The Last Ringbearer (2011)

by Kirill Yeskov

  The lieutenant had weighed Haladdin’s nazgúl ring fearlessly in his hand, nodded and asked only one question: what can he do to assist sir Field Medic in his mission? Escort their recon team to Ithilien? No problem. His opinion is that they should use the Hotont pass; since it’s considered to be impassable during this time of year, it’s most likely unguarded from the Ithilien side. Unfortunately, his best guide, one Matun, is away on a mission. Can you wait three or four days? No problem, then; this will let you rest and fatten up a little, too – it’ll be one arduous trek… Only when all three of them got back the weapons of which they had been relieved by the forward guard did Tangorn return the poison he had borrowed from the doctor.

  Haladdin had never been to this part of the country before, so now he observed the daily life of the Shara-Teg Gorge with genuine interest. The mountain Trolls lived spartanly but conducted themselves with truly princely dignity; to an outsider, only their hospitality often went beyond any reasonable measure, acutely embarrassing Haladdin. At least now he understood where the amazing ambience of the Barad-Dur house of his classmate Kumai came from.

  The Trolls have always lived together in large tight-knit families, and since the only way to put up a house big enough for thirty people on a steep slope is to build up, their abodes were thick-walled stone towers twenty to thirty feet high. The stonemasonry experience accumulated in the building of these miniature fortresses later made Troll expatriates into the leading city builders of Mordor. Their other line was metallurgy. First they perfected blacksmithing, making weapons cheap and therefore widely available; then they mastered working with iron-nickel alloys (most of the ores in the region were self-legated), and since then the swords worn by every local male over the age of twelve were the best in Middle Earth. Not surprisingly, the Trolls never knew any authority other than their own elders: only a total idiot will attack a Trollish tower and sacrifice half of the attacking force only to gain a dozen scrawny sheep as booty (or church tithe).

  The Mordorian powers understood this well and therefore did nothing but recruit warriors here, which much flattered the Trolls. Later, though, when mining and metal refining became their main occupation, the sale of those commodities was hit with a stupendous tax, but the Trolls did not seem to care – their indifference to wealth and luxury was already legendary, along with their stubbornness. This also gave rise to a popular legend that the known Trolls were only a half of that people. The other half (mistakenly called ‘gnomes’ or ‘dwarves’ in the Western countries, in confusion with another mythical race – that of underground smiths) supposedly were wealth-crazy and spent all their lives in secret underground tunnels, searching for gold and gems; they were allegedly miserly, aggressive, treacherous – in other words, a mirror image of the real, above-ground Trolls. Be that as it may, the fact remains: the Trollish community gave Mordor many outstanding personalities, from generals and bladesmiths to scientists and preachers, but not a single merchant of note.

  When the Western allies implementing ‘the final solution of the Mordorian problem’ have finished ‘mopping up’ the foothills and went to work on the Trolls in their Ash and Shadow Mountains gorges, they quickly discovered that fighting mountain men was rather different from collecting ears in Gorgoroth. The Trollish villages have been decimated or worse –thousands of men have perished in the march on Esgaroth and on the Field of Pelennor – but waging war in the confines of the mountains pretty much nullifies numerical advantages.

  The mountain dwellers always had the option to give battle in the narrowest points, where ten good warriors can hold back an entire army for hours, while catapults on the slopes above methodically pound the paralyzed enemy column. Having thrice buried large companies of the enemy under man-made avalanches in the gorges, the Trolls then expanded their operations to the foothills, so that the Easterlings and the Elves alike did not dare stir out of a few well-fortified outposts at night. In the meantime, people from the plains kept arriving at the mountain villages which were now guerilla bases – if the end is near, better to meet it armed and not alone.

  CHAPTER 24

  There were many intriguing personalities among those arriving in the Shara-Teg Gorge in those days. The doctor met one of them, a certain maestro Haddami, at Ivar’s headquarters, where the small parchment-faced Umbarian with inexpressibly sad eyes worked as a clerk, from time to time offering Ivar highly interesting ideas for reconnaissance operations. The maestro had been one of the country’s leading crooks; during the fall of Barad-Dur he was serving a five-year sentence there for a grandiose scam involving countersigned bank drafts.

