The earth trembled beneath a thousand hoofbeats as King Thengel's cavalry pursued the retreating forces of Mordor across the Westfold. Victory songs had barely begun when the sky itself seemed to tear open, revealing a nightmare beyond mortal comprehension.
From the roiling storm clouds emerged a creature of legend and terror, a dragon so vast it blotted out the sun. Its scales were black as midnight, each one the size of a warrior's shield, and its eyes burned like twin stars fallen from heaven. The beast's wingspan stretched nearly a thousand meters, casting shadows that turned midday to twilight across the battlefield.
Horses screamed in primal terror, their eyes rolling white as they either collapsed beneath their riders or bolted in mindless panic. Even the most battle-hardened veterans of Rohan felt their courage falter as the ancient fear of dragons awakened in their blood.
Brog, chieftain of the Dunlendings, had faced orcs, trolls, and the wild things of the mountains, but his weathered face went ashen as the dragon's roar shook the very stones. "By the fires of our fathers," he whispered, his voice barely audible above the chaos, "I have seen Smaug the Golden in his wrath, but this... this is something imcredible."
King Thengel fought to control his rearing horse, Snowmane, as the great beast overhead paid them no heed whatsoever. The dragon swept past like a living storm, its passage bringing bitter winds and swirling snow that had no business in the green fields of Rohan. Behind it came a host of lesser dragons, sub-dragons, drakes, and wyverns, each still massive enough to level a village, their wings beating in terrible harmony.
"Where do they fly, lord?" gasped Erkenbrand, the king's cousin, his face pale beneath his golden helm.
Brog's eyes tracked the aerial procession westward, and his heart sank like a stone. "Isengard," he breathed, then louder, with growing urgency: "They make for Isengard!"
The implications hit both leaders simultaneously. These were no wild dragons seeking prey, they flew with purpose, in formation, toward the tower where Luke stood alone.
"My oath binds me," Brog declared, his voice cutting through the diminishing thunder of dragon wings. He turned to his scattered warriors, raising his voice to a battle roar: "Dunlendings! To your chieftain! We return to defend our lord!"
King Thengel stared at him in amazement and growing alarm. "Chief Brog, you cannot mean to face such creatures! That lead dragon could swallow a hundred men whole! You ride to certain death!"
Brog's scarred face set in lines of iron determination. "We have sworn the blood-oath to Lord Luke. Our honor demands we stand with him, even unto death. Better to die as warriors than live as oath-breakers."
Around them, the Dunlending warriors were already moving with practiced efficiency, gathering their scattered mounts and reforming ranks despite their obvious terror. Their loyalty to their new lord overcame even their fear of dragons.
Erkenbrand rode close to his king, his voice urgent with concern. "Uncle, they mean to abandon us for a hopeless cause. What of our pursuit of Mordor's army?"
Thengel sat silent for a long moment, watching the Dunlendings prepare for what seemed like certain suicide. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of kingship and the wisdom of years. "Erkenbrand, you will take half our riders and continue the pursuit eastward. Drive the orcs to the Entwash if you can, let none escape to Mordor to tell of their defeat."
"And you, my lord?"
The King of Rohan's eyes blazed with sudden fire. "I will not let it be said that King Thengel forgot his debts. Lord Luke came to our aid when Mordor's host seemed unstoppable. The Steward Ecthelion may counsel that Gondor has no friends, but Rohan remembers her allies."
Erkenbrand's face went white with shock. "Uncle, you cannot! I forbid it, the kingdom needs you alive!"
"The kingdom needs a king who keeps faith," Thengel replied firmly. "Chief Brog! Your boxes, can they hold more warriors? Rohan will stand with you."
Brog's eyes widened in genuine surprise. He had expected pragmatism from the Horse-lords, not this gesture of honor. In that moment, his respect for the golden-haired king deepened immeasurably.
"Aye, lord king," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "We can make room. Your courage honors us all."
Meanwhile, atop Orthanc's pinnacle, Luke felt the change before he saw it. The air itself seemed to thicken with malevolent purpose, and Aslan's warning cry split the sky like a blade, sharp, urgent, filled with primal recognition of an ancient enemy.
The griffin dove from his patrol circuit, landing hard on the tower's platform with his golden feathers raised in aggression. His eagle eyes fixed eastward where storm clouds gathered with unnatural speed, dark and pregnant with more than mere rain.
Luke followed his companion's gaze and felt his blood turn to ice water in his veins.
The first dragon head to emerge from the cloud bank was a sight from the world's darkest nightmares. Ancient beyond measure, its scales were black as volcanic glass, each one etched with patterns that seemed to writhe and shift in the eye's peripheral vision. When it opened its maw, the temperature plummeted as though winter itself poured from its throat.
The creature's breath was not flame but something far worse, a killing frost that could freeze a man's soul along with his flesh. The super-cooled vapor struck Luke's protective dome with the sound of a thousand icicles shattering, and suddenly the invisible barrier became visible, crackling with crystal formations that spread like infected veins across its surface.
Within the dome, Luke's breath came out in white puffs as frost began forming on Orthanc's black stones. But his shock wasn't at the cold, it was recognition.
"Ancalagon," he whispered, using the ancient name for the greatest of the fire-drakes, though this beast breathed ice rather than flame. "But you perished in the War of Wrath...no it must be a different dragon."
Then he saw the rider.
