CHAPTER 129: SUBJECTS

Sylas was caught off guard by Bilbo’s news that a village had sprung up at the foot of Weathertop.

That stretch of land had always been barren in his memory.

Without wasting time, he followed Bilbo outside, with Gandalf and Legolas trailing close behind.

From the crest of Amon Sûl, the world unfurled as it always had. The East–West Road wound far below, the dark glimmer of the Midgewater Marshes, the Water of Weeping, spread out in the distance.

And there, between the marsh and the road, tucked near the water’s edge, stood a village that most certainly had not been there before.

Chimneys puffed thin threads of smoke into the air. Tiny figures moved between modest cottages. The sight was so unexpected that Sylas simply stood there, questions piling in his mind.

"When did anyone decide to settle here?" he murmured.

Gandalf’s eyes brightened as a thought struck him. "Have you forgotten the folk we freed in the Trollshaws?"

Of course Sylas remembered, the ragged survivors they had helped, giving them coin enough to live in comfort anywhere they chose.

But that was exactly the problem. With that much gold, these people could have gone west to Bree, where food, shelter, and trade were plentiful, or taken the long road south along the Greyflood into one of the great kingdoms of Men.

Instead, they had crossed leagues of empty wilderness, braving beasts, bandits, and the risk of Orc-raids... only to build homes in the shadow of a ruin with no road, no tavern, and not even a market stall.

Well, if there was a question, it deserved an answer.

"Come on," Sylas said at last. "Let’s meet our new neighbours."

They chose not to fly, preferring to walk down the mountain path , though the trail, choked with weeds and brambles, made Sylas silently promise himself to build a proper road later. A wizard might live in a lonely watchtower, but he refused to let it look shabby.

At the foot of the hill, they skirted the edge of the Water of Weeping , a sprawling, reeking swamp that spread from the south-west of the Weathertop Hills almost to Bree. Sylas eyed the mire thoughtfully.

One day, he mused, he might dredge and deepen it into a true lake, like the Black Lake at Hogwarts, spanned by a high bridge. It would make Amon Sûl a fortress as well as a home.

Bypassing the marsh, the group approached the cluster of new houses. The sudden appearance of strangers brought the villagers to a halt in their work. For a moment they looked wary, but when they saw the party had come down from the hill, and recognised Sylas, suspicion turned to astonishment.

A young man in a plain linen tunic suddenly pushed through the crowd, his face breaking into delight.

"Wizard Sylas! You’ve come back?"

Sylas studied him for a moment before memory clicked into place. "Edward?"

The young man nodded so vigorously it was a wonder his head stayed on his shoulders.

"It’s me! You’ve really returned?"

"I have," Sylas said with a faint smile.

"Why are you here? And what’s the situation with this village and these villagers?"

Edward’s eyes shone with pride. "After you and Gandalf saved us and gave us gold, most of us decided to follow the road west. We thought... we thought maybe we could live near you, in your lands."

His voice faltered as the memory turned darker. "It was a long journey. We nearly didn’t make it. A band of Orcs came on us in the wilds, and we thought it was the end..."

Sylas and Gandalf both frowned at the news.

Neither had expected the villagers to have run into Orcs, worse still, for Orcs to be roaming the open wilds at all.

"What happened after that?" Sylas pressed.

Edward’s expression softened with relief. "We met a band of Rangers. They struck down the Orcs in no time, and when they heard we’d been saved by you and Gandalf, they sent two of their own to see us safely here. Oh, the captain of that company said he knew you. His name was Aldamir."

"Aldamir?" Sylas blinked in surprise. Of all people, it was Aldamir and his Dúnedain patrol who had pulled the villagers out of danger.

At Edward’s warm insistence, the four of them were ushered into the heart of the village.

Among the faces, Sylas recognised many from the day he and Gandalf had freed them from the Trollshaws. But there were others, strangers to him, who watched from the edge of the gathering.

Edward explained that these were folk from nearby lands who had heard tales of the Black-Robed Wizard and had come in search of shelter beneath his protection.

It seemed that across much of Eriador, the name of Sylas had already travelled far.

