The Ring of Power in Sylas's hand flared with golden light, forming a shield that sheltered him as well as the Dunlending warriors and Rohirrim gathered behind him.
As he poured magic into the ring to hold back Hrívemir's freezing breath, he asked in confusion, "Why have you returned?"
Brog, chieftain of the Dunlendings, lowered his head, his voice heavy with guilt.
"Lord Sylas, we defeated the Mordor host at the Entwash crossing. When we saw a dragon laying siege to Isengard, we returned at once to aid you. King Fengel brought half his riders with him… Tell me honestly, have we only become a burden?"
He had not thought much before acting; in his heart, it was simple—if Isengard stood in danger, then they must ride to its defense, whatever the cost. But the battlefield had proved merciless. Against these foes, their strength was nothing. They had not harmed even the weakest dragon, much less Hrívemir or Saruman. Instead, their lord had been forced to protect them.
Brog's heart ached with shame.
Yet Sylas did not share his despair. The Dunlendings and the King of Rohan had chosen to face death rather than abandon him—an act that moved him deeply. And though mortals might be frail, they were not without worth. Even ants in their multitudes could slay an elephant—and he now commanded nearly ten thousand warriors, fully armed.
Reaching into his spatial pocket, Sylas drew forth a golden bow. He tossed it to Brog, and with it a heavy quiver.
"This bow never misses its mark. The arrows within are forged of mithril—strong enough to pierce dragon-scales. Use them well."
The mithril arrows were imitations of the three silver shafts once gifted to him by the Blue Wizard Morinehtar. Each was inscribed with runes of explosive power. The originals had long since been spent—one had wounded Saruman, another had felled a Ringwraith's dragon, and the third had been lost to Hrívemir's frost.
Brog, astonished and humbled, clutched the treasures with reverence.
Then Sylas produced a white horn and held it out to King Fengel.
"Your Majesty of Rohan, my thanks for coming to our aid. This is the Horn of Victory. Sound it, and our courage will rise while fear gnaws at our foes. When the time comes, use it to break their lines."
Thengel accepted it solemnly, understanding that against such terrible enemies, even a supporting role was no small honor.
At last, Sylas raised his hand.
Ghostly-blue fire erupted from the ground- Protego, writhing and alive. It surged around the Dunlendings and Rohirrim, who flinched back in terror. For an instant they thought their doom had come.
But the fire did not consume them. Though they stood within its raging coils, they felt no heat, no pain.
Sylas's voice thundered across the field, echoing in every ear:
"Warriors of Dunland, Riders of Rohan—this flame will be your shield, and your weapon. Dip your arrows into the fire, and let us burn our enemies to ash!"
Still shaken, the warriors obeyed. They raised their arrows into the spectral blaze, and their eyes widened as the fire clung to the shafts without burning their hands. Each arrow now burned with a deadly, blue flame.
King Thengel lifted the Horn of Victory and blew. Its clarion call split the sky, shaking the hearts of all who heard it. Strength filled the weary, and despair gave way to fierce resolve. Even before Hrívemir's terrifying might, no man faltered.
The horn was their signal. As one, the Dunlendings and the Rohirrim loosed their fiery shafts.
Tens of thousands of arrows streaked upward like a storm of burning meteors, falling upon Hrívemir, the other dragons, Saruman, and the Ringwraiths.
Even Hrívemir did not dare take such a barrage lightly. He felt the fire's unnatural heat and its will to devour. A glimmer of unease stirred in his ancient heart.
He bellowed and beat his wings, unleashing torrents of freezing air. His frost could quench volcanoes, let alone ordinary flames.
But Protego Diabolica was no ordinary flame. When Hrívemir's frost clashed with it, the two forces collided like awl against needlepoint. Frost could not quench Protego, and Protego could not consume ice. Yet in the end, the Frost Dragon's sheer volume of power held the hellfire at bay.
The other dragons, however, possessed no such strength. Their scales could not withstand it. Each arrow that pierced their hides ignited like kindling before oil; Protego spread in an instant, engulfing them wholly.
One after another, the sky filled with burning dragons, writhing and screaming in agony. Some dove into the Isen River, thrashing desperately to douse the flames. But the cursed fire clung even in water, devouring them without mercy.
The battlefield became a storm of falling, burning corpses. None were spared, not even the Nazgûl's fell-beasts.
Above it all, King Thengel of Rohan blew the Horn of Victory without pause. Its resounding call unsettled dragon and Wraith alike, gnawing at their courage and sowing discord in their ranks.
Meanwhile, Brog, armed with the golden bow and mithril arrows Sylas had entrusted to him, rained destruction from afar. Each shaft flew true, bursting through the air with devastating precision. Some exploded on impact, hurling Ringwraith and dragon alike from the sky. Others struck true at the eyes of their monstrous foes, blinding them, before exploding with such force that heads were sundered.
Under the relentless storm of arrows from ten thousand warriors, and Brog's devastating mithril shots, the number of Mordor's dragons dwindled with frightening speed. Even the Ringwraiths and Saruman could only stagger backward, forced to defend, dodge, and deflect without respite.
