spirit-blade in hand, leading the host into battle.
Men from both Mordor and Gondor blanched in dread, but to Gondor's relief the shades struck only the enemy, passing the defenders by.
Seeing this, Gondor's warriors knew the ghosts were allies; with a shout Aragorn led them alongside the dead against Mordor's ranks.
The men of Gondor roared and charged again, following the ghostly host.
Mordor tried to fight back, but steel and arrow passed through the specters without harm.
Conversely, every blow of the ghosts was lethal.
Though no wound showed, Mordor's soldiers dropped lifeless.
Drakes and mumakil were swarmed by shades; after thrashing and trumpeting they collapsed.
Even the evil spirits inside the Drakes were torn out and shredded.
Between the ghosts and Gondor's onslaught Mordor's army reeled and broke, unable to withstand such foes.
Panic spread, then wholesale rout.
Enraged and shaken, the Ringwraith sought to strike the King of the Dead.
But Aragorn, Legolas, Faramir, and other Dúnedain Wizards closed on him together.
Aragorn, wielding the bane-blade, took the forefront.
Realizing the reversal, the wraith considered flight.
They would not let him flee.
"Expecto Patronum!" they cried in unison.
Aragorn's lion, Legolas's great elk, Faramir's bull, and many hounds, cats, and horses blazed into being.
The gathered Patronuses blazed with light and hope, anathema to the dark spirit.
A lone Patronus he might defy, but dozens forced him to unleash his own darkness against them.
The shining guardians formed a bright ward, caging the wraith.
Inside the ward Aragorn faced the Ringwraith, narsil in hand.
Trained long in Rivendell by Elrond, and later schooled in magic, Aragorn's strength had multiplied.
Decades of wandering had seasoned him; he matched the wraith blow for blow.
At last, with his comrades' aid, he drove narsil through the wraith's breast.
The Ringwraith shrieked as the blade unraveled his Dark Arts; armor buckled inward and collapsed.
A blast burst from the wraith, hurling Aragorn, Legolas, and all nearby to the ground.
The Ringwraith vanished, leaving only a ring upon the earth.
With their captain gone, Mordor's host lost heart and fled.
The rout only made them easier prey for ghosts and Gondorians alike.
The shades, faster than thought, harvested every fleeing soul.
Aragorn did not join the pursuit; he knelt and lifted the fallen ring.
Its lure struck him the instant his fingers touched it.
By sheer will he resisted, wrapped the band in black cloth, and stowed it in his pouch to deliver later to Elrond.
When the last foe fell, Minas Tirith and the field rang with thunderous cheers.
All hailed the victory.
Gondor's people, moments ago resigned to doom, now saw ruin turned to triumph.
Not only was Minas Tirith saved, the invading host was annihilated.
Credit belonged to the ghost host.
Soldiers and citizens alike gazed at the shades with awe and gratitude.
The dead gathered before Aragong.
With heartfelt thanks he addressed the King of the Dead and his host: "You have saved Gondor. You are free."
When they heard those last words, relief and joy showed on the faces of the King of the Dead and the Army of the Dead.
A breeze swept past, and the Army of the Dead dissolved like smoke, vanishing for good.
Soldiers and common folk of Gondor gazed at Aragorn in reverence; they knew it was this Ranger who had summoned the Army of the Dead and saved both Gondor and their lives.
"Aragorn! Aragorn!" Everyone shouted his name, Faramir among them.
Only Denethor II, Regent of Gondor, standing atop the highest point of the White City, watched Aragorn—surrounded by cheering troops beyond the walls—with a dark, defeated expression.
While Gondor fought its war, Rohan was locked in combat with an Armies of Mordor.
The moment the enemy crossed Rohan's border, King Théoden led the Rohan Cavalry to meet them and sent his son Théodred through a fireplace to Hogwarts for aid.
Rohan's strength was weaker than Gondor's, and the invading Armies of Mordor was the largest in history, led by a Ringwraith and supported by a host of Dragons.
Facing such numbers, Rohan had no confidence it could hold, so it begged for help.
Rohan's western border touched Isengard; if Rohan fell, the Armies of Mordor could surge straight through and threaten Isengard itself.
Therefore Luke would not stand idle; when Prince Théodred asked for aid, he agreed at once.