For ordinary people in this age, to live without a protector was to live at the mercy of bandits, the greed of petty lords, or the savagery of Orcs, Trolls, and other foul things. Life was a knife-edge. A good and just lord was as rare as gold, and as sought after.

The stories of Sylas’s deeds had spread: standing beside Hobbits to drive back the advancing trees, cleansing the Barrow-downs of wights, freeing captives from the Trolls’ lairs. Such acts had woven his image into the minds of many as one of courage and kindness.

Edward went on to say that these refugees were only the first wave, more were already on the road, and still more would follow in the months ahead.

The village, which now housed over three hundred souls, would soon need to expand, perhaps even grow into a small town.

The scale of it all caught Sylas off guard.

In the square, every villager had gathered. Those who had been rescued before now gazed at him openly, joy and relief clear on their faces. This was the man they had crossed leagues to find, to place themselves under his banner, so they might never again live in fear.

The newcomers, however, stood back, their reverence mingled with uncertainty. They did not dare approach, worried that this wizard whose name they had heard spoken with such awe might turn them away.

Sylas’s eyes swept the crowd. "Who leads you here?"

A tall, lean man stepped forward and bowed. "Lord Sylas, my name is Luke. The people chose me to oversee things for now, but we all agreed the rightful appointment of a chief must come from you."

Sylas studied him. The man’s bearing was respectful, his tone steady and measured.

"You’re not one of the folk I rescued before. Where do you come from?"

"I was born and lived in Bree, my lord," Luke replied with another bow.

That truly made Sylas pause.

"You used to live in Bree?" Sylas asked, his tone tinged with curiosity. "Then why leave? Bree sits at the crossroads of the East–West Road and the Greenway, and trade there is as busy as a beehive. There’s nothing here on Weathertop but wind and ruins."

Luke lowered his head respectfully. "My lord, I am the son of Bree’s former mayor. When the new mayor took office, we... disagreed. I heard you had established a holding here, so I came seeking your protection."

Sylas studied him for a long moment. His keen memory filled in the rest, just another quarrel born of a change in power. Hardly a matter he cared to meddle in.

Still, Luke had proven himself. In the short time he had been here, he had won the villagers’ trust, organised the building of homes, and turned a scattering of shelters into a functioning settlement. He had even struck trade with passing merchants. A man like that would make himself valuable anywhere.

Seeing no sign of hidden malice, Sylas gave a single, decisive nod. "If the people have chosen you, then remain as their chief. Continue to govern in their name."

Luke’s face lit with barely restrained relief. For all his composure, he had feared Sylas might disapprove, and here, one word from the Black Robe could decide his future.

Dropping to one knee, Luke placed a hand over his heart. "I, Luke Thompson, in the name of the Valar, swear fealty to Lord Sylas, Master of Amon Sûl, Feller of Trees, Bane of Barrow-wights, Slayer of Trolls, and Nemesis of Orcs."

The other villagers, moved by his oath, followed suit in a rustle of linen and leather, kneeling and pledging their loyalty.

Sylas blinked, taken aback by the sudden display. "That isn’t necessary," he protested, raising his hands. "If you wish to live here, then live here. I’ll see you come to no harm."

The kneeling folk faltered, looking from one another to him, their faces caught between hope and doubt.

Gandalf’s eyes softened. "Sylas, take their oaths," he said quietly. "Only as your sworn folk will they rest easy. It’s not just safety they seek, it’s belonging."

Sylas sighed inwardly. The logic of it escaped him. He had already promised them shelter and protection; why would they insist on formal allegiance as well? But the uncertainty in their eyes was plain.

"Very well," he said at last. "I accept."

Smiles broke like sunrise across the gathered faces. In that moment, the people of the new settlement became his first sworn subjects, and with that bond came the right to call him "my lord."

Gandalf chuckled warmly. "Well then, my lord, congratulations. You have subjects now."

Bilbo grinned from ear to ear. "Does that mean I have to call you ’Lord Sylas’ as well?" he teased.

Legolas said nothing, but the quiet curve of his lips betrayed his amusement.