The Last Ringbearer (2011)

by Kirill Yeskov

  Elandar and those Ithilienian barons working against me for the clofoel of Tranquility?!

  Nonsense… I’m being afraid of my own shadow. How come the Ithilienian spies are teaming with Mordorians, obviously with Faramir’s knowledge? That’s clear, actually: they hope to gain, as their commission in the bargain, an Elvish clofoel compromised by working with the Enemy, and therefore forever pliant. Which is how it would’ve come out had I any intention of playing along.

  In any event there’s no going back now: the only thing that will save me is a victory in this ‘prisoner exchange.’ Not only will it save me, it will elevate me to the next level!

  Afterwards I’ll find those who will put the sack with the Seeing Stone by the Polar Star tonight; I will do it myself, with my Service, ahead of the Guards, and expose those traitors to the Council: “Our incomparable preserver of Tranquility had been so busy looking for conspiracies – we all know what that’s worth – that he managed to overlook a real Enemy spy network in Caras Galadhon. Or, perhaps, he did not overlook it at all? Perhaps this network is connected higher than I dare suggest?” He won’t survive such a blow, no matter how Lord Cereborn covers for him; it will be a clear victory for the Lady and me.

  …In the meantime, Kumai’s Dragon glided invisibly through Lórien’s night sky along the dimly reflecting meanders of Nimrodel. Once he saw a large spread of bright bluish lights forming a pretty good star map in the middle of a valley, the engineer relaxed and guided the glider down; so far everything was going according to plan. He located the Dipper, for some reason called the Sickle of the Valar in those parts, among these ‘constellations’ – good, just where it belongs in the real sky, with the Polar Star in the right place. Wonder what those lamps are made from? The light is obviously cold – perhaps the same stuff that luminesces in rotting mushrooms? The Dipper was growing fast; Kumai felt on the bottom of the cockpit for the sack he had extracted last night from its hiding place in the back of the Dol Guldur fireplace, and suddenly cursed through clenched teeth: “Damn, he never told me the actual size of that thing – how am I to figure my altitude in this dark?”

  Haladdin had originally asked him to just retrieve the sack from the hiding place and drop it somewhere far away from the fortress during the next flight, so he could pick it up and get away. Then the doctor cut himself off in mid-sentence and asked, amazed: “Listen, maybe you can fly all the way to Lórien from here?”

  “Sure, no sweat. Well, not exactly no sweat, but I can.”

  “What about at night?”

  “Well, I haven’t flown such distances at night before – it’s hard to navigate.”

  “What if it’s the night of the full moon, and the target site has guiding lights?”

  “In that case it will be easier. Do you need aerial reconnaissance?”

  “No. You see, I remembered how good you’ve gotten at dropping shells on ground targets.

  That’s exactly what you need to do in Lórien.”

  Kumai had justified a night flight to his Dol Guldur superiors with a suggestion to practice night bombing. “Whatever the hell for?” “To drop incendiary shells onto enemy camps. If you have to put out burning tents on the night before a battle rather than getting some sleep, you won’t be in good shape to fight in the morning.” “Hmm… sounds reasonable. Very well; try it, engineer.” He took off at sunset (“I’ll fly around a bit until it gets dark”), made a wide turn so as not to be seen from the fortress, and only then headed west-north-west. He found the place where Nimrodel emptied into Anduin while it was still light, the rest was fairly routine…

  Kumai let go and the sack disappeared into the ‘star’-studded darkness below. Two seconds later the glider’s nose covered the Polar Star: all set. If he wasn’t off by much figuring his altitude, the target has been hit. “Is it some sort of poison?” “No, magic.” “Magic?! You got nothing better to do?” “Trust me: the Lórien dudes won’t like this sack at all.” “Well, well. When things are really bad, people always swap magicians for physicians…”

  Whatever – he did his part, it’s the commanders’ job to know what all this is for. The less you know the better you sleep. Time to turn around and go home; it’s a long way, plus the wind is getting stronger.

  When Kumai took a habitually daring turn over the sleepy waters of Nimrodel, he failed to take one thing into account: the height of the mallorns. Or, rather, he had no idea that such tall trees even exist.

