"As do I, but we must be visible here, lest Sauron perceive our absence and suspect the attack on the Nine. And do you truly think the Three are stronger than the Nine?"
"No one knows. They have never been put to the test. But I believe so. If the Three are wielded in concert, they should be able to withstand the Nine, for each is complement to each, and their combined strength is more than their sum. Galadriel and Cirdan are both great mages and learned in the oldest arts. They have long borne their Rings and their knowledge and their courage will guide them all. At the very least, the Three will appear to Sauron as a threat to his power and a temptation to his greed. His sole motive is ever greater power, and the Three represent the greatest powers remaining in Middle-earth. Whatever the outcome of the battle at Minas Ithil, Sauron will come forth, I am sure of it."
Gil-galad crossed the tent and took a long spear with an ebony handle from a rack. Its head was in the shape of a leaf of the Golden Tree, with edges so razor sharp they shone blue in the light.
"And then he must reckon with this," he said grimly, running his hands over the shaft. "Aeglos was made to taste Sauron's blood, and it shall yet do so, I swear it. Well does he know this weapon and fear it, for it is doomed to be Sauron's Bane."
Elendil patted the hilt of the great sword at his side. "And if Snowpoint does not slay him, my Narsil will, for it too is charmed to bring him down."
Gil-galad looked to the open tent flap. "Is it morning yet, Elendil? It is still dark and grey without, and yet surely the sun must be up by now."
"She is up, Sire, but gives little light through the murk. The haze and fumes are much thicker than usual this morning, and a noxious bitter dust is sifting down from the low clouds. Orodruin is unquiet."
"And so too is its lord, I wager," replied Gil-galad, "for I notice that the volcano oft reflects Sauron's mood. It has many times trembled and smoked just before a major attack by his forces. He is linked to the subterranean powers of the earth ever since he forged the One in the Sammath Naur within the mountain itself. Perhaps he even controls Orodruin's eruptions, though how I cannot guess."
"Then perhaps this unrest indicates that he even now senses a disturbance in the west, a changing, a moving, in the borders of his realm."
"Perhaps. If so, let him fret a while. It will make him more rash in the end. I would have him come out in fear and anxiety, his troops all disordered and confused. I assume ours all stand at the highest readiness?"
"Aye. Every one is awake and watchful. The barricades and forces at the road to the west have been quadrupled."
"Good. Well, if the day is as fine as you say, Elendil, we should be out enjoying it. And we should be seen from the walls of the Dark Tower, so he knows we are still here. Let us ride to the road."
The two kings called for their housecarls and standard bearers, and soon were riding down the slope to the road below. Men and Elves in full armor were pacing slowly back and forth as they had every day for years. The perimeter of the siege had been established long ago by the catapults of the Barad-dûr, for it lay at the bottom of a barren slope strewn with the massive blocks of stone hurled from the walls.
They spoke briefly with the Elvish captain of this section of the perimeter, then turned south and rode slowly along the long line of grim-faced warriors: Elves and Men and here and there a few dwarves. The eyes of all were cold and weary, for they had lived with the threat of imminent death for many years. A siege is a terrible thing to endure on either side of the walls, for the tension and fear of battle are prolonged not for hours, but for years. It is one thing to ride into a battle knowing you may be killed before the day is out, quite another to face it day after day. It is the fear and uncertainty of war, the privations and discomfort of a military campaign, but with no glory, no homecoming, and no end in sight. It was difficult for everyone, but especially the Men. Many of the younger Men had spent a large portion of their lives here on this bleak plain, far from their wives and sweethearts and families. They felt their lives passing them by, their youth wasted in this idle watching and waiting for the Gate of Adamant to open. They stared at those immense doors day after day, hoping to see them creak open, and also dreading it.
The leaders of the host had always to contend with both the boredom and the frustrated eagerness to fight and have done with the waiting. There was much grumbling and complaining and all were thoroughly sick of the plains of Gorgoroth and the sight of the Dark Tower. But they all knew that there could be no going home until the issue was decided. At great cost had they driven Sauron into his fortress; they must not let him escape now.
Elendil and Gil-galad rode along the perimeter, offering occasional words of encouragement as they passed each group of warriors. They topped a low rise and looked out over a wide plain dotted with row after row of brightly colored tents, though now much stained and grimed by the volcanic ash like black flour that constantly sifted down from the clouds. Well-beaten paths ran among the rows of tents, and many figures, horses, and wagons moved about its dusty streets. Here was the main body of the Host of the Alliance, scores of thousands of warriors of every race, from nearly every land of the West.
Through the midst of the huge camp ran a broad and well-paved road with a low wall on either side to hold back the drifting ash that threatened to bury it. The Road of Sauron ran straight and level, slicing through hills of slag and broken rock and leaping over black chasms on massive arches of stone. It disappeared in the vapors and smokes of Orodruin, away to the west. As it drew near the bridge to the Barad-dûr, the Road passed between two rows of huge carven images of misshapen and bestial forms, though whether they represented actual creatures of Sauron's devise or were only figments of some mad nightmare, none could guess. The camp lay close to these beasts but not among them, for all sensed something unnatural and evil about them. Indeed, many of those closest to camp had been smashed or the faces chiseled away, for few could bear those stone eyes upon them for long.
Where the Road entered the Field of the Beasts, four stout barricades of heavy timbers and broken stones had been constructed across it and stretched far away to either side. Thousands of the strongest warriors were stationed at these barricades. Some stood or walked on the fortifications themselves, others marched in the lanes between. Everywhere spear points and lances gleamed red in the murky morning light, as if already running with blood. Ever they looked beyond the barricades, to the Iron Bridge and the towering Gate of Adamant. If Sauron did come forth, this is the way he would come, and these warriors would be the first to take the brunt of his attack.
The Tower itself stood silent. No guards paced the battlements, no archers could be seen at the occasional high windows. During an assault on the Tower, missles of all sorts would descend from those heights, but seldom would any enemy be seen. Between attacks, the Tower seemed as lifeless as a tombstone. None of them knew what forces Sauron had at his command, nor where they obtained their food and supplies. If they were suffering under the siege, there was no sign of it. As for Sauron himself, he had not been seen by Elf nor Man since the night he had slipped away from Celebrimbor's workshops in Eregion that is no more.
The kings' company rode to a large tent near the outermost barricade. Esquires took their horses and the lords went in to break their fast. It was the beginning of another day, just like hundreds before — nothing to do but wait and watch.
The morning dragged on, the heat if not the light increasing steadily. The company in the mess tent speculated on the doings of their colleagues in the west. Were Isildur and the Elf-Lords victorious and even now riding hard toward them; or would the next riders to appear be black, bearing the Three triumphantly to their master? Hopeful guesses and terrifying possibilities were bandied back and forth, to no resolution. Tiring of the talk, Elendil went out and called again for his horse. He rode along the barricade, speaking with many of the commanders, Men he had known and fought beside for many years. Some indeed had sailed from Númenor with him in the terrible storm that destroyed their island home.