The Last Ringbearer (7 page)

“Field Medic Second Class Haladdin and Sergeant Tzerlag of the Cirith Ungol Rangers. Although it doesn’t matter now.”

“Why not?” the lieutenant raised an eyebrow. “Quite a distinguished regiment. If I remember correctly, we met last fall at Osgiliath – the men of Ithilien were defending the southern flank then. By the fist of Tulkas, it was an excellent battle!”

“I’m afraid that now is not the best time to reminisce about those knightly exploits – we’re interested in more recent events. What team had massacred this camp? Name of commanding officer, number, task, direction of movement? And no fooling: we’re not inclined to benevolence, as you may guess.”

The baron shrugged: “Quite legal questions. The company is made up of Easterling mercenaries commanded by Eloar, an Elf; as I understand it, he’s a relative of some Lórien ruler. Number: nine people. Their task is roving patrol of a stretch of desert next to the highway and mop-up of said territory as a counter-insurgency measure. Are you satisfied?”

Haladdin closed his eyes involuntarily and once again saw a toy bactrian made of woolen threads, trampled into a pool of coagulated blood. So that’s what they call it: ‘mopping up territory.’ Good to know.

“So how did you end up in the regrettable position in which we found you, Baron?”

“I’m afraid that it’s such an unlikely story that you will not believe me.”

“Then I‘ll tell you myself. You had attempted to stop this ‘mop-up’ and wounded one of the mercenaries, perhaps even killed one. Correct?”

The Gondorian looked at them in obvious consternation. “How the hell do you know that?”

“That’s not important. Strange behavior for a lieutenant of Gondor, though.”

“It’s proper behavior for a soldier and a gentleman,” the prisoner replied drily. “I hope that you will not view my accidental admission as an attempt to plead for my life.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Baron. I believe that the sergeant and I owe you at least a partial payment on this debt; looks like it’s our turn to behave foolishly …” He looked back at the Orocuen; the latter hesitated, but then gestured acceptance: do as you think best.

“Forgive my not-so-idle curiosity: what will you do if we set you free?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure. Here in Mordor, if the Elves capture me they will finish what Eloar’s men started, even if not in such an exotic manner. There’s nothing to come back to in Gondor: my King is dead, and I do not intend to serve his murderer and usurper …”

“What do you mean, Baron? We’ve heard no news since Pelennor.”

“Denethor died a horrible death; supposedly he immolated himself on a funeral pyre. The very next day there was a ready claimant to the throne. You see, there’s an old legend, which no one had taken seriously before, that the ruling House of Húrin is only taking care of the throne for the descendants of the mythical Isildur. Such a descendant has shown up – one Aragorn, of the northern rangers. To prove his dynastic rights he produced a sword, supposedly the legendary
Andúril
, although who had ever seen this
Andúril
? He also performed several healings by laying of hands, although all those healed were from among his northern followers … Prince Faramir, the heir apparent, retired to Ithilien and is supposedly a prince there under the eye of Captain Beregond – the same one who testified to Denethor’s ‘self-immolation.’”

“And no one in the West objected to all this?”

“Aragorn’s Secret Guard – rumor has it that they’re all living dead, animated by Elvish magic – had quickly taught Gondorians not to ask such questions. As for Éomer, they get whatever they want from him, which is not surprising, since his sister is under guard with Faramir in Ithilien. Actually, it appears that Aragorn himself is an Elvish puppet, and the real ruler of Gondor is Arwen, his wife from Lórien.”

“What about our home, Mordor?”

“Barad-dúr has been razed to the ground. The Elves are now forming a kind of a local administration from all sorts of trash. It seems to me that they are destroying all remnants of civilization and are systematically hunting down everyone with an education. I think they seriously intend to push your people back into the Stone Age.”

“What about your people?”

“I think that our turn will come, but for now they need us.”

Tzerlag broke the ensuing silence. “All right. First we need to finish burying the people of this camp. After that you can do whatever, but I intend to collect a debt from that – what’s his name? – Eloar. The owner of the blue yurt was my aunt twice-removed, so it’s a bloodfeud now.”

