The Last Ringbearer (2011)

by Kirill Yeskov

  A frontal attack does not have to be a headlong rush, though. Sir Taranquil was a much more experienced commander than his predecessor and had no desire to cross the creek playing a target. His fighters crept up to the trees by the ford, and the sniper duel resumed.

  This time, though, the Elves have had time to swap in spare bowstrings, plus the rain let up a little, so their arrows sped true now; finally the Elves (without a doubt the best archers in Middle Earth) could show what they could do. The Mordorian crossbowmen fired prone from behind boulders for cover, so their corpses were not visible from this side, but Taranquil could warrant that they were down from six to two at most. Only after exploiting his advantage in fire density to the fullest did he order another attack. The other bank responded with a drawn-out and imprecise volley – but from six crossbows once again! Are these Morgoth’s tricks? Did they get reinforcements?

  CHAPTER 64

  Suddenly all crossbow fire ceased and a scrap of cloth tied to a scabbard waved over the boulders. The Elvish archers had already put five arrows through it by the time Taranquil snapped out of it and ordered: “Cease fire!! For now,” he added, quieter. “Are they surrendering? Well, well…” The scrap waved for a short while longer and then the amazed Elves beheld scout Edoret, alive and well, sword in hand. “Come over, now!”

  “…Where’s the rest of them?” Taranquil inquired after checking out the natural fort. There were six crossbows in the gaps between the boulders but only two corpses (dressed in Mordorian uniform without insignia, but neither one an Orc by appearance; one with an arrow in his eye, the other with half his head taken off by Edoret’s sword).

  “I don’t know, sir,” the scout replied, abandoning the flask proffered by one of his comrades and grudgingly ending his saga of how he, no doubt protected by Ulmo and Oromë themselves, managed to crawl to the enemy shore some three hundred yards downstream, crept through the forest and attacked the enemy from the rear. “There were six of them at first, but by the time I got to this nest there was only one bird in it,” Edoret nodded at the half-headed corpse, “he was firing all the crossbows in turn. I think that the others have retreated, sir – they were almost out of arrows. Shall we pursue?”

  …When the rider from the ford caught up with Grizzly’s team (this was the unheard-of reward for the first man to be wounded – to immediately carry the news), they were having a quick rest stop in a large heather field, which abound here at the edge of the Mirkwood in the Brown Lands. The lieutenant listened to the dispatch silently and his face thawed a little for the first time in three days – so far everything was going as he expected. So the Elves did send only about a hundred hunters after them, the rest being stuck fast at Dol Guldur…

  less however many the crossbowmen will get at that mad creek – you really can’t know where you’ll gain and where you’ll lose. The most important thing is that if my boys manage to hold out for at least a couple of hours (which they will, there’s no doubt of that now), then we’ll join His Majesty’s forces tonight: they had to have received messages already and even now must be on a forced march to our rescue. Watch out, Firstborn! Did we really make it?

  I wonder where we should set up the new Weapon Monastery – perhaps indeed in Mordor?

  Wait, what am I saying – after the Gondorian army gets involved, even the densest of these smart guys will wise up. On the other hand, maybe that’s for the best – where’re they to go now? Guys, you’ve been serving the enemy for quite a while now – want us to turn you over to the Resistance with appropriate explanations? No? Sure they’ll keep working on the Weapon of Vengeance for us. Well, that’s all in the future; right now my job is to deliver all escorted persons safe and sound and let the commanders sort it all out. Really, who would’ve thought that all those Jageddins and such would become the greatest treasure of the Crown? Well, we won’t be unemployed, either – these guys take a lot of looking after.

