Sylas did not agree to the Dunlendings' proposal.
He shook his head and said plainly, "I will not help you wage war against the people of Rohan."
A murmur of disappointment rippled through the Dunlendings. Rohan was stronger than their scattered tribes, and without the aid of someone like Sylas, a wizard who commanded a dragon, their dream of reclaiming their lost homeland seemed as distant as ever.
"But," Sylas continued, his voice steady, "if you are willing to set aside your hatred and live in peace with the Rohirrim, then Gandalf the Grey and I will do everything in our power to persuade the King of Rohan to allow your people to return to your ancestral lands."
He spoke not because he wished to meddle in their ancient feud, but because he could not leave such a dangerous grievance unresolved. If the Dunlendings had no hope of reconciliation, desperation might drive them back into Saruman's service, or worse, into Mordor's arms.
Fortunately, Gandalf had long been working toward such peace. He had already spoken with the King of Rohan and found him not entirely unyielding. The King, weary of endless border raids, was open to negotiation. If this old wound could finally be healed, it would mean security for both sides.
Brog, the Dunlending chieftain, looked both relieved and reluctant. In his heart he still saw the Rohirrim as thieves who had stolen his people's birthright. Yet he dared not speak such thoughts aloud. Sylas's willingness to mediate was already more grace than he expected; to press further might invite the dragon's wrath.
Sylas, reading Brog's hesitation through his newly awakened Legilimency, dismissed it without concern. He made the offer once, and that would be enough.
"If you are willing to make peace," he said, "then Gandalf and I will arrange a meeting. Both sides will sit together, and the future will be decided in open council."
He gave them no further chance to argue. Mounting Smaug once more, Sylas left Dunland behind and returned to the black tower of Orthanc.
Back at Isengard, he entrusted the matter to Gandalf, who received it with rare joy. The Grey Wizard had always dreamed of reconciling the Rohirrim and the Dunlendings, uniting them against the greater shadow rising in the East. Without delay, Gandalf mounted his broomstick and flew to Edoras to speak with King Fengel.
Sylas, left in Orthanc, turned his attention to the treasure Saruman had left behind. Among the piles of scrolls and notes, he discovered detailed records of the White Wizard's experiments, schemes for breeding the Uruk-hai, foul crossings of Orcs with Men, and even darker attempts to mingle Trolls with Orcs to forge sun-resistant war-beasts.
Sylas frowned as he read. The pages reeked of cruelty, but they also revealed Saruman's cold brilliance.
And then a thought stirred within him. He remembered the system reward he had once received: the Method of Hybridizing Magical Creatures.
Isengard's position was too critical to leave undefended. Whoever controlled it commanded the North-South Road, the plains of Rohan, and the western approach to Gondor. If Mordor or Saruman seized it, Rohan and Gondor would be cut off from the West, isolated and surrounded.
Sylas could not remain here forever. He needed guardians, watchers powerful enough to protect Orthanc even in his absence.
He had first thought to leave Smaug, but the dragon only huffed in disdain. Smaug had no intention of abandoning his hoard atop Weathertop; treasure was dearer to him than fortresses.
Sylas let the matter drop. Instead, his mind turned to his new knowledge. If he used the art of magical hybridization… perhaps he could breed guardians bound to Orthanc itself.
And for that, he needed subjects.
So, with a sharp whistle, Sylas sent Smaug and Thorondor into the wild to hunt down fierce beasts suitable for his experiments.
Thorondor was the first to return, his vast wings casting a shadow across Isengard. Clutched in his talons were a roaring male lion and several snarling Wargs.
Not long after, Smaug descended from the clouds, and in his claws he bore a magnificent prize: a tall, pure white stallion from the plains of Rohan.
This was no ordinary horse, it was of the Mearas, the noblest of all horses, whose bloodline reached back to the dawn of the world. They were said to descend from Nahar, steed of Oromë the Huntsman, one of the Valar. Even among the Rohirrim, such creatures were rare and revered, allowed only to bear kings.
Unlike other beasts, this Mearas did not cower before Smaug's draconic presence. Its proud head remained high, its eyes flashing with defiance. It had taken all of Smaug's cunning and strength to subdue it. The dragon landed with a disgruntled growl, his wings folding tight as if to say, 'See what I've endured for you.'
Under the resentful glare of both dragon and eagle, Sylas calmly drew a vial of blood from each of them. Their muttering protests rumbled like distant thunder, but Sylas ignored them.
Then the experiments began.
His first attempt was to fuse the blood of the Great Eagle with that of the Mearas. In another world, Hippogriffs were said to be born of griffins and horses, but here, there were no griffins. A Great Eagle would serve in its place. With careful incantations, Sylas fused their blood into a shimmering embryo of magic, which he then implanted into the womb of the white mare.
The horse was wild and untamed. Even restrained by spells, it lashed out furiously, and Sylas only narrowly avoided being kicked into the stone wall of Orthanc. With a final flick of his wand, the enchantment was complete, and the mare was released into a warded enclosure to carry her strange child to term.
But Sylas's ambition did not stop there.
