“Nazgûl!”

Both wizards inside the tower spoke the intruder’s name at once. Saruman frowned and immediately handed back the staff he had just snatched from Gandalf, who hastily seized his staff and forced himself to stand upright.

Shriiiek!

A monstrous flying beast let out a savage roar as it dove toward the tower, bearing upon its back one of the Nazgûl.

“Get out!”

Saruman raised his staff and struck out to repel it.

But there was more than one Nazgûl.

The other eight did not simply hover and watch. They all dove down together, trying to break through Saruman’s solid defenses.

“I’m still here.”

Just as Saruman was about to falter, Gandalf stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder and sharing the immense strain.

Saruman froze for a moment.

Never had this pedantic, bothersome Gandalf seemed so pleasing to his eyes.

“Filthy creatures! I’ll show you whose domain this is today!”

Saruman shouted furiously at the Nazgûl circling above.

Boom!

Thunder cracked in the sky, shaking the air and leaving their ears ringing. A sickly green bolt of lightning struck the balcony before the thunder itself reached them, blasting both Saruman and Gandalf black with soot and knocking them flat on the ground.

Ptooey.

Gandalf opened his mouth and spat out a puff of black smoke.

He found himself missing his time as a guest at Wayfort. It had been safe, peaceful, and comfortable there.

Isengard, by comparison, had never felt so miserable.

Saruman, clearly in better shape than Gandalf, leaned on his staff and stood up.

“You see? What did I say? Sauron’s spiritual power has almost fully recovered. Even his lackeys now wield strength like this. If you hadn’t been dragging me down and wasting my power, I wouldn’t be in such a sorry state right now. If only you’d told me about the Ring sooner, had it fallen into my hands, those Nazgûl out there would be kneeling before me and calling me master, instead of…”

Before he could finish, the leader of the Nazgûl, the Lord of Morgul, the former Witch-king of Angmar, let out a mocking laugh.

“Hahahahaha! Two crippled wizards think they can stand against us?”

“…instead of mocking us from above,” Saruman finished bitterly, grinding his teeth and glaring up at the infuriating wraiths.

Gandalf could tell that Saruman’s condition was hardly any better than his own. He was holding on by sheer willpower. If he jabbed Saruman lightly in the back with his staff right now, the man would surely collapse.

“Say what you like, there’s no chance left for either of us,” he said, lying flat on the ground, calmly accepting what was to come.

“But I’m not worried, not about our mission, nor about Sauron and his Nazgûl.”

He drew a slow breath and continued, “Because I know there will be others, others who will avenge us, who will protect this land. And if that’s so, then what harm is there in dying?”

Sooner dead, sooner gone. Less trouble that way.

He sighed and reached for the pipe mounted on his staff, only to remember that Saruman had smashed it earlier.

Another sigh escaped him, full of regret.

Saruman kept his gaze fixed on the Nazgûl, listening silently.

Then, for just an instant, the cold eyes, usually filled with cruelty and a mad hunger for power, grew calm.

As the Nazgûl stirred again, he suddenly spoke, “Since when does Gandalf the Grey, bringer of hope, speak such words?”

Thud!

The Nazgûl’s charge failed once more, crashing into some unseen ward of the tower that held them back.

Saruman’s breath caught. After a moment, he turned, seized Gandalf by the robe, and dragged him with effort to the edge of the balcony.

“What are you doing, Saruman?”

“Getting you out of my sight.”

“What?”

Whack!

Saruman suddenly swung his staff like a club, striking Gandalf hard in the waist and knocking him clean off the tower.

“AAAAAAHHHHH!”

Gandalf screamed in terror as he plummeted downward.

He kept falling and falling, until suddenly, a vast power like the pull of the stars caught him. The force was neither wholly light nor darkness. It carried a faint, violent undertone. It seized Gandalf and drew him swiftly away from Isengard, dragging him at incredible speed into the distance.

All the way to the mountain pass of Rohan.

Plop.