  There was a crash when one of the branches touched a wingtip, seemingly lightly, turning the glider into a spinning winged seed like those that the mallorns drop by the hundreds onto the wilted elanors in the fall.

  There was another crash when the helpless Dragon spun right and slammed into the neighboring tree, tearing its skin, breaking its spine and bones.

  Finally, there was a third crash when all that debris fell down along the trunk and onto a talan full of stunned Elves, almost right at the feet of the clofoel of Tranquility.

  Strictly speaking, Kumai had done his job by then and could have been written off as an acceptable loss, with an appropriate mention of the omelet whose preparation requires breaking a few eggs. There was, however, one complicating circumstance: the Troll got quite banged up in the fall, but survived it – which was, understandably, a complete disaster.

  CHAPTER 61

  Star Council of Lórien

  July 23, 3019 of the Third Age

  Clofoel of Tranquility: Haste is advisable when hunting fleas or dealing with a sudden bout of diarrhea, esteemed clofoel of Might. So please don’t urge me along: Trolls are tough guys and I’ll need a significant amount of time to get reliable information out of him.

  Lady Galadriel: How much time do you need, clofoel of Tranquility?

  Clofoel of Tranquility: I believe no less than three days, o radiant Lady.

  Clofoel of Might: He just wants to give his bums under the Mound of Somber Mourning something to do, o radiant Sovereigns! This is so simple – let him use his truth potion and that spawn of Morgoth will spill his guts in a quarter-hour!

  Lord Cereborn: Indeed, clofoel of Tranquility, why don’t you use the truth potion?

  Clofoel of Tranquility: Is that an order, o radiant Lord?

  Lord Cereborn: No, no, please don’t…

  Clofoel of Tranquility: Thank you, o radiant Lord! It’s a strange thing: were I to start teaching the clofoel of Might how to arrange bowmen or cavalry for battle, he would have taken it as an insult, and he would have been right. Whereas when it comes to detecting criminals, somehow everyone here knows my job better than I do!

  Lord Cereborn: No, please don’t take it this way…

  Clofoel of Tranquility: As for the truth potion, esteemed clofoel of Might, it has no problem cracking open a Man’s mind – as you’ve correctly noted, it’d take less than a quarter-hour.

  The problem is sorting all the garbage that will spill from that cracked mind: trust me, it will take more than a few weeks to sift the kernels from the chaff. The potion is great for obtaining confessions, but what we need here is information! And what if something will be unclear at the first pass and explanations will be necessary? We won’t be able to ask a second time, since he’ll have turned into a drooling cretin. Therefore, please allow me to use more traditional methods.

  Lady Galadriel: That was an excellent explanation, clofoel of Tranquility, thank you. I can see that the investigation is in good hands, please proceed as you see fit. But I’ve just thought of something. Since the mechanical dragon flew here from outside, this investigation may uncover really interesting nuances that have more to do with Middle Earth than with the Enchanted Forests. Dear Lord Cereborn, do you think that it may be beneficial to involve the clofoel of the World in the investigation, since she’s better acquainted with those specifics?

  Lord Cereborn: Yes, yes, that’s very reasonable! Isn’t it, clofoel of Tranquility?

  Clofoel of Tranquility: I dare not discuss the directives of the radiant L
ady, o radiant Lord.

  But perhaps it will be easier to remove me from this task altogether, since I am not trusted?

  Lord Cereborn: No, don’t even think about it! I’d be lost without you!

  Lady Galadriel: We ought to consider the good of Lórien ahead of personal ambitions, clofoel of Tranquility. This is an extraordinary incident; two experts are always better than one. Do you disagree?

  Clofoel of Tranquility: How can I, o radiant Lady!

  Clofoel of the World: I have always dreamed of working with you, esteemed clofoel of Tranquility. My stores of knowledge and skills are entirely at your disposal, and I hope that they will prove useful.

  Clofoel of Tranquility: I have no doubt they will, esteemed clofoel of the World.

