WebNovels

Chapter 262 - Dragon Meat

Flying south over the white-capped Misty Mountains, Smaug soared through the clouds, his vast wings slicing the air like crimson sails.

In his talons, he carried the injured Giant Eagle Thorondor, while Sylas stood upon his back, the wind howling around them.

In Sylas's hands rested a large Mithril alloy chest, its surface engraved with delicate Dwarven runes. Despite its modest appearance, the box was enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm, its interior vast enough to hold the entire corpse of the fallen Frost Dragon.

The chest was a parting gift from Balin, who had personally overseen its forging.

Before Sylas's departure, Balin had insisted he remain in Moria as an honored guest. But Sylas, eager to return to Isengard and attend to more pressing matters, had politely declined.

As thanks, he had gifted Balin one of Hrívemir's massive fangs.

The Dwarf-lord had received it with visible delight, already dreaming of what marvel he might forge from such a relic. He had vowed to craft a Dragon Tooth Sword, combining Mithril and the tooth itself, a blade that would, in later years, become a treasured heirloom of Moria, renowned alongside the Axe of Durin.

But that was a tale for another age.

For now, Balin simply waved from the gates of Moria as Smaug took flight, the mountain wind carrying his farewell.

Standing atop Smaug's back, Sylas could feel the Dragon's chill seeping through the scales beneath his boots.

Since swallowing Hrívemir's Dragon Crystal, Smaug's inner fire had grown cold. His breath steamed like winter mist, and frost gathered along the ridges of his wings.

"Smaug," Sylas called out over the roar of the wind, "how long will it take you to absorb the Dragon Crystal's energy?"

"The Frost Dragon's crystal holds unimaginable power," Smaug rumbled. "To fully absorb it will take at least ten years."

"Ten years?" Sylas raised an eyebrow.

"That's nothing, Master," Smaug said, shaking his head, sending frost scattering from his horns. "That crystal belonged to an ancient wyrm of the First Age! Once I've absorbed its energy, I'll be as mighty as Hrívemir himself, no, mightier! My body will grow larger, my scales harder, my power greater than ever. Ten years of effort for a thousand years of strength, every Dragon dreams of such fortune!"

Sylas folded his arms. "So, for those ten years, you won't be able to breathe fire?"

Smaug's wings faltered slightly, and his tone grew cautious. "Not quite. I only need a year or two to suppress the crystal's cold. After that, I'll regain my flame."

Sylas nodded, mildly relieved. "Good. I'd rather not have my fortress guarded by a Dragon who freezes things instead of burning them."

Smaug gave a weak, frosty laugh, a puff of ice escaping his nostrils.

Then, after a long pause, his voice softened. "Master… when we return, I must enter a long sleep to hasten the digestion and absorption of the crystal. During that time, I'll be unable to assist you."

Sylas waved a hand dismissively. "Then rest. You've earned it. Mordor won't dare make another move so soon after their defeat. And even if they do, I still have Thorondor, Herpo, Kraken, and the others. We'll manage."

As they passed over the foothills, Sylas extended his magic, sensing a familiar aura below that of the Basilisk, still dormant in hibernation. With a flick of his wand, he opened the Mithril chest and gently levitated the sleeping serpent inside.

By the time they reached Isengard, the setting sun had turned the sky to gold and crimson. But the sight below wiped the warmth from Sylas's expression.

What once had been a proud fortress now lay in ruin.

The once-green valley was scarred and cratered. Trees were splintered and blackened, the walls that had surrounded the fortress reduced to jagged stumps of stone. Shattered boulders lay scattered across the plain, and patches of unmelted frost clung stubbornly to the ground, grim reminders of Hrívemir's final assault.

Even Orthanc, the indomitable tower of black stone, had not escaped unscathed. Its spire was broken, its upper chambers cracked and crumbling.

Sylas gazed upon the devastation in silence, his brow furrowed.

