The outbreak of war always comes faster than anyone expects.

On the eastern bank of the River Isen, two armies clashed.

On one side was an advance force composed of Dunlendings and Uruk-hai, numbering a little over two thousand.

On the other side was the prince of Rohan, Théodred, the only son of King Théoden, leading ten companies of cavalry and over a hundred archers, along with four more companies, about five hundred men, from western Rohan who had come to reinforce them.

In numbers, the two sides were roughly equal.

But in quality, Rohan clearly held the advantage.

Théodred had inherited his father Théoden’s courage well. Under the prince’s command, the soldiers fought fiercely and managed, for the moment, to drive back the invading enemy.

Victory had come, but Théodred could not bring himself to feel happy.

“The situation is far from good,” he murmured, frowning as he recalled the intelligence reports from the rear.

Rohan was anything but peaceful at this time.

In the West, the great host of Dunlendings, orcs, and Uruk-hai loomed menacingly. Even a mere vanguard detachment had brought tremendous pressure, and to this day, Théodred still had no idea how large the enemy’s main force truly was.

As for the East, the pressure there was no lighter. The armies of Mordor had crossed the Emyn Muil hills and were roaming across the wide plains of Eastfold.

Their main goal did not seem to be a direct assault on Rohan, but rather to search for something. Still, that did not stop them from showing hostility to the Rohirrim whenever it suited them.

Should the situation in Eastfold turn unfavorable, Théodred was certain they would abandon their search and immediately turn to attack Rohan.

At this moment, Rohan was being struck from both east and west, caught between hammer and anvil.

Ironically, it was the distant northern plateau that had become the safest region, mostly because it lay close to the cities of the Free Cities.

Not long ago, word came that those same cities, even while fighting large armies from Mordor, had somehow managed to spare forces to clear out the Uruk-hai in the northern highlands.

That had spared Rohan much trouble, allowing them to focus entirely on defending their eastern and western borders without worrying about the faraway north.

Théodred’s thoughts wandered.

Sometimes he even wanted to suggest to his father that they move the capital to the northern plateau. Though it was far and sparsely populated, with only scattered villages, it truly was safe.

The world is unpredictable indeed.

Who could have imagined that the Northern Waste, once the most barren, perilous, and indefensible region, would, thanks to the two new fortress-cities built by the Free Cities along the Undeeps, become the safest place of all?

But there was no time to dwell on such thoughts. For Théodred, these matters were far away and irrelevant.

The defense of the present battlefield was what mattered most.

Even though the vanguard forces from Isengard and Dunland had been repelled, the situation at the ford remained grim. The western bank was weakly defended and unlikely to withstand the next assault.

As the sun sank and twilight fell, Théodred made his decision. He gathered a squad of infantry and prepared to cross the river to reinforce the western bank.

But just then, unexpected visitors arrived.

A small team of five Rangers from the Free Cities approached. The leader bore on his shoulder a dull grey medal that seemed unremarkable from the outside, but was in fact filled with pure gold at its core.

Théodred had never seen such a medal before, but he had heard of it from his father.

It was said to be an ancient honor established by the Lord of the North, awarded only to those who had shown exceptional valor and distinction in battle.

If this man bore such a mark, then his counsel was surely worth hearing.

With that thought, he paused his movement and spoke with the Ranger.

“I know of your people. I have heard that in the lands of Enedwaith, near Dunland, the Rangers of the Free Cities patrol ceaselessly. You keep the roads safe and share news freely with your allies. It is a noble service.”

“So then, Rangers of the Free Cities, what news do you bring us this time?”

Though he greeted them with courtesy, his tone carried urgency. He feared that even a moment’s delay might see the western bank fall, and then all would be lost.

But the words of the Ranger captain that followed made Théodred’s brow furrow deeply.

“We advise you to withdraw,” the Ranger said calmly. “Recall the troops on the western bank as well, and fall back to a defensive position.”

“Withdraw? Why should we retreat?”

Théodred wanted an explanation. He could not abandon the field merely because of a single suggestion.

The Ranger, however, gave his reasoning.

In short, don’t go. There are too many of them.

Within Isengard, over ten thousand Uruk-hai had gathered, where they came from, no one knew, and they were preparing for a full-scale assault.

Worse still, another elite host made up of the fiercest warriors from Dunland and half-blood orc-men was advancing from the east. They would likely reach the battlefield by nightfall. If Rohan’s army did not withdraw now, not only would the western bank of the River Isen be lost, there would hardly be any survivors left on the eastern bank either.

The enemy’s numbers far exceeded expectations, at least ten thousand strong. Théodred’s own force numbered barely two thousand.

His scouts had only managed to observe the vanguard gathered outside Isengard’s gates. They had been unable to see what was happening within, for the place was too perilous to approach.

But these Rangers, they had somehow slipped past Isengard’s guarded pass and uncovered information from inside its walls.

Such skill was almost frightening.

“I understand. Thank you for bringing this news.”

“Then what is your decision, my lord?”

Théodred looked up. The sun was setting, and a bead of cold sweat slid down his temple.

If the Ranger’s report was true, the enemy would be upon them soon.

“I have long known this truth,” Théodred said quietly. “Without Isengard, the ford itself offers little protection, and against Isengard, it offers even less.”

“The hasty fortifications on the western bank cannot possibly withstand the enemy, and even our defenses here on the eastern bank are unstable. We must fall back, retreat to Helm’s Deep. The Hornburg’s high walls will shield us from this army.”

“Thank you for your warning. Rohan will not forget this favor.”

—

“The Fellowship of the Ring has broken apart,” Gandalf said in the golden woods of Lothlórien, analyzing the current situation. “It would be meaningless for me to continue pursuing their trail now.”

Saruman, standing nearby, added, “The Hobbits’ journey will have the aid of the Free Cities. You need not trouble yourself over them. What we must concern ourselves with is Isengard. The enemy has usurped my command of the armies. He will surely march against Rohan.”

“Isengard?” Gandalf asked.

“Yes, Isengard,” Saruman replied. “You should heed my counsel, Gandalf. No one knows that place better than I. The western defenses of Rohan alone cannot withstand the Uruk-hai host from Isengard, nor the treacherous Men of Dunland.”

“Ah, treacherous, you say?” Gandalf’s tone was mildly sardonic. “You see, I warned you about them long ago.”

There was a hint of reproach in his voice, and Saruman’s expression stiffened.

“Can we not stay on the subject?” Saruman muttered, clearly uncomfortable. He avoided responding and tried to steer the conversation back.

Though he loathed to admit it, Saruman knew that Gandalf was no longer the same as before. His power now rivaled Saruman’s own, whether he wore the Ring of Fire or not.

The white robe Gandalf now wore, the one Saruman had once discarded in discontent, seemed to gleam with a brilliance beyond reproach.

By contrast, Saruman’s own robe, once shimmering with many hues, now looked muddled and impure, a confusion of colors that resembled none at all.

Caught between “white” and “colorless.”

Deep down, Saruman sensed that his identity as an Istar, a Wizard, was fading.

Even if he were to return someday to the Blessed Realm and regain his full Maia power, he would still face judgment for his deeds.

Yet despite that, Saruman, proud as ever, still saw himself as Gandalf’s equal.

As for Gandalf’s view of him…

He had none. Gandalf had no interest in quarreling over pride or status.

The Grey Pilgrim, no, the White Wizard now, had always been the same. Whether speaking with kings or common folk, he treated all allies with the same gentle courtesy.

And though Saruman had fallen from grace, Gandalf still regarded him as a friend, an old friend who had lost his way.

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