After dealing with the five Trolls, Sylas and Gandalf had gathered enough information to locate several other Troll dens in the surrounding forest.
Their first instinct was to investigate immediately, there might still be survivors held captive elsewhere.
But when they turned to look at the weary, pale-faced villagers who had only just escaped the jaws of death, neither of them could justify leaving them behind and unprotected.
"Sylas," Gandalf said, "perhaps you should guide them out of the woods. I'll search the other dens on my own."
Sylas shook his head. "No need for that."
He turned toward the cave entrance and let out a low, sharp hiss.
The sound echoed through the cavern, strange and wet like something slithering through reeds. The villagers flinched, some instinctively backing away from the sound.
A moment later, a massive serpent, its body as thick as a barrel, glided into view from the shadows beyond the entrance. Its scales shimmered like oil in the torchlight, its head swaying as it surveyed the gathered humans.
A few villagers cried out in alarm. They had just escaped monsters, now another had appeared.
"Don't be afraid," Sylas said calmly. "This one won't harm you. It's under my command."
Gandalf stepped forward, nodding in agreement.
Though still wary, the villagers slowly calmed at the wizards' reassurances, though none dared get too close to the hulking creature.
"This serpent will guide you safely out of the Trollshaws," Sylas continued. "It will lead you to the Great East Road. From there, you may return to what remains of your village… or travel elsewhere, if you choose."
"But our village is gone," said Edward, the same young man who had spoken earlier. His voice cracked with grief. "Where are we supposed to go now?"
He looked up at Sylas with wide, pleading eyes. "Please, Mr. Wizard… can I come with you? I'll carry your bags, fetch water, anything! I'll be your servant if you'll just let me stay."
Others echoed his sentiment with hopeful eyes, unsure of where else to turn.
Sylas hesitated, unsure how to respond, but Gandalf gently shook his head.
"I'm sorry, Edward," the old wizard said kindly. "We cannot take you with us. The road ahead is dangerous, filled with shadows and war. We'd never forgive ourselves if harm came to you."
Disappointment washed over the group. Their eyes turned downward, and a heavy silence followed.
But Gandalf wasn't finished.
"However," he said, "if you follow the road westward, beyond the Last Bridge and across the hills, you'll see a great tower, tall as the sky. That is Sylas's home. He has made a stronghold there on the heights of Weathertop."
Sylas blinked, taken aback. "Gandalf?"
Gandalf turned to him. "Their village is ashes. They cannot stay here. Orcs may come from the mountains. Trolls are not the only darkness that prowls these woods. These folk need a protector, someone with power and kindness, someone they can trust. They need a safe place to rebuild their lives."
He paused, eyes grave.
"Darkness stirs, Sylas. I fear war will sweep across all of Middle-earth in time. But Weathertop could become a haven. With you there, it might just stand."
Sylas looked away, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "You give me too much credit, Gandalf."
Sylas said nothing for a while, then glanced toward the group of villagers, tired, frightened, and full of questions about the future.
He let out a breath. "Alright. If they can endure the journey west, they'll have a home under my watch."
To ease their burden and give them a fighting chance, Sylas led the villagers back to the cavern where the Trolls had stored their ill-gotten treasure. With a few waves of his wand, he split the hoard into small, manageable sacks of gold and silver and distributed them among the villagers.
The villagers clutched the gold and silver coins in their trembling hands, their eyes wide with disbelief. It all felt like a dream—many had never even seen a single gold coin in their lives. Now they each held enough to secure a peaceful life, perhaps even for generations to come.
"You heard what Gandalf and I said," Sylas addressed them, his tone calm but resolute. "With this coin, you have options. You're no longer bound to the ashes of your old village."
He stepped up onto a flat stone, speaking so all could hear. "There are two paths I suggest you consider."
"First, you could travel south—build boats and follow the River Loudwater down past the Last Bridge. The human realms in the southern valleys are more peaceful, and they may welcome new settlers with skills and coin."
"Second, you can head west, crossing the Last Bridge and taking the Great East Road across the Wild. Beyond the rolling hills stands Weathertop. That's where my tower is, or keep going further west to Bree, where men and hobbits dwell in peace."