  Lady Galadriel: This is settled, then; keep us informed, clofoel of Tranquility. What did the clofoel of Stars wish to tell the Council?

  Clofoel of Stars: I have no desire to needlessly disturb you, o radiant Sovereigns and esteemed clofoels of the Council, but it appears that this morning the pattern of the stars in the sky has changed slightly. This indicates a change of the entire arrangement of magic in the Enchanted Forests; some new, quite strong magical power has appeared here. The only time something similar had happened in my memory was when the Lady’s Mirror was delivered to Caras Galadhon.

  Lady Galadriel: Could your dancers be mistaken, clofoel of Stars?

  Clofoel of Stars: I would like to believe that, o radiant Lady. We will dance again tonight…

  ***

  Kumai came to sooner than the Elves expected. Lifting his head painfully, he saw brilliant white walls with no windows; the sickly bluish light of the phial over a bar door seemed to drip off them onto the floor. He had no clothes on and his right hand was chained to the narrow bed, which was attached to the floor; when he touched his head he jerked his hand back in surprise: it was clean-shaven, with a long recent scar on its top smeared in something stinky and oily to the touch. He leaned back slowly, closed his eyes, and swallowed convulsively: understanding everything, he was scared as never before in his life. He would have given anything for a chance to die right then, before they got started, but –alas! – he had nothing left to give.

  “Get up, Troll! No rest for the spawn of Morgoth! You have a long road to hell before you, so let’s get underway.”

  There were three Elves – a man and a woman in identical silver-black cloaks and a deferential muscleman in a leather jacket. They appeared in the cell without a sound, moving with unnatural lightness, like huge moths, but somehow it was clear that they had strength to match a Troll’s. The Elf-woman looked the prisoner over unceremoniously and whispered something – apparently obscene – to her companion; the man grimaced chidingly.

  “Maybe you’d like to tell us something yourself, Troll?”

  “Maybe I would.” Kumai sat up, carefully lowering his legs off the bed, and was now waiting for nausea to subside. He had made a decision and fear receded, having no room left. “What do I get in return?”

  “In return?!” The impudence struck the Elf speechless for a couple of seconds. “An easy death. Is that not enough?”

  “No, it’s not. Easy death is already there for me; I’ve had a weak heart since childhood, so torturing me is useless; it’ll end when it begins.”

  The Elf gave a silvery laugh. “You lie beautifully and engagingly.”

  Kumai shrugged. “Give it a try. The higher-ups will give you hell if a spy dies under questioning, no?”

  “We are the higher-ups, Troll.” The Elf sat down on a chair just brought into the cell by the man in leather jacket. “But please continue lying, we’re listening with interest.”

  What’s there to lie about? He’s no child and understands his position. But he’s no dumb fanatic and has no wish to die for Motherland, his oath, or other such phantoms. Whatever for? The bosses keep sending them to certain death while sitting it out in the rear, cowardly dogs that they are… He’ll tell all he knows, and he knows quite a lot, having been on a lot of special missions for a long time – but not for free. Do you promise to keep him alive?

  It’s such a small thing for you. In an underground prison forever, in a lead mine, blinded and castrated, but alive?

  “Say your piece, then, Troll. If you tell the truth and we find it interesting, we’ll find you a job in our mines. What do you think, milady Eornis?”

  “Sure! Why not let him keep his life?”

  Very well, his name is Cloud (shouldn’t get tripped up, he did have such a nickname as a child – that brat Sonya came up with it and it stuck to him until the University), Engineer Second Class, his last military unit was a guerilla band led by… Indun (that was an old professor who taught them optics during sophomore year). The band is based in Tzagan-Tzab Gorge in the Ash Mountains (that’s where Dad’s mine is, the place is nature-made for guerilla warfare, there has to be Resistance there… anyway, can’t come up with anything else that’d be consistent on the spot). Yesterday… wait, what day is it today? Ah yes, of course, you ask the questions here, sorry… Anyway, on the morning of the twenty-second he received orders to fly to Lórien so as to reach it on that night and spy out the positioning of the lights in the valley of Nimrodel. Personally he thinks that the whole affair is bogus, driven by desperation among the commanders who seem to be monkeying with some kind of magic. No, this time the order was not given by Indun, but by some other guy, never seen him before, apparently from Army Intelligence, nicknamed Jackal… What he looks like?

