CHAPTER 198: CRISIS

Bidding farewell to the ghosts, Sylas retraced his steps through the Paths of the Dead, emerging at last from the Dark Door on the northern side of the White Mountains.

The moment sunlight touched his face and fresh air filled his lungs, he breathed deeply, as though waking from a nightmare.

This journey through the realm of the dead, though harrowing, had ended far better than he expected. Still, the suffocating gloom of that place lingered in his bones: endless skulls and scattered skeletons, a land of silence and despair. For one without courage, the very air could kill.

And the ghosts, thousands upon thousands of oathbreakers bound by Isildur’s curse, were far worse than the bones. Physical weapons were useless, spells only delayed them, and even holy magic like the Patronus Charm or the Light of Eärendil could drive them back but never destroy them. Against a few dozen, perhaps he could fight. But against an army of hundreds of thousands? Impossible.

He had been ready to Apparate away at a moment’s notice if persuasion failed. For if those restless dead ever marched beyond the mountains, they could sweep across Middle-earth like an unstoppable tide.

Now free of that dreadful place, Sylas mounted his broom and set his course for Edoras, capital of Rohan. Nestled against the White Mountains, it lay not far from the Blackroot Vale. He intended to sign in there, and perhaps cross paths with Gandalf.

But as he prepared to fly, the sky darkened without warning.

Sylas looked up sharply. Heavy black clouds rolled together overhead. A jagged bolt of lightning tore from the heavens, lancing straight toward him.

Its speed was inhuman, far too swift for ordinary reflexes.

But the Crown of Wisdom flared invisibly upon his brow, flooding his mind with clarity. In a fraction of a heartbeat, his thoughts raced.

Move.

With a crack, he Apparated, vanishing an instant before the lightning struck. His broomstick, left behind, was obliterated in midair, reduced to smoking splinters.

Sylas reappeared on a rocky ledge halfway down the mountain, chest heaving. His eyes narrowed at the smoldering air where the broom had been.

"A coincidence? No... Someone is targeting me."

His thoughts churned. Who would dare? Sauron? Saruman? Or another enemy hidden in shadow?

The mountains offered no answers. Only more lightning.

Another thunderbolt split the sky, not aimed at him this time but at the snow-laden peak above. The glacier shattered with a deafening crack, and the entire mountainside rumbled.

A white wall of death descended, an avalanche vast enough to bury villages whole.

Sylas’s blood ran cold. He Apparated again, this time pushing his limits. The world folded around him, and he reappeared hundreds of kilometers away, far beyond the mountains’ shadow.

Breathing hard, he muttered, "That should have shaken them off..."

But the heavens mocked him. Another bolt of lightning screamed down, faster than thought.

"Protego!"

He thrust his staff skyward. Radiant white light burst forth, shaping into a dome of pure force above him.

The lightning bolt, as thick as a great oak, slammed into Sylas’s magical barrier. The shield blazed with blinding radiance, the impact deafening as the crack of thunder rolled across the mountains.

Arcs of energy spread across the dome, hissing and sputtering, filling the air with the sharp tang of ozone. Under the relentless assault, the shield began to corrode with smoking gaps, which Sylas desperately sealed with surges of magic.

At last the storm broke, and the bolt burned itself out. Sylas lowered his staff, breath ragged, as the barrier shattered into shards of fading light. The land around him had been scorched black for hundreds of meters, only the patch directly beneath his shield remained untouched.

He did not Apparate this time. Instead, he looked straight into the storm above and called out coldly:

"Saruman! I know it is you. Why strike at me from the shadows? Are you not afraid Gandalf, or even Lady Galadriel, will learn of your treachery?"

No answer came.

Sylas narrowed his eyes. "Do you think silence will protect you? Do you imagine I have no way to prove it?"

With that, he reached into his spatial bag and withdrew a palantír. The dark glass stone swirled, and at once the image of Orthanc sharpened before him.

The tower loomed, four black pillars fused into a single, soaring spire, its jagged crown of stone splitting the sky. Runes glimmered faintly along its surface, etched in ancient craft. And upon the high platform stood Saruman, staff in one hand, a palantír in the other.

The White Wizard stiffened as though he had sensed a gaze upon him. "Who dares?" he thundered.

Then, in an instant, the connection shifted, and the seeing-stones locked together. Saruman’s face filled Sylas’s vision, his features twisting in feigned surprise.

"You? That stray pup who trails after Gandalf? Why do you pry into me with a palantír?"

