Saruman's sudden rescue at the hands of Sauron weighed heavily on Sylas and the others.
Sauron alone was already a threat beyond measure. With Saruman now at his side, their combined strength would make the road ahead doubly perilous.
Though Galadriel had once banished him from Dol Guldur, Mordor remained Sauron's stronghold, a fortress swarming with orcs, fell beasts, and men enslaved to his will. Even Gandalf himself had never dared to journey deep into its blackened heart.
Beyond Mordor, the lands of the East also lay under his shadow. The Easterlings and the Southrons, bound to Sauron's cause, swelled his armies with endless human tribes and kingdoms.
And now Saruman, skilled in craft, machinery, and the breeding of twisted creatures, was added to Sauron's host. The Dark Lord's power had grown wings indeed.
The only consolation was that Sylas had stripped Saruman of both his staff and the counterfeit Ring of Power. Without them, Saruman was far weaker than before. Moreover, with Isengard already in their hands, the White Wizard's schemes to crush Rohan and Gondor between two foes had been undone.
As Sylas and Gandalf prepared to return to Isengard, the sound of hooves thundered across the plain.
Out of the rising dust rode a thousand horsemen, an elite Rohirrim host, banners streaming in the wind.
Yet at the sight of Smaug's towering form and the oppressive weight of his draconic presence, the horses grew restless, stamping and snorting in fear. Not one beast dared draw near.
All save one. The great steed beneath the leader pressed forward with steady courage, carrying its rider within a hundred yards despite the dragon's intimidating aura.
Gandalf's eyes brightened, and he stepped forward with the warmth of an old companion.
"King Théoden! All is well, I trust?"
The rider lifted his helm, revealing a stern yet noble face lined with years of care. His gaze lingered first on Smaug, awe flashing in his eyes, before turning with reverence to Galadriel and Elrond, whose Elven bearing was unmistakable. When his eyes fell upon Sylas, standing beside them with such poise, Théoden almost mistook him for an Elf as well.
His heart stirred with unease and curiosity. At last, he fixed his eyes on Gandalf.
"Gandalf," Théoden said gravely, "what has happened here? My riders reported enemies, yet I see only you. What manner of battle left this crater, and the Entwash River in such disarray?"
Gandalf's face was somber, his voice heavy with regret.
"A grave truth, my lord. Saruman of Isengard, once counted among us, has betrayed Middle-earth. He has conspired with Mordor, plotting to bring ruin upon both Rohan and Gondor. We sought to bind him, but agents of the Enemy intervened, and he was carried away into darkness."
Théoden stiffened, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Saruman? The White Wizard himself? You say he has turned traitor?"
Gandalf nodded gravely. "He has been rescued by the servants of Mordor. With his craft and cunning, he will strengthen their forces immeasurably. You must keep vigilant, King Théoden. Watch the eastern borders closely, and prepare your people for war. And I beg you, send word south to Denethor, Steward of Gondor, so that he too may strengthen his defenses."
Théoden's jaw set with determination. "For the safety of Rohan, I shall heed your warning. Riders will guard the crossings of the Anduin, and I will send envoys to Gondor to tighten our bond of steel."
At this answer, Gandalf's features softened with relief.
This was Théoden son of Thengel, the sixteenth King of the Mark. Though nearing forty winters, he stood in the prime of his strength, ambitious, keen-eyed, and ready to carve his place among the great lords of Middle-earth.
Gandalf turned, gesturing toward his companions with a kindly smile.
"Allow me to present my companions. This is the Lady of Lothlórien, Galadriel the Fair."
As Gandalf introduced her, Galadriel bowed her head with serene grace, offering Théoden a gentle, courtly smile.
The King of Rohan had never beheld such beauty nor such majesty. Her presence alone seemed to dim the very sun, and Théoden felt both awed and unworthy. Her bright, fathomless eyes shone with a wisdom that pierced through the veils of the heart, and he found himself quickly averting his gaze, fearing she might glimpse every hidden flaw within him.
Gandalf's voice carried on. "This is Lord Elrond, Master of Rivendell, the last homely house west of the mountains."
Elrond inclined his head in quiet courtesy, his noble bearing unmistakable. Though Théoden himself was a king, he knew well enough that Elrond's lineage stretched back into the Elder Days, and he treated him with the utmost respect.
At last, Gandalf turned with a smile to his final companion.
"And here stands Sylas, the Black Robe Wizard, Lord of Weathertop, Hogsmeade, and Bree, and Master of Dragons."
Théoden blinked in astonishment. So this was the Black Robe Wizard of rumor, the one who had tamed a dragon? As King of the Mark, he had long heard tales of the Battle of Five Armies and of the mysterious Wizard said to command fire and flame. He had expected another bent old man like Gandalf or Saruman, not this young, sharp-eyed figure.
That he also claimed the allegiance of a dragon was almost beyond belief.
Knowing he stood among legends, Théoden extended his hand in friendship, inviting them all to Edoras as honored guests of the Golden Hall.
