Sylas's heart gave a small jolt at the word premonition. He knew well that beings such as Róstámo, or Gandalf, or even Saruman in his brighter days, possessed foresight akin to prophecy.
Even so, he hesitated.
If Morinehtar himself had fallen into peril, and if Róstámo, who had walked the East for centuries, foresaw danger in the attempt, then what strength could he bring, a younger and far weaker wizard? Wouldn't he simply beco another liability?
Yet he could not bring himself to refuse. Róstámo had just aided him; to turn away now would be both ungrateful and cowardly. And more than that, Sylas knew the stakes.
The two Blue Wizards had long resisted Sauron's dominion in the East, blunting his claws so that Gondor, Rohan, and the West could hold the line. Without their work, Mordor's strength would have been far greater during the War of the Ring, perhaps too great for even Gondor and its allies to endure.
But the histories were grim. Of the five who ca out of the West, only Gandalf returned ho in honor. Saruman fell into corruption and pride; Radagast, though gentle-hearted, forgot his charge and lingered in the wild. The fate of the Blue Wizards was shrouded in silence. Most tales whispered that they had failed.
Looking at Róstámo now, hearing of Morinehtar's peril, Sylas could not help but wonder: was this how that failure ca to pass? Left unaided, might both be swallowed by despair and lost to the Shadow?
He could not let that co to pass.
With a sigh, he straightened and said, "Very well. I will go with you. We will not leave Morinehtar to the dark."
Relief and gratitude lit Róstámo's weathered face. His friendship with Morinehtar ran deep. In ages past, when Morinehtar, then called Alatar, had first volunteered to sail into Middle-earth, Pallando had chosen to accompany him, bound by loyalty and love for his friend. Even now, though the years had ground them down, he would not abandon that bond.
"I knew you would not turn away," Róstámo said softly. Then, with a solemn expression, he reached beneath his robe and drew out a horn, white as ivory, banded with inlaid gold, its surface gleaming with runes that shimred faintly in the light.
"This is the Horn of Victory," he said. "Its voice can be heard for leagues upon leagues. To foes it is terror, to friends it is joy. And to those bound by loyalty, its sound is a summons across the leagues of Middle-earth."
He held it out. "I carried it with out of Valinor. Now I place it in your keeping. May it serve you as it has ."
Sylas blinked in surprise. A gift from Valinor? He instinctively shook his head, stepping back. "Wizard Róstámo, I cannot. This horn has been with you for centuries. Keep it...its worth is far too great."
But the Blue Wizard pressed it firmly into his arms, his eyes steady. "This horn was crafted by Morinehtar and together. If we succeed, we can fashion another. If we fail… then it will be aningless to . Better that it serve as hope in your hands."
Seeing his resolve, Sylas could not refuse further. He accepted the horn, bowing his head in silent respect.
Only then did he truly study it. The horn was fashioned from the purest white ox-horn, likely from so divine beast of Oromë's herds, for it glead like polished marble and exuded an aura of light. Ancient runes spiraled its length, humming with restrained power.
He could feel the enchantnts bound within it. To enemies, its blast would be a shattering roar, breaking courage and even flesh. Yet to allies, it would ring as music, filling their hearts with resolve and drawing them to the call, even from hundreds of miles away.
Such a gift was no re token.
As he tightened his grip upon the horn, Sylas felt his resolve harden. He would not allow Róstámo's trust to be in vain. Whatever awaited them in the South, they would face it together, and bring Morinehtar back.
Róstámo and Sylas did not linger long among the Dorwinions. With little ceremony, they set out at once, heading south into the lands of Khand and Harad.
Khand lay southeast of Mordor, ho to the Variags, hard riders, fad for their swift horses and brutal cavalry. In many ways they were kin to the Rohirrim, though far harsher in temper and long allied with the Shadow.
South beyond the deserts sprawled Harad, divided between the Near Haradrim and the Far Haradrim. The Near folk, dwelling close to Gondor's borders, bore brown skin and dark eyes, not unlike the people of Gondor itself. But the Far Haradrim, dwelling deep in the jungles and wastes, were of darker hue, their lineages mingled with creatures of shadow. They were wild and warlike, their chiefs proud of the Mûmakil they tad, giant beasts of war that bore howdahs upon their backs, charging like living fortresses across the battlefield.
It was here that Morinehtar had labored for long years. In secret, he incited rebellion against Sauron's rule, sowing discord among the lords of Khand and Harad, and even whispering into the high councils themselves. Where Róstámo waged open guerrilla war, Morinehtar worked like a shadow, unraveling the Dark Lord's grip from within.
Listening to these tales as they traveled, Sylas found himself continually astonished. These two Blue Wizards were far from forgotten wanderers, they were warriors, spies, and saviors in equal asure.
