Just as the Wargs and Orcs had completely surrounded the expedition, chaos erupted from the edge of the forest.
First came a brown blur: Radagast the Brown, bursting from the trees atop his rabbit-drawn sled. He darted into the clearing, drawing the attention of dozens of Wargs and Orcs. With a wild whoop, he hurled insults at the snarling pack, then wheeled his sled around and sped off through the woods, leading many of them in hot pursuit.
Then, with a clap of hooves and the rattle of wheels, a carriage thundered out from another part of the forest. At the reins stood Sylas, cloak flapping as he chanted a sharp incantation. Two Wargs lunged toward the path, but were knocked aside by a sudden burst of magical force.
Surprisingly, the pony pulling the carriage seemed to feel no weight at all, pulling the light carriage and galloping wildly, its speed not slow in the slightest.
Faced with two escape routes, the Orcs and Wargs split into two hunting packs. Half charged after Radagast and his wildly weaving sled, the other half turned to pursue Sylas's carriage.
Radagast, with his Rosgobel rabbits and nimble driving, danced through the forest like a leaf in the wind. He wove between trees, leapt over rocks, and led his pursuers deeper into the wilds, where they struggled to match his speed.
Sylas's flight, meanwhile, was a different sort of show. Though the pony was fast, it couldn't outrun the Wargs for long. Every time they gained ground, Sylas would rise from his seat, wand in hand, and cast spells that sent them tumbling back in snarling heaps.
But they were relentless. Again and again they surged forward. And again and again, Sylas turned them away with bursts of light, flames, or binding magic. Slowly but surely, the number of pursuers dwindled.
Wargs, though savage, were no fools. They weren't slaves, but allies of the Orcs. And now they were beginning to realize that Sylas was using them. With a chorus of growls, they turned on their Orc riders, ignoring their commands, and veered off to chase easier prey elsewhere.
Seeing his plan falling apart, Sylas scowled and snapped the reins.
"Oh no you don't."
He spun the carriage around and gave chase.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
A Warg froze mid-stride and collapsed like stone. Its rider flew off, hitting the ground hard.
Before Sylas could finish the Orc off, a silver streak split the air.
Thwip.
An arrow struck the Orc square in the head.
Sylas blinked. "Hey! Who stole my kill?"
Then he heard it, a clear horn blast, ringing like silver across the plain.
The ground began to tremble.
The sound of hooves thundered from the ridgeline.
And then they came.
A host of Elf warriors, tall and proud, clad in gleaming silver armor, riding swift and graceful horses. Their formation was perfect, their movements fluid like water. Arrows flew in elegant arcs, each one striking a target cleanly. Swords flashed in precise, efficient strokes, felling Orcs with quiet finality.
The tide of battle turned instantly. The Orcs faltered. The Wargs snarled and scattered. Under the might of the Elven cavalry, the enemy line shattered.
Within moments, half the pursuing force was slain. The rest broke rank and fled into the hills, howling in fear.
The Elves, disciplined and precise, halted their pursuit once they had pushed the enemy far enough. With swift efficiency, they began finishing off the wounded Orcs and Wargs scattered across the battlefield.
One group of mounted Elves veered toward Sylas.
At their head rode a tall Elf upon a graceful white steed. His armor gleamed like starlight, and over it he wore a flowing war robe of midnight blue. His countenance bore no clear mark of age, neither youthful nor old. Smooth, raven-black hair spilled down his back, bound by a delicate silver circlet. His eyes, gray and glinting with ancient wisdom, held the depth of moonlit waters and the silent authority of a king who had seen centuries pass.
The very air around him seemed to hush in his presence.
"Greetings, distant traveler," the Elf said with a noble tone. "May I know your name?"
Sylas stepped down from his carriage and gave a small bow, wand in hand.
"Sylas."
The Elf studied him for a moment, then gave a slight, knowing smile.
"Sylas, the black-robed one. Friend of Halflings, Slayer of Barrow-wights, and Tree-feller of the Huorns. Your deeds travel faster than ravens. It seems we must now add 'Foe of Orcs' to your growing list of titles."
His gaze sharpened. "I also sense a strange scent of Troll-rot clinging to your cloak. Tell me, have you passed through the Troll Forest?"
