Chapter 29
Cutting off the D nadan's yell with one short chop (the man did not even moan -- just sagged to the floor like a sack of meal), the Orocuen turned to Faramir and addressed a few choice words to His Highness, the mildest of which was `damn idiot.' His Highness took it in stride; it was he who was suddenly overcome with sentimentality and tried to simply scare the sentry, rather than knock him out, as Tzerlag insisted. As usual, humanism only made things worse: the soldier got his predestined share of bruises and internal injuries anyway, but all for naught. Their situation seemed hopeless now.
In any case, there was no time to decide fault. Tzerlag instantly ripped off the sentry's black cloak, tossed it to just-arrived E:owyn and snarled, pointing at the cellar door: "Stand there, both of you! Swords at the ready!" while he swiftly dragged the D nadan to the center of the hall. The six soldiers who burst in a few seconds later found the leftovers of a very recent fight: the sentries at the cellar door stood ready to handle any further attack, while another D nadan was motionless on the floor; the sergeant kneeling by his side barely glanced at them, pointed imperatively towards the south stair and again bent over the wounded man. The soldiers ran where they were told to go, boots thundering, almost kicking the Orocuen with their scabbards. The group had a break of a few seconds.
"Shall we fight our way to the stockade?" The prince was clearly looking for a nice quick way to lose his head.
"No, stick to the original plan." Tzerlag got out his tools and began studying the lock.
"But they'll immediately know what we're doing!"
"Yep..." The pick went into the keyhole and began feeling out the pins.
"So what then?"
"Three guesses, philosopher!"
"Fight?"
"Good boy! I'll be working and you'll be protecting me -- just as our estates are supposed to do..."
Despite everything, the prince laughed: this guy was definitely to his liking. Right then, there was no time for laughing any more. The brief respite ended the way it had to: two confused D nadans came back down the south stair -- who are we hunting, Sergeant? -- and three real White Company sergeants appeared in the door. Those twigged to the situation right away and yelled: "Freeze! Drop your weapons!" and everything else one is supposed to yell in such circumstances.
Tzerlag kept working on the lock with great concentration, detachment even, ignoring everything happening behind his back. The conversation that started up was totally predictable: "Surrender your sword, Your Highness!" "Try taking it!" "Hey, who's over there -- come here!" He only glanced back, and then only for a moment, when the crossing blades first rang out above his head. Immediately the three White sergeants fell back; one of them, grimacing with pain, was carefully hugging his right hand under his arm, and his weapon was on the floor -- the `magic circle' erected by Faramir's and E:owyn's swords performed flawlessly so far. The prince, in turn, had no chance to glance back -- the half- circle of Whites, bristling with steel, was drawing close, like a pack of wolves around a deer -- but a short time later he heard a metallic click and then Tzerlag's strange chuckle.
"What's happening, Sergeant?"
"Everything's fine, but just imagine this picture: the crown prince of Gondor and the sister of the King of Rohan are covering some Orc's back with their lives..."
"Indeed it's funny. How's it going?"
"All set." Behind them, there was a creak of rusted hinges and a whiff of musty cold. "I'm going in; hold the door until my word."
Meantime, the Whites have erected quite a barrier around them and froze. The prince clearly discerned growing confusion in their actions: where the hell is Cheetah and the rest of the commanders? Nevertheless, he was sure that those surrounding them were not attacking only because they were unaware of the tunnel's existence. Finally, a private with a white band on his arm showed up and gave the prince a ceremonious bow:
"My apologies, Your Highness. I am Sir Elvard, lieutenant of the D nadan Royal Guard. Perhaps you will find it possible to surrender your sword to me?"
"What makes you better than the others?"
"Possibly the Secret Guard had committed some offense against your honor. If that's the case, His Majesty's Royal Guard, as represented by me, offers its sincere apologies and guarantees that this will not happen again and that the guilty parties shall be punished. Then we could conclude this unfortunate incident."
"Fish don't swim backwards, Lieutenant. Her Highness and I have decided to leave this fort as free people or die trying."
"You leave me no choice but to disarm you by force."