  Imagine, they did figure out how to turn those stupid ‘flying drops’ into real weapons. That the drops’ accuracy would improve dramatically if they were made to spin in flight like an arrow was fairly obvious, but how do you make the damn jar spin along its axis? They have tried attaching spiral wings to it after the manner of arrow fletching – total failure. Then someone recalled the ‘ring of fire’ – a kind of fireworks they had in Barad-Dur – a light ring on an axis spun by powder-filled cylinders attached to it tangentially. So they married this toy to the ‘drop’ by drilling several channels sideways through the sides of the jar’s mouth where the flame exits, and the flying jar spun like a charm.

  It is the description of this particular invention that Wolverine is now carrying in his backpack on his escape through Mirkwood. Well, he’s an old hand at this, the forest is home to him, he should make it. Once he finds the boat with a stock of food hidden in the reeds, he can make his getaway good. It’s a long way to Minas Tirith and he will only be able to sail at night, but it’d make no sense to hurry at this point. So even if their group doesn’t make it, His Majesty will acquire a fabulous new weapon!

  A lookout interrupted his musings: “Lieutenant, sir! There’s a rider up ahead, going at full speed!”

  When the lieutenant recognized the man who had dismounted near the head of the group, he did not believe his eyes at first and then broke into a decidedly non-regulation grin: the Old Man brought help all by himself, rather than trusting somebody else – a real father to the troops!

  “Hail, Captain!”

  “At ease, Lieutenant,” Cheetah saluted curtly. His grey cloak (maybe one of those they wore at the Field of Pelennor?) and the exhausted horse were all splattered with road mud.

  “Make a defensive perimeter – the Elves will be here in a quarter of an hour.”

  “How many?”

  “About two hundred. They’ve crossed over into the northern Brown Lands the day before yesterday, took the highway and are now coming to meet you.”

  “I see,” Grizzly mumbled, remembering with a sudden clarity his moment of relaxation ten minutes ago: did we really make it? Should’ve knocked on wood – my dumb head, for example.

  “Captain, you see how many men I have… we can’t hold out until the main force arrives.”

  “What main force, Lieutenant? There is no main force.”

  “But you…” was all Grizzly could say.

  “I’m here, as you can see.” The captain shrugged, the gesture momentarily making him look absolutely civilian.

  “So we were simply sold out?”

  “Now, now, Lieutenant – sold out?” Cheetah drawled mockingly. “Not ‘sold out,’ but ‘sacrificed in the name of the Highest State Interests.’ You know, the way you did with the defenders of Dol Guldur – sacrifice the few for the many, right? Long story short – Minas Tirith has decided that now is not the time to meet the Elves ‘point against point,’ so all our forces and their support structures have pulled back from the highway. Dol Guldur? What Dol Guldur? No idea what you’re talking about.”

  “As I understand it, Captain, you didn’t like that decision at all, sir?”

  “I’m here, as you can see,” the chief of Task Force Féanor repeated deliberately. “Our Service doesn’t allow the luxury of a resignation…”

  “Elves!!” came a cry from up ahead, full of not even fear, but a hopeless despondency.

  “No panic!” roared Cheetah; leaping into the saddle, he stood in the stirrups and, raising a narrow Elvish sword (yes, the very one from the Field of Pelennor!) to the solidly overcast sky, ordered: “Square formation, Lieutenant! Horsemen to the right!”

  Perhaps he added something else, appropriately historic, like the “Donkeys and scientists to the middle!” that was sounded over the dunes of a neighboring World under similar circumstances. But be that as it may, those words did not make it into the history textbooks of Middle Earth: the approaching Elvish line was too far to hear, and none of those now taking up defense next to Cheetah were destined to see the dawn of August th
e first. So it goes.

  CHAPTER 65

  Lórien, Caras Galadhon

  August 1, 3019

  They have gathered in the Blue Hall of the Galadhon Palace at the crack of dawn at the insistence of the clofoel of Stars. The morning felt like fall: crisp and cold like water in a forest spring, so the chills that bothered Eornis (invisibly to anyone else) may have been due to that; at least that was what she wanted to believe. What is the Master of the Stars up to?