"Yes. Trolls attacked the surrounding villages. Gandalf and I entered the woods to put an end to their raids. We rescued who we could… and killed what we must." Sylas replied calmly.
The Elf nodded with approval. "A righteous deed. You speak of Gandalf, so he travels with you?"
"He did. But I was tasked with drawing off the Orcs and Wargs. We were separated."
At that, the Elf's tone softened. "Then you are doubly welcome. Any friend of Mithrandir is a friend of Elves. Come with us. Rivendell awaits."
They rode together through silent wilderness.
The Elves spoke little. Their composure and quiet dignity stood in stark contrast to the loud and argumentative Dwarves Sylas had recently traveled with. If the Dwarves were an unending forge fire, the Elves were a moonlit pool, still, deep, and inscrutable.
Sylas, more used to chatter and spontaneous conversation, found the silence oddly oppressive, but not unpleasant. It gave him time to think.
Rivendell, or Imladris, lay hidden in a valley deep in the wilds, surrounded by forested ridges, misty waterfalls, and narrow defiles. Without a guide, one could search for a hundred years and never find it.
He followed the Elf company along a steep, winding trail that descended into a sun-dappled canyon.
And then, he saw it.
Sylas drew a sharp breath.
It was like stepping into a realm untouched by time. Flowers bloomed in wild profusion across the slopes. White gravel paths wound through meadows and between trees. Elegant towers rose from cliffside and riverside, built in harmony with the land, no stone harsh, no pillar out of place. Palaces and bridges, terraces and gardens all seemed woven from light and song, rather than shaped by tools.
What impressed Sylas most was that the entire valley of Rivendell seemed cloaked in an invisible, yet powerful enchantment. Magic saturated the air like dew on morning grass. The climate remained eternally spring-like, neither too hot nor too cold, vitality radiated from every tree and stone, and a profound sense of sacred peace wrapped around him like a warm cloak.
There could be only one explanation for such powerful preservation magic, Vilya, the Ring of Air, wielded by Elrond himself.
Meanwhile, after Sylas and Radagast had successfully drawn away the Orcs and Wargs, Gandalf had led Bilbo and the Dwarves through a secret trail into Rivendell.
The company had just crossed a narrow stone bridge, arched and without railings, that spanned a deep, whispering gorge. As they reached the threshold of Rivendell, a tall Elf descended the stone steps toward them.
"Mithrandir," the Elf greeted respectfully.
"Ah, Lindir," Gandalf said with a smile. "It has been some time, hasn't it?"
"I assume you've come to speak with Lord Elrond?"
"I have. Is he here?"
"Unfortunately, no. Lord Elrond is currently away."
"Not here?" Gandalf frowned slightly. "Where has he gone?"
Before Lindir could respond, a long horn-blast echoed through the valley.
A column of Elven cavalry rode up across the bridge in perfect formation, armor gleaming and hooves striking stone in rhythm.
The Dwarves tensed immediately.
"Weapons ready!" Thorin barked.
"Form up! Protect the Halfling!" shouted Dwalin, as they surrounded Bilbo.
Steel rang as swords were drawn and axes hefted.
The Elf cavalry slowed but didn't dismount, circling the company at a leisurely pace. Their expressions betrayed faint amusement, Elves rarely missed an opportunity to tease Dwarves.
Just then, Bilbo's eyes widened.
"Sylas! I see Sylas!" he cried, trying to break from the Dwarves' defensive ring. "He's with the Elves!"
Indeed, behind the cavalry rode Sylas, seated calmly on his carriage, still holding his wand, utterly unfazed.
One of the mounted Elves stepped forward and removed his helm, revealing the noble features of Elrond Half-elven.
"Gandalf, my friend," Elrond greeted with a faint smile, dismounting with grace.
"Where have you been?" Gandalf asked with relief.
"Hunting. A band of Orcs crossed the Bruinen and dared set foot in our lands."
He handed his sword to Lindir, who bowed and stepped aside.
"But it was not just happenstance," Elrond continued thoughtfully. "Something… or someone… must have drawn them in this direction."
His gaze shifted pointedly toward the Dwarves, still bristling and on guard.
Then his tone softened.
"While we were driving back the Orcs, we came across a curious sight," he said, turning toward Sylas with a light gesture. "One of your companions, I believe. We invited him to join us."
Sylas dismounted and stepped forward with a calm smile.
...
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