  Being a financial ignoramus, Haladdin could not appreciate the technical details, but judging by the fact that the defrauded merchants (the heads of the three oldest trading firms of the capital) have expended a titanic effort to keep the prosecution out of court and thus out of the public eye, the scheme must have been very good indeed. With no opportunities to ply his trade in the ruined city, Haddami dug up his secreted gold and headed south towards his historical motherland, but the exigencies of war brought him to the guerillas instead of to Umbar.

  The maestro was a fountainhead of assorted talents; having sorely missed learned conversation, he willingly demonstrated those to Haladdin. For example, he could perfectly imitate anyone’s handwriting, which was certainly very useful in his craft. Nor was this simple forgery of signatures; far from it. After studying a few pages of the doctor’s notes, Haddami wrote a meaningful text which Haladdin first thought to be his own – I must have written and forgotten it; now he had found it and is playing games with my mind…

  It turned out to be simultaneously simpler and more complex. Haddami was a genius graphologist able to put together a complete psychological profile of an author and then morph into him, so that the texts he wrote in other people’s names were authentic, in a way.

  After the maestro told Haladdin everything he had learned about him from a few handwritten lines, the doctor experienced bewilderment liberally spiced with fear – this was real magic, and not benign, either. For a moment Haladdin was even sorely tempted to show the maestro some notes of Tangorn’s, although he clearly realized that this would have been even worse than simply snooping in someone’s private diary. No one has the right to know more about a person than he is willing to tell, and both friendship and love die together with the person’s right to privacy.

  That was when he had a weird idea to submit Eloar’s letter (from the dead Elf’s possessions) to Haddami’s analysis. He and the baron went through its contents with a fine-tooth comb during their sojourn at Morgai, looking for any clues for entry into Lórien, but have found nothing useful. Now Haladdin wanted, for reasons unclear to himself, to have the Elf’s psychological portrait.

  The results surprised him beyond belief. From the fine curlicues of runes, Haddami weaved a portrait of an exceptionally noble and likeable person, perhaps too dreamy, and open to the point of vulnerability. To Haladdin’s objections the graphologist insisted that his analysis of Eloar’s other notes on topography and logistics only confirmed his conclusions; there was no mistake.

  Finally, Haladdin lost his patience. “If so, your entire method isn’t worth a damn!” he stated, and then described to the startled expert what he had seen in Teshgol, sparing him no grisly detail.

  “Listen, doctor,” somewhat haggard Haddami said after a pause, “I still insist – it wasn’t him there, in that Teshgol of yours…”

  “What do you mean, it wasn’t him?! Perhaps he personally hadn’t raped an eight-year-old girl before slitting her throat, but he commanded the people who did!”

  “No, no, Haladdin, that’s not at all what I mean! See, this is a deep, unimaginably deep (for us humans) split of personality. Imagine for a moment that you had to participate in something like Teshgol – just had to. You have a mother whom you love dearly; with the Elves, it can’t be otherwise, since children are very few and every member of society is truly invaluable. I suspect tha
t you’d do everything possible to keep any knowledge of this nightmare from her, and knowing the Elves’ perceptiveness, simple lying or even withholding information would not be enough. This would require you to really turn into another person. Two totally different personalities in one creature – for internal and external consumption, so to speak. Do you understand me?”

  “To be honest, not really. Split personalities are not my field of expertise.”

  Strangely, apparently it was this conversation that pointed Haladdin towards the solution to the main problem he has been working on, and this solution shocked him with its primitiveness. It had been lying right there, on the surface, and now it seemed to him that he had been deliberately looking away, pretending not to see it. That evening the doctor got back to the tower to which they have been assigned late at night; the hosts were already in bed, but the fire was still burning in the hearth, and he sat there motionless, staring fixedly at the orange embers. He did not even notice when the baron appeared by his side.