  Great Eru, what if her dancers found the palantír? No, that’s impossible, but what if they’ve figured out where it is? In the meantime, the main problem – how to get to the Mirror, closely guarded by clofoel of Might’s men, today at noon – remains unsolved, and she is still bereft of ideas.

  It has been clear to everyone for the past week that they had to look for a physical object (the possibility of swamp fire or another magical emanation, suggested by the clofoel of the World, has been duly checked and found untrue), and a methodical search began. When it is said that the dancers of the clofoel of Stars ‘sniff out magic,’ it is a fairly accurate metaphor: they do work like sniffing dogs. Throughout the last few days the girls have been walking around Caras Galadhon in a trance, feeling the air with outstretched palms, as if hunting a bird hiding in the fallen leaves or playing a game of ‘hot-cold.’ So far it was ‘cold’ – the magical object was somewhere very close but beyond their reach. That was as Eornis expected: she had been much more concerned with the Guards of the clofoel of Tranquility and their banal police methods than with the dancers’ magic.

  Danger sneaked up on the clofoel of the World from an unexpected quarter. The clofoel of Might, left in charge during the Lady’s expedition to Mirkwood (the old battleaxe, who never played his own games, was the only member of the Council she could trust), took to his duties with excessive zeal. Among other things, his subordinates have replaced the Galadhon palace guard, so that one fine morning the bewildered clofoels discovered that they could not come into the Blue Hall for a Council session. All their attempts to reason with the new guards failed against their implacable “no such orders!” Of course, the misunderstanding was rectified right away, but now everyone was aware that the rules were now being set by the clofoel of Might at his discretion until the Lady’s return. Since the Lady had directly forbidden the clofoel of Stars to access the Mirror while she was away (a very sensible precaution), he simply barred all clofoels from the Moon Tower where the magical crystal was kept – “can’t overdo a good thing.” Should she fail to overcome this hurdle in the few remaining hours, her well-crafted plan will be for naught and nothing will save Eloar then…

  “How is your search going, esteemed clofoel of Stars?” Eornis inquired with courteous indifference while they were taking their places around the Council table.

  “Not good. I have asked you all to gather here for a much more grave reason…”

  Eornis looked at the master of the magical forces of Lórien in amazement – the woman looked ill and her voice was strangely lifeless. It does look serious, doesn’t it?

  “I will not bother you with a detailed description of our magical rituals, esteemed clofoels of the Council and you, o radiant Lord – we have too little time… maybe no time at all. For about a week now the dancers and I have been feeling strange pulsations in the Mirror’s magic field. First it was a light vibration, then it turned into real convulsions, and yesterday those convulsions assumed a definite and highly unpleasant rhythm… Do none of you feel anything?”

  The clofoel of Memory broke the ensuing silence suddenly: “I feel it!” It was hard to tell what shocked the Council more – the report of the clofoel of Stars or this unheard-of violation of protocol. Formally all clofoels were equals, but never before did any of the minor ones – all those palace librarians, nurses, and masters of ceremonies – dare interrupt the discussions of the Sovereigns and the Big Four. “It is exactly as you describe, o esteemed clofoel of Stars! But I didn’t know it was caused by the Mirror…”

  How would you ever know that, you timid mouse, thought Eornis in annoyance. Do you know anything but your dusty Beleriand scrolls and stupid sagas? But I – how did I fail to connect all those vibrations with the Mirror? So that’s where my chills come from… The question is – do I acknowledge this fact and thereby assist that Star bitch?.. Yes, and I should go even further, in fact.

  “I believe that the esteemed clofoel of Memory has shown tremendous courage by openly stating what we all feel but are afraid to mention aloud. The feeling we are having is a strong irrational fear, is it not?”