He mixed Smaug's draconic essence with the dark blood of a Warg, implanting the embryo into a captured she-wolf. He tried lion with eagle, dragon with lion, and even more daring combinations.
He journeyed back to Weathertop and, with perilous care, collected blood from the Basilisk slumbering in his hidden chambers, as well as a vial from the tentacles of the Kraken. With these he attempted unions no sane wizard would consider: lions fused with Basilisks, Basilisks with Krakens, Wargs with dragons, even a terrifying blend of all four.
Female wolves from the Misty Mountains were captured to serve as surrogate mothers for these unnatural offspring. One by one, Sylas marked them with runes of gestation and set them in enchanted pens deep beneath Orthanc.
The waiting began.
Magical hybridization was never certain. Days passed, and some of the embryos failed, their unstable essence unraveling within the womb. In some tragic cases, the surrogate mothers perished alongside their unborn charges, their bodies unable to withstand the chaos of mingled bloodlines.
While Sylas oversaw his grim menagerie, Gandalf returned from Edoras, his eyes bright with the glimmer of success. He had convinced King Fengel of Rohan to enter peace talks with the Dunlendings.
And so, on the banks of the Isen River, where the waters ran swift beneath the shadow of Isengard, two enemies faced each other for the first time not with swords, but with words.
Brog, leader of the Dunlendings, came with his chiefs and clansmen. Opposite him stood King Thengel of Rohan, tall and stern, with the standard of the White Horse rippling in the wind. A Gondorian prince, acting as regent in the name of his steward, observed as witness.
Gandalf and Sylas stood between them, arbiters of fragile hope. The armies of both peoples lingered nearby, tense and watchful, as if the negotiations might at any moment collapse into war.
For two long weeks, words clashed in place of steel. Voices rose, tempers flared, and old wounds were reopened. But slowly, carefully, ground was gained. Promises were offered, borders redrawn, and the first fragile threads of trust were woven.
At last, after half a month, peace was reached.
The Dunlending chieftain agreed that his people would no longer raid Rohan's borders, and in turn Rohan pledged not to expel the Dunlendings again. The Isen River valley, lying between their lands, was formally marked as Dunlending territory.
But what surprised everyone most was what followed. Once the treaty was sealed, Brog, the Dunlending leader, strode forward, dropped to one knee, and swore fealty not to King Fengel, nor to Gondor, but to Sylas.
Sylas blinked in astonishment. He had not expected such a pledge. Yet through his gift of Legilimency, Brog's reasoning was plain. Though peace had been signed, Brog still harbored no trust for Rohan or Gondor. To ensure his people would not be crushed again, he sought the protection of one mightier than kings. And who better than the Black-Robed Wizard of Isengard, master of dragon.
Sylas was reluctant. He had no desire to carry the burden of vassals and subjects. He tried to refuse, but Gandalf's calm persuasion, and the repeated pleas of the Dunlendings themselves, wore down his resistance.
In the end, he accepted.
Neither Fengel of Rohan nor the Gondorian regent objected. In truth, they were relieved. They too mistrusted the Dunlendings, and the thought of Sylas keeping them in check brought comfort rather than concern.
Thus, in the presence of Gandalf, the King of Rohan, and the regent of Gondor, Brog knelt in the grass and swore the oath of loyalty. From that day forward, Sylas was not only Lord of Weathertop and Master of Isengard, but also liege lord of the Dunlendings.
Sylas, seeking to strengthen both ties and defenses, granted them leave to dwell near Isengard itself. Brog's eyes shone with joy. The southern plain of Isengard, once a fertile expanse of grasslands, had long been left barren under Saruman, who despised neighbors. Now, with Sylas's blessing, the Dunlendings prepared to migrate eastward.
Tents soon dotted the open fields, smoke rose from new hearthfires, and for the first time in centuries, Dunlending families made their homes within sight of the black tower. They became the first living wall to guard Isengard, herding flocks and sharpening spears, proud to stand under Sylas's banner.
And while the Dunlendings rebuilt their lives, Orthanc itself bore witness to another birth, one far stranger.
The mare of the Mearas, swollen and restless, was brought into the warded enclosure. Sylas stood watch, wand in hand, his eyes fixed with both dread and excitement. Hours dragged on, until at last a terrible, painful whinny rang out. The mare collapsed, and from her heaving flanks a foal slid into the straw, still wrapped in its membrane.
The newborn thrashed weakly, and its mother, driven by instinct, licked and nuzzled it free. Then she recoiled.
For this was no ordinary foal.
It bore the proud head of an eagle, with keen golden eyes that already glared at the world. Its body was that of a horse, but its forelegs ended in hooked talons rather than hooves. From its shoulders jutted a pair of raw, featherless wings, slick and trembling, as though the sky itself was still beyond its reach.
Sylas stepped forward, astonishment flickering across his face.
"A Hippogriff…" he whispered.
He had not expected that the mingling of eagle and horse would yield such a creature. In another world, Hippogriffs were said to be born of griffins and steeds. Here, there were no griffins, yet the Great Eagle and the mare had produced a beast nearly the same in form.
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