The Last Ringbearer

by Kirill Yeskov

  ...When Cheetah caught a fast-moving shadow in the corner of his eye, he plastered himself against the wall in exactly the same manner and cursed inwardly: they missed the intruder after all, the bastards! The captain's position was not that great: only three sentries to cover the entire huge building -- one guarding Faramir and E:owyn, another by Beregond, the third at the entrance to the cellar. Go get help from outside? The intruder might let the prince out in the meantime, and the two of them will screw things up thoroughly. Sound an alarm? No good: the intruder will vanish into this damned maze and get ready for battle, so the only way to take him would be with quite a few holes in him, which is highly undesirable. Yes, looks like the only real option is to follow the guest and take him down personally, hand-to- hand, something Cheetah knew very well indeed.

  Once he made the decision, Cheetah suddenly felt the rush of long-forgotten joyous excitement, for what is more exquisite fun than hunting an armed man? He froze in amazement, listening to himself: yes, there was no doubt -- he was feeling an emotion! So this process has a certain order to it, then. He had his memory back first (although he still could not remember what happened to him before he found himself in the second rank of the gray phalanx marching across the Field of Pelennor), then he regained the ability to make his own decisions, then he could once again feel pain and weariness, and now the emotions were back. I wonder if I will be able to feel fear, too? At this rate I might become human again, he chuckled to himself. All right, I have work to do. Naturally, he did not go into the corridor the intruder had taken; quite possibly he had seen him, too, and was now waiting behind the next corner. Much better to make use of being the master here and being able to move much faster than the foe: no need to freeze and listen by every turn. I can go around and still be there first. Where's there? If the unwelcome guest is moving towards Faramir's room (where else?), then I should meet him at the Two Stairs Landing -- he can't avoid it, and I will have at least three minutes to prepare. As he expected, the counter-intelligence chief was the first at the landing; he took off his cloak and started painstakingly setting up the trap. I must morph into my quarry; so -- if he's not a leftie, he will be moving along the left wall. Would I look at the spiral staircase that will suddenly appear on the right? Yes, definitely. Then I will be with my back to this niche? Precisely. What a beautiful niche -- even up close it's hard to believe that it can hold anything bigger than a broom. Here, let's extinguish this lamp, so it's more in the shadow... wonderful, all set, that's where I'll stand. Now: I'm here, he's there, two yards off and facing away. Sword hilt to the back of the head? Damn, don't feel like it... not sure why, but intuition says no, gotta listen to intuition in this business. Hands, then -- a chokehold? Right hand grabs the hair at the nape, pull down to raise the chin, a simultaneous kick to the knee, left arm to the exposed throat. Reliable, but possibly lethal, and corpses don't talk much. Hadaka-jime, then, but for that it's preferable that he expose his throat himself -- say, by looking up. How can we make him look up? Think, Cheetah, think... ...When Tzerlag reached the dim weirdly shaped widening of the corridor at the end of which he could discern stairs going left, the premonition of danger returned with such force that he almost became dizzy: the unknown foe was somewhere very close. He watched and listened for minute -- nothing; moved forward slowly, in small steps, noiselessly (damn, maybe to hell with their orders, get out the scimitar?) and froze: a large opening appeared on the right, with a spiral staircase through it, and there was definitely something behind those stairs. He glided by the left wall, his eyes on the opening -- who the hell's there? -- and stopped, almost laughing out loud. Whew! It's just a sword, leaned against the wall behind the stairs by one of the Whites. A strange place to keep a personal weapon, though. Maybe it's not leaned, actually -- judging by the angle, it might've slipped down from upstairs. By the way, what's that there on the top step?..

  Tzerlag's inner sentry yelled: behind you! only a split second before the foe's hands locked around his neck. The sergeant only had time to flex his neck muscles. Moving precisely, like in training, Cheetah grabbed his throat with the crook of the right arm, then the counter- spy's right hand locked on his left bicep, while the left pushed against the back of his neck, crushing throat cartilage and pinching the arteries. Hadaka-jime -- unbreakable stranglehold. Game over.

