The Last Ringbearer (2011)

by Kirill Yeskov

  “Whatever for?” the scout was surprised. “I’ve already checked – dead as a snake skin.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I keep thinking about that leather breastplate of his that a sword can’t pierce. Please check whether there’s anything special under it.”

  Tzerlag grunted, but got up from his task and went over to the dead body. Taking out his scimitar, he stuck the blade under the bottom edge of the Elf’s armor and cut it open in one movement from crotch to neck, as if gutting a large fish.

  “Hey, look, a coat of mail! Real strange, too, never saw one like that…”

  “Seems to glow a little, right?”

  “Right. Did you know or did you guess just now?”

  “Had I known it, I wouldn’t have bought his open body trick,” Tangorn grumbled. “It’s mithril. I couldn’t pierce that mail, nor can anyone else in Middle Earth.”

  Tzerlag cast a sharp look towards the baron – a pro saluting a pro. Haladdin came up, helped the sergeant take the precious scaly skin off the dead Elf and examined it closely.

  Indeed, the metal was slightly phosphorescent, resembling a blob of moonlight, and warm to the touch. The mithril mail-coat weighed about a pound and was so thin that it could be rolled into an orange-sized ball; when it accidentally spilled from his fingers and pooled into a silver puddle at his feet, he thought that it would be impossible to find on a moonlit night.

  “And here I’ve thought that mithril was a legend.”

  “Well, it’s not, as you can see. I think you can buy half of Minas Tirith and all of Edoras to boot with one such mail-shirt. There’s no more than twenty in the entire Middle Earth and there’ll be no more, the secret is lost.”

  “So why did he hide it under that leather fake?”

  The scout responded for Tangorn: “Because only an idiot shows his trumps. Uruk-Hai the Great’s principle: if you’re weak, show strength to the foe; if you’re strong, show weakness.”

  “Right,” the baron nodded, “and don’t forget the Easterlings. Had those carrion-eaters known about the mithril mail, they’d’ve cut his throat the first night and fled south – to Umbar, say – to become rich men there. Provided they didn’t waste each other dividing the loot, of course.”

  The sergeant gave a gloomy whistle. “Hot damn! So this Eloar was some kinda Elvish big shot. Which means that the Elves will turn over every stone on the hamada and sift every dune looking for our band, and spare neither time nor effort…”

  He clearly pictured how it would be done, having played the role of both hunter and hunted in many a dragnet search. Most likely they’ll gather at least a hundred fifty men for the task, foot soldiers and riders, however many can be found on this stretch of the highway. First the mounted soldiers will cut off the route to Morgai and form a half-circle against the unapproachable edge of the hamada, while the foot soldiers will move in a dragnet from the destroyed camp, checking every desert rat hole. With this approach they won’t even need experienced trackers, the superior numbers will be enough, as usual. The whole gang will be based at the nearest outpost, the only place with a large enough well; the commander’s headquarters will be there, too…

  Tzerlag knew that ‘outpost’ well – a caravanserai abandoned together with the entire Old Núrnen Highway when the irrigators’ efforts have turned the Western Nürnenlands into dead salt pans. It was a large square building of clay bricks surrounded by all sorts of adobe outbuildings, with the ruins of the old one, knocked down by an earthquake, in the back, overgrown with thorn bush and serge… Wait a minute – those ruins will be the last place they’ll think of searching! Right, the last one – meaning that those will be searched as well, sooner or later, by elimination. Too bad, at first the idea looked pretty good… How about a diversion, a false trail with a sideways move… where?..