  “Maybe some girls feel strong unreasoned fear, but I personally fear no damn thing, clofoel of the World! So don’t you go around saying…”

  “Thank you, esteemed clofoel of Might; we have taken your opinion into account. As I understand it, the other members of the Council share the opinion voiced by the esteemed clofoel of the World.” The clofoel of Stars bowed slightly to Eornis. “However, our fear is not irrational. The thing is that the Mirror… how should I explain this… it is somewhat alive. The pulsating rhythm it is now creating is well-known in magic: it is the rhythm of labor pains, but in reverse. It is a horrible thing. The Mirror is anticipating its demise and our World’s with it… It is anticipating, and trying to reach out to us, do you see? And the stars over Lórien seem to have gone mad…”

  The clofoel of Tranquility leaned forward: “Could this be related to the magical object your dancers can’t find?”

  “Yes, it could,” the clofoel of Stars nodded glumly; she was obviously indisposed to develop this idea further and even refrained from adding something appropriate about the Guards having done no better.

  “Wait, what does this mean – demise of our World?” That was Lord Cereborn; imagine the man actually waking up!

  “Literally, o radiant Lord – one moment it exists, the other it doesn’t, and we along with it.”

  “Then do something! Clofoel of Stars! You, too, clofoel of Tranquility! I… I order you as your Lord!”

  What would we ever do without your orders, o precious liege – that was what showed clearly on the faces of the Big Four. The clofoel of Stars traded looks with the clofoels of the World and Tranquility, lingering a bit on the clofoel of Might, and finally uttered:

  The Last Ring-bearer

  “First, o radiant Lord, I must take a look at the Mirror immediately, without delay.”

  “Yes, of course! Go right away!”

  So this is my end, thought the clofoel of the World detachedly, staring at the play of the shades of green in the emerald of her ring. I can make no objection to her suggestion – she played her cards well and the entire Council, including that doddering fool, is on her side…

  However, at that moment a figure clad in shining armor, its size and delicacy of features resembling those of the stone idols guarding lower Anduin, loomed over the table. While Eornis wondered idly whether the clofoel of Might ever took off his helmet and mithril mail (to make love, say), the man informed them of his opinion of cowards and civvies – which are really one and the same to him! – in plain soldier’s language. He, for one, feels no such ominous rhythms, and how would the clofoel of Stars and her dancers know this childbirth rhythm, anyway? Aren’t they supposed to be virgins? In any case, he has a direct order of the Lady not to let the clofoel of Stars to the Mirror, and any attempt to violate that order will be treated as rebellion, with all that follows… Yeah, and what did you think, o radiant Lord?!

  “Yes, yes,” mumbled the Lord of Lórien (obviously the inescapable wrath of the Lady scared him a lot more than any hypothetical end of the world), “let’s wait for her return from the Dol Guldur expedition…”

  “Come to your senses, radiant Lord!” Amazed, Eornis stared at the clofoel of Memory – the poor woman must’ve lost all grip on reality to utter such unthinkable words. “Our world is already sliding into an abyss, the only one who has any chance of saving it is the clofoel of Stars, and this helmeted idiot is
standing on an order received ages ago! All right, can’t blame a man with a bronze lump for brains, but you all – Almighty Eru, can’t you rise above your petty intrigues even now, on the eve of destruction?!”

  Suddenly Eornis realized that the timid book mouse has simply voiced what the entire dozen of lesser clofoels were thinking. Not just them, either, as became clear the next second when the enraged clofoel of Might tossed his chair aside – for the clofoel of Tranquility was already coming around the table towards him, stepping softly as a tiger, hand on the hilt of his sword, and a smile fit to freeze the Eternal Fire on his lips.

  “You’ve just mentioned rebellion, esteemed clofoel of Might… that’s an interesting thought, isn’t it, o radiant Lord?”

  “Hey, you… both of you…” the Lord mumbled and shrank in his chair: the lesser clofoels already backed to the walls, and…

  “Stop!!” The solution that occurred to the clofoel of the World was akin to a flash of lightning: all the pieces of the puzzle she had been trying in vain to assemble suddenly fell together in the only possible way. “I am speaking to you, clofoel of Might!”