It was the first time his domain had suffered such ruin. He could only thank the Fates that this had not been Weathertop, nor a city filled with his followers. Had this destruction struck there, the loss of life would have been catastrophic.

All around the ruins, his forces remained steadfast.

The Dunlending warriors and Rohan cavalry, under Chief Brog's command, patrolled the perimeter in full armor, eyes sharp and weapons ready. Several warriors flew above the ruins on Hippogriffs, keeping watch for danger, while higher still, the Griffin Aslan soared in wide circles, his keen eyes scanning the horizon.

On the ground, Cerberus, the Three-Headed hound, stood guard before Orthanc, each of his heads facing a different direction, his breath forming clouds of frost in the cold air.

When Smaug's shadow swept across the ruined courtyard, the tension that had gripped the soldiers at last eased.

Cries rose from the ground, voices filled with relief and reverence:

"Lord Sylas!"

As Smaug landed in the shattered courtyard of Isengard, the assembled warriors broke into cheers.

"Lord Sylas!"

They rushed forward, joy and reverence written across every face.

Brog, the chieftain of the Dunlendings, was the first to approach. His gaze fell on the great Giant Eagle Thorondor, who had been gently set down by Smaug's talons.

"Lord Sylas," Brog said, voice tight with concern, "what happened to the Giant Eagle?"

Sylas smiled faintly. "One of his wings was frozen by the Frost Dragon's breath. He won't be flying for a while, but it's nothing serious."

At that, Thorondor raised his head and gave a clear, resonant cry, as if to reassure everyone himself. Unable to take to the skies, he instead strutted across the ruined courtyard, tall and regal, if a bit awkward on two legs. 

Then King Fengel of Rohan stepped forward, his golden armor still streaked with soot and frost.

"Wizard Sylas," he asked, his tone cautious, "what of the Frost Dragon? Did he… escape?"

Sylas's lips curved into a knowing smile. He lifted the Mithril chest in his hands.

"He's in here."

A collective murmur of disbelief swept through the ranks.

"Lord, are you saying the Frost Dragon is dead?" Brog asked, eyes wide.

Sylas nodded once, then flicked open the chest.

Inside, the magically expanded space revealed the immense, thousand-meter-long corpse of the Frost Dragon. Even in death, the creature radiated a numbing cold. In the shadow of its body lay Herpo, the Basilisk, still coiled in deep hibernation.

A stunned silence fell over the warriors as they stared down at the fallen titan. The impossible truth began to sink in, the Frost Dragon was slain.

Then came the roar of celebration.

Shouts of triumph and disbelief echoed through Isengard. Many had witnessed the Dragon's destructive power firsthand, seen it freeze entire battalions, shatter walls, and darken the skies. To see that same terror lying dead before them felt like beholding a miracle.

The Dunlending warriors knelt, pounding their fists against their chests in salute. Their eyes burned with reverence.

Even the proud Rohan cavalry gazed upon Sylas with awe, and King Fengel himself could not hide the spark of admiration in his eyes.

Brog stepped forward again, holding a golden weapon in both hands.

"Lord Sylas, this is your Golden Bow," he said respectfully. "It served us well."

The Mithril arrows, of course, had long since been spent in battle.

Then King Fengel approached, holding out a horn of silver and white, its carvings glinting faintly in the cold light.

"Wizard Sylas," he said solemnly, "I return to you the Horn of Victory. It has fulfilled its duty."

His words were formal, but his eyes lingered on the artifact. The horn had proven itself on the battlefield, its call could rouse courage, summon allies, and scatter the hearts of enemies. Fengel had felt its power firsthand.

If Rohan possessed such a relic, they could have been unshakable. Even with his disciplined mind, it pained him to surrender it.

Yet he knew he had neither the right nor the strength to claim it. With quiet dignity, he offered it back.

Sylas accepted both relics without pretense, inclining his head in gratitude.

"Both of you," he said warmly, "have my thanks. Without your aid, Isengard might have fallen. To show my gratitude, I would offer something in return."