Sylas almost laughed in disbelief at the audacity. "Saruman, save your lies. Shadows are the refuge of cowards. I’ve no quarrel with you, yet you tried to strike me down. Why?"

But Saruman only sneered. "Ridiculous. Why would I waste my time on a nameless boy? I stand here in Isengard, yet you claim I hurl storms from leagues away? Insolent child, you dare accuse me while spying through the palantír? Not even Gandalf could protect you from the punishment you invite!"

His gaze sharpened suddenly, blazing with unnatural force. Through the link of the palantír, Saruman’s will surged like a tidal wave, spearing into Sylas’s mind.

Sylas staggered. The Maia’s power was immense, clawing for his thoughts, straining to tear his memories free. If Saruman succeeded, every secret would be stripped from him, and what remained of Sylas might be little more than a husk.

Snarling, Sylas fought back with every shred of will, raising the Star-glass of Eärendil. The phial burst with holy radiance, its light flooding the palantír’s vision.

On the other side, Saruman reeled, eyes scorched by the brilliance. Tears streamed down his face as he cried out in pain.

"Legilimens!" Sylas’s wand flashed as he struck, driving his will through the open conduit.

Palantíri, once linked, could carry more than sight and sound, they could bear thought and force of mind. For an instant, Sylas pierced the White Wizard’s defenses.

His consciousness brushed Saruman’s vast intellect, formidable, mountain-like. Against such power he should have been nothing. But caught off guard, blinded and unsettled, Saruman had left cracks in his armor.

And through those cracks Sylas glimpsed fragments, sharp flashes of memory: whispered bargains, a fiery Eye looming in the shadows of Mordor, the White Hand bent toward the Dark Tower.

Saruman realized too late. His will surged back, walls slamming down like iron gates, expelling Sylas with brutal force.

Temporarily blinded, Saruman thrashed like an enraged lion, fury and unease pouring from him.

"Sylas! I want you dead!" he roared.

Sylas staggered, clutching his head. The backlash of Saruman’s will had slammed into him like a hammer, leaving him dizzy and disoriented.

Without hesitation, he severed the palantír’s link, shoved it and the Star-glass of Eärendil into his cloak, and Apparated away.

’I have to warn Gandalf and Lady Galadriel, Saruman knows he’s been exposed.’

But the White Wizard had no intention of letting him escape so easily.

The instant Sylas reappeared miles away, a bolt of lightning split the sky, so fast, so precise, it felt as if it had been waiting for him.

His hair rose, his instincts screaming. He had no time to flee again.

"Confringo!" he shouted, blasting his staff upward.

A crimson explosion erupted skyward, colliding head-on with the descending strike. For one blinding instant, light consumed everything, followed by a thunderous crack that shook the mountains. The bolt burst apart into a storm of wild arcs, shredding the air.

The shockwave hurled Sylas from his feet, slamming him across the ground. He rolled hard, groaning, his robes scorched and his skin torn in several places by the raging currents.

Coughing blood, he dragged a flask from his belt and swallowed it down in one gulp. The bitter taste of Ent-draught burned his throat, but strength surged back into his limbs. The burns closed, his skin knitting whole, and his color returned in moments.

Another flash split the sky. A second bolt plummeted. Sylas didn’t hesitate, he Apparated away again.

He reappeared hundreds of kilometers distant, but the next strike followed instantly, as though Saruman’s gaze pierced the world itself.

This time, Sylas was ready. The moment his boots touched earth, he hurled a Protego Maxima skyward. A shimmering dome of light flared overhead, intercepting the blow. In that heartbeat of delay, he vanished once more.

When he emerged again, every nerve in his body braced for the storm. He raised his staff, defenses already forming on his lips.

But nothing came.

The stillness was worse than thunder.

His stomach tightened. Saruman was not one to relent.

And then his heart froze.

The weave of Apparition unraveled in his mind, his magic refused to answer. The world around him locked like iron chains.

A voice slithered across the clearing:

"Don’t waste your strength. Every move of yours lies within my design. This ground is bound by my curse. Your teleportation magic is worthless here."

From the shadows, Saruman emerged astride a towering white warg. His robes glimmered faintly in the dim light, staff gleaming like a spear of polished ivory. His eyes, sharp, cruel, and alight with cunning, fixed on Sylas.

"Do not resist, ’Black Robe Wizard.’ I’ve no desire to kill you... not yet. Come with me quietly."