  “Listen, Haladdin, you look upset. Want a drink?”

  “Yes… I suppose I do.”

  The local vodka burned his mouth and rolled along his spine like a spasm; he wiped his eyes and looked for a place to spit. The drink did not make him feel better, but did add a measure of detachment. Tangorn disappeared into the dark and returned with another stool.

  “More?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Did something happen?”

  “Yes. I’ve figured out how to plant our little gift on the Elves.”

  “So?”

  “So now I’m pondering the eternal question of whether the ends justify the means.”

  “Hmm… can be either way, depending on the circumstances.”

  “Precisely. A mathematician would say that stated generally, the problem lacks a solution.

  Therefore, instead of a clear directive the One in His infinite wisdom had decided to supply us with conscience, which is a rather delicate and unreliable device.”

  “So what does your conscience say now, Doctor?” Tangorn looked at him with faintly mocking interest.

  “Conscience says clearly: no. Duty says, equally clearly: you must. So it goes… It must be nice to live by the knightly ethic: do what you must and let the chips fall where they may, right, Baron? Especially when someone had already let you know what you must do…”

  “I’m afraid that no one can help you make this choice.”

  “Nor do I need any help. What’s more,” he turned away and, shivering, stretched his hands towards the cooling embers, “I would like to free you from any obligation to participate in our mission. Believe me, even if we win with my plan, it will not be a victory to be proud of.”

  “Really?” Tangorn’s face went hard, and his gaze suddenly weighed like an avalanche. “So your plan is of such a quality that to take part in it is a greater dishonor than abandoning a friend in need – and so far I have considered you to be one? Doctor, I greatly appreciate your concern for my conscience, but perhaps you’ll allow me to make this judgment myself?”

  “As you wish,” Haladdin shrugged indifferently. “You can listen first and decline later. It’s a fairly complicated scheme and we’ll have to start from afar… What do you think is Aragorn’s relationship with the Elves?”

  “Aragorn and the Elves? You mean now, after they’ve put him on the throne of Gondor?”

  “Of course. I think you have mentioned knowing Eastern mythology pretty well; perhaps you remember the tale of the Dwarves’ Chain?”

  “I have to confess to forgetting it.”

  “Well, it’s a very edifying story. A long, long time ago the gods were trying to subdue Hahti, the hungry demon of Hell, who could’ve consumed the whole world. Twice they restrained him with a chain forged by the divine Blacksmith – first of steel, then of mithril –and both times Hahti tore it like a thread. So when the gods were down to their third and final attempt, they had to abase themselves by turning to the Dwarves for help. Those came through with a chain made from fishes’ voice and the sound of cat’s footfalls…”

  “Fishes’ voice and the sound of cat’s footfalls?”

  “Yes. That’s why neither of those are found in the world – all used up in that chain.

  Actually, it seems to me that some other things got used up as well, such as gratitude of kings. Speaking of which, how do you think the gods paid the Dwarves?”

  “By liquidating them, I suppose; how else?”

  “Exactly! Actually, they only intended to liquidate them, but the Dwarves were to be reckoned with, too… but that’s a different story. Back to Aragorn and the Elves…”

  His tale was long and detailed, as he was also testing his logic. Afterwards, a silence fell, disturbed only by the howling wind outside the tower.

  “You’re a scary man, Haladdin; who would’ve thought?..” Tangorn said thoughtfully, looking at the doctor with a new interest and – yes, respect. “The job we have undertaken brooks no timidity, but if we are, indeed, to win in this manner… In other words, I doubt that I will ever want to reminisce about it with you over a cup of wine.”

  “If we are to win in this manner,” Haladdin echoed, “I don’t think that I will ever want to look at myself in a mirror.” (In any event, he added to himself, I will never dare look Sonya in the eye.)

  “Actually,” the baron smirked, “allow me to take you back to earth: this discussion rather resembles dividing spoils before the battle. First you win this fight, then do your soul-searching. So far we see a light at the end of the tunnel, nothing more. I don’t think that our chances of survival are any better than one in five, so it’s an honest game, in a way.”