Saruman the White sat astride the great dragon's neck, no longer the distinguished wizard of the White Council but something twisted and fell. His robes had deepened from pure white to the color of old bones, and his eyes burned with malice that had festered through long months of exile and rage.
"Luke the Pretender!" Saruman's voice carried clearly across the distance, amplified by magic until it seemed to come from all directions at once. "Today you will learn the price of usurping my domain! Are you prepared to face the consequences of your theft?"
Luke's response was calm, though his grip on his staff tightened. "Saruman, I see exile has not improved your disposition. Do you truly believe one dragon, however mighty, can breach defenses wrought with the power of the Valar?"
"One dragon?" Saruman's laughter was like breaking glass. "Behold the fruit of my alliance with the true power of this age!"
The sky darkened further as dozens of lesser dragons emerged from the storm, fire-drakes, cold-drakes, were-worms from the Grey Mountains, and riding upon the greatest of them came figures that made Luke's soul recoil in instinctive horror.
The Nine had come.
The Nazgûl sat their draconic mounts like dark crowns upon terrible brows, their presence a wound in the world's fabric. At their head rode the Witch-king of Angmar, and when he spoke, his voice was the whisper of graves opening.
"Wizard of the North, surrender the crimson jewel you have wrought, and the Master may yet show mercy. Refuse, and your suffering shall be legendary even in the depths of Barad-dûr."
Luke's hand went instinctively to the Philosopher's Stone hanging against his chest, its warmth a comfort against the spiritual cold radiating from the Ringwraiths. Then, with deliberate provocation, he drew it forth and held it high where all could see.
The perfect ruby caught what little sunlight remained and seemed to ignite from within, casting crimson radiance that hurt the eyes of the Nazgûl to behold.
"This bauble?" Luke called out mockingly. "Sauron sent his mightiest servants for such a small thing? How... diminished he must be."
The effect was immediate. The Nazgûl leaned forward on their mounts like hounds scenting blood, their hunger palpable. Even the dragons seemed affected, their eyes fixed on the Stone with something approaching worship.
The Witch-king's voice rose to a shriek that shattered frost from nearby trees: "Give it to us! Give us the Stone!"
Luke smiled coldly and made the Stone vanish with a flourish. "You want it? Then perhaps we can make a bargain. Kill Saruman for me, and I might consider gifting it to your Master. Better yet, I could teach Sauron to make his own. Surely a Stone crafted by the Dark Lord himself would surpass any poor attempt of mine?"
For a moment that stretched like a held breath, the Nazgûl actually considered it. Luke could see them turning to regard Saruman with something that might have been calculation.
But the White Wizard was too clever for such simple manipulation. "Fools!" he snarled. "He seeks to divide us! Take him alive, the Stone will be ours regardless!"
Saruman's command unleashed hell.
Dozens of dragons dove toward Isengard like falling stars, their roars shaking the very foundations of Orthanc. The first to reach the dome was a lesser drake, its rider screaming battle-cries in the Black Speech of Mordor.
It struck Luke's barrier and passed through as though it were mere air, then immediately began to scream in agony as the protective magic recognized it as hostile. The drake's wings crumbled to ash even as Luke watched, its body consumed by white fire as it crashed to the courtyard below.
"Avada Kedavra!" Luke's killing curse ended the creature's suffering, but as it died, something unexpected happened. A wraith-like shadow tore free from the dragon's corpse, shrieking as it dissipated against the dome's inner surface.
"Possessed," Luke muttered grimly. "They're all possessed."
The other dragons pulled up sharply, now wary of the barrier that had destroyed their fellow so completely. But their riders had other methods.
The great frost dragon reared back and unleashed its breath weapon directly at the dome. Where the super-cooled vapor touched the barrier, ice crystals spread like a plague, and Luke could feel the magical matrix beginning to strain under the assault.
Saruman raised his staff, now black instead of white, and hurled a bolt of corrupted fire that struck the dome like a meteor. The Nazgûl added their own dark sorceries, weaving shadows and despair into physical force that hammered against Luke's defenses.
The dome began to crack.
Luke felt sweat beading on his forehead despite the killing cold as he poured more power into the barrier. But he was one against many, and even his enhanced abilities had limits.
Then he smiled.
Drawing forth the Horn of Victory, the gift of Rómestámo, Luke set it to his lips and blew a long, defiant note that rang across Middle-earth like the horns of the Valar themselves.
The sound made Saruman clap his hands to his ears and nearly caused several dragons to crash as their riders writhed in pain. But more importantly, it carried a message to allies both near and far.
From the Misty Mountains came an answering roar.
Smaug the Mighty burst from his lair in Weathertop like a golden comet, his scales blazing with inner fire. Behind him flew a host of fire-drakes Luke had befriended during his travels, smaller than their corrupted kin but burning with righteous fury.
The basilisk Herpo uncoiled herself from around Smaug's claws, dropping into the Black Lake with a splash that sent waves crashing against Isengard's walls. Her poison-green eyes fixed on the enemies above, and her killing gaze promised death to any who met it directly.
Sulond, King of Eagles, led his people in a diving attack that struck the enemy formation like a thunderbolt. His talons, each the size of a sword, raked across dragon hide as the aerial battle was joined in earnest.
But even as his allies arrived, Luke could feel his dome continuing to weaken under the sustained assault. The ice was spreading, the cracks deepening.
Soon, very soon, the barrier would fall.