He raised a hand and let out a sharp whistle.

Moments later, the Hippogriffs that had fought in the skies swooped down, landing gracefully before their master. The wind from their wings stirred the dust and frost across the ruined courtyard.

Sylas patted the lead Hippogriff's feathered neck, then turned to Brog.

"Brog," he said with a faint smile, "you and your warriors returned from Rohan's battlefield to defend Isengard, facing death without hesitation. I have seen your loyalty. As a token of that, these Hippogriffs shall be yours, from this day forward, they will serve as your mounts and companions."

For a moment, Brog could only stare, stunned. Then his face broke into pure joy.

"Thank you, Lord Sylas! We swear to cherish them and honor your gift!"

The Dunlendings erupted into cheers, many falling to their knees in gratitude. They had long admired the Hippogriffs but had never dared dream of owning them. This gift was beyond price.

King Fengel watched, trying to keep his composure. His gaze lingered on the majestic creatures, and a faint look of envy crossed his face.

Sylas caught it immediately and turned toward him with a knowing smile.

"King Fengel," he said, "even when Rohan faced peril, you led half your cavalry here to stand beside me. That kind of resolve and honor deserves recognition."

From his cloak, Sylas withdrew a brooch of deep sapphire set in silver filigree. The gem shimmered like frozen starlight.

Sylas smiled faintly, holding the sapphire brooch aloft between his fingers.

"This," he said, his voice steady and clear, "is a Portkey. When Rohan faces a true crisis, whether in your time or your descendants', simply tap the sapphire three times. It will bring its bearer directly to me… and I will come to your aid once."

The moment those words left his lips, King Fengel's eyes widened in astonishment.

He understood instantly what that meant.

This was not merely a brooch; it was a vow, a living promise from Sylas of Isengard, whose name now carried the weight of miracles and dragons slain.

It was both a life-saving relic and a bond of friendship between kingdoms.

All the envy he had felt for the Dunlendings' Hippogriffs vanished like mist before the sun. What were flying beasts compared to a promise from Sylas himself?

Holding the brooch reverently, King Fengel bowed deeply. "Your kindness and your trust shall never be forgotten, Lord Sylas. I will guard this treasure as I guard my crown."

In his heart, Fengel had already resolved that the brooch would become a royal heirloom of Rohan, never to be used except in the gravest of times, when the realm stood on the brink of ruin.

After exchanging farewells with Fengel, Sylas turned to the gathered warriors. His expression softened into a smile, his voice carrying across the courtyard.

"Today, to celebrate our victory," he announced, "there will be a feast under the open sky! And the main dish," he gestured behind him with a sweeping motion, "will be Dragon meat!"

For a heartbeat, the crowd froze.

Then, as comprehension dawned, the valley erupted in cheers loud enough to shake the mountains.

"Dragon meat!"

Excitement surged like wildfire. The warriors who had fought bravely mere hours ago now shouted and laughed, their fatigue melting into joyous disbelief.

To eat the flesh of a Dragon, creatures once thought untouchable, divine even, was the highest symbol of triumph.

Behind them lay countless Dragon corpses, remnants of Saruman's army. His entire brood of engineered monsters had been annihilated, their bodies scattered across the battlefield. Even Sylas's own dragons had suffered heavy losses, but such was the price of victory.

Now, those fallen beasts would serve one final purpose: a feast for the living.

As the cheers continued, Sylas lifted his staff, its silver head gleaming faintly with runic light.

"Before the feast," he said softly, "let us mend what was broken."

He tapped the ground once.

At that moment, the Ring of Power on his finger pulsed with radiant light, and the air itself seemed to hum with energy.

All around them, the ruined landscape began to heal.

Cracked stones knitted together. Collapsed walls rose anew. The earth smoothed over as if time itself were flowing backward.

The soldiers stood in stunned silence, their faces illuminated by the magic's glow.

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