Discovered, Sylas did not hesitate.
He drew a potion bottle from his pouch and hurled it at the Ringwraith.
The Nazgûl, ever wary, raised a shadowed hand and shattered it with a burst of dark power before it could strike him.
But in the same instant, the bottle burst apart, unleashing a searing flash of blinding radiance.
The gathered tribesmen cried out, shielding their eyes; those too slow to react were struck sightless.
"Starlight", the Ringwraith hissed, shrinking back as the light burned against him. The Nazgûl were not undone by the sun as Orcs or Trolls were, but the touch of true starlight still seared their twisted forms. His black cloak curled tightly around him like bat's wings, shielding his wraithlike body.
The Fellbeast screamed in terror, thrashing and trampling Easterlings beneath its talons. Panic rippled through the mob as chaos swept the camp.
The potion Sylas had thrown was no simple flash of light. It was a sunburst draught of his own devising, an alchemical creation born from Snape's old notes on luminous brews, woven together with echoes of the Light of Eärendil itself. By infusing bottled brilliance with the essence of sunlight, he had forged something new: a flashbomb potent enough to stagger the creatures of Shadow.
Even as the Fellbeast shrieked, Sylas seized the moment. With a sharp twist he Apparated, vanishing from the camp in a crack of displaced air.
When the glare faded, the Ringwraith unfurled his cloak. His gaze fell on the glowing residue still hissing on the stones, evidence of magic alien to this land. His hollow eyes burned with fury.
"Who dares…" the Nazgûl growled, his voice like knives drawn in a tomb. Rage boiled out of him, and his aura lashed outward. The very air screamed; men and huts alike were flung aside. Many were crushed or slain in the blast.
Yet no answer came to his question.
Enraged and thwarted, the Ringwraith commanded the Easterling tribes and vassal-kings to hunt down the "stranger," describing him as one of their own turned traitor.
Miles away, Sylas knew nothing of the orders given in his absence. But caution kept him restless. At every camp he passed, he changed his face again, shifting from one guise of an Easterling to another. None who glimpsed him twice would know they looked upon the same man.
The farther east he pressed, the darker the lands grew. Most Easterlings still dwelt in primitive tribal halls, their homes crude compared to the stone cities of Gondor or Rohan. Yet one place stood apart: Lug Rhûn-Dongyi City.
Once, it had been the seat of Khamûl the Easterling, the second of the Nine Nazgûl. Long ago, he had been a lord who united the clans of the East, but the Ring of Power had corrupted him, and he fell into Sauron's dominion. From Lug Rhûn, he had ruled in his master's name.
But Sylas had broken Khamûl's Ring, shattering his existence and ending his command. In doing so, he had cut one of Sauron's strongest cords of dominion in the East, loosening the Shadow's grip more than he yet realized.
Lug Rhûn lay at the foot of the Orocarni, the Red Mountains, vast and ancient, raised by the Valar after the Lamps were broken.
In those peaks four of the seven houses of the Dwarves had first awoken. But centuries under Shadow had left scars; some of their kindred had been twisted, becoming Dark Dwarves sworn to Sauron.
Sylas made his way slowly, moving in disguise, hunted by Fellbeasts and the wraiths that rode them. Where once he might have reached Lug Rhûn in weeks, it took him a month of cautious travel. For now three Ringwraiths scoured the skies of the East, their mounts shrieking in ceaseless patrols.
Black crows wheeled above in daylight, and flocks of vampire bats blotted out the stars at night. Everywhere, the Easterlings themselves grew suspicious, seizing any stranger they saw. Better to slay an innocent than let an intruder slip through.
Sylas knew he would have to tread even more carefully.
His earlier appearance had clearly roused the vigilance of the Nazgûl, and perhaps even Sauron himself. Were it not for the Dark Lord's uncertainty, the palantír of Barad-dûr would already have scoured the East and laid bare Sylas's every movement.
The palantíri varied in size and power. The stone Sylas carried was among the lesser kind. From the heights of Weathertop it had once shown him Rivendell to the east, the South Downs to the south, the Shire to the west, and the North Downs to the north. But Sauron's stone, greater and darker, cast its gaze across all Mordor, reached far into Gondor, and could even sweep the shadowed lands of the East.
If the Dark Lord discovered Sylas's presence here, flight would be his only hope.