"Go ahead, Lieutenant. Just be careful -- you may cut yourself." This time the attack was more determined. However, while a certain line had not been crossed the Prince and Princess of Ithilien had an advantage: E:owyn and Faramir inflicted stabbing wounds to the extremities without hesitation, whereas their opponents so far did not dare do so. In a short time the attackers had three lightly wounded and the attack fizzled out. The D nedain fought unenthusiastically, and kept glancing at their lieutenant: give a clear order already! Cut these two down or what? The Secret Guard had taken position in the rear ranks, allowing Sir Elvard to take command (and responsibility), as the situation appeared untenable.
Then, just as Faramir congratulated himself on how good a job of buying time for Tzerlag they were doing, the man suddenly showed up by his side, scimitar in hand, and said in a lifeless voice:
"It's a modern Umbarian lock, Prince, I can't open it. Surrender before it's too late."
"It is too late," Faramir snapped. "Tzerlag, can we save you somehow?" The Orocuen shook his head: "Unlikely. They sure don't need me as a prisoner."
"E:owyn?"
"We will face Mandos together, darling -- what could be better?"
"Then let's at least have some fun first." With those words Faramir advanced recklessly towards the ranks of the Whites, right at Sir Elvard. "Hold on, Lieutenant! By the arrows of Orom , we're going to splash your master's robes with our blood -- he won't ever wash it off!"
The hall filled with ringing of blades and fierce yells (the fight was now such that it became clear -- soon there would be first dead). That was when a voice sounded from somewhere on the north stair -- seemingly quiet, but somehow penetrating the minds of all the combatants:
"Stop, all of you! Faramir, please listen to me!" There was something in that voice that froze the fight for a few moments, so that Cheetah (in someone else's cloak, leaning on something like a crutch with his left hand and on a White sergeant's shoulder with his right) managed to reach the middle of the hall. He stopped amid the frozen tableau and his voice sounded a command: "Go, Faramir! Quick!" A small shiny object tossed by his hand bounced off Tzerlag's chest, and the amazed sergeant picked up a fancy double-headed Umbarian key.
The freeze thawed immediately. At the Orocuen's command Faramir and E:owyn moved back towards the door, he himself disappeared into the cellar again, and Sir Elvard, who had finally understood what just happened, cried out: "Treason! They'll escape through the tunnel!" The lieutenant thought for a couple of seconds, arrived at a final decision, pointed at the prince with his sword and shouted: "Kill him!" Things got serious in a hurry. It immediately became obvious that E:owyn, at least, would not be able to hold out for more than a couple of minutes: the girl fenced perhaps even better than the prince, but the captured D nadan blade was too heavy to suit her well. They had each sustained a glancing wound (he to the right side, she to the left shoulder) when they finally heard: "It's open, Prince! Retreat one by one between the barrels! I have the sack!" A few seconds later the prince followed E:owyn into the cellar. Right at the threshold he managed to strike a good blow at the attacking D nadan, broke contact and quickly backed into the darkness, right into a narrow aisle between empty barrels stacked three high.
"Faster, faster!" Tzerlag's voice sounded from somewhere above him. The Whites were already in the door, their silhouettes clearly visible against the lit doorway, when there was
a wooden rumble resembling an avalanche, and then it was dark -- not a ray of light penetrated from the door. Faramir halted in confusion, but then the Orocuen materialized from somewhere by his side, grabbed his arm and pulled him further into the dark. The prince's shoulders bumped the walls of the passage, D nedain yells and curses filtered from behind, and E:owyn was calling to them in alarm from up ahead. "What happened, Tzerlag?"
"Nothing much: I simply rocked the top barrels and brought them down to block the passage. Now we have at least a minute breathing room."
The girl was awaiting them at a small, unusually thick door leading into a narrow and low (about five feet high) tunnel. It was so dark that even the Orocuen could not see much.
"E:owyn, in there, now! Take the palant r! Faramir, help me... where the hell is it?"
"What're you looking for?"
