The great hall of Isengard hummed with an undercurrent of urgency that seemed to seep from the very stones. Gandalf stood before the towering windows, his weathered hands clasped behind his back as he gazed toward the distant peaks of the White Mountains. Even from this great distance, wisps of black smoke could be seen rising beyond the horizon, the dark harbingers of Mordor's advance.
"Time grows short," the wizard muttered, his grey robes rustling as he turned to face Luke. The afternoon light caught the deep lines of worry etched around his eyes. "Because the situation has become so dire, I am prepared to abandon even Shadowfax and take to my flying broom over the White Mountains. A straight flight to Minas Tirith would be the swiftest course, though even that may not be swift enough."
Luke looked up from the ancient tome he had been studying, a primer on Middle-earth's ley lines and magical currents that he'd discovered in Saruman's abandoned library. The young wizard's brow furrowed as he considered the proposal, his fingers absently tracing the intricate silver inlays on his holly wand.
"Flying there by broom would indeed be faster than riding," Luke agreed, closing the book with a soft thud, "but it would still take considerable time, and you'd arrive exhausted from fighting the mountain winds." He stood, a spark of inspiration lighting his green eyes. "However, I believe I can offer a far more efficient solution. I can craft a Portkey that will transport you directly into Gondor. While it won't deliver you precisely to the capital's gates, the magical wards around Minas Tirith would interfere with the enchantment, it will place you well within the realm, cutting your journey by days rather than hours."
Gandalf's eyes brightened like stars emerging from behind clouds, and for a moment, the weight of impending doom seemed to lift from his shoulders. "Ah, the versatility of your magic continues to astound me! Such convenience in these dark times is beyond price."
Luke moved to a cabinet carved from a single piece of ebony, its surface inscribed with protective runes that gleamed faintly in the lamplight. From within, he withdrew a ring of mithril, one of several treasures he had liberated from Saruman's hidden vaults. The metal seemed to capture and hold the light, its surface unmarred by even the faintest tarnish despite its obvious age.
Raising his wand with practiced precision, Luke began the delicate process of enchantment. "Portus!" he intoned, his voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty. The Latin incantation resonated through the chamber as magical energy flowed from the wand's tip.
The mithril ring responded immediately, trembling as if caught in an invisible earthquake. Blue light, pure and clean as winter starlight, began to emanate from its surface, pulsing in rhythm with Luke's heartbeat. Ancient magical formulae, visible only to those with the Sight, danced around the ring in spiraling patterns of silver fire.
"The enchantment is complete," Luke announced, offering the ring to Gandalf with both hands in a gesture of respect. "I've woven a Portkey Charm into the very essence of the mithril. You need only channel a small amount of your power into it, less than what you'd use to light your pipe, and it will transport you instantly to the borders of Gondor. Moreover, I've made it reusable. Should you find yourself in mortal peril, simply activate it again and it will return you here to Isengard, to safety."
Gandalf accepted the gift with genuine gratitude, sliding the ring onto his left index finger beside the Ring of Fire, Narya. The two rings seemed to acknowledge each other, their combined radiance casting warm, dancing shadows on the walls. A mischievous glint entered the wizard's ancient eyes as he examined his adorned hand.
"If I were not such an obviously aged wanderer," he said with a theatrical sigh, "I fear this might cause quite the scandal. I do hope your fair Arwen won't grow jealous, after all, she's hardly the first maiden to receive a ring from your hand!"
Luke's expression grew complex, a mixture of amusement and something approaching discomfort flickering across his features. Unbidden, memories from his previous life surfaced, images of the actor who had portrayed Gandalf, a man whose personal inclinations had been rather different from what one might expect from the wise wizard of Middle-earth. The cognitive dissonance between the two figures created an odd sense of unreality that Luke struggled to reconcile.
They're not the same person, he reminded himself firmly. This is Gandalf the Grey, not an actor playing a role.
Gandalf tilted his head, noting Luke's peculiar expression with the keen perception that had served him well through countless ages. "Is something amiss, my young friend? You look as though you've seen a ghost walking in broad daylight."
"Nothing of consequence," Luke replied quickly, shaking off the strange moment. "Merely a stray thought from another time and place."
Before Gandalf could press the matter further, a sharp, urgent cry pierced the air from high above. Both men looked skyward to see Aslan, Luke's magnificent griffin, circling with obvious agitation. The great beast's golden feathers caught the sunlight as he wheeled and dove, his keen eyes fixed on something beyond the walls of Isengard.
"What has Aslan discovered?" Gandalf asked, his hand instinctively moving to pause over the Portkey. The wizard's supernatural senses, honed by millennia of experience, detected the urgency in the griffin's cries. "Something approaches, something that concerns him greatly."
