The Last Ringbearer Page 5

  "We only follow orders. Our shadow is your shadow."

  "So whether I tell you to kill a child or become like a father to him, it's all the same to you?"

  "Absolutely. I will perform either duty to the best of my ability."

  "All right, this suits me. Here's a job for you in the meantime. The other day one of my Northern comrades-in-arms, a certain Anakit, got drunk and boasted to his friends that soon he will be as rich as Tingol. Supposedly he has information about some legendary sword for which a certain someone will pay any price. This talk has to end immediately."

  "Yes, Your Majesty. Those who listened to these boasts..."

  "Whatever for?"

  "You think?.."

  "Remember this, my dear friend: I kill without hesitation, but I never -- never, you hear me? -- kill unless absolutely necessary. Understand?"

  "This is truly wise, Your Majesty."

  "You take too many liberties, Lieutenant," said the ranger in a tone that would chill many a man.

  "Our shadow is your shadow," repeated the other calmly. "So, in a way, you and us are now one. May I carry out your orders?"

  ***

  There is not much to add. The Western Coalition army (joined by the turncoat Easterlings who were `forgiven' by the victors) set out for its last campaign, the highlight of which was the March 23rd mutiny of the Westfold Rohirrim and Lossarnach militiamen, who could not for the life of them understand why they had to die far from home for Aragorn's crown. Having ruthlessly put down the revolt, the D nadan brought his army to the Cormallen field at the entrance to Morannon, where he met the last defenders of Mordor; the latter had already exhausted its reserves, having invested them all in the South Army. The coalition won; that is to say, the men of Gondor, Rohan, and East simply piled the fastnesses of Morannon with their corpses. The Elves, as usual, joined the battle when it was already decided. The losses of the victors were so massive that a legend about a huge Army of the East had to be quickly invented. The Mordorians there died to a man, including King Sauron; the latter fought in the ranks of his Royal Mounted Guard in a captain's cloak, so his body was never identified. The chronicles of the Western countries mostly gloss over the Coalition's deeds after the victory, for the slaughter it carried out inside Mordor had been horrific even by the not-too-humanitarian standards of the time. Be that as it may, Gandalf's plan had succeeded (if you don't count the small matter of the Mirror, which the Elves had no intention of returning): the Mordorian civilization had ceased to exist. However, the wizards of the White Council had somehow forgotten one factor: namely, that there is a certain Someone in the world Who rather abhors complete victories and assorted `final solutions,' and is capable of showing His displeasure with same in unimaginably startling ways. Even now, that Someone was dispassionately surveying the vanquished -- all that flotsam cast ashore by the passed storm -- when suddenly He rested His gaze upon two soldiers of the extinct South Army among the dunes of the desert of Mordor.

  Chapter 10

  Mordor, the Teshgol boundary

  April 9, 3019

  "So why not wait until nightfall?" Haladdin whispered.

  "Because if this really is a trap and the guys who set it are not total idiots, they'll expect company by evening. What does the Field Manual teach us, doctor?" Tzerlag raised a finger. "Right -- do the opposite of what the foe expects. So, don't move until my signal, and if I'm lost, may the One preserve me, even more so. Clear?" He cast another look at the camp and muttered: "Damn, I don't like this picture." The Teshgol boundary consisted of fixed sands dotted with fairly thick copses of white saxaul in shallow depressions between small hillocks covered with desert serge and sacaton. The camp consisted of three yurts pitched in a triangle, with entrances facing in, in a small wind-protected hollow about hundred and fifty yards from their hideout, so everything in it was clearly visible. Tzerlag has watched it for an hour, detecting no suspicious movements; however, there were no non-suspicious movements, either, the camp looked deserted. This was very strange, but it was time to make some move.

  A minute later Haladdin, holding his breath, watched the scout in his brown cloak fairly ooze along the barely discernible creases in the ground. He was right, of course: the only thing a field medic could do to help was to not bother a professional. True, but it is not very pleasant to sit in the relative safety of a hideout when your comrade is risking his life a few steps away. He scanned the horizon once again and then discovered, to his amazement, that meanwhile the sergeant has vanished. Nuts! One could almost believe that the scout had turned into an agama lizard and sank into the sand, the way they can; or, more appropriately, was now slithering along as a deadly saw-scaled viper. The doctor has been staring into the hillocks around the camp till his eyes hurt for almost half an hour, when suddenly he saw Tzerlag standing up right between the yurts.

