It was a terrible sight. Now and again an especially courageous man stood forth against them, only to falter and stop, standing quivering before them like a child before a wolf, his weapons fallen forgotten to the ground as the swords swept toward him. Most threw themselves on the ground and lay sobbing piteously. But death came to all in the path of those three. Further away, where the terror was less strong, men and orcs alike turned and began clawing desperately at the throng around them, trying to escape the doom that approached. Everywhere in the court below was madness and horror. Everywhere, except near the catapults, where bright armor gleamed and colorful banners rippled in the air.
Isildur's face was grim and set as he wielded his sword, but his heart was singing within him. He had thought his heart would burst with joy when he saw the great gates suddenly swing wide. He knew also that it meant that Elendur probably yet lived, and the ache of fear was instantly lifted from his heart. Raising his sword above his head, he'd shouted for the charge, but none could hear him in the tumult. Nevertheless, the army had surged forward as one as the gates swung back, heedless of the darts and missiles raining down from the wall. They had swarmed through the gate, down the long dark passage beyond, the walls echoing with their shouts, and out into the bright sun of the square. He longed to take the time to look about, to see what they'd done to his city, but there was no time. A fierce flame of revenge was burning in his heart. Calling to those close enough to hear him, he'd ridden directly against the catapults that had sent such a deadly rain into their midst. Beside him were Frár and his bold dwarvish warriors.
The fighting at the catapults was fierce and perilous, for these were seasoned, experienced orc soldiers and they were determined to hold their ground at any cost. One by one, however, they began to go down under the relentless attacks. There came a time when it was obvious to all combatants on both sides that the orcs were losing the fight. But they would not give up. Their fighting took on the reckless, fearless fury of those who know they have nothing to lose. Still it was only a matter of time.
Then an unearthly shriek rose above the tumult, and Isildur's fire of battle turned to the ice of fear and despair. The orc before him turned at the sound and cowered to his knees. The roar of battle slowly subsided as the fighters one by one felt the despair close around their hearts, weakening their wills. What was the sense in fighting, when victory was impossible and even death in battle was but vanity and mockery? All around him, warriors sank to their knees or fell on their faces. Isildur, struggling against the clutching terror, looked over their heads and met the icy eyes of the Úlairi fixed on his, their swords rhythmically rising and falling as they advanced toward him. His heart shrank at the sight, but he fought off the despair. Tearing his eyes away, he saw the Elf-Lords nearby.
"My Lords," he called, "there, to the east. They come!" Celeborn followed his gaze. "I see but three," he said. "Where are the others?"
"There, my husband," called Galadriel, pointing south, "nigh to the gate of the Citadel."
They wheeled about and saw six more of the fearsome creatures advancing steadily through the throng, unhindered by the despairing warriors grovelling before them. They moved with a grim determination, their visored heads turned only to the Elven-Lords, slaying only to clear a path.
"The time is come at last," said Galadriel. "The time for concealment is past. Now must we unveil the Three and trust to their might." She unfastened the chain at her neck and took from it Nenya, the Ring of Adamant. Cirdan brought forth Narya, the Ring of Fire. Elrond alone hesitated. He bore Vilya only for his master Gil-galad, and had always hoped he would not be called upon to wield it himself. But he could not refuse. He drew it from its chain and held it on his trembling palm. The sun flashed from the gold and the brilliant sapphire stone.
Isildur found his courage waning even as he stood watching. He felt a sudden wave of fear and doubt. How could these bright baubles stop the terrible Ring-Wraiths? Was it not the height of folly to even attempt it? Perhaps the Elves were wrong to put their faith in them. What did any of them know of their power, if they had any at all? They were made so long ago, and had lain unused for so long. These Elves were fools to think they could still be potent against such overwhelming might. And he was a greater fool to have followed them into this trap. Now there was no escape for any of them.
He looked past the three Elves, and there were the three leading Úlairi coming toward him. Tall they were, taller even than Isildur, for they were of high-born blood, kings and wizards and magicians of ancient days. Their eyes glowed red within their cowls and bored into him, revealing every fear and doubt within him. As he looked, they seemed to grow taller and taller, with great shrouds of darkness wrapped about them like huge wings. He was dimly aware of his men moaning and writhing on the ground all around him. His heart was pounding against his ribs. A clear vision came to him, more vivid than daylight. He saw his body sprawled in the dust in a pool of blood, cloven nearly in half.
So this is where I die, he thought. All my life I have travelled a path through the world and never knew that it ended here, in this court, on this day, beneath the blades of the Úlairi. He felt an overwhelming desire to just sink to the ground, to await the inevitable death in peace.
But a voice crying far away broke into his black thoughts: a fair woman's voice, like the sound of water over cool stones on a moonlit night, crying his name. He fought against the voice, for it was drawing him back from the peace of death, back to the world of pain and suffering and struggle. Nevertheless, he turned dully toward the sound. Galadriel stood before him, her golden hair flying wild around her face. She looked anxiously into his face, searching his eyes.
"Isildur!" she cried again. "Despair not, my Lord. It is but their aura that you sense. Do not give in to it! Behold now the power of the Three!"
As she spoke a red light flared from her hand, as bright as the setting sun, though she herself seemed to fade and waver. He realized he could see through her to the walls beyond. Then she was gone. Cirdan too faded in a white flash. Turning, Isildur saw Elrond place Vilya on his finger, and he disappeared in a ball of blue light. The entire court was filled with a radiance of iridescent colors that shimmered and boiled around the point where the Elf-Lords had stood. Suddenly the terror that gripped him drained away and he saw clearly once more.
He looked to the Ring-Wraiths. Their relentless advance slowed and stopped. They drew together and stood motionless, heedless of the blood and carnage all around them. Then the tallest slowly raised his arm, pointing straight toward Isildur and the light that pulsed around him. The sun glinted on something bright on the Ring-Wraith's hand. The others followed suit, until all nine of the Rings of Men were arrayed against the Three. The air became charged with a wavering, flickering glow of many changing colors. Isildur stood still, feeling the currents of power flowing around and through him as mighty forces beyond his ability to understand did invisible battle in the air. He felt his soul being pushed and pulled by invisible winds.
But the fear was gone. Everywhere Men and Elves were struggling slowly to their feet, shaking their heads, looking about in confusion. Still the ethereal battle continued, with no one striking a visible blow. Isildur could feel the air around him crackling with tension.
His heart leaped with hope. They had been stopped; perhaps they could even be beaten. But the Elf-Lords could only withstand them so long. They were risking their immortal souls to hold back the terror, but it was now up to him to meet the foe blade to blade. He must strike now. His sword felt like a bar of lead, but he raised it before him. He made to cheer his men on to attack, but only a hoarse croak escaped his throat. Forcing his feet to move, he began slogging forward, directly at the Lord of the Ring-Wraiths. He felt as if he were in neck-deep water, trying to run in his heavy armor. Step by step, he shuffled forward.