Having done this, Saruman finally collapsed to the ground, utterly spent.

The defenses of Orthanc failed completely. The Nazgûl vanished from their fell beasts, and a wicked, icy wind swept into the tower’s highest chamber, snuffing out every trace of light.

Nine dark figures emerged from the shadows. They drew their long swords and surrounded the white-robed wizard.

He stiffly turned his head from side to side, truly feeling the weight of despair.

At that moment, he found himself thinking, sometimes, it might not be so bad to have an annoying, uninvited guest around.

But miracles don’t always come.

“Come with us, wizard,” said one of the Nazgûl coldly. “The Master summons you.”

A sword pressed against Saruman’s throat.

There was no escape.

He closed his eyes, and under cover of his robes, slipped the Ring of Power from his hand, the Ring of Stars, and dropped it silently to the ground. No sound, no glint, nothing to draw the Nazgûl’s notice.

Then they took him away.

—

“You look like a beggar.”

Somewhere in a fortress in western Rohan, King Théoden, passing by, couldn’t help but remark upon the sight of Gandalf, his face blackened with soot, robes tattered and filthy.

Gandalf, utterly drained, had no strength left to argue.

“The situation is dire, Théoden,” he said. “Isengard has fallen to the Nazgûl. Saruman’s fate is unknown. There are many orcs there, larger and stronger than Uruk-hai. Their allegiance is unclear, but we must be on our guard.”

Théoden frowned.

“Those Nazgûl,” he said, “they’ve been flying over Rohan without restraint. The screams of their beasts have thrown my people into panic.”

“I followed their trail here,” he continued, “never expecting matters had grown this grave.”

“That is indeed serious.”

He raised his hand, summoning a marshal from behind him, and began issuing orders to strengthen the watch on Isengard.

When he was done, he pointed toward Gandalf.

“Prepare comfortable lodgings for our wizard. He looks exhausted.”

“No need,” Gandalf said, shaking his head.

“If you truly wish to help me, then lend me a swift horse. I must find Garrett.”

“Very well,” Théoden replied. “You may choose freely from the horses here. Take whichever you please. I trust you’ll treat it well.”

“Thank you.”

Without further ceremony, Gandalf turned and made straight for the stables.

Among the many unclaimed horses, one in particular caught his eye, a proud, wild grey stallion.

At first glance its coat seemed merely grey, but in sunlight it shone like silver, and in shadow it deepened into darkness.

“What is its name?” Gandalf asked.

The stablemaster answered, “Shadowfax. To tell you the truth, he’s the finest horse in all of Rohan, the noblest of steeds, king of horses, lord of the Mearas. But I must warn you, though he runs faster than any horse from Wayfort, his temper is fierce. No one has ever been able to ride him. As I said, a king does not easily bow his head.”

“That’s all right,” Gandalf said. “He’ll do.”

He tried to mount the horse.

Wham!

He was kicked squarely in the chest, leaving a new bruise on his face.

“Good. Very good,” Gandalf muttered through his teeth. “A temper worthy of a king indeed. But you won’t best me so easily.”

If Shadowfax, king of horses, had a temper, then surely an old wizard did too.

In truth, the title King of Horses was well earned. It took Shadowfax only four days to carry him from Rohan to Wayfort.

But in practice, he arrived a full week later.

Those extra three days were spent in battle of will and patience. Shadowfax was as wild as he was magnificent, and poor old Gandalf had been thrown, chased, and rolled through the plains more times than he cared to count before finally taming the stallion and earning his seat in the saddle.

At Wayfort, Shadowfax snorted and grazed lazily, utterly indifferent to the pink-faced stable girls staring at him. He munched on grass and drank from the pool as if he owned the place.

Near the castle gate, Garrett took one look at Gandalf, face blackened, robe torn in patches, bruises all over, and couldn’t help but ask, “Did they drag you off to Mordor to dig coal or something?”

—

—

Completed at Chapter 405!

Visit my profile page for more information.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep