Clear and Cold the Tower Its Loud Horn Calls

The city of Minas Tirith has stood for thousands of years as a beacon of hope for the Free Peoples of Middle-earth. But in the twilight of the Third Age the gleam of the White Tower is only caught in the brightest light of a summer's day. The Tower of the Setting Sun has become the Tower of Guard, the last bulwark against Mordor. The White Tree that blossomed in the court of the citadel is long withered. Stewards rule the city, for a king has not sat on the throne for many generations of Men. These are the waning years of Gondor, and the kingdom stands upon the edge of a knife, suspended between hope and despair.   Yet still the Lords of Minas Tirith defy their enemies, guarding the passages of the Great River from Argonath to the Sea. And their struggle is bitter. The guards of the Citadel have only to look East to see Minas Morgul, the dreaded Tower of Sorcery, rising in a cleft in the Mountains of Shadow, and along the road leading to it, the ruins of their abandoned capital city, Osgiliath. The Men of Minas Tirith know that to falter in their vigilance is to invite disaster to all they hold dear.   But this unceasing watchfulness has a price. Once, the Dúnedain of the South were deemed to be wiser than other Men, excelling in skill and knowledge. Today, the Men of Minas Tirith value prowess and the craft of weapons above all else, forgetting that in the treasuries of the city much ancient lore is preserved by long tradition. But such is the need for their days, for the Shadow in the East is stirring, and the power of the Black Land is sleeping no more.