The villagers listened intently, some still struggling to comprehend the scale of their fortune, others already turning their thoughts toward the future.
Sylas didn't stop there. He opened up a large Troll hoard chest filled not only with treasure, but with suits of mismatched armor, rusted blades, and chipped axes, spoils taken from countless poor souls who had fallen to the beasts.
"These may be old, but they'll serve you on the road," he said, distributing weapons and armor to the able-bodied. "You'll have to defend yourselves from wolves… and worse."
Once everything was prepared, Sylas turned to the snake at his side, a colossal python with scales like burnished iron. He spoke to it in a hissing tongue, instructing it to lead the villagers safely to the main road and return after its duty was done.
"And no snacking on the way," he added, narrowing his eyes. "I'll know."
To keep the creature obedient, and to curb its infamous appetite, Sylas had to bribe it with a meal. But a whole Troll was too large to be eaten at once, even by a beast this size. So, with a grimace, he got to work.
Though the Trolls were long dead, dismembering them was no simple task. Their hide was thick like boiled leather, their muscles like iron cables. Even using a magically-enhanced Flameblade, it took Sylas all his strength and precision to sever a single limb.
The python slurped up a Troll's arm with a satisfied grunt, its belly bulging grotesquely. It gave one last slow look at Sylas, then turned and slithered away, the line of wary villagers trailing behind.
Meanwhile, Sylas remained behind to finish his grim harvest.
Carefully, he carved out the Troll's black heart, still pulsing faintly with dark energy, and extracted several cords of thick, rubbery nerve tissue. With a flick of his wand, he conjured a thick glass jar through Transfiguration and sealed the organs inside.
Trolls were known to petrify in sunlight, but their innards remained fascinatingly resistant to decay. If their nerves could be crafted into wand cores, and their hearts processed into potion ingredients, this macabre task might yield great magical value.
He placed the preserved materials and remaining treasures deep inside a hidden hollow in the cave, casting multiple layers of concealment and protective charms around them. Too cumbersome to carry now, but worth returning for.
Once finished, Sylas rejoined Gandalf, and without delay, the two set off for the next Troll den.
Unfortunately, their second destination offered no rescue, no redemption.
Silently cloaked under a Disillusionment Charm, they slipped into the shadowy cavern.
Inside, only two Trolls remained, and a grim, rotting mound of bones.
The two Trolls had devoured every last villager held in their. Not a single survivor remained.
Gandalf's face darkened, and something stirred behind his eyes. A force so great it broke through the protective Disillusionment Charm in a flash of silvery light.
His form shimmered into view, tall, stern, and suddenly dangerous.
"Sylas," he said, his voice low and firm, "lend me your sword."
Without hesitation, Sylas drew the enchanted sword from its scabbard and handed it over.
As soon as it touched Gandalf's hand, the blade erupted in golden fire. Radiant flames danced along the edge, illuminating the cavern with a brilliance that rivaled the morning sun.
"Agh! The light...it burns!" one Troll bellowed, stumbling back. Its thick, mossy skin began to sizzle and crack where the light touched it, turning an ashen grey.
The Trolls recoiled in fear. Though the light wasn't true sunlight, its brilliance mimicked enough of its qualities to weaken their defenses. Their skin stiffened. Their movements slowed.
Gandalf didn't waste the advantage.
With surprising speed for a man of his years, he lunged toward the nearest Troll, both hands gripping the burning blade. He swung low, slashing cleanly across the creature's ankle.
A howl echoed through the cave as the beast staggered, thick blood hissing against the hot stone floor.
"MY FOOT!" it roared, collapsing to one knee.
Gandalf ducked under a wild swing and struck again, this time carving a glowing red line across the other leg. Sparks flew as the enchanted flame bit into troll hide like knife through butter.
The second Troll bellowed in fury and seized a fallen tree trunk nearly as long as a cottage. With terrifying force, it swung the makeshift club toward Gandalf.
But before it could land the blow...
"Expelliarmus!" Sylas's voice rang out, steady and sharp.
The log shuddered mid-swing, wrenched from the Troll's grip by an unseen force.
...
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