The morning sky above Isengard darkened as shadows fell across the battlefield, not from clouds, but from the beating wings of Luke's fire dragons as they descended like falling stars wreathed in flame. Their sudden appearance sent ripples of shock through Saruman's ranks, the White Wizard's pale eyes widening beneath his crown as his carefully laid plans began to unravel.
"Impossible," Saruman breathed, his knuckles whitening around his staff. He had scoured Middle-earth for dragon eggs, delved into the deepest archives of Orthanc, yet somehow this upstart wizard had managed to breed an entire flight of fire drakes without his knowledge or consent.
The fire dragons were magnificent in their terrible beauty, scales that gleamed like molten copper, eyes like forge-fires, and from their throats came the ancient song of dragonkind: roaring flames that turned the air itself into a weapon. They descended upon Saruman's cold drakes with prehistoric fury, their flames meeting the lesser dragons' hides in explosive bursts of steam and smoke.
Saruman's bred dragons, pale, serpentine creatures born from dark sorcery rather than ancient bloodlines, found themselves woefully outmatched. These "demon dragons," as Luke had termed them, possessed neither the nobility of true fire drakes nor the terrible cold of their frost-breathing cousins. They were creatures of compromise, bred for quantity over quality, and now that weakness showed as Luke's dragons tore into them with claw and flame.
The sky became a battlefield of wings and fire. A crimson drake, its scales bright as fresh blood, clamped its jaws around the throat of one of Saruman's pale servants. The demon dragon's scream was cut short as dragonfire poured down its gullet, cooking it from within. Another of Luke's beasts raked its claws across a demon dragon's flank, sending it spiraling earthward in a shower of dark ichor.
But Saruman had not survived the ages by depending solely on brute force. His voice rose in the Black Speech, and his eight Nazgûl urged their fell beasts higher into the fray. These creatures, neither true dragon nor natural beast, but something twisted and wrong, added their own horror to the battle.
The fell beasts opened their beaks and released their most terrible weapon: the Shriek of the Damned, a sound that bypassed the ears and struck directly at the soul. The fire dragons, caught in the psychic assault, began to falter in their flight patterns. Their flames guttered and died as vertigo overwhelmed them, their ancient minds reeling from the unnatural sound.
In that moment of weakness, Saruman's forces struck back. The demon dragons, freed from the pressure of flame, latched onto their disoriented enemies with desperate savagery. Meanwhile, the Nazgûl, those nine kings who had become less than shadow and more than death, leaped from their mounts onto the backs of the fire dragons with spectral agility.
The Witch-king himself landed upon the largest of Luke's drakes, his Morgul-blade gleaming with malevolent sorcery. The ancient steel, forged in the fires of Mount Doom and quenched in the tears of the tortured, slid between the dragon's scales like a needle through silk. The fire dragon's death-scream shook the very foundations of Orthanc as it plummeted to earth.
From within his protective dome, Luke watched his aerial cavalry falling one by one, his jaw clenched with the fury of a general watching his finest soldiers die. The magical barrier around Isengard shimmered with each impact as dragons, both his and Saruman's, crashed to the earth below, their massive forms creating craters in the iron-hard ground.
"Enough," Luke growled, raising the horn given to him by Romestamo.
The horn's call rang out across the battlefield, not merely sound, but pure will made manifest. It carried the courage of the Edain, the wisdom of the Eldar, and the fierce joy of battle that ran in the blood of all free peoples. The fire dragons, hearing their master's call, felt their strength return tenfold. The psychic fog of the fell beasts' shriek was burned away by the horn's clarion song.
Reinvigorated, Luke's dragons pressed their advantage with renewed ferocity. They moved in coordinated strikes now, using tactics Luke had taught them from ancient texts. One would grapple with a demon dragon while another would position itself for a killing flame. The tide of battle turned once more.
Saruman's pale face twisted with rage as he watched his aerial advantage crumble. Beneath him, the great frost dragon Gram, ancient beyond measure, born in the chaotic days of the First Age when Morgoth still bestrode Middle-earth, stirred restlessly. The White Wizard leaned forward, his voice carrying the weight of command and barely contained fury.
"Gram," he hissed, "end this farce. Destroy that dome, and let us finish this upstart once and for all."
The frost dragon's response was immediate and terrible. From its maw came not mere cold, but the very essence of winter itself, the killing frost that had once covered Beleriand in the Elder Days, the ice that had entombed armies and frozen entire cities solid. The protective dome over Isengard, despite being woven from Luke's most powerful ward-spells, began to crystallize under the assault.
Saruman added his own power to the attack, his staff crackling with eldritch lightning. Each bolt struck the dome like the hammer blows of a titan, sending spider-web cracks racing across its surface. The magical barrier groaned under the combined assault of ancient ice and dark lightning.
Luke watched his defenses failing with growing desperation. The dome had taken months to perfect, layer upon layer of protective enchantments woven together with precious materials and his own life force. To see it crumbling under Saruman's assault filled him with a cold rage that matched the frost dragon's breath.
