Isengard, known in the tongue of the Dúnedain as Angrenost, lay nestled in the southernmost vale of the Misty Mountains,the fair valley of Nan Curunír. It was a land of green pastures and swift rivers, where the mountains' shadows stretched long in the evenings. To the east rose the ancient Fangorn Forest; to the west lay the wide gap of Rohan, the gate between North and South.

In the elder days of the Second Age, the Dúnedain had built there the mighty Tower of Orthanc, forged by forgotten craft from four black peaks of stone, fused together by magic older than the memory of Men. It rose five hundred feet into the sky, crowned by a high platform from which one might survey the leagues of the world — plains, forests, and mountains alike.

Around the tower, the builders raised a vast ring-wall of solid rock, ten fathoms high and a mile across, leaving but a single gate upon the southern side. In those years, Gondor held Isengard as her northern outpost, guarding against the wild tribes of Dunland who threatened from the west.

But in the Third Age, when the Great Plague swept across Middle-earth in the year 1636, the lands of Calenardhon — that which would later become Rohan — were laid desolate. Gondor's strength waned, and she could no longer hold her distant fortresses. The gates of Orthanc were sealed, and its keys borne back to Minas Tirith.

Long years passed. In 2758, the Dunlendings, fierce hillfolk from the west, invaded and took Isengard by storm, but were driven out a year later by King Fréaláf of Rohan. Then came Saruman the White, who offered to guard the Gap of Rohan and the northern borders for both Gondor and Rohan. His wisdom and power were famed, and in their weakness both Steward Beren of Gondor and King Fréaláf of Rohan agreed to grant him the valley as his dwelling. Thus was Isengard given into the care of the White Wizard.

…

In the story kaen knew, Isengard had been a place of beauty, a green circle of trees and gardens surrounding the black tower like a wreath of emerald leaves. But in later days, when Saruman fell to pride and deceit, he made of it a wasteland of furnaces and smoke. He hired wandering Dwarves to dig tunnels beneath the earth, to build forges, armories, and strange devices of war. He permitted the Dunlendings to dwell nearby, turning them slowly into his servants. He closed his gates to Gondor and Rohan alike, claiming that he alone would stand against Sauron, though in secret he sought mastery over the One Ring.

It was he, too, who mingled the dark arts to breed the Uruk-hai, mighty Orcs who could march beneath the sun, strong of limb and ruthless in battle.

But when Kaen Eowenríel and his escort — one hundred of the King's Guard and one hundred Caladhîn elves, came to the valley of Isengard, they found none of that corruption.

What met their eyes was a scene of peace and green renewal. The tower of Orthanc still stood, tall and unblemished, its black flanks gleaming in the sun. Around it, the valley bloomed with wildflowers. The River Isen flowed gently through meadows bright with color. The air was clear, the song of birds echoed in the wind, it was as though the valley itself slept untouched by evil.

Kaen reined in his horse, astonished. Had Saruman not fallen? he wondered. The thought was both a relief and a mystery. Yet Kaen trusted not rumor nor appearance — he would judge with his own eyes.

As they approached the great gates, a troop of riders appeared — tall men, broad of shoulder and strong of arm. Their faces were weathered, their skin roughened by the sun, their beards thick and untamed. Yet they bore finely wrought mail and polished helms. Had their attire been poorer, Kaen might have mistaken them for wild tribesmen.

Their leader halted before him, studying Kaen's company of Elves and guardsmen. Then, to Kaen's surprise, he spoke, in the tongue of Anglican, the language Kaen himself had once devised for the scholars of Eowenría. Though rough and accented, it was unmistakable.

"Are you the host of Kaen Eowenríel, King of the North?" the man asked.

Kaen's brows lifted slightly. He nodded. "I am he."

The men dismounted as one and bowed deeply. "Great King of the North," said their captain, "we come at the bidding of the Wise One to escort you into Isengard."

The Wise One. That could mean none other than Saruman. Kaen inclined his head in acknowledgment and motioned for his company to follow. As they rode behind the warriors through the gates, Kaen asked, "Tell me, who are you and whence do you come? You are not of Rohan nor of Gondor, by your look."

The captain replied with pride, "We are neither Rohirrim nor Gondorian, my lord. We are the sons of two bloodlines, of the Dunlendings and the Riders of Rohan. The Wise One named our people the Shaloth."

"Shaloth?" Kaen repeated, his tone thoughtful.

"Yes," said the man. "It was the Wise One who gave us the name — and he also gave us your tongue. He told us it was a gift from the North, a language of knowledge and light. We have used it ever since."

Kaen's interest grew sharper. "Then tell me," he said, "what has passed here these many years? What has Saruman wrought in Isengard?"

"Gladly," said the captain. "The Wise One commanded that if you ever came, nothing should be hidden from you."

As they rode, the man whose name was Barlas, captain of the Shaloth Guard spoke freely.

It seemed that twelve years earlier, Saruman had still been a faithful ally to Rohan and Gondor, aiding them in repelling raids from the Westfold and the mountains. But after he returned from the North, from the Battle of Five Armies,something within him changed. No longer did he speak of war and power; instead he sought peace and renewal.

He invited the half-blood tribes — the children of Dunlending and Rohirrim unions — to dwell in the valley. These were the Shaloth, outcasts hated by both sides. Saruman taught them knowledge and craft, giving them speech, lore, and dignity. He even shared with them the Anglican tongue that Kaen had once fashioned, saying that wisdom must not be the treasure of the few, but the light of all peoples.

Under his guidance, the Shaloth laid aside their barbarism. They built homes in the green valley, learned to till the soil and forge the plough, and lived as one people. They had no king, no lords — only Saruman, their "Wise One," who taught and ruled with reason.

Now their numbers had grown to thirty thousand, and they had their own thousand-strong guard, whose captain was Barlas himself.

As Kaen listened, his mind drifted back to a day long ago, in the city of Tusgar, when Saruman had once said to him, "The greatest knowledge is that which serves the good of the people."

Looking upon the blooming valley, the laughter of the Shaloth children, and the harmony that filled the air, Kaen felt an old burden lift from his heart. He breathed deeply, as though inhaling the scent of peace itself. Perhaps, he thought, the White Wizard has not fallen after all.

Yet one question lingered.

"If all is well here," Kaen asked at last, "why then has Saruman closed Isengard's gates to Rohan and Gondor? Why keep the world outside?"

At that, Barlas sighed heavily. "Because the world would not understand us, my lord. Both Gondor and Rohan have long memories, bitter with blood. The Dunlendings and the Rohirrim have warred for generations, each claiming the other's lands and kin. Even though we Shaloth bear the blood of both, neither side accepts us."

"When the Wise One first opened his gates to us — the exiles, the forgotten — King Fengel of Rohan and the Steward of Gondor condemned him. They called us the spawn of traitors, unworthy of trust. To shield us from their hatred, the Wise One sealed the valley, forbidding envoys from entering."

Kaen was silent for a time, the wind stirring his cloak. Now he understood the words of King Thengel, who had said Saruman no longer honored his oaths to Rohan. To them, the White Wizard's compassion had looked like betrayal.

Yet Kaen saw the truth beneath it, a truth older than politics and pride. For Saruman had not turned to darkness, but had chosen instead to shelter the outcast and mend the wounds of men.

And for the first time in many years, Kaen Eowenríel allowed himself a small, quiet smile.

…