The Last Ringbearer (2011)

by Kirill Yeskov

  “Like hell.”

  “Whatever, man: I’ll just note that you refused to sign and be done with it. Nobody but your commanders needs these papers anyway, if indeed it does get to an exchange. That’s it, you can go… I mean: take the detainee away! Actually, my apologies, sir – you’re a prisoner of war now, rather than a detainee…”

  When the leather-jackets led the engineer into the corridor, the clofoel of Tranquility bit out in his back: “You’re real lucky, Troll. In a couple of hours I was going to deal with you personally… Why did you fly to Lórien, eh?”

  He only believed in his victory when he saw lembas on a small table in his cell, and – most importantly – a pitcher of ice-cold water, its clay sides covered with a silvery web that turned into large drops under his fingers. The water had a slightly sweet tang to it, but he did not notice it – a man who had gone without water for several days is simply incapable of doing so.

  Sleep came, sweet and light, as it always is after a victory. He smelled home – old wood, couch leather, Dad’s pipe and something else without a name; Mama was quietly puttering in the kitchen, cooking his favorite black beans and surreptitiously wiping away tears; Sonya and Halik – their carefree pre-war selves – were eagerly asking him about his adventures; well, guys, that was really something, you’d never believe…

  Smiling happily, he talked in his sleep.

  He did not just talk – he answered direct questions posed by someone’s comforting even voice.

  …His superiors at Dol Guldur decided that he was dead: “Apparently he has miscalculated his altitude during the most recent flight, which was at night, and hit a tree. Attempts to locate the body and the remains of the glider near the castle have not proved fruitful yet.”

  The next day, following his instructions, Grizzly sealed the engineer’s papers, including the flight maps, and sent it all to Féanor headquarters in Minas Tirith without reading.

  Lórien, Star Council

  July 25, 3019 of the Third Age

  Clofoel of Tranquility: As you can see, it is quite possible to do without torture and the brain-busting truth potion.

  Lady Galadriel: You’re a real master of your craft, clofoel of Tranquility. What did you find out?

  Clofoel of Tranquility: The dragon driver’s name is Kumai, he is an Engineer Second Class. As we suspected, he flew here from Dol Guldur. Judging by his tales, it had been turned into a real snake nest where escaped Mordorian scientists are creating unheard-of weapons under tutelage of their intelligence service. His real mission here was from the Order of the Nazgúl – to drop a sack with some magical item, whose nature is unknown to him, onto the ‘sky’ next to Nimrodel. I believe it is the presence of that item that the esteemed clofoel of Stars and her dancers have felt. My Guards have conducted a thorough search of the valley of the Nimrodel, but found nothing: someone had removed the sack.

  Therefore, o radiant Sovereigns – please understand me correctly – therefore, I insist that the esteemed clofoel of the World be removed from this investigation.

  Lady Galadriel: Let us call a spade a spade, clofoel of Tranquility. Do you believe that the clofoel of the World had somehow treated with the Enemy and that the item dropped from the sky was intended for her?

  Clofoel of Tranquility: I did not say that, o radiant Lady. However, only the dancers and the clofoel of the Festival had access to the ‘sky.’ Had the Troll’s gift been there during the Dance of the Fireflies, they certainly would have sensed it, whereas the clofoel of the World was the only one there after they left…

  Lady Galadriel: Could the Elves that gather up the phials at sunrise have found that Mordorian sack and taken it with them, out of ignorance?

  Clofoel of Tranquility: They could have, o radiant Lady, and my Guards are working on that possibility. Which is why I am only asking that the clofoel of the World be temporarily removed from the investigation of ‘the case of the Mordorian sack’ until this is ascertained, nothing more.

  Lord Cereborn: Yes, this does seem a reasonable precaution, isn’t it?

  Lady Galadriel: You’re right as always, Lord Cereborn. However, as long as we allow the possibility of treason by a clofoel, why don’t we suppose that conspiring dancers have indeed found the Mordorian sack that night and took it away for their own purposes? That would explain why they still haven’t found the source of such a powerful magical disturbance…

  Clofoel of Stars: How am I to understand your words, o radiant Lady? Are you accusing me of conspiring?