"A beam. A small beam, about six feet; Grager's men were supposed to leave it on the other side... Aha, here it is! Did you close the door, Prince? Now we secure it from the outside with this beam... Come over, let's fit the other end in this hole here. Praise the One, it's an earthen floor, this will hold well."
A few seconds later the door shuddered under blows from the inside; they were just in time. Upstairs in Emyn Arnen a major spat was in progress. Sir Edvard, pale with anger, screamed at the chief of counter-intelligence:
"You're under arrest, Cheetah, or whatever your name is! Know this, bastard: up North we hang traitors by their legs, so that they have time to think before dying!.."
"Shut up, idiot, it's bad enough already," the captain answered tiredly. He was sitting on a step, eyes closed, waiting patiently while another man fashioned a crude cast for his foot. A grimace of pain contorted his face from time to time: a broken foot is a truly horrendous injury.
"Anyway, you're under arrest," the D nadan repeated; then he glanced up at the Secret Guard officers arrayed in a semicircle behind their chief and felt a sudden fear -- not that he scared easily. The seven figures froze in a strange immobility, and their eyes -- usually dark and empty, like a dry well -- suddenly shone with a scarlet shimmer, like a predator's.
"No, don't even think about it," Cheetah said, turning to his people, and the scarlet shimmer disappeared without a trace. "Let him consider me arrested, if that will make him feel better; a fight among the White Company is just what we don't need right now..." Suddenly a din rose in the courtyard, then the door opened, and in walked the man whom they least expected to see, flanked by stunned sentries.
"Grager!" Sir Elvard said in astonishment. "How dare you come here? Nobody gave you safe conduct..."
The baron smirked. "It's you who's going to need safe conduct now. I am here by the order of my suzerain, the Prince of Ithilien," he stressed the last words. "His Highness is prepared to forgive all the evil you've done him and were about to do. Moreover, the Prince has a plan that will allow His Majesty to save face and you to keep your heads attached."
Chapter 30
Ithilien, the Settlement
May 15, 3019
The morning that day was wonderful. The watercolor blue of the Ephel D ath (what idiot had decided to cal then Mountains of Shadow?) was so transparent that their snowy peaks appeared to float in the air above the boundless emerald stretches of Ithilien. For those few minutes the fort of Emyn Arnen on a nearby hill became what its creators must have imagined it to be: a magical forest dwelling, rather than a fortress. The rays of the rising sun have magically transformed the meadow on the edge of the Settlement -- the plentiful dew that had previously covered it like a coat of noble faded silver suddenly shone like a spread of uncountable diamonds; perhaps the early May sunrise had surprised the gnomes who had gathered here for their nightly vigil, so now they have fled to their mouse holes, abandoning their painstakingly arranged treasures.
Be that as it may, the three or four hundred people gathered at the meadow (mostly peasants and soldiers) were not inclined to think of the dew poetically: it had drenched them all, many teeth were close to chattering. Nevertheless, no one left; on the contrary, people kept gathering. Men from the distant hamlets joined the inhabitants of the Settlement; news that the White Company was leaving, changing the guard to the newly reconstituted Ithilien regiment, have traveled with lighting speed, and no one wanted to miss the show. Now they were looking at the two motionless ranks facing each other -- one black, the other green -- at the officers saluting each other with complex movements of bare swords -- "I relieve you."
"I stand relieved." -- and, amazingly, for the first time thought of themselves as Ithilienians rather than settlers from Gondor, Arnor, or Belfalas.
The Prince of Ithilien was a little pale and did not seem too comfortable in the saddle (according to experts in such things); then again, there was no lack of pale faces and beclouded gazes among the White Company, either. ("Guys, betcha the party in the fort last night was a monster, eh?" "Yeah, see them three Whites in the back row on the right? You could prob'ly get buzzed from their breath; they look ready to keel over, poor sods.") In the meantime, Faramir thanked the White Company for faithful service, bid a ceremonious farewell to his personal guard, and addressed a speech to his subjects:
"Today we are seeing off our friends who have come to our aid in the hour of utmost need, when the fledgling Ithilien Colony was defenseless against the bands of bloodthirsty goblins and Wargs; our heartfelt thanks to you, Guards of the Citadel! ("Hey, cousin: bands o' goblins... ever see any `round here?" "Well, cain't say as I had, but they say that the other day at the Otter Creek...") The memory of this aid will remain forever in our hearts, just as the Princedom of Ithilien will forever remain the vassal of the Reunited Kingdom and its shield beyond the Anduin. However, we will defend the Kingdom as we see fit; we dwell beyond the Great River, not in An rien, so we have to live in peace and harmony with all the local peoples, whether anybody likes it or not. ("What's he talking about, cousin?"
