"Then it is settled. Cooperation established."
Gandalf, who had mostly lingered on the sidelines with little more than a cough or a nod, finally gave his solemn conclusion.
Thorin nodded with gravity. "By the name of the King Under the Mountain, I swear this partnership will stand firm. No party shall be cheated, nor left wanting."
Eric smiled faintly. "In that case, I swear it on my own name."
Thorin chuckled. "A vow like that carries more weight than most oaths I have heard."
With business concluded, Thorin finally allowed himself a sigh of relief. He ordered a feast prepared and invited them both to stay the night.
At the banquet, the Company gathered once again. Perhaps it was the joy of reunion, or perhaps simply the rare chance to sit together without danger lurking over their shoulders, but the dwarves ate until their bellies rounded like barrels and drained casks of ale by the bucketful. No one, however, dared revive the old contest of drinking against Eric. That lesson had already been learned.
The next morning, after parting ways with the dwarves, Eric returned briefly to Dale. He asked Gandalf to wait, then stepped through the Nether Gate alone. When he emerged a short while later, before lunch had even arrived, he was leading two horses. Both were among the swiftest ever bred in Roadside Fortress, sleek and full of fire.
"They can run like the wind and shave days off our journey. Question is, can you keep up with them?" Eric said, offering one to Gandalf.
As the wizard mounted, he chuckled. "You underestimate me, Eric. I may look old but—"
He never finished. The moment he was astride, the horse shot forward like an arrow loosed from a bow. Gandalf's words stretched thin into the distance.
Eric called after him, voice only half-apologetic. "You will need... time to adjust!"
It took no small effort, and a few near tumbles, before Gandalf managed to rein the beast in. Red-faced but exhilarated, he admitted, "Too fast, too strong! At last I understand how you always appear in the most impossible places in half the time anyone expects."
Eric grinned. "These horses are the product of careful breeding. Took me months of work."
Months counted as "forever" by Eric's standards.
Once Gandalf had found his seat again, the two set out. But before heading south, Eric detoured to Lake-town. There, in the mayor's hall, he entrusted Bard with overseeing the details of cooperation between Dale and Erebor.
"If other opportunities arise, judge them yourself. I trust your judgment," Eric said.
Bard inclined his head. "I understand."
Without lingering, Eric rejoined Gandalf and pressed on. They crossed wild fields and rivers, keeping steadily south toward Isengard.
"It feels... quiet," Eric muttered at one point, scanning the empty brown plains around them.
"Too quiet," Gandalf agreed. "Ordinarily, this road would be death to travel. It lies close to the Black Gate, and orc camps still litter the Misty Mountains. Few with sense would take this route."
"Yet nothing has so much as snarled at us," Eric said with faint disappointment. "This time last year, we would already have had a dozen warg riders nipping at our heels."
"Likely so," Gandalf replied. "But with you here, and that blade of yours, I doubt anything dares approach."
Eric sighed. "What a pity. No excitement at all."
In truth, Sauron had been far too quiet lately. Either he lacked the strength to stir trouble, or he was plotting something much worse.
Days slipped past, marked only by sunrise and moonrise. Finally Gandalf tugged his reins. "Eric, perhaps we should stop for a spell?"
Eric raised a brow. "Why? The horses are fine."
"Because running them without rest for several days is no kindness," Gandalf said, frowning.
Eric waved a hand. "These are not ordinary horses. They do not tire, nor do they eat. You could ride them to the ends of Middle-earth and they would still be fresh."
"Impossible," Gandalf muttered. "Such creatures do not exist."
"You have met my creations before," Eric replied. He touched the amulet hanging at his chest. "The list of impossible things is far longer than you think."
Gandalf sighed but let the matter drop.
By then they had crossed the rivers, passed the high plains of Rohan, and entered the border of Fangorn. In the distance, a black tower's peak pierced the horizon.
The sun had hardly shifted in the sky when they arrived at its foot. They tethered the horses and looked about.
Eric whistled. "Now this is something. Mountains at the back, forests on the sides, a clear lake out front, fruit trees all around, and right in the middle, the most formidable tower in the land. I would trade my keep for this view any day."
Indeed, Isengard looked nothing like the grim fortress it might one day become. The gardens bloomed, a stream cut through to feed a crystalline lake, and the orchards bore fruit heavy with dew. It was paradise wrapped around a fortress.
"Whoever built this place knew how to choose a spot," Eric said with admiration. "If I lived here, I would never complain again. Breakfast in the garden, a nap by the lake, and a tower strong enough to laugh at dragons. Perfection."
"You had best prepare yourself," Gandalf interrupted with a weary sigh. "Saruman is not as charming as his home. His temper is strange, his words stranger. Pay no heed to half of what he says. In truth, every word he utters carries a weight of magic. His tongue can sway even orcs and worse. Listening too long may bend your will without you noticing."
Eric smirked. "If that is the case, he will find me difficult prey. I once spent a whole day in conversation with Smaug and never felt so much as a tug at my thoughts. Your own thunderous speeches have bounced off me as well."
Before Gandalf could argue, they were already climbing the black stone steps of Orthanc.
"Halt," barked a guard, stepping forward before the great doors.
His expression was carved from disdain, his nose lifted as if the very visitors offended him. He might have been Saruman's shadow, so closely did he mimic his master's air of superiority.
"Saruman the White has not spoken of guests today. State your business."
Gandalf inclined his head, ever patient. "I am Gandalf the Grey. This is Eric Starfell. We come seeking audience. Please inform your master. We are content to wait here at the gates until he is ready."
Eric nodded politely, showing he agreed.
The guard's lip curled. "Your names mean nothing. Without Saruman's permission, no one enters. That is his decree. Now begone."
Gandalf's brows drew together. "This is deliberate," he muttered. Saruman had surely sensed their arrival long before, yet chose insult over courtesy.
Before Gandalf could soothe the situation, Eric stepped forward. His easy smile had vanished, replaced with a calm so absolute it was unsettling. Where the guard's disdain was an act, Eric's indifference was real.
The guard's breath hitched. He remembered the stories whispered in Dale and Erebor, of the man who walked through dragonfire and returned unscathed. His bravado wavered, then crumbled. He stepped back without realizing it.
Eric's voice was soft, but the weight of it pressed like stone. "Go and tell your master this. Eric comes in peace, and will wait if he is truly occupied. But make sure he knows of my visit before the day ends. If he does not, then by tomorrow this tower will be nothing but rubble."
The guard swallowed hard. He believed him.