  Everything is fine, then! The departure of the feeling of danger was an almost physical pleasure; every muscle of his, previously tense, was now blessedly relaxing, and the world, once discolored by adrenalin, was regaining its natural colors. Climbing out of the pit under a saxaul tree that leaned almost to the ground, Haladdin easily shouldered the bag of gear and marched forward, looking closely at the ground -- the slope was seriously dented by desert rats. Almost at the bottom he finally looked up and realized that something was wrong. Seriously wrong, to judge by the Orocuen's behavior: after standing for some time at the entrance to the left yurt, he then trudged to the next one without entering. Yes, trudged -- for some reason the sergeant's step had lost its usual spring. Only a barely audible hum disturbed the unnatural quiet of the hollow, like tiny ripples on the oily surface of a swamp... Then he suddenly understood everything, recognizing it as the sound of a myriad of flies.

  ...Even in the sandy desert soil it takes more than a few minutes to dig a grave for ten people (four adults, six children); they had to hurry, but they had found only one spade and so had to share. Haladdin was about waist deep when Tzerlag walked up to him.

  "Listen, you keep digging, I'll go walk around one more time and check on something."

  "You think someone may have survived and is hiding out there?"

  "Unlikely, seems they're all here. But over there there's blood on the sand."

  "But weren't they all murdered right in the yurts?.."

  "That's the point. Keep working, but look around once in a while. I'll whistle if I need you -- one long, two short."

  He heard the signal in no more than five minutes. The sergeant waved to him from a small dune near the path to the highway, then disappeared behind its crest. Following, Haladdin found the scout crouching before a dark round object; only when he was almost there did he realize that it was the head of a man buried in the sand up to his neck, and that the man appeared to still be alive. There was a clay bowl of water a few inches from his lips, just beyond reach.

  "That's who put up a fight back there. Are we too late, doctor?"

  "No, it's all right. See, he's still sweating, so it's only the second stage of dehydration, and he has no sunburns, thank the One."

  "Yeah, they put him in the shade of the dune, precisely so that he'd take longer to die. By all signs he'd pissed them off mightily... Can I give him water?"

  "At the second stage -- yes, but only in small portions. But how did you know?.."

  "To be honest, I was looking for a corpse."

  With those words Tzerlag put his leather flask to the blackened and cracked lips of the buried man. The man shuddered and gulped down water, but his barely opening eyes remained clouded and lifeless.

  "Wait up, fella, not so fast! Hear what the doc says: not all at once. All right, let's pull him out; the sand is loose here, so we don't need a spade... Got him?" Shoving the sand back some, they grabbed the man by his underarms and: "One-two!" pulled him out like a carrot from the garden patch. "Damn!" the Orocuen said with feeling, grabbing his scimitar; the rush of sand off the clothes of the rescued man revealed a green jacket of a Gondor
ian officer to their stunned gazes.

  This, however, did not affect the rescue operations in the slightest, and in a dozen minutes the prisoner was, in Tzerlag's words, "ready to use." The cloudiness in his gray eyes gone, his gaze was now steady and slightly mocking. After a quick glance at his rescuers' uniforms, he fully appraised his situation and, much to their surprise, introduced himself in good, if accented, Orocuenish: "Baron Tangorn, lieutenant of the Ithilien regiment. To whom do I have the honor of speaking?"

  For a man who had just miraculously escaped a tortuous death only to face it once again, the Gondorian was acquitting himself very well. The scout gave him a respectful look and stepped aside, nodding to Haladdin to continue.

  "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 dither, 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 L rien 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 will tell you myself. You have 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 had 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 has taken seriously before, that the ruling Anarion dynasty 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 And ril, although who had ever seen this And ril? 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 confirmed 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 E:omer, 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 L rien."

  "What about our home, Mordor?"

  "Barad-Dur 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 anyone with an education. I think they 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 this -- what's his name? -- Eloar. The owner of the blue yurt was my aunt twice-removed, so it's a blood feud 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... I do remember you from Osgiliath last year. It was you that took down Detz-Zeveg, the `King of the 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 N rnen Highway

  Night of April 11, 3019

  "Where 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, mostly 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 the double-crested dune, where darkness hid Eloar's camped company, tracked by Tzerlag.

  "Among other things I've found a loose page of excellent 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 great."

  "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 before 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 discovered a formal method for doing so? Why not?"

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

  "My world 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 wil
l conduct 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 assorted 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 are heading for that highway outpost that the Baron had mentioned, and that, I figure, is no more than five or six miles away; we won't be able to get 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 has chosen his campsite wisely: 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, afterwards he can't see anything in the dark for at least three minutes... 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 saw the mutilated corpses for the first time. You have to be absolutely calm, you'll be shooting soon... yes, like that, relax and meditate... like that... He was lying flat on the cold sand, minutely 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? -- here's a man standing, 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 light 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, crouching for a lunge. The sentry must have seen some movement in the dark after all, but instead of shouting an alarm he started (imagine such lucky stupidity!) 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.