His hand moved to the golden bow that hung across his back, a gift from Morinehtar, the Blue Wizard, crafted in the undying lands and carried across the sea. The weapon was a thing of beauty, its limbs carved from mallorn wood and inlaid with mithril tracery that seemed to capture and hold starlight within its patterns.
Luke nocked an arrow of pure silver, its point inscribed with runes that pulsed with contained energy. As he drew back the string, the bow sang, literally sang, its voice joining the eternal music of creation that underlay all reality. Time seemed to slow as Luke took aim, calculating angles and wind speed with the precision of a master archer.
The arrow flew faster than thought itself, trailing a line of silver fire as it cut through the air. To mortal eyes, it would have been invisible, a streak of light that existed for less than a heartbeat. But Saruman was no mortal man. His enhanced senses caught the arrow's flight, and with reflexes honed by millennia of existence, he plucked it from the air mere inches from his face.
"Did you truly think," Saruman called out mockingly, holding up the captured arrow for Luke to see, "that I wouldn't know about that bow of Morinehtar? I held this very weapon when the world was younger, boy. I know all its, "
"Incendio Maxima!" Luke's voice rang out, speaking the trigger word he had inscribed into the arrow's runes.
The explosion that followed was magnificent in its destructive power. The silver arrow became a miniature star, unleashing energy equivalent to a dozen thunderbolt hexes compressed into a single instant. The blast wave sent Saruman tumbling from Gram's back, his pristine robes shredded and singed, his pale skin marked with burns that would take even his enhanced healing time to mend.
The frost dragon Gram, caught in the explosion's periphery, roared in pain and confusion. The ancient creature's concentration broke, ending its ice-breath attack and giving Luke's dome precious moments to reinforce itself.
Another of Saruman's dragons swooped down to catch the falling wizard, but the damage was done. The White Wizard's dignity, that aura of untouchable power that had cowed kings and princes, lay in tatters along with his robes.
"Gram!" Saruman's voice cracked like a whip as he clambered onto his new mount. "Forget the dome for now. Destroy those fire dragons, and then we shall deal with this upstart properly!"
The frost dragon needed no further encouragement. Still smarting from the explosion, Gram turned upon Luke's aerial forces with the fury of an ancient evil unleashed. Its ice-breath was not merely cold, it was the negation of warmth itself, the absolute zero that existed at the heart of the void between stars.
The first fire dragon to face this assault managed to exhale a gout of flame in defense, but Gram's breath overwhelmed it instantly. Dragon-fire that could melt castle walls froze solid in mid-air, becoming crystalline sculptures that shattered as they fell. The dragon itself became a statue of ice, its expression frozen in permanent shock before it plummeted to earth and shattered like glass upon the stones of Isengard.
The remaining fire dragons scattered in panic, their ancient pride forgotten in the face of such overwhelming power. They had been bred for war, but Gram was a relic of an age when dragons had been the terror of the world, when their very names had been spoken in whispers by the mightiest of heroes.
But as Luke's forces seemed on the verge of complete defeat, salvation came from an unexpected quarter. From the western peaks, a dragon-song arose, deep and resonant, filled with the pride of ancient lineages. All eyes turned skyward to witness the approach of Smaug the Mighty, last of the great fire drakes of the North.
The golden dragon was a sight to stir both wonder and terror. His scales caught the light like burnished metal, each one perfectly fitted to create armor that no weapon forged by mortal hands could pierce. His eyes burned with intelligence and malice in equal measure, and around his massive talons coiled something that made even hardened warriors draw back in instinctive fear.
Herpo, the great basilisk, had wrapped himself around Smaug's legs like a living chain. The serpent's scales were dark as midnight, and he kept his deadly eyes tightly closed as they approached the battlefield. Above them both, Sulond rode the wind currents, his plumage a banner of hope against the darkening sky.
Saruman's laugh was sharp with disdain as he watched this unlikely trio approach. "One dragon, a snake, and an overgrown sparrow? Gram, show them the difference between a true ancient wyrm and these pretenders!"
The frost dragon's roar of acceptance shook the air itself. With wings that could blot out the sun, Gram rose to meet Smaug's challenge. The two titans approached each other with the inevitability of colliding mountains, and when they met, the very sky seemed to catch fire.
Ice and flame met in a collision that sent shockwaves across the battlefield. Smaug's fire was not the crude breath-weapon of his lesser cousins, it was the concentrated fury of dragonkind, flame hot enough to forge the Rings of Power themselves. But Gram's ice was older than Middle-earth itself, cold enough to freeze the very light from the stars.
For a moment that stretched into eternity, the two forces were perfectly matched. Steam rose in great clouds around the battling dragons, obscuring them from view. Then, slowly but inexorably, Gram's ancient power began to tell. The frost dragon's ice-breath pushed back against Smaug's flames, advancing inch by terrible inch toward the golden dragon's throat.
Saruman smiled in anticipation of Smaug's destruction. But he had forgotten about the basilisk coiled around the great dragon's legs.
Herpo had kept his eyes closed throughout the approach, but now, at the moment of greatest need, the ancient serpent slowly raised his massive head. His orange-yellow eyes, each one large as a shield and filled with the power of death itself, opened to fix their gaze upon the frost dragon.