  Lord Cereborn: Yes, Lady, I have to admit that you have lost me, too… A conspiracy of dancers – is such a horror even possible?! With all that they’re capable of…

  Lady Galadriel: There is no conspiracy of dancers, Lord Cereborn, please calm down! I was speaking hypothetically, as an example. As long as we’re suspecting everybody, let it be everybody, with no exceptions; but I believe it’s time for us to listen to the clofoel of the World.

  Clofoel of the World: Thank you, o radiant Lady. First of all, I would like to defend the clofoel of Stars, strange as it may seem. She is being blamed for being unable to find a powerful magical source. However, I would like to suggest that this task may be akin to looking for last year’s snow.

  Lady Galadriel: Could you be more clear, clofoel of the World?

  Clofoel of the World: I obey, o radiant Lady! For some reason the esteemed clofoel of Tranquility keeps talking about a magical object dropped on the ‘sky’ and surreptitiously removed from there as if it was a firmly established fact…

  Clofoel of Tranquility: It is a firmly established fact, esteemed clofoel of the World. You and I were not the only ones present at the Troll’s interrogation – at least three independent witnesses can corroborate his testimony.

  Clofoel of the World: Esteemed clofoel of Tranquility, your memory is playing tricks on you, as does your predilection to see conspiracies everywhere. The Troll testified that he had dropped a sack the contents of which he knew nothing about. Why are you looking for a physical object? Could it not have been swamp fire or some other intangible magical filth that simply melted in the sun and poisoned the countryside? Actually, I dare not discuss magical techniques in the presence of the esteemed clofoel of Stars.

  Clofoel of Stars: I find your suggestion quite likely, esteemed clofoel of the World. More likely than a conspiracy of the dancers, at any rate.

  Lady Galadriel: Did you want to tell us anything else in connection with the investigation, clofoel of the World?

  Clofoel of the World: Most assuredly, o radiant Sovereigns! The esteemed clofoel of Tranquility is convinced that Dol Guldur, whence the dragon came, is run by Mordor, but I have reached a different conclusion. Certainly the notion that the Troll was working on orders from the Nazgúl is nonsense – we know better than anyone that the Black Order is no more. This Kumai’s history, however, is very interesting. He was captured at the Field of Pelennor and was rotting away at the Mindolluin quarry, as usual, when he was rescued precisely because he was a builder of mechanical dragons. The Troll is still convinced that it was his country’s intelligence service that got him out, but it looks like the poor man has been swindled. Queen Arwen’s entourage has reasons to believe that all those escapes from Mindolluin had been engineered by none other than His Majesty Elessar Elfstone, who desires Mordorian military technology. According to Arwen’s data, he had set up a special super-secret service for this purpose, the core of which are the dead he had revived with the Shadow spell; the little that is known about these characters includes the fact that they are all named after predators. Esteemed clofoel of Tranquility, why do you think the Troll gave the nickname Jackal to the supposed Mordorian intelligence agent when spinning his clumsy legend? Simply because all such agents he had dealt with at Dol Guldur had such names! I have no doubt that Aragorn’s service controls Dol Guldur and had dispatched the dragon here. This prompts the following question to the esteemed clofoel of Tranquility: what did he talk about with Aragorn in pr
ivate for over two hours, back during the latter’s January visit to Caras Galadhon?

  Clofoel of Tranquility: Excuse me, but I had talked to him by order of the radiant Sovereigns!

  Lady Galadriel: Lord Cereborn, do you see the kind of interesting picture you get when your information comes from not one, but two independent and not too friendly sources?

  Lord Cereborn: Yes, yes, you’re right, but I’m a little confused… This idea that the clofoel of Tranquility is connected to those… those living dead – it’s just a joke, right?

  Lady Galadriel: I do wish that it turn out to be a joke. Our first priority, then, is to destroy Dol Guldur immediately, before they get ready…

  Clofoel of Might: O radiant Lady, I will burn out that snake nest!

  Lady Galadriel: I seem to remember that you and Lord Cereborn have already burned it out not three months ago… No, I have other, more important plans for you. I will deal with Dol Guldur myself this time: we have to knock down its walls once and for all – then it may work. Besides, I would really like to capture one of those beasties of Aragorn’s alive. How many people man that fake fortress, clofoel of Tranquility?

