'…And about each hill a ring was made facing all ways, bristling with spear and sword. But in the front towards Mordor where the first bitter assault would come there stood the sons of Elrond on the left with the Dúnedain about them, and on the right the Prince Imrahil with the men of Dol Amroth tall and fair, and picked men of the Tower of Guard.'
ROTK; The Black Gate Opens
The Dúnedain of the North watched as the Captains stood before the Black Gate, an eerie silence broken only by the occasional stamp of a horse's hoof; even the animals sensed the doom that lay before them. Tarkil glanced around at his brethren as they stood at the front of the forces. The Captains and representatives of the land rode towards the gate, stopping once they reached the malodorous moat that guarded the entrance to Mordor, heralding the filth beyond. Pride filled the Rangersas the banner of the King unfurled, and the trumpets and voices called for Sauron himself to come forward.
He started as thundering drums rolled across the valley and the great gates to Mordor creaked open. Nálo sensed his unease and danced beneath him so he leaned down and whispered a few words in an attempt to calm the nervous steed.
Whispers rippled through the Gondorian foot soldiers behind the mounted Dúnedain as a black-robed figure rode through the gates to meet those who dared challenge the Dark Lord.
"A wraith" Tarkil heard a man behind him whisper in dread. The Ranger knew they watched no wraith, for the eight remaining Nazgûl sat astride their fell beasts as they flapped and dove in graceless circles above the black towers that flanked the gate, fear and despair enveloping all who dared spy them. But he understood the man's confusion for the rider sparked the same fear with his gruesome appearance – even his mount inspired horror as flames came from the nostrils of its death-like mask. Though they could not hear his words, a sense of foreboding filled the thirty Rangers when this hideous servant of Mordor held up a small sword and then a grey cloak. The Dúnedain stifled their gasps of dismay, as the messenger's visage twisted into the mockery of a smile when next he held aloft a child-sized vest that shimmered in the gloom.
The rumour of a hobbit carrying the ring of power swept through the Grey Company shortly after they had joined Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli. They overheard the dwarf and the elven prince worrying about a friend named Frodo and his great burden. The Rangers recognized the name at once as belonging to a hobbit. Little by little, they pieced together the story that Frodo journeyed to Mordor hoping to dispatch the ring into the fires of Mount Doom though Halbarad tried to discourage their talk.
Yet here was a cloak like that which his captain and his companions wore, only hobbit-sized, as were the sword and vest. And if they were in the hands of a minion of Sauron -- Tarkil's heart sank at the thought -- that could only mean Sauron had taken them by force, and with them, the ring of power. Out of the corner of his eye he knew the other Rangers had also noticed this and reached the same grim conclusion.
So they stood at the Black Gate, facing Sauron's forces with little hope left, for the Dúnedain stood at the front of the line, the first to face the massing hordes. He glanced beside him and caught his brother Haldon's eye as they exchanged a silent pact to protect each other to the end, both doubting any of their number would leave the battle alive.
A bright light drew Tarkil's eye back to the scene at the gate as Mithrandir reached out and grabbed the articles from the messenger and the black figure suddenly spurred his steed back to his soldiers. Aragorn's forces pressed closer together, closing ranks, as they heard shrill horns sound and saw the dust rise in a great cloud as the forces of Mordor swarmed towards them. The Captains charged back to the forces arrayed on the slag hills, Elladan and Elrohir retaking their place amongst the Rangers. The twins wheeled their mounts and sat impassively watching the oncoming horde. Yet Tarkil thought he saw their jaws clench -- and a glint appear in their eyes at the challenge. They had the chance at eternal life – immortality – and yet they choose to stand here amongst us mortals. When they die -- where shall they go? To the Halls of Mandos to live amongst the elven spirits or to a man's fate whatever that might be? What choice would I have made had I been given such a decision?
Orcs beyond count clambered down the sides of the hills of the Morannon, a black wave of death that clenched dread into every man's heart. A cacophony of jeers from the Easterlings and a barrage taunts from the Southrons echoed off the hills as they marched past the curls of steam that emanated from putrid cesspits from behind the shadow of Ered Lithui while Tarkil and the others watched in stoic resignation as the great host of Sauron surrounded them. May we die swiftly and with honour.
The Easterlings and Southrons, swarthy men reminding Tarkil of those he had faced on the Pelennor fields, jostled for position in front of their hill as harsh trumpets called for the battle to begin. Fierce foes, Tarkil knew they would give no quarter but fight to the death in their defence of the evil beyond. And finally, horns sounded on both sides and the Sons of Elrond stood shoulder to shoulder beside the Dúnedain, their ranks closed again the enemy, denying them easy passage towards their captains. Tarkil hefted his spear and chucked it at an Easterling that ran towards him, a deadly pike aimed at Nálo, and drew his first blood of the day.