Luke closed his eyes, reaching out with the telepathic bond he shared with his aerial companion. Images flooded his mind: dust clouds on the horizon, the thunder of galloping hooves, banners streaming in the wind bearing the white horse of Rohan. But beneath the familiar heraldry, he sensed something else, desperation, fear, the weight of terrible news.
"A company of Rohirrim approaches," Luke announced, opening his eyes with a frown creasing his brow. "But they ride hard, as if the very flames of Mordor lick at their horses' heels. Aslan senses great distress among them."
Gandalf's expression darkened with foreboding. "If riders of Rohan have come to Isengard in such haste, when they should be marshaling their own defenses..." He left the sentence unfinished, but both men understood the implications.
They did not wait long for confirmation of their fears. Within the hour, a party of horsemen thundered through the gates of Isengard, their mounts lathered with sweat and foam. At their head rode not Rohirrim, but Dunlendings, the same proud people who had once been enemies of both Rohan and Isengard, now serving as Luke's outriders and scouts.
The leader dismounted with the fluid grace of one born to the saddle, though exhaustion lined his weathered face. Behind him, a smaller group of true Rohirrim sat their horses with barely concealed anxiety, their green cloaks travel-stained and their spears dulled by hard riding.
"Lord Luke," the Dunlending called out, dropping to one knee in a gesture of respect that still seemed strange to witness, given their peoples' former enmity. "I am Fokry, cousin to King Thengel." The man's voice carried the weight of terrible news. "We bear word from Edoras, and I fear it is tidings that will darken even this grey day."
Luke gestured for the man to rise, noting the subtle signs of strain in his posture, the way he favored his left leg, the carefully controlled movements that spoke of hidden wounds. "Speak freely, Fokry of Rohan. What news do you bring from the Riddermark?"
"My lord," Fokry began, his voice carrying across the courtyard so that all present could hear, "Gondor has indeed called for aid, as you surely know. The beacons have been lit, and honor demands that Rohan answer. But..." He paused, struggling with words that seemed to stick in his throat like thorns. "We are beset on all sides. Tens of thousands of Orcs pour from the Misty Mountains, while Easterlings in numbers beyond counting sweep across our borders like a plague of locusts. The Westfold burns, and even now, darkness gathers around Edoras itself."
Gandalf stepped forward, his staff striking the stone with a sharp crack. "Then Rohan cannot answer Gondor's call?"
"Not with the strength needed to make a difference," Fokry admitted, shame coloring his features. "We can spare perhaps a few hundred riders, no more. It would be a gesture of honor, nothing more, a drop of water against the flames that consume Minas Tirith."
The Rohirrim reached into his saddlebags and withdrew a sealed letter, its parchment bearing the royal seal of the House of Eorl. "Lord Luke, you are known throughout the Riddermark as a wielder of great power, a lord whose wisdom and strength have become the stuff of songs among our people. King Thengel himself has penned this missive, and I bear it with the hopes of all our people."
Luke accepted the letter, breaking the green wax seal with careful deliberation. As he read, his eyebrows rose higher and higher, until Gandalf could contain his curiosity no longer.
"What offer could possibly surprise you so?" the wizard inquired, leaning on his staff with obvious interest.
Luke finished reading before responding, then handed the parchment to Gandalf with an expression of genuine astonishment. "King Thengel offers me the entire Gap of Rohan in perpetuity, including the Fords of Isen and all the lands between the Misty Mountains and the White Mountains, in exchange for whatever aid I can provide in defending his kingdom."
Gandalf's sharp intake of breath was audible throughout the courtyard. As he scanned the letter, his weathered features reflected Luke's amazement. The Gap of Rohan was no mere tract of wilderness, it was one of the most strategically vital locations in all of Middle-earth, controlling the flow of trade and military movement between the northern and southern realms. For Thengel to offer such a prize spoke to desperation beyond measure.
"The king stakes his realm's future on this gamble," Gandalf murmured, handing back the letter. "If you control the Gap, you control the lifeline between Gondor and Eriador. It is a gift of immense value, and immense responsibility."
Luke folded the parchment carefully, his mind racing through possibilities and consequences. After a long moment, he turned not to Gandalf or to the Rohirrim, but to a weathered Dunlending warrior who had remained silent throughout the exchange.
"Brog," Luke called, addressing the leader of his Dunlending scouts. "You have heard King Thengel's offer, and you understand its implications better than most. This decision affects not just myself, but all who have chosen to make their homes under my protection."
Brog stepped forward, his scarred face thoughtful. The years of conflict between his people and the Rohirrim were written in every line around his eyes, yet something else flickered there now, perhaps hope, perhaps the weight of leadership that transcended old hatreds.