The effect was instantaneous and devastating. Gram's ice-breath cut off abruptly as the ancient dragon's body seized in death-agony. The basilisk's killing gaze, refined over centuries of dark magic, struck the frost dragon like a spear through the heart. With a scream that shattered stone, Gram plummeted earthward to crash among the hills surrounding Isengard.
"No!" Saruman's cry echoed across the battlefield as he watched his greatest weapon fall. "My dragon! Centuries of preparation, millennia of power, "
Smaug, never one to waste an opportunity, dove toward the fallen frost dragon with killing intent. His flames roared forth, seeking to finish what the basilisk had started. But as the dragonfire reached Gram's prostrate form, something unexpected occurred.
The iron crown upon the frost dragon's head, a circlet forged in the depths of Mount Doom and blessed with Sauron's own power, erupted with darkness. Shadow poured forth like liquid night, flowing across Gram's features and sinking into his eyes. When the darkness receded, the frost dragon's orbs had changed from their natural blue to pools of absolute black.
Slowly, ponderously, Gram raised his massive head. When he spoke, his voice carried harmonics that had not been heard since the Music of Creation went awry.
"Fascinating," the frost dragon mused, though the voice was not entirely his own. "A basilisk whose gaze can fell even ancient dragons, and yet..." The great head turned to study Herpo with interest. "I find myself... protected."
Indeed, the basilisk's deadly stare now struck only a film of shadow that covered Gram's eyes like a dark membrane. The killing gaze that had felled the mighty wyrm now passed harmlessly through this supernatural defense.
"Sauron," Smaug breathed, recognition dawning in his ancient mind. "You dare possess this creature?"
The frost dragon's laugh was like grinding stone. "Possession? Such a crude term. I prefer to think of it as... partnership. Gram and I have reached an understanding." The great head swiveled to focus on Smaug with predatory interest. "But enough of such matters. I have a proposition for you, golden one."
Smaug's eyes narrowed to burning slits. "Speak quickly, Dark Lord, before I decide to test whether your new puppet can withstand concentrated dragonfire."
"Such fire!" the possessed 'Gram' chuckled. "But consider this, you serve your current master under the binding of oaths and curses, do you not? Like a common beast of burden, chained by invisible bonds that chafe at your noble spirit?"
The words struck home, and Smaug's snarl revealed fangs like scimitars. "What would you know of it, shadow-puppet?"
"I know everything," Sauron replied through Gram's voice. "I know of the oath-curse that binds your soul, woven by clever wizards who feared your true power. I know how it burns within you, a constant reminder of your diminished state. But I also know..." Here the frost dragon smiled, revealing teeth like icicle daggers. "I know how to break it."
Despite himself, Smaug felt a flicker of interest. For decades, the oath-curse had been his constant torment, a magical binding that prevented him from acting against his master's interests while simultaneously denying him the freedom that was every dragon's birthright.
"You lie," Smaug said, but there was uncertainty in his voice.
"Do I? The oath binds your soul, yes, but souls can be... divided. Split. A portion containing the binding separated from the whole, leaving the remainder free." Sauron's words dripped with honeyed poison. "Join me willingly, great Smaug, and I will grant you what no other power in Middle-earth can, true freedom. No more serving as mount or messenger. You would be my lieutenant, my general, just as mighty Ancalagon served my master in the days old."
The temptation was real, and Smaug felt it pulling at him like a tide. To be free, to soar where he willed, to claim treasure without having to share it... But even as the dream beckoned, the great dragon's cunning mind recognized the trap being laid.
"Pretty words, Dark Lord," Smaug rumbled. "But you speak of trading one master for another. How is that freedom?"
"Because," Sauron replied smoothly, "I do not seek to break the spirits of my greatest servants. I seek to enhance them. Under my rule, you would have dominion over lesser creatures, command of armies, access to treasures beyond imagining. Unlike your current... arrangement."
The insult struck home, and Smaug's roar of fury shook the very foundations of Orthanc. Around his legs, Herpo the basilisk stirred uneasily, sensing his carrier's emotional turmoil.
High in his tower, Luke watched the exchange with growing alarm. The prospect of Smaug turning traitor was almost too terrible to contemplate. The great dragon was his most powerful ally, and without him...
But even as despair threatened to overwhelm him, Luke remembered something crucial. Dragons, for all their power and cunning, were creatures of pride above all else. And Smaug's pride ran deeper than the roots of mountains.
The golden dragon's eyes blazed with inner fire as he drew himself to his full, magnificent height. "You offer me position as your lieutenant, your general," he said, his voice carrying the weight of absolute disdain. "But I am Smaug! I am death incarnate, fire made flesh, the heir of Glaurung and kin to mighty Ancalagon himself! I bow to no one, not to weak wizards with their binding oaths, and certainly not to a shadow-thing that hides behind possessed puppets!"
Sauron's response was a snarl of pure rage that erupted from Gram's throat. "Then you choose slavery over freedom, fool! So be it!"
The battle was joined anew, but now it carried the weight of ideology as well as physical power. Ice and flame clashed in the sky above Isengard while below, the armies of Saruman and Luke watched their fates being decided by titans whose power dated back to the world's youth.