They kept to lonely paths. Sylas flew low on his broom, skimming over dunes and gullies, while Róstámo rode his great ox, whose long strides never faltered and whose pace was no slower than flight. They avoided the settled roads, slipping unseen past the tribes of Khand.
After several days, Róstámo confird what his heart already told him: Morinehtar was not in Khand. So they pressed further south, into Harad.
Harad was a land of chaos, part desert, part jungle, a patchwork of tribes and kingdoms. The Near Haradrim had so semblance of civilization, but the Far Haradrim lived in savagery, so so corrupted by dark bloodlines that they scarcely seed n at all. Among them lurked pirates, raiders, and the Black Núnóreans: descendants of Núnor who, unlike the Dúnedain of the West, had long ago fallen under Sauron's sway.
Avoiding the Harad Road, the two travelers struck across burning wastes until, at last, they reached the valley where Minas Harad stood.
The fortress rose black and grim out of the desert, its towers carved from red stone and hardened by centuries of blood. It commanded the valley like a clenched fist, its battlents bristling with cruel spears.
Sylas and Róstámo crouched behind a high dune, gazing down in silence. Even Norlimar, the great ox, stood still and silent, his nostrils flaring at the scent of danger.
"Róstámo," Sylas whispered, "are you certain he is within those walls?"
The Blue Wizard's face was set with grim resolve. "I am certain. My bond with him tells so."
Sylas raised a brow. A bond between old friends? He did not wholly understand, but he did not question it.
Róstámo closed his eyes, as if to test that bond once more. His voice dropped low, weighted with power:
"Alatar... Alatar..."
The na lingered in the air like a summons. After a long mont, Róstámo's eyes opened again, their light hard as steel. He lifted his gaze to the high tower of Minas Harad, where a faint shadow moved behind barred windows.
"Morinehtar is there," he said, pointing to the fortress's crown. "In that tower."
But reaching the high tower was no simple task.
Minas Harad was more than a fortress, it was a citadel of shadow. Haradrim spearn patrolled the walls, Orcs lurked in the courtyards, and hulking Mûmakil shifted restlessly in their pens. Above it all, under a starless sky, a swarm of monstrous bats circled the tower like sentinels of darkness.
To fight them openly was possible. To fight them quietly was not. One spark of chaos here would surely draw Sauron's gaze, and that, more than any army, was the true peril.
"The best course," Sylas whispered, "is to slip inside unseen. If we can free Morinehtar in silence, so much the better. If not…" His eyes hardened. "Then we fight our way out with him."
Róstámo gave a firm nod, though concern lingered on his brow.
Sylas drew his wand, tapped it to his chest, and faded from sight. A shimr passed from his hand to Róstámo as well, cloaking him beneath the Disillusionnt Charm.
Under cover of night, they crept toward the valley. Norlimar, the mighty ox, remained tethered in the dunes, ready to answer his master's summons should the need arise.
They slipped past the looming shadows of the Mûmakil and reached the gate. Haradrim guards marched to and fro, their torches casting cruel light. Unseen, the Wizards glided through, until an Orc paused, sniffing the air, its eyes narrowing.
"Confundus," Sylas hissed, the spell leaving his wand without a spark.
The Orc blinked, its face slackening into bewildernt, and shuffled away, forgetting it had ever sensed anything amiss.
Step by step, they wound their way past sentries and checkpoints, moving through darkened halls until at last they reached the base of the tower. The bats wheeled restlessly above, their cries sharp and unnatural, and Sylas dared not risk Apparition within their range. This content belongs to novel·fire
Up they climbed, floor by floor, shadows slipping through shadows. At the top, they found him, Morinehtar.
The Blue Wizard hung weakly within an iron cage studded with cruel spikes. His robes were torn, his staff gone, and his body bore the marks of torture.
Róstámo's face twisted with anguish. Casting aside caution, he raised his staff, spoke a word of power, and the cage shattered into shards of black iron. He caught his friend in his arms as the bats outside shrieked and dove, roused by the disturbance.
"Protego Maxima!"
Sylas's shield flared into being, a do of shimring light. Screeching bats slamd against it and rebounded in sparks of fury.
Róstámo bent low, ready to pour his own strength into healing, but Sylas caught his arm. "No, your power is needed for what cos."
He pulled from his satchel a golden goblet, into which he poured a draught of luminous potion. Swirling the cup, he coaxed its enchantnts to life, then pressed it gently to Morinehtar's lips.
Color returned slowly to the fallen Wizard's face. His eyes fluttered open, weary yet lucid, and the look in them was not relief, but dread.
"Róstámo…" His voice cracked, edged with terror. "It is a trap. You must go. Leave, now!"
...
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