  An Orocuen, short, slanty-eyed, a small scar over the left brow… yes, he’s certain, the left one…

  “This is very naïve, Troll. I’m not calling you Cloud, because that name is as false as everything else you’ve told us. There are two golden rules for responding to an interrogation: avoid direct lies and too many details. You broke both. Tell me, driver of the mechanical dragon, what was the strength and direction of the wind on that day?”

  That’s it, then – who would’ve thought that the Elf knew anything about flying? In any event, while spinning all that nonsense Kumai was readying a certain surprise for his interrogators. The dejected pose he had assumed allowed him to gather his legs under him, and now, seeing that the game was up, he lunged forward like an uncoiling spring, trying to reach the Elf in the silver-black cloak with his free left hand. He would have probably succeeded if not for another mistake: he met the Elf’s eye in the process.

  The clofoel of Tranquility stopped the leather-jacket guy from dashing at the suddenly frozen Troll with an annoyed flick of the wrist – why bother now? – and turned to his companion with a mocking smile: “So how about spending some time alone with this specimen, milady Eornis? Changed your mind?”

  “On the contrary – he’s magnificent, a real beast!”

  “You sport! Very well, since you like his manhood so much, you can keep him. But not until we work him a little, lest he die in your embrace – it could happen, you know – and take everything he knows with him… You’d be really upset with such an outcome, wouldn’t you?”

  CHAPTER 62

  “Wake up!” The leather-jacket standing behind Kumai’s chair kicked him habitually in the Achilles’ tendon, the pain immediately jerking the Troll out of a second-long blissful unconsciousness.

  “Where did you fly from? What was your mission?” That was the man at the table. They worked together: one asking questions (the same ones over and over, hour after hour), the other kicking the prisoner’s heel from behind whenever he tried either to stand up or to put down his head, leaden with insomnia. The kicks were not even that strong, but always in the same spot, so after a dozen hits the pain turned unbearable, making all his thoughts about the next inevitable kick… Kumai had no illusions: this was not even a warm-up. They simply had not started on him in earnest yet, only depriving him of water and sleep so far.

  The engineer forbade himself to consider what might follow once they saw that he was not going to cooperate. He simply decided to
hold out for as long as possible to buy some time for Grizzly and Wolverine – maybe those smart guys would figure out the danger and save the Weapon Monastery. He had absent-mindedly left a map with the flight route to the Nimrodel on top of his work table, and his only hope now was that someone would find it and connect it to his disappearance. But how are they to guess that I’m alive and in the Elves’ hands, rather than dead? What can they do even if they guess – evacuate Dol Guldur? Don’t know; revelations and miracles are the One’s job, mine is to hold out and hope…

  “Wake up!” This time the guy behind him overdid his blow, knocking Kumai out. When the engineer came to, the leather-jacket at the table had been replaced by the Elf in the silver-black cloak.

  “Have you ever been told that you’re an incredibly lucky man, Troll?”

  He had lost track of time some unbelievably long time ago; the harsh light bounced off the walls and ate at his watering eyes, and a handful of hot sand had accumulated under each eyelid. He squeezed his eyes shut and once again slid into the abyss of sleep… This time he was brought back almost politely, with a shake of the shoulder instead of the usual kick – something must’ve changed in their setup…

  “Anyway, to continue: I don’t know who advised you to fly your mission in uniform, but our lawyers – may they burn in the Eternal Fire! – have suddenly decided that this makes you a prisoner of war, rather than a spy. According to your Middle Earth laws a prisoner of war is protected by the Convention: he can’t be forced to break his oath and all that…” The Elf dug through papers on his desk, found the needed spot and put his finger on it with visible disapproval. “As I understand it, they want to trade you for someone, so sign here and go get some sleep.”

  Kumai opened his parched lips: “I’m illiterate.”

  “An illiterate driver of a mechanical dragon? Not bad… Print your finger, then.”