  “Our chances? So you’re staying?”

  “What else can I do? Why, do you think that you can do this without me? For example, how did you plan to approach Faramir? Your whole scheme will end before it begins without his participation, albeit passive. All right… Here’s what I think: this lure of yours has to be dropped nowhere else but Umbar. I will undertake that part of the operation, you and Tzerlag will only burden me there. Let’s go to sleep now; I will consider the details tomorrow.”

  However, the next day they had another task: the long-awaited guide finally turned up, and off they went to conquer Hotont. It was the second week of May, but the pass still hadn’t opened up. The company was thrice hit by blizzards, and only the sleeping bags made from thickhorn skins saved them; once, after spending a day and a half in an igloo that Matun fashioned from quickly cut bricks of thick firn, they barely managed to dig themselves out.

  In Haladdin’s memory the whole trek was one thick, glutinous nightmare. Oxygen deprivation had weaved a curtain of tiny crystal bells all around him – after every move all he wanted to do was to sink down in the snow and listen blissfully to their hypnotic tinkling.

  It is not said for naught that freezing to death is the best way to go. The only time he broke out of that half-dream was when a huge furry figure appeared from nowhere on another side of a gorge about half a mile from where they were – a cross between an ape and a rearing bear. The creature moved awkwardly but preternaturally fast, disappearing amidst the boulders at the bottom of the gorge without paying any attention to them. That was the only time he had ever seen a scared Troll, something he thought impossible. “Matun, what was that?” The guide only waved a hand, as if warding against the Enemy: it’s gone, and that’s good enough… So now they are walking a nice path amongst the oaks of Ithilien, enjoying the birdsongs, while Matun is going back, alone, through all those screes and firn fields.

  …That same evening they reached a clearing where a dozen men were putting up a stockade around a couple of unfinished houses. Seeing them, they all grabbed their bows and the leader told them in a serious voice to put down their arms and approach slowly with hands up. Tangorn approached and informed them that their company was heading to Prince Faramir himself. The men shared glances and inquired whether the newcomer was fr
om the Moon or an insane asylum. The baron looked closer at one of the builders, who was sitting at the top of a house astride a roof beam, and laughed heartily:

  “Well, well, Sergeant! Nice welcome you have for your commanding officer!”

  “Guys!!” yelled the man, almost tumbling off his perch. “May my eyes never see if it ain’t Lieutenant Tangorn! Sorry, sir, we didn’t recognize you; you look, you know… Hey, now we’re all back together, so we’ll do that White Company like…” and, elated, he aimed an expressive obscene gesture towards Emyn Arnen.

  CHAPTER 25

  Ithilien, Blackbird Hamlet

  May 14, 3019

  “…So you just announced it to the entire Emyn Arnen: ‘merry men from the Blackbird Hamlet?’”

  “What else could I do – wait for the Eternal Fire to freeze? Both the Prince and the girl can only leave the fort with a White Company bodyguard, can’t exactly talk with those guys present…”

  The wick of an oil lamp on the edge of a rough wooden table cast fitful light on the speaker’s face. It was swarthy and predatory, like that of a mashtang bandit from the caravan trails south of Anduin; no wonder that its owner used to be equally comfortable in Khand caravanserais among bactrian drivers, smugglers, and lice-infested loudmouth dervishes, and in Umbar port dives of rather ill repute. It was Baron Grager many years ago who taught the newbie Tangorn in his first foray beyond the Anduin both the basics of intelligence work and, perhaps more importantly, the many Southern peculiarities without knowing which one will always remain a greengo, a permanent target of digs large and small from every Southerner, from a street boy to a palace courtier.

  The master of Blackbird Hamlet reached questioningly towards the jug of wine, caught Tangorn’s barely discernible ‘no’ gesture and obligingly moved it aside. The emotional encounter of two old friends was over; they were at work now.