The urgency of the hour pressed hard upon them. Gandalf even considered leaving Shadowfax behind and taking to the skies upon a broomstick, flying straight over the White Mountains to reach Minas Tirith, seat of Gondor.
But Sylas quickly stopped him.
"Flying would still take too long. I can make you a Portkey that will carry you most of the way. It won't land you directly in the capital, but it will bring you close enough to save precious time."
Gandalf's eyes brightened. "With your magic, that would be far swifter indeed!"
Without hesitation, Sylas drew forth a mithril ring and set his wand against it.
"Mentos!" he incanted.
The ring shivered faintly, glowing with a soft blue light. He pressed it into Gandalf's hand.
"I've enchanted it with a Portkey charm," Sylas explained. "A touch of your magic will activate it. It will carry you into Gondor, and it can be used again. If you're ever in danger, simply will it, and it will bring you back to Isengard."
Gandalf slipped the ring onto his left index finger, beside Narya, the Ring of Fire. He gave a crooked grin.
"If I weren't such an old man, this might cause some misunderstanding. Let us hope Arwen doesn't scold you, you've given me a ring before giving her one."
Sylas groaned, momentarily speechless.
He couldn't help but recall the blue-eyed actor who had once played Gandalf in his former life. To see the Grey Pilgrim before him making such a jest created such an odd dissonance that Sylas almost laughed aloud. If he hadn't known better, he might have been suspicious of the wizard's intentions.
But Gandalf, puzzled by Sylas's look, brushed the thought aside. He had no leisure for riddles of expression. With a final clasp of arms, he turned to mount Shadowfax, ready to ride with the Portkey's aid.
Then, suddenly, a piercing cry rang from above.
It was Aslan, the Gryphon, wheeling over the tower in his patrol, his call sharp and clear.
Both Sylas and Gandalf looked skyward, confusion on their faces.
"Has Aslan seen something?" Gandalf asked, pausing his hand upon the ring. He could sense unease in the creature's cry.
Sylas, gifted with Legilimency, read the Gryphon's thoughts directly. His brow furrowed. He turned toward the plains beyond Isengard.
"Aslan says riders approach, Rohirrim, by their garb. They are coming straight for us."
Gandalf stiffened. "Gondor already reels beneath Mordor's hand, and now Rohan sends men here? Then Rohan too must be in peril."
His premonition proved true. Soon, a troop of weary horsemen appeared, guided by Dunlending outriders loyal to Sylas. Dust clung to their cloaks from the long ride.
At their head rode a man of thirty, bearing the air of nobility though travel-worn. He dismounted and bowed with respect.
"Lord Sylas," he said. "I am Forcyr, cousin to King Fengel of Rohan. Gondor's beacons called for aid, yet Rohan itself is beset. Ten-thousands of Orcs and Easterlings sweep upon our eastern marches. We cannot spare riders for Gondor. By the will of my king, I place this plea in your hands. Here is his letter."
He extended the sealed missive.
Sylas broke the seal, scanning the words. His eyes widened in surprise.
Gandalf noticed. "What does Fengel write that so startles you?"
Wordlessly, Sylas passed him the parchment. "The King promises that, should I aid Rohan in its defense, he will cede to me the entire Gap of Rohan, including the Fords of Isen."
Gandalf's brows shot upward.
The Gap of Rohan, between the Misty Mountains and the White Mountains, was no small prize. Open plains, fertile and free, guarded by the crucial crossing of the River Isen. Whoever held the Gap could cut the lifelines between Rohan, Gondor, and the lands of Eriador. It was the key to the West.
That King Fengel would even contemplate surrendering it astonished them both.
But Gandalf kept his counsel. This was a choice only Sylas could make.
The wizard remained silent, while Sylas turned instead to Brog, chieftain of the Dunlendings, who had marched at the head of the riders. The Dunlendings, once wild enemies, had long since bent the knee to Sylas and now guarded the plains around Isengard as his sworn folk.
"Brog," Sylas said, his voice firm, "you heard the terms. This is your decision as much as mine. If you and your clans march to aid Rohan, then the Gap of Rohan and the Fords of Isen will be your people's land forevermore. But if you refuse, the matter ends here."
Sylas had no intention of marching to Rohan himself. His duty was to remain in Isengard, keeping watch against any sudden treachery from Saruman. But the matter of aid could still be answered.
The Dunlendings were once Rohan's bitterest foes, raiders fierce enough to ride all the way to Edoras itself. Their strength was well known to the Rohirrim, who still bore old scars from those wars. If now the Dunlendings and the horse-lords stood together against Mordor, they might actually drive back the dark tide.
Yet Sylas did not command them. Though they had bent the knee to him, unlike the folk of Bree or Hogsmeade under his protection, the Dunlendings governed themselves. He did not dictate their choices.
Still, he leaned toward hope. If they took this offer, they would secure the Fords of Isen, a crossroads of all the great roads north and south. Such a prize would not only grant them a home but also wealth, ensuring peace and prosperity for their descendants. And if the Dunlendings and Rohirrim fought side by side, perhaps the bitterness of centuries might begin to heal.
