Morinehtar's warning froze the breath in their lungs.
The next instant, the shrieking bats outside ceased their frenzied strikes and instead wheeled in a tight formation around the tower. Their wings beat like a living barricade, and from their throats poured a unified, piercing wail, a storm of sound so violent that stone itself began to crack and crumble.
Sylas and Rómestámo staggered, clutching their heads as if knives had been driven into their skulls. Their hearts pounded, organs rattled, every sense filled with pain.
Gritting his teeth, Sylas lifted his wand and cried out, "Silencio!"
A dome of stillness enveloped the three Wizards, muting the sonic assault. Relief washed over them, but only briefly. The bats redoubled their attack, their vibrations splintering the tower walls, stones trembling as though the whole structure might collapse around them.
"Sylas!" Rómestámo shouted above the chaos. "The horn, blow the Horn of Victory!"
Without hesitation, Sylas drew forth the gleaming white-and-gold horn and set it to his lips. He blew with all his might.
The sound burst forth like thunder over a battlefield, bright and clear as dawn's first light. The call swept through Minas Harad with irresistible force, drowning out the bats' shrieks, shattering their coordination. Deafened and disoriented, the great creatures scattered wildly, crashing into walls and towers, shrieking in panic.
Below, Haradrim soldiers and Orcs dropped their weapons in terror. The sound stripped courage from their hearts, scattering them like leaves before a storm. Men fled in blind panic; Orcs howled and trampled each other in their haste to escape.
Sylas lowered the horn, preparing to Apparate them away to safety, only to feel his blood run cold.
Apparition failed. The air itself had been locked, bound by a power greater than his own.
A chill swept the tower, heavier than any winter wind. Shadows thickened. A suffocating fear pressed in on their hearts.
From the darkness, three Ringwraiths emerged, their cloaked forms gliding like smoke, blades of Morgul steel gleaming with malice. Behind them, a great Fellbeast swooped down, and upon its saddle stood a figure they all knew.
Saruman.
His white robes gleamed ghostly in the torchlight, but his eyes burned with venom. A twisted smile curled across his face as he gazed at them in the ruined tower.
"Well, well," he hissed. "I came to catch a fish, but the net has brought me far better prey than I dreamed." His gaze fixed on Sylas, sharp and cruel as a hawk on its quarry. "Black Wizard… tell me, how fares Orthanc in my absence? I have longed to see you broken at my feet. And now, you walk straight into my hands."
Rómestámo's face hardened. His eyes fell upon the staff Saruman carried, it was Morinehtar's. Fury and grief flared in his voice.
"Saruman! You betrayed your charge, colluded with Sauron, and brought ruin upon my brother! Have you forgotten why we came to Middle-earth?"
Once, long ago, Saruman had traveled east with the two Blue Wizards, guiding and teaching alongside them before returning west. To see him now, fallen so far, was a wound deeper than any blade.
Saruman only laughed, the sound brittle and cruel.
"Mission?" he sneered. "My mission is power. To seize strength, to master this world. Why should I serve when I can rule?"
Sylas narrowed his eyes. "And what of Sauron? Do you mean to serve him, or to usurp him?"
Saruman ignored the barb, his smile widening with predatory delight. He raised his staff, his voice cold as steel.
"Ringwraiths, deal with the other Blue Wizard."
The three Nazgûl hissed as one, lifting their cursed blades. Their forms wavered, becoming black shadows that closed in around Rómestámo.
Saruman's gaze never left Sylas. His voice dripped with malice, a cat savoring the torment of its prey.
"As for you, Black Wizard… you are mine."
Morinehtar, weakened and robbed of his staff, was in no condition to fight. His strength was gone; his breath came in ragged gasps. All he could do was cling faintly to life.
Rómestámo stood before him like a wall of steel, staff raised high, sparks of blue fire spilling from its tip. The three Ringwraiths pressed in, their cloaked forms wreathed in shadow. With every sweep of their Morgul blades, darkness followed, foul enchantments filling the air with terror and dread. Each stroke promised death. Yet Rómestámo met them blow for blow, his own power forcing them back in bursts of blinding azure light.
The duel between them was evenly matched, neither side gaining ground, the air trembling with the clash of sorcery and shadow.
Sylas, meanwhile, bore the brunt of Saruman's wrath.
"Avada Kedavra!" he roared, green light flaring from his wand. But Saruman, with a contemptuous flick, raised a broken stone as a shield; the curse struck harmlessly and dissipated.
Undeterred, Sylas hurled spell after spell, Blasting Curses, Fire Charms, jets of lightning, all crashing against Saruman in a relentless cascade. Sparks and flame danced in the night; the tower shook as if in an earthquake.
Saruman parried them with effortless disdain, his eyes glittering with cruel amusement. "Tricks, boy. Mere tricks! If this is all the Black Wizard can muster, then today you die!"
With a sweep of his staff, he conjured a searing globe of fire. It hurtled toward Sylas like a falling sun.
"Protego Maxima!" Sylas cried, raising his shield.