"The choice is yours to make," Luke continued, his voice carrying the formal weight of a lord addressing his vassal, yet tempered with genuine respect. "If you and your people are willing to ride to Rohan's aid, to fight alongside those who were once your enemies, then the lands that Thengel offers shall become yours by right of conquest and alliance.
The Gap of Rohan, the Fords of Isen, all of it would become the new homeland for the Dunlending peoples. But," he added firmly, "I will not command this of you. The choice must be freely made, for it is your warriors who will face the darkness of Mordor, and your families who will bear the cost if the gamble fails."
A profound silence fell over the courtyard. Luke's offer was unprecedented in its generosity, but it came with a price measured in blood and courage. Brog stood motionless for a long moment, his gaze moving from Luke to the Rohirrim, then to his own men who had gathered to listen.
Finally, the Dunlending leader raised his head, and in his dark eyes burned the same fire that had driven his ancestors to raid and war for countless generations, but now tempered by wisdom and hope for something greater.
"My lord," Brog said, his voice carrying across the courtyard with quiet determination, "we Dunlendings have wandered without a true homeland for longer than most care to remember. We have fought for scraps and survival while others held the rich valleys and fertile plains." He paused, glancing at the Rohirrim with an expression that held neither hostility nor warmth, but rather a kind of grim respect.
"If there is a chance, even a slender one, to secure a future for our children, then we will take it. We agree to ride to Rohan's aid." His next words carried the weight of old grudges reluctantly set aside. "But we will not serve under Rohirrim command on the battlefield. We will fight alongside them as equals, or not at all."
Luke smiled, recognizing the wisdom in Brog's conditions. "Agreed. You will be allies in this venture, not servants."
Gandalf nodded approvingly, his ancient eyes twinkling with something approaching delight. "A decision worthy of the greatest kings, Brog of the Dunlendings. And you, Luke, show wisdom beyond your years in giving your people the freedom to choose their own fate."
The Rohirrim, who had been listening with growing hope, finally allowed themselves to smile. Though they might harbor reservations about their former enemies, they could not deny the fighting prowess of the Dunlendings, prowess that had cost them dearly in years past and might now save them.
"Since you have chosen to stand with Rohan in their hour of need," Luke announced, turning toward the depths of Isengard, "I cannot, as your lord, send you forth with anything less than my finest resources."
He raised a horn to his lips, not the simple hunting horn one might expect, but an artifact of obvious power. The Victory Horn, gifted to him by Romestamo, crafted from the tusk of some great beast and bound with silver runes that pulsed with inner light. When Luke blew it, the sound that emerged was like nothing heard in Middle-earth, a clarion call that seemed to reach into the very foundations of the world.
The note echoed from the walls of Isengard, rolled across the plains, and penetrated deep into the ancient forests that Luke had claimed as his domain. And from those shadows came an answer, not the howl of wolves or the call of eagles, but something altogether more magnificent.
The first to emerge from the tree line was Buckbeak, his golden-brown feathers gleaming in the afternoon sun. Behind him came others, dozens of hippogriffs of every conceivable coloring, their eagle heads held high and their powerful wings spread wide as they took to the air in a coordinated display of aerial majesty.
They circled Isengard once, twice, three times, their cries mixing into a symphony of wild freedom before descending to land in the courtyard with earth-shaking impact. Each creature stood over three meters tall, their wingspans approaching six meters when fully extended. They were beings of raw power and untamed beauty, creatures that belonged more to legend than to the waking world.
The Rohirrim and Dunlendings alike stared in wonder and not a little fear at the magnificent beasts. Even their horses, trained for war, shied away from the alien scent and predatory aura of the hippogriffs.
Luke approached Buckbeak, running his hand along the creature's proud neck with the easy familiarity of long partnership. "These noble beasts can carry a rider faster than any horse across open ground, and when the terrain grows treacherous, they can take to the air itself. I offer them as mounts for your expedition, but," he added with a warning note, "they are proud creatures, and they will not suffer themselves to be ridden by any they do not deem worthy. Each of you must earn their respect individually."
Brog's eyes shone with an almost childlike wonder as he gazed at the magnificent creatures. "And how does one earn such respect, my lord?"
"Choose the hippogriff that calls to you," Luke instructed, his voice taking on the formal tone of one imparting sacred knowledge. "Approach to within two meters, no closer. Maintain eye contact without challenge or submission, and bow as you would to an equal. If the hippogriff bows in return, you have been accepted. You may then approach and mount. But if it does not acknowledge you..." Luke's expression grew grave. "You must retreat immediately. These creatures can strike with claws that rend steel, and they show no mercy to those who would presume upon their dignity."
