The Dunlendings assembled swiftly, forming a disciplined cavalry that bore little resemblance to the ragged clans they once were.
At their head rode Brog, chieftain of the Dunlendings, and a dozen of his fiercest warriors, each astride a Hippogriff. Their wings beat the air like thunder, feathers flashing bronze and silver in the sun.
But the host they commanded was vast. With more than ten thousand riders and horses, Sylas had to turn to other means. From his stores he brought forth great chests, each expanded with the Undetectable Extension Charm. Into them, the entire Dunlending host and the Rohan contingent were loaded, horses, riders, and arms alike, vanishing into enchanted space.
Only Brog, the chosen riders, and the Rohan envoy, King Fengel's cousin, remained outside. Together, mounted on Hippogriffs, they flew at full speed for Edoras, the capital of Rohan.
Portkeys would have been swifter, but Sylas knew his limits. Teleporting a few hundred with such magic was possible, but ten thousand? That would drain him beyond recovery. The enchanted chests were safer.
When the Dunlendings and Rohirrim had gone, Isengard grew quiet again. Gandalf had already departed, using a Portkey Sylas prepared, vanishing into Gondor to rally the defenders of Minas Tirith.
"Aslan," Sylas murmured, resting his hand on the Hippogriff's feathered head, "I'll need you to work harder these next few days. Patrol the skies, and if you see any foes, warn me at once."
The proud beast gazed back at him with keen golden eyes. Aslan was nearly human in intelligence, if not in speech, and he understood. With a nod and a soft cry, he nuzzled Sylas's palm before soaring into the air, circling high above Orthanc with a predator's vigilance.
Inside the tower, Sylas bent to scratch the heads of his most loyal guardian. "Cerberus, stay sharp. Enemies may try to creep near. Don't let them set foot inside."
The Three-Headed hound stirred, its two sleeping heads snapping awake. All six eyes gleamed. The beast rose, straight as a soldier, loosed a resonant howl, and stood sentinel at the gate.
Sylas chuckled, patting each massive head in turn. "Good lad. You'll have a whole cow when this is over."
Cerberus's three jaws lolled in delight, tails thumping against the stone, but he stood firm at his post, three heads turned to watch three directions, sniffing for threat, muscles taut beneath iron hide.
Leaving them to their vigil, Sylas climbed the spiral stair and stepped onto the high platform of Orthanc. He gazed eastward, his cloak whipping in the wind.
His brow furrowed. Mordor's sudden twin strikes, against Gondor and Rohan, were reckless, ill-timed. Sauron was not one to gamble without reason.
No, this was more than conquest.
The Dark Lord was cunning as a serpent, lurking in shadow until the perfect moment. After his defeat in the War of the Last Alliance, he had hidden for a thousand years, biding his time, regathering strength unseen even by Gandalf or Galadriel. Only when revealed at Dol Guldur had he slithered back to Mordor.
And now, though his power was not yet whole, he struck early. Why?
Sylas's instincts whispered a single answer: this was about him.
The Philosopher's Stone burned faintly at his side, a weight both wondrous and dangerous. Since forging it, his soul had changed, sharpened. His foresight had grown keener, and the premonition that Mordor's fury was tied to him gnawed relentlessly at his heart.
He trusted his intuition, just as Gandalf and Elrond trusted theirs. Which meant one thing:
He had to prepare.
Sylas stood atop Orthanc, the black stone tower rising like a spear against the sky. On his hand gleamed the Ring of Power, in the other he held his staff. With the tower's ancient might amplifying his voice, he began to chant.
"Protego Maxima. Protego Horribilis. Fortificare…"
One by one the spells leapt from his staff, weaving together into a vast enchantment. White threads of magic spun outward, stretching from Orthanc to the encircling wall of Isengard. Slowly, a great dome of shimmering wards took shape, thin as gossamer yet radiating deadly strength.
The Philosopher's Stone had changed him. His spirit, body, and soul had undergone metamorphosis, doubling his magical power. By raw strength alone, Sylas now stood equal with legends like Dumbledore or Voldemort.
Even so, casting a ward vast enough to shield the entire valley strained him to exhaustion. When at last the dome solidified, Sylas leaned heavily on his staff, panting. Yet the result was flawless: a barrier so strong that no ordinary spell could pierce it. Any foe attempting to cross would be reduced to ash in an instant.
And yet, he was no tyrant. Sylas had altered the dome's enchantments. Friends, allies, and any who bore him no malice could pass freely, the wards parting as if they were not there.
