To avoid revealing his identity, Sylas used only the Light spell he had learned from Gandalf.
The sacred brilliance washed over the battlefield, and the Nazgûl recoiled. The Fellbeast shrieked in terror, beating its vast wings to carry itself higher into the sky, desperate to flee the burning radiance.
The Ringwraith hissed, exhaling black vapors that clashed against the holy light. Its hollow eyes glowed with red fire, fixed upon the strange old man who had appeared without warning.
"Who are you?" it demanded.
"I am Albus Dumbledore," Sylas declared sternly, his voice carrying across the plain. "Begone, wraith, this is not your domain. Return to the shadows where you belong!"
He struck his staff hard upon the earth, sending out a wave of light that forced the Nazgûl and its mount to recoil.
"Albus Dumbledore?" The Ringwraith gave a cold, mocking laugh. "I know not the name. You are nothing. This land belongs to the Dark Lord. Since you dare to stand against me, you will serve him forever!"
With that, it drew forth a Morgul blade. Its form blurred into shadow and lunged at Sylas.
But its strike was stopped short. An unseen barrier shimmered into being, impenetrable, its strength born of the Rings of Power Sylas wore upon his fingers.
Under Celebrimbor's guidance, he had woven stealth into the rings, much as the Three of the Elves were hidden. Unless the One itself revealed them, no eye could perceive his treasures. That was why he dared to call upon them openly, even before a Ringwraith.
The Nazgûl slashed again and again, but each strike was turned aside. Long before leaving for the East, Sylas had spent months storing power into the rings, replenishing them faithfully each night of his journey. The reservoir he had built was vast, enough that even should he stand motionless, the barrier would hold against a thousand such blows.
Yet Sylas had no wish to squander that hard-earned well of power. He lifted his staff high, chanting words of the Elves, old and perilous.
The sky above Lug Rhûn blackened, and lightning split the heavens. A bolt no thicker than an arm, but fierce as a serpent of fire, struck down into his staff.
He leveled it toward the Fellbeast. The bolt leapt forth with blinding speed.
The Nazgûl swerved aside in time, but the Fellbeast took the full strike. Its long neck burst open, black venomous blood pouring forth as the creature let out a soul-piercing scream. It crashed to the ground, writhing and broken.
Enraged, the Ringwraith loosed a psychic assault, a wave of terror meant to crush will and reason. But it found only walls: a fortress of thought, shields layered within shields, unyielding. No fear, no weakness to exploit.
For the first time in an age, the Nazgûl faltered.
Seeing the wizard raise his staff again, lightning gathering once more, the wraith gave a shriek of fury. The red coals of its eyes burned with hatred as it turned and fled into the night.
"I will remember you, Albus Dumbledore," it hissed, before vanishing into the dark.
The Ringwraith ignored its dying Fellbeast. Shrouded in shadow, its form thinned and faded until it slipped away into the unseen realm, vanishing from the battlefield.
Sylas exhaled slowly, relieved. Had the Nazgûl pressed harder, he feared his disguise might not have held.
He had been careful, using only the spells of Middle-earth. To slay the wraith outright would have been folly; the instant a Nazgûl fell, Sauron would sense it through the bond of the Nine, and the Dark Lord's gaze would turn east. Against that terrible scrutiny, Sylas had no confidence in remaining hidden.
Yet even now, he knew he could not linger in Lug Rhûn. Word of a strange wizard in the East would surely travel back to Mordor, and the Enemy would take notice.
His eyes fell upon the battlefield, the broken Dorwinions, the retreating Wainriders and Balchoth, and the twisted carcass of the Fellbeast.
Sylas strode first to the monstrous creature. Its body oozed foul black ichor, the air around it heavy with rot and despair. He lifted his staff and, with a sharp blow, ended its suffering. Then he called forth fire, and the Fellbeast's remains were consumed in cleansing flame until nothing but ash remained.
Only then did he turn toward the Dorwinions.
The Wainriders and Balchoth, seeing their "dark messenger" driven off and their "divine beast" slain, had lost all heart. They fled in panic, their war-cries dissolving into chaos. Sylas paid them no heed.
Instead, he walked to the man who seemed to be their leader.
The Dorwinion chieftain looked at him with a mixture of awe and caution. At last, he bowed deeply and spoke:
"I am Balger, leader of the Dorwinion host. My lord Dumbledore, thank you for delivering us. If you have need of us, command it."
