Upon hearing the Frost Dragon's words, Smaug showed a flicker of interest.
But he still hesitated. "If I agree, my current master will sense it. He can instantly punish me through the backlash of the oath…"
"That's not a problem! Don't resist, I'll inject a portion of my power into you now. This will temporarily shield the oath's influence. When we return to Mordor, I will help you completely remove the curse."
As he spoke, the Frost Dragon drew closer. The iron crown fused to his head exuded a suffocating darkness, the power of Sauron itself. The moment the Frost Dragon touched him, that power would surge into Smaug.
But just before he could reach him, Smaug unleashed his full fury. The great wyrm opened his jaws wide, blasting forth a torrent of Dragonfire that engulfed the Frost Dragon. His head, in particular, vanished within a searing inferno, a blazing dragon's skull of flame.
Caught unprepared, the Frost Dragon shrieked in agony as the flames devoured him. His scales melted away like ice beneath the midday sun.
Even the iron crown was scorched, glowing red-hot in the firestorm.
The Frost Dragon was gravely wounded once more. Writhing and screaming, he had no choice but to blast himself with a storm of freezing air to smother the flames.
Glaring at the fleeing Smaug with hatred, he bellowed, "Damn you, Smaug! You dare to deceive me?"
But Smaug had already flown far, laughing to the great serpent coiled around his neck. "It seems the Dark Lord isn't very clever after all, to believe such nonsense? What a fool!"
The Basilisk Herpo hissed in agreement, his tongue flicking, his eyes glinting with deadly power.
Smaug chuckled. "Exactly! I rest on a mountain of gold every day, eating well and sleeping better. Only a fool would abandon such comfort to serve a bodiless shadow!"
When Smaug arrived over Isengard, he unleashed a storm of Dragonfire upon the Ringwraiths, their Dragons, and even Saruman himself, who had surrounded the fortress.
Herpo, coiled around his neck, widened his eyes, unleashing his petrifying gaze. Together, they wrought havoc, Dragons burned in Smaug's flames or dropped dead under the Basilisk's glare.
From above, the Giant Eagle Thorondor descended like a thunderbolt, seizing a Dragon in his talons and tearing it apart with savage beak and claws.
The sky became a slaughterhouse. Dragons plummeted like falling stars, and the ground soon lay heaped with their corpses. Even the Ringwraiths lost their winged mounts, their beasts slain by Herpo's terrible gaze.
Smaug did not linger. After a final barrage of fire, he dove into the protective dome of Isengard before the Frost Dragon could arrive.
The other Dragons loyal to him followed, slipping inside the barrier and sealing their enemies out. Thorondor too swept down, clutching another Dragon, crushing it as he passed through the dome. The moment the enemy beast entered, its strength waned, and Thorondor cleanly pierced its skull before casting it aside.
"Master, we weren't late, were we?" Smaug landed before the black tower with a grin, bowing his head toward Sylas, who stood atop the battlements.
Herpo flicked his tongue and hissed in greeting, while Thorondor circled above in vigilance.
Sylas smiled faintly and shook his head. "No, you came at just the right time."
Then, with a knowing look, he asked, "Smaug, Sauron just promised to release you from the oath. Why didn't you accept? Don't you want to be free?"
With his sharpened senses, Sylas had heard every word of the earlier exchange.
Smaug froze for a heartbeat, then, seeing no anger in his master's face, exhaled in relief. He quickly lowered his head, swearing his loyalty:
"Master, you have nothing to worry about! I will never betray you. I eat well, sleep well, and rest upon a mountain of gold. Only a fool would abandon that to toil for Sauron! Besides, Master, you possess a treasure that can turn stone into gold. In the future, you'll have limitless wealth!"
Under his Legilimency, Sylas saw through the dragon's thoughts as clearly as words upon a page.
He rolled his eyes, half-amused, half-exasperated. "I think that last reason is the real one, isn't it?"
Indeed, Smaug's head was filled with nothing but gold and treasure.
Smaug, whose thoughts had been laid bare, chuckled foolishly and joked, "Hehe, it's all the same, all the same! Anyway, I, Smaug, will absolutely never betray you, Master!"
After some banter with Smaug, the tension inside the dome eased slightly.
But before they could catch their breath, Hrívemir roared in fury. A wave of freezing air erupted from his maw, ice spreading rapidly across the dome's surface.
Saruman raised his staff and chanted, summoning a torrent of lightning that crashed down from the heavens, striking the barrier again and again.
The Ringwraiths, too, raised their blades. Channeling the corrupt might of the Rings of Men, they unleashed a tide of darkness against the dome.
The combined onslaught was overwhelming. Cracks spread across the shimmering barrier, like ice shattering under a hammer's blow.
Even with Sylas pouring his full strength into maintaining it, more and more fissures spread outward, until at last the dome collapsed into shards of light that fell and dissolved into the air.
"Sylas, hand over the gem you forged!" Hrívemir's massive eyes fixed greedily upon him, their cold gleam filled with malice and determination.
"I know you can Apparate," the dragon sneered, "but don't even think of escaping, or calling for aid. Gondor and Rohan are already besieged. My forces harry the Elves of Lothlórien and Rivendell as we speak. None will come to save you."
Sylas's heart lurched at the news. Rivendell and Lothlórien, both under attack?
Yet he quickly steadied himself. In Lothlórien stood Galadriel and Celeborn, and in Rivendell dwelt Elrond and Glorfindel. Even Sauron's armies would break like waves upon the strength of such guardians.