Weary but resolute, he drew forth the Golden Cup. Clear water poured at his call. With his other hand he took out the Philosopher's Stone, letting it stir within the water. The liquid shimmered, flushing crimson until it gleamed like wine.
Sylas drank deeply.
At once vitality surged through him, strength for his body, magic for his soul. The Golden Cup nourished flesh, while the Philosopher's Stone restored power. Together, they rendered him untiring, unbreakable, a wizard who could never again be worn down by fatigue or empty of magic.
He lowered the cup, turning the crimson jewel over in his hand, anticipation flickering in his eyes.
If not for Mordor's sudden war, he would already be at Weathertop's potion-hall, distilling the Elixir of Life. For though the Stone itself did not grant immortality, it was the heart of that draught. Each dose extended life by thirty years; with enough stored and taken faithfully, one could live forever.
And his Stone was perfect. Nicolas Flamel's creation, for all its brilliance, had faltered in the final trial, unable to arrest the creeping decay of age. Sylas's Philosopher's Stone had no such flaw. Its elixir would not only grant endless years but eternal youth. He would remain as he was now, untouched by time, never withering, never dying.
He smiled wryly. Not yet. First, I must weather this storm. For if Isengard fell, what use was eternity?
But as he studied the Stone, a thought struck him, chilling in its clarity.
Could this be the true reason for Mordor's sudden war?
The Philosopher's Stone did not only grant immortality. It could restore flesh to spirit.
It was why Voldemort had once hunted it, clinging to the body of Quirrell in Hogwarts's darkened halls. And Sauron, broken and bodiless, was not unlike the Dark Lord of Wizarding world, both shadows clawing for form.
Voldemort had bound himself to the world through Horcruxes, while Sauron endured by the power of the One Ring. Both lingered as disembodied spirits.
Long ago, in the Second Age, Sauron had ensnared the Númenóreans with lies and corruption, driving them into folly and bringing about the wrath of the Valar. Númenor was swallowed by the sea, and Sauron's punishment was to lose his fair form and the gift of shapeshifting forever.
Yet through the One Ring he had forged, he rebuilt a body for himself. But that flesh was bound to the Ring. When Isildur cut the Ring from his hand with the hilt-shard of Narsil, Sauron's body collapsed into nothing, and his power was shattered. Ever since, he had sought to reclaim the Ring, for only with it could his dominion be complete once more.
Now, however, there was another path. The Philosopher's Stone could also restore flesh to a wandering spirit. Until the Ring was found, it could serve as a substitute, a way for Sauron to clothe himself in power again.
Sylas remembered the moment he had forged the Stone. Even then, he had felt Sauron's gaze pressing against the wards, a shadow prying at the edges. Galadriel had blocked the attempt, but Sauron's wisdom was vast. He had crafted the Rings of Power themselves; even a fleeting glimpse might have been enough for him to divine the Stone's purpose.
The realization weighed heavily on Sylas. He had thought only Saruman, nursing his grudges, might try to reclaim Isengard. But if the Nazgûl came… if Sauron himself turned his eye here… then even with all his wards, Sylas might be forced to abandon his stronghold.
Yet his heart steadied as he glanced at the hearth below. Should the worst come, he could summon aid through the fire. Galadriel, Elrond, Glorfindel, together they had driven Sauron from Dol Guldur once; they could do so again.
Still, standing alone in Isengard with only Aslan the Hippogriff and Cerberus the Three-Headed Hound at his side felt far too thin a defense.
So Sylas lifted the Horn of Victory, a gift once given by the Blue Wizard Rómestámo, and blew.
The sound was not loud, but it carried far, far beyond the walls of Isengard, far across Middle-earth.
On the hoarded gold of Weathertop, Smaug stirred. The dragon's eyes blazed open, and with a rumble of stone and scale, he forced his way from his cavern, wings unfurling with a thunderous crack.
From beneath Hogwarts itself, deep in the Chamber of Secrets, the Basilisk awoke once more. It slithered through the ancient pipes, bursting from the dark waters of the Black Lake. With a hiss that shook the air, it reared, only to be seized by Smaug's talons. The serpent did not resist; instead, it coiled about the dragon's limb, binding itself to its winged bearer as the two launched southward.
Cries rose in Hogsmeade as villagers glimpsed the dreadful sight, a dragon with a serpent clasped in its claws, soaring into the heavens.
Above them, faster still, Thorondor the Great Eagle answered the call, wings like storm-clouds sweeping him toward Isengard.
Only the Kraken remained, its many limbs drifting in the depths of the Black Lake, guarding the waters as ever.
...
Stones Plzz
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