  Chapter 28

  Banal though it sounds, everything has its price. The price of a warrior is the amount of time and money (which are really the same thing) it takes to train, arm, and equip another one to replace him. In every epoch it is useless to increase the level of training beyond a certain threshold where a basic competency is achieved, since total imperviousness is anyway impossible. What good does it do to spend the effort to turn a regular infantryman into a first-class fencer when this will not save him from a crossbow bolt or, worse, a bout of wasting diarrhea?

  For example, take hand-to-hand combat. It is a very useful skill, but perfection takes years of constant training, whereas a soldier, to put it mildly, has plenty of other responsibilities. There are several options here; the Mordorian army approach was to teach only about a dozen techniques, but to teach those twelve combinations of movements almost down to the level of the kneejerk reflex. Of course, it is impossible to foresee all eventualities, but the method for breaking a rear stranglehold is definitely among the said dozen techniques. Step one! -- a swift move back; stomp heel into the top of the foe's foot, crushing its bird- thin bones encased in myriads of nerve endings. Step two! -- bend the knees slightly, small turn of thighs, slide out of the grip suddenly weakened by horrible pain, down and slightly to the right, until there is room to drive the left elbow into his groin. Once the foe's hands drop to his hammered genitals, there are a few options available; for example, Tzerlag's step- three training had been to smash open palms over the opponent's ears: burst eardrums and a guaranteed knock-out. This ain't no exquisite ballet of the far-eastern martial arts, where the hieroglyphs of each position are but notation marks for the music of the Higher Spheres; this is Mordorian hand-to-hand combat, where everything is simple and to the point. First he kneeled and pulled up the eyelid of the spirited White Company sergeant (good, the pupil is reacting, Grager's order had not been violated), and only then allowed himself to lean against the wall in momentary exhaustion. Squeezing eyes shut, he forced himself to swallow against the pain: thank the One, the throat is intact. What if the guy had a garrote? It'd've been the end for sure. How did I screw up so badly? More importantly, how did he figure me out? Wait, this means that they'll be waiting for me at Faramir's door, too... ...The D nadan sentry in the corridor leading to the Prince's bedchamber heard heavy dragging footfalls on the stairs. A rustle, a muffled moan, then quiet... unsure footfalls again... He quickly backed into the corridor and drew his sword, ready to sound the alarm at any moment. The soldier was ready for anything, but when he saw Cheetah at the end of the corridor, bent over double and leaning on the wall, his jaw dropped. Sword at the ready, the sentry moved forward and quickly scanned the stairs which the captain just ascended -- nothing; Great Manwe, who did this to him? Is it poison? Meanwhile, the captain lost what strength he still had, slid down the wall and was still, head down and still holding his belly; it was evident that he had walked the last few steps on autopilot. The D nadan looked at Cheetah with mixed amazement, fear, and -- let's be honest -- some glee. The vaunted Secret Guard! Homegrown nin'yokve, right... He looked at the stairs where the captain straggled from once more time and crouched down to examine the wounded man. Weird, but when the hood covering Cheetah's face fell back, the soldier's first thought was that the almighty chief of counter-intelligence had for some reason known only to him decided to turn into an Orc. That was his first absurd thought and he had no time for a second one: the `tiger's paw' strike which Tzerlag had chosen for this occasion is very effective, especially when administered from down up; nothing more was necessary. Pretty cruel treatment, no doubt, but there was no ban on injuries, only on killing
; maybe we're playing a war game, but dammit, it's still not a picnic! After searching the sentry (no keys, but Tzerlag was not really expecting any), the sergeant fished his goodies out of the pack and got started on the lock.

  Pulling up the too-long sleeves of Cheetah's jacket, he thought as he worked: to think that we made it through the entire war without this, but I had to do it now. Laws and Customs of War, paragraph two -- using the enemy's uniform and medical symbols. This rates an instant hanging on the nearest tree -- rightly so, by the by. Well, it'll come in handy now -- better to show up at the prince's as a familiar jailer, rather than some Orc. Aha! Here's what I'm gonna do: put the hood down again and hand him Grager's paper without a word. The lock finally gave way, and Tzerlag breathed easier: halfway done! He had worked on the lock kneeling, and opened the door from that position, before standing up. That was what saved him -- otherwise not even the Orocuen's lightning reflexes would have been enough to block Faramir's strike.

