Dol Guldur.
Don't be fooled by Saruman's lean frame; when his life is on the line, the man can sprint. He was halfway across the long bridge before Radagast even realized the "tactical retreat" had begun.
"Wait for me! Wait!" Radagast scrambled on all fours, trying to catch up to the white blur.
Saruman didn't look back. Wait? Are you mad? He even found an extra gear of speed, though he kept the "Wizardly facade" alive by shouting over his shoulder, "Hurry up, you simpleton!"
Suddenly, a flash of black mist surged across the bridge's exit, expanding until it formed a solid wall of shadow. Saruman skidded to a halt, his heart hammering against his ribs. Why didn't the Shadow go for Radagast first? Why block the exit?
The crimson silhouette of Sauron manifested within the mist, gliding forward with terrifying grace. Saruman gripped his staff, his eyes wide, but he did not cast a spell. He knew the math: he was outmatched.
Radagast finally caught up, huffing and puffing as he hid behind Saruman's robes like a frightened child. "That... that is no Necromancer! That is Sauron!"
The black mist flared. The Dark Lord was about to strike.
In that heartbeat, Saruman made his choice. Before Sauron could move, Saruman leveled his staff—not at the Shadow, but at Radagast. A quick, precise pulse of white energy struck the Brown Wizard. It wasn't lethal, but it was effective. Radagast slumped into the stone, his eyes rolling back as he fell unconscious.
The Negotiation
Sauron paused. Even for a Dark Lord, seeing one Wizard knock out another was... unexpected. He held his attack, his fiery gaze lingering on the White Wizard.
Saruman didn't look at his fallen comrade. He let out a long, controlled breath and bowed deeply toward the mist. "Exalted Lord Sauron. I am Saruman the White. It is an honor to see that your strength remains so... potent."
Sauron found this fascinating. He had intended to capture the Wizards and break them, but Saruman was saving him the effort. "Saruman... have you come to kneel before your King?"
Saruman shook his head slightly, maintaining a shred of his pride. "Lord Sauron, I am willing to cooperate... provided I receive what I desire."
Kneeling and cooperating were two different things in Saruman's mind. Sauron chuckled internally. He had no intention of "cooperating" with anyone—Smaug was a temporary tool, and Saruman would be the same. But for now, the Wizard had value.
"What is it you desire?" Sauron's voice grew slightly more melodic, the honeyed tone of the Deceiver returning.
"Power. A seat at your side as we reshape Middle-earth," Saruman listed. "And... the head of Smaug."
The dragon had insulted him, burned his tower, and mocked his loneliness. That debt had to be paid in blood.
"A shared goal," Sauron replied. "I accept. Soon, Middle-earth will be ours."
"Then we must find a way to communicate that does not involve me walking into this ruin," Saruman said. "My status among the Wise must be maintained."
"I shall have my servants deliver a Prophecy Stone to you," Sauron said.
"Isengard—or 'Asgard,' as that worm calls it—will be ready," Saruman replied.
"And your companion?" Sauron gestured to the heap that was Radagast.
Saruman glanced back with a sneer. "He is a useless, bumbling fool. Do with him as you wish."
The deal was struck. Sauron withdrew the shadow, and Saruman walked away, leaving Radagast behind without a second thought. As he rode his white horse back toward the forest, Saruman felt no guilt. To him, he wasn't a traitor—he was a "realist." He would play both sides until he saw who was winning, then "jump ship" to the victor.
The Iron Hills Message
Under another setting sun, Thorin's Company (now mounted on horses) were looking for a campsite. Suddenly, a company of Dwarves appeared on the road ahead.
Thorin immediately straightened in his saddle, his royal blood simmering. He signaled his kin to dismount and meet them. Gandalf stayed on his horse, his eyes narrowing. He had a very bad feeling about this.
"Who goes there?" Thorin called out, his voice booming.
"We are from the Iron Hills! King Dáin sent us!" the lead Dwarf shouted. "We've been searching for you for days, Thorin!"
"What is it? Bad news?" Thorin asked.
"About ten days ago, Smaug arrived at the Iron Hills. He terrorized the halls, mocked the King, and burned the roofs," the messenger explained.
Thorin's face turned purple with rage. "The beast dares? He leaves his mountain to taunt my kin?"
"That wasn't the main reason the King sent us," the messenger continued, his voice dropping. "Before he flew away, Smaug gave us a message to deliver to you personally."
"Speak!" Thorin demanded.
"He said... your father, Thráin, is still alive."
The world seemed to stop.
A psychic explosion went off in Thorin's mind. Behind him, the other twelve Dwarves gasped, and even Gandalf nearly dropped his pipe. Only Bilbo looked confused, not fully grasping the weight of the name.
"My father... where is he?" Thorin's voice was a ragged whisper.
"The dragon didn't say. But he implied he knew."
Thorin's fists clenched until they bled. He looked toward the East, toward the silhouette of the Mountain. "Erebor," he hissed through gritted teeth. "That monster... he has my father imprisoned in the deeps! He is using him as a toy!"
The fire in Thorin's eyes was no longer just about a kingdom. It was personal.