But when he recalled the Dark Lord's elaborate scheme to seize the Philosopher's Stone, Sylas felt a heavy weight in his chest.
He met Hrívemir's greedy gaze, pulled the crimson Stone from within his robes, and let a cold smile curve across his lips. "So, Sauron intends to use the Philosopher's Stone to restore himself a body?"
The dragon's pupils blazed with feverish desire at the sight of it. "Since you've already guessed, hand it over! Give me the Stone, and I may yet spare your life."
Sylas only smirked. With a flick of his wand, he cast a Portkey charm upon the Stone. In an instant, it vanished from his grasp.
Hrívemir recoiled, bellowing in rage. "Where is it?! Where did you send it?"
Sylas gave no answer. Instead, he raised his wand.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The Killing Curse lanced forth in a jet of green. Hrívemir responded instantly, spewing frost that coalesced into a massive wall of ice. The emerald bolt struck, shattering the barrier into glittering shards.
The dragon snarled. "Sylas, you have angered me for the last time! I once thought highly of you, even considered making you my most trusted lieutenant. But now? I will kill you, bind your soul, and make it burn in the flames of hell for all eternity!"
With that, Hrívemir unleashed another gale of deathly cold.
Sylas Apparated away just as the frost engulfed his former position, reappearing upon the back of a nearby dragon. A flaming sword appeared in his hand at once, and with a single sweeping strike he slashed across the beast's slender neck.
The blade, wreathed in fire and edged with biting wind, carved through flesh and bone. The wound seared black, and the dragon shrieked as his head lolled, nearly severed.
With a final keening cry, the creature's body plummeted from the sky.
A heartbeat before the corpse fell, Sylas disappeared again, Apparating onto another dragon's back. But before he could finish it, Hrívemir himself loosed a blast of glacial breath.
Sylas gasped sharply, raising one of the Rings of Power. A shield of force snapped into being, holding back the icy torrent. Frost crawled across the shield as the killing cold closed in.
Moments before it overwhelmed him, Sylas Apparated once more.
The unfortunate dragon, instead of dying by Sylas's blade, was frozen solid by Hrívemir's icy breath and plummeted to the ground, shattering into pieces.
In the next instant, Sylas reappeared atop Hrívemir's massive back. But before he could strike, the Frost Dragon rolled in mid-air, twisting beneath him, and lunged upward with snapping jaws.
A split second before being devoured, Sylas Apparated again, vanishing in a crack of displaced air and reappearing upon the ground below.
While Sylas maneuvered against Hrívemir, Smaug was locked in his own struggle with Saruman. With Herpo coiled around his body, the White Wizard dared not lift his eyes, for the Basilisk's deadly gaze was ever waiting. Thus, Smaug and Herpo held the advantage, for the moment.
Meanwhile, the battlefield spread wide. Thorondor the Great Eagle, Aslan the Griffin, Cerberus the three-headed hound, and a host of allied dragons clashed with the Nazgûl and their fell mounts.
Thorondor's wings now spanned fifty meters, greater even than most dragons, and he tore through their ranks with unmatched ferocity, driving them from the skies.
Aslan darted and wheeled, his lion's body and eagle's wings granting unmatched agility as he harried Ringwraith and dragon alike.
Cerberus unleashed streams of searing flame and venom from each head, tearing into the dismounted Nazgûl with brutal ferocity.
For a time, all of Isengard was drowned in chaos.
Hrívemir's strength was overwhelming. Sylas dared not face him head-on, relying instead on Apparition. Yet even so, he had to guard against the strikes of the Ringwraiths.
Under Hrívemir's unrelenting gales, all of Isengard seemed buried in winter's grasp. Orthanc itself froze beneath rime and frost, and the very air plummeted to deadly cold.
It was then that a strange sound echoed from afar, half eagle's cry, half horse's whinny.
Hippogriffs soared into view, bearing the returning Dunlendings. Among them rode King Fengel of Rohan.
At the sight of Isengard's devastation, both Dunlendings and Rohirrim gasped. The fury of the battle dwarfed all mortal wars. Could they truly stand against such foes?
Yet retreat was unthinkable. They had come, and so they would fight.
The warriors opened their enchanted spatial boxes, unleashing hosts of Dunlending soldiers and the riders of Rohan.
Sylas looked on in surprise, though his brows furrowed. How had they returned so swiftly, and with Rohan's cavalry at their side?
Rather than relief, unease gripped him. Against such enemies, these men would be nothing but cannon fodder.
"For Isengard! For Lord Sylas!" shouted Brog, chieftain of the Dunlendings.
At his cry, volleys of arrows darkened the sky, raining upon Hrívemir, Saruman, the Nazgûl, and their dragons.
Yet the shafts clattered harmlessly against scaled hides, glancing away without leaving so much as a scratch. Against Saruman and the Wraiths, they might as well have been toothpicks.
Instead of harming the enemy, the volley only drew Hrívemir's baleful gaze. With contempt writ upon his face, as though swatting aside insects, he unleashed a torrent of killing frost upon the Dunlendings and Rohirrim.
The icy gale swept toward them like death incarnate. Terror froze the expressions of the riders, despair dawning in their eyes.
But before the frost could engulf them, Sylas appeared in a flash, stepping into the path of destruction. Raising his hand, he conjured a vast barrier of light that braced against the storm.
The shield held, but the air itself was deathly cold. Even behind the barrier, the warriors shivered as though their very blood had turned to ice.