  Time was slipping away like water from a torn water-skin, and suddenly the scout’s expression and posture changed subtly in a way that told Haladdin with cold certainty that the other did not see any chance of escape, either. A soft icy hand moved into Haladdin’s bowels and began leisurely sorting through them as if through freshly caught fish on the bottom of a boat. It was not soldier’s dread before a battle (he had already been through that today), but something rather different, akin to the dark irrational terror that grips a suddenly lost child. Only now did he understand that Tzerlag did not just fetch him water through the Elf-infested forest at Osgiliath, did not only carry him on his back under the nose of the sentries at Minas Morgul – no, all this time the scout had also shielded the doctor with his powerful and comforting ‘there’s a man in the house’ protective aura, and this aura was now in tatters. To be honest, Haladdin had agreed to this mission of vengeance only because he had firmly decided that it was better to be in any kind of a bind, but with Tzerlag – and had guessed wrong this time. The circle has been completed: Eloar paid for Teshgol, in a few hours they will pay for this camp… Then, frightened and despairing, he yelled in the Orocuen’s face:

  “Are you happy now?! First-rate vengeance, still can’t get enough of it?! You paid with all of us for one Elvish bastard, may the earth swallow him and his ilk forever!”

  “What did you say?” the scout echoed in a strange tone. “May the earth swallow this Elf forever?”

  CHAPTER 13

  Suddenly Haladdin, brought up short, beheld before him the usual Tzerlag – the one who knows what to do.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled guiltily, looking away.

  “Whatever, it happens. Bygones. Now, try to remember exactly – you too, Baron – did that pair of Easterlings beat it before or after I took on Eloar?”

  “Before, I think…”

  “Before, Sergeant, I’m positive – bet my life on it.”

  “Right. So they can’t possibly know that Eloar is dead or that he even fought… All right.

  Now, doctor – can the baron walk at least a couple of miles, with crutches?”

  “With crutches – yes, I think so. I’ll stuff him full of analgesics… There will be a bad reaction afterwards.”

  “Do it, doctor, or he won’t have any ‘afterwards’. Put together the medkit, some water and those breads, nothing else. Oh, and some weapons, just in case.”

  A few minutes later the sergeant handed Tangorn a pair of cross-shaped crutches he had just fashioned out of shortened Easterling spears and began laying out instructions.

  “We’ll split now. You two will get on the edge of the hamada and head north…”

  “North?! But that’s where the outpost is!”

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh, I see – do the opposite of what the foe expects?”

  “You got it, doc. Listen. Don’t stray from the hamada to the sand. If – no, when – the baron conks out, you’ll have to carry him. Don’t lose the crutches, hear? Watch that the wound does not reopen, or else there’ll be blood drops on the stones. The most important thing for you right now is to not leave any tracks; that’s easy on the hamada, it’s all gravel.

  I’ll catch up with you in two, two-and-a-half hours.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll explain later, every minute counts now. Forward march, warriors!.. Wait – gimme a couple cola nuts, I could use them, too.”

  After seeing his comrades move off, the scout got busy. He had plenty of things to do, most of them small and easily overlooked ones. For example, he had to gather all the stuff that might come in handy later, should they survive this bind – from Elvish weapons to Tangorn’s books – and bury it, carefully noting landmarks. Then to prepare his own sack –water, rations, warm cloaks, weapons – and stash it on the hamada. Now for the most important task.

  Tzerlag’s idea, prompted unexpectedly by Haladdin’s outburst, was simple. Suppose that Eloar had not perished in the attack, but ran off into the desert and got lost? That would be quite likely – an Elf in a desert is like an Orocuen in a forest – and his comrades would first and foremost search for their prince (
or whoever he was), and only then for the guerillas who wasted six Easterling mercenaries (no big loss). He now had to turn this preposterous supposition into certain fact.

  He took moccasins off the Elf’s feet and picked up the cut-up leather breastplate; saw a simple silver ring on the corpse’s left hand and pocketed that, too, just in case. Then he dug a pit about two feet deep, put the corpse there and covered it with carefully smoothed sand.

  By itself this is a lame trick unless you create an illusion that the sand could not possibly have been disturbed. For that, we will need another dead body, preferably with minimum damage; the sentry killed by Haladdin’s arrow will do just fine. Carefully Tzerlag carried the body to the spot where he hid the Elf, slit the Easterling’s throat from ear to ear and drained the blood the way hunters do with big game; then he dropped the body into the pool of blood and arranged it in a natural-looking way. It now looks obvious that the mercenary died on this spot; a normal person is not very likely to look for a body right under another one, in blood-soaked sand, unless he knows exactly what to look for.