  Clofoel of Tranquility: A few dozen, o radiant Lady, I can check…

  Lady Galadriel: There’s no need. Turn a thousand warriors over to my command, clofoel of Might, I’m leaving immediately. As for all of you… Clofoels of Tranquility and the World are to continue their joint investigation; I find that their cooperative work is producing excellent results, keep it up. The dancers and the clofoel of Stars are to continue looking for the magical object that had been dropped on Caras Galadhon, but only together with the Guards, lest the finder decide to study its magical properties alone. As for you, clofoel of Might, you will remain in charge here and watch over all of them: those are really children who may set the house on fire while Mama is away. For example, clofoel of Tranquility shouldn’t play soldier with his beloved Border Guard, the clofoel of Stars shouldn’t preen before my Mirror, the clofoel of the World… do you understand me, clofoel of Might?

  Clofoel of Might: How could I not, o radiant Lady?! I know these scheming troublemakers like the back of my hand!

  Lord Cereborn: What about me, Lady?

  Lady Galadriel: You, Lord Cereborn, are to represent Lórien’s supreme power, as usual: show yourself to people, sign royal proclamations, and all that…

  CHAPTER 63

  Mirkwood, south of Dol Guldur

  July 31, 3019

  The rain seemed endless. Fall-like cold drizzle hung in the air for three straight days; when thunder rolled, it seemed like the gods leisurely kicking water out of an enormous mattress hanging almost all the way down to earth. Over the last three days the little creek that Grizzly’s company had just run up against had turned into a raging river tossing small stones in its path. While six men were rigging a suspended rope bridge to ferry over the seriously wounded, the rest of the soldiers stood motionlessly on the bank. Icy rivulets ran down their tired faces, turning sweaty clothing into ice packs and steadily eroding whatever fighting spirit they had left. Running, standing still, and icy chills – a winning combination.

  Grizzly looked at the taut rope suspending the first of the helpless wounded on chest and waist harnesses, then at the ford where crossing horsemen fought the current, kicking up coffee-colored water, and once again clenched his teeth. Rotten luck – he had not expected to spend nearly an hour crossing this creek, what with Elves already breathing down their necks. Most of his men were still desperately fighting at Dol Guldur, their only task to preoccupy the main forces of the Elvish army that had invaded Mirkwood the day before yesterday. Grizzly himself, having miraculously slipped through the tightening noose of the besiegers with a column of Mordorian and Isengardian engineers in his keep, was now going south along the highway with all possible haste, concurrently diverting the Elvish pursuit from Wolverine, who was escaping alone with papers in his backpack – what of the Weapon Monastery archives they had not yet sent down.

  Grizzly’s entire plan hinged on the Elves’ sending only a small contingent to chase them, one they would be able to repulse once joined to Aragorn’s forces guarding the Brown Lands portion of the highway against the real Mordorians. Everything was going all right until they ran into this damned creek… time, they were running out of time! Grizzly stood hidden by the mossy trunk of a Mirkwood fir, expecting to see silent shadows in gray-green camouflage cloaks flit through the trees at any second. Actually, he was not likely to see anything – his last experience would be a short whistle of an Elvish arrow.

  “Lieutenant, sir!” One of his subordinates showed up by his side. “The escorted persons and personnel are all across. Your turn.”

  That was fast, Grizzly congratulated himself; then he froze, looking at the raging river and treacherous water-slick boulders on its banks with a new, appreciative look. Well, Firstborn, just you wait – betcha we’ll get all the lost time back with interest.

  “Sergeant!”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “How many steel crossbows do we have?..”

  …Lord Ereborn and his troop reached the creek about half an hour after Grizzly’s company disappeared in the rain on its other side. For about ten minutes the Elvish lookouts spread around behind the trees and studied the opposite bank, seeing nothing. Then a volunteer, one Edoret, his sword tied up on his back, carefully entered the stream and picked his way forward between eddies and rapids, expecting a shot at any second. When the water reached the middle of his thighs, he got swept off his feet, but the Elf could swim like an otter; having luckily escaped the gauntlet of boulders, he soon reached a small backwater under the opposite bank, where large heads of yellowish foam piled up between the branches of semi-submerged willows strung with grassy debris. Edoret got out of the water, waved to his friends and halted, figuring the best way to get through the boulders without breaking his neck; the lookouts caught their breath and put their bows down – it looked safe. The field manual of any army in any world demands that the scout be given time to ascertain the situation, but Ereborn was in a hurry to catch his prey before dark and decided to save on the precautions. Five Elves followed Edoret at his sign.

