At the sight of the great Dragon, terror swept through the host. Horses shrieked and bolted, some collapsing outright in their panic. Even Brog, hard-faced chieftain of the Dunlendings, paled. Never had he seen such a monster of the skies. Smaug himself, whose fury had once laid waste to Erebor, seemed small in comparison to this colossal beast.
Yet to their astonishment, the black Dragon did not stoop to strike them. It soared overhead, vast wings blotting out the light, a storm of snow and wind in its wake, and thundered westward.
But relief was short-lived. For behind it came more: dozens of Dragons, each smaller than their leader but still the size of towers, streaming after like a stormcloud of fire and iron. Though they passed without attack, their presence alone pressed down on the hearts of every man, Elf, and Dunlending who looked skyward.
King Fengel gripped his reins tightly, unease gnawing at him. His voice was heavy.
"Their course… it is westward. Tell me, Chieftain Brog, do they fly toward Isengard?"
Brog's expression darkened. He too sensed ill fate. These were no wild dragons, but servants of Mordor, and their path could mean only one thing: Orthanc itself was their prey. Could Lord Sylas withstand such a host, led by a Dragon that dwarfed even Smaug?
Brog turned sharply and barked orders, calling his Dunlending riders to muster.
King Fengel saw his purpose and asked in astonishment, "Chieftain, do you mean to ride back to their aid?"
Brog nodded, his face set. "If Isengard falls, our lord falls with it. We are bound to him by oath. How could we stand idle while he is in peril?"
Fengel's brow furrowed. "You saw what I saw. That beast was a thousand feet from snout to tail. To ride against such a terror is to throw your lives away!"
But Brog's gaze did not waver. "We swore our allegiance, and we will keep it. The pursuit of Mordor's scattered rabble is yours, King of the Mark. Our duty lies westward."
With that, he commanded his warriors to pack swiftly into the enchanted chests Sylas had given them, so they might return to Isengard at the fastest possible speed.
Forcyr, cousin to the King and Third Marshal of the Riddermark, turned urgently to Fengel.
"Your Majesty, they depart. What shall we do?"
Fengel's eyes narrowed in thought, and then he gave his answer. "We will not forget the hand of Isengard that shielded us. Nor can we let Sylas face this doom alone. The routed Orcs can be dealt with later. Forcyr, you will take half the host eastward, press them hard, and break them before they reach the Anduin. I will lead the rest west, to stand beside Isengard."
Forcyr's face blanched. "Sire, you cannot! The shadow of Dragons is upon Orthanc. If you fall there, Rohan is leaderless. Better I ride in your place, while you finish the work here."
But Fengel only shook his head, his will like iron. "No, cousin. A King must not hoard safety for himself while others face fire and death. If Isengard gave us aid, then Rohan must return it. My duty lies to both my people and to our friends."
So saying, he strode to Brog and spoke with solemnity.
"Chieftain Brog, you came to our salvation, and Rohan will not forget. Now your lord is beset, and I too shall not stand idle. I will lead half the Riders of the Mark to join you. Tell me, can your enchanted chests bear more of us? If not, we shall ride hard, and no wall of flame will keep us from your side."
Brog was silent a long moment, taken aback. In truth, he had thought the aid given to Rohan no more than a bargain struck for land, the Gap of Rohan promised as a home for his people. That the King himself would hazard half his strength, with Mordor still near at hand, was a thing beyond any bargain.
At last Brog's stern features softened, and he inclined his head. For the first time, respect glimmered in his eyes.
Brog did not refuse the King of Rohan's aid. He ordered his Dunlending warriors to squeeze closer together inside the enchanted chests, then cleared space in one of them to make room for the Riders of Rohan. With solemn respect, he handed the chest to King Fengel, who bore it himself.
The King of Rohan then mounted a Hippogriff alongside Brog. Holding the box that carried thousands of his cavalry, Fengel could not help but marvel aloud at the wonder of Wizard Sylas's craft.
"If Rohan possessed such a treasure," he murmured, half in awe, "moving armies would be as simple as saddling a horse."
High above Orthanc, black clouds gathered like a stormfront of doom, roiling and spreading swiftly from the east. Sylas had already sensed them, and his brows tightened with grim foreboding.
Aslan, his great griffin, shrieked a warning cry from the skies. The sound was sharp, edged with panic, like the voice of a creature who had just glimpsed its natural predator.
Then, with a roar that split the air, a monstrous head thrust itself from the dark clouds: the scaled, horned visage of a Frost Dragon. Its jaws gaped wide, and an avalanche of white mist blasted forth, a breath of killing cold that struck the protective dome of Isengard.
The invisible shield glazed instantly with ice, glittering like crystal in the pale light. All across the valley, the temperature plummeted. Trees groaned beneath coats of frost, and the grass stiffened into blades of silver. Even Sylas's own breath fogged before his face inside the dome.
His eyes narrowed, his heart pounding. 'A Frost Dragon… here?'