  All right, half the job is done – the Elf has disappeared, and now he will acquire a very much alive and sprightly double. The Orocuen changed into the Elf’s moccasins (damn, how can they wear such boots, without a proper hard sole!) and ran south along the foot of the dune, trying to leave good tracks where the ground was harder. He had donned the Elf’s slit breastplate like a vest and carried his own indispensable desert boots in his hands. About a mile and a half from the camp the sergeant halted; he had never been a good runner, and now his heart was beating somewhere near the throat, trying to escape. The distance was already adequate; the ‘Elf’ will now move onto the hamada, where he will leave no tracks.

  The scout tossed Eloar’s leather armor about fifteen paces beyond the spot where the tracks ended; this will serve to confirm both the fugitive’s identity and, indirectly, his course (south).

  Stop and think again, he said to himself. Perhaps it’s best not to leave the breastplate here at all – too obvious. All right, what would I do if I were him? I am a fugitive who’s unsure of where to go next; looks like I’ve lost my pursuers, but now I have to wander in this terrible desert for who knows how long, and it’s scarier than any human foe. It’s high time to ditch everything I can to lighten the load; this thing is not that useful anyway, if I survive I can buy another one of these in any armor shop… Sounds reasonable? Yep. Why did I take it off now rather than earlier? Just had no time when fleeing, but now I’ve stopped, looked around… Sounds reasonable? Sure does. And why is it sliced like that? Because it won’t be the friendlies that find it, but rather the enemies who’re hunting me; by the way, they’re certainly tracking me, so it’s high time to move onto gravel. Sounds reasonable? Yeah…

  Anyway, never think the enemy stupid, but don’t assume that they’re geniuses, either.

  He was almost ready for the sprint back – changed into his boots and ate a bitter cola nut –when his gaze fell on the breastplate lying on the stones of the hamada like a cracked eggshell, and realization of an almost-made mistake drenched him in cold sweat. An eggshell – how did the Elf crack out of it? Cut it off himself? It’s precisely this kind of a trifle that can blow a whole operation! All right, unlace it… No! I the Elf am in a hurry, I don’t need the armor any more – rather, cut the cord. Now it’s all set.

  He jogged back along the hamada, heading for the barely visible glint of the dying fire, where his pack awaited. The cola filled him with a treacherous lightness, so that he had to deliberately slow down, lest his heart burst. Picking up the pack, he forced himself to rest for a few minutes and then resumed course; now he had to look out for Haladdin and Tangorn, which slowed him down. It turned out that they have covered over two miles already – an excellent pace he did not even count on. The scout saw Haladdin first – he was resting, sitting on the ground with his expressionless bloodless face turned up towards the stars. He had been carrying the baron for the last half a mile, and now Tangorn was back on his crutches, trying doggedly to gain them another few yards.

  “Have you guys polished off all of that Elvish wine?”

  “No, we’ve left some for you.”

  Tzerlag scanned his comrades, estimated the remaining trip and ordered them to take cola.

  He knew that tomorrow (if there was a tomorrow) their bodies would pay a nightmarish price both for this drug and for the poppy balls, but there was no other way to make the trek.

  Later Haladdin realized that he could not remember any of it. He remembered clearly that the cola had not only breathed new life into his weary muscles, but also sharpened all his senses amazingly, greatly expanding their range – from the familiar constellations, which suddenly shone with a multitude of previously invisible tiny stars, to the smell of dung smoke from someone’s incredibly distant fire – but he could not remember a single detail of their journey.

  That memory gap ended just as suddenly as it began; the world became real once again, and reality brought back pain, and weariness so enormous that it even pushed the sense of danger somewhere to the back of his consciousness. He found himself lying flat against the ground behind a tiny ridge about thirty yards away from their desired ruins, with the massive cube of the outpost looming behind it in the predawn light.

  “Maybe we should sprint?” he asked in a barest whisper.