What followed was a display of courage and humility unlike any seen in that ancient courtyard. One by one, the Dunlending warriors stepped forward to face creatures of legend, their hearts pounding with equal measures of terror and hope.
Brog, as their leader, claimed the right to go first. Without hesitation, he walked directly toward Buckbeak, the largest and most magnificent of the hippogriffs, the alpha of the flock. The great creature's orange eyes tracked his approach with predatory intensity, powerful talons scraping against stone as he shifted his weight in preparation for either acceptance or violence.
At precisely two meters, Brog stopped. For a heartbeat that seemed to stretch into eternity, man and mythical beast regarded each other across a gulf that represented thousands of years of separation between the mundane and the magical. Then, with the dignity of a king acknowledging a peer, Brog bowed.
Buckbeak's response was not immediate. The hippogriff studied the human before him with an intelligence that was unmistakably ancient and knowing. Brog remained motionless, his head bowed but his eyes never wavering from Buckbeak's piercing gaze.
Finally, slowly, deliberately, Buckbeak lowered his great eagle head in return.
A cheer went up from the assembled Dunlendings, but Luke raised a hand for silence. "The bond is not yet complete," he cautioned. "Approach slowly, Brog. Let him know your intentions."
With movements as careful as those of a man defusing a dragon's hoard trap, Brog stepped forward and reached out to touch Buckbeak's sharp beak. The hippogriff allowed the contact, even leaning slightly into the human's touch, a gesture of acceptance that was worth more than any crown.
"Well done," Luke said with genuine pride. "Buckbeak has accepted you as his rider. He will bear you faithfully in battle and beyond."
The process continued with varying degrees of success. Some warriors found acceptance with their chosen mounts, forming bonds that would last lifetimes. Others faced rejection, sometimes gentle, sometimes emphatic. Three men nearly lost their lives to flashing talons when they failed to retreat quickly enough after being spurned, saved only by Luke's swift intervention with stunning spells.
When the selection was complete, nearly half of the Dunlending force had gained hippogriff mounts, a flying cavalry unlike anything Middle-earth had seen since the great eagles carried the heroes of old.
But Luke's generosity was far from exhausted. From the deepest vaults of Isengard, he produced armor crafted from Acromantula silk, lightweight as cloth yet stronger than the finest steel, capable of turning aside orc blades and even deflecting arrows. Each piece was a masterwork, woven with protective enchantments that would ward off not just physical harm but magical attacks as well.
"These armors are made from the silk of giant spiders that dwell in dark forests far from here," Luke explained as his servants distributed the precious equipment. "Do not let their light weight fool you, they will protect you better than any mail ever forged in the smithies of men."
Finally, he led them to Saruman's former armory, now converted to serve Luke's purposes. Racks upon racks of weapons gleamed in the torchlight, swords forged with techniques that blended the best of Númenórean craftsmanship with innovations from Luke's own world. Spears with tips enchanted to pierce even troll-hide, axes that would never dull or break, bows that could drive arrows through oak at ranges that defied belief.
"Take what you need," Luke commanded. "You ride not just as Dunlendings or as my vassals, but as champions of the light against the darkness. Let your weapons be worthy of that calling."
As the sun began to set over Isengard, a transformed army prepared for war. Dunlending warriors sat astride mythical beasts, clad in armor that seemed to absorb and reflect the dying light. Their weapons hummed with barely contained power, and in their eyes burned a hope that their people had not known for generations.
Gandalf watched the preparations with deep satisfaction, though his own departure had been delayed. "You have wrought something remarkable here, Luke," he said quietly. "Not just an army, but a chance for redemption, for both peoples."
Luke nodded, though his expression remained troubled. "The real test will come in battle. Old hatreds die hard, and alliance forged in necessity may not survive the chaos of war."
"Perhaps not," Gandalf acknowledged. "But you have given them the best possible chance. And sometimes, that is all we can do, provide the opportunity for others to choose their own greatness."
As the last preparations were completed and the combined force prepared to ride out into the gathering darkness, Luke activated his Portkey and sent Gandalf on his way to Gondor. The wizard vanished in a flash of blue light, carrying with him the hope that aid would come from multiple quarters.
Behind him, he left an army unlike any other, former enemies riding together toward an uncertain fate, united by desperation and the promise of a better future. Whether that future would be won or lost would depend on courage, luck, and the strength of bonds forged in the crucible of war.
But as the hippogriffs took to the darkening sky and the cavalry thundered across the plains toward Rohan, one thing was certain: Middle-earth had never seen their like before, and the forces of darkness were about to face a surprise that even the Dark Lord himself had not foreseen.