The war horns of Dunland echoed across the valley as the wild men assembled with practiced efficiency. Within moments, what had been scattered tribes transformed into a formidable cavalry force, their weathered faces grim beneath iron helms, spears glinting like stars in the morning light.
At their head rode Brog, chieftain of all Dunlage, his massive frame draped in the pelts of mountain bears, his voice carrying the authority of generations. Beside him soared a dozen of his most elite warriors astride magnificent hippogriffs, creatures whose eagle heads turned with predatory intelligence while their equine bodies pawed restlessly at the air.
The sight was breathtaking and terrifying in equal measure: man and magical beast united in purpose, wings casting shadows across the assembled host below.
Luke surveyed the assembled forces with satisfaction tinged by urgency. The situation in Rohan demanded swift action, and conventional travel would take precious days they could not afford. With a flourish of his wand, he conjured several ornate mahogany boxes from thin air, each one humming with the complex magic of the Undetectable Extension Charm.
"Capacious extremis," he murmured, watching as the boxes expanded their internal dimensions to accommodate the vast cavalry. The magic rippled visibly through the air, bending space itself as thousands of Dunlending warriors, their mounts, and the reinforcing Rohirrim disappeared into what appeared to be mere travel cases.
Only a select few remained in the open air: Brog's dozen hippogriff-riding champions and Prince Erkenbrand, cousin to King Thengel of Rohan. The prince's golden hair whipped in the wind as his hippogriff spread its wings, eager for flight.
"Why not use a portkey, lord?" Brog demanded, his voice carrying the skepticism of a man more comfortable with steel than sorcery. "Surely your sire's magic could transport us all in an instant?"
Luke shook his head, gesturing to the boxes containing the hidden army. "Even if I drained every drop of magic from my soul, I couldn't portkey this many souls across such a distance. We speak of over ten thousand warriors and their mounts, the magical taxation would kill me before we reached Edoras." His expression grew serious. "Magic has its limits, even mine."
With thunderous wing-beats, the hippogriff riders launched skyward, becoming distant specks against the clouded sky as they raced toward Rohan's golden halls. Luke watched them disappear beyond the Misty Mountains, then turned to face Isengard alone.
The ancient stronghold felt different in the sudden silence, larger somehow, its black walls seeming to press inward with the weight of solitude. Gandalf had already departed via Portkey to rally Gondor's forces, leaving Luke as the sole guardian of Saruman's former seat of power.
"Aslan," Luke called softly, his voice carrying easily in the still air. The magnificent griffin materialized from the shadows of Orthanc's base, his golden feathers shimmering with an inner light. Luke ran his fingers through the creature's eagle-soft head feathers, feeling the intelligence behind those fierce amber eyes.
"You understand the danger we face, don't you, old friend?" Luke murmured. "Patrol the skies, your eyes are sharper than any magical ward. If shadow or flame approaches from Mordor, warn me immediately."
Aslan's response was a low, musical trill that somehow conveyed perfect understanding. With a powerful thrust of his lion-strong haunches, the griffin launched himself into the air, his great wings catching the wind as he began lazy circles high above Isengard's walls.
Luke's next stop was the base of Orthanc, where three massive heads turned toward him in eager recognition. Cerberus, his three-headed wolf, was a magnificent and terrifying sight. Each head was the size of a beer barrel, equipped with fangs like ivory daggers and eyes that glowed with supernatural intelligence.
"My faithful guardian," Luke said, scratching behind the ears of all three heads simultaneously, a skill that had taken considerable practice. "The next few days will test us all. No enemy must reach this tower. Can you do this for me?"
All three heads barked in unison, the sound echoing off Orthanc's walls like thunder. The wolf's massive tail, thick as a young tree trunk, wagged with such enthusiasm it sent small stones skittering across the courtyard. With dignified purpose, Cerberus positioned himself at Orthanc's entrance, each head facing a different direction, amber eyes scanning for threats.
Ascending to Orthanc's highest platform, Luke gazed eastward toward the shadow that had begun to creep across Middle-earth. The wind at this height carried whispers of distant battle, and something deeper, a malevolent consciousness that made his skin crawl with premonition.
This assault on Gondor and Rohan felt wrong somehow, too premature for Sauron's usual calculated patience. The Dark Lord was like a spider in his web, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Yet here he was, launching major offensives while his strength was still rebuilding.
Luke's hand unconsciously moved to the Philosopher's Stone hanging from a mithril chain around his neck. The perfect ruby pulsed with inner fire, warm against his chest. Since creating the Stone, his magical sensitivity had increased dramatically, and right now, every instinct screamed danger.
Could Sauron know about the Stone? The thought chilled him more than the mountain wind. If the Dark Lord sought the Stone to restore his physical form without relying on the One Ring...
Shaking off his dark thoughts, Luke raised his staff, a length of ancient oak bound with mithril runes, and began to weave the most complex protective enchantment he had ever attempted. His Ring of Power blazed on his finger, channeling the amplification properties of Orthanc itself.
"Protego Maxima! Fianto Duri! Repello Inimicum!" The incantations poured from his lips in the ancient tongue, each word crackling with power. Lines of silver fire spiraled outward from his staff, weaving themselves into an intricate dome that stretched from Orthanc's peak to encompass all of Isengard.
The magical dome settled like a soap bubble made of starlight, nearly invisible yet thrumming with defensive power. Luke had learned from Grindelwald's modifications to Fiendfyre, creating a barrier that would recognize friend from foe. Those loyal to him could pass unhindered, while enemies would face destruction.
The effort left him drained, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air. He withdrew the Golden Cup of Helga Hufflepuff, its surface gleaming like captured sunlight. A simple spell filled it with crystal-clear water, which Luke stirred three times with his finger while focusing on the Philosopher's Stone.
The water transformed instantly, becoming rich and red as the finest vintage wine. Luke drank deeply, feeling the dual magic of Cup and Stone flood through his body. Exhaustion fled as his magical reserves replenished, leaving him feeling more vital than he had in years.
If only I had time to brew the Elixir of Life, he mused, studying the perfect Philosopher's Stone in his palm. Unlike Nicolas Flamel's creation, his Stone could grant true immortality, eternal youth, not merely endless old age. But the crisis brewing around them left no time for such luxuries.
A shadow passed overhead, and Luke looked up to see a familiar silhouette diving toward Isengard. Smaug the Magnificent descended like a falling star, his scales catching the light like liquid gold and flame. Clutched in his mighty talons was an equally impressive sight, the eighty-foot basilisk from Weathertop's secret chambers, her serpentine form coiled around the dragon's legs with surprising gentleness.
Following close behind came Thorondor, the King of Eagles, his wingspan casting shadows like storm clouds as he circled the tower in greeting.
Luke smiled for the first time since the crisis began. He was no longer alone in Isengard. Whatever darkness approached from the East would find more than just one wizard waiting for them.
The pieces were in motion, the board was set, and the game between Light and Shadow was about to begin its most crucial phase. In the growing twilight, Orthanc stood like a beacon of defiance against the gathering storm, its guardian and his legendary allies ready to face whatever horrors the night might bring.
Let Sauron come, Luke thought, his grip tightening on his staff. He will find that some prizes are more dangerous to claim than he imagined.