They had hardly broken their fast before messengers came to them, bidding them to come to the Dome of Stars, for the council was to begin. They were greeted there by a stocky dark man with his hair and his beard alike drawn into long braids. He wore a tunic of light green over good mail, and he greeted the Elves civilly with a deep bow.
"My Lords and Lady," he said. "I am Ohtar, the king's esquire, and I welcome you to the Great Council of Osgiliath. I bid you to be patient a few moments more, for not all the guests have arrived."
They were shown to seats at a great table shaped like a crescent moon. At the center of the curve stood two high thrones of ebony chased with many graceful designs in mithril, one draped in white shrouds. In the other sat Isildur, dressed all in white with a white stone bound upon his brow. He rose to greet his guests.
"Welcome, Firstborn," he called. "Pray take your seats on my either hand. The others are even now arriving."
They sat in the high-backed chairs and watched as the lords and captains of many lands entered the hall and took their seats, each dressed in the colors and livery of his homeland. There was Barathor, whom they already knew, but there were many others. Amroth had not realized how greatly the race of the Atani had come to vary over the ages. There were tall men of Númenórean descent, like unto Isildur. His son Elendur was the greatest of these. Others were shorter and broader, with long yellow hair and fair faces, having somewhat the coloring of the Noldor. Still others had ruddy faces and carrot-colored hair, while others were a deep brown or black, with curling black hair. A group of dwarves entered and bowed low to Isildur, their long beards sweeping the ground. A herald was announcing each of the nobles as they entered:
"Thardûn, Captain of Angrenost. Ingold, Master of Calembel. Súrion, Guardian of the isle of Cair Andros. Bergil, Mayor of Minas Anor. Halgon, Master of the Ships of the Harlond. Barathor, Lord of Pelargir. Turgon of Ethir Lefnui."
Each looked at the Elves as they came in, some in wonder, some in surprise, some in open puzzlement. Few had ever seen Elves before. The names went on and on, but Amroth soon lost track of their many names and titles and lands. Some he did notice. One was a thin, studious-looking young man, Isildur's nephew Meneldil, Prince of Anórien since his father's death. At last all the chairs were filled and the room fell quiet. Isildur stood and called out.
"Lords, I greet you and welcome you to Osgiliath. We are gathered in answer to a summons from the Lords of the West: my father Elendil, High King of the Realms in Exile, and Gil-galad, King of the Eldar. We are called to decide matters of great moment today, decisions that will change the course of the world. For long now we have endeavored to keep our plans hidden, lest they reach the ears of the enemy. But now the time for secrecy is past; the time for decisive action is come. But to make such decisions we must know the risks and the costs, what can be gained, and what lost; and know how we have come to this pass.
"The tale of how this council came to be called is a long one, but it should be fully known to all here, whose lives and fortunes lie now in the balance. Many tales go into the making of this tale, and I would have each tell his part in turn. I will begin myself.
"You all know the history of this war with Sauron: how his forces swept down without warning on my city of Minas Ithil in the year '34. His most foul servants yet hold my city and much of the fair land of Ithilien, and they constantly harass us here in Osgiliath and in raids across the Anduin. His allies and agents elsewhere assail our ports and ships and towns, murdering our people and destroying what they cannot carry away. Sauron will not cease his attacks until Gondor and all the free lands of the West are in his power. We are resolved to oppose him while life endures.
"The good people of the Eldar, that you call Elves, have joined us in our struggle against Sauron. Gil-galad has long been a staunch friend of our people, and many an Elvish warrior has laid down his life in battle at our sides. You see here among us some of the greatest Lords of that noble race, come to offer us their assistance and support.
"At first all went well for the Army of the Alliance. United with the Elves, we defeated Sauron's best troops and threw down his Black Gate and took all of Udûn and much of the blasted plains of Gorgoroth. We encircled him in his Dark Tower, the Barad-dûr, but it is immeasurably strong, and our siege has been unavailing. For seven years now we have maintained the siege, at great cost to ourselves. Many fall in battle, others die of thirst and heat and weariness and the poisonous fumes that belch from the ground. Daily our comrades fall around us, and we can do the enemy but little hurt. They laugh at us as we waste ourselves on their adamantine walls. We had driven Sauron back into his last stronghold, but we could do no more, and it could be said that by maintaining the siege we are in fact losing the war, for our forces ever diminish and his do not.
"Last year my brother Anárion thought to make a last great attempt on the gate of the Barad-dûr. He designed a huge covered structure on wheels that contained both a wooden bridge that could be lowered across the chasm and an immense battering ram to force the gate. He built a model and showed it to the kings. It seemed a bold but likely plan. The permission was given and the construction of the engine was begun. Hundreds of huge trees had to be cut high in the northern valleys of the Ered Lithui and dragged and sledged with untold weary labor across many miles of broken terrain. After many months, the engine was completed and the men trained.
"On the appointed day, the entire host rose as one and assailed the Black Tower from every side. Anárion led his men with their engine to the gate. The huge bridge was lowered into place successfully and the engine advanced to the mighty gates. But hardly had the order been given to start the ram when Sauron's hordes unleashed a terrible rain of huge stones, glowing red with heat. Within moments the siege engine was struck by an immense boulder and the forward end collapsed. Many men and Elves were trapped within, doomed to certain death beneath the rain of missles. Anárion ran forward with a party of men and endeavored to free those caught beneath the wreckage. As he stood thus, bent low to help free an injured man, a great stone, cast from high in the Tower, smote him on the helmet and burst both helm and skull asunder. Gildor here and I crossed the now teetering bridge and freed some of our people, and I carried back the body of my brother. Hardly had we reached the ground again when the entire structure tilted, groaned, then collapsed into the bottomless depths, carrying with it a hundred or more of our brave soldiers. The attack was called off and the army withdrew to a safe distance.
"Within a few terrible moments, a king of Gondor and many hundreds of our people had died, our siege engine was destroyed, and with it went all our hopes of ever breaching the Black Tower. We all realized at last that we could besiege the Tower, but we could never take it. Sauron and his servants seemed to command limitless supplies of food and arms and missles. We knew not if the tower was filled with vast stores of supplies or if it was being replenished through some underground or even magical means."
Isildur paused, looking around at the grim listening faces around him. "Many who have not been to Mordor might cherish the illusion that Sauron is trapped and helpless within his Tower. The truth is rather that he does not bother to sortie against us. He has waited for his victory for thousands of years, he can afford to wait ten or twenty more while we grind ourselves to dust against his walls."
There were murmurs in the room. Dark looks were exchanged. Many had not realized just how grim the situation in Gorgoroth had become.