"Well, I figger that, say, them Trolls in the Mountains of Shadow -- word is they have iron like dirt, but not much lumber." "Yeah, I suppose...") Anyway. All hail the King of Gondor and Arnor! ("Weird, cousin..." "Hey, dumbass, see them roll out the barrels over yonder? For a free drink I'll hail even His Majesty... Hurrah!")
...The messenger from Minas Tirith (a lieutenant of the D nadan Royal Guard) showed up at the meadow when the ceremony was in full swing, his horse all lathered and breathing hard. Sir Elvard, thoroughly cowed by the Secret Guard ("Oblige me by smiling, sir. Smile, you hear?!"), now helplessly watching this unheard-of treachery -- surrender of a key fortress without a fight -- looked up and a faint hope arose in his heart: His Majesty must have somehow learned about this rebellion and has sent him an order to polish off all those dyed-in-the-wool traitors -- from Faramir to Cheetah... Alas, the message was indeed from Aragorn, but it was addressed to the captain of the Secret Guard. Cheetah broke the White Tree seal right then and there and lost himself in reading; then he folded the message unhurriedly and handed it to Sir Elvard with a strange chuckle:
"Read this, Lieutenant. I think you'll find it interesting." The letter was a set of detailed instructions on how the White Company was to proceed under the new circumstances. Aragorn wrote that the preservation of the status quo required identifying all the bases of the Ithilien regiment and destroying them in one fell swoop, so that not a single man would escape. The strike was to be lightning-fast and absolutely secret; as for who was to be blamed for this monstrous evil deed -- the mountain Trolls, goblins, or Morgoth himself -- that was up to the captain. However, should there be any doubts whatsoever as to the success of such an operation (for example, if critical time was lost and there were already almost as many Ithilienians as the Whites), then it was to be aborted. In that case they were to make virtue out of necessity: transfer the duty of guarding Emyn Arnen to the officers of the Ithilien regiment in exchange for Faramir's confirmation of his vassal's oath and return to Minas Tirith, leaving only their intelligence network behind. His Majesty reminded t
hat Faramir's life was sacrosanct in any and all circumstances, and that anyone who would provoke an open confrontation between the Ithilienians and the White Company (which event would immediately cause a civil war in the princedom and tear apart the Reunited Kingdom) will be executed for treason. To put it succinctly: once you start the job, finish it, but don't start if you're not sure. His Majesty wrote in a post-scriptum: "There are many sovereigns in this world who love cloaking their orders in hints in order to later blame those doing their will for `misunderstanding orders.' Be it known that Elessar of Valandil is not one of them -- he always accepts responsibility and calls things what they are, and his orders say only what they say. Should there be found among the White Company any officers who -- motivated by excess zeal -- would mistake explicit bans for a veiled desire of the King, Captain Cheetah is to neutralize any such officer at any cost."
"As you can see, Lieutenant, by letting you live during your escapades last night, I was going against the King's orders, to some extent."
"So you've known about this order?" Sir Elvard looked at Cheetah with superstitious fear.
"You're overestimating my abilities. It's just that, unlike you, I can figure at least two moves in advance."
"...They're leaving! Look, they're really leaving!" Grager breathed finally, watching the column of Whites take to the Osgiliath Highway. He kept the fingers of his left hand crossed in a special way, just in case. "To be honest, I didn't quite believe it and kept waiting for some treachery to the last moment... You're a genius, Your Majesty!"
The Last Ringbearer Page 17