The Last Ringbearer (2011)

by Kirill Yeskov

  …The Dúnadan 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 Dúnadan 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.

  Éowyn, 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. Éowyn 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 Éowyn 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 palantír 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 Dúnadan 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’?” Éowyn 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 Éowyn 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 palantír? 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!” Éowyn 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 palantír and hoisted it on his shoulder. “Let’s go, in Eru’s name!”

  …The Dúnadan 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 Dúnadan 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 Dúnadan.

  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 Dúnadan 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.

  CHAPTER 29

  Cutting off the Dúnadan’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 Éowyn and snarled, pointing at the cellar door: “Stand there, both of you! Swords at the ready!” while he swiftly dragged the Dúnadan 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 Dúnadan 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 Dúnadans 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 Éowyn’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 Dúnadan Royal Guard.

  Perhaps you will find it possible to surrender your sword to me?”

  “Wha
t 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: Éowyn 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 Dúnedain 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.”

  “Éowyn?”

  “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 Oromë, we’re going to splash your master’s robes with our blood – he won’t ever wash it off!”