He had clearly heard the name Sylas had given the Ringwraith.
Sylas regarded him with a steady gaze, then drew a small glass vial from his cloak and tossed it lightly.
"Within is a healing draught. One drop will mend wounds. Share it among your warriors. But we must depart quickly. There are more Ringwraiths in these lands, and if they arrive, we will not escape."
Balger caught the potion with care, staring at the glowing liquid within. Without hesitation, he ordered his men to administer it to the wounded.
The results were immediate. Warriors who moments ago had been bleeding and broken now rose to their feet, whole and hale. Murmurs of astonishment swept through the Dorwinions, and more than one looked at Sylas as though at a god made flesh.
Some who bore only minor cuts hesitated, unwilling to waste such a sacred gift. But Balger's voice was firm, and under his command, every injured soldier received a drop. The potion worked wonders, and soon all who had not already perished were restored.
Balger himself was shaken by such power, yet dared not hoard even a drop for his own sake. He used the vial to the last, watching his people stand once more with renewed strength.
When the last soldier was healed, he wasted no time. Supplies were gathered, torches set to the stronghold. Flames rose over Lug Rhûn, once Khamûl's seat, now denied to all who sought to claim it.
The Dorwinions did not covet cities as the Wainriders and Balchoth did. Their war was not of conquest but of resistance. They would melt into the wild, striking Sauron's servants where they least expected, bleeding them with raids, breaking their supply lines, and gnawing away at their will.
This was how the Dorwinions fought, not by clinging to strongholds like Lug Rhûn, but by harrying Sauron's servants with swift raids and relentless resistance. It was a strategy the Blue Wizards themselves had taught them, to curb Sauron's strength in the East and prevent the lands beyond Rhûn from falling wholly into his dominion.
When Sylas heard the Dorwinion leader mention the Blue Wizards, his heart leapt.
"You know of the Ithryn Luin?" he asked quickly. "I have journeyed here for them."
The chieftain, Balger, tilted his head in curiosity. "Which one does Master Dumbledore seek? Both walk a hidden road. Rómestámo often ranges through Rhûn, while Morinehtar keeps more to the south, Khand and Harad are his wandering grounds."
"Then can you reach either of them?" Sylas pressed.
Balger shook his head. "Morinehtar has not been north in many years. But perhaps we can call to Rómestámo. Our people owe the Wizards a great debt. They freed our ancestors from the Shadow's yoke and taught us how to resist. Whether he will come, I cannot say, but we can try."
"That will suffice," Sylas said, steady but inwardly eager.
At dawn on the second day, after riding hard with the Dorwinions, they came at last to the tribe's heartland. At its center stood a shrine, unlike anything Sylas had expected.
Two stone figures loomed there, cloaked and hooded, staffs in hand, one long-bearded, the other short-bearded. Mystery clung to them, as if even in stone they walked a hidden path.
"These are our guardians," Balger said reverently. "Rómestámo and Morinehtar. We raised these statues in gratitude."
Sylas studied the carvings in silence, then followed as Balger led him to a broad basin at their feet, brimming with clear water. Strange runes wound along its rim.
"This is our holy water," Balger explained. "Every child of our people is baptized here, that they may be guarded from corruption and the snares of evil."
Sylas bent close, astonished. He could feel it, the faint warmth of light, woven into the water. True power. It reminded him uneasily of certain rites from his old world, but this was no borrowed ritual. It held a cleansing virtue, enough to sting the servants of Shadow.
Then Balger did something that startled him further. He murmured words over the basin, and the water stirred. Ripples spread, and within them rose a wavering image, like a vision half-seen through mist.
"You can work magic?" Sylas asked, brows lifting. He felt the thread of power in the air.
Balger shook his head. "Not true magic. Rómestámo once taught our forebears a little craft. Enough to ward and to heal. I know but scraps of it."
Yet Sylas was more surprised, not less. In his world, magic was born, not taught. A Muggle could never conjure so much as a spark. But here, the Blue Wizard had found a way to kindle power in ordinary folk. What kind of mage could shape such a gift?
And then, before he could speak again, the surface of the basin flared with light. A figure cloaked in blue took form within the ripples, his eyes solemn, his voice echoing faintly across the distance:
"Balger. Why do you summon me?"