"Great", muttered the Prince, pulling his blade up from the spot where the Nazgûl used to be. "Wonder what cereal box he pulled that 'ring' out of. I'm sure the real one was torched a long time ago."
"Your sword!" EB declares, pointing at the Prince's intact blade.
"What about it?"
"You just slew a Nazgûl! Shouldn't it be - you know, shattered? And shouldn't you be lying on the ground, unconscious under the baleful influence of the Black Breath?"
"Well, I don't know about any Black Breath", the Prince replied, looking at the torn robe at his feet. "Maybe a little halitosis, and there is some scoring on the blade."
"My nail file is bent!" Inkspot pointed out. EB looked it over.
"Yup, definite metal fatigue here. What do you think? Weakened Nazgûl?"
"Either that, or diabetic", the Prince concurred. "They have been scarfing jelly beans throughout the concert."
Through all this the steady tramp of the myriads of troops drew closer. The crowd quaked in their boots. The duffers sought to scale the stone Mûmakil while the uruks mobbed the ticket office seeking refunds.
"I wonder where he found that army", EB pndered. "That many troops aren't easy to come by."
"Wait a minute", the Prince said, peering closely at the marching minions. "No - it can't be - but that's the only explanation."
"What?" asked Jewel.
"I don't know where he found them", answered the Prince. "But those troops - they're Bedorian!"
"Bedorian? You mean the ones who..." asked EB.
"The very ones! I didn't know there were any left, for obvious reasons, but that fellow seems to have found some. Maybe this won't be much of a fight after all."
"Or maybe he's taught them some new tricks", replied EB grimly, readying his blade.