The explosion split the heavens, and for a brief, breathless moment, hope flickered in every eye below.
But that hope died as swiftly as it came.
From the dispersing cloud of ice and vapor, the upper half of the shattered mountain re-emerged, vast, gleaming, and unbroken. Sylas's Bombarda Maxima had only annihilated the lower portion; the larger mass above remained whole.
Frozen anew by Hrívemir's magic, the iceberg radiated an aura of deathly cold. Its descent slowed for only a heartbeat, then, fed by another torrent of frost from the dragon above, it hurtled once more toward Isengard.
Despair spread across the faces of the Dunlendings and the Rohirrim. Even the boldest quailed as the shadow of the mountain grew upon them.
But Sylas did not stop.
"Arresto Momentum! Protego Totalum! Super Protego! Fortificare…!"
His voice rang like thunder as he unleashed spell after spell, layering wards upon wards. The Ring of Power on his hand blazed white, releasing every ounce of stored magic. A colossal shield unfolded across the heavens, covering Smaug, Thorondor, Aslan the Griffin, Cerberus the Three-Headed hound, and every mortal warrior below.
From atop Smaug's back, Sylas stood at the shield's apex, one hand raised to the sky, bearing the weight of the world itself.
For a moment, the colossal iceberg slowed.
But Hrívemir would not allow reprieve. He descended from the clouds, his vast wings blotting the light, and breathed out a hurricane of glacial wind. The gale struck the mountain, accelerating its fall and thickening its weight with layer upon layer of freezing ice.
One by one, Sylas's conjured barriers shattered like glass under hammer blows. The wards splintered, fading in showers of golden sparks.
Then came the final impact.
The mountain struck the shield with apocalyptic force. The sound was like a planet breaking, a roar that deafened, a brilliance that blinded. A storm of ice shards rained for leagues, the air turning instantly to frost. A shockwave ripped outward in every direction, flattening forests, shattering boulders, shaking the very mountains.
Smaug screamed as unbearable weight drove him downward, his massive wings folding. Sylas, even through the shield, felt the crushing power drive through his bones. Blood streamed from his lips as he clung to the magic, refusing to yield.
But the strain was too great. The ring's light dimmed, the shield cracked like a dome of broken glass, and then, with a final groan, it collapsed.
The iceberg fell once more, unstoppable.
It struck Orthanc. The tower's pinnacle shattered, stone bursting into a storm of rubble and ice. Fragments rained down, annihilating everything in their path.
Thorondor, Aslan, and the others shrieked as they were torn from the sky. Hippogriffs and dragons fell together, crushed under the collapsing heavens.
Brog looked upward, despair hollowing his chest. 'Is this the end for us?' he thought, frozen in place.
King Fengel, after his first moment of terror, grew calm. He gazed toward Rohan's distant plains, eyes filled with sorrow and regret.
And then;
Everything stopped.
From the plummeting Smaug's back, a terrible power erupted. The air shuddered; the world itself seemed to pause.
The warriors who had closed their eyes, waiting for death, opened them again, and gasped.
All around them, the world hung suspended. Shards of ice and splinters of stone floated weightlessly, slowly turning in the air. The falling beasts, Thorondor, dragons, hippogriffs, all hung motionless, caught mid-fall.
Even the iceberg, immense and terrible, hovered above Orthanc's shattered crown, as though held in the grasp of an invisible god.
A silence deeper than death filled the air.
Then they saw it.
Above Smaug's back, a vast black energy swirled, mist or smoke, impossible to define. It pulsed and churned, alive with terrible hunger.
The cloud spread, dark and seething, expanding outward in waves. Its power was suffocating, primal, infinite.
In an instant, it surged upward, enfolding the frozen iceberg in a veil of shadow, instantly tearing it into countless fragments, turning into a sky full of ice and snow.
High above the storm-torn sky, Hrívemir froze in disbelief. His pupils narrowed, his voice trembling with something between awe and fear.
"Are you… Sylas?"
The black energy gave no answer. After annihilating the iceberg, it coalesced into a violent wind and hurled itself toward him.
Hrívemir reacted on instinct, unleashing a surge of glacial breath. But the black wind scattered like mist, slipping through the torrent of frost. In the next heartbeat, it was upon him, spreading and twisting into a shroud of shadow that wrapped around his immense body like a living cloak.
The Frost Dragon's scales, hard as enchanted ice, began to split under the force. Fissures spread across his armor, and beneath them, his flesh tore open, spilling cold, luminous blood that steamed in the freezing air.
Hrívemir howled, thrashing wildly. He clawed at the darkness, but his talons passed through it like smoke. Desperate, he turned his own power against himself, spewing blizzards of frost in an attempt to freeze the shadow clinging to him.