“May I join you, Sergeant?” Tangorn asked unexpectedly, and explained to the puzzled Orocuen: “They took my sword, a family heirloom. It would be nice to get the
Slumber-maker
back; besides, I would rather like to send these guys my regards from beyond the grave.”

The scout studied the Gondorian directly for some time, then nodded: “Tangorn … Yeah, I do remember you from Osgiliath last year. It was you took down Detz-Zeveg, the ‘King of Spearmen.’”

“Right, I have had this honor.”

“The only thing is, we don’t have a sword to fit you. Ever use a scimitar?”

“I’ll figure it out somehow.”

“All right, then.”

CHAPTER 11

Mordor, near the Old Núrnen Highway

Night of April 11, 3019

W 
here have you studied languages, Baron?”

“Well, I’ve spent over six years in Umbar and Khand, if that’s what you mean, but I’ve started at home. Prince Faramir – we’re childhood friends – has an excellent library, all in Eastern languages, of course; could I let it go unused? That’s why I’m here in Mordor, actually – I wanted to sift through the wreckage. Put together a whole bag of books; those guys took it, by the way, together with the
Slumber-maker
.” Tangorn nodded towards a double-crested dune where darkness hid Eloar’s camped company, tracked by Tzerlag. “Among other things I’ve found a loose page of splendid verse I haven’t seen before:

I swear by near and by far,
I swear by sword and fight that’s fair,
I swear by the morning star
I swear by the evening prayer …

Would you happen to know the author?”

“That’s Saheddin. Strictly speaking, he’s a wizard and an alchemist, not a poet. He publishes verse from time to time, and claims that he’s only a translator of texts created in other worlds. You’re right, the poetry’s excellent.”

“Damn, but that’s a cute idea! For sure, one can describe the World in a myriad ways, but a true poetic text where you can’t change a single letter has to be the most precise and economical one, and universal for that reason alone! If there is anything in common between various worlds, it has to be poetry … and music, of course. Such texts must exist aside from us, written into the very fabric of what Is and what Could Be by the sound of a seashell, the pain of unrequited love, the smell of spring forest – one must only learn to perceive them … Poets do this intuitively, but what if this Saheddin had discovered a formal method for doing so? Why not?”

“Right, something like modern geology to look for ores, rather than unreliable guesses of the dowsers. So you, too, think that the World is Text?”

“The world I inhabit certainly is, but that’s a matter of taste.”

Yeah, the World is Text, thought Haladdin. Wouldn’t it be nice to someday read the paragraph describing how one day I will join two likeable professional killers (what else are they?) to hunt nine subhumans (why, how are those different from all the others?) and will carry on a profound discussion of poetry right before the battle, to control the taste of copper in my mouth and the disgusting feeling of cold fear at the pit of my stomach? Truly, the author of such a text has a great imagination and a great future.

His musings were interrupted when a bright double star above the dune hiding them blinked as if obscured by a bird of the night. So this is it … would that he could have a stiff drink right now … He rose into a crouch and began stuffing his weapons for tonight – a short Orocuen bow of unfamiliar construction and a quiver with six mismatched arrows – into his shoulder bag. Meanwhile, Tangorn, still unaccustomed to Tzerlag’s skills, stared in mute amazement at the scout who had silently appeared from nowhere a few steps away.

“Fair sirs, one can hear your whispers from thirty paces off. Were it my boys rather than those lowlifes, you’d already be counting stars on the One’s robes … Whatever, bygones. Looks like I managed to grab my quarry by the very tail. Way I see it, they’re heading for that highway outpost that the Baron had mentioned. I figure that it’s no more than five or six miles away, and we won’t be able to get at them there. So here’s the plan …”

Here the sands of the erg bordered the western edge of a large hamada of many a square mile – a silent sea rolling its waves onto a grim stony beach. The largest wave was, appropriately, right against the shoreline – a huge dune stretching half a mile each way from a fire burning at the middle of its foot. The Elf had chosen his campsite wisely, with the forty-foot dune slope in the back and the flat expanse of the hamada in the front; the two lookouts placed twenty yards to the north and the south of the fire along the bottom of the dune fully covered all lines of possible attack. Not much fuel around here, but saxaul burns long and hot, almost like coal; a dozen arm-thick logs from every member of the party will provide enough warmth to last the night.