  “Like hell!” the scout hissed furiously, “see the sentry on the roof?”

  “Does he see us?”

  “Not yet: he’s silhouetted against the grey sky, we’re against dark ground. But if you move he’ll definitely see you.”

  “But it’s dawning already…”

  “Shut up, willya? It’s bad enough as it is…”

  Suddenly the stony ground under Haladdin vibrated with a new ominous sound: a dry fast drumming which quickly congealed into a rumble resembling an avalanche. A large troop of riders was approaching along the highway, and resurgent fear was already yelling at him:

  “They saw you! They’re surrounding you! Run!..” – when the sergeant’s calm whisper brought him back to his senses:

  “Ready! On my mark – no earlier! – run as fast as you can. Take the pack, the crutches, and the weapons; I’ll take the baron. This is our one and only chance.”

  Meanwhile the troop had arrived at the outpost and the usual commotion ensued: cursing riders were pushing their way through the throng of milling foot soldiers, their commander was arguing with the local one, the guttural shouts of the Easterlings mingled with the Elves’ alarmed trilling, the roof suddenly sported three silhouettes rather than one – and then unbelieving Haladdin heard a quiet: “Now!”

  He had never run so fast in his life, never mind failing strength. He made it to the blind zone under the dilapidated wall in a flash, dropped his burden and still managed to get back to help Tzerlag, who was halfway there, lugging the baron on his back. The scout shook his head – no time, it’d take longer to switch. Faster, faster! Oh One, how much longer will those dumb sentries stare at the new arrivals – a second? three? ten? They got to the ruins, expecting an alarm any moment, and dropped to the ground immediately; Tangorn must have been in bad shape, as he did not even moan. Scraping their faces and hands on the bactrian thornbush, they scrambled into a wide crack in the wall and suddenly found themselves in an almost intact room. All its walls were whole, only the ceiling sported a large gap through which they could see the rapidly graying dawn sky; the entrance was entirely blocked with a mound of broken bricks. Only then did Haladdin realize: they’ve made it after all! Now they had the best hideout possible, just like a duck sitting on her eggs right under a falcon’s nest.

  He leaned against a wall and closed his eyes just for a moment, and immediately gentle waves carried him away, whispering: it’s all over, rest for just a few minutes, you’ve earned them… up, down, up, down… what are these waves? Tzerlag? Why is he shaking my shoulder so furiously? Oh damn! Thanks, friend – of course I have to att
end to Tangorn immediately. Nor do I have a few minutes to rest – the cola’s effect will wear off soon, and then I’ll just plain fall apart… where’s that damn medkit?

  CHAPTER 14

  Mordor, Morgai plateau

  April 21, 3019

  Evening came. The molten gold of the sun was still boiling in the cauldron formed by two peaks of the Mountains of Shadow, sharp burning sparks escaping it from time to time, but a transparent purplish haze was already encroaching on the foothills colored by the sunset.

  The cold blue of the sky, almost azure at its eastern end, contrasted beautifully with yellowish-pink (the color of a Khandian melon) sedimentary crags of Morgai, cut by deep ink-black gorges. The sides of the flattop clay foothills adjoining the plateau were draped in ash-gray serge and salsola, dotted here and there with splashes of red – patches of wild tulips.

  Haladdin was of two minds about those flowers. Just as every tulip was beautiful individually, so did the half-acre patches they formed seem unnatural and ominous. It must have been because their color exactly matched that of bright red arterial blood when in the sun, and crimson vein blood when in the shade, like right now. Serge and tulips; ash and blood. Perhaps he would have discerned different connotations at another time.

  “About a mile and a half left.” Tzerlag, walking in the lead, turned to his companions and nodded towards a bright patch of green oozing out of a large dale onto the yellow clay of the foothills. “What do you say, Baron – we stop for a break now or make one final push and then settle down decent-like?”

  “Guys, enough coddling me already,” the Gondorian answered somewhat irritably. He could already use his leg almost normally, although he still used crutches, and had even insisted on carrying part of the load. “I’ll never get back into normal shape that way.”