  It is fairly easy, obvious even, to hit a man entering a room from behind a doorpost (provided that it juts far enough from the wall), but there is a catch. A man best perceives whatever is happening at his eye level, so if you decide to hammer the visitor on the head with something like a chair leg, this move will surprise only a total amateur. This is why people in the know (such as the prince) do not go after brute strength. Instead, they crouch and strike horizontally, rather than vertically. The blow, as mentioned, comes out weaker, but it hits right where it counts; most importantly, it is exceedingly difficult to react to. Faramir's script for the next scene was as follows: once Cheetah (or whoever enters first) bends over with pain, the prince would pull him into the room, beyond the left doorpost. E:owyn, standing behind the right doorpost, behind the opened door, would shut and block it with all her weight. Those left outside would immediately try to break in, but their first attempt would likely be disorganized, giving the girl a good chance to hold it for a few seconds. Those few seconds should be enough for Faramir to knock Cheetah out and grab his weapons. E:owyn would move aside then; those assaulting the door would by then get organized enough to slam into it together -- "on my mark!" -- and tumble into the room, possibly falling over. Faramir would immediately stab one of them -- no more joking around. This would likely leave no more than two Whites standing, and since the prince is one of the top twenty swords of Gondor, the royal couple's chances range from pretty good to excellent should E:owyn manage to grab the second sword. Then they would change into White Company uniforms and try to sneak out of the fort.

  This plan had some weak spots (mostly where coordinated action was concerned), but overall it was pretty good, especially considering that its primary goal was death with dignity, with escape to freedom a possible bonus. However, as already mentioned, the Orocuen was kneeling when he opened the door, so Faramir's first blow hit him in the chest and he managed to put up a block. Amazed by the prisoner's perceptiveness -- just imagine recognizing an Orc under a White Company sergeant's hood! -- Tzerlag somersaulted back into the corridor, but by the time he got to his feet Faramir was already out of the room and had cut off his retreat, while his improvised club was a whirl of wood that was impossible to block. When a moment later that blond wildcat slipped behind his back, the sergeant was reduced to rolling around on the floor, dodging blows and calling out in the most undignified manner: "Friendly, friendly, Prince! I'm with Grager and Tangorn! Dammit, stop already!"

  Then again, Faramir had already guessed something once he noticed the sentry lying down the corridor.

  "Stand up!" he growled. "Hands on the back of your head! Who are you?"

  "I surrender!" The sergeant smiled and handed the prince his `enlistment chit.' "This is a message from Grager, it explains everything. You read while I drag this guy inside, we'll need his uniform."

  "Cute," the prince grunted, handing Grager's paper back to Tzerlag. "So now I count an Orocuen amongst my friends?"

  "We're not friends at all, Prince," the other objected calmly, "we're allies. Baron Tangorn..."

  "What?! He's alive?"

  "Yes. We had saved him back in Mordor. By the way, it was he who insisted that I go rescue you. Anyway, the Baron asked that you take the palant r when we leave the fort, as we're gonna leave it now."

  "What the hell do they need it for?" The prince was surprised, but no more than that. He had yielded the initiative to the Ithilienians and switched to `take this -- go there' mode. He only nodded questioningly towards the D nadan whose jacket Tzerlag had already liberated.

  "Yep, he's alive," the Orocuen confirmed, "just a little sleepy. The other one, down the corridor, is also alive. We abide by your `no bloodshed' order very strictly." The prince only shook his head: looks like this bloke is reliable.

  "You just mentioned having saved Tangorn. If so, I'm in your debt, Sergeant; that man is really dear to me."

  "Whatever, we'll settle it," the other grunted. "Put on the uniform and let's go. We even have an extra sword now."

  "What do you mean -- `extra'?" E:owyn finally spoke. "No way!" The Orocuen glanced at Faramir questioningly, but the prince only opened his hands: no persuading this one. "Will we climb the stockade or try the gates?"

  "Neither, Prince. The courtyard is chock-full of Whites, all in position and looking for trouble; no free pass there. We'll try the tunnel."