For the first time, the tide of battle turned.
Watching, Sylas allowed himself a smile. So much for "useless mortals." Alone, he could not have turned the field so completely. But united, even men could bring down dragons.
Across the field, Saruman trembled with fury. He watched the ruin of his painstakingly cultivated dragon host, beasts now consumed one by one in fire and ruin. His heart raged with grief and rage.
He yearned to unleash the storm, to summon lightning and hurricane to obliterate the mortal warriors. But Smaug pressed him constantly, keeping him from gathering power, spitting fire and circling warily, never allowing him the chance to concentrate his spells.
And still, the Horn of Victory blared, each note stabbing at his mind like an iron spike. His head throbbed, his vision blurred.
Nor was that all, Brog, the Dunlending brute he had once sought to sway, now loosed mithril shafts with relentless precision, breaking his chants and scattering his magic.
Hrívemir's fury boiled over. His vast eyes burned with hatred as he glared down at the mortals, vermin he had dismissed, now suddenly scourges of his kin. He could scarcely believe it.
His voice shook the clouds.
"Sylas! You dare shield these crawling ants? Then watch as I slaughter them all!"
He rose high into the storm, his colossal body coiling through the blackened clouds. A chill swept the land as he roared an incantation in the ancient tongue of dragons.
Sylas's gaze darkened. Something vast and terrible was being woven above.
Then the sky itself split with thunder. With a deafening crash, hailstones the size of boulders, each nearly a meter across, plummeted from the heavens. They fell like meteors, crushing the earth below.
Gasps of terror rose from the Dunlendings and Rohirrim. Faces went pale. The storm was more calamity than battle, a natural disaster given form.
"Protego Maxima!" Sylas cried, thrusting his wand to the sky.
A colossal barrier blossomed overhead, like a shimmering dome of glass, sheltering the thousands beneath.
The hail struck with apocalyptic force. Each impact boomed like thunder, hammering ripples across the barrier. Sylas's teeth clenched; it felt as though ten thousand titanic hammers struck him at once, unrelenting, endless. His arms trembled as he held the shield, sweat beading on his brow.
Outside the shimmering wall, hailstones shattered the land. Towers collapsed. Stone walls crumbled. Trees splintered and toppled. The battlefield became a wasteland of broken earth and frozen ruin.
Smaug, Thorondor, and the other great beasts were battered mercilessly by the storm. Their vast wings left them nowhere to hide; even the giants of sky and scale could not escape the hail.
Dragons shrieked as ice boulders shattered wings and broke skulls. One after another, the stricken fell, tumbling like meteors into the ruined fields below.
Even Saruman and the Nazgûl faltered. Forced to abandon their attacks, they scattered, erecting shields or diving for cover beneath the onslaught.
The land around Isengard became a wasteland. Hail craters pocked the earth, walls splintered, towers collapsed. It was as though the end of days had come.
Only Orthanc endured. Black, unyielding, the ancient tower of Númenor stood untouched, each hailstone exploding harmlessly upon its impervious stone.
Sylas's eyes flashed with realization. "Everyone, into Orthanc! Take shelter!"
At his command, the Dunlendings and Rohirrim broke into a desperate sprint, streaming through the gates of the black tower.
But then a cry froze them in place.
"The sky!"
A soldier of Rohan stared upward, face drained of color. Slowly, the others followed his gaze, and terror took them all.
Hrívemir tore free of the stormclouds, his monstrous claws clutching an iceberg vast as half a mountain. Jagged fangs of frozen crystal jutted from its base, glittering in the pale light.
The Frost Dragon's body strained beneath its weight, but still he bore it aloft. His maw curled in a hideous smile as he loosed his grip.
The iceberg plummeted. Air screamed as it tore past, the sound like thunder splitting the sky. Its momentum was apocalyptic; if it struck, Isengard would be flattened, every soul obliterated.
Even Saruman quailed. He gasped, cursed, "Madman!" and without another word, leapt astride his last surviving dragon and fled in terror, abandoning his own armies.
Sylas stood still, gazing upward. His face was taut, but his eyes were deep and calm, like the abyss before a storm.
He knew his strongest barrier would last only seconds against such a blow. Apparition might save himself, but not the men and beasts who now looked to him with fear and desperate hope.
The Crown of Wisdom upon his brow blazed with light, its runes spinning as it sought an answer.
In that instant, Sylas vanished and reappeared atop Smaug's back, high in the heavens. Gripping his staff in both hands, he poured all his magic into a single spell.
"Bombarda Maxima!"
A blinding lance of destructive magic soared upward, striking the falling iceberg from below. For a heartbeat, the world went silent.
Then the mountain of ice shattered.
The explosion was not a sound, but a force, immense, suffocating. The iceberg dissolved into fragments and vapor, a storm of frost scattering to nothing. A shockwave rolled outward in a perfect circle, scouring the sky clear of cloud as though an invisible hand had swept it clean.