What if it’s a trap? Haladdin wondered suddenly. Sure, Tzerlag had sniffed out everything around, but aren’t these guys too carefree? Never mind the fire, it’s only visible from the
hamada
where no one is supposed to be, but the fact that the sentry goes to the fire to add fuel and warm himself a little – that’s total madness, he can’t see anything in the dark for at least three minutes afterwards … It was during one such departure of the southern sentry that they had crept to within twenty paces of his position. The scout had left them there and melted into the dark: he was supposed to go around the camp by the way of the
hamada
and creep up to the northern sentry. No, he restrained himself; no need to fear your own shadow. It’s just that they’ve grown so unaccustomed to meeting resistance that guarding the camp is a formality to them. Besides, it’s their last night out on patrol, tomorrow it will be baths, drink, and all that … plus a bonus for every Orc ear … I wonder if children’s ears bring the same bounty or are a bit cheaper? Stop it! Stop it right there! He bit his lip, hard, feeling another round of shakes coming on – just like back at Teshgol, when he first saw the mutilated corpses. You have to be absolutely calm, you’ll be shooting soon … yes, like that, relax and meditate … like that …

He lay flat on the cold sand, intently examining the sentry’s silhouette. No helmet (and rightly so, can’t hear anything in one of those things), so best aim for the head. Interesting, huh? – there stands a man, looking at the stars, thinking of pleasant (to him) things, not knowing that he’s already dead. Meanwhile the ‘dead’ man looked enviously at his seven buddies by the fire (three to the south, three to the north, one to the west, between the fire and the slope), and then turned away furtively, produced a flask, took a swig, belched and wiped his lips noisily. Great! … quite sloppy … wonder how his northern counterpart would like that? Suddenly Haladdin’s heart lurched and dropped somewhere into the void: it’s begun! Begun quite a while ago, too, while he, the idiot! had almost missed it, just like the baron, another simpleton … For the northern sentry was already sagging lifelessly to the ground, resting in Tzerlag’s firm embrace. Another moment, and the scout carefully and silently put the Easterling’s body down on the sand and
flowed
, like a fox into a rabbit hutch, into the circle of firelight filled with sleeping forms.

Slowly, as if in a dream, Haladdin rose to one knee and drew the bow; in the corner of his right eye he saw the baron readying for a lunge. The sentry must have seen some movement in the dark after all, but instead of shouting an alarm (imagine such lucky stupidity!) he started reflexively putting away the illegal flask. The moment of delay was enough for Haladdin to pull the butt of the arrow to his chin and habitually drop the aim an inch below the target – the clearly backlit head of the sentry; twenty paces, a stationary target, even a baby won’t miss. He did not even feel the pain of the bowstring slamming his left arm, for it was immediately followed by the dry and loud, as if into wood, thwack of the arrow hitting home. The Easterling threw up his hands – the unlucky flask still clutched in one – turned on a heel and slowly dropped. The baron sprinted forward and was already past the dead man when a muffled cry sounded from the fire – the sergeant’s scimitar slammed into one of the three men lying to the north of the fire, and the silence immediately shattered into a thousand screaming, howling shards.

Haladdin followed his orders by circling the camp, staying outside the circle of firelight and yelling in different voices: “Surround them, lads, let no sumbitch escape!” and suchlike. Instead of immediately scattering, the sleep-addled mercenaries instinctively clustered by the fire. On the southern approach Tangorn hit three of them; one immediately folded, clutching his stomach, and the baron snatched his sword – a wide and, Tulkas be praised, straight one – tossing away the scimitar he had to use initially. The light of the fire fell on his face, and the two remaining Easterlings abruptly dropped their weapons and bolted, screaming shrilly: “
Gheu! Gheu!
” (a kind of vampire into which unburied dead supposedly turn). Surprised, Haladdin was slow to open up on them and apparently missed – in any event, they both vanished into the night. In the commotion Tzerlag had wounded another ‘northern’ Easterling, retreated a bit and was now calling out: “Hey, Eloar, you coward, where are you? I came to you to exact the blood-price of Teshgol!”