For a moment, the temperature plummeted even further, and patches of the black mist crystallized into shards of pale-blue ice. But it made no difference, the shadow simply shed the frozen pieces and continued its merciless assault.
Then, with a single dreadful motion, it surged down to the base of his left wing. A tearing sound echoed through the heavens as Hrívemir's wing was ripped from his body.
The Frost Dragon screamed, a sound that split the mountains, and his vast form tumbled from the clouds, crashing into the hills between Isengard and Fangorn. The impact shattered the ridge, sending tremors through the land.
But he did not die. From the smoking crater, Hrívemir dragged himself out, roaring his fury to the heavens.
The Ringwraiths, hearing his call, rallied to him, swooping in with their fell-blades drawn.
The black energy turned upon them, splitting into eight shadowy tendrils that lashed out like whips. The Nazgûl's Morgul blades cut only air, their cursed metal found no purchase against this formless power.
And then the sky itself turned white.
A bolt of lightning fell from the heavens, crashing directly into the black mist. The shockwave rippled through the battlefield; the energy mass convulsed, emitting an inhuman, soul-piercing roar.
For the first time, it took shape, a human face formed within the seething blackness. Sylas's face.
Far off, atop his dragon, Saruman grinned, his eyes alight with cruel triumph.
"Hmph… whatever monster you've become, boy, you die today!"
He raised his staff again, summoning more lightning. Hrívemir joined him, unleashing torrents of killing frost. Lightning and ice converged in a maelstrom of annihilation, striking the black mass with unrelenting fury.
Within the storm, Sylas's face twisted in agony. The black energy shrank, flickering like a dying flame.
Then, a horn's cry.
Clear, piercing, glorious. It cut through thunder and storm like dawn through night.
The Horn of Victory.
At the same moment, two brilliant streaks shot through the air, Mithril arrows, one aimed at Saruman, the other at Hrívemir.
Brog and King Fengel had not stood idle. Seeing their lord in peril, they acted in unison, Brog loosing his enchanted arrows while Thengel poured his strength into the horn's ancient call.
The sound was unbearable. Hrívemir and Saruman staggered, clutching at their heads as the reverberation tore through their minds. Even the shadow surrounding Sylas quivered under the force, but this time, it was renewed, not weakened.
The Mithril arrows missed their marks but achieved their purpose, distraction.
And from that heartbeat of hesitation, the black energy struck back.
It surged downward, slamming into the dragon that bore Saruman. The beast didn't even cry out before its body was torn apart, its remains raining upon the fields below. Saruman fell with it, his staff spinning from his grasp as he plummeted.
The shadow ignored him. Its focus was on Hrívemir.
It streaked across the sky, dodging another torrent of frost, and latched onto the Frost Dragon's head. The air filled with a hideous screech as the black energy dug into his flesh, tearing at the iron crown.
The iron crown had seemed fused to Hrívemir's skull; as the shadow clawed and tore, the dragon's roars turned to ragged screams.
Panic flared in his eyes as he thrashed to dislodge the black energy that clung like tar to his brow. The darkness chewed and clung as if it were living gum, no matter how he tore and battered, it held fast, gnawing at the iron diadem.
The Nazgûl circled, blades slashing, desperate to free their ally.
At last, with a furious, bone-shuddering roar of unwilling fury, the crown was wrenched free. It flew from Hrívemir's head and struck the earth with a dull, resonant clang.
The change was instantaneous. The demonic glaze that had clouded Hrívemir's eyes lifted; clarity rushed back to him like a thaw. An unnatural silence fell across the field, soldiers and spectres alike held their breath.
Then the dragon's gaze turned to ice and hatred. He roared a single name across the plain, a voice like grinding glaciers: "Sauron! Despicable, shameless cur, servant of my false master, you dare to enslave me!"
"Revenge!" he bellowed. "I will have my revenge! I will turn Mordor to a glacier and burn everything you hold!"
With that, Hrívemir unleashed a cathedral of cold upon the Nazgûl. The sudden onslaught froze many of them to the bone; their shrieks of despair were cut short as ice encased their armor and forms. Only the Witch-king of Angmar, swift and cunning, avoided the worst of it and fled.
Where the frozen Nazgûl fell, Hrívemir's foot came down like a meteor, crushing them into the ground. He spat fury at the iron crown that had once bound him and ground it beneath his talon until it was a shattered relic.
His gaze then fixed on Saruman. Old wounds and ancient hatreds surfaced, the wizard who had roused him, who had poisoned him with Ungoliant's venom and desecrated his blood for abominations. Rage burned in Hrívemir's eyes.
"Wretched wizard," he thundered, voice shaking the trees, "if you had not awakened me nor tainted me with Ungoliant's venom, I would never have been made a tool for Sauron. You bled me to spawn your filthy mongrels, now you will pay!"