The fireball detonated with the force of a hundred barrels of blasting powder. Flame roared upward, stone cracked, and the tower's upper floors crumbled to ash. Yet within the inferno, Sylas's shield held, a shimmering dome of light fueled not by his wand alone, but by the golden ring glowing upon his hand.
The Ring of Power.
Saruman's sneer twisted into fury. His eyes burned red as he spat, "My ring! You dare wear what I forged?"
He struck again and again, hammering at the shield with spell after spell, each blow like thunder. But the barrier, fed by the vast stores of magic Sylas had painstakingly poured into it, did not falter.
Sylas knew it could last a day if need be. But he also knew he could not waste its power. The tower groaned around them, stones cracking, battlements falling. Time was running out.
He reached into his cloak and drew the Horn of Victory.
One mighty blast shook the night. The sound split the heavens like the voice of the Valar themselves. The Ringwraiths reeled, their foul aura wavering. Saruman staggered, clutching his ears as agony wracked him. The Fellbeast beneath him shrieked in panic, wings flailing as it bucked wildly.
Sylas seized his moment. A bolt of emerald light blazed from his wand, not at Saruman, but at the Fellbeast.
The Killing Curse struck true. The beast went limp in an instant, dead before its scream left its throat. Its vast body plummeted, wings folding as it tumbled down into the valley below.
Saruman leapt free, robes whipping like white fire in the night. For all his pride, his body was still Maia-strong, and he bounded from stone to stone, landing upon the tower with furious grace.
But Sylas was ready. With his staff in hand, ring blazing with light, he slammed its tip into the floor.
The tower itself shuddered. Cracks tore through its walls like veins of lightning. With a sound like the mountains splitting, the entire structure gave way, collapsing in a thunderous roar.
Stone crashed into stone, crushing Orcs and Haradrim by the dozens. The valley quaked with the ruin of Minas Harad.
Through the chaos, Sylas's shield held firm, carrying him, Rómestámo, and Morinehtar down like a drifting feather, landing them gently amidst the ruin.
The Nazgûl drifted down unharmed, their spectral forms untouched by falling stone.
And Saruman, though buried in fire and rubble, emerged alive. His robes torn, his hair disheveled, yet his body unbroken.
Sylas could not help but marvel inwardly at Saruman's endurance.
The White Wizard, battered by stone and flame, shoved aside a massive slab of masonry with a single kick. His robes, once resplendent in shifting hues, were now torn and filthy with dust. His face was bruised, his hair wild, yet his eyes blazed with wrath.
"Sylas!" Saruman roared, his voice cracking like thunder. "Mark this well, today is your death day!"
He thrust his staff skyward. The skies blackened. A blinding bolt of lightning, thick as an oak's trunk, split the clouds and hurtled downward. With a gesture, Saruman bent the lightning into a spear of fire, striking straight at Sylas.
The bolt slammed into his barrier. For a moment, the world vanished in white brilliance; the air split with deafening cracks, and the ground beneath them quaked.
The shield held, but Sylas's heart sank. The power stored in the golden ring bled away far faster than before. What had been enough to last a day would now burn out in mere hours.
If he relied on defense alone, Saruman would grind him into dust.
Gritting his teeth, Sylas made his choice. He lifted his wand and unleashed one of the darkest spells known to wizardkind.
"Fiendfyre!"
Infernal flame burst forth, alive and ravenous. It raced across the ruins of Minas Harad, devouring timber, stone, and flesh alike. Screaming Haradrim and Orcs vanished in an instant as the fire grew into monstrous forms, serpents, wolves, and at last a vast dragon of flame that lunged at Saruman with a roar.
But Saruman only sneered.
With a contemptuous sweep of his staff, he sent a shockwave crashing into the beast. The fiery dragon reeled, scattering sparks into the sky. Then the fallen wizard began to chant, his voice low and harsh, weaving an older, deeper power.
The wind obeyed.
A funnel of air coiled from the earth, swelling into a towering tornado that tore at the land. Sand and dust were sucked into its heart until it became a whirling storm of knives. The Fiendfyre dragon writhed, clawing at its prison, but the gale smothered it. Sand smothered flame, drowning its hungry roar until the cursed fire sputtered and died.
The sandstorm did not relent. It scythed through the fortress, shredding Orcs and Haradrim alike. Blood mingled with dust. Saruman did not spare them a glance. His will bent the storm, and the tornado lurched toward Sylas.
The young wizard braced himself, pressing the shield of the ring deep into the earth. But the storm was merciless. It tore at boulders and toppled towers; what was one man's anchor against such force?
The tornado seized them, Sylas, Rómestámo, and the barely conscious Morinehtar, all bound within the shimmering shield.
The world became chaos.
They spun like driftwood in a maelstrom, tossed high, hurled low, their bodies flung about as if in a giant's fist. Sand battered the shield in endless torrents, the sharp grains striking with the rhythm of war drums.
Sylas's stomach churned, his vision swam, and the roar of the storm filled his ears. Protected though they were, he felt as though he'd been hurled into a colossal cauldron, tumbled over and over until he could scarcely tell up from down.
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Read chapters ahead @/Keepsmiling818