Watchmen on the walls tolled the alarm: a menacing armada foaming against the stream — dromunds, galleys of great draught — black sails bellying in the stiffening breeze.
He took a stand atop a green hillock, letting blow the horns to rally the battle-fit; for he thought to fight there on foot till all fell, though none be left to remember.
His ancient sword he lifted high in stern defiance.
Upon the foremost ship a black standard broke, and the wind displayed it as she turned towards the Havens:
The Red Eye.
The Straight Way now blocked, Círdan faced his people's doom.