It was vast, nearly ten times the size of Smaug, and its power dwarfed the fire-drake of Erebor. The aura it exuded was older, crueler, steeped in forgotten ages. That such a beast still lived in Middle-earth staggered Sylas, filling him with both awe and dread.
Then he saw him. Upon the Dragon's back, dark-robed and terrible, stood Saruman the White, his staff raised, his expression twisted into a smile of malice.
"Sylas!" the fallen Wizard thundered, his voice carrying like storm. "Today I shall reclaim all that was taken from me. Are you ready to burn in the fire of my vengeance?"
Sylas sneered in return, gripping his staff. "Saruman, do you truly think one beast will win you this war? You overestimate both your Dragon and yourself."
Saruman's grin widened. "Is that so? Then behold the strength I now command."
At his signal, the clouds split further apart, and from them poured dozens of Dragons, wings blotting out the sun. They wheeled into formation, circling Orthanc like carrion birds around a carcass.
Eight of the largest black Dragons descended, and on each of their backs sat a cloaked figure. Cold, piercing dread rolled from them, chilling the very air: the Nazgûl, the Ringwraiths of Mordor. At their forefront rode the Witch-king of Angmar, his voice hissing like steel scraping bone.
"Wizard," he called, "hand over the ruby you have forged. The Master has promised you anything your heart desires."
Sylas's heart weighed heavy, though his face betrayed no fear. Slowly, almost mockingly, he drew the Philosopher's Stone from his robes and let it glitter in the wan light, dangling it for all to see.
"This," he said, his voice carrying defiantly, "is what your Master covets?"
At the sight of the crimson gem, the Wraiths hissed. Greed burned in their hollow voices. The Stone was not merely a tool to restore Sauron's flesh, it could also grant form again to spirits such as themselves.
When the Nazgûl felt the raw energy radiating from the Philosopher's Stone, it was as if starving men had glimpsed a feast. Their shadowed forms trembled with hunger, their hollow eyes burning with covetous fire.
Saruman, too, could not disguise the sharp gleam of recognition in his eyes. In an instant he understood the gem's nature, and jealousy consumed him. That Sylas, of all Wizards, could fashion such a relic gnawed bitterly at his pride.
"Wizard, give it to us!" the Witch-king of Angmar demanded, his voice echoing like iron dragged across stone.
Sylas only smirked, slipping the Stone back into his robes. "You want it? Then strike down Saruman. Do that, and perhaps I will consider giving this treasure to your Master. I might even reveal how to make one yourselves. Surely a Stone forged by Sauron's own hand would be more perfect than mine… would it not?"
The words struck home. For a breathless moment, the Ringwraiths fell silent. Their cloaked heads turned towards Saruman, the faintest trace of hesitation in their deathless poise.
Saruman's face darkened with fury, his voice rising in a hiss of rage. "Fools! Do not listen to him, he seeks only to divide you! Take him, and the Stone will be ours regardless!"
His eyes blazed with malice as he fixed them on Sylas. "You may weave lies, Black Wizard, but they will not save you. Today you die, and Isengard will burn beneath my Dragons!"
At his command, the Frost Dragon beneath him reared, its wings beating a storm into the air. Around them, dozens of Dragons shrieked as one and hurled themselves against the dome that shielded Isengard.
Sylas did not flinch. His staff tightened in his grasp, but his expression remained calm, almost cold.
The first Dragon struck the dome. To its shock, the barrier did not resist entry, it allowed the beast to pass through. But the instant its scaled body crossed the threshold, the enchantments of the shield burned it like living fire. Its wings crumbled into ash, its flesh scorched, and it crashed shrieking inside the circle of the fortress. Its monstrous vitality alone kept it alive, though half-crippled.
The other Dragons checked their flight, startled at the unseen peril. For a heartbeat they dared not press forward.
Sylas raised his wand, voice sharp as a knife. "Avada Kedavra!"
A flash of green light lanced through the air. The wounded Dragon gave a terrible scream as its life was ripped away. A shadowy black wisp, its corrupted spirit, peeled from the carcass, hurled against the barrier, and burst apart like smoke in the wind.
Saruman's face twisted with rage at the sight of one of his precious war-drakes slain so swiftly.
"Kill him!" he roared. The Frost Dragon spewed its breath once more, a torrent of killing frost that glazed the dome in ice. Saruman added his own power, hurling fireballs from his staff. And from all sides, the Nazgûl poured their dark sorcery against the barrier, their shrieks like knives piercing the air.
The dome groaned under the assault, its surface flickering, threads of magic quivering like strained glass.
But Sylas only narrowed his eyes. "You think to overwhelm me with numbers? Very well, see how you fare when I summon my own allies."
He drew the Horn of Victory from his belt and blew.
The sound was not loud, yet it pierced the air like thunder. Saruman and the Nazgûl recoiled, their ears filled with a maddening resonance, as though the very mountains themselves were singing against them.
Then, an answering roar.
From the Misty Mountains came shapes in the clouds: wings beating, fire glinting. Dragons rushed forth at the call of the horn. With terrible cries they descended, and with one voice unleashed torrents of flame upon Saruman's host.
...
Stones Plzz
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