And unlike Gondor, a token force would not suffice.
Gondor had known Aragorn could summon the Army of the Dead to avert disaster.
Rohan had no such hope; without Hogwarts' help the kingdom might perish.
Yet Luke did not send Hogwarts' own forces; instead he ordered ten thousand Black Barbarian warriors living in the Gap of Rohan to march to Rohan's defense.
At the same time he dispatched a hundred Dragon-handling Wizards from the Dragon Farm near Isengard, riding ten Fire-Dragons to support them.
These handlers dealt daily with dangerous Dragons and were a match for any Auror.
The ten Fire-Dragons were among the very few ever successfully tamed.
Unlike untamable, foul-tempered Dragons that end up as Potion ingredients,
these trained beasts became partners to the handlers, guarding the farm.
Even Gringotts leased them to protect its underground vaults.
Overall command of the relief force was given to the former Leader of the Black Barbarians, now Hogwarts Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts, Brog.
Outside Edoras, the combined host of Rohan and Black Barbarians clashed fiercely with the Armies of Mordor.
Brog, leading the reinforcements, fought the Ringwraith who rode a Fellbeast.
For thousands of years Brog had taught Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts; his mastery of both Dark Arts and their counter-measures made him one of Luke's strongest Wizards.
He held his own against the Ringwraith without faltering.
Though the Armies of Mordor outnumbered the allies several times over, the arrival of a hundred Dragon-handlers and ten Fire-Dragons reversed the tide.
The handlers, besides aiding Brog against the Ringwraith, focused on slaying the dozens of Dragons,
Fellbeasts, and Trolls—creatures ordinary soldiers could not face.
While Rohan's battle raged, war came to Hogwarts itself.
Hundreds of thousands of Orcs and Wights, under the Witch-king of Angmar, swept south from the ruins of Angmar north of the Mist Mountains, advancing through pitch-black clouds toward Hogwarts.
The Ministry of Magic declared emergency; every Auror of the Auror Office massed along Hogwarts' northern border.
Amon Sul and Bree were placed under martial law against invasion.
Inside Hogwarts Castle, however, life continued undisturbed; students still studied within its walls.
A deafening roar echoed from beneath the castle as the colossal golden Dragon Smaug awoke, soared skyward amid gasps of awe from students and Professors, and streaked north.
Hogwarts' northern boundary lay along the North Downs, once site of Fornost, Capital of Arthedain.
There the Aurors assembled, determined to keep the Witch-king's host locked outside the border and away from the lands beyond.
"They're coming!" an Auror on a broom shouted, racing back to warn his comrades.
"Prepare for battle!" the Director of the Auror Office bellowed with a Sonorus spell.
Every Auror tensed, wands raised as the night-like cloud rolled southward.
When the black canopy reached the sky above them,
endless ranks of Orcs appeared among the distant hills.
Their numbers far exceeded those that had struck Gondor or Rohan—fully five hundred thousand—backed by ten thousand Trolls: Cave, Hill, and Snow Trolls, huge and fearsome.
It looked as though the Witch-king had emptied the Mist Mountains of every Troll.
To Aurors, common Orcs posed little threat,
but Trolls resisted spells and could hurl boulders or swing clubs that killed at a touch; ordinary offensive spells barely slowed them.
Seeing so many, the Aurors grew grimmer still.
Behind the Orcs and Trolls marched a shrouded host of Wights.
More dangerous than Trolls, Wights had steel-hard bodies and blinding speed; a man could die before he blinked.
Any scratch from a Wight carried a curse; left untended, the victim rose as another Wight, a puppet of the Witch-king.
The Aurors Apparated into a long line along the border, spaced a few hundred metres apart.
As one they raised their wands, casting spells that sent white beams fanning outward.
The beams wove into a curtain of light that soared skyward for kilometres, splitting north from south.
Even the dark clouds above were cleaved in two.
The Orcs paid the barrier no heed, howling as they charged down the slope.
The Aurors stood motionless, wands ready, watching them come.
Yet as the foremost Orcs crossed the light-curtain their bodies crumbled to ash.
Those behind recoiled in terror, trying to stop.
But the press of the charge gave them no chance; they were driven into the barrier and vanished in clouds of dust.