  "The one in the wine cellar?"

  "I don't know of any others. Did Beregond tell you about it?"

  "Certainly. Its door opens out but is locked from the inside, so it can be neither unlocked nor broken down from the outside -- as is standard for any tunnel out of a fortress. There's always a sentry at the cellar door: nothing unusual about that, wine needs guarding. Beregond didn't know where the key was and didn't dare ask directly. Have you found the key?"

  "No," Tzerlag responded lightheartedly, "I'll simply pick the lock."

  "How?"

  "Exactly how I picked the lock to your door and a couple more on the way, and exactly how I'll have to pick the lock to the cellar. That'll be the most dangerous part, by the way: monkeying with the cellar door in full view. But should we quickly take down the sentry and open that door, we're three-quarters done. You, Prince, will stand guard in your new uniform, like nothing had happened, while E:owyn and I drag the knocked-out sentry inside and I start working the lock in peace."

  "But that lock has to be hard to pick..."

  "I don't think so. It's most likely heavy and sturdy -- it has to be, if the door is to withstand battering from outside -- which means not too complicated. All right, let's go! Prince, did you take the palant r? We have to make it while the Whites are still waiting for me in the courtyard, and there's only one sentry by the wine cellar."

  "Wait!" E:owyn spoke again. "What about Beregond? We can't leave him here!"

  "Oh, so Beregond has been arrested? We didn't know that."

  "Yes, just now. They know everything about him."

  Tzerlag thought for only a couple of seconds: "No can do. We don't know where he's being held and will spend too much time looking. Tonight Grager will grab every single one of Cheetah's men in the village, so if we free the Prince, tomorrow we'll trade Beregond. But if we don't get you out, he has no chance."

  "He's right." Faramir tightened the cinch of the sack with the palant r and hoisted it on his shoulder. "Let's go, in Eru's name!"

  ...The D nadan standing guard at the wine cellar scanned the large dimly lit hall. The main entrance to the fort was on his left, to the right were the three main stairs leading to the north and south wings and to the Knights Hall. What a strange decision: putting the entrance to the cellar by the front entrance, rather than in some hidey hole. Then again, everything in this here Ithilien is weird and unnatural. Start with the Prince, who's not even a prince but rather a who knows what, and end with the rules of their White Company: whoever heard of passing officers off as sergeants and privates? It'd be one thing if it was a secret from the enemy, the local terrorists, say (although no
one has seen any yet), but it's from each other! Allegedly we're in the same army, but we're not supposed to know that Sergeant Gront is really a captain, while our Lieutenant His Grace Sir Elvard is passing as a private! Funny, but the Secret Guard guys probably still don't know about Sir Elvard; like they told us at the briefing: the Secret Guard has its business while His Majesty's Royal D nadan Guard has its own... I dunno, maybe the spies like this setup, but to an honest soldier it's like glass on stone. What if it turns out that the chief here is the cook or the butler -- wouldn't that be funny?

  The sentry looked up: he could hear the approaching footsteps of two people in the uneasy silence of the deserted fort. In a few seconds he saw them: a private and a sergeant were coming down the north wing stair at a quick clip, almost running. They were heading towards the exit and looked very concerned; are they going for help? The sergeant was gingerly carrying a sack with something large and round inside it in outstretched arms. Almost abreast with the sentry they traded a few words and split up: the private kept going towards the exit, while the sergeant apparently decided to show his find to the D nadan. What's he got there? Looks like it might be a severed head... The rest happened so quickly that the sentry knew that something was off only when his hands were in a viselike grip, while the private who showed up behind his shoulder (to his astonishment, the sentry recognized Faramir) put a blade to his throat. "One word and you're dead," the prince promised without raising his voice. The D nadan swallowed convulsively; deathly pallor covered his face, and drops of sweat rolled down his temples. The two impostors traded looks, and the `sergeant' (gloomy Mandos! it's an Orc!) smirked derisively: so this is the West's fighting elite? The smirk turned out to be absolutely unwarranted: the young man desperately did not want to die, but in a couple of seconds he overcame his weakness and yelled: "Alarm!!" so loudly that echoes and clanging of arms rang back throughout Emyn Arnen.