But Galadriel and Elrond, more concerned with the shadows left behind by Saruman's treachery than with feasting and courtesies, declined with gentle words. Gandalf too refused with regret, explaining that their task pressed them onward. Sylas echoed their decision politely, though he gave the king a warm nod of thanks.
With visible disappointment, Théoden accepted their refusal. After a final exchange of farewells, the Wizard, the Elves, and their companions mounted Smaug and Thorondor, soaring into the sky as the Riders of Rohan gazed up in awe, their banners trembling in the dragon's downdraft.
Soon, the company descended into the valley of Isengard.
Once a green circle of gardens and orchards, the stronghold was now a scarred plain of pits and furnaces. Its black tower, Orthanc, rose like a fang of stone in the center, tall and unyielding.
Strategically perched between Rohan and Gondor, Isengard was a keystone of the West. Whoever held it could threaten the Mark to the north and the White City to the south. Small wonder Saruman had chosen it for his seat of power, it had always been more fortress than refuge.
Yet now the stronghold was no longer his. The Ents had risen, Huorns at their side, tearing down the outer walls of Isengard and overwhelming Saruman's followers.
Sylas and the others landed amidst the wreckage. Everywhere the roots of Huorns bound prisoners into living cages of wood. Saruman had gathered men from every corner of Middle-earth to his banner, Rohirrim deserters, Gondorian traitors, and wild Dunlendings. Nearly a thousand of them now crouched in their wooden prisons, cowed and defeated.
"Your aid has been a blessing, Treebeard," Gandalf said gravely, bowing his head toward the towering Ent.
Treebeard's deep voice rumbled in reply, slow as the turning of seasons. "Saruman felled too many of our trees. He woke the anger of Fangorn, and we could not let him go unchallenged."
Leaving the prisoners under Smaug's watchful eye, Sylas and his companions entered Orthanc itself.
Built long ago by the Númenóreans, the tower was wrought of stone harder than iron, impervious to weather, fire, or axe. Saruman had spent centuries remaking it into a lair suited to his ambition, a fortress of cunning and craft, bristling with both defense and sorcery.
Standing before Orthanc, Sylas couldn't help but marvel aloud.
Saruman truly lived up to his reputation as Middle-earth's greatest craftsman of stone and steel. The tower was a masterpiece of both engineering and sorcery. Its walls were carved with intricate runes, its very foundation woven through with enchantments. Orthanc was not only an impregnable fortress but also a colossal reservoir of magic, amplifying every spell cast within.
No wonder Gandalf and the others had never dared storm it by force. Against Saruman inside Orthanc, even the combined might of Elves and Wizards had seemed doubtful.
Inside, the ground floors were grim and utilitarian, cells for prisoners, storerooms for provisions, and an armory stocked with blades and armor forged in secret. Higher up, they found Saruman's laboratories.
The place was a chaos of test tubes, vials, and alchemical glasswork. Strange contraptions littered the benches, hand-crossbows of ingenious design, experimental powder for engines of war, and half-finished machines whose purpose Sylas could only guess at. He gave a low whistle of surprise.
Saruman had been a visionary of sorts, pushing the boundaries of craft and knowledge far beyond the age. Yet all that brilliance had been twisted by pride and corruption. 'If only he had stayed true,' Sylas thought. 'What wonders might he have wrought for Middle-earth instead of ruin?'
Then they reached the study, and Sylas's eyes widened.
An entire floor had been transformed into a vast library. Shelves climbed the walls to the ceiling, groaning beneath tomes, scrolls, and parchments beyond counting. Save perhaps for Elrond's library in Rivendell, Sylas had never seen such a treasure trove of learning. His fingers itched to begin reading at once.
But first things first.
From his satchel, Sylas drew forth Saruman's confiscated staff and the golden Ring of Power.
The staff he offered directly to Gandalf. "This belongs with you, not me."
Gandalf accepted it gravely, without protest.
The ring, however, Sylas placed carefully upon the table without touching it. Forged by Saruman under Sauron's shadow, it carried too much risk. For all he knew, it might bear the same corruption as the Nine Rings for Men or the Seven for the Dwarves. To slip it on unwisely could mean temptation, madness, or worse.
Elrond, Galadriel, and Gandalf all nodded at his caution. Together, they examined the ring with utmost care. Spell after spell was woven around it, testing for hidden snares. The three Rings of the Elves gleamed faintly as their bearers joined power to probe Saruman's craft.
When even their most searching magics revealed no immediate peril, Galadriel lifted the ring herself. Sliding it onto her finger, she closed her eyes, letting her spirit test its weight.
Sylas's breath caught as he waited.
At last, Galadriel's eyes opened, calm and clear. She removed the ring and placed it in Sylas's palm, her lips curved in a faint smile.
"The ring is sound. Guard it well, and may you use it wisely."
Relief washed over him, followed swiftly by elation. With reverence and anticipation, Sylas slid the Ring of Power onto his own finger.