Gandalf, puffing quietly at his pipe, saw Sylas's intent and gave an approving glance. "If the Dunlendings march beside the Rohirrim," he murmured, "this battle may plant the seeds of peace at last."
Brog, the Dunlending chieftain, wrestled in silence. His heart despised the horse-lords; part of him longed to see them crushed beneath the hosts of Mordor. Why should his people bleed for their old enemies?
Yet the promise of land and safety weighed heavier still. A new homeland, rich and secure, for his children and their children after them…
At last, he lifted his gaze, voice steady as he answered:
"Lord, we Dunlendings will ride to war. But hear this, we will not take orders from the Rohirrim. We fight beside them, not beneath them."
A small smile flickered across Sylas's face. He had expected no less. Brog was no reckless fool; he had surrendered to Isengard not out of fear, but for the sake of his people's future. To set aside pride now for their survival was a choice born of true leadership.
Gandalf, too, smiled in relief. The White Wizard admired Sylas's handling of the matter, and he respected Brog's courage to choose wisely.
The Rohirrim emissaries, who had ridden with dread of refusal, now brightened with joy. Though they still muttered of "barbarians," they could not deny the ferocity of Dunlending warriors. With such allies, their chances against Mordor grew brighter.
Sylas raised his hand. "Since you will march in Rohan's defense, I will not send you empty-handed."
He brought forth the Horn of Victory and set it to his lips.
The sound burst forth, deep and thunderous, echoing across the stone circle of Isengard.
From the forests came answering cries, sharp, proud, like eagles and wild horses together.
Then they appeared: dozens of Hippogriffs, wings wide against the sky. They wheeled above Orthanc in gleaming formation before stooping down to land, talons striking the turf with thunderous force. With a short run and a sudden halt, they lined up before Sylas, heads bowing as if awaiting his command.
Both the Rohirrim contingent and the Dunlendings stared at the assembled Hippogriffs with open wonder.
The creatures were immense, standing over three meters tall, their wings spread nearly six meters wide. Compared to the horses of Rohan, they seemed as large as elephants, their eagle talons gleaming and their feathers shimmering like polished steel.
Sylas stepped forward, stroking the neck of the lead Hippogriff, then turned to Brog, the Dunlending chieftain.
"These Hippogriffs can run like the wind across the ground, and they can also take flight. Today, I will lend them to you for battle.
"But beware, their spirits are proud. They do not bend easily to any hand. To ride them, you must earn their respect."
The words ignited a spark in the Dunlendings' eyes, and even the Rohirrim, famed horse-lords of Middle-earth, could not hide their envy. The thought of mastering such winged steeds set every heart aflame.
Brog, unable to contain his eagerness, asked, "Lord, how does one gain their favor?"
Sylas explained patiently: "Choose the Hippogriff that calls to you. Approach to within two paces. Then bow low while meeting its gaze without fear. If it bows its head in return, it has accepted you, and you may come forward to mount.
"But if it does not bow, retreat slowly and without shame. Do not provoke it, its talons can cut a man in half."
At once, the Dunlendings stepped forward, each eager to prove himself.
Brog went first. His eyes fell on the lead Hippogriff, the very one Sylas had raised from the egg, the only one with a name.
"Buckbeak," Sylas murmured, watching closely.
Brog strode towards the beast. At three meters away, Buckbeak snorted, scraping the earth with his razor-sharp foreclaws. The warning was clear.
Brog halted, then bent forward in a slow, deep bow, his gaze locked on the creature's golden eyes.
The standoff seemed endless. Buckbeak studied him, weighing his worth. Brog's back ached, his shoulders trembled, but he did not falter.
At last, the Hippogriff shifted, extended one claw, and dipped his head in return.
A ripple of astonishment spread through the watching crowd. Even Sylas raised a brow, then smiled. "Well done, Brog. Buckbeak has accepted you."
With visible relief and joy, Brog stepped forward, laying a cautious hand on the sharp beak before climbing, clumsily but determinedly, onto Buckbeak's back.
The other Dunlendings soon followed. Some succeeded, earning proud new companions. Others failed, forced to retrea. A few nearly paid with their lives when a Hippogriff lashed out, saved only by Sylas's swift spells.
Those who succeeded exulted, their laughter ringing in the air as they sat astride the winged beasts. Those who failed looked on with envy, grinding their teeth in frustration.
Once the choosing was done, Sylas brought forth gifts.
He presented several thousand suits of spider-silk armor, woven from the spider silk and enchanted for strength. Light as linen, yet tougher than mail, they turned aside sword and arrow alike.
Then he unlocked Orthanc's hidden armory, revealing the weapons Saruman had forged in secret, blades and spears of black steel, sharp and unyielding.
Thus outfitted, the Dunlendings stood transformed: no longer a ragged people on the margins, but a proud war-host mounted on Hippogriffs, clad in gleaming armor, their weapons thirsting for battle.
A new army had been born in Isengard.