  When they were about knee-deep in the water, the loud call of a blue jay sounded over the creek, and at that signal a crossbow volley hit from the other side. Three Elves were either killed immediately or grievously wounded, drowned, and carried away by the stream; the fourth had his shoulder shattered but managed to get out of the water and limp back into the trees; the fifth fared worst of all – the bolt hit him through the gut and stuck in the spine, leaving him sprawled at the water’s edge. Time seemed to stop for Edoret, trapped on the enemy side: the scout had a brief moment to spy out the crossbowmen hidden higher on the slope, even managing to count them (six), and soberly figured out the time it would take him to unlimber his bound-up sword and close in on the enemy, slipping on the slick boulders all along the way. He then made the only appropriate decision: dived back into the river and let the stream carry him away. The bolt that sped after him only dinged the top of a water-polished boulder, leaving a whitish scar smelling of singed chicken and immediately obliterated by the rain.

  Lord Ereborn was what is known as ‘a young man from a good family;’ he had neither a commander’s gift nor at least a warrior’s blood-tempered experience, but he did have an abundance of vainglorious courage – a dangerous combination. Seeing that they were dealing with a small group of bowmen covering the retreat of the main force, rather than the rear guard of that force, the lieutenant decided to bet the farm on the crossbows’ major weakness – long reloading time (two shots per minute compared to two dozen for a bow) –and ordered a frontal attack. The Dragon’s Claw (his family sword) raised high; Ereborn blew two trumpet blasts and waded into the stream amidst tremendous splashing. The lieutenant had on a suit of armor of famed Gondolin sponge steel, almost as strong as mithril, so he did not fear the arrows from the other bank.


  A moment later he fully appreciated the difference between Angmarian hunting arbalests he was familiar with and the next-generation steel crossbows developing twelve hundred force-pounds at the bowstring. The three-ounce armor-piercing bolt hit Ereborn in the lower right chest at eighty yards per second; the links of the Gondolin armor acquitted themselves admirably, preventing the arrow from digging into the Elf’s insides, but a half-ton blow to the liver will knock out anyone. The bloodless face in a silvery helmet flashed once amidst the rapids, the billowing fabric of the cloak was pulled under after it and disappeared forever– the ancient armor turned into deadweight. The young armor-bearer who dashed to the rescue got a bolt straight into the bridge of his nose, and the attack fizzled out.

  Any Men, be they the savage Haradrim, the Riders of Rohan, or even Umbarian marines, simply would have used their overwhelming numbers to charge across the cursed ford, bridging it with their corpses and overwhelming the few defenders in a minute or two. Not so the Elves – the price of a Firstborn’s life is way too high to lay them down like that on the banks of some nameless Mirkwood creek. They have really come here to hunt (albeit a very dangerous prey) rather than wage war; such attitude is not conducive to either scaling a castle wall or running across a ford under fire. Retrieving their dead and wounded, the Elves retreated under the cover of trees and showered the enemy with arrows. Pretty soon it turned out that the archery duel was not going right, either (meaning to the Firstborn). The rain was the culprit: the Elvish bowstrings were hopelessly wet and the arrows fell harmlessly, plus it was nearly impossible to take decent aim. In the meantime, Dol Guldur bolts kept finding their mark – truly a device of Morgoth!

  The Elves had to retreat further into the forest, leaving only well-hidden lookouts by the riverbank. Sir Taranquil, Ereborn’s second, counted the bodies laid out in a row, black butterflies already appearing over them out of nowhere (even the rain was no obstacle!), added the four washed away by the stream, gritted his teeth and swore to himself by the thrones of the Valar that those crossbowmen, be they Orcs or whoever, would pay dearly, and to hell with the Lady’s order to capture some alive. The scouts he sent out came back soon thereafter with bad news – no better than the events of the past hour. Both sides of the path were blocked by fallen trees – the domain of the giant ants – as far as the eye could see; those thickets came straight up to the water both up and down the stream, so Taranquil’s idea to send some forces up and down the bank to force the enemy to spread out was a no-go. “If we were to go back and around the thickets – how far back do they stretch?” “No idea, sir! Shall I check?” “No!” There was no time for such exploits – much has been lost already and night was coming. There was no way forward but a frontal attack.