Lug Rhûn, though called a city, resembled more a vast tribal stronghold. At its heart stood a grim palace of red stone, once the seat of Khamûl the Easterling, second of the Nine and dread servant of Mordor. In ages past, no clan dared covet Lug Rhûn or its crimson palace. But with Khamûl destroyed, his Ring broken by Sylas's hand, the power that bound the tribes had crumbled, and ambition ran wild.
Thus, when Sylas arrived, he found the city's walls ringed with slaughter.
Two great Easterling hosts clashed in the dust outside Lug Rhûn: the Wainriders, thundering in their war-chariots, and the fierce Balchoth, driven east long ago from the vales near Mirkwood. Thousands fought in a storm of steel and screams.
From a deserted corner upon the wall, Sylas watched in silence.
The battle raged all day. Though evenly matched, the Wainriders' chariots began to turn the tide, grinding down the Balchoth ranks. Victory seemed within their grasp, until a new host erupted from the distant forests.
Armoured riders, clad in mail and bearing finer steel than either side, charged with ruthless discipline into the fray.
"The Dorwinions!" rose the startled cry from both camps.
No one had expected this third force. The Wainriders and Balchoth, already bloodied and weary, could not withstand the fresh onslaught. Their lines buckled, their warriors were hewn down or trampled beneath the Dorwinion charge. Even when desperation drove them to unite, they were swiftly scattered.
On the wall, Sylas's eyes widened. He remembered the name well from Lord Calenmir of Dorwinion. Unlike many of their kin, the Dorwinions had not bent the knee to Sauron. They traded with the Elves, Dale, and the Woodland Realm, and were spoken of as one of the few Easterling peoples who sought moderation rather than conquest.
More still, they were known to be close allies of the Blue Wizards. It was said that Alatar and Pallando had guided them out of Sauron's grasp, and for long years had aided them in resisting his dominion.
At this sight, Sylas's heart leapt.
After searching so long, Sylas had finally found a trace of the Blue Wizards.
On the field before Lug Rhûn, the Dorwinions pressed hard, their disciplined cavalry slowly grinding down the Wainriders and Balchoth. Victory seemed within their grasp, until the air was torn by a piercing, inhuman shriek.
A Fellbeast.
Its cry rolled across the plain like thunder, chilling every heart. At once, the Wainriders and Balchoth raised their voices in hope, exulting as if salvation had come. But among the Dorwinions, terror spread like fire. Horses bucked and screamed, refusing their riders' commands, eyes white with fear. The Dorwinions' hard-won advantage melted away in moments.
Sylas's face darkened. Wherever these winged horrors flew, a Nazgûl was never far. His first instinct was to Apparate, vanish into the wilderness before Sauron's hunter could fix its gaze upon him. But the thought of losing this chance, the only chance he had found to connect with the Blue Wizards rooted him in place.
He stayed.
In a breath, his form twisted and withered. Wrinkles furrowed his brow, his frame shrank, and his back stooped until he wore the guise of a tall, thin, white-haired wanderer, an old man, looking somewhat similar to Gandalf.
The Fellbeast swooped low, its vast wings driving gusts that toppled men and beasts alike. Dorwinion riders were hurled to the ground, trampled in the chaos.
On its back loomed a Ringwraith, cloaked in shadow, its very presence radiating despair. The Nazgûl's will seeped into every mind, sowing panic and helplessness. The Fellbeast's cry stabbed into the soul, breaking courage, leaving only terror. Horses screamed and bolted, casting off their masters.
Now the Dorwinions stood between hammer and anvil: the vengeful Wainriders and Balchoth before them, the dread Nazgûl descending behind. Their line wavered, teetering on the edge of ruin.
Sylas's knuckles whitened around the staff he had conjured by Transfiguration. He had hesitated, but to watch these men die, to watch this one hope of reaching the Blue Wizards be crushed, was something he could not allow.
And then, the system's voice cut across his thoughts.
[Hogwarts Sign-in System: Location identified, Lug Rhûn. Do you wish to sign in?]
"Yes," Sylas answered at once, his mind racing.
[Sign-in successful. Reward acquired: Method of Crafting the Invisibility Cloak.]
For a heartbeat he blinked, astonished. 'The second of the Deathly Hallows… so soon?'
However, what he obtained from the sign-in clearly couldn't help him solve the current situation. Seeing the Dorwinions on the battlefield below about to be annihilated, Sylas still made his move.
"